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

by Izner, Claude

  He came out into a corridor that led to a spiral staircase, where there was a pervasive smell of cauliflower. He felt sick at the thought of food, and went down the stairs in a comatose state, emerging next to the kitchen, where the maid was trudging around in her pattens. When she realised that he was standing behind her, she gasped and brought her hand to her heart.

  ‘You gave me such a fright…’

  ‘Please tell your mistress that I’m going to leave now.’

  Madame de La Gournay seemed reluctant to speak to Victor for a second time in the presence of her companions, so came out onto the front steps. She had a little more colour in her cheeks and her behaviour was almost normal. Only her voice retained its apathetic tone.

  ‘Has your husband had many visitors this morning?’

  ‘Three or four,’ she said evasively.

  ‘I read in the newspapers that you refused to give permission for an autopsy to be carried out. I think you were wise.’

  ‘I also refused to let the police come and search the house.’

  ‘I found this near the bed. It might be best to shut up the room in question,’ Victor advised her, handing her the key.

  ‘The secret room … Thank you,’ she whispered.

  ‘I would like to come to Edmond’s funeral.’

  ‘It’s tomorrow at ten o’clock, in Montparnasse cemetery, where we have a vault. All of his dear companions will be there, with tears in their eyes and pompous words in their mouths, even though none of them ever really liked him. They’re all mad, especially that Gaétan.’

  ‘I shall bring Sophie with me, Sophie Clairsange.’

  ‘Sophie? Is she one of your conquests? Or one of Edmond’s?’

  Her surprise was genuine. He did not insist further and only said goodbye, adding, ‘She’s just a young relative of mine who’s interested in the Black Unicorn.’

  ‘I shall be glad to see you, Monsieur. You seem not to be like … the others,’ she replied.

  Victor set off to find a cab, reflecting how tragic it was that morphine had a similar effect on Westerners, especially women, as opium did on the Chinese. His musings were interrupted when he caught sight of a familiar podgy figure. He could only see the man side-on, but there was no mistaking him; that rolling gait, that ancient brown suit, that worn bowler hat, could only belong to Isidore Gouvier, the phlegmatic and perspicacious reporter from Le Passe-partout.

  ‘Monsieur Gouvier!’ he cried.

  ‘M’sieur Legris! Fancy seeing you – it must be two years since we last met! Ah, M’sieu Legris, it’s a pleasure to see you! Are you still working away at those detective stories?’

  ‘Not me, that’s Joseph Pignot, my assistant.’

  ‘I heard that he’s married, and that the lucky lady is your half-sister.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I always scan the announcements of marriages and deaths in Le Passe-partout. And you? What news?’

  ‘I’m very well. Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ve got an appointment with a lady. No, no, it’s not what you think, it’s all in the cause of work,’ he said, pointing to the Baron de La Gournay’s decrepit house.

  Victor thought for a moment and decided to tell a half-truth.

  ‘What a coincidence, I’ve just come from there. The deceased was a customer of ours. I’ve just learnt of his death. It seems that he fell off his horse and came down hard on his head.’

  ‘Well, yes, that is what they’re saying, but the doctors are telling a different story. You should go and ask them about it – the answer will make your own head ache. I find it all very perplexing that such an accomplished horseman as the Baron should … Anyway, I’ve come to nose around. You know my boss: when Antonin Clusel smells a scandal, he goes straight for the jugular. What he really likes are the juicy details. Anything on that secret society, the Black Unicorn, will sell a lot of newspapers.’

  ‘I’ve heard people talking about that society. What is it exactly?’

  ‘A bunch of lunatics, devotees of Nicolas Flamel. They’re searching for the philosopher’s stone! Philosopher my foot!’

  ‘Madame de La Gournay is a puzzling woman. Are the police going to get involved?’

  ‘Who knows? According to my sources, the police are scratching their heads over this one and can’t decide how to proceed. This occult society includes a good few bigwigs, so the police want to avoid causing too much of a stir. The Baron was one of the three founders of the society.’

