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

by Izner, Claude

  Victor walked past a group of prostitutes whose old, shapeless dressing gowns barely concealed their bodies, some plump and some dangerously thin.

  ‘Hello, handsome, you after some fun? I’ll give you such a seeing to you won’t know what day of the week it is! Not interested? It’ll only cost you twenty centimes and a beer!’

  Victor turned back, pursued by their jibes. He thought he was safely beyond reach when a figure with an orange scarf and a pointed cap suddenly barred his way.

  ‘I need a partner to play cards with. Make up your mind, sunshine: either you play, or you do the decent thing with one of these ladies. I can recommend Supple Sarah or Charity Box Margot – both well worth a visit!’

  ‘Thank you, but the answer’s no,’ answered Victor calmly.

  A blade flashed in the man’s hand. He braced himself and was making as if to lunge forward when a fist hit him squarely in the chest.

  ‘Put your knife away, Little Louis, and watch your mouth. Irregulars like you need to stay out of the limelight. Make yourself scarce – go on, go and have a snooze! And I’ll keep the knife.’

  The person who had just spoken so roughly was a large, open-faced man with weather-beaten skin and a tonsured head. He wore a grubby white cassock over a patched shirt, and his stomach hung over his belt a little. His shoes were made of old, battered leather. He took Victor’s elbow and led him away.

  ‘A piece of advice, Monsieur: keep away from these parts. You’re too well-dressed, and that gives people ideas. They’re not all ruffians, but sometimes they get rowdy and that’s when bad things can happen.’

  ‘Father Boniface?’

  ‘Yes, my friend, that’s me.’

  ‘Thank you for stepping in there. I … What’s an irregular?’

  ‘It’s someone who’s broken their parole. Little Louis is no angel, but he has got a heart. Last year, when a horse without a harness fell into the Saint-Martin canal, he saved it from drowning by jumping in and hoisting the animal out using a rope. Then he sticks a knife in a rival and he becomes an outlaw.’

  ‘Are you sheltering him?’

  ‘Yes, it’s part of my faith. But they do respect me – I know how to handle the awkward ones.’ He held out his fists. ‘Don’t worry, I hardly ever use them. I prefer treating my fellow creatures’ illnesses, and I studied medicine as a young man. As for moralising, I leave that to the rich. Their mouths are full of it, whereas here everyone is more intent on filling their stomachs. Here we are at the clinic, my domain.’

  They went into a clean, whitewashed room where three female patients were waiting. One had a black eye, another was suckling a sickly-looking baby and the third, a girl with piercing blue eyes, was rocking a one-legged doll in her arms. Father Boniface sighed.

  ‘Two years from now, this flower which has bloomed in the mud will become one of the thousands of prostitutes who satisfy the bestial desires of men from all walks of life.’

  He motioned to the women to sit down, and led Victor to a tiny consulting room.

  ‘This is where I work, and where I try to alleviate the sufferings of my patients. I’ve hardly got anything to offer them, though – everything is so expensive! My pharmacopoeia is rather limited.’

  Victor examined the contents of a glass-fronted cupboard. Borage, mustard powder, tincture of iodine, hydrogen peroxide, strips of gauze, boric acid, arnica, a few cupping glasses and some thread constituted all of Father Boniface’s weapons against tuberculosis, malnutrition, ulcers and the whole litany of the afflictions of the poor.

  ‘How can I possibly treat syphilis and miscarriages with that! But just listening to their troubles is in itself a small comfort to some of these poor women.’

  ‘They could choose a more honourable profession.’

  ‘Have you been living on a different planet, my friend? The laws are made for rich people. Think about it: the civil code doesn’t allow a girl to marry before she is fifteen, but the penal code authorises her to sell her body from the age of thirteen! Working-class women, who aren’t allowed to get divorced, become destitute when their men abandon them. Their daughters are easy prey – they’re taken in by the romantic nonsense of the first man they meet. After the first child, this man beats them, and after the second, he leaves them.’

  ‘And the women replace these husbands with pimps. What exactly do they gain by that exchange?’

