‘What do you mean?’
‘It was on the ninth of this month, a Friday – I distinctly remember because that day Madame Couperie’s son Arnaud had got married. He’s a butcher and he married a fishmonger’s daughter, a stuck-up thing who hasn’t the first idea about how to run a household. I foresee a disaster. Madame Couperie had prepared a cold collation and I had laid a place for Monsieur Gaétan here at this very card table near the fireplace. He had come back late and seemed tired. I served him, took my leave and went back to the office where we do the accounts. Suddenly, I heard: “Didier! Didier! Come quickly!” Didier Godé is my name. I ran back here and found Monsieur as white as a sheet. I thought he was going to have a nasty turn.’
The butler’s face twitched convulsively, but he took a deep breath and mastered his emotion.
‘Monsieur pointed to a panel in the wall that had been pulled back, just between Balzac and Beaumarchais. He was stammering, but he managed to say, “Did you open it?” I was indignant! “Good God, no, Monsieur,” I cried. “I had no idea that this chamber existed.” We went inside it. What chaos! As though a tornado had passed through. There were dozens of dolls of all shapes and sizes, dressed like the pictures in fashion magazines, all torn apart and broken. The worst thing was…’
He seemed to be feeling giddy.
‘I’m sorry … The worst thing was the blood. For a moment, I thought that Arnaud Couperie, the butcher, had overturned a bucket in there. The dolls were all crimson!’
‘Was it blood or red paint?’
‘It was blood, Messieurs, blood! You can’t mistake it: so thick, with that sickly smell that I can’t stand. That’s why I thought of the Couperie lad – he always has that terrible smell about him. I always have to air the room after he has come to deliver the meat.’
Godé wiped his face with a handkerchief and cleared his throat several times.
‘Go on,’ said Victor.
‘There was something written in green chalk on one of the walls. I didn’t have time to read it because Monsieur Gaétan rubbed it out as though it were some kind of terrible spell. I do remember one word vividly: Angelica. We spent half the night picking up the debris and scrubbing the place clean. Then Monsieur Gaétan closed up the passage to the secret chamber, and demanded that I swear on all that is most dear to me to say nothing about it. I swore on the life of my Aunt Aspasie. She was like a mother to me after my parents died of suffocation because of a faulty heating system. She brought me up and—’
‘Please carry on with your story.’
‘In my line of work, one has to be devoted and discreet, but now that Monsieur is no longer with us … Such a talented man! He invited me to sit down and take a cognac with him. I declined – it wouldn’t have been seemly. But I listened to what he had to say. He told me that those dolls were precious to him. Milliners and couturiers often send such dolls abroad to advertise their creations. It’s an old custom. Queen Isabeau of Bavaria used to send alabaster dolls dressed in the latest French fashions to the Queen of England. The dolls were so popular in European courts that during the wars of the seventeenth century a treaty was signed which allowed them to be transported freely across national borders. Monsieur Gaétan had spent years building up his magnificent collection, and he loved it more than anything. As he was telling me all this, I felt responsible – I should have been more vigilant, what with Monsieur receiving so many visitors, men as well as women. They used to slip in through the tradesmen’s entrance – Monsieur would let them in if they rang the bell in a special way: two long rings and one short one. So I never knew who they were. Sometimes – although not often – customers would come to the front door, respectable people. Should I have been more wary of them? I offered to resign, because of my negligence, but he refused. “I have enemies, Didier. There are jealous people everywhere and they can’t forgive my success.” There you are. It’s a sad case. I’ll have to take another position, but I’ll always remember Monsieur Gaétan.’
‘Did you ever let anyone in while he was out?’
‘A lady. That was the same day as he made that macabre discovery. It was already dark when she came, and she waited in the sitting room. I thought that Monsieur would be back at any moment, as he usually ate at about eight o’clock. The lady told me she had an appointment with him. I went down to the kitchen for a few minutes to check the menu, and she left without telling me.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘Like any well-to-do lady – a hat with a little veil, lots of frills and flounces.’
