Page 50 of The Midnight Carousel

The industrial quarter stretches beyond the eastern limits of the city, following the twists of the Seine.

Although Laurent was aware that Paris is a hive of manufacturing, it was not until he began looking for the possible location of Maisie’s parents here that he realized the difficulty of this quest.

The area is vast, crowded with warehouses stocked with boxes of who knows what and workshops for cutting and sawing, and weavers and rug-makers and tanneries.

Since Laurent’s time after work is limited, it has taken close to five months to explore three quarters of this district, trudging across the landscape in all weathers.

He is driven by renewed guilt. Sending Maisie a second letter was a desperate attempt to fill the void of loneliness.

Gone are the quiet evenings when he would read and Odette would embroider in tolerable companionship.

Instead, they have begun to quarrel over trivial things like where to store the butter and whether to buy new curtains, although this is no excuse for selfishness and Laurent knows it.

Poking into abandoned buildings and quiet alleyways, he has searched for any sign that Maisie’s parents might have set up home here. He asks around, and everyone from foremen to runners shakes their head and claims never to have seen the unusual sight of a white woman with an Indian man.

By chance, the vicious throat slitting of one of the four brothers of the Boucher gang has brought him near enough to the area that he can slip in an hour without being missed at the prefecture. Perhaps a mid-morning snoop will be more beneficial.

He climbs a steep hill flanked by dilapidated shed-like buildings and peeps into open doorways.

There is activity everywhere he looks. Pounding and hammering and lugging.

Stray dogs howl to the noise of clanking.

Laurent wrinkles his nose. Is that the stench of a glue factory?

Covering the lower half of his face with a handkerchief, he peers under bushes and behind barrels, anywhere he thinks a pickpocket and a prostitute might have set up camp.

Presently, he reaches an area of scrubland. Apart from grass and a smattering of bare trees, there is nothing. He turns back, taking care not to slip on the way down. Gravel and a steep incline are a dangerous combination.

He is passing a toy workshop on his left when he spots it. Swinging in the late winter breeze is a faded sign: cloutier carousel factory .

His senses tingle. Of all places in his search for Maisie’s parents, he is here. Fate has dealt a cunning hand.

A set of huge double doors is ajar. They squeak as Laurent squeezes through. Inside is a bustle of activity. Whirring and grinding drown the cry of howling dogs. There is sawdust everywhere– on the floor, in the air, the smell floating up his nostrils.

This is his first time here. As the most junior of constables when the disappearance of Gilbert Cloutier was reported, Laurent was never permitted to visit the premises since his superiors considered enough time had been wasted on the case by other officers.

Laurent hovers in the doorway until a middle-aged man with large brown boots and a big smile strides towards him.

‘Are you Frau Hoffman from the Düsseldorf Fair?’ he shouts to make himself heard above the din.

Laurent holds out his hand to shake. ‘Detective Bisset. I’m searching for an Indian man travelling with a blonde woman. I was informed they might be in the area.’

The man scratches his chin. ‘Not seen anyone like that recently. There was once– they slept rough near the tavern at the foot of the hill close to here, and I would see them as I walked to work. I remember because they had a baby with them, and it’s uncommon, isn’t it?

This was before the turn of the century, though, and I can’t remember anything else. ’

Laurent’s heart races. Was the baby Maisie?

‘So before Gilbert Cloutier disappeared,’ Laurent says. The man looks surprised. ‘I was on the investigation into Victor Cloutier.’

The man’s face drops and Laurent sees him wipe away a tear.

‘Ah, yes, sad business. Gilbert was my friend, you know, as well as my boss. I still miss him after twenty years.’ He shakes his head.

‘When we workers clubbed together to buy the workshop, we kept the name out of respect. Not that most of them remember Monsieur Cloutier. The original set-up were conscripted and never came back– Jules, Olivier, Jean-Luc…’

Along with the one million other French soldiers, Laurent thinks. A thought occurs to him.

‘Since you were a friend of Gilbert, you may have known Victor, the nephew, and whether he had any particular acquaintances?’

Laurent holds back from mentioning the word accomplice in case he is later accused of leading a witness.

His search thus far has brought him to one dead end after another.

Trawling through the police archives, he has discovered that Victor moved in very shady circles indeed, and most of his associates have either suffered an unnaturally early, gruesome death, or they have been languishing in prison for years.

The man wrinkles his nose. ‘I never did like Victor, and I doubt he had any friends–’

‘Perhaps someone called Beau Armitage?’ Laurent asks.

Agent O’Connell surprised him with a telegram last week. Despite being unable to poke holes in the alibi, the Bureau is still convinced that Beau is their man. Deciding to keep an open mind, Laurent has agreed to ask around in the course of his other enquiries.

‘Unusual name, not one I’ve heard, but there’s someone here who might know about Victor’s acquaintances. This way,’ the man says. ‘I’m Antoine, by the way.’

Antoine leads Laurent past a series of long work benches and a small dingy room without furniture or a ceiling of its own.

‘That’s Gilbert’s old office,’ Antoine explains.

They sidestep a drilling machine and then exit by a back door.

Laurent can make out the harbour, the freight ships appearing like paper boats from here.

‘It’s a shame that Gilbert disappeared just before the Paris Exposition and never did see what a success it was,’ Antoine continues, as they stroll past an outhouse and across an area of bare soil.

‘The world had never seen a bigger, better, finer carousel. Probably never will again. None of us could understand his design, you know.’

Laurent is inclined to agree. The carousel is magnificent.

They arrive at a large wooden building clustered with two other grand buildings.

As they step inside, Laurent is bombarded by clanging.

Half a dozen men are using hammers and tongs to strike anvils.

This must be where the carousel’s metal components were made.

A large iron furnace dwarfs the huge space.

Antoine signals to a tall, raven-haired man who slopes over with a blow torch still in his hand.

‘Since you are the only other person who was here at the time, I thought you might know if Gilbert’s nephew, Victor, ever brought any friends here,’ Antoine says.

The man shrugs and shakes his head as he avoids Laurent’s piercing gaze. In his head, Laurent is calculating whether this person would have been old enough to have been involved in Gilbert Cloutier’s disappearance.

Antoine claps the young man on the back. ‘This man here, Detective, is our most precise metal worker. We could have done with his help back then. The details on that platform were a devil to get right. But he was only an apprentice in those days. Isn’t that right, Emmanuel?’

The young man nods. He seems reluctant to speak.

Laurent is following Antoine out of the building when a hand lands on his shoulder. He swings around to find Emmanuel staring with intense eyes.

Emmanuel takes a big breath and hesitates. ‘I used to watch Mr Cloutier when he thought no one was looking.’ He takes another deep breath. ‘He would weep as he made that horse. And speak to it. The one named after his son.’ A sigh. ‘It’s like he thought it was his son.’

The words leave Laurent with an uncomfortable sensation, as if a spider is crawling across his skin.

Emmanuel turns on his heels, returning to the men at the furnace, to the heat, the noise of pounding, the sweaty work, as the stench of burning metal and sawdust and glue envelops them.