The Song Peddler of the Pont Neuf Page 5

  “A bit of a comedown, heh?” he said. “Not like when we were boys, when my father owned the whole house. My brother, the pig farmer, hates Paris. He was quick to sell this place to an entrepreneur when Father died, with the understanding that I would have an apartment here.” He plucked at a loose thread on the cuff of his shirt. “I could have remodeled it for him and made a nice profit from it. But he wouldn’t hear of that. He had to sell to some fat bourgeois who was buying up the whole street.”

  “How is your brother?” I asked.

  “The same as ever, wallowing with the sows in the mud of Limousin. The comte de Mud, I like to call him.” He laughed. “He’s worried that he’ll have to come up here for the Estates General next year. He’s been nagging me to run as deputy in his stead. Could you imagine me involved in politics?”

  “No, I can’t,” I said.

  “What do I care about the interests of the nobles in Limousin? I’ve never even been there. But enough of me. Tell me about your family. How is Bernard? Still the holy man?”

  “Yes. He’s living in Saint-Antoine now. He’s a vicaire at Sainte-Marguerite.”

  “And the lovely Aimée? How old is she now?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Sixteen! Where is she? I should look her up. Just as an old friend of her brother’s, of course, to see how she’s grown.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I said.

  He stood, went to the window, pulled back a frayed drape, and peered out. “So what brings the confidential inquirer to my door?” he asked, turning back to me.

  “I have a new case. I’m looking for a missing song peddler, a man named Gaspard Bricon. Do you know him?” Was it just merely the light in the room, or did I see a shadow pass over my old friend’s face?

  “Do I know him? Why should I? Why would I be acquainted with a song peddler? My fortunes haven’t fallen that far!”

  “I spoke to some of the vendors on the Pont Neuf, where he worked. They told me that he argued with a nobleman who often visited the bridge.”

  He cocked a brow. “So? There are hundreds of noblemen in Paris. Since I am the only one you know personally, you immediately think it’s me?”

  “Yes, there are hundreds. But not many with red hair and blue eyes. And not many who are attracted to the shadier activities that take place on the Pont Neuf.”

  He spun the chair around and sat, spreading his long legs in front of him. “What was the man’s name? Bacon?”

  “Bricon. Gaspard Bricon. He worked at the north end of the bridge, outside the Samaritaine.”

  “Oh! Him! That old man. Yes, I know who you are talking about. He always harasses me when I am over on the bridge.” He licked his lips. “I go there often, to visit the café across from the Samaritaine. There is a waitress there, a blonde—she’s the daughter of the owner, I think. That old man notices me flirting with her and comes over to sing one of his insulting songs.” He brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “I don’t know him personally. I didn’t even know his name.”

  “Can you remember the last time you saw him?” I asked.

  “Let me think.” He raised two fingers to his right temple. “It was a few weeks ago. It’s been cold lately, and to be honest, the waitress hasn’t been returning my interest. So I don’t go over there anymore.” He grinned. “There are plenty of beautiful willing women in the taverns up here.”

  “Can you tell me anything about him, something that would help me find him?”

  “No. I told you. I don’t know the man. When I went to the café, he harassed me. Sometimes I played along with him and pretended to be angry, to get the girl’s sympathy. That’s all.”

  Hyacinthe stood and stretched. “Come, take a walk with me. I have to go around the corner. Wait while I fetch my coat.”

  He went into a back room and returned wearing a frayed coat and carrying a large cloth bag and a cloak. He looked around the room, grabbed a pair of candlesticks from the ancient sideboard on the far wall, and stuffed them in the bag. We left the apartment and clambered down the stairs. At the bottom, the old man sat on a chair.

  “I’m going out for a while,” Hyacinthe told him. “I’ll be back later this afternoon. I’m expecting a business associate to call. If I haven’t returned, please ask him to wait.”

  The old man gave him a blank look and nodded.

  Hyacinthe pulled on his cloak and we stepped out into the street.