The shrill tinkle of the doorbell interrupted their conversation. Immediately on the alert, Victor signalled to Joseph that they should make themselves scarce. They hurried up some stairs to the mezzanine, and as they went, they heard the butler exclaim, ‘Police? But the police are already here!’
The unmistakable voice of Inspector Lecacheur began ranting about simpletons who couldn’t see through the most blatant lies.
They raced back downstairs and found themselves in the laundry where a surly-looking girl was dragging a basket full of dirty laundry over to a large tub.
‘Sidonie Mandron? I’m Inspector Lecacheur. We’re checking all the exits – open that window please!’
There was a shed with a flat roof a few feet below the window. Victor climbed over the windowsill and jumped down, sure that he was about to sprain an ankle or at least crack some tiles. He landed on his knees, safe and sound. Joseph dropped down next to him. They ran to the edge of the roof, slid down a drainpipe and ended up on a small lawn where a gardener was standing, clipping the hedge.
‘Police! We’re chasing a thief!’ shouted Victor, dashing towards the gate.
Their chase ended near Saint-Philippe-du-Roule church. Behind them, several passers-by were eyeing them curiously. Joseph hailed a cab.
He and Victor were silent for a while, watching the driver’s greatcoat jogging up and down in front of them. By the time they had reached the top of the Champs-Élysées, they had both got their breath back.
‘As you can see, Joseph, I’m still agile,’ Victor remarked, rubbing his calves.
Their cab got stuck between two omnibuses. Joseph let out an exhausted sigh.
‘Well, at least when I want to write about tricksters and cat burglars, I’ll have some real-life experience to draw on!’
‘As Kenji always says, “Experience is the nectar of creation”!’
‘But there are some days when one would prefer to die ignorant!’
They exchanged a conspiratorial glance and burst into gales of laughter. Still letting out the occasional giggle, Joseph managed to stammer, ‘That makes two now! No, three!’
‘Three what?’
‘Three stiffs!’
‘You should show a little more respect, Joseph. They were people, you know. This is real life, not a story.’
‘I’m sorry, Boss, it’s just that we’ve seen so many! And laughing about it helps me not to think about it. But you mustn’t imagine that it doesn’t mean anything to me. You know, I sometimes think I can’t stand all this any more. I’m soft-hearted.’
‘I know, Joseph. Do you want us to stop?’
‘I didn’t say that. It’s just that I’ll be a father soon…’
‘We’ll have this all sewn up in no time, or at least we’ll try.’
‘All right, come on then. What are your thoughts, Boss?’
‘Gaétan’s murder is identical to the Baron’s. They both received a fatal blow to the head, and the two crimes were staged almost identically: the splatterings of blood, the destruction of the two men’s most precious possessions and the messages signed Louise and Angelica.’
‘Well, I’m blowed if I can piece any of it together! Gaétan’s butler couldn’t read the whole message, but perhaps Louise might have appeared there too?’
‘Unless we start believing in ghosts, that line of thinking doesn’t lead anywhere: Louise Fontane is dead. These two murders, as well as the vandalism, were
carried out by somebody who knew how to gain access to the secret chambers … Somebody who knew the victims.’
‘That takes us back to Sophie Clairsange.’
‘But we have to be careful here – the women’s names could have been put there precisely to throw any detectives off the scent. Don’t forget what Martin Lorson told me: there were two men near the La Villette rotunda on the night of Loulou’s murder. One of those men had a limp. Either he is the criminal, or Sophie Clairsange and the man with the limp are in cahoots.’
‘We need to go right back to the beginning: let’s winkle some more information out of the stale-bread seller and Madame Guérin, and get our hands on the limper.’
The cab stopped in front of a large coach builder’s showroom, next to a horse dealer’s premises. The sound of whinnying broke Victor’s train of thought, and if, at that moment, he could have transported himself to a desert island, he would have done so in a flash.
‘They should put up a monument to silence,’ he grumbled.
Joseph scowled, feeling annoyed.