  ‘They have to live somehow. Here’s an example, Monsieur. One of my patients managed to obtain a court order which obliged the father of her daughter to provide her with a little money every so often. Except that Céline hasn’t got a father. Result: her mother gets nothing.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Although the man responsible for the pregnancy is in actual fact the father, he isn’t the father by law: the civil code forbids attempts to trace the fathers of abandoned children.’

  He shrugged his shoulders, took up a flask of arnica and went into the waiting room.

  ‘So, Fernande, banged your head against the cupboard door again, did you? You’ve got a good old shiner there.’

  His manner was gentle and comforting. Fernande blinked quickly.

  ‘There you go, young lady. Put some of that on three times a day. Careful, close your eye – it stings. I’ll be back in a moment.’

  He smiled, and his forehead furrowed a little, but by the time he had turned round and gone back into his office, his expression was entirely neutral again. Victor knew the saying that generals in wartime must only show their emotions in the privacy of their tents, and never let their men see them.

  ‘Do you belong to a missionary order?’ he asked.

  ‘I did serve as a missionary in Africa many years ago. I was in charge of a hospital. But now I’m here, and I’ve made it my mission to lessen the sufferings of these outcasts from society and … Well, I’m not going to tell you my life story! How can I help you, Monsieur…?’

  ‘Victor Legris.’

  ‘Are you intending to make a contribution to support my work?’

  ‘I was just going to suggest it,’ replied Victor hurriedly, pulling out his wallet.

  ‘That is most generous of you. I suppose that it wasn’t pure altruism that brought you here, though.’

  ‘No, indeed, I was given your name. I’m interested in the cousin of a friend of mine, Louise Fontane.’

  ‘Loulou? She’s a real gem. Responsible, hardworking – I’ve been keeping an eye on her ever since she was twelve years old.’

  ‘Three weeks ago, she was—’

  The door creaked open. The woman with the baby was standing shyly in the doorway.

  ‘Just a minute, Marion.’

  Father Boniface hung a stethoscope round his neck.

  ‘Go on, Monsieur.’

  ‘Loulou has moved away.’

  ‘I know. She came to tell me. I hope to see her again soon – she often brings medicine for the clinic.’

  ‘I’m afraid she won’t be doing that any more. She’s been strangled, near the La Villette tollgate.’

  Father Boniface was still bent over the chrome counter where he dispensed his remedies. He straightened up and turned a devastated face towards Victor.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Her cousin identified the body at the morgue. Louise Fontane had dyed her hair black.’

  ‘I’ve seen plenty of sick people die when I could have done something to help them. They just fade away quietly and give up hope. But Loulou … Loulou…’

  His voice faltered, and there were tears in his eyes. Victor was surprised by the sensitivity hidden behind the tough exterior of this man, who looked more like a market porter than a priest.

  ‘May she rest in peace, O Lord, and may your eternal light shine upon her, amen,’ murmured Father Boniface, as he crossed himself.

  ‘Monsieur Legris, I feel as though you haven’t said everything you wanted to say. What do you want from me?’ Father Boniface fixed his piercing gaze on Victor.

 
‘Do you know the address of the last place she was living?’

  ‘No. What a terrible waste! Such a wonderful girl!’

  There was a painful silence in the room. For a full minute, Father Boniface did not say a word or move a muscle, and his eyes remained fixed on Victor.

  ‘No, Monsieur, she didn’t tell me anything about her plans and I didn’t ask her. I should have. She seemed happy.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have brought you such terrible news,’ said Victor, in a low voice. ‘I’ll leave you to your work now.’

  As he was leaving, he bumped into Marion. She seized his arm.

  ‘I heard what you were saying. There is someone who might know something about Loulou. She lives on Rue Monjol. Her name is Éliane Borel but they call her La Môminette. She works near the Enseigne de l’Élysée café. You can say that I told you where to find her.’