  “Have you been over to the rue Barbette lately?” he asked as we walked to the corner. “Your house looks much the same. Your father’s place has been split up for apartments, though. I walked by there the other day.”

  “No, I don’t get over here often,” I said. If I did, I thought, that house was the last place I wanted to see.

  We turned and walked past the old convent of the Blancs-Manteaux. Hyacinthe halted before the large arch that denoted the entrance to the Mont-de-Piété, a pawnshop established by the government to control usury in the city.

  “Do you want to come in?” he asked. “We could go to dinner afterwards.”

  “No, sorry, I can’t. I have a meeting later.”

  We embraced. “Come play cards sometime,” Hyacinthe said. “I’m usually at the Café Diamant, in the rue des Lombards. We could always fit you in.”

  “I don’t have much free time, especially with the new case,” I said.

  “You have to make your free time, my friend. Too much work is not good for a man.” He winked at me.

  “If you think of anything else about Bricon, let me know,” I said. “I’m living above Lacombe’s wineshop, in the rue Saint-Jacques.”

  “I’ve told you all I know,” Hyacinthe said. He waved and walked to the door of the pawnshop.

  I watched as he carried his family’s heirloom candlesticks into the building. Then I continued down the rue des Blancs-Manteaux, shaking my head. I’d known Hyacinthe de Breul since we were both seven years old. He knew more about Bricon than he was telling me.

  • •

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At a quarter to three I joined the throng that was heading to the lieutenant of police’s weekly afternoon court. In the square on the north side of the Châtelet, an impromptu market had sprung up: coffee sellers shouting over the voices of hot chocolate vendors, claiming their potation was more nourishing and warming on such a cold day; mud brushers offering to clean the shoes of the small armies of lawyers and clients who streamed toward the arched entrance to the court complex; women carrying large trays laden with cheap ribbons, small flower posies, apples, and eggs.

  “Coming through!”

  I quickly stepped aside as a handcart loaded with a large barrel of vinegar rumbled toward me. The workman gave me an apologetic nod as he attempted to steer his burden to the restaurant on the right side of the square. Across the way, a bill hanger was perched on his ladder, attaching a poster announcing the next production of the Comédie-Française to the exterior wall of a hat shop. A group of begging children distracted a vendor’s attention from his brazier, and the next moment the crisp winter air was filled with the odor of burning chestnuts. I noticed several pickpockets plying their trade among the crowd. The area in front of the city’s largest court and prison was the most popular workplace for its petty criminals. Parisians could never resist a chance to flaunt authority.

  I walked under the arch and entered the large door on my right. I followed the crowd up the stairs to the courtroom on the first floor. The room was very large, with a high-beamed ceiling and a worn stone floor. Tall windows lined one wall, but had been blackened over the years with so much grime that they no longer admitted much light. At the farthest end of the room, behind a wooden railing, benches had been set up on both sides of a long aisle. At the head of the aisle, on a dais, sat a heavy, ornate table with a single chair for the lieutenant of police. A long table for his clerks was placed to its side.

  A large crowd milled around the front part of the room, waiting for the small gate in the railing to
be opened so they could take their seats. I nodded a greeting to some former clients— officials from the wigmakers guild, the candle makers, and the bookbinders. Most guilds were able to handle discipline of apprentices and journeymen internally, but were required by law to come to this court in order to discipline master members. Two neighbors, trading arguments with one another before the court had even begun, hurled loud accusations involving one man’s wagon wheel and the other’s cracked stoop at each other, only to be separated by a constable and sent outside. As they left, the crowd parted as a guard led in a group of six prostitutes with overly-painted faces and harsh, tired eyes.

  I found the man I sought on the right side of the room, conferring with a court clerk. Jérôme Favart, the police inspector for foreigners, was a fat, oily man with the eyes of a ferret. The clerk turned away as I approached, and Favart lifted his index finger when he saw me.

