Strangled in Paris: A Victor Legris Mystery (Victor Legris Mysteries)

by Izner, Claude

  ‘Did you speak to him?’ she asked, with a tremor in her voice.

  Maurice Laumier wiped his hands on his sweater and poured the soup into a pan which he placed on the stove.

  ‘He says no.’

  ‘Even if we pay him?’

  ‘Especially if we pay him. It would be an insult to his honour. In any case, it’s better that way. Until they finally show me the colour of their money for this painting, we’re going to be living on the proverbial shoestring.’

  Not listening to him, Mimi was crumpling the pages of the newspaper into little balls, to keep the fire in the stove going. Suddenly, she froze and pointed to a paragraph on one of the pages.

  ‘It’s her, I’m sure of it! Oh, how awful!’

  ‘What’s the matter, my poppet?’ asked Laumier, as he filled two bowls with soup.

  ‘They’ve found a girl strangled near the La Villette abattoirs. Her body’s in the morgue. We’ve got to go there!’ she squealed, shaking her lover by the shoulder and making him choke on his soup.

  ‘But it’s miles away! Mimi, think about it, little bits of skirt like Loulou are ten a penny in this city – why should this particular one be her, exactly?’

  ‘I can just feel it. And it’s the first time she’s disappeared like that for so long. Ever since I came up to Paris, we’ve seen each other at least once a fortnight. We grew up together; we were like sisters!’

  ‘It’s true that “sister souls will find each other out if only they wait for one another”. Beautiful, isn’t it, my poppet? But I didn’t write it – Théophile Gautier did. Calm down and turn that tawdry rag into fuel.’

  Mimi stamped her foot, seized one of his brushes, rubbed it on the paint palette, circled the article in red, folded the page into a small square and wrapped a shawl round her neck, over her warm woollen cape.

  ‘That’s so typical of you, that is!’ she burst out. ‘“Little bits of skirt like Loulou are ten a penny in this city.” Own up! As soon as my back’s turned, you’re carrying out a close inspection of some of those little bits of skirt, and still I stick with you! Nine times out of ten, the girls who prance around in this studio haven’t got a stitch on them by the time you actually start painting them!’

  ‘Come, come, these are big words for a little woman! How do you expect us to live if I don’t earn us a few pennies? Would you rather be on the … well, anyway, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Oh, I see! And I’m supposed to get down on my knees and thank you because you let me share your bed? The arrangement seems to suit you, as far as I can tell!’ she cried, gesturing at the portraits of her that filled the studio.

  ‘Yes, my poppet, you took your clothes off too, like any self-respecting artist’s model.’

  ‘You don’t love me. You’re a brute!’ she wailed, her voice choked with a sob.

  Then she rushed out of the apartment.

  ‘Damn it! What about the soup? What’s wrong with people? The trials of love … Where are you going, you little idiot?’

  ‘Idiot yourself! To the morgue.’

  He jammed his beret onto his head, pulled on his coat and rushed after Mimi, who had made off towards Rue Girardon.

  ‘Off to the morgue, off to the morgue, what a lovely little stroll!’ he grumbled, hurrying to catch up with her.

  * * *

  The weather was getting steadily worse and snowflakes now fluttered in the cold wind, covering the streetlamps. Victor had stayed later than usual at the Elzévir bookshop, and was now trudging home, cursing himself for being so stupid. Why hadn’t he thought up some lie that would have saved him from tearing himself away from the cosy warmth of his apartment? He carried out his duties as a partner in the business more and more unwillingly, even though he tended to offload many of them onto Joseph, who was more than happy to oblige.

  He almost collided with a couple who had emerged from a porchway. One of them grasped his arm.

  ‘Monsieur Legris, I’m begging you, please help!’ cried the woman.

  ‘Loulou is dead – murdered. We’ve just been at the morgue. It was a horrible sight,’ the man gabbled. ‘Mimi is terribly upset, and I’m not much better … Do us a favour, Legris, buy us a drink. My shoes are letting the rain in – I’ll catch my death of cold.’

