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

by Izner, Claude

  ‘Bah! A sect of charlatans who can only follow in the wake of the great work. They claim to have unearthed part of the horn of a tusson or a texon.’

  ‘What’s a tusson?’

  ‘Why, a unicorn! They ground it up into powder and use a pinch of it, mixed with sulphur and mercury, at séances reserved for their inner circle. In fact, they exploit credulous nincompoops, whose money they take to fill their coffers.’

  ‘Who exactly are “they”?’ Joseph roared.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea. Ask Monsieur Satie, who’s just come in. He must know – he is the Chapel Master for the Order of the Rose and Cross, and he composed a set of chimes for them, to be played on the piano.’

  Joseph walked over to the man who had just entered. He was around thirty, wore a shapeless velvet hat and had long brown hair and a neat brown beard. He had a well-groomed moustache, which was curled up at the ends, and was smiling facetiously. His dark eyes scrutinised Joseph through a pince-nez as he leant on his umbrella.

  ‘Monsieur, I am a friend of Sâr Péladan,’ said Joseph.

  ‘Do you like my compositions?’

  Embarrassed, Jojo twisted the sheet torn from his notebook in his hands.

  ‘Yes, that is … I … yes, your chimes!’

  ‘My chimes, just so. But what about my three Fils des Étoiles preludes, and my Danses Gothiques? And what did you think of my Gymnopédies and my Gnossiennes? There’s no need to lie. I’m well aware that neither Péladan, whose ideas I nonetheless admire, nor his entourage are capable of truly appreciating my music. My lot is a melancholy one – born so young in such an old world.’

  ‘To tell the truth, Monsieur, I, er … I’m trying to find out the address of an alchemist, Baron Edmond de La Gournay, so that I can deliver a message to him.’

  ‘De La Gournay,’ mused Erik Satie, stroking his beard. ‘One of those men who make me think that the more I know men, the more I admire dogs. Alchemist is rather an ambitious title for him! Fine words, abracadabra and open secrets, more like … I once went to a concert at his house with Debussy and Huysmans. What an appalling evening! He lives at number 34a, Rue de Varenne, in a rather rundown house. The building is on its last legs and sooner or later it’s bound to fall down. They keep servants to a minimum, and the footmen have all left, in any case, because they never got paid. As for Madame de La Gournay, she does provide an injection of something, but it’s something other than high spirits, if you see what I mean. It’s not really surprising, given that she’s the wife of a hopeless addict. Their cosy abode reeks of ether and morphine.’

  ‘Why? Are they using them to disinfect his wounds after his fall?’

  Erik Satie’s smile became more pronounced.

  ‘Either you are a simpleton, or you have a singularly eccentric sense of humour. I prefer the second theory. Goodbye, Monsieur,’ said Satie, and he disappeared into the recesses of the bookshop.

  * * *

  ‘What did I say that was so funny?’ wondered Joseph, as another cab took him over to the Left Bank.

  The vehicle had to stop before the appointed place because the roadway, which was paved with wood, was strewn with bales of hay.

  ‘One of the rich toffs who live around here must be ill – they don’t want anyone disturbing their sleep,’ grumbled the coachman.

  On Rue de Varenne, nothing except a few cracks in the façade and the peeling shutters revealed the state of decrepitude into which the De La Gournays’ home had fallen.

  The bell rang several times before a thin, aristocratic-looking woman with pale cheeks appeared at the door. She was draped in a plush mantle embroidered in fuchsia pink, and wore a yellow bird of paradise as a hat. She seemed overcome with irritable fatigue, and considered her visitor without displaying the slightest interest in him.

  ‘Good morning, Madame. Monsieur Chamuel, the bookseller, sent me with an enquiry about some books that the Baron de La Gournay has ordered.’

  ‘My husband? He is at death’s door,’ the woman replied tonelessly.

  Nevertheless, she did reach for a bell, which she rang imperiously. A coarse-featured servant with a wart-studded chin responded to the summons.

  ‘Octavie, take this visitor to my husband. I am going out. My friend Blanche is receiving today. Then I have a dress fitting at Doucet’s.’

  ‘Will Madame take the tilbury?’