  “I have one minute, Gastebois,” he said. “If you can’t give me your report in that time, you’ll have to submit a written one to my office.”

  “I don’t have much to tell you, sir,” I said. “Since I last saw you two weeks ago, I’ve continued following Cobenzl. He pursues the same activities as before. He’s been to the theater twice each week. Last week he met some other young foreign men in a restaurant in the rue Dauphine, and last night he attended a salon in the Place Vendôme.”

  Favart’s brows quirked. “A salon? What type of salon, do you know?”

  “I don’t think it was political, sir. I was able to learn that the host is a noted botanist.”

  Favart snorted. “A bunch of men sitting around discussing plants! These aristocrats have too much time on their hands.” He peered at me. “Why does he go to the theater so often? How many times must he see the same play?”

  “He appears to be enamored of the leading lady.”

  “Mademoiselle Violette?” He laughed. “He’ll make no progress there. She is the mistress of the duc de Biron.” He looked over my shoulder and waved at someone. “Monsieur! A word, please!” he called. He returned his attention to me. “Well, keep watching him. He doesn’t seem to be a threat of any sort, but the ministry wants us to watch all the diplomats, so we will watch all the diplomats.”

  I nodded. Just then, we were joined by a tall man in his mid-thirties.

  “Ah, Inspector Duval, good afternoon,” Favart said. “Allow me to introduce you to one of my spies, Paul Gastebois. If you ever need anyone to do some street work, I highly recommend him. He is extremely good at sitting on his butt for hours!” He brayed like the ass he was. I set my jaw. God, I hated working for this man.

  Duval glanced at me and nodded. I nodded back, and then studied him as he and Favart discussed some new paperwork the lieutenant of police required from his inspectors. So this was the subject of the clipping Bricon had left on his table before he disappeared—the man who was singlehandedly cleaning up the illegal publishing trade in the city. He was strikingly handsome, with sculpted features, piercing dark eyes, and raven black, curly hair worn short in the military style. As the two inspectors chatted, Duval idly twisted a ring on his left hand. The ring was wide and heavy, with a prominent relief pattern of tiny metal knobs.

  “I must go,” Favart said. “I must speak with the lieutenant before he begins the session.” He shook hands with Duval, gave me a sidelong glance, and hurried off. A clerk opened the gate to the court area and the crowd filed in and took seats.

  Duval fixed me with a gaze that seemed to penetrate to my bones. “I don’t expect I would have any work for you,” he said. “I already have a large staff and a number of spies of my own.”

  I was dismayed that he thought I had requested Favart to recommend me for work. “I’m only here to report to Inspector Favart, monsieur,” I said. “I’m not looking for any more police work. I conduct private inquiries, and I have quite a bit of business before me already.”

  He nodded and then abruptly turned and looked around the room.

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, “I just was hired on a new case—finding a missing person.”

  “How interesting,” he murmured, turning back to me.

  A clerk banged a gavel on the heavy table and called the court to order.

  “Yes. An elderly song peddler who worked on the Pont Neuf. His name was Gaspard Bricon.” I searched for signs of recognition on his handsome face.

  He picked a piece of lint off his coat sleeve. “Please excuse me. I have a case early in the proceedings.” He gave me another curt nod and walked away. A door at the far end of the room opened and de Crosne, the lieutenant of police, entered.

  A constable pulled on my arm. “Monsieur, you must either take a seat or leave the room.”

  “First case: Jacques Laporte, failure to sweep in front of his establishment in a timely manner,” the clerk called.

  I slipped out the door and walked slowly down the stairs, turning my impressions of Duval over in my mind. The man was certainly arrogant, but that was true of most of the police inspectors I had met. Duval was much too busy to have any interest in a man like me. But more importantly, he hadn’t even blinked when I had mentioned Bricon. Either Duval hadn’t recognized the old song peddler’s name, or he was a good enough actor to leave the police and star with Mademoiselle Violette on the stage of the Comédie-Française.

