The Song Peddler of the Pont Neuf Page 2

  I nodded and took a seat across from him. “What is your name, monsieur? How may I help you?”

  “Montigny,” he stammered. “I am called Hubert Montigny.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Forgive me. I am a bit nervous,” he said. “I’ve never met a confidential inquirer before.”

  I smiled. “Most people haven’t,” I said. “Perhaps you should tell me what brought you here.”

  He picked up the dice. “It’s Gaspard. I am here because of Gaspard.”

  My shoulders sagged. Most of my clients are business people who, when meeting with me, come directly to the point of their visit. While I spend a lot of my professional time sitting on my backside waiting for people, I am not by nature a patient fellow. And this morning I was hungry. My mouth watered at the thought of a roll and a cup of coffee at the café around the corner.

  “Who is Gaspard? A friend of yours?” I asked.

  He blinked. “Yes. Yes. He is a friend. I am very worried about him.”

  “Let’s start from the beginning. Who is Gaspard? Why do you need my help?”

  He turned the dice in his fingers. “He is a friend. We met here in Paris, in church, about a year ago. He is an old man like me. We got to talking and found we had a lot in common.” He stared down at the table. “He is in trouble, I am sure of it.”

  “What sort of trouble?” I asked.

  “I don’t know!” He dropped the dice. They bounced off the table to the floor. “That is why I am here. Please, you must find him for me.”

  “He is missing?”

  He blinked a few times. “Yes. Haven’t you been listening to me? He disappeared a few weeks ago. We were supposed to go out to the boulevards on Sunday afternoon, but he never came to my lodgings to meet me.”

  “What is your friend’s name?” I asked.

  “Gaspard Bricon.”

  “Does he have work?”

  “Yes. He sings songs on the Pont Neuf.”

  “Ah, a song peddler. How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

  He thought for a moment. “Three weeks. Yes, it was three weeks ago. That is why I am worried. We usually go out together at least once a week. After he failed to meet me that Sunday, I went to his lodgings twice, looking for him. But he hasn’t been there. And I’ve walked by his usual spot on the bridge several times, but haven’t seen him.”

  “Had he been behaving strangely before he disappeared?”

  The old man leaned over and picked up the dice. “Yes,” he said as he sat up in the chair. “I’ve noticed that since late September, he had seem preoccupied. He is usually a cheerful person, full of jokes and stories. He was not himself. He was thoughtful, quieter.”

  I nodded. “Go on.”

  “I asked him several times if anything was bothering him. He wouldn’t tell me. The only thing he would say was that he had seen a ghost—a ghost from the past.”

  “A ghost from the past? Do you have any idea what he meant?”

  He shook his head. “No. I pressed him, but he wouldn’t say any more.”

  “Had he been melancholic, or anxious?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say so. Just quiet, like I told you. As if he were mulling something over.” Montigny looked away.

  I should have told him that I don’t take on missing person cases. They are very difficult to solve. People in Paris are lost all the time, sometimes on purpose. They are running from abusive employers, or spouses, or from a load of debt. Perhaps they’ve committed a petty crime and are hiding from the police. Or they are immigrants from the provinces, come to make their fortune in the big city, who find mere survival in the capital too much of a struggle, and flee home to their country hovels. And this old man did not look like he would be able to afford my fee. But something about him touched me. I’d never known either of my grandfathers. But if I had, and one was in trouble, I would want someone to help him. I certainly had time right now to take on a new case. I was just finishing up an investigation for the locksmiths’ guild, following a journeyman who was working independently in his spare time and hiding the proceeds from his master. Beyond that, I had no cases except for my surveillance of the young Austrian.

  “You wish to hire me to find your friend?” I asked.

  “Yes. If you would, please. I have money. I can pay you.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a bag of coins. He spilled them onto the table. I looked at them. There was more than enough for me to spend a few days trying to find the song peddler.

  “I have just a few more questions before I start,” I said.

  “Fine. I am not due at the market for a half hour.”

  “Did Monsieur Bricon have any large debts that you know of?”

  “I don’t think so. He never mentioned any. He made a decent living working on the bridge. People liked his singing and paid well for copies of his songs. He always had enough money to see a show or to eat out in a tavern.”

  “Was he involved with a woman?”

  Montigny snorted. “I doubt it. He was an old man, like me. The ladies never give us a second glance.”

  “Does he have any family here in the city? Any other friends you know of?”

  “No. I know he is alone here. He never mentioned any other friends. He had a lot of acquaintances, though, on the bridge. He always worked in the same spot, across from the little café, in front of the water pump. He occasionally mentioned some of the vendors who worked there.”

  “Have you contacted the police about him?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What do you think? I doubt they would be concerned about a missing song peddler.”

  “I must ask you this,” I said gently. “Could your friend have disappeared on purpose, for a reason he didn’t wish to explain to you?”

  He blinked as he shook his head. “No, no. We were the best of friends. He would never leave without telling me.”

  “All right. I’ll ask around for him, and talk to the people he worked with on the Pont Neuf,” I said. “What does he look like?”

  “He is old, about my age. Shorter than I am. His hair is gray. But he wears it short, not long like I do.”