  ‘No, Priam is too unsettled. I shall hire a carriage.’

  She bowed almost imperceptibly to Joseph, and he climbed the front steps under the hostile gaze of the servant, in her black dress, dirty apron and old pattens.

  ‘She’s off her rocker, Madame Clotilde is! Does she think that Monsieur Edmond’s receiving today too? He’s already had that madman with him for more than an hour, the one who doesn’t know when he’s not wanted! If it was up to me, I’d send all these characters packing – to think they all come and torment him, in the state he’s in!’

  This speech was pronounced as though Joseph didn’t exist. Still grumbling, Octavie led the way through a vast room with cracked walls and faded furniture, which looked onto a courtyard filled with mossy statues. They arrived at the bottom of a huge marble staircase, every step of which was cracked and crumbling. The muffled notes of a distant piano followed them up the stairs.

  They walked through a series of cramped rooms, full of old fireplaces, plaster busts, armchairs and tapestries where the dust of many generations had accumulated in a thick layer. Numerous family portraits hung over Louis XVI writing desks or bronze pendulum clocks, which they seemed to guard jealously.

  Finally, they stopped in a hall that was even more dilapidated than the rest of the house, and Octavie issued some haughty instructions.

  ‘That crank is with him now. He’ll clear off eventually, and you can go in, but don’t be too long – the doctors say he mustn’t get tired!’

  The pattens retreated into the distance, clattering on the parquet floor. Left to himself, Joseph breathed a sigh of relief before inspecting the surroundings, a clutter of rickety chairs and threadbare Persian carpets. As well as the door he had come through and one leading to the Baron’s bedroom, there was a third door that aroused his curiosity. He slipped through it into a corridor with a spiral staircase at the end. The place reminded him of the overly ornate home of Fortunate de Vigneules.27 Joseph was about to explore the corridor when he heard the sound of raised voices behind a door, which he inched open as quietly as he could.

  ‘… need it, it brings me such relief!’ a high-piched voice implored.

  ‘… madness … get your nightmares again … destroys your innards and your soul … better to follow Lorrain’s advice … a bit of bromide … feel better,’ replied a low voice.

  ‘A gulp of ether, I beg you! I’m in such pain!’ wailed the first voice.

  The bass resounded again.

  ‘… extremely serious … blood … my dolls, they’re ruined!… Crucial to know whether your … blood everywhere…’

  Opening the door a little further, Joseph saw a man in evening dress bending over a bed in which someone with a bandaged head could just be made out: the Baron.

  ‘One mouthful, just one … the bottle is in my desk,’ the Baron pleaded.

  The crank straightened up and Joseph softly pulled the door to. When he dared to open it again a few minutes later, the air was heavy with the odour of phenol.

  ‘Where have you hidden the key with the unicorn’s head?’ scolded the crank. He bent down still further. ‘The key to your private chamber … must have it … Edmond … the key … just tell me…’

  ‘Please…’

  ‘Answer me. I must know whether your collection has also been stained with blood! Will you answer me, in the name of—’

  ‘You’ll be the death of him!’ rasped a harsh voice just behind Joseph’s head, giving him such a shock that he jumped back into the corridor.

  Slowly, he turned round to face the largest nurse he had ever encountered. He barely came up to h
er shoulder.

  ‘She was right to warn me, that maid. Get a move on in there, and clear off!’ she thundered, bearing down on the bed. ‘What with that blow to the back of the neck, he needs absolute rest! We’ve already had that policeman in here questioning him without permission … Out you go!’

  Joseph took cover behind the third door and caught sight of the crank, an angry-looking man with a square, clean-shaven face and a slit of a mouth. The hairy fingers of his right hand twisted a suede glove convulsively. He had an impassioned argument with the invalid before he left, and the nurse ejected Joseph from his hiding place and shoved him authoritatively towards the exit.

  ‘You too, lad, get lost.’

  Joseph contemplated her imposing bulk and obeyed without a murmur.

  At the bottom of the huge staircase, Octavie stood, hands on hips, savouring her victory.