‘Come on, let’s concentrate,’ Victor said. ‘La Gournay and Gaétan ran an occult society. Gaétan’s dolls were vandalised before he was murdered, but he didn’t tell the police. That must have been because he suspected he knew who had done it. And, in fact, there’s a third person in charge of that society – Gouvier told me his name. It’s Absalon Thomassin, the star acrobat at the Franconi circus. Is he in danger? Is he guilty?’
Joseph would have continued to sulk if Victor hadn’t given him a friendly slap on the back.
‘We’re going to grill every single person we can think of. Just you wait – we’ll get to the bottom of this!’
‘But we need to be quick, or we’ll have another corpse on our hands!’
‘You must be joking! There are only so many hours in a day! Tasha’s counting on me being there this afternoon, and Iris is counting on you too. We’ll have to suspend operations until tomorrow. Although I must admit that I sometimes wish I could speed up time!’
‘Well, I don’t, otherwise I’d be a grandfather before I’d even got to know my children!… Well, I’ll be … That woman who visited Gaétan, she turned up on the evening of the ninth, the night of Louise Fontane’s murder!’
* * *
Sophie Clairsange had spent the morning tidying her bedroom. Menial tasks were a useful distraction from her anxiety, and for a short time she was able to rediscover the person she used to be, the person who had to look after herself, not a rich landowner’s wife trying to control a crowd of mercenaries on a Californian orange plantation. Her bedroom, a rather joyless place decorated in shades of yellow, brought back melancholy memories. She disliked the Henri II-style furniture but, nonetheless, the cramped room with its four-poster bed covered in old tapestries, and the sideboard converted into a dressing table, was an oasis of peace, where she was protected from harm. There was a bad gouache painting on one of the walls, in which an old woman sat huddled close to a fireplace, poking the glowing embers. The picture evoked the serenity of a home in which people lived their daily lives without incident. The stocky figure of Samuel Mathewson seemed to her to form a ghostly presence in the background. She had never felt the slightest hint of desire for her late husband, so complacent and well-meaning, but he had nevertheless provided her with the means of living a comfortable, even happy existence, now that he was dead. She felt a sincere gratitude towards her guardian angel of a husband.
She ventured out onto the landing, where a tray had been left for her with a cold meal and that day’s newspaper, which carried the headline:
RICHARD GAÉTAN, WELL-KNOWN COUTURIER, MURDERED!
Avidly she read the article and then, breaking her promise to stay in her room, ran down the stairs.
Hermance Guérin had eaten her lunch in the sitting room, where two windows with coloured glass seemed to keep light out, rather than letting it in. She was now asleep in a cretonne wing chair, her cap askew on her head, her slippered feet resting on a footstool. Opposite her was an upright piano with a marble clock and a pair of Renaissance candlesticks on top of it. Her knitting had slipped off her lap onto a felt rug on the floor. As Sophie bent down to pick it up, Madame Guérin awoke.
‘You promised to stay upstairs.’
‘I read the newspaper.’
‘So did I. He only got what he deserved.’
‘Oh, I can’t stand this! How much longer will I have to stay hidden away?’
‘Patience, my dear. What is begun must be finished. You should have something to eat – you look pale.’
Sophie contemplated the pattern of black and white tiles on the floor. She was tormented by doubts.
‘What if somebody did go through my bag?’ she murmured.
‘You shouldn’t worry about that.’
And, as if to convince her, Madame Guérin started knitting again.
‘While I was ill—’
‘I was in the room every time the doctor came to examine you.’
‘And Sylvain?’
‘He doesn’t take the slightest interest in anything except his business and his lady friends. And Aline’s a simpleton – she can barely read a shopping list.’
‘I’m worried about that man who says he saved me on the beach. He keeps on turning up.’
‘Don’t worry; nothing terrible is going to happen. I’m looking after you,’ Hermance said with a smile.
The ball of wool went bouncing away again and rolled underneath a tête-à-tête sofa. Sophie ran after it, like a cat chasing its prey. Hermance’s smile became a grimace, her lips set in a tight line, and her whole expression hardened.
* * *
Djina had excused her students from their usual lessons. The pretext for this treat was a visit to the Louvre, where they could search the galleries for a painting, which they would then reproduce in watercolour.
