Page 9 of The Midnight Carousel

Laurent walks along Rue de l’Université, passing the Palais Bourbon, and enters a four-storey, double-fronted establishment with a pair of potted olive trees outside the front door.

He would prefer to be heading home to see Amélie before her bedtime, especially since he is visiting Le Havre tomorrow and will probably return late again.

But he has been summoned for a meeting this evening.

Nodding to a silver-haired man behind the reception desk, he ascends a grand staircase and reaches a dimly lit hallway, which takes him to an enormous room filled with oil paintings of military vessels, where scores of gentlemen sit huddled in small groups, talking and drinking and smoking.

In the very far corner, sprawled on a green leather couch, is a rotund man with a bushy beard and greyish complexion.

It is not for nothing that Laurent’s father is referred to as ‘the beast’ by his fellow politicians.

‘What’s all this Claude has been telling me about your arriving late for the Cloutier execution?’ he asks before Laurent has a chance to sit down. ‘It looked most unprofessional, apparently.’

Monsieur Charles Augustin Bisset is referring to the Chief Inspector, with whom, most naturally, he is on first-name terms. Laurent takes a seat on a springy velvet armchair.

‘Not to worry, Father, I was there for the main event,’ he replies, refusing to rise to the bait.

‘The most important thing is that I managed to secure the conviction in the first place.’ He notes his father’s eyes drift around the room.

‘And my promotion. It’s official now, by the way,’ he adds, hoping that this might earn the man’s attention, and a modicum of praise.

Monsieur Bisset gives a dismissive wave of his hand as his focus snaps back to Laurent.

‘You should be Chief Inspector yourself by now,’ he states.

‘Honestly, Laurent, I had hoped that you would take your work more seriously.’ Monsieur Bisset curls his lip.

‘You get this flightiness from your mother, of course. Geneviève once spent a full month going on about traversing the world in a hot-air balloon. It was all poppycock, as usual.’

Laurent grips the armrests. He is saved from making a scene by the appearance of a stick-thin individual who shakes hands with his father.

Laurent is introduced to Monsieur Varenne, and is then promptly ignored as the pair discuss the upcoming vote on the increasingly serious situation in Europe.

The gentlemen’s club sits a stone’s throw from the centre of political life, and Laurent is accustomed to these interruptions.

After several minutes, it seems that an agreement is reached, because Monsieur Varenne wanders away with a satisfied look on his face.

‘And what does that wife of yours think of you not living up to your potential?’ his father continues, picking up where he left off.

‘Odette is satisfied with her life,’ he answers through gritted teeth.

Of this, Laurent is uncertain. During their courtship and in the months after their honeymoon, Odette’s face lit up whenever she saw him, but now there is a constant tension to her expression, as if the marriage has not lived up to her expectations either.

‘Hmph,’ his father retorts sceptically. ‘To be honest, Laurent, I don’t know why you chose such a mousy creature. It’s not like she has money or a title. You would have been better off remaining unmarried, in my opinion.’

Evidently, the man has a selective memory.

Laurent was sitting in this very seat when he was told in no uncertain terms that his wayward bachelor days were an embarrassment to his father, and that he was to pull himself together and settle down.

‘Cast out your net and see what you can get’ was the command.

The words might not have packed such a punch without Monsieur Bisset’s parting disclosure: his doctor had diagnosed him with heart disease, and it was imperative that he was provided with a grandchild by his only offspring.

Laurent already felt shame that he had let down one parent.

He couldn’t face failing his father as well.

When Odette arrived to start a job at the police station that same week, her eyes soon filled with adoration for the charming, popular Sergeant Bisset.

The timing could not have been more perfect.

And Laurent really did believe that the burgeoning fondness he felt for the quiet, easy-going receptionist with her shy smile would be the glue to hold them together.

Three years later, his father remains in fine fettle, and Laurent is beginning to question this line of thinking. Guilt prickles him; it is not his wife’s fault that the deepest emotion he is able to feel for a woman is fondness.

He stands up, seething. ‘Odette is always nice to you, Father,’ he answers. ‘And Amélie is fine. I shall tell her that Grandpapa sends his love.’

His father rolls his eyes.

‘Before you go off in one of your huffs, there was a particular reason I asked you here.’ His father indicates the armchair, but Laurent remains standing.

‘I know you’ve turned down club membership before, but it would be good for your career to reconsider.

’ Monsieur Bisset rests his hands on his vast stomach.

‘Meeting Claude in these more relaxed surroundings, as equals, gives you a chance to persuade him that you are not as mercurial as you come across.’

In this moment, Laurent does not know why he expected the conversation with his father to be any different.

He is still brooding the next afternoon as he arrives at the port of Le Havre and strides up the SS La Touraine ’s gangplank.

‘The wind is in our favour,’ Captain Lavigne tells him. ‘Though your cargo has given us some trouble. It’s bigger than we’re used to, heavy too. You sure you don’t want it to stay here?’

Shaking away all thoughts of his father, Laurent nods. ‘Quite sure, thank you.’

It took several days to devise this plan, and he has no intention of backing down now.

Victor’s assets are being sold off by the French state.

Through his seniority at the precinct, Laurent has taken charge of the carousel– the most valuable item– to ensure that it fetches the best possible price.

Taking care that no one else is watching, Laurent reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve a letter to Mr Fraser, the owner of the auction house, who will be dealing with the sale.

Detailed instructions are included on how to skim off a portion of the proceeds, which are to be sent directly to Laurent himself.

It is not ideal, but the thought of young Henri Cloutier receiving not one single franc is too much for Laurent to accept.

And the risk of being caught is minimal if Mr Fraser does exactly as instructed.

‘I’ll see he gets it,’ Captain Lavigne winks, accepting Laurent’s ten-franc note.

As he returns to dry land and watches the ship depart, Laurent is afflicted by an uncomfortable sensation. It is too late for second thoughts– but what if his plan backfires?