  ‘Ah, I wasn’t aware of that.’

  ‘Now there are only two of them left to keep the whole thing going: about twenty toffs and members of the gentry, a few famous actors, political schemers, magistrates and even some prominent egghead or other!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A member of the Académie Française…’

  ‘And who are the Baron’s co-founding cronies?’

  ‘The president is Richard Gaétan.’

  ‘The couturier from Rue de la Paix?’

  ‘The very same. A rival to the great Worth, father of fashion. It’s all frills and flounces, feathers and sequins! The third crony tops the bill at Franconi’s Winter Circus.38 His acrobatics and his daring leaps are renowned for their virtuosity. He likes all things exotic and goes into the ring decked out in all sorts of costumes – Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Moroccan, Hindu, you name it. His name is Absalon Thomassin. You should see the act where he hangs from a wire and spins round a hundred times.’

  ‘The Great Absalon,’ Victor murmured. ‘Will you mention them in your article?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? That’s what I’m paid to do. If they try to sue me, Clusel can pick up the bill.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s bad publicity for the Elzévir bookshop. They’re regulars there.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. It’ll attract more customers! Are you still in the detective line, by the way?’

  ‘Since I married Tasha Kherson, I’ve been behaving myself a bit more.’

  ‘Maroussia? Bravo, well chosen. That reassures me, because if you’d carried on in that line you’d have ended up in some kind of trouble. It’s nearly been the death of you once already. I’ve got to go, M’sieu Legris. Come and see us one day at the offices. My regards to your lady.’

  * * *

  Lying next to Iris, Joseph couldn’t get to sleep. The sibylline words of the stale-bread seller were going round and round in his head like a swarm of fireflies.

  A trial which involved some respectable people, some less respectable, and Sophie Clairsange-Mat! Which trial? When and where did it take place? If only I had a date, just a date, I could look it up in my collection of newspapers.

  He suddenly remembered that his mother had converted his study at Rue Visconti into a playroom for her future grandson. All his piles of magazines and newspapers were now stored in the basement of the bookshop, and he had had to negotiate long and hard with Monsieur Mori even to be allowed to keep them there.

  ‘I could ask my friend Bichonnier … No, it would take weeks of searching. What can I do?’

  Iris turned over, dragging the sheet and blankets with her. He got up, lit a candle and crept into the kitchen on tiptoe. Perhaps a bit of bread and cheese and an apple would stimulate his mind.

  When he got back into bed and snuggled up to his sleeping wife, it was one o’clock in the morning and he had resolved nothing. There was also a sartorial question to be answered: what on earth was he going to wear to the Baron de La Gournay’s funeral? He silently struggled to win back a bit of the blanket for himself, and finally dropped off to sleep. He dreamt of a sea sponge appearing before a jury of bulrushes and candles all wearing top hats.

  CHAPTER 9

  Tuesday 20 February

  Joseph and Victor made their way stiffly up the central avenue of the cemetery. Their formal suits were too tight round the armholes, and trying to look nonchalant in their h
eavy, ill-fitting top hats was nothing short of torture. As they splashed through large puddles in their polished shoes, it was hard not to imagine that the drizzle falling on the long symmetrical rows of plots had been ordered especially for the occasion. Joseph was putting on a brave face after Victor’s comments the day before, but he was determined not to reveal anything about his meeting with Sylvain Bricart. There would be no collaboration between him and his brother-in-law without a heartfelt apology. Four words went round and round in his head: ergot, candles, sponges, trial. Yet another puzzle. Was it the chatter of a madman or a cryptic clue? He would have liked to go and look at Guy de Maupassant’s tomb, the great writer having taken his place there only the previous year, but he did not dare ask Victor to make a detour. They passed by the monument to the historian Henri Martin, with its pyramid decorated with palm leaves, and rejoined the Northern Avenue where several men dressed in black were standing near the tomb of the celebrated lexicographer Pierre Larousse.