  Victor had to screw up his courage to go back the way he had come, and he went into the Fort Monjol neighbourhood20 as though he were entering a jungle bristling with hostile beasts. Ragged clouds were racing across the sky now, and the paraffin lamps were glowing faintly behind their cracked glass mantles. A melody floated through the air.

  When hope returns

  And winter seems far away …21

  Victor caught sight of a little café on the corner of two alleys. When he went inside, all eyes turned to him. He feared the worst, but the customers eventually carried on with their conversations.

  ‘I couldn’t care less – he wouldn’t even pay for the whole night!’

  ‘… she had a senator die on her right in the middle of it. Had an aneurysm, he did. So now they call her the Gravedigger.’

  A stocky man wearing a rough woollen sweater was drowning his sorrows with the help of a glass of cheap plonk.

  ‘Excuse me – where can I find La Môminette?’

  ‘You’ve got good taste, Monsieur! In the house opposite, fifth floor, on the left.’

  I’ll see my Normandy again!

  The place where I was born.

  The entrance to the building looked like the mouth of some underground tunnel. Victor was reminded of the Court of Miracles in Victor Hugo’s Notre-Dame de Paris. Half suffocated by the foul smell emanating from the latrines on the landing, he rushed up the stairs two at a time. As he reached the upper floors, an even more nauseating smell filled his nostrils, coming from the pipes which ran through the stairwell. On the fifth floor, a tall, bony woman, semi-naked and covered in tattoos, slammed a door behind her and elbowed her way past Victor. He found La Môminette’s door and knocked.

  ‘Come in, there’s no one here.’

  At first he thought he would hit his head on the ceiling it was so low. The half-light of the winter afternoon gave the room a melancholy feel, and the atmosphere was heavy and stifling. Victor could just make out a forlorn-looking iron bed with a worn-out mattress, its sheets reeking of lily of the valley. A few ragged clothes hung from the rafters and a basin placed in the middle of the floor dominated the small room. A half-naked woman was pouring water into the basin from a jug with a cracked spout.

  ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll just have a wash and then I’m all yours.’

  Victor stood stock-still. The nearness of this woman made him feel like a flustered adolescent. His heart began to beat faster.

  ‘I haven’t come for that. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

  She was very young, and rather beautiful under her heavy makeup.

  ‘Oh, is there now! Well, you’ve come to the wrong place. I don’t run a confessional!’

  ‘I’ll pay you.’

  She gave him an appraising look, pouting flirtatiously.

  ‘Five francs.’

  He put the money on the bed.

  ‘Marion told me to come here. Do you know where Louise Fontane is living now?’

  ‘Loulou? Now she’s a real friend! When they fired me from the workshop, she lent me a few bob, or rather gave me, because I never paid her back. Well, she got her reward a hundred times over – she’s living like a proper lady now, in Rue des Vinaigriers, with someone called Madame Guérin. She told me that before she scarpered.’ She bit her lip. ‘I said I’d keep it a secret … You won’t do anything bad to her, will you?’

  She came up close to him, and he jumped, feeling a shiver run down his spine. She seemed so vulnerable. He breathed in her smell, and she pressed her chest against him. He gazed down at the vision of her velvety shoulders.

  ‘I’m a friend of hers.’

  She gave him a scrutinising look.

  ‘Yes, I believe you. You’re like someone out of a book, you are. Are you sure you don’t want to? It’d be a little bonus…’

  She was pushing him towards the bed. She was so slim, so alluring … A voice deep inside him protested, ‘Are you just a body? Does nothing mean anything to you except possessing this body that you desire?’

  ‘Don’t you like me?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, I do like you.’ He made a supreme effort, and gently pushed her away. ‘I’m married, and I love my wife.’

  ‘Well, you’re a funny one. And your wife’s a lucky lady! Go on, get out of here.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Mademoiselle, and good luck.’

  Through the door, he heard the sound of splashing water. He caught a whiff of the smell of lily of the valley coming from his clothes.

  ‘I’ll have to have a bath.’

  He thought of Tasha and felt ashamed.

