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

by Izner, Claude

  Victor suppressed a snort of impatience, angry at the prospect of being caught up with occultists yet again. He had already met one of those cranks, a certain Numa Winner.28 The supposed message from his dead mother, which this clairvoyant had transmitted to him, still rang in his memory: His death freed us, you and me. Love. I have found it. You will understand. You must … follow your instinct. You can be reborn if you break the chain. Harmony. Soon … soon …

  ‘In any case,’ continued Jojo, ‘his lady wife doesn’t care one bit about his misfortunes.’

  ‘We’re not going to stop there. A second visit is called for.’

  ‘Well, it’ll have to be you this time – I’ve blown my cover with the maid and the nurse. She’s a real sergeant major. What about the woman in the sweet shop?’

  ‘She needs watching too.’

  ‘The trouble is, I’m stuck tomorrow: Iris is insisting that I stay at home when Dr Reynaud comes to examine her.’

  ‘Never mind, I’ll manage.’

  ‘You will tell me all about it afterwards, won’t you?’

  ‘Never fear, I’ll give you a full report, as always,’ Victor replied, laughing.

  His definition of ‘full’ isn’t always quite the same as mine, thought Joseph. If he thinks I’m going to play second fiddle again, he couldn’t be more wrong!

  CHAPTER 7

  Sunday 18 February

  At the corner of Boulevard de Magenta and Rue des Vinaigriers, there was a lamp-post where all the local dogs came to mark their territory. Nearby, the orange glow of a stove lit up the gloom of the leaden morning. An old woman, wrapped in shawls and with her face nearly hidden by a large scarf, was selling cups of wine to passers-by. Victor’s fingers were frozen in spite of his gloves, and he warmed them against the hot porcelain as he sipped the bitter brew. Reinvigorated, he walked down the road as far as the Blue Chinaman, where he glanced inside to make sure that the shopkeeper with the lace bonnet was behind the counter. She was there, sitting next to a stove and knitting a brown muffler.

  He went straight to the house he had seen her go into the night before, and rang the doorbell. Several minutes later, it creaked open.

  ‘What do you want?’

  He looked down and saw a slip of a girl, only about thirteen or fourteen, her face smeared with dirt, gazing at him inanely and fiddling with a strand of hair that had escaped from her crumpled bonnet.

  ‘Hello, Mademoiselle. I’d like to speak to the lady staying here.’

  ‘M’dame Guérin? She’s in the shop now, like always.’

  ‘No, not Madame Guérin – a young American lady.’

  The girl looked flustered. Concerned that he was frightening her, Victor took off his hat and, smiling, bowed respectfully.

  ‘Are you the housekeeper?’

  She squared her shoulders, drawing herself up proudly.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’m Aline, the maid!’

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘It’s against the rules. M’dame Guérin is always telling me the story about the nanny-goat and her seven baby goats who got gobbled up by the wolf ’cos he disguised himself as the nanny-goat.’

  ‘My name is Maurice Laumier and I am a respectable artist,’ Victor assured her, stooping as he tried to see behind her into a dark entrance hall that led to a kitchen.

  ‘The wolf in the story covered himself in flour so he looked like the nanny-goat.’

  Victor sighed. He wished he could give the girl a good shake. But then Madame Guérin might appear at any moment.

  ‘I am the American lady’s fiancé.’

  ‘You must’ve got the wrong house – there’s no Americans here. There’s just Mam’selle Sophie, except she’s gone.’

  ‘Sophie who?’

  The girl twisted the strand of hair more violently, and tried to push the end into her ear.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Can you try to remember where Mademoiselle Sophie went?’

  ‘Even if I could, it’s against the rules to tell you.’

  The girl’s mulish expression enraged Victor. He made a supreme effort to remain calm. Feigning surprise, he rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a coin.

  ‘You’re obviously an excellent maid, Aline, and you deserve a reward.’

  Her face lit up.

  ‘Is that for me?’

  ‘Yes, it’s for you.’

  Clutching the coin in her hand, she jigged from one foot to the other, making her skirts balloon out underneath her smock, which was far too big for her. She decided that the wolf wasn’t so bad after all.