  ‘The one in the middle in the chic get-up, with the bulging eyes and fingers covered in rings, that’s the writer Jean Lorrain,’ Joseph whispered. ‘And in fact I recognise almost all the others too: Papus, the Sâr, that mad composer…’

  ‘Is the man with the square face one of them?’

  ‘Yes, the one on the right.’

  The group had broken up now, and the men formed a line. As they approached the grave, each one took a red rose from a basket and threw it onto the coffin, before crossing themselves. Then they kissed the widow’s hand. She had assumed a pose of dignified mourning and hid her impassive face under an opaque veil. The men also shook hands quickly with a youth whose spotty face was set in a self-conscious grin, before making their escape, their shoulders hunched against the rain. Victor skipped the formalities and bore down on his prey, touching the square-faced man’s sleeve just as he, too, was about to make off.

  ‘Allow me to offer my condolences, Monsieur…’

  ‘Gaétan, Richard Gaétan,’ the man replied gruffly, shaking off Victor’s hand with an impatient gesture.

  ‘My name is Maurice Laumier. I hope it isn’t too late to…’

  ‘Too late? What for?’

  ‘To join the ranks of the Black Unicorn, now that its founder is no longer with us.’

  Richard Gaétan seemed to relax, and his lipless mouth attempted a smile.

  ‘I shall be taking over, and enrolling new members. I wish that we didn’t have to charge a fee, but, as you can imagine, the running costs are considerable: we hire a meeting room, provide our members with our special insignia and manuals, and we also subsidise society dinners…’

  Swindler, thought Victor, but he only said, innocently, ‘Is it expensive?’

  Richard Gaétan grasped his chin in his hand, and there was a short pause while he evaluated the possible income of this new recruit.

  ‘A thousand francs a year.’

  ‘A tidy sum! But we have to spend our money one way or another, don’t we? I have heard great things about your work.’

  ‘Here’s my card, Monsieur Laumier. Come to my office and settle the fee as soon as possible – you’re far from being the only aspiring new member, and the number of places is limited.’

  ‘I would have thought it was in your interests to enrol as many people as you can. At that price…’

  ‘Mass recruitment? Certainly not. We despise the common herd. Our aim is to form an elite dedicated to complex spiritual endeavours. We cannot simply admit people willy-nilly.’

  Gaétan, his nose in the air, walked away before Victor had time to say anything else.

  ‘Mission accomplished?’ asked Joseph. ‘Did you get his address?’

  Victor showed him the card:

  Richard Gaétan

  LE COUTURIER DES ÉLÉGANTES

  10, Rue de la Paix, Paris 2nd

  Office: 43a, Rue de Courcelles, Paris 7th

  ‘This fellow seems to me to be a scoundrel of the first order,’ he said.

  ‘Jean Lorrain spoke to me!’ Joseph burst out. ‘I told him that I write and that I’ve had work published, and he told me to go and see him and show him my new story.’

  ‘Just in case you weren’t aware, he is known for his predilection for the male sex.’

  ‘You think you’re so clever! Of course I knew that – the whole of Paris knows. Still, it’s flattering; the author of “Fleur de Berge”39 wants to see me!’

  He began to sing, imitating Yvette Guilbert’s wry tone:

  ‘In the evening, with my lover at the Golden Lion, in the firelight’s glow,

  When it’s dark and snowing,

  I try every trick and spell I know

  To try to get him going…’

  ‘Well, that’s nice, very clean, coming from the father of my future nephew!’

  ‘Oh, come on, don’t play the prude, dear brother-in-law! I know all about your special interest in curiosa40 – had you forgotten?’

  ‘I have a professional interest in curiosa,’ Victor replied curtly.

  ‘Yes, well … Apart from inviting me to a funeral, you haven’t told me anything about what happened when you visited Madame de La Gournay.’