  “Does he have a beard?”

  “No.” He blinked again.

  “Is he thin? Fat?”

  “Not thin. Not fat.” He laughed. “He is unremarkable, like me.”

  I stifled a sigh. If I had my luck, I would be able to get a better description from someone on the bridge.

  “Don’t you want to know where he lives?” Montigny asked.

  “Yes, of course. I was just about to ask.”

  “He has a room in the rue des Lavandières, near Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois. The building is the third door on the left, coming from the rue Guet.”

  I pulled a scrap of paper and a pencil stub from my coat pocket and made a note. “And where can I reach you, monsieur?”

  “I live near Les Halles, in the rue de la Poterie.” Les Halles was the large marketplace in the center of the city. “It’s the building directly across from the middle door of the draper’s market. Or you can come to the cheese market and ask for me.”

  I scribbled the address on my paper.

  “If it is midday, you can find me in the tavern in the rue de la Cossonnerie. I have dinner there every day.” He rose.

  I scooped up the coins and put them in my pocket, then stood and shook his hand. “Give me a few days to ask around, and then I’ll come give you my report.”

  He nodded.

  “But I must warn you not to get your hopes up.” Looking at his earnest, creased face, I did not want to tell him that his friend had probably been robbed and thrown into the Seine by footpads; or had suddenly fallen ill and been taken to one of the large, malodorous hospitals in the city, where his chances of recovery were slender. And of course, Bricon might have wanted to disappear, for his own reasons, and hadn’t considered Montigny as close a friend as the old man had thought.

  “Paris is a big city,” I said. “A lost man can b
e hard to find.”

  The building where Gaspard Bricon kept his lodgings was an old, dilapidated rooming house four stories high, with a crumbling foundation and a shabby secondhand clothing purveyor on the ground floor. I suspected I would find the missing song peddler’s landlady in the shop, for in this part of the city, many building owners rented the ground floor to small businesspeople who, in exchange for a lesser payment, agreed to manage the tenants upstairs. I entered the shop. It was empty of both customers and its proprietress. At the back of the room was a closed door. A rank odor emanated from the piles of clothing that were strewn over every surface of the little room.

  As I was about to go over to knock on the back door, it opened and a short, middle-aged woman with a doughy face and frizzy, dull wheat-colored hair came in. She frowned when she saw me.

  “Can I help you, monsieur?” she asked.

  “Yes, I hope so,” I said. “Are you the landlady for the building?”

  “Yes, I am.” She looked me up and down. “I have no rooms available, if that is why you are here.”

  “No, I’m not interested in lodgings,” I said. “I’m here about one of your tenants.”

  “Florin? What has he done now? I knew I should have kicked him out of here when he stole those chickens from the market.” She shrugged. “I am too generous to these people.”

  “No. I’m looking for Gaspard Bricon, the song peddler.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Bricon? Why? What has that old man done?”

  “Nothing that I know of,” I said. “One of his friends has reported him missing and I’m trying to locate him. Have you seen him recently?”

  She shook her head. “Now that I think of it, I haven’t seen him around lately.” She rubbed her temples. “There are so many tenants here. I try to watch them, so they don’t run off on me before the rent is due, but I only have one set of eyes.”

  “Did Bricon pay his rent regularly?” I asked. It was possible that, unbeknownst to Hubert Montigny and the landlady, the song peddler had moved in order to avoid paying his quarterly rent.

  “Yes. I’ve never had any problems with him. He’s paid up until the next quarter starts on the first of December.” She scowled. “You don’t think he’s bolted on me, do you? I had to tell everyone that the rent would increase in December. Prices everywhere are getting so high these days, it’s only to be expected. I can’t let people live here at prices below market rate. Have you seen the price of bread? I heard over at the baker’s that it might go up to twelve sous next week. It’s those government ministers. The rumor going around this neighborhood is that they are hoarding the grain on purpose, so the prices will go up and they’ll make a huge profit. Scoundrels! Why, if the king knew what they were up to, he’d dismiss them all, I’m sure of it. In fact—”

  I tried to interrupt before I heard all of her opinions on the state of France today. “Would it be possible for me to take a look at Bricon’s room?” I asked. “He might have left something that would help me find him.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t think that would be proper. My tenants rely on me to protect their privacy.” She peered at me. “Who did you say you were? You don’t look like you are from the police.”

  “No, madame, I’m not. I’m a confidential inquirer, hired by a friend of Monsieur Bricon.”

  “A what? I’ve never heard of such a thing. What is it that you do?”

  “People hire me to investigate matters for them. I do a lot of work for the guilds. In fact, I may have done a few jobs for your own guild, the secondhand clothing merchants.”

  “I don’t think Bricon is involved with guilds,” she said, pursing her lips.

  “No, madame, you are right.” I decided to appeal to any tendency she might have toward sympathy, however small. “My client is his closest friend, another old man. He hasn’t heard from Bricon in three weeks and is very worried about him. If you could find a way to let me into his room, I’d be most grateful.”