  In the yellow gaslight, Maurice Laumier’s face wore an unusually serious expression. Victor could tell that he was really shaken and, under a fresh flurry of snow, he led them to a bar on Rue de Douai.

  They settled themselves at a table near the fire, and waited until the waiter had finished pouring three glasses of red wine before they began to talk. Victor recognised the famous Mimi by her statuesque figure, principal source of so much of Laumier’s artistic inspiration. She sat twisting a handkerchief between her fingers and every so often used it to wipe her eyes. She managed to pull herself together and, between two sobs, said, ‘I’ve got a silver brooch that my old grandma left me. I’ll pawn it, and give you as much money as you want.’

  ‘Mimi, you’re embarrassing Monsieur Legris,’ whispered Laumier.

  ‘I don’t care if it’ll make him say yes! You will say yes, won’t you, Monsieur Legris?’

  Victor stared down at his glass uncomfortably.

  ‘It’s completely incomprehensible,’ said Laumier. ‘She was more or less broke, was our Loulou, and yet they told us that she was wearing a dress that would have cost a fortune. And there’s another thing – her hair’s dyed black.’

  Victor looked up, admitting defeat. It was impossible to resist Mimi’s red eyes, her trembling lips, her stricken face. If Tasha had been there, she might have felt a stab of jealousy.

  ‘What colour was it before?’ he asked.

  ‘Pure Venetian blonde, a real Botticelli! They found a velvet mask near her body. The whole thing has an air of mystery about it that you should find impossible to resist, Legris.’

  ‘Do you take me for some kind of sadist? There’s nothing irresistible about a woman’s murder,’ Victor retorted sharply.

  ‘You’re right there, Monsieur Legris, it’s atrocious. This brute is completely oblivious to other people’s feelings!’

  ‘That’s a bit much, my poppet. I felt very nauseous just now.’

  ‘You certainly did, but not because of all the dead bodies. It was the smell of the formaldehyde that gave you a nasty turn, but as for me, as soon as I saw poor Loulou stretched out on the cold stone, with her neck all purple … My God!’

  She burst into tears again and buried her contorted face in her shawl. Victor stretched out a sympathetic hand to her and she grasped it feverishly.

  ‘Thank you, thank you! At least you have a heart, Monsieur Legris!’

  ‘I’ve got one too!’ muttered Laumier.

  He kissed Mimi’s forehead and she snuggled up to him.

  ‘Have you told the police about this?’

  ‘The police! Are you mad, Legris?’ cried Laumier. ‘We took great care not to let on at the morgue that we recognised her. The police! That would get us into all sorts of trouble. I’m as clean as you like, nothing to hide, but Mimi … Before we got together, she used to trade on her charms, and the police have a file on her. Well then, is it yes or no?’

  ‘Very well, Mademoiselle, I’ll look into it,’ replied Victor, disengaging his hand. ‘I’ll need your friend’s address, wherever she used to … ply her trade.’

  He coughed discreetly and rummaged in his pocket for a pencil.

  ‘Oh, she earned an honest living working for a clothing manufacturer at 68, Rue d’Aboukir. She rented a room in Rue des Chaufourniers, number 8, two minutes away from the coach station.’

  ‘Where was her body found?’

  ‘In front of the La Villette rotunda. It says so here.’

  She handed him the page torn from the newspaper, an issue of L’Intransigeant dated 10 February. Victor quickly read the paragraph outlined in red.

  ‘I’ll hold on to this.’

  ‘Will you help us then?’

&nb
sp; ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘How much will it cost?’

  ‘Keep your grandmother’s brooch, Mademoiselle Mireille. Laumier is an old acquaintance. We met in ’89, at the exhibition at Café Volpini, and after all, if you can’t help out a friend, what can you do, eh, Maurice?’ replied Victor, as he paid the bill.

  ‘You’re a true gentleman, you really are!’ gushed Mimi, her eyes shining.

  Laumier pushed back his chair and offered her his arm.

  ‘It’s jolly good of you, Legris. If I can do anything in return…’

  ‘You can, actually. Tasha must hear nothing about this business, so keep your trap shut.’

  ‘I shall be as silent as the grave, dear Victor.’