  ‘She was poorly for two weeks, Mam’selle Sophie was. The doctor came and looked after her, and he put poultices on her that burnt her. I helped her to get better.’

  ‘That was very kind of you.’

  ‘Yes, because really my job’s just doing the housework, the ironing, the shopping and the cooking. But she gave me a pretty chain with a medallion on it.’

  She pressed her closed fist to her chest and, in his excitement, Victor had to resist the urge to pull it away.

  ‘My fiancée is very generous,’ he simpered. ‘When she likes somebody, she’s not happy until she has given them something. Would you show me the medallion?’

  The girl hesitated, still mistrustful. Her skirts swished from side to side and she studied their movement with serious concentration, as though she were a yogi about to demonstrate the art of levitation. This show of reluctance was more than Victor could stand.

  ‘This is really very important, Mademoiselle. My fiancée gave me a medallion too and, if yours is the same as mine, it means she wants to marry me.’

  The girl let go of the chain and stood up on tiptoe. The medallion was a one-dollar coin fixed on a chain. Although he had hoped for a unicorn, Victor still rejoiced: the reasons that linked Louise Fontane to a mysterious American acquaintance and to Madame Guérin would surely become clear soon.

  ‘Where is Mademoiselle Sophie now?’ he asked in a calmer voice.

  ‘Monsieur Bricart turned up early this morning, with his horse and cart. He loaded up all her things, except one suitcase, which is still down in the cellar.’

  ‘Do you know where he took them?’

  ‘A hotel near the station.’

  ‘A hotel near the Gare de l’Est?’

  ‘Yes. I heard M’dame Guérin say the name of a town or a country when she was telling Sylvain where to go.’

  ‘Sylvain? Who’s Sylvain?’

  ‘The Millionaire, silly!’

  ‘Who’s the Millionaire?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, it’s M’sieu Bricart. He’s scary. He always shouts, “Clear off, stop hanging around,” but when there’s no one else in the room, he pushes me up against one of the cupboards and pinches me all over. One day, he invited me to a dance at the Tivoli-Wauxhall,29 but I said no. There are loose women there. Since then, he’s stopped giving me little cakes from the bakery.’

  ‘Do you know the name of the hotel?’

  ‘All I can remember is that Mam’selle Sophie went off in a carriage as soon as M’sieu Bricart turned up. M’dame Guérin gave him a kiss and he put his hand on her bottom and said she was getting plumper by the day. Then they lugged all the cases into the cart, and that was when she gabbled out the name … Well, I’ve got to go upstairs and polish the brass, otherwise M’dame Guérin will go mad.’

  The door slammed shut.

  Deep in thought, Victor walked back to Rue Lancry. He stopped in front of the Barbedienne foundry and, oblivious to the comings and goings of workers weighed down with bronze decorative pieces, he copied down everything the girl had told him into his notebook.

  He returned to Boulevard de Magenta, then turned off into Boulevard de Strasbourg, with its brightly coloured shops and crowded brasseries. He stopped opposite Rue de Strasbourg,30 waiting for an opportune moment to dart across the road, which was teeming with omnibuses, carriages a
nd cyclists. The cacophony of cursing cabmen, clattering wheels, hooting horns and policemen’s whistles paralysed him for a moment. Straight ahead, the Gare de l’Est, with its triangular pediment dominating a semicircular courtyard surrounded by railings, looked like a prison or a courthouse. This impression was reinforced by the large clock face on the front of the building, surrounded by allegorical figures of the Seine and the Rhine.

  Ever since childhood, stations had attracted and repelled Victor in equal measure; they were the frontier between actual journeys and those that existed only in the imagination for as long as one remained on the threshold. But once inside, on the huge station concourse, the porters, the cab-runners and the chaotic flurry of departures and arrivals threatened the stability of everyday existence. Always uncomfortable with goodbyes, Victor had, nonetheless, often stood and waved his handkerchief at a departing train. Although he felt very attached to his adoptive city, he sometimes found himself dreaming of escaping to some far-off country. This Sunday, it was impossible not to fall under the spell of the trains. He bought a copy of La Revue Blanche at a kiosk, and began to lie shamelessly.

