Marcel
Ayrne
CROSSING PARIS
The victim, already dismembered, lay in a comer of the
cellar under wrappings of stained canvas. Jamblier, a little man with
graying hair, a sharp profile, and feverish eyes, his belly girded with
a kitchen apron which came down to his feet, was shuffling across
the concrete floor. At times he stopped short in his tracks to gaze with
faintly flushed cheeks and uneasy eyes at the latch of the door. To
relieve the tension of waiting, he took a mop which was soaking
in an enamelled bucket, and for the third time he washed the damp
surface of the concrete to efface from it any last traces of blood
which his butchery might have left there. Hearing someone ap–
proach, he straightened himself, and tried to wipe his hands on his
apron, but he began trembling so violently that the cloth slipped
from his fingers.
The door opened to admit Martin, one of the two men whom
Jamblier was expecting. The newcomer, who was carrying a valise
in each hand, was a short, broadbacked man of about forty-five,
bundled up in a threadbare brown overcoat which fitted him so closely
that the curve of his buttocks was visible and his powerful shoulder–
blades stood out. Through his string cravat was thrust a big silver
pin in the shape of a horseshoe, and on his large round head he wore
an amazing black hat with a rolled brim, slick from long service.
The outfit was clean and carefully pressed, and gave him the ap–
pearance of a police inspector, as the cartoonists picture them.
Nothing was lacking, even to the stiff black moustache stopping
at the comer of the mouth. He greeted Jamblier with a "Good
evening, Boss," and a goodnatured wink, to which the other did
not respond. Behind Martin came a stranger, a fellow about thirty
years old,
tall
and heavyset, with curly blonde hair and little porcine
eyes. He likewise was carrying two valises. This man, whose appear-
