Every narrow street he looked down called to mind a scene already captured in paint or waiting to be captured. He turned a corner into the rue St-Vincent and found himself following a few paces behind a figure from the last century. In baggy black suit and wide-brimmed gypsy hat, guitar slung across his back, a chansonnier strolled on his way to perform perhaps at the Lapin Agile. Conscious that he was wasting time, Joe tracked him until he disappeared into the dilapidated little cottage, his entrance marked by raucous cries of welcome and a burst of song. For a moment Joe paused, tempted to go into the smoky depths. He remembered that in an earlier age it had been known as the Cabaret des Assassins.
Who would he see in there if he slid inside and took a table? He narrowed his eyes and pictured the scene. Letting his fancy off the leash, he saw: Picasso . . . Apollinaire . . . Utrillo . . . Jean Cocteau . . . and he grinned. He probably wouldn’t understand a word of the conversation! Avant-garde, fast-living, arty . . . But he knew who would understand and almost turned to share his thoughts with young Dorcas. He felt a stab of regret that his adopted niece who’d trailed through France with him last summer was not by his side. She’d have felt at home here. She’d have greeted the gypsy guitarist and talked to him in his own language. Her raffish father, Orlando, must have spent hours drinking and yarning with his fellow painters in this picturesque hovel, judging by the quantities of canvases it had inspired. And his daughter was probably on first-name terms with half the clientele!
He looked at his watch. Better left for another day. Yes, he’d come back some other time. With Dorcas. Why not? He reminded himself to find a suitable postcard to send to her in Surrey. But a different girl was higher on his agenda today.
He had work to do. A self-imposed task but tricky and not one to be attempted light-heartedly. Not heavy-handedly either though. He looked around and caught sight of a flower seller’s stall on a corner of the square. Five minutes later, armed with half a dozen of the best red roses the seller could provide, done up in a silver ribbon, he locked on to his target.
Everyone who could be outside on that May afternoon was out on the pavement. The concierges of the lodging houses had settled in chattering groups, shelling peas, their chairs obstructing the pavements. From open doors behind them drifted the fragrant smell of dishes cooking slowly in some back room. Mothers fed babies or crooned them to sleep.
Around a corner to the north of the square he came upon the faded blue sign he was looking for: rue St Rustique. The oldest street in the village and quite probably the narrowest. The three- and four-storey houses had known better days. Shabby grey façades retained interesting architectural features: elegantly moulded architraves graced doorways, Second Empire wrought-iron grilles added dignity to windows whose shutters stood wide open on to the street. Bourgeois net curtains gave seclusion and an air of mystery to the interiors.
Joe located number 78. The patch of pavement in front of the house and the cobbled road as far as the central gutter were freshly cleaned. Abroom was propped against the wall to the right of the open door, two large pots of daisies stood to attention and an eye-watering waft of eau de javel leapt from the interior and repelled him. Joe read the sign painted in art nouveau letters above the door’s architrave: Concierge.
He froze. There she was, filling the doorway, barring his entrance. Redoubtable. Cerberus? The Cyclops? He reckoned he had about as much chance of getting past her and into the building as he would have had facing up to one of those monstrous guardians. She stood, four-square, bulldog face peering at him over gold half-moon spectacles. She was holding a pile of letters to the light and shuffling through them. Sorting out the residents’ afternoon post, he guessed, and she was not counting on being disturbed. She was dressed like a badly done-up parcel; her clothes were all in shades of brown, shapeless and hanging in layers to her mid-calf. Here the tale of sartorial disaster was taken up by a pair of drooping socks and bulging slippers.
Joe did not often find himself at a loss for words and was angry with himself for hesitating to address her. He regretted now the bunch of roses in his hand. What a twerp he must look.
‘Yes? Who are you?’ Her voice would not have disgraced a sergeant major.
The challenge provoked a military response. He stood at ease in front of her with what he hoped was an air of languid confidence and managed a tight smile. ‘An English gentleman to see Mademoiselle Raissac. I understand she lives here.’ He began to reach into his pocket for his warrant card.
She stopped him with a gesture. ‘She’s not seeing callers today. She’s not well. Come back tomorrow.’ The concierge turned and, as an afterthought, seized her broom as though she thought he might run off with it. She made to go back inside.