  ‘What a mess! I’m well and truly lost. I’ve arranged to meet my niece, but the name of her hotel has completely slipped my mind. All I can remember is that it had the name of a town or a country in it.’

  The newspaper seller rubbed her surprisingly hairy chin with her index finger, before replying, ‘There are plenty of those around! At this end of Rue de Strasbourg, there’s the Hôtel de France et de Suisse, then a few steps further down the road you’ve got the Hôtel de l’Arrivée and the Hôtel Français. On Rue Saint-Quentin, there’s the Hôtel Belge, and the Hôtel de Belfort is on Boulevard de Magenta.’

  Victor thanked her and began his search. He struck gold at the Hôtel de Belfort.

  The decor in the foyer was a mixture of ancient and modern. An enormous painting of the château of the Comtes de Bar-le-Duc hung in state over a medieval-style fireplace with sculptures on either side: on the right, a copy of Mercié’s patriotic Quand même, and, on the left, Bartholdi’s famous Lion.

  At the reception, Victor recited his story again.

  ‘My niece checked in here this morning. Did she leave a message for Maurice Laumier? That’s me.’

  The man behind the desk was annoyed at being disturbed just as he was about to persuade a rich guest to stay for another week. He looked at the register.

  ‘Laumier? I’m sorry, Monsieur, we haven’t got any guests by that name.’

  ‘Well, really, that’s a bit much! She definitely said Hôtel de Belfort, like the château. Are you sure?’

  The receptionist nodded.

  ‘Sophie is such a scatterbrain! I was sure of it, and now my suspicions have been confirmed: my brother and his wife have brought her up terribly.’

  ‘Sophie, did you say? Mademoiselle Sophie Clairsange? That young lady did let me know that her luggage was arriving. Are you—?’

  ‘No, absolutely not, it’s Laumier, Madame Sophie Laumier! L.A.U.M.I.E.R.’ He spelt out the name, blustering now. ‘She’s married to Field Marshal Laumier! Check again.’

  ‘She isn’t here, Monsieur. We only have one woman on her own staying with us, Mademoiselle Sophie Clairsange. The other rooms and suites are occupied by men or by couples. She must be somewhere else.’

  Although he didn’t add, ‘And to the devil with you,’ his eyes said it clearly.

  ‘Thank you for your help. May I use the telephone?’

  ‘At the back of the foyer,’ muttered the man, already returning to his conversation with the rich guest.

  * * *

  Corentin Jourdan felt feverish and nauseous. His heart was beating too fast and he was gripped by fear. What was that man doing at the hotel? He must think, control himself. Surely it was impossible that the man had noticed him. No, he couldn’t possibly even be aware of his existence! When he had followed the stranger over to the Left Bank the night before, he hadn’t even got down from the cart. He had seen the man get out of his cab in front of a shop and disappear inside. He had just been able to make out the writing on the window:

  ELZÉVIR BOOKSHOP

  V. Legris & K. Mori

  Since 1835

  Then the man had vanished into thin air.

  Hunched up on the seat in his cart, Corentin had waited in vain for him to reappear. After half an hour, he had decided to risk moving a little closer, and he saw the man talking to another man who had his back to him, before going up a spiral staircase which presumably led to the first floor. Was he one of the owners? If so, was he Legris or Mori? Neither of those names appeared in the blue notebook, but, in any case, this man was certainly pursuing the beautiful Landemer siren. But why?

  Hidden behind a voluminous newspaper, sitting nonchalantly in an armchair near Bartholdi’s Lion, Corentin Jourdan saw the man head for the telephone booths.

  * * *

  ‘“Shrouded in many-coloured veils, Carmella pirouetted across the stage like a distracted dragonfly…”’

  Click clack click clack ding! tapped the typewriter’s keys.

  ‘“She was about to begin a sensual fandango…”’

  ‘You dictate too fast,’ Iris complained.

  She stopped typing, while Joseph continued to pace up and down the room.

  ‘Is something wrong, my dear?’ Joseph asked.