  They were now back on Rue de Douai, where a ragged-looking man was struggling to shovel away the snow that had piled up on the pavement.

  ‘I’ll let you know what happens,’ said Victor, touching his hat. ‘It has been a pleasure, Mademoiselle Mireille.’

  CHAPTER 4

  Thursday 15 February

  Never in all his life had Alfred Gamache been as worried as he was now. Even thinking about the sight of Pauline’s generous breasts as she unlaced her bodice was not enough to calm him down. If he had known that their amorous rendezvous would lead to so much bother and trouble with the police, he would have left well alone. And all this because of some silly fool who was completely unable to take any responsibility for things himself!

  Through half-closed eyes, he observed the column of two-legged ants hunched over unloading a cargo of bricks from a barge whose full belly was blocking the whole of the La Villette dock. His attention was caught by someone approaching him. It was a young man with regular features and a neat black moustache, dressed in a tweed suit and a felt hat set at an angle on his head.

  ‘This looks like more trouble,’ he said to himself as the stranger accosted him.

  ‘Excuse me, could you direct me to the person who found the body of the strangled woman?’

  ‘I knew it! First the inspector in the hussar’s jacket, like something out of an operetta, then the tall, mysterious chap with a limp, and now you. Everybody’s looking for him – shame he’s gone!’

  Victor raised an eyebrow. The mention of the hussar’s jacket had made him think of his corpulent rival, Inspector Lecacheur.

  ‘He’s already cleared off, the rascal!’

  ‘I’m sorry? I don’t think I follow you. Is Monsieur Gamache no longer here?’ Victor asked the uniformed man.

  ‘I’m Gamache.’

  ‘Ah, you’re the watchman at the tollgate and, unless I’m very much mistaken, you take your duties seriously!’

  A flicker of doubt crossed Alfred Gamache’s mind. Despite his relaxed air, this fellow could be some kind of plain-clothes official, one of those mysterious superior beings who moved in such distant spheres that trying to picture them in his mind was rather like trying to picture the gods of Olympus. In which case, it would be no use covering for an imbecile and jeopardising his own job.

  ‘I only reported the death. As for the other bloke, the actual witness of the crime, I didn’t tell anybody about him because he’s a little bit simple, and I’d have felt like a swine if I’d brought him into it. He’s scared out of his wits, poor old Lorson.’

  ‘Lorson?’

  ‘Martin Lorson. He used to live around here, but he’s upped sticks and gone to live in the abattoirs, or at least he sleeps there, anyway. During the day, he doesn’t stay in one place – a real nomad! He must have set up camp with one of his friends.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Berthier, Norpois, maybe Collin. Unless he’s gone as far as Jaquemin’s place, on Rue de Flandre, at the Érard piano factory. Why are you writing that down? Who are you?’

  ‘Victor Legris, your humble servant. My wife does illustrations for a newspaper, Le Passe-partout. She draws the latest news items for the front page, sometimes for pieces on politics, sometimes on crime. She’s also a painter, and is preparing for an exhibition soon, so she asked me to come and find out the facts of this case.’

  ‘Oh, she’s a painter!’ exclaimed Alfred Gamache, as a huge weight suddenly lifted; he was so relieved that he put aside his bayonet, leaning it against one of the columns of the rotunda. ‘I’ve got a friend who’s a painter – a colleague of mine. He’s been a customs officer for more than thirty years at the Vanves tollgate. In his free time, he does a bit of painting. I’m not very taken with his pictures – they look like a cross between a child’s drawing and those advertisement posters; you know the sort. The ones that say “Nasty cough? Géraudel lozenges”, or “Julius Maggi consommé”, except that his pictures have titles like The Artillerymen, The Revolutionaries, and the like…’

  ‘Really?’ mumbled Victor, in a hurry to get away.

  ‘Yes, yes. Every time he has an exhibition, I go along with my old lady – it’s a nice outing for us. Last year, we went to the Independent Salon, and there were some real jokers exhibiting there! Perhaps you’ve heard of him – Henri Rousseau, otherwise known as Le Douanier Rousseau?14 His colours and shapes aren’t half peculiar!’

