Page 43 of The Midnight Carousel
The Cour des miracles slums are vile by day: rats coexist with feral dogs; the stench of open sewers mingles with putrefied chicken droppings; pickpockets and paupers scramble for loose change.
Night-time is even worse. It feels like every undesirable in Paris slithers from the gutters when darkness falls.
But, with his workload tripled since his return from Chicago three months ago, Laurent has little choice but to enter this unsavoury area after twilight if he is to pursue the extracurricular puzzles in his life.
His home life suffers as a result. Before going to America, he made every effort to arrive home before Amélie’s bedtime.
But these days he is late more often than not– either drawn to the police archives after hours in his search for the names of Victor Cloutier’s criminal associates or to this place: the slum featured in the police reports discovered by Constable Segal.
For three months, Laurent has returned again and again to the taverns and whorehouses here, the crooked streets, anywhere that might be frequented by a pickpocket or a prostitute.
He has questioned thieves and paupers, drunkards and pimps.
But no one has any knowledge of Eliza and Yousuf, it appears.
Sometimes Laurent believes that he will be forever caught in this wild goose chase.
But he cannot give up, for Maisie’s sake.
Weary, he pushes through the crowd. Sly eyes follow him. He is well known in these parts as a high-ranking detective, and it is not always guaranteed that the authorities will look the other way if a crime is discovered.
A young lad darts in front of him and sticks out a filthy palm.
‘Just a centime, monsieur,’ the child begs. ‘For my sisters.’
The boy points to a group of youngsters with dirty faces between the ages of approximately seven down to babyhood, all wearing rags.
Probably they have been left here by parents, who are off drinking or cavorting or God knows what else.
If they have parents. Laurent reaches into his pocket for a franc as he fixes the boy with a stern look.
‘It’s for food, do you hear? Not chartreuse or cigarettes… or anything else.’
The boy salutes and grins before running away to show off his prize.
Where the slum widens, three taverns compete with two brothels and an opium den. This is the rowdiest area in Paris. Depending on which establishment a patron has frequented, people are stumbling around and shouting drunkenly, or high on satiated lust, or passed out comatose on the street.
A burly man with black teeth guards a doorway, his arms folded. He looks Laurent up and down.
‘You again?’
Laurent stares him straight in the eye. This is his fifteenth visit, always with the same purpose.
‘I’m not here for pleasure.’
The man juts out his jaw and tilts forward, menacingly.
‘Our women not good enough for you?’
‘Official police business,’ Laurent claims.
He taps the fourth finger of his left hand.
Although he does not wear a ring, it is an unspoken and universal sign of marriage.
In truth, he cannot bear to touch another woman these days, can barely bring himself to pretend with Odette.
It has developed into a source of friction between them.
‘I don’t feel very wanted, Laurent,’ she often complains.
The fresh start is quickly souring. Even when he devotes extra energy to being attentive by bringing her cherry bonbons or complimenting her hair, there is a tension behind her smile.
Laurent waits. Eventually, the man draws aside a tatty curtain as he smirks. ‘They all say that.’
The fragrance of cheap perfume is overpowering.
Dimly lit for privacy, the vestibule splits into four equally gloomy passageways, off of which are a series of tiny, partitioned rooms. Noises guide Laurent’s way– giggling, grunting, a squeal.
Fruitlessly, he peers into one sordid space after another.
Just as he is about to give up, Laurent notices a glint of long golden hair at the very end of the final corridor.
From Maisie’s limited description of her mother, he is searching for a blonde.
A woman with her back turned to the passageway sits on a stool near a bed that is constructed of planks of wood and what looks like old curtains. She is well covered for a prostitute, in a corset and long skirt.
‘Belle?’ he calls.
As the woman turns around, Laurent’s disappointment is immediate. From the brown fringe peeking out, it is obvious that she is wearing a wig. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, turning away.
‘Eliza, you mean?’ she asks.
Laurent stops in his tracks. These women safeguard their real identities and step away from their noms de plume only for rare friends.
‘She doesn’t work here any more,’ the woman continues. ‘Thought she could get more clients elsewhere. She said that man of hers wasn’t earning enough, he put pressure on her to make more, and they left a couple of weeks back.’
Laurent presumes the man must be Maisie’s father, and he removes his notebook from his jacket.
‘Do you happen to know where this elsewhere is?’
She shrugs. ‘Sometimes she hangs about in the industrial area. Reckons workers on their way home with a day’s wages are easy prey.’
Tilting her head, she hitches up her skirt. Once Laurent might have been tempted. Now he is saddened by the disgusting conditions she endures in order to eke out a living.
As she starts to unbutton her corset, Laurent stops her with a shake of his head and scribbles in his notebook. A solid lead, at last.