the way, the bushy moustache tweaked as if he was about to step into the boxing ring.
An iron bar had been obtained to prise the grille open. Lowering it into the sewer, he probed for the bottom and when, perhaps a metre or so below, it was touched, said, ‘ Dieu merci, perhaps I’ve been spared the necessity of holding the breath.’
The force of the water was not great but because of the quantity, there was backup and the lateral full. Reaching down with both arms fully extended, the walls could be felt and gently probed, each brick’s outline followed.
‘ Ah, mon Dieu , the things one has to do!’ he shouted. ‘If Hermann could see me now, I’d never hear the last of it!’
Up he came again, to catch a breath. ‘We’ll probably have to wait for help,’ he said, his teeth chattering.
There were no fingers, there was no weir, no catchment either, it seemed. Repeated attempts failed to yield anything, thought Tremblay, ready with a towel.
‘It’s not later than Haussmann,’ Jean-Louis was forced to admit after a last dip. ‘It’s definitely not recent. The weir is of cast iron and has rusted through but has held back a little something.’
Like a secretive schoolboy of ten, a frozen fist was opened. Hadn’t Napoléon been the one to say men were ruled best by baubles?
‘Vanity?’ managed Jean-Louis as he rushed to dry off and get dressed. ‘Pride? The joys of possession, eh?’
Not just any award, but the thin red ribbon of the Légion d’honneur.
‘Was it ripped from the lapel of his killer’s overcoat?’ he exhaled. ‘Caught on the barb of a decayed weir.’
The ribbon was more often worn on the lapel of the suit jacket.
‘There’s only one problem, Armand. Well, two, no three,’ he went on. ‘First, of course, it may not have been the killer’s, but if it is, he could have been awarded it for honest reasons, either civilian or military, and therefore his arrest might be difficult, especially these days if he’s a friend of the Occupier.’
‘Or?’
‘You know the answer as well as I do.’
‘It could have been awarded by a friend or associate for services rendered to that friend or an associate of said.’
‘Or associates of both.’
Scandal had also plagued the Légion d’honneur. Hadn’t Daniel Wilson, the playboy son-in-law of Président Jules Grevy caused that one’s downfall only hours after he had been returned to office for a second term in 1885?
Wilson had sold Légion d’honneur medals and ribbons to retire gambling debts and other loans. ‘Yet still we all aspire to it,’ said Jean-Louis with a sigh, ‘and nearly everywhere it’s worn it brings profound respect and a willingness by others to give assistance and even to obey.’
The boulevard du Palais separated the Préfecture from the Palais de Justice. Kohler stood in brief shelter by the main entrance of the latter and under a stone lintel that still carried the carved motto of the Third Republic: Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité , freedom, equality and brotherhood, but had been bolted over by a white wooden signboard with black Gothic letters that gave Vichy’s and the Maréchal Pétain’s Travail, Famille, Patrie , work, family and homeland.
Two paniers à salade —Black Marias, salad shakers with individual wire cages inside—had pulled in to the kerb. Emptied, girls of all ages tumbled out, raising voices to the rain. Unchained and then linked up again, these ‘submissive’ girls, who probably hadn’t had licences and certainly looked like repeat offenders, were lined up: no hats, all shades of hair now drenched, the dye, mascara, rouge and eye shadow streaming on some, while the open-toed high heels of several were disintegrating. One aged daughter of the night had been pinpricked by cobbler’s tacks that had held the red felt uppers to their white wooden soles. She cursed, gestured, shrilled at the flics , ‘LÉCHE-BOTTES! LÉCHEZ MON CUL, ESPÈCES DE PORCS À LA MANGUE!’
An iron bar had been obtained to prise the grille open. Lowering it into the sewer, he probed for the bottom and when, perhaps a metre or so below, it was touched, said, ‘ Dieu merci, perhaps I’ve been spared the necessity of holding the breath.’
The force of the water was not great but because of the quantity, there was backup and the lateral full. Reaching down with both arms fully extended, the walls could be felt and gently probed, each brick’s outline followed.
‘ Ah, mon Dieu , the things one has to do!’ he shouted. ‘If Hermann could see me now, I’d never hear the last of it!’
Up he came again, to catch a breath. ‘We’ll probably have to wait for help,’ he said, his teeth chattering.
There were no fingers, there was no weir, no catchment either, it seemed. Repeated attempts failed to yield anything, thought Tremblay, ready with a towel.
‘It’s not later than Haussmann,’ Jean-Louis was forced to admit after a last dip. ‘It’s definitely not recent. The weir is of cast iron and has rusted through but has held back a little something.’
Like a secretive schoolboy of ten, a frozen fist was opened. Hadn’t Napoléon been the one to say men were ruled best by baubles?
‘Vanity?’ managed Jean-Louis as he rushed to dry off and get dressed. ‘Pride? The joys of possession, eh?’
Not just any award, but the thin red ribbon of the Légion d’honneur.
‘Was it ripped from the lapel of his killer’s overcoat?’ he exhaled. ‘Caught on the barb of a decayed weir.’
The ribbon was more often worn on the lapel of the suit jacket.
‘There’s only one problem, Armand. Well, two, no three,’ he went on. ‘First, of course, it may not have been the killer’s, but if it is, he could have been awarded it for honest reasons, either civilian or military, and therefore his arrest might be difficult, especially these days if he’s a friend of the Occupier.’
‘Or?’
‘You know the answer as well as I do.’
‘It could have been awarded by a friend or associate for services rendered to that friend or an associate of said.’
‘Or associates of both.’
Scandal had also plagued the Légion d’honneur. Hadn’t Daniel Wilson, the playboy son-in-law of Président Jules Grevy caused that one’s downfall only hours after he had been returned to office for a second term in 1885?
Wilson had sold Légion d’honneur medals and ribbons to retire gambling debts and other loans. ‘Yet still we all aspire to it,’ said Jean-Louis with a sigh, ‘and nearly everywhere it’s worn it brings profound respect and a willingness by others to give assistance and even to obey.’
The boulevard du Palais separated the Préfecture from the Palais de Justice. Kohler stood in brief shelter by the main entrance of the latter and under a stone lintel that still carried the carved motto of the Third Republic: Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité , freedom, equality and brotherhood, but had been bolted over by a white wooden signboard with black Gothic letters that gave Vichy’s and the Maréchal Pétain’s Travail, Famille, Patrie , work, family and homeland.
Two paniers à salade —Black Marias, salad shakers with individual wire cages inside—had pulled in to the kerb. Emptied, girls of all ages tumbled out, raising voices to the rain. Unchained and then linked up again, these ‘submissive’ girls, who probably hadn’t had licences and certainly looked like repeat offenders, were lined up: no hats, all shades of hair now drenched, the dye, mascara, rouge and eye shadow streaming on some, while the open-toed high heels of several were disintegrating. One aged daughter of the night had been pinpricked by cobbler’s tacks that had held the red felt uppers to their white wooden soles. She cursed, gestured, shrilled at the flics , ‘LÉCHE-BOTTES! LÉCHEZ MON CUL, ESPÈCES DE PORCS À LA MANGUE!’
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