  ‘My wife must know him, I’m sure. Thank you.’

  ‘Hey! Monsieur, seeing as you hang around with journalists, try not to mention Lorson’s name. It may be no big deal to you, but he’d go barmy with fear if you did!’

  ‘Don’t worry. If he tells me his story, I’ll say it came from an anonymous source. My wife can do a very impressionist rendering of the whole scenario.’

  Alfred Gamache went back to his guard duty, happy to have escaped the vigilance of the police bigwigs and to have contributed to the production of a work of art.

  * * *

  Large wet snowflakes were falling from a heavy sky and turning to slush as soon as they touched the pavement of Rue de Flandre. Victor took care not to slip, feeling glad that he had taken public transport rather than his bicycle. The low grey cloak which seemed to envelop the city gave the morning a twilight feel. He kept on having to step aside to avoid passers-by wrapped up in mufflers. Commercial vehicles rumbled along the dirty roadway in a steady stream, and were occasionally sprayed with mud by a passing omnibus or carriage that seemed out of place in this industrial zone. Everything contributed to the melancholy atmosphere, and yet a feeling of excitement was gradually creeping over Victor. If he had stopped to analyse it, he would have recognised the thrill of a new investigation beginning.

  Near the abattoirs, the ground floors of the buildings contained an astonishing number of little cafés: À l’Amiral, Au Veau d’Or, Au Mouton Blanc, Au Bélier d’Argent. The strains of a merry-go-round barrel organ blended with the clanking of the railway that ran nearby, and a series of hideous papier-mâché cows revolved in time to the music, pursued by equally hideous cockerels in an endless round.

  Victor came to the vast expanse of the abattoirs. There was an imposing pillar with a clock and behind it five wide avenues opened out before him. He felt uneasy. Which way should he go? Should he take the avenue named ‘Pigpens’, or one of the ones simply called ‘North’, ‘Centre’ or ‘South’, or the one named ‘Coaches’? Either way, he would have to penetrate deeper into this hell of wails, groans and cracking whips. What insatiable demons reigned over this place of torment? Men, nothing more: butcher’s boys in clogs and stained aprons, armed with mallets and cleavers.

  Directly ahead was a succession of numbered sheds. A group of slaughterers was hoisting a skinned cow onto a large iron hook. Carcass-cutters, gutspinners, blood collectors, scourers and knackers moved busily around the dead animal in a gruesome ballet that could have been set in an ogre’s kitchen.

  Victor set off, his eyes fixed on the ground, plunging into the maze of streets, scattered with piles of debris. With clenched teeth, jostled and scolded as he went, he made his way past sheds strewn with the unspeakable by-products of butchery. He stopped to catch his breath on the threshold of a large low-ceilinged room. Five strapping you
ng men, with their sleeves rolled up above their elbows, were working around a long table and, a terrible sight to behold, their arms were red with blood. Victor’s stomach churned and he had to look away, but what he saw next was even worse: on a wooden tray, a pile of sheep’s heads gazed at him. In their eyes he saw a terror which was to haunt his dreams for many nights to come. He drew back, unable to wrench his gaze away from the animals’ empty stares. He swayed and nearly fell against two men who were extracting tongues and brains just as though they were removing the stones from fruit. Victor felt as though he had been transported back to the time of the Inquisition, into a torture chamber where innocent victims were being interrogated. He was still trying in vain to gather his thoughts when he heard the sound of his own voice.

  ‘Norpois, Collin, Berthier?’

  ‘In the tripe-house!’

  He beat a hasty retreat. As he went mechanically from one room to the next, his only thought was that he should try to forget all this, and pretend he had never been here.

  The first room was full of workers sorting piles of horns and hooves, destined to become combs or buttons. The tufts of hair from the ends of the cows’ tails would be turned into cushions or plumes for military helmets. The hairs pulled from inside their ears would go to make fine paintbrushes.

  Victor reflected that humanity relied for its comfort on the daily annihilation of millions of living creatures. No historian had every documented this particular martyrdom. Civilisation rested on an immense mountain of suffering and fear. He would have given anything to be elsewhere, but he continued on his way.