Free In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) by Claude Izner

over the moon if she agreed to take his name as well. He was doing his best to curb his possessiveness. Of course he didn’t always succeed, like on that Thursday the previous March.
    They had gone to view an exhibition by the painter Antonio de la Gandara 23 at the Durand-Ruel gallery. 24 She had spent ages looking at the pastels and drawings, in particular the portraits of Comte de Montesquiou and Prince Wolkonsky. An oil painting entitled Woman in Green had fascinated her. Impressed by his masterful brushstrokes and the texture of his fabrics, she had wanted to congratulate the artist, an attractive Spanish aristocrat. He had thanked her for the compliment, and with a knowing wink had suggested she sit for him. With forced good humour, Victor had swiftly pointed out that his companion preferred painting portraits to posing for them. He had then pretended to become absorbed in a drawing of a bat, but the glowering looks he kept shooting at Gandara made it perfectly clear what was on his mind.
    ‘Thank God you’re here! I was beginning to get worried.’
    Victor had just walked in. He embraced her, and she snuggled up against him.
    ‘What’s wrong?’
    ‘There’s been rioting in the Latin Quarter and…’
    He told her briefly about the bookbinder’s death.
    ‘How horrible!’
    She held him tight. Those unforgettable images of the pogrom…Rue Voronov splattered with blood, the flickering flames, the man stretched out in front of the house, the soldiers on horseback waving their sabres…
    ‘Was it an accident?’
    ‘Apparently…They’re not sure…’
    The image of a hand tossing a scrap of burning paper into Pierre Andrésy’s shop flashed into his mind. He blotted it out.
    Tasha flinched, as though she’d been reading his thoughts; would this tragedy turn into an excuse for a new case? She began to say something then stopped and brushed her lips against his cheek.
    ‘I do love you, you know,’ she whispered. ‘I feel so afraid sometimes. I can’t imagine life without you.’
    ‘Don’t worry, my darling. I shall endeavour to endure your difficult nature with stoicism.’
    He began to unbutton her blouse as she pulled his shirt out of his trousers.

Chapter Four
    Friday 7 July
    ‘Y OU really have excelled yourself, Monsieur Daglan. The way you’ve fashioned the p in pigs’ trotters à la Sainte-Menehould! They look good enough to eat off the page! As for the spelling, I’ll take your word for it.’
    The plump woman’s double chin quivered as she examined the finished menu based on a rough draft. She tried to pay the artist, but he refused with a smile.
    ‘A glass of beer will do, Madame Milent. Just carry on being my eyes and ears.’
    ‘That goes without saying, Monsieur Daglan. The more I see of your upstrokes and downstrokes the more I’m convinced you’ll make the ministry one day. I’m ashamed of my spidery scrawl.’
    ‘Come, Madame Milent, you’re the queen of cordon bleu. It’s the quality of your cooking that matters, not your handwriting.’
    Frédéric Daglan finished off his beer and put away his things. By mid-morning, the main room at Madame Milent’s establishment in Rue de la Chapelle became the exclusive domain of carters transporting heavy loads, and cab drivers from a nearby rank. The back room, which was screened off by a thin partition and had a secret connecting door to the courtyard of the adjoining police station, would shortly be occupied by assistant chief of police Raoul Pérot, his colleagues, and a few literary friends.
    Frédéric Daglan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said goodbye to the landlady. After he’d gone, she remained thoughtful.
    ‘What a handsome fellow, so charming, so elegant! Ah! If only I were twenty years younger and forty pounds lighter…’
     
    The sun shone weakly on the peeling façades of the buildings and the sky was dappled with fleecy clouds as far as Plaine Saint-Denis.
    Like shaving cream, thought Frédéric