Thursday 15 February
Never in all his life had Alfred Gamache been as worried as he was now. Even thinking about the sight of Pauline’s generous breasts as she unlaced her bodice was not enough to calm him down. If he had known that their amorous rendezvous would lead to so much bother and trouble with the police, he would have left well alone. And all this because of some silly fool who was completely unable to take any responsibility for things himself!
Through half-closed eyes, he observed the column of two-legged ants hunched over unloading a cargo of bricks from a barge whose full belly was blocking the whole of the La Villette dock. His attention was caught by someone approaching him. It was a young man with regular features and a neat black moustache, dressed in a tweed suit and a felt hat set at an angle on his head.
‘This looks like more trouble,’ he said to himself as the stranger accosted him.
‘Excuse me, could you direct me to the person who found the body of the strangled woman?’
‘I knew it! First the inspector in the hussar’s jacket, like something out of an operetta, then the tall, mysterious chap with a limp, and now you. Everybody’s looking for him – shame he’s gone!’
Victor raised an eyebrow. The mention of the hussar’s jacket had made him think of his corpulent rival, Inspector Lecacheur.
‘He’s already cleared off, the rascal!’
‘I’m sorry? I don’t think I follow you. Is Monsieur Gamache no longer here?’ Victor asked the uniformed man.
‘I’m Gamache.’
‘Ah, you’re the watchman at the tollgate and, unless I’m very much mistaken, you take your duties seriously!’
A flicker of doubt crossed Alfred Gamache’s mind. Despite his relaxed air, this fellow could be some kind of plain-clothes official, one of those mysterious superior beings who moved in such distant spheres that trying to picture them in his mind was rather like trying to picture the gods of Olympus. In which case, it would be no use covering for an imbecile and jeopardising his own job.
‘I only reported the death. As for the other bloke, the actual witness of the crime, I didn’t tell anybody about him because he’s a little bit simple, and I’d have felt like a swine if I’d brought him into it. He’s scared out of his wits, poor old Lorson.’
‘Lorson?’
‘Martin Lorson. He used to live around here, but he’s upped sticks and gone to live in the abattoirs, or at least he sleeps there, anyway. During the day, he doesn’t stay in one place – a real nomad! He must have set up camp with one of his friends.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Berthier, Norpois, maybe Collin. Unless he’s gone as far as Jaquemin’s place, on Rue de Flandre, at the Érard piano factory. Why are you writing that down? Who are you?’
‘Victor Legris, your humble servant. My wife does illustrations for a newspaper, Le Passe-partout. She draws the latest news items for the front page, sometimes for pieces on politics, sometimes on crime. She’s also a painter, and is preparing for an exhibition soon, so she asked me to come and find out the facts of this case.’
‘Oh, she’s a painter!’ exclaimed Alfred Gamache, as a huge weight suddenly lifted; he was so relieved that he put aside his bayonet, leaning it against one of the columns of the rotunda. ‘I’ve got a friend who’s a painter – a colleague of mine. He’s been a customs officer for more than thirty years at the Vanves tollgate. In his free time, he does a bit of painting. I’m not very taken with his pictures – they look like a cross between a child’s drawing and those advertisement posters; you know the sort. The ones that say “Nasty cough? Géraudel lozenges”, or “Julius Maggi consommé”, except that his pictures have titles like The Artillerymen, The Revolutionaries, and the like…’
‘Really?’ mumbled Victor, in a hurry to get away.
‘Yes, yes. Every time he has an exhibition, I go along with my old lady – it’s a nice outing for us. Last year, we went to the Independent Salon, and there were some real jokers exhibiting there! Perhaps you’ve heard of him – Henri Rousseau, otherwise known as Le Douanier Rousseau?14 His colours and shapes aren’t half peculiar!’
‘My wife must know him, I’m sure. Thank you.’
‘Hey! Monsieur, seeing as you hang around with journalists, try not to mention Lorson’s name. It may be no big deal to you, but he’d go barmy with fear if you did!’
‘Don’t worry. If he tells me his story, I’ll say it came from an anonymous source. My wife can do a very impressionist rendering of the whole scenario.’
Alfred Gamache went back to his guard duty, happy to have escaped the vigilance of the police bigwigs and to have contributed to the production of a work of art.
Large wet snowflakes were falling from a heavy sky and turning to slush as soon as they touched the pavement of Rue de Flandre. Victor took care not to slip, feeling glad that he had taken public transport rather than his bicycle. The low grey cloak which seemed to envelop the city gave the morning a twilight feel. He kept on having to step aside to avoid passers-by wrapped up in mufflers. Commercial vehicles rumbled along the dirty roadway in a steady stream, and were occasionally sprayed with mud by a passing omnibus or carriage that seemed out of place in this industrial zone. Everything contributed to the melancholy atmosphere, and yet a feeling of excitement was gradually creeping over Victor. If he had stopped to analyse it, he would have recognised the thrill of a new investigation beginning.
Near the abattoirs, the ground floors of the buildings contained an astonishing number of little cafés: À l’Amiral, Au Veau d’Or, Au Mouton Blanc, Au Bélier d’Argent. The strains of a merry-go-round barrel organ blended with the clanking of the railway that ran nearby, and a series of hideous papier-mâché cows revolved in time to the music, pursued by equally hideous cockerels in an endless round.
Victor came to the vast expanse of the abattoirs. There was an imposing pillar with a clock and behind it five wide avenues opened out before him. He felt uneasy. Which way should he go? Should he take the avenue named ‘Pigpens’, or one of the ones simply called ‘North’, ‘Centre’ or ‘South’, or the one named ‘Coaches’? Either way, he would have to penetrate deeper into this hell of wails, groans and cracking whips. What insatiable demons reigned over this place of torment? Men, nothing more: butcher’s boys in clogs and stained aprons, armed with mallets and cleavers.
Directly ahead was a succession of numbered sheds. A group of slaughterers was hoisting a skinned cow onto a large iron hook. Carcass-cutters, gutspinners, blood collectors, scourers and knackers moved busily around the dead animal in a gruesome ballet that could have been set in an ogre’s kitchen.
Victor set off, his eyes fixed on the ground, plunging into the maze of streets, scattered with piles of debris. With clenched teeth, jostled and scolded as he went, he made his way past sheds strewn with the unspeakable by-products of butchery. He stopped to catch his breath on the threshold of a large low-ceilinged room. Five strapping young men, with their sleeves rolled
