Read In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) for Free Online

benches. Satisfied, Leglantier continued on his way towards Boulevard Poissonnière.
    It was when he reached Boulevard Montmartre that he noticed the fair-haired fellow in the light-coloured suit. He ducked into a urinal, his mind racing like quicksilver, and tried to gather his thoughts by softly chanting:
‘ And slyly when the world is sleeping yet
He smooths out collars for the Easter daisies
And fashions golden buttercups to set
In woodland mazes.’ 10
    He had seen the man before. First when he was leaving the theatre and then at the bar in Muller’s brasserie, not far from the table where the fat man had handed over the cigar holders and share certificates. He’d suspected nothing at the time, but now…
    If he follows me, I’ll know for sure, he thought.
    He walked out of the urinal and made straight for a barber’s shop where the window served as a convenient mirror. The man in the light-coloured suit had disappeared into the crowd.
    A frantic wave of anglomania was transforming the neighbourhood into a little corner of London. Every shop was British, from opticians to hatters, not forgetting the tailors and bootmakers who all boasted the words ‘modern’ or ‘select’ in their signs. In contrast, the street vendors who pestered passers-by were unmistakably French.
    ‘Cool off with a refreshing coconut ice, ladies and gentlemen!’ shouted a trader, clanging his bell and stooping under the weight of his tinplate barrel.
    ‘In the Russian style, ladies, in the Russian style,’ shrieked the flower seller, pushing her cartload of variegated blooms, the violets the star of the show.
    Edmond Leglantier bought a red carnation, which he put in his buttonhole, brushing aside a man peddling risqué photographs entitled Pauline’s Bath. Sluggish from the sweltering heat of late afternoon, he paused to consider whether to catch the Madeleine–Bastille omnibus or take a glass of quinquina at one of the tables outside the taverns.
    He felt the weight of his briefcase and decided to continue on foot. He needed a clear head for the matter in hand.
    He was greeted at the entrance to the club by a woman of gargantuan proportions nicknamed ‘La belle Circassienne’ although she came from Romorantin. She served the triple function of moneylender, fortune teller and purveyor of young flesh. As was the custom, Edmond Leglantier gave her a one-franc piece in exchange for a meaningful wink and the name of a young soprano singer in need of a benefactor.
    ‘Her name’s Rosalba, a dear plump little thing,’ the ogress whispered.
    Edmond Leglantier declined with a smile.
    The Méridien was an open club and thus allowed entry to both members and non-members alike. Its clientele consisted of artists, men and women of letters, socialites and captains of industry. They went there to lunch, to dine, to write their correspondence, but above all to gamble.
    The main room, with its monumental fireplace, its walls covered in enamel plates – would-be reproductions of Bernard Palissy – and its gilded tables, was lit by five-branched chandeliers. Standing to attention near the hearth, a melancholy-looking fellow responsible for handing out the chips greeted Edmond Leglantier, who replied absentmindedly, ‘Hello, Monsieur Max.’ He surveyed the crowd gathered in one of the side rooms. It was the hour of the green fairy. The absinthe drinkers poured their magic potion drop by drop into a glass, filtering their poison through a sugar cube held in a slotted spoon. Card games were well under way. Excited by the activity around them, punters jostled eagerly for position around the banker. For some people, gambling was a true panacea. They expected the cards to provide enough money to live on. They played safe, weighing up the probabilities and placing bets only when they felt comfortable. They earned their living from gambling. But many others succumbed to the demon that could make or break them in a single hand, although their faces