  She considered the matter, but before she could refuse me, I tried another tack. “You told me that Bricon has paid the rent through the end of this month. I’m sure you keep a list of people who are waiting for rooms to come free in a fine building like this. Why not let me see the room? If I find Bricon and he is well, you’ll have the reassurance that he’ll be back here in December to pay for the next quarter. But if I find that he’s been a victim of foul play, or has left Paris, you’d be able to rent the room immediately.”

  Her eyes gleamed as she contemplated the prospect of Bricon’s room fetching double rent for a few weeks, rent I’m sure the owner of the building would never see. “Well, your argument does make sense. I’m sure that if he is in trouble, he won’t blame me for letting you in. Wait here.”

  She went into the back room and returned with a large key. “The room is on the top floor, number 436,” she said, handing it to me. “Don’t take anything.”

  “Thank you, madame,” I said. “I’ll return this in a few minutes.”

  As I climbed the stairway to the top floor, I heard sounds coming from the few rooms where occupants were not out at work: a woman singing a lilting tune on the first floor, a man grunting to the high-pitched encouragements of a prostitute on the second, a couple arguing about the wife’s mother on the third. The fourth floor was quiet. I found Bricon’s room at the very back of the long hallway. I turned the key in the lock and entered.

  The room was gloomy and claustrophobic, with a small window that overlooked the wall of the tenement next door. A short bed with a straw mattress sat against one wall, a small table and a single stool against another, and an ill-made cupboard along a third. The table held a tallow candle in a crude candlestick, a thick mug, a chipped bowl, a worn wooden spoon, a few papers scattered underneath a quill pen, and a piece of crumpled parchment.

  I ran my hands under the mattress and then knelt and looked under the bed, finding nothing but dust. I crossed to the cupboard and opened it. The contents were sparse: a yellowed shirt with a tear in the sleeve, a pair of leather shoes that had seen better days and could not have been worn in any but the driest of weather, and a bedraggled woolen waistcoat that had suffered the depredations of moths. There was no dress coat or cloak.

  I returned to the table and picked up the crumpled paper, smoothed it, and carried it to the window. If I squinted hard enough I could read its contents by the dim morning light. It was a draft of a letter, undated, with no salutation to show to whom it was addressed. The handwriting was crabbed and spiky, with many words crossed out and several large inkblots.

  God will judge you for your heinous behavior. Bring one thousand livres to the quai des Célestins at nine in the morning on Thursday. Otherwise I will tell all I know to de Crosne.

  I whistled softly. A thousand livres—a substantial sum for all but the wealthy. And de Crosne—the lieutenant of police for Paris, one of the most powerful men in the country, said to have the ear of the king himself. What was Bricon involved in?

  I returned to the table and took up the remaining papers, carrying them back to the window. The top sheet was a list of some sort, with two columns. The first column contained a set of initials: C.P., L.R., M.T., and G.P. The second column was an array of Christian names. I had no idea what to make of it.

  The next paper in the pile had been torn from the Gazette de France, the daily newspaper put out by the government. The top portion of the page had been torn away. A series of brief articles filled the remainder: an announcement of the date and time of the last water spectacle of the season to be performed at the palace in Saint Cloud; a brief notice about the Salon of Painters and Sculptors, which was closing for the year at the end of the week; the text of a new government regulation concerning the cobbling trade; and a short news item:

  Paris, September 26, 1788—Lieutenant of Police de Crosne has issued a commendation to Marc-Étienne Duval, inspector for publishing, for exemplary performance of his duties. Inspector Duval, a career soldier stationed first on the north
eastern frontier, then in Paris and various provinces, joined the Police of Paris six months ago. ‘In a short time, Inspector Duval has succeeded where his predecessors had failed,’ M. de Crosne said. ‘He has made significant progress in closing down the many illegal printers who have made it their purpose to falsely attack the monarchy and the government. The people of Paris should be grateful that his diligence has routed these malignant enterprises from the city.’

  “Monsieur!” I started as the landlady called up the stairwell. She could easily obtain a second job as a fish wife, with that stentorian voice.

  I riffled through the rest of the papers and found them to be blank. As I stepped away from the window, my boot stubbed on a floorboard. I knelt and examined the floor. The short board seemed to have been cut apart and then replaced in the floor in three sections. I stood, went to the door, and stepped out into the landing.

  “I’m about to lock up now, madame,” I called. I heard her huffing on the staircase, two floors down. I closed the door and hurried back to the window. I knelt and ran my fingers over the back edge of the board. A small niche had been cut in the middle section. I put my finger into the niche and pulled. The section popped out of the floor, revealing a hollow space underneath. I put the piece of wood aside and pulled a small box out of the space. It was made of iron, measured about six inches wide and four inches deep, and was secured by a padlock. I stood, placed the box on the window sill, and fished a pick out of my pocket. I always carried a small set of these useful tools, which had been given to me a few years ago by a grateful client in the locksmith’s guild.

  In a few seconds I had the box open. Two small items were nestled inside. The first was an inexpensive rosary, the kind thousands of Parisians carry to church with them on Sundays. The second was a locket. I lifted it out of the box and examined it. The metal was cheap and tarnished. The letter M had been crudely engraved on the front. I fumbled with the tiny spring and pulled the locket open. There was no picture inside, only a few curled strands of light brunette hair.