In the Shadows of Paris by Claude Izner Page B

What if…? Another case? It wouldn’t be easy. His thoughts returned to Tasha. He’d curbed his fondness for mysteries out of love for her, and it frustrated him. He lit a cigarette and remained pensive, mechanically clicking his lighter on and off. No! No more cases; a promise was a promise.
    â€˜Inspector Lecacheur asked me if I knew of any enemies he might have had. That’s absurd! It can’t have been arson. Everybody held him in the highest esteem!’ said Kenji.
    â€˜I suppose he’s just doing his job. He has to explore every avenue. But you’re right. In Monsieur Andrésy’s case it does seem absurd. Did he have any relatives?’
    â€˜A distant cousin in the country.’
    â€˜Would you care for a cordial, Kenji?’
    â€˜No. I’m concerned about Iris; she’s taken to going out in the afternoons – I’ve no idea where. And she’s not eating properly. She’s going to make herself ill. I knew it: lovers in disarray will a wedding delay. I don’t feel I’m being a very good father, but what can I do? She won’t listen to me. Couldn’t you…?’
    â€˜I’ve given Joseph a talking to, but he won’t budge. I think he feels as if he’s an ugly duckling. If Iris agreed to make the first move, it would restore his injured lover’s pride.’
    Sunday 9 July
    â€˜Eat up, little ones, eat up! Gobble it all down and grow nice and plump then we can eat you!’
    Mother Chickweed raised her voice above the cackle in the poultry yard.
    â€˜Monsieur Frédéric, your coffee’s ready. I’m leaving now.’
    Frédéric Daglan woke with a start. For a split second he imagined that he was back in Batignolles at 108, Rue des Dames, where he rented a bedsitting room. The sight of his light-coloured suit hanging from a dismantled sideboard brought him back to reality. He threw off the coverlet, pulled on his trousers, shirt and shoes and left the shed. On a makeshift table beneath a shady arbour he found a pot of coffee, a bowl and a round loaf. He sat down and cut himself a slice of bread. He’d waited long enough, now it was time to act. First he’d call at Anchise’s place and borrow his case of liquor samples. Then he’d be ready to find the witness.
    â€˜I’ve been hoodwinked, but it’s not too late – I can still fight back.’
    He went to wash his face at the pump.
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    On Sundays, those who were able to leave the city streets would go up to the ramparts with their families. From there, they liked to think they could see green fields and misty forests. In the distance they could just make out the river Seine with its barges sailing towards the sea. There were merry-go-rounds, sweet sellers, and open-air cafés serving mussels and cheap wine. In springtime when the grass was still green there was even a sprinkling of daisies. Shop girls and maidservants enjoyed a few hours’ rest from their drudgery. All they saw of the city was the backs of shops and stifling kitchens, but up here they could cherish their shallow dreams of marrying a butcher’s boy or a grocer’s assistant, of escaping from under the thumb of their employers, of being free at last!
    Frédéric Daglan enjoyed roaming over that man-made hill and mingling with society’s outcasts, whom he saw as his brothers in humanity. A little girl wearing a folded newspaper as a sun hat was leading a procession of goats. A donkey, its spine bent out of shape, its coat marked from the harness, basked in the sun. A man hurtled down the slope to the delight of a little boy on his back. Below, mounds of refuse spewed out by the city lay piled up in the ditches.
    It was muggy. Frédéric took off his jacket. When he looked closely at what was going on around him, it seemed as unreal as the memory of a dream. And yet while you were still dreaming the most illogical situations seemed perfectly