Despite her usual aversion to siestas, today she couldn’t resist lying down for a moment. A courier had brought her a message from Kenji, and she put it on the bedside table. Lying with her eyes shut, she thought she could hear him speaking the words he had written:
Would it be possible for you to accompany me to a shop between two and four o’clock? I would like your advice on the purchase of some curtains. Afterwards, we could go and admire your daughter’s paintings together …
Before she knew it, Djina was asleep. She was walking through a forest whose trees were laden with all sorts of delicate blossoms. When she reached out to pluck a red flower, a warm wave of arousal broke over her. She was walking in the midst of a tangle of veils, through which she could see a shape that she knew she must reach. But, however much she hurried, she remained alone and full of yearning. At the same time, though, she was aware of an intense sensuality that seemed to be connected to a drawbridge covered in snow, which she dared not approach because she was naked. She sheltered in a doorway and saw that there was a pile of clothes on the floor next to her. As soon as she put them on, they disappeared, and she only managed to keep hold of a camisole which barely covered her breasts.
She woke herself up and was ashamed to discover that her right hand had found its way underneath her skirts and slipped between her thighs. She fought against her desire, and a glance at the clock told her that it was nearly two o’clock.
When Kenji rang the doorbell, smartly dressed in a charcoal-grey suit with a mauve cravat, his walking stick with its jade knob slung jauntily over his shoulder, Djina hurried out of the apartment and walked down the stairs in front of him, ignoring the arm that he held out to her. She continued to give him the cold shoulder in the cab all the way to Boulevard de Sébastopol, replying in monosyllables to his best attempts to make conversation. Kenji was unruffled: she had agreed to accompany him, and that was all that really mattered.
Was his choice of shop, À Pygmalion, an attempt to tell her that, like many men, he wanted to mould her to his design, as the sculptor Pygmalion had done with his statue of Galatea? No, Kenji
wasn’t so sly. He explained to her that this enormous department store between Rue de Rivoli, Rue des Lombards and Rue Saint-Denis had fascinated him when he and Victor had first come to France, and that he had bought everything he needed there when they moved to Rue des Saints-Pères. He also loved the Friday concerts dedicated to French chansons, which were held at the Éden-Concert, next to the shop. He had heard Yvette Guilbert sing there before she had moved on to a more risqué repertoire.
The front of À Pygmalion was decorated with a large figure of Punch, which had been left there after the New Year celebrations, much to the delight of all the children coming into the shop. The sight of it made Djina relax somewhat, and it was with something approaching gaiety that she finally accepted Kenji’s arm as they passed underneath the bronze chandelier hanging in the huge doorway.
Crisscrossing rows of waxed parquet tiles marked out walkways in front of long counters overflowing with goods, and women stood assessing the merchandise under the beady gaze of the shop assistants.
‘Let us not follow the example of those La Bruyère criticises in his chapter “Des Esprits Forts”: “They are undecided as to which cloth they want to buy: the large range of possible choices makes them feel indifferent and, instead of coming to a decision, they leave without even taking a sample,”’ Kenji whispered.
‘Bravo, your memory is impressive.’
‘It’s all part of my job,’ he replied modestly. ‘In fact, I told you a little white lie, because I do already have an idea of which fabric I like best, but I wanted to know whether you approved. I shall be entirely guided by you in my choice of decor. You see, I intend to use the little apartment that I’ve rented to work on my catalogues, but, if you would consent to come, I would be most honoured to invite you there. So it’s natural that you should have some say in the decoration.’
He made his request so lightheartedly that it seemed impossible that he should have any ulterior motive, and Djina followed him without a murmur to the counter where the bolts of damask were kept. A liveried shop assistant, his hair parted in the middle and carefully plastered down on both sides, was standing at the foot of an ornate ironwork staircase, eyeing them over his half-moon glasses. Were these two browsers, kleptomaniacs or serious customers?
Strangled in Paris: A Victor Legris Mystery (Victor Legris Mysteries) Page 18