He rubbed his hands.
‘Soon, fame, acclaim and the whole caboodle! What a bunch of rotters … They’ve delayed publishing my masterpiece to keep that scribbler Pelletier-Vidal happy! His style’s terrible and his plots are totally insipid. They only like him because he knows Paul Bourget!’
Maurice Laumier was approaching the fireplace when a new arrival, with a hat bristling with feathers and a mouth like a parrot’s beak, pushed him out of the way and bore down on Joseph.
‘Olympe, what a surprise!’ twittered the battle-axes.
‘Monsieur Pignot, be so kind as to fetch me Sophie’s Misfortunes by Madame la Comtesse de Ségur née Rostopchine. I want to read it to my niece Valentine’s twin sons, Hector and Achille.’
‘I think that must be down in the basement.’
‘Then don’t dilly-dally, young man! Run and fetch it!’
‘But who’ll look after the shop?’
‘Do you doubt our integrity?’ exclaimed Olympe de Salignac.
Casting a conspiratorial glance in Joseph’s direction, Raphaëlle de Gouveline, the woman with the dogs, thought it judicious to intervene.
‘Such a charming story, and such wholesome reading! Who could not delight in the chapter where Sophie, anxious to cure her doll of a terrible migraine, decides that she must bathe her feet in hot water? But the doll is made of wax and Sophie’s doll becomes a cripple! It was so moving – didn’t it make you cry?’
‘My dear, are you sure that such a thing happens?’
‘Positively, Olympe. And then there is the famous part about the goldfish, where the unfortunate creatures are beheaded alive by the little innocent Sophie! I still tremble at the memory.’
‘Hmm. I think I shall buy them some tin soldiers instead. Yes, that’s an excellent way to teach them a sense of duty and patriotism. Will you come with me, ladies?’ she proposed, without taking leave of Joseph.
With a rustle of skirts and a draught of cold air, they all left, including the old man, who followed Madame de Réauville-Brix like a little dog.
Maurice Laumier and Joseph were left facing one another like two duellists about to set upon each other, but they had to content themselves with verbal jousting.
‘Good Lord, it’s the Rubens of the boozer himself.’
‘I’ll eat my hat if that isn’t the Dumas of the down-and-outs! How fares your lady love, by the way?’
‘Sorry to shatter your dreams, but Iris has become Madame Pignot.’
‘Paris is heaving with unattached muses. Pass on my condolences to your wife.’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘She has traded in her precious liberty in return for the austerity of matrimonial life. So sorry to have disturbed you.’
‘You certainly have disturbed me! So clear off!’
‘With pleasure – as soon as I’ve seen Monsieur Legris. On an urgent matter.’
‘Then I can finally get rid of you – my brother-in-law is at his apartment on Rue Fontaine.’
‘You’re his brother-in-law and yet you’re still a shop assistant? They’re taking you for a ride!’
‘I absolutely forbid you to—’
‘Farewell, happy husband!’ trilled Maurice Laumier, lifting his beret. ‘And tell your better half that I’m ready to sketch her in profile or full face, dressed or in the altogether, whenever she chooses!’
Joseph looked around for something to throw at the bounder’s head, but he suddenly found himself alone.
His anger evaporated and he felt crushed by a mass of black thoughts. He was no good, either as a bookseller or a writer. Iris’s love for him was just a delusion, and their newborn would be a hunchback. What was the point?
‘My pet, I’ve made your favourite food for this evening. You need to feed yourself up,’ called his mother. ‘I’ve hidden it away at the back of the cupboard – all you have to do is heat it up.’
The prospect of a carnivorous feast restored his faith in the future.
‘Hooray! A rare steak with fried potatoes!’
* * *
Tasha nibbled at her thumbnail, unable to choose between two paintings: one a nude of a seated man viewed from behind, and the other a Parisian cityscape at dusk. She was tempted to seek advice from Victor, who was over in their apartment at the far side of the courtyard, developing his photographs. She resisted.
‘The cityscape’s definitely better.’