  * * *

  Victor had taken a cab instead of his bicycle because of the ice, and he was struggling to stay awake as it gently jogged along. He hadn’t had a chance to say a word to Joseph, who had been impatient to relate the morning’s events, but unfortunately the constant presence of Kenji had obliged them to keep their mouths shut. As Tasha was away for the day, Victor had been invited to lunch with the family, and had sat down with them to sample Euphrosine’s gratin dauphinois. There had simply been no opportunity to interrogate Jojo. As soon as dessert was finished Victor had, as planned, made his excuses, to Kenji’s intense displeasure.

  Stuck in a traffic jam, the cab driver dropped Victor at the corner of Boulevard de Magenta and Rue de Lancry. He made his way to Rue des Vinaigriers via Quai de Valmy, and spotted a little café called L’Ancre de Fortune. At the back of the tiny room, a solitary customer was sitting opposite a large speckled mirror.

  Victor ordered a vermouth cassis at the bar, and struck up a conversation with the owner. He mentioned Madame Guérin’s name.

  The solitary drinker glanced quickly at the newcomer’s reflection in the mirror.

  ‘Old Madame Guérin?’ exclaimed the owner. ‘Of course I know her! Certainly – she’s an old friend, and she’s always lived around here. She runs the sweet shop a bit further down the road – it’s called the Blue Chinaman, in memory of her father, who was killed at Palikao.’

  ‘Palikao? Where’s that?’ Victor asked politely, his eyes already on the exit.

  ‘In China. He served under General Cousin-Montauban. It was years ago.’

  Corentin Jourdan felt a shiver run down his spine. He looked at the mirror suddenly certain of an imminent threat, just as a hare in a field pricks up its ears at the first sound of a poacher. The newcomer had disappeared. Corentin paid his bill and took up his position underneath the awning of the bakery.

  * * *

  When Victor walked into the Blue Chinaman, a woman and her daughter were using a little silver shovel to fill bags of sweets.

  ‘It’s more than just a baptism, Madame Hermance, it’s a family party, and my nephews just love your mint pastilles and your barley sugar. Bastienne is the same – she adores your almond brittle.’

  ‘Maman, I love fondants,’ the little girl lisped.

  The woman behind the counter weighed the bags. Her black lace cap covered a bun that could not completely tame her curly, copper-coloured hair, streaked with grey. Although her porcelain-blue eyes were as clear as a doll’s, the wrinkles on her cheeks betrayed Madame Guérin’s age.

  Nonetheless, the voice with which she addressed Victor when the customers had left was unexpectedly childlike.

  ‘And you, Monsieur, how may I help you?’

  ‘I’m not here to buy sweets. I need some information about Louise Fontane. My name is Maurice Laumier and I am a painter. My fiancée, Mireille Lestocart, has asked me to track down her cousin, Loulou, and her colleagues at the workshop on Rue d’Aboukir told me that she had moved to live with you three weeks ago. However, I have recently discovered that this young woman has been strangled.’

  Since embarking on the sad business of investigating tragic deaths, Victor had come up against so many suspects that his instincts were now finely tuned when it came to judging their reactions. Although Madame Guérin had remained impassive while he made his little speech, she had not been able to stop herself blinking and tensing her jaw, which were just as revealing as a confession. It was obvious that she knew Louise, even though she replied in an acid tone, ‘I’ve never heard that name before.’

  Victor held the cutting from L’Intransigeant out to her. As she read the article circled in red, her hands began to tremble slightly, confirming his suspicions. This woman was lying.

  ‘I’ve just been at the morgue and I’m sorry to say that there’s no doubt about it: the victim is Louise Fontane.’

  ‘Monsieur, I can only say again I don’t know anyone of that name. You must have been misled, or perhaps you have made a mistake. There are plenty of Guérins in Paris. Also, my business means that I deal with dozens of people for communions, weddings, all sorts of ceremonies, really. I cater for so many well-to-do customers, and Christmas and New Year are my busiest times of the year. Somebody must have mixed my name up with that of one of my customers. No, I have never met this … what was her name again?’

  ‘Louise Fontane.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur,’ she replied, handing back the newspaper cutting.

  She had regained her composure.

  * * *

  Twilight was enveloping the city. Victor stood smoking a cigarette in a porch, his eyes fixed on the sweet shop.

