‘Except with mother Martin,’ interrupted Gégène, laughing.
‘Oh, yes, that. I’ve never understood it. He was supposed to paint the facade of Mme. Martin’s haberdashery. She had asked for a pale pink. I don’t know why, but Auguste painted it beige. She was very upset. But it all worked out. Auguste apologised and even worked all Sunday to re-do it.’
Jannin heard someone catch their breath. He looked at Bob, Richard, and Maryse, and they each nodded.
‘Another colour-blind fellow,’ he whispered in my ear.
XVI
JANNIN VERSUS X...
Friday, January 7
The first thing to do was to restore the walls of the twelve bedrooms to try and find traces of the famous frescos. Bitter disappointment: first the washing-down, followed by the painting, had eliminated even the slightest trace. The best specialists employed the latest techniques, all to no avail.
Jannin was forced to approach the problem from a different angle. When was the last time the house had been the prey of contractors? When had the wallpaper, so meticulously removed by Auguste and Gégène, first been hung? Presumably the frescos were there at the time, and the workers couldn’t have helped seeing them.
Through diligent police work, the superintendent was able to determine the year: 1933. For the first six months, the house had been occupied by a single man. Then, as the result of an inheritance, the boarding house fell into the hands of a young couple with big ideas: modernise it, then raise the rents. Furthermore, they decided to live there themselves, so they gave the residents notice. Being short of money as a consequence, they were only too happy to accept the offer from a painter: to do all the papering and painting work in exchange for free lodging whilst the work was being done.
Who was the mysterious painter? No one knew his real name, and the couple he worked for only knew him as Oscar.
On January 7th at eleven o’clock, we received a visit from Maryse. Bob was occupied with another matter and was about to leave for the Prefecture to obtain further information.
‘I’d like to come with you,’ said the young woman. ‘Maybe Jannin will have something new to report.’
‘That’s fine. Charles! Drop what you’re doing and come with us. We’ll get hold of Jannin and grab some lunch together. I feel listless. This business is beginning to get on my nerves.’
Just as we arrived at the Quai des Orfèvres we saw, too far away for us to hail the driver, a small red cabriolet.
‘Well! Jacques had the same idea,’ observed Maryse.
The superintendent was not in his office. His assistant, who seemed very excited, informed us he had gone to see his boss.
‘I hope he’ll be back soon,’ he said, ‘because there’s been adevelopment.’ And, in a confidential tone, he added: ‘We’ve found Duroyer. He’s living in a hotel on the Rue du Départ. He’s calling himself Pierre Martin.’
‘What precautions have you taken?’
‘I got the call from the local police half-an-hour ago. Jannin was already in his meeting, and couldn’t be disturbed. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I called your office. You’d just left. So I phoned Professor Richard for instructions. He couldn’t come because he’s ill in bed, but he told me to send two inspectors right away, to apprehend Duroyer and bring him in.’
‘Was Vital there as well?’
‘Yes, just after the inspectors had left. I told him what was happening. There’s no problem with that, Jannin trusts him.’
‘How were the inspectors getting there? By taxi?’
‘No, of course not. They took the métro. It’s direct from here to Montparnasse.’
My friend didn’t say another word. He turned on his heels, opened the door, and ran down the stairs. Maryse and I bounded after him, leaving the assistant with his mouth open. Jannin was just coming up, so Bob grabbed him by the arm and turned him around.
‘Come along. I’ll explain on the way.’
The weather was bad, a mixture of rain and snow, which made the roads slippery. The traffic, at its peak near lunch hour, was terrible. My friend’s anxiety and impatience grew by the second. Usually so relaxed at the wheel, he took surprising risks, sliding between other cars, and accelerating through rivulets with a great splash, narrowly avoiding several accidents. We finally arrived at Gare Montparnasse and thence to Rue du Départ, pulling up outside the dingy hotel where the painter was hiding.
Bounding into the reception area and asking for M. Martin was the work of a moment.
‘He went out, messieurs, ten to fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Do you know where he went?’ demanded Jannin, showing his badge.
‘He usually has lunch in a small restaurant on Avenue du Maine, near Alésia, called Au Brillat-Savarin. Why is everyone after him? Another monsieur already came. M. Martin had just left. The other didn’t want to believe me. He went up to his room, but naturally, after five minutes, hecame down and ran after Martin.’
Bob and Jannin became frenzied again. After getting a brief description of Auguste, they threw themselves into the car. Maryse and I barely had time to get in before the brutal start threw us both back onto the rear seats.
The vehicle scraped the pavement as we arrived at the Alésia crossroads. Bob let out a triumphant cry. Fifty or so metres ahead of us, and almost at the corner of Rue Moulin-Vert, we could see Auguste Duroyer walking with a rapid step. We recognised him from his dark pink overcoat and moleskin trousers.
My friend hugged the kerb as he drew level
