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

Daglan.
    It was still quiet at that time of the morning after the workshops had opened. He felt euphoric during this delightful lull when the street was the preserve of delivery men and tramps. It was as if he had cast off the shackles of everyday mediocrity that gripped the city. He was master of his own destiny and, even though he’d had the odd taste of prison, no bars had ever really threatened his independence; his inner rejection of any form of authority delivered him from slavery.
    ‘The man who can clip my wings hasn’t been born yet,’ he muttered, walking towards the tiny public garden swarming with children, a perfect spot from which to watch without being seen.
    He sat down on a bench and opened the morning paper. There it was, on page two:
    ENAMELLIST MURDERED
    He skimmed the article. The police were making no headway. The only clue was a visiting card with an unintelligible message on it about amber, musk, incense and leopard spots. The attack had happened so fast that the only witness was unable to describe the killer.
    Frédéric Daglan suddenly felt sick.
    ‘Of all the filthy tricks!’
    A ball landed at his feet. As he sent it flying back, the pages of his newspaper scattered around him, rustling like dead leaves. He walked away. In Rue de la Chapelle, the advertising hoardings on the blank end-walls of the buildings caught his eye. His gaze wandered from a giant mustard pot to a magnificent red Lucifer holding a pair of bellows and spraying a jet of sulphur:
    VICAT INSECTICIDE POWDER
    The louse! The dirty louse! How dare he! He would crush him.
     
    Joseph paused, picked up a copy of Boule de Suif and placed it between On the Water and A Life then walked out onto the pavement and stepped back to judge the overall effect. Monsieur Legris would be pleased. The window display was a tribute to the works of Guy de Maupassant, who had died the previous day.
    With no customers in the shop and all the deliveries done, Joseph felt free to relax. His favourite pastime was updating his scrapbooks, which were stuffed with strange articles taken from various newspapers. He leant on the counter and began going through the pile of newspapers in front of him, pausing only every now and then to take a bite of his apple.
    He picked up the copy of Le Passe-partout that he’d been reading on the day of the Bérenger protests, and began cutting out a news item.
    Enamellist Murdered
There are still no clues in the case of the murder victim, Léopold Grandjean, stabbed by an unknown assailant in Rue Chevreul on 21 June. The sole witness is unable to describe the killer, having seen him only from behind. The police discovered a mysterious note on the victim’s body, the content of which we have decided to print for the benefit of our discerning readers: ‘Like amber, musk, benzoin and incense, May has made of ours a solitary pursuit. Can an Ethiopian change the colour of his skin any more than a leopard his spots?’
Our reporter Isidore Gouvier thinks the references are probably literary. The police…
    The stair creaked. Joseph’s heart started pounding. Although Iris had been avoiding the shop since their break-up, he both longed for her to appear and dreaded it. He soon recognised Monsieur Mori’s heavy gait and hastily crammed his scrapbook and cuttings into the back of a drawer.
    ‘A mill without grain turns its sails in vain,’ remarked Kenji – pretending not to have noticed his assistant, whom he only spoke to now when absolutely necessary.
    He sat at his desk, intent on finishing drafting a note. ‘What’s the boss droning on about mills for?’ Joseph muttered. ‘Oh! I get it! It’s a warning. He’s saying I should get a move on or else…Well, he can stuff his metaphors, and what’s more…’
    ‘Still carping?’ whispered Victor, emerging from the stockroom.
    ‘You crept up on me, that’s not fair!’
    Kenji raised his head; if he had overheard he didn’t let it show.
    ‘Come and have a look,