Read Online The Montmartre Investigation by Claude Izner - Free Book Online

overcome by ammoniacal fumes. He held his breath until he reached a narrow quay where he leant on a parapet wall overlooking the River Bièvre, realm of the tanners and dyers. Shades of yellow, green and red mingled in its waters, producing a brownish-looking soup that formed here and there into a muddy froth. The water glistened with golden-brown flecks like the fish oil floating on the surface of the murky broth served up at Maubert’s cheap eateries. Victor, feeling nauseous, turned round to face a building whose ill-repaired façade was covered in inscriptions scored by knives. A heart with an arrow through it appeared to be telling him to go left.
    He obeyed without demur, turning down Passage Moret, where an incongruent cluster of rickety dwellings with wooden balconies faintly evoked Spain. People were busy at work under the hangars where the flayed hides of animals hung on ropes to dry. Scrawny-looking dogs and cats prowled the wet cobblestones observing the arrival of carts and groups of curriers.
    All along the winding river bank, washerwomen had set down their tubs by the water’s edge and were singing as they pounded their shirts. Children played at skimming stones, and one held a stick with a piece of string attached to the end, as though fishing. Victor wondered what a fish that had managed to survive in that foul water might look like. Instinctively he took out his camera to photograph the children, but he felt awkward, and so instead turned his attention to the young fisherman. He was filthy and ragged and looked no older than six. The baggy clothes he wore made him appear even scrawnier.
    â€˜Are the fish biting today?’
    â€˜Not a whole lot. But I did catch this,’ said the child, holding up a smoked herring.
    â€˜Are you sure you caught it?’ Victor asked, amused.
    â€˜Shh! I pinched it from old Mère Guédon while she was stuffing her mattress. I climbed through her kitchen window. She won’t miss it.’
    A one-eyed tomcat meowed as it came over to beg.
    â€˜Get lost, Gambetta; this ain’t for no cats – it’s for Gustin.’
    â€˜Is that your name? Tell me, Gustin, how would you like to earn a franc?’
    â€˜Wouldn’t I half!’ cried the boy, stealing a glance at the washerwomen.
    â€˜Do you know of a goatherd who lives around here?’
    â€˜I certainly do. Old Père Mercier! He dosses round the corner from here.’
    â€˜Show me the way.’
    They left a trail of footprints in the reddish dust as they walked through warehouses where the hide and leather goods were stored, past steaming vats and piles of acrid-smelling tanbark. Here and there, a weeping willow formed a shady corner, allowing Victor a moment’s respite from the dismal surroundings. They arrived at Rue Reculettes, where he was relieved to discover what looked almost like country cottages alongside the workers’ hovels.
    â€˜That’s it, over there where it says “cobbler”. I’ve got to look sharp. If I’m late helping my brothers tan that hide I’ll be the one getting the tanning from my dad – he’s on the booze today.’
    â€˜Take this.’ Victor handed him a coin, which the boy snatched greedily.
    â€˜Blimey! A whole franc!’
    He wanted to ask the man if he had made a mistake, but Victor had already disappeared inside.
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    Each new smell eclipses the next, thought Victor as he lowered himself on to the stool Grégoire Mercier had offered him. The man looked distinctly un-Parisian in a smock, trousers tucked into leather leggings and clogs. As he watched the goats standing meekly in a row while they were being mucked out, Victor felt as though he’d been magically transported to the heart of the Beauce region to the south of Paris.
    â€˜I’ll be with you in a minute, Monsieur. There we are. It’s a rotten job. I toil like a slave all the livelong day. Thanks to these little goats