Shortly after their wedding, which had taken place in a registry office in the autumn of 1893, with no witnesses except their close family, they had worked out a strategy that allowed both of them to pursue their own activities independently. They devoted the mornings to their respective passions: books and photography; painting and illustration. Whenever their busy schedules allowed, they had lunch together in their apartment in Rue Fontaine, where they had employed a former butler, André Bognol, to cook and clean for them. This efficient man had liberated them from the indiscreet Euphrosine Pignot.
When they hadn’t had time to see each other at all during the day, they dined together in the evening. Tasha often returned home late, however; either because she was held up in town by meetings with other artists, or because she had stayed longer than planned at her mother’s house, where she still gave lessons in watercolour painting. Tasha sometimes had a prick of conscience about this, because although Victor denied it she feared that he felt neglected by her. She therefore made sure that her Sundays were devoted to him, frolicking in bed, strolling along the banks of the Seine or travelling to the outskirts of the city for a breath of fresh air.
Having previously dreaded the thought of being married, she now had to admit that she had not sacrificed any of her independence. Victor was more attentive than ever, and their desire for one another was far from diminishing.
‘Managing married life is like tending to a stove: too much air and the flames get out of control, not enough and it fills up with smoke,’ Kenji always said. Nevertheless, she feared that their perfectly regulated life might give rise to the pernicious boredom of a straight and narrow path.
For goodness’ sake, have a bit of faith in your beloved, she urged herself. He hates obeying the rules and doesn’t give a damn about wagging tongues. Carpe diem!
She dismissed these worries from her mind. Now was not the time for procrastination. Thadée Natanson, the driving force behind La Revue Blanche,9 to which she had recently begun contributing, had agreed, following a recommendation by Edouard Jean Vuillard,10 to display twenty of her paintings in Rue Laffitte at the end of the month.
‘Twenty, you understand? Show us your very best paintings!’
She had to get her selection right, and to choose from among her successive periods Parisian skylines, masculine and feminine nudes, funfairs and recreations of antique scenes.
She placed two pictures, one of a family of acrobats and another of a lion-tamer, side by side. Did the lion look a little bit like a large stuffed cat? There was a loud mewing as if to confirm her suspicions. Kochka, the tabby cat rescued by Joseph from the street the year before, waved her tail in the air, eager to go out.
‘You’re right, kitty, the acrobats win hands down.’
She opened the door of the studio to let her out and, when the cat had crossed the courtyard, she picked up a lace glove and ran her fingers over its delicate material, fighting back the temptation to go and embrace Victor.
* * *
Kochka lumbered through the cat flap with some difficulty. As soon as she got into the apartment, she made a beeline for the kitchen. Cloistered in his dark room, Victor heard a vigorous scratching sound and guessed that, having relieved herself, the cat was now noisily expressing her satisfaction. Leaning over a zinc tank, his face illuminated by a paraffin lamp with a red cover, he rinsed the prints, put them to one side to dry and emerged from his ivory tower.
Apart from his laboratory, the apartment consisted of a kitchen, a bathroom and a huge bedroom where he had managed to find space for his roll-top
desk and a large chest of drawers, after moving out of the apartment in Rue des Saints-Pères. Several Constable water-colours hung on the walls, as well as two portraits by Gainsborough and some pen sketches by Fourier, the social visionary. A red chalk drawing of his mother, set in an oval frame, hung next to a small nude of Tasha and a portrait of Kenji. Although Victor had been left with no choice but to get rid of his large dining table and six chairs, he had kept his glass-fronted bookshelves. He pulled out a slim volume, settled himself comfortably on the bed and began to leaf through Verlaine’s Fêtes Galantes, in search of his favourite poem:
Les hauts talons luttaient avec les longues jupes,
En sorte que, selon le terrain et le vent,
Parfois luisaient des bas de jambes, trop souvent
Interceptés! – et que nous aimions ce jeu de dupes.11
A gently sensual feeling of wellbeing crept over him, and he was sinking into a pleasant daze when he was brought back to reality by Kochka. She had jumped into his lap and begun to massage his legs with her paws and outstretched claws. Victor cried out in pain.
‘Stop that, you horrible creature!’ he grumbled, but he had a soft spot for the cat, and didn’t try to move her.
