In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) by Claude Izner Read Free Book Online

fiercely independent. She had left her drunkard husband and found a way of making a living all year round.
    She trudged the streets with her basket of wild grass flecked with white flowers, crying out, ‘Chickweed for your songbirds!’
    The concierges, housewives and people working from home looked out for her every day. For the songbirds would soon stop chirping and tweeting if they didn’t have their chickweed. These tiny creatures hanging from the window jambs in cages were a symbol of happiness for the poor. They would always find a sou to buy chickweed even when times were hard.
    By late spring, the herb was getting scarce, its season over, but Mother Chickweed continued to provide plantain spears and fresh millet for the local songbirds.
    Frédéric Daglan gathered up the potato peelings in some old newspaper and was about to take them over to the rabbits when an article at the bottom of the page caught his eye. His face tensed. He checked the date on the newspaper: 22 June 1893.
    Murder on Rue Chevreul
A man was stabbed to death yesterday at seven o’clock in the morning, on Rue Chevreul. The victim was an enamellist by the name of Léopold Grandjean. The police are questioning a witness…
    ‘Damn it!’ he cursed under his breath.
    Later that evening
    Paul Theneuil had been waiting outside the premises in the rain for a good quarter of an hour. For him, punctuality was a cardinal virtue, and he loathed wasting his time. He had received the telegram that morning, just after opening time, and had taken several minutes to digest its content. Standing next to the window of his office, he had looked down on the bustling print works below, fingering the blue paper before tearing it up. He hated feeling forced to obey what seemed more like a command than a request. What a nerve – pestering him now after they’d agreed to sever all contact once the transaction was completed!
    Paul Theneuil was not a man to lose himself in conjecture; he left nothing to chance, and once he made a decision he stuck to it. Other than Monsieur Leuze, his book-keeper, none of his staff would ever dare question his orders. Paul Theneuil knew that this time he had a tough opponent on his hands, but he was a past master at playing with loaded dice, and he was not going to let anybody harass him.
    He had left his print works in Petit-Montrouge in the late afternoon in order to arrive at this fellow’s place by seven o’clock, leaving himself plenty of time to pop in and warn Marthe. The thing was not to change his habits under any circumstances. He’d walked up Passage des Thermopyles and into the haberdasher’s. It was empty. He could hear Marthe stirring her pots in the adjoining kitchen.
    ‘Is that you, Paul?’
    ‘I’m just going to meet a client who has ordered some posters. Mmm, that smells delicious! What are you cooking?’
    ‘Jugged hare.’
    Paul Theneuil had taken a swig of Sancerre, changed his jacket and grabbed an umbrella.
    ‘Put a plate aside for me, dear.’
    His ‘dear’ had blown him a kiss and gone on adding white wine to her roux.
    The heavens had decided to open just as Paul Theneuil stepped onto an omnibus. He was a stocky, coarse-looking man of about sixty. His broad face gave the impression of being covered in stubble even when it was clean-shaven. His thin, straight hair was greying at the temples and he wore a pince-nez on his red, bulbous nose. The typesetters and apprentices called him ‘Ugly mug’ behind his back.
    The rain had eased off. The courtyard and the street beyond were empty. Paul Theneuil realised that the man had not specified whether to meet him indoors or out. After that downpour he was most likely inside. All the better, it would make his job easier. He reached for the latch. The door opened onto a stack of empty boxes. Light filtered dimly through the grimy windows. He glanced around the room, taking in its contents: a desk covered in papers, two chairs, shelves lined with files and a