Caravaggio's Angel Read Online Free PDF Page A

name – something else caught my eye. A Rigaut, J., was listed as living at 72 rue d’Assas.
    72 rue d’Assas – it rang a bell. Wasn’t that where Robert de Beaupré had lived – or at least, died? ‘Yesterday, at 72 rue d’Assas, a body found hanging . . .’
    I looked again at the directory. Maybe my imagination was playing tricks, over-eager to compensate for a frustrating day,. Not that I’d been thinking about rue d’Assas at that particular moment. But no – there it still was.
    There was probably no connection with the absent Head of Paintings, still less the Surrealist suicide. But here at last was a small stroke of Surrealist chance. And as such, not to be ignored. Here was a possible entrée to the building. I might even get to see the room where the fabled suicide had actually occurred. If so, I would at least have salvaged something from my trip to Paris. I noted down the number, and handed back the book. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘Find what you wanted?’ Madame Desvergnes inquired politely.
    ‘Yes, thank you.’
    I was about to take my leave when I remembered Joe’s request. What with one thing and another – general dis-may, irritation with Marie-France – it had slipped my mind. ‘I was wondering – a stupid thing, really, I was looking at the papers this morning and it struck me Monsieur Rigaut had the same name as the Minister. Are they related?’
    ‘Yes, they’re brothers. But better not mention it to Antoine. They don’t see eye to eye politically – he prefers not to be reminded of it, especially now.’
    ‘Thanks, I’ll remember.’
    ‘Shall I tell Charlie you’ll be back?’
    ‘Perhaps I’ll ring first to see if he’s here.’
    ‘That would probably be sensible,’ Madame Desvergnes agreed, and we bade each other au revoir .
    When I left the room, Marie-France was lurking in the corridor on the pretence of filling her glass at the water-cooler. ‘Was he there?’ she asked anxiously.
    ‘No, he’s out this afternoon.’
    She looked relieved. ‘He wouldn’t have been able to tell you anything.’
    I said coolly, ‘Probably not. I’ll be in touch.’ She wanted absolution, to be told it wasn’t her fault, that it didn’t matter, that everything would come out in the wash. But I did not feel forgiving.
    ‘I’m so sorry . . .’
    The words followed me windily down the corridor. If I saw much more of Marie-France and her seeds I was going to lose my temper properly. And that would never do.

4
    Rue d’Assas, June
    I bought an ice-cream from a kiosk, and sat on a bench in the Tuileries garden to consider my next move. Should I call Joe and tell him what I’d just found out? The fact that his Rigaut and mine were not just brothers, but political adversaries, might well be of interest to him. But until Antoine Rigaut reappeared, it was hard to see quite how the information might be used. So, on to the rue d’Assas.
    It was now three forty; if I started at once I ought to arrive just after four. J. Rigaut would almost certainly be out at work. But I preferred not to know this for certain before arriving on the spot. In any case, I wanted to see the house where the suicide had taken place.
    I’d never been to the rue d’Assas, but number 72 was extremely unlikely to be a private house. It would almost certainly be an immeuble , an apartment block built around a courtyard. Even if my man (or woman) wasn’t actually there, I might be able to get into the block on the pretext of visiting him or her, and talk to the concierge. That was the person I really needed to see – the one who would know where the premises’ suicides had taken place. I checked the route on my street map: it really wasn’t far, just across the Pont des Arts and down rue Bonaparte. And what could be more delightful than a leisurely stroll through Paris in the June sun?
    Rue d’Assas turned out to be narrow and oppressive, hedged in by walls of tall buildings. Mostly, as I’d anticipated, they were