Free Madrigal by J. Robert Janes

samples. But I leave the matter in your good hands lest the bishop question my sudden interest in his hounds.’
    â€˜Be careful.’
    â€˜You too.’

3
    Mullioned windows, punished by hoarfrost, overlooked the place de Horloge in the centre of town. St-Cyr didn’t remove his overcoat, scarf and fedora. One seldom did these days due to the lack of heat and threat of theft. ‘A tisane of rose hips, madame,’ he called out.
    â€˜At this hour?’ she shot back from behind the brass scrollwork of her cage. It was not yet eleven in the morning.
    â€˜At any hour,’ he said.
    Ah! A Parisian as well as a Sûreté – the blind could have sensed it; for herself, it was written all over him, but to his credit, he didn’t attempt to hide it. ‘The girl …’ began Madame Emphoux, indicating the headlines of the Occupation’s thin and tightly controlled Provençal . ‘ “Découverte du cadavre d’une jeune fille au Palais,” ’ she read the headline aloud as if for the first time. ‘Is it true, Inspector?’
    She would have heard plenty by now but he met the gaze she gave, one of brutal assessment, given from under fiercely knitted brows, as if she had heard nothing. ‘True,’ he said warily.
    â€˜Violated?’ asked the woman, leaning closely so that unclipped nasal hairs and florid cheeks unbrushed by rouge or powder were more than evident beyond the scrollwork. There was butter on the double chin. Butter ! He was certain of it. The hair was frizzy, a mop of tired auburn curls that hung over the blunt forehead. The cardigan, of wine-purple wool, had frayed holes at the elbows and was too small for her. Tightly buttoned, it gave glimpses of a turquoise blouse and a flannel shirt. ‘Violated?’ she prodded.
    â€˜That I cannot say,’ came the still wary response, the Sûreté not budging unless … unless, perhaps, the offer of something useful was made. ‘They come here,’ she confided, her voice still low but her hard brown eyes flicking over the clientele who, disinterested or otherwise, appeared to keep entirely to themselves.
    These days such a manner was mandatory. ‘They?’ he asked, giving his head a slight upward lift.
    Her pudgy, ringless fingers moved things aside. ‘ Les chanteurs de Monsieur Simondi . The madrigal singers are habitués of Le Café de la mule blanche affolée. ’ The cafe of the panic-stricken white mule.
    As proof, she found a greasy, sweat-stained bit of cardboard on which had been written a list of six names. Beside each one, the latest credit extended was shown next to all other additions and cancellations. Two hundred and seven francs … four hundred and thirty …‘Mademoiselle de Sinéty’s name isn’t on your list,’ he said.
    â€˜That one seldom had the time, or the money. Nor would she beg for credit like the others. Too proud, if you ask me. She only came here if in need of one of them.’
    â€˜And Monsieur Simondi?’
    Had the Sûreté smelled trouble already? ‘Sometimes he joined them. Sometimes he took one of them away with him, or two, or three as the need demanded, the others always letting their eyes and thoughts hunger after those who were departing. He has, of course, a wife.’
    The taint of trouble with that wife was all too clear. Swiftly Madame Emphoux watched him to see if her confidence had registered and when he returned nothing, she let escape, ‘An absinthe drinker.’
    â€˜That’s impossible. It was outlawed in 1915.’
    Her rounded shoulders lifted with an uncaring shrug. ‘So it was,’ she said, fingering her left cheek as if in thought, ‘but one cannot help but overhear students. Absinthe was often discussed.’
    â€˜In relation to Madame Simondi?’
    And to the students themselves? She could see him thinking this, but said simply,