  • •

  CHAPTER SIX

  I rose later on Saturday morning than was my habit. The downpours of rain which had wakened me a few times during the night had subsided, leaving leaden skies, an icy drizzle, and a biting wind. The streets east of Les Halles bustled with activity as the great market prepared for the weekend crowds. Carts full of vegetables of all sorts rolled down the rue Saint-Denis, occasionally stopping to wait as a young boy trudged across the way, driving a dozen small piglets before him; or as a wizened old farmer led a decrepit horse through the traffic. A large wagon heaped with the carcasses of cows and sheep wended its way toward the central marketplace.

  I cut over a block and walked down the rue de la Poterie. I wanted to talk to my client. I thought I would try his lodgings first, and, if he was not at home, make my way to the cheese market. Montigny’s building was large, three tall tenements cobbled together, located across the street from the draper’s market. Despite the cold, the market’s doors stood open, and I could see sellers running to and fro across the long, wide floor, fetching bundled orders for customers. Seamstresses examined the brightly colored calicos that were piled on row upon row of tables, while tailors pointed to rolls of fine wools arrayed against the walls. Nimble young clerks pulled the fabrics down to be cut.

  In the vestibule of the middle apartment building, I stopped and wiped the rain off my face with a handkerchief, and then looked around for signs of a landlady. I was about to knock on the door to my left when a gangly youth with a large, empty coffee urn strapped to his back came down the stairs.

  “No one is there,” he said to me, nodding at the door. “They leave for work at six.”

  “I’m looking for Hubert Montigny,” I said. “Do I have the correct building?”

  “Hubert? Yes. He’s on the third floor, first door on your left on the landing.”

  I thanked him and climbed the stairs. I knocked on my client’s door. When he opened it, he seemed startled to see me.

  “Monsieur Gastebois! Have you found Gaspard?”

  “No, I haven’t found him yet, but I’ve discovered a few things I’d like to discuss with you. Do you have time to speak with me?”

  “Of course. I was just about to eat. Come in, please.” He gestured me into a small, agreeable room, its walls hung with an array of colorful items: three chipped faience plates, each decorated with a red rooster in the center and bright green leaves along the edge; two cheerful pastoral landscapes, portraying mountains and a river; a large wooden sign from a tavern, featuring a crude painting of a boar, the name of the establishment worn away long ago; and a simple, gleaming large crucifix. A paper topped with
a hunk of cheese sat on the table. Montigny pulled out a stool.

  “Please, you are welcome to share my meal,” he said.

  “Thank you, no. I’ve eaten,” I said as I settled on the stool.

  He smiled. “This cheese is from my hometown. I’d be insulted if you didn’t try some,” he said. He pulled a second stool from under the table and sat, took up a dull knife and sliced me a piece of cheese. “Taste it. I’m sorry I have no beer to offer you.”

  I took a bite. It was perfectly ripe and soft, with a musty flavor.

  “This is delicious,” I said.

  “It’s a brie, from Meaux,” Montigny said. Brie was the most common cheese sold in Paris. This was an especially tasty one.

  “How is business at the cheese market?” I asked.

  He popped a chunk in his mouth, chewed it, and shook his head. “Not so good, with the prices going up so fast. Of course, we still sell a lot of the fancier cheeses. The cooks from the wealthy houses are always looking for the blue cheese from Roquefort, or the ones we import from the Netherlands, Italy, or Switzerland. But the more common, cheaper cheeses, like this one or the goat cheeses—sales are way down. When one has to put more money toward bread, cheese is left at the market.” He cut another slice and offered it to me. I shook my head. “I’m lucky I can take a few pieces home with me now and then, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to afford it,” he said.

  I pulled the papers I had found in Bricon’s room out of my pocket and laid them on the table. “Here’s what I’ve done so far,” I said. “I went to the Pont Neuf and spoke to some of the vendors. Like you, none of them have seen your friend in weeks.”