  The unusual behaviour of this stranger had not escaped Corentin Jourdan’s vigilance and he, too, kept watch outside the bakery. He could only partially make out the man’s face – he seemed to be about thirty. He had seen him go into the Blue Chinaman, show the shopkeeper a piece of paper and then come out again after about ten minutes without having bought anything. Instead of going away, he had hidden in the corridor of a building and had not taken his eyes off the shop since. When old Madame Guérin had put the catch on the door and hung up the closed sign, he had shrunk back against the handrail of the staircase. Apparently, he wanted to see without being seen.

  With a cape wrapped round her shoulders, Madame Guérin had paused for a moment in her doorway, as people do when they are about to leave a warm interior for the cold and damp outside. She had looked around her and then, reassured, she had hurried to the corner of Rue des Vinaigriers and Rue Albouy, pushed open the gate of a little garden, and disappeared into a narrow building with closed blinds.

  Victor threw away his cigarette butt and, with his hat pulled down low on his forehead, approached the house. As he passed by, Corentin was able to see his face: regular features and a dark moustache which gave him a confident, youthful air. This man was obviously keeping watch on the house, but why? Leaning against a lamp-post, he had unfolded a newspaper and was pretending to read it. Who was he? A rejected suitor? A policeman? A lunatic? God knows there were plenty of those about in this city!

  In order to allay any possible suspicion, Corentin bought a croissant and chatted to the baker for a moment, without taking his eyes off the stranger. He saw him fold up the newspaper and look at his watch.

  Corentin didn’t stop to think; what he did next was a purely spontaneous reflex over which he had no more control than he did over the irregular pounding of his heart. He rushed to where his horse was stabled and harnessed it to the cart; painted on the side in neat letters were the words:

  LAMBERT REMOVALS

  Then he put on a blue sailor’s jacket and a cap, and pulled up a few yards away from the house. In the growing darkness, the memory of Clélia, faded with time, suddenly appeared before him, like a guard dog intent on tearing him apart. Why was he running all these risks? Corentin was frustrated by the enforced inactivity, and did his best to resist the temptation to force his way into the retreat where his beautiful Landemer siren was lying low. Clélia’s death had been almost impossible to bear and he had suffered so much tha
t he had tried to stifle his grief completely, telling himself that time would heal his wound. Alas, time seemed to mock him, and his pain, although less intense now, was more persistent and more frightening. He was losing his appetite and, he sometimes felt, his mind. Afraid of no longer being in control of his life, Corentin knew that he needed to finish this business once and for all if he was ever to free himself.

  * * *

  Victor made a mental note of the layout of the house, unsure what to do next. Should he wait? To do so was to run the risk of not getting back to Rue des Saints-Pères until the shop was shut, which would make it impossible to snatch a conversation with Joseph. A shower of melting snow had now started. What was the point of defying the elements if he had no idea how long he would have to lie in wait there? ‘Let’s just hope it’ll be dryer tomorrow.’

  He made an about-turn towards Boulevard de Magenta, looking for a cab.

  A short distance away, a removal cart moved off.

  * * *

  In the bookshop, the lamps were all lit and Kenji was talking philosophy with a professor from the Sorbonne. Victor signalled to Joseph to follow him down to the stockroom. As soon as the red bulb above the bust of Molière lit up, Jojo picked up a pile of books and joined his brother-in-law. They whispered their news to one another like conspirators.

  ‘I bet you don’t know what the War of the Two Roses is.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Joseph. I was brought up in England. Unless I’m very much mistaken, it took place around 1450, when the Houses of Lancaster, whose armour bore a red rose, and York, with the white rose, fought over the crown. Henry VII, a Lancastrian, won the day, and married Elizabeth of York.’

  ‘You’re not even close, Boss – I mean, Victor!’

  Bursting with pride at his news, Joseph related the story of the quarrels between the followers of Stanislas de Guaïta and Sâr Péladan, and then all that he had seen and heard during his visit to the Baron de La Gournay.

  ‘He was pushed off his horse – the nurse claimed that he’d had a blow to the head. And then the other chap, the one who was in the bedroom for ages – you must admit that he’s rather interesting: dolls, blood, a key decorated with a unicorn’s head – perhaps he’s a sorcerer!’