  ‘I was waiting for the right moment. Can I tempt you to a slap-up meal? I know a little restaurant where they serve particularly good tournedos in Béarnaise sauce. That way, we can escape the vegetable feast at the bokshop, and exchange all our news. I’ve picked up some new clues. And lunch is on me, naturally.’

  All of Joseph’s strict resolutions evaporated.

  ‘Me too! I’ve had some rich pickings. Sophie’s married, and Sylvain Bricart told me that…’

  * * *

  Corentin Jourdan was sitting near the window of his hotel room on Rue de Strasbourg, looking out at the bustle down below, where teams of horses stamped and snorted. He had paid for his hotel room in advance. One night would be enough. He read the newspaper article yet again.

  This morning, Monsieur le Baron Edmond Hippolyte de La Gournay’s funeral was held in Montparnasse cemetery. Among the mourners were Dr Gérard Encausse (known as Papus), Messieurs Huysmans and Mallarmé (writers), Messieurs Claude Debussy and Erik Satie (composers), and Monsieur Richard Gaétan, the famous couturier of Rue de la Paix. Madame Clotilde de La Gournay requested that there be no eulogy …

  One down, he thought. Two to go. I need to tread carefully now. First: get my siren away from her entourage. Second …

  He alternated between excitement and cold reasoning. Rather than this headlong rush towards almost certain failure, perhaps he should jump on a train and go home.

  The silly idiot! Why didn’t she go to a hotel in a completely different part of town, he wondered. That would have made things much simpler. Time is running out, and so is my money.

  He looked at his watch.

  There’s nothing for it – I’ll risk it. It’s now or never.

  He got up, and tore his shirt down the front. Then he took off his cap, pulled on his sailor’s jacket and opened his door a crack to make sure the coast was clear. He locked the door behind him and walked cautiously up to room 14, her room.

  He took a deep breath and threw himself against the door, hitting it hard with his shoulder and making no attempt to protect himself. He fell to his knees and huddled on the floor.

  The door opened. He could see a woman wearing a soft dress that showed the curves of her body. She hesitated for a moment and then seemed to slide forward between him and a lamp. He stood up, hitting his head against the wall. She was there at last, so close. She didn’t speak, but stood with her head lowered, and he could hear her breathing fast. He blinked in the light. In a very low voice, she said, ‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice trembled.

  ‘I’ve been attacked,’ he groaned, as a ridiculous thought crossed his mind: I’d have made a good actor!

  ‘Don’t move, Monsieur. You need a doctor.’

  ‘No, no doctors!’

  ‘But you’re injured!’

  Corentin f
elt the blood throbbing at his temples. He grasped the woman’s hand, and she tried to release it.

  ‘Help me to stand up. You’ve already been of great assistance to me. It’s nothing serious, just a few bruises.’

  He caught hold of her elbow.

  ‘Listen carefully. It is vital that you trust me. You are in danger. Get away from here, and take as little as possible with you. Don’t hire a carriage.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Did you leave the note at the Hôtel de Belfort?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t tell you any more. Go back to the house in Rue Albouy – you’ll be safe there. Lock the doors and don’t receive any visitors. Ask them to leave your meals outside your bedroom door. I’ll contact you.’

  ‘But … you must be mad!’

  ‘No, I’m telling the truth!’ He was almost shouting. ‘Please, do as I say,’ he said, more calmly.

  ‘Tell me your name.’

  ‘I saved you at Landemer, in January.’ He let go of her arm. A feeling of intense unease and worry crept over him. He had no idea what she would do next, or how far she was prepared to go in her reckless state. ‘You must believe me!’

  Sophie Clairsange watched him stagger away down the corridor and disappear round the corner. Going back into her room, she knocked over a chair in her haste and, with a feeling of rising panic, shot the bolt. Was this stranger who had begged her to leave really a friend? Who had attacked him? And why? Had he really saved her at Landemer? What if he had wanted to kill her?