  ‘“Shrouded” doesn’t sound very nice … “Adorned” would be much better,’ Iris replied.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No. “A distracted dragonfly” sounds rather strange. Why not an “impetuous dragonfly”?’

  Joseph stopped in front of Tasha’s full-length portrait of his wife.

  ‘You’re logical, as ever.’

  ‘And also, what’s a fandango doing in a show that’s supposed to be set in Italy during the Renaissance?’

  ‘Oh, does it really matter? I like the word, and there was a vogue for all things Spanish, whence my heroine’s name.’

  ‘It would make more sense to have your Carmella dance a branle, or a galliard, or else to change the century.’

  ‘All right, make it a galliard. “She was about to begin a sensual galliard…” Damn! The telephone.’

  Joseph hurried downstairs.

  * * *

  Corentin Jourdan watched the man in the foyer wrestling with the telephone. He had pressed the wrong button three times and ended up having to speak to the operator, and now he was waiting to be put through, tapping his fingers on the glass of the booth. If only he could read the man’s lips and get a better idea of this character and the dangers posed by his presence!

  The man replaced the receiver, went over to the reception desk and paid for the call. Should he follow him? Corentin had vowed not to abandon his watch at the hotel. He stayed glued to his seat.

  * * *

  Iris had tiptoed towards the staircase, but hadn’t been able to catch anything more than a few muffled words of Joseph’s conversation. When he reappeared, she was back in the low chair near the table where the Remington stood in all its glory. Relieved that Dr Reynaud had already examined his wife, Joseph began to explain why it was absolutely necessary for him to go out yet again.

  ‘Victor insists: there’s a collector who’s got a whole set of books by Grolier and Thouvenin, and, of course, it’s miles away in the suburbs, out at Bourg-la-Reine…’

  ‘So it’ll take the whole day. Strange – Tasha and my brother are usually so protective of their Sundays together.’

  ‘You’re right, my darling! It’s very unusual for a customer to flush him out of Rue Fontaine on a Sunday!’ agreed Joseph, sounding so innocent that he was even beginning to convince himself that he was telling the truth.

  ‘Well, in that case, don’t hang around – off you go.’

  ‘What rotten luck. It’s Zulma’s day off too, and your father’s made himself scarce … Should I go and fetch Maman?’

  ‘No, certainly not! Don’t worry. I’ll have another loo
k over The Devil’s Bouquet, eat a bit of that chicory gratin and the walnut cake that Euphrosine made this morning, and then have a lie-down…’

  ‘You’re right, my dear, you must rest and get plenty of sleep.’

  He kissed her for rather longer than he had intended, his hands beginning to stray underneath her black silk kimono.

  ‘You’re going to be late,’ she murmured.

  ‘Yes, but…’

  She pushed him away gently. He blew her a kiss and hurried out of the room.

  Alone at last! She got up and stretched, delighted to have the apartment all to herself. What detective mischief had Victor got himself embroiled in this time? Should she warn Tasha? Was Joseph putting himself in danger? And Kenji, gallivanting around at his age! But why shouldn’t he, after all? Love was such a sweet invention! And so is freedom, she thought. Leave them to their investigating, and leave him to his seducing. This day of solitude is a gift from heaven.

  She got out her work basket and unfolded the table runner that she was making for her mother-in-law, who was soon to celebrate her forty-second birthday. She snorted with laughter at the thought that Euphrosine had been born in the year of the dragon. It suited her domineering character well, as did her Western star sign, Aries the Ram. In giving birth at a young age, Iris was following in the older woman’s footsteps. Euphrosine had become a mother at the age of seventeen, and Iris was not yet twenty. She decided to embroider a multicoloured dragon amongst the chrysanthemums that covered the material. A sudden feeling of heaviness forced her to stop. The child was growing inside her.

  She glanced lazily over the sheet of paper still wound into the typewriter. Writing seemed to be rather like a game. One simply had to choose the right words and then set the imagination free, weaving the words together into a bright tapestry. Then, Iris, who never read anything unless she had to, took up a pencil and began to scribble in the margin of a crumpled sheet of paper.

  Once upon a time, there was a dragonfly who had fallen in love with a butterfly …

  * * *