He inspected her stomach cautiously, wondering when she would have her kittens. Tasha thought it wouldn’t be long now. What were they going to do with a litter of kittens? Would they have to fall on the mercy of Raoul Pérot at the La Chapelle police station, guardian angel of abandoned dogs and tortoises?
An image formed in Victor’s mind: Tasha pregnant. Iris’s stomach was looking so round now that he suspected his sister and Joseph of having disobeyed Kenji’s orders and consummated their union early, with a blithe disregard for the blessing of the curate of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Although Victor and Tasha had long since stopped taking any precautions of their own, Tasha remained as slim as ever. He was relieved: the idea of becoming a father didn’t fill him with enthusiasm.
‘Can we really change the way we feel?’ he asked Kochka, who was curled up and purring contentedly.
At thirty-four, he was getting on a bit. Although he was managing to curb his possessive feelings towards Tasha, surely the arrival of a child would bring them all back? Naturally, he never said a word when she talked to him about this exhibition coming up with La Revue Blanche. On the contrary, he encouraged her, which made her happy but did not stop him worrying about it – what a hypocrite he must be! All those men flocking around her and undressing her with their eyes. The knowledge that three of his photographs would be displayed alongside her paintings did nothing to ease his qualms.
The fact that he constantly had to lie to Kenji was another weight on Victor’s mind. He was behaving like a schoolboy inventing any old story to explain why he was missing school.
‘Dourak!12 Face up to him! Admit that you’re fed up with the deadly dull routine in the bookshop and that you want to spend all your time on your photography!’
Somebody was at the door. Three loud knocks sent Kochka scuttling under the bed.
‘It’s open!’ shouted Victor.
A tall bearded man in a velvet beret leant nonchalantly against the doorframe. It was a full minute before Victor could collect himself enough to say, ‘Tasha’s not here.’
‘That suits me – this is a confidential matter, Legris. Sorry to interrupt your siesta. I’ve been running around all morning. May I?’
Without waiting for permission, he flopped down on the bed next to Victor. The two men considered one another coldly, and as Victor made as if to get up Maurice Laumier gave him a coarse smile.
‘You’re right, Legris, better get up. Tasha could come in at any minute and find us here together. What would she think, the poor innocent girl?’
Nerves jangling, Victor leapt up, straightened his clothes and lit a cigarette, despite his promise only to smoke outside.
‘Calm down,’ said Laumier, pointing to an armchair.
As Victor insisted on remaining standing, Laumier rose too, and began to inspect a series of photographs propped up on the dressing table.
‘Well, well, are you getting a social conscience? You surprise me! I had no idea that you were so fascinated by the seamy side of our modern Babylon. I thought you preferred more edifying subject matter.’
‘And you, Laumier, still churning out your pictures of dingy darkness?’
‘My poor Victor, when it comes to painting, you’re behind the times! Don’t you know what Renoir says to all those clever-clogs who are throwing their tubes of black paint into the Seine? “Black is one of the most important colours. Perhaps the most important.” Mind you, it’s in his name…’
‘I couldn’t agree with him more, hence my penchant for the darker side of Parisian life.’
‘Well, now I come to think of it, grey is in your name, so no surprises there! Oh, come on, you have to admire my little word play,’ said Laumier teasingly.
‘Spit it out, for goodness’ sake! What do you want?’ Victor barked.
‘So calm! So in control of the situation! I’m overcome with admiration—’
‘Out with it!’
‘Oh, now you’re really scaring me. It’s a somewhat delicate matter that I rather regret having to bring to you. If Mireille Lestocart hadn’t forced me to take these measures, I’d never—’
‘Mireille Lestocart?’
‘You must remember, Legris – two years ago, Rue Girardon, you got an eyeful. The well-endowed brunette. Mimi, in fact! My model, my muse, my little sweetheart. Ah, woman, the artist’s saviour!’
Maurice Laumier assumed an expression of beatific ecstasy.
‘And what does this Mimi want from me?’
‘She wants your brains, my good man. She loves to read about your daring and perilous investigations. You have become her alpha and her omega. Luckily, I’m not a jealous man. By the way, have you got anything to drink?’
‘Just water. Are you going to tell me why you’re here or not?’ fumed Victor.