  CHAPTER 6

  Saturday 17 February

  That morning, the Parisian sky seemed to be every possible shade of off-white, from a turtledove’s wing to a mouse’s coat. Tasha had got up very early to take some things to be ironed at the laundry on Rue Lepic. She dropped off a bundle of bedclothes and a pink velvet dress with grey inserts, a wedding present from Victor.

  As she was walking back up Boulevard de Clichy, a surge of happiness ran through her, an inexplicable bubble of emotion, one of the mysteries of human life. When she got to Rue Fontaine, the bubble burst, leaving a feeling of uncertainty in its place. She remembered Laumier’s visit, and Victor’s embarrassed expression. What were they plotting? She imagined Victor hurt, or dead. A sudden anxious tenderness made her rush into her husband’s arms, and he only just had time to put down his razor.

  ‘Help! An Amazon!’ he said, laughing.

  He wiped away the foam on his cheeks with a crumpled handkerchief before embracing her.

  ‘What’s the matter, my darling?’

  ‘I missed you,’ she murmured, leading him towards the bed.

  She would have liked to say, ‘I think Maurice has got you caught up in some shady scheme. You wouldn’t admit it for the world, but I can tell.’ Yet all she could do was cling to him, and then take off her camisole and press herself against him. Experiencing his own surge of emotion, Victor kissed her again and again, covering her breasts with his hands. As his caresses explored the rest of her body, she threw her head back with a little cry. Without removing his lips from hers, he laid her on the bed and took off the rest of her clothes and then his own. The shifting shadows cast on the wall by the washing drying in the courtyard merged with the shadows of their bodies. Everything receded except the present moment.

  When they caught their breath again, they stayed fused together. Kochka watched them curiously. With half-closed eyes, Victor saw the cat drag her heavy body up onto the eiderdown and begin to wash herself. He pushed her away with his foot.

  ‘Scram, you brazen hussy!’

  ‘She’s hungry,’ said Tasha. ‘Me too – aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m going to be late, my pretty.’

  ‘You already are!’

  She ruffled his hair, jumped out of bed and ran to the kitchen. There was a banging of cupboard doors and she shouted at the cat, ‘You little thief! If the cobbler’s moggy hadn’t got you in the family way, I’d put you on bread and water for ever and ever! Victor, she’s eaten all the cheese!’


  ‘At least you’ll stay nice and slim!’

  There was something affectionate in his voice, as though he found her charming and childish. She was happy that she could make him feel that way about her.

  When she came back with bread and coffee, Victor was sitting up in bed smoking a cigarette.

  ‘You promised not to smoke inside any more.’

  ‘A man who makes promises, breaks promises. Come here. What have you got planned for today?’

  ‘I’m having lunch with Thadée Natanson. He’s nice but so intimidating, with his big black beard and his fiery eyes. Thanks to you, I’ll be on top form, though,’ she whispered.

  ‘You’re so selfish! I’m just going to be called a shirker by you-know-who!’

  ‘Your father is too indulgent with you. And such a handsome man…’

  She pointed to the picture she had painted of him four years earlier. Lounging nonchalantly in an armchair, a slight smile playing on his lips, Kenji stared out at them.

  ‘Do you find him attractive?’ Victor asked.

  She gave him a playful look.

  ‘Who knows? If he’d shown an interest in me before you did, perhaps I would have succumbed. I’d like him to pose nude for me.’

  Victor could not disguise a pang of uneasiness. He had been feeling nervous since the previous day, sure that he was going to let slip a word or a phrase to Tasha that would reveal the temptation he had felt when he had almost given in to La Môminette’s advances.

  She put his discomfiture down to the fact that he was nervous about the forthcoming exhibition, and said to him gently, ‘People are going to love your photographs at the exhibition, my love.’

  ‘What are you going to wear?’

  ‘That beautiful dress you bought for me.’

  ‘I should have bought something more frumpy!’

  ‘Don’t worry. Thadée is married to a beautiful young woman and he’s completely mad about her.’22

  Victor thought about La Môminette and reflected that the most ardent passion didn’t put a stop to feelings of desire for other people.