The Song Peddler of the Pont Neuf Read online

  His hands shook.

  “Go on,” I said gently.

  “It was too late to go to the morgue to look for myself by then, so I went yesterday morning, before church. I had to wait a long time until someone would agree to speak to me. They told me that I shouldn’t see the body, it would only upset me. I said I had to know if it was my friend. Finally an attendant came over and took me in to see him.”

  He covered his face with his hands, took a deep breath, and then looked at me. “It was an awful sight. My dear old friend—his face had been beaten so heavily, I hardly recognized him. He looked as if a pack of ruffians had set upon him. The attendant told me that whoever had killed him had only beaten him about the head. His face was bruised and cut, as if someone had pummeled him with a small piece of metal. Oh, my poor friend!” He began to weep.

  The bird flew off his shoulder, alit on the table, and cocked its head.

  “Are you certain it was Bricon?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I crossed over to my cupboard to fetch my coat and cloak. “I’ll go over there right now to see him,” I said.

  “Oh no, monsieur. No, you cannot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dried his eyes. “It is too late. He is gone already. The attendant told me I was lucky I had arrived when I did. They were preparing a few bodies to send off to the church cemeteries that afternoon. He asked me if I wanted to pay for a burial so that Gaspard would not be consigned to the mass grave, but I could not. I’d already given all of my money to you.” He stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket. “That is why I had to wait so long to see him. They had already wrapped him and put him on the cart. I pleaded with the attendant to keep Gaspard there for one more day, so that you could examine him, but the man refused. He had to do his job, he said, or he would hear about it from the director of the morgue. I had no money with which to bribe him.”

  I groaned to myself. I’d never had a case that involved a murder, but I had read that some experts believed that examination of a victim’s body can yield valuable information. I would have to make do with my client’s observations.

  “Did the attendant say that the beating was the cause of Bricon’s death?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say where he had been found?”

  “Yes, on the quai des Ormes. He had been left among the debris from the construction on the Pont Marie. A member of the crew taking down the houses on the bridge discovered him there.”

  “Were there any personal effects with him? In his pockets, perhaps?”

  Montigny shook his head. “No. The attendant said there was nothing found with him.” He took out the handkerchief again and blew his nose. “But the man seemed very shady to me. He might have stolen anything of value Gaspard had had with him. Or the worker who found him might have picked his pockets before notifying the Watch about him.”

  I could think of nothing else to ask. My shoulders slumped. That was the end of the case. I would never find out who the song peddler had been blackmailing, or the meaning of the list of names he had left in his room, or understand why he had hidden his rosary and the locket away.

  I reached over and took my client’s hand. “I’m sorry about your friend,” I said.

  He nodded.

  I went to the cupboard to take out the money Montigny had given me last week. “I can write you up a bill for my services, and I’ll give you the remainder of your money to take now,” I said.

  The old man rose from the chair. The bird, startled, hopped a few steps backward on the table. “No, Monsieur Gastebois. You don’t understand. I am not here to get my money back,” he said.

  “But you hired me to locate Bricon. What is it you wish me to do now?”

  He drew himself up and pulled back his shoulders. “Find him,” he said, his face set in grim determination. “Find my friend’s killer.”

  After my client departed, I instructed the little bird to stay where he was, pulled on my cloak, and went out into the street. I hastened across the Petit Pont and along the southern quais of the Île de la Cité, turning the information that Montigny had given me about Bricon’s murder over in my head. Something the old man had said had struck me as strange, but I couldn’t put a finger on what, exactly. I recalled what Montigny had said about the old song peddler’s body—that the face had been bruised and cut by some small metal object. I immediately thought of the heavy ring that I had seen on the hand of Marc-Étienne Duval Friday afternoon at the police court. But why would Duval kill Bricon? Because of the blackmail note, a draft of which I had found in Bricon’s lodgings? “God will judge you for your heinous behavior,” the note had read. What behavior had Bricon been referring to? How could an old song peddler possess knowledge about the activities of a distinguished soldier, now a successful police official? Had Bricon observed Duval committing some sort of crime on the Pont Neuf? Or was Bricon aware of some nefarious activity Duval was engaged in as inspector for publishing?

  I knew I had to find out more about the dead man. My plan was to talk again with Bricon’s friend on the Pont Neuf, the other song peddler, Vincent. I was certain that he knew more about Bricon’s activities than he had told me. But how could I win his trust?

  I reached the corner of the quai des Orfèvres and the Pont Neuf. Looking down the bridge, I saw a small group of vendors, including Vincent, standing outside the Samaritaine. A few yards in front of me, where the quai des Morfundus merged with the bridge, I noticed a swarthy, unshaven man dressed in the rags of a street sweeper desultorily pushing his broom along the sidewalk. I smiled. I was in luck.

  I strolled along the right side of the bridge toward the Samaritaine. As I passed the street sweeper, he looked up and gave me a curt nod. When I reached the café at the end of the bridge, I crossed over and approached the group in front of the water pump. I did not see Marie, the cabbage vendor.

  When Vincent saw me coming toward him, he scowled and turned away. I put my hand on his back. He turned around.