Laumier settled himself comfortably in the armchair.
‘I shall be brief. Her cousin Louise Fontane, more commonly known as Loulou, hasn’t been seen now for about three weeks. She’s left her job, her home likewise, and not a day goes by when Mimi doesn’t nag me: “Go and see Monsieur Legris! Beg him to do something! He’ll find her, I know he will!” In a word, she’s driving me mad, and I’ve surrendered. You can name your price, within reason … Don’t look at me like that! Our materialist society works on the basis that each man has his price. I am simply asking what yours is. I wouldn’t dream of taking up your precious time without offering you a modest sum in return.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘You do work as a private detective, don’t you?’
There was a clatter of footsteps and Tasha burst in.
‘Darling, I know I promised not to disturb you, but I couldn’t resist—’
She stopped short at the sight of Laumier.
‘Good morrow, my charming fellow artist. Have you any idea of the rumours that are flying around Montmartre? It’s a scandal! People are actually suggesting that the superb and talented Tasha Kherson has got hitched to a bookish type who prides himself on solving crimes. She has confused love with the illusion of security and now she’s trapped; she’s done for! I denied it all, naturally.’
‘How did you hear we were married?’
‘Bibulus on Rue Tholozé is a veritable den of gossip. The owner, Firmin, is in cahoots with the deputy mayor of the ninth, and he spends all his time playing billiards at the Chien Qui Tête. Anyhow, my dear, anybody could have read the banns outside the mayor’s office. You could at least have invited me to raise a glass of champagne with you. I would have brought some confetti.’
Looking very pleased with himself, Laumier examined his fingernails.
‘I bet you’ve been going around telling everyone!’
‘I, speak ill of friends? Never! You wound me.’
‘Did you
come all the way here just to tell me that? What do you want?’
‘You, darling girl.’
Tasha could smell smoke in the air, even though Victor had stealthily stubbed out his cigarette and hidden it behind a pile of books. She eyed them suspiciously. What were they plotting, these two, who were usually at daggers drawn?
‘Darling, when you have a minute, could you possibly come and give me some advice?’ she asked Victor.
She left, followed by Kochka, who had just emerged from under the bed.
‘You’re a lucky fellow, Legris. She’s got some character to her, your little woman. Ah, true love! A cure for solitude or a ball and chain?’
‘No, no and no!’
‘That doesn’t answer my question, Legris.’
‘No to Mademoiselle Lestocart’s request.’
‘Mimi, just Mimi. She’ll be awfully disappointed and will make my life a perfect misery.’
‘Why do you stay with her, if you despise the married state so much?’
‘Out of habit. For me it’s a cure for solitude and a ball and chain, but as soon as it doesn’t suit me any more, it’ll be goodbye Mimi, adios, ene maitia,13 I’m off to Spain and I’ll send you a pair of castanets. Won’t you think again, Legris? If I dig deep into my pockets, I can dredge up twenty francs to offer you – I’ve just sold a painting.’
‘Money isn’t the problem.’
‘You’re lucky. I never have enough of it. Well, I’m going to take my leave. Until we next run into each other, Legris. And for goodness’ sake, try to smile – life’s a tremendous joke, you know.’
He caught sight of the painting of Tasha on the wall, which was his own work.
‘At least admit I have some talent! And the model really is very alluring!’
As soon as he was alone, Victor opened the window and, with trembling hands, lit a second cigarette.
* * *
Maurice Laumier crossed the little garden with its withering roses at top speed, and the stray cats which made their home there bolted as he passed. He reached his ground-floor apartment and turned the key in the lock. Mimi had vanished, and he decided to make the most of the time to add a few final touches to the portrait of the writer Georges Ohmet, which he had promised to deliver at the end of the month, and which was vital to the health of his finances. He hummed to himself as he concentrated on the tricky details of a curled moustache. The stove was burning, proof that the curvaceous brunette, already the subject of about fifteen of his paintings, would shortly return. And before long she did return, carrying a pot of soup and a four-day-old newspaper swiped from the fruit seller on Rue Norvins.
Strangled in Paris: A Victor Legris Mystery (Victor Legris Mysteries) Page 5