gazed at him. In their eyes he saw a terror which was to haunt his dreams for many nights to come. He drew back, unable to wrench his gaze away from the animals’ empty stares. He swayed and nearly fell against two men who were extracting tongues and brains just as though they were removing the stones from fruit. Victor felt as though he had been transported back to the time of the Inquisition, into a torture chamber where innocent victims were being interrogated. He was still trying in vain to gather his thoughts when he heard the sound of his own voice.
‘Norpois, Collin, Berthier?’
‘In the tripe-house!’
He beat a hasty retreat. As he went mechanically from one room to the next, his only thought was that he should try to forget all this, and pretend he had never been here.
The first room was full of workers sorting piles of horns and hooves, destined to become combs or buttons. The tufts of hair from the ends of the cows’ tails would be turned into cushions or plumes for military helmets. The hairs pulled from inside their ears would go to make fine paintbrushes.
Victor reflected that humanity relied for its comfort on the daily annihilation of millions of living creatures. No historian had every documented this particular martyrdom. Civilisation rested on an immense mountain of suffering and fear. He would have given anything to be elsewhere, but he continued on his way.
In the third room he came to, his luck finally changed. About twenty men were dealing with piles of stomachs: future slippers and bandages. Others were handling ewe foetuses, soon to be made into household soap.
‘Monsieur Norpois! Monsieur Berthier! Monsieur Collin!’ he cried.
One of the workers pointed to a red-haired giant washing down a heap of entrails with a hose.
‘That’s Berthier.’
‘Are you Monsieur Berthier? I’m looking for Martin Lorson – it’s important.’
The giant nodded and showed him to a courtyard surrounded by small huts.
‘The third from the left.’
Victor had to knock at the worm-eaten door for a long time before it was inched open.
‘Monsieur Lorson? Martin Lorson?’
The man, as fat at the front as he was behind, peered at him with bulging eyes from beneath a moth-eaten old top hat.
‘I’m a friend of Monsieur Gamache’s. I’ve come to ask you about the terrible scene you witnessed. As a detective, I shall be able to ensure your safety.’
Feeling suspicious, Martin Lorson blocked the door with his foot.
‘Why should I believe you? Show me your badge.’
‘I’m a private investigator, and I work freelance, Monsieur Lorson. I’m not employed by the police, but you are free to enquire into my good character – here’s my card.’
‘You work in a bookshop?’
‘Yes, I do. It’s up to you, Monsieur Lorson. You’ve got my address,’ said Victor, doffing his hat.
Martin Lorson considered the card for a moment, and then his visitor, who was walking away now.
‘Monsieur, wait! Come back!’
The hut stank of manure. Victor forced himself not to cover his nose with his handkerchief. They remained standing in the dim light.
‘Will Gamache really answer for you?’
‘Yes, I told you, he’s a friend of mine.’
‘What’s his first name?’
‘Alfred.’
Victor’s instantaneous reply dispelled Martin Lorson’s suspicion. He heaved a sigh and whispered, ‘You won’t go telling the police?’
‘You have my word.’
‘You haven’t got a cigarette, by any chance?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’d give anything for a few puffs.’ With his hand outstretched, Martin Lorson suddenly became still. ‘Excuse my bad manners, but I’ve been living off what I can steal for nearly four days now, I haven’t got a penny left and I’ve lost my job. Would you mind …?’
‘Keep the packet.’
‘I’m sorry to be indiscreet, Monsieur … Legris, but I’d like to know why you’re concerned for my safety.’
‘The reason may surprise you. I’m not only a bookseller, I also write stories for serials in the newspapers, and I’m interested in unsolved cases. I use them to test investigation methods that I want to write about. I don’t ask for any money, naturally.’
‘I’m extremely grateful to you,’ said Martin Lorson.
‘And, now that you’ve questioned me, I hope you won’t mind if I ask you something in return?’
‘Not at all.’
‘What exactly did you see?’
Martin Lorson lit a second cigarette.
‘I need to talk about this, get it off my chest. I’ll tell you the story as I remember it. But just because I say it happened a certain way, that doesn’t mean that it was actually like that – I was awfully drunk and it was dark …’
He described the masked woman playing hopscotch, the sudden appearance of the man in the felt hat, the murder, the flight of the assassin, followed by his immediate and incomprehensible return. He mumbled, swallowing half his words. When he had finished, he rummaged in the pockets of his threadbare suit and pulled out a chain with a medallion hanging from it, on which there was an engraving of a unicorn shown in profile, seated on its haunches and surrounded by a black border.
‘I picked this horrible beast up next to the corpse. Please take it – it gives me the creeps. It’s a talisman and it has some kind of malign influence,’ he said in a low voice.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Ever since I picked it up it’s been bringing me bad luck.’
Slowly, concealing his excitement at being the first to see this concrete clue, Victor put the trinket in his pocket.
‘Are you going to stay living here for long?’
‘Why?’ asked Martin Lorson, becoming suspicious again.
‘I might need to contact you. This investigation still has a long way to go.’
‘I’ll get in touch with you.’
‘I’ll only contact you if it’s absolutely necessary,’ Victor insisted. ‘Would it be of any use to you if I …’
He held out a five-franc piece. Martin Lorson hesitated, took the coin and then, looking shamefaced,