  “So, you are back already. What do you want now? Have you found Gaspard?” he asked.

  “I need to speak to you, alone,” I murmured.

  He pointed to a small recess built into the bridge. I walked over and perched against the stone wall, directing Vincent to face me and the river. “Sing me a song,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “What is all this secrecy? Just to hear one of my songs?”

  “Just do as I tell you,” I said. “You sing and I’ll talk.”

  He huffed in exasperation. “You have me all confused. I can’t think of anything to sing!”

  “Sing me a popular tune, then,” I said. “But softly, so no one can hear.”

  He hesitated. He began to sing in a low voice.

  It is raining, raining, shepherdess,

  Hurry your sheep along,

  Come over to my cottage,

  Shepherdess, let us go.

  “Don’t turn around,” I said as he paused. “There is a man over there at the corner, sweeping the street. He’s a spy for the police.”

  He stared at me and continued the song.

  I hear on the leaves

  The sound of water splashing,

  Oh! Here is the storm,

  Here is the lightning flashing.

  “How do you know that?” he asked.

  “I do some work following foreign diplomats for the police. I’ve seen him at police court sometimes.” The street sweeper had left the corner of the quai des Morfundus and was working his way toward us.

  Do you hear the thunder?

  Rumbling as it nears,

  Take shelter, shepherdess,

  Walk with me to my home

  “Whatever it is you are selling besides songs, you should be careful,” I said.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

  “I need your help. Bricon has been murdered.

  Vincent gasped.
“No! It cannot be! Gaspard is dead?”

  “Keep singing, he’s coming our way,” I said. The sweeper was across the street at the café, regarding me intently.

  It is raining, raining, shepherdess,

  Hurry your sheep along,

  Come over to my cottage,

  Shepherdess, let us go.

  “Poor Gaspard,” Vincent moaned softly. “I warned him to take care, but he wouldn’t listen to me. How will I tell Marie?”

  I leaned in closer to him. The street sweeper had crossed the street and was now a few feet away from us, sweeping near the door to the Samaritaine.

  “Take care about what?” I asked.

  “I cannot tell you now, not here. Come to my lodgings tomorrow morning at ten. This side of the Île, past the Pont Notre-Dame, the rue Saint-Landry. Stop at the cobbler’s shop across from the church and ask for me. My name is Vincent Chéron. He’ll tell you where to go.”

  “All right,” I said. I handed him a coin and raised my voice. “Well done, peddler,” I said.

  He tipped his cap. “Thank you, monsieur,” he said loudly. He leaned close to me. “Be certain that no one follows you,” he muttered.

  Chéron pocketed the coin and turned to call to the sweeper. “How about you, monsieur? Would you care to take a break from your work to hear a song? Perhaps about the Estates General?”

  The street sweeper turned away and headed back to the café.

  I walked to the end of the bridge and turned onto the quai de la Mégisserie. Home to the city’s oiseleurs—bird sellers—the crowded quai was lined with squat two-story buildings, with the oiseleurs’ boutiques on the ground floor and their living quarters upstairs. In the summertime, cages filled with all manner of birds and exotic small animals were piled on the quai outside, but now, because of the cold, they had been moved inside. Today, the doors to many of the shops stood open, and as I walked down the quai I heard the quacking, cooing, singing, and squawking of their inhabitants.

  I entered a shop at the eastern end of the quai. The small room was crowded with patrons. At the back wall was a long counter. Three short aisles piled high with cages of all sizes took up the rest of the space.

  “Hello, monsieur. I’ll be with you in two minutes,” the oiseleur called from behind the counter. “Feel free to look around.”

  I started down the nearest aisle. I passed a stack of cages filled with small baby gray squirrels. Several others were filled with mice. I stopped in front of a large cage filled with animals that I had never seen before, either in life or in picture books. They looked to be large monkeys, with long tails ringed with black fur and eerily bright eyes that stared at me as I studied them. “Lemurs,” said a sign attached to the lower corner of the cage. “Exotic primates from a mysterious island off the coast of Africa.”

  As I reached the end of the aisle and turned to enter the next, I was startled by a loud screech above my head. I looked up to see a small black monkey peering down at me. He had somehow managed to free himself from his enclosure, and was now sitting atop a stack of empty cages. With his pale brown cap of fur surrounding his old-man face, he looked like one of the brown-hooded Capuchin monks that lived in the large monastery north of the Place Vendôme.

  The next aisle was full of birds of every type: red cardinals, parakeets, finches, and parrots. A small boy of about six years stood in the middle of the aisle, a large yellow canary with a black crown perched on his head.

  “I want this one, Maman,” he said to a well-dressed woman standing beside him.

  She pursed her lips. “But chéri, the small gray ones are so sweet, and not so expensive,” she said.

  “Please Maman. Albert has one of these. I want one too.”

  I caught her eye and we exchanged smiles. I continued down the aisle. At the very end, a middle-aged merchant in a finely-tailored suit bent before a cage, trying to entice a parrot to talk.

  “Hello. Hello,” he cried at the bewildered bird. “I am the King of France.”

  “May I assist you, monsieur?”

  I jumped. The oiseleur, a short, prick-eared man, his round face etched with a smirk, had padded down the aisle without my hearing him, and stood behind me.

  “Yes. I need supplies for a bird. He flew in my window this morning, and I cannot seem to convince him to leave,” I said.

  The shop owner laughed. “Ah, poor thing, he is probably lost. It is kind of you to care for him.”

  “I don’t want him to die in the cold,” I said, shrugging.

  “Do you know if any of your neighbors owns such a bird?” he asked. “They usually don’t fly very far.”

  “I don’t know of any birds in the neighborhood,” I said.

  “Then if I might suggest, monsieur—the best thing to do is to place an advertisement in the daily circular, the Affiches de Paris. Everyone who has lost a bird looks there first. All you have to do is go to their office in the rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. The last I heard, the advertisements were free.”

  “I’ll try that, thank you. But for now, I’ll need a cage for him, and some food.”

  He led me to the last aisle, which was piled with empty cages. “What sort of bird is he?” he asked.

  “A canary,” I said. “Gray, and very small.”

  “I see. Have you ever owned a bird?”

  “No, I’ve never had a pet.” When I was a boy of eight, I had wanted a pet monkey more than anything in the world. When my mother had relayed my request to my father, he had had a good laugh, and no monkey had joined our household.

  “They eat a paste made of bread and fresh meat, or you can buy worms for him to eat here,” the oiseleur explained. “You must change his water every day. They are very sensitive to temperature—you must ensure that he neither gets too hot nor too cold.” He moved a few cages aside. “Check every day to see that his feet remain clean. If they get dirty, he’ll have problems perching. If you do need to clean his feet, don’t use water! Cold water will make him ill. Use some of your spit—it’s nice and warm.”

  He reached up and pulled down a large cage, set it aside, and reached for a smaller one.

  “If he ever seems ill, bring him here. I’d be glad to take a look at him. You’ll also want to watch him carefully, in order to determine what kind of bird he is. Some canaries can be very melancholic.”

  “He seems very friendly and interested in people,” I said.

  “Ah! That is good. Does he sing?”

  “I don’t know. He only came this morning. I haven’t heard him sing.”

  “Well, if you should wish to teach him to sing, try not to confuse him too much. Give him a few lessons a day. But don’t try to teach him too many songs. Two songs is enough for a common canary.”

  He gestured to the cages. “Do you see anything you like here, monsieur?”

  I pointed at the large one he had placed to the side. “I’ll take this one. Does it come with the perch and the chain?”

  “Yes, it does. But if I might suggest, monsieur—that cage is rather large for a common canary.”

  “I’m not at home during the day. I’d like him to be able to move around a bit.”

  He nodded. “All right. You’ll also want some small dishes, for his food and water.”

  “Yes. And I’ll take some of those worms you mentioned.”

  I followed him to the back counter. He wrote up the order and I handed over the money. “Where is this all going, monsieur?” he asked.

  “Lacombe’s wineshop, in the rue Saint-Jacques,” I said.

  “Which cross street?”

  “Just south of the rue Saint-Séverin.”

  “Very good, monsieur. My boy will deliver everything this afternoon.”

  Although the day was sunny, the high tenement houses in the rue de la Tixéranderie cast dark shadows on the narrow street just north of the Place de Grève. The businesses in the street showed signs of neglect: the stoop in front of a butcher shop had not been swept; trash collected outside a dilapidated ba
kery; and a sign announcing the establishment of M. Curtin, barber, hung precariously from its bracket, the chain on its left side having broken long ago.

  I found the workshop of Madame Dupré at the very end. I pushed open the door and entered. The room was small and ill-lit, its walls bare, and was furnished only with a work table and two chairs. There was no mirror or screen to accommodate clients who wished to try on garments. A small stove in one corner wheezed noisily but did not put out much heat.

  Two women, one of middle-age, the other in her thirties, were seated at the table. The older one rose as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.

  “May I help you, monsieur?”

  “Yes, good afternoon, madame,” I said. “Are you Madame Dupré?”

  “Yes, I am Jeanne Dupré,” she said. She studied me with large, heavy-lidded eyes. The style of her graying hair was woefully out of date and her thin lips were set in an expression of discontent. Yet even I, whose knowledge of fashion came only from my weekly walks in the Palais Royal with my sister as my guide, could tell that her dress was of a newer style, made of expensive wool. A large shiny watch with a mother-of-pearl face and heavy gold ornamentation on the bezel was pinned on her shoulder. The younger woman was pale-faced, with ash-blond hair and large eyes. She glanced shyly at me and then bowed her head to her sewing.

  “I’m looking for a girl who is apprenticed here,” I said. “Juliette Lesage.”

  “Juliette is not here, monsieur,” the mistress said. She peered at me. “Are you a relative of hers?”

  “No. I’m here for a friend, who hasn’t met Juliette in church recently and is concerned about her welfare. I promised I would stop here and ask after her. Will she return soon?”

  “I’m afraid Juliette no longer works here,” Madame Dupré said.

  “She doesn’t?” I feigned surprise. “When did she leave?”