‘Well … Oh, come on, don’t be stupid! Do I have to explain it all? He gave her some money and … do you need me to draw you a picture?’
‘Did you ever see her again?’
‘Sophie? Yes, at the trial. I don’t know what became of her after that. Oh, yes, I do! She got hitched to some old geezer who fell for her during the trial. She went off to America.’
‘And what about Louise?’
‘I told you – she got a job on Rue d’Aboukir. We used to see each other once a fortnight, and we’d go to dances together. In summer, we’d go up to Nogent and buy ourselves some chips, or go boating on the Marne.’
‘Did she have any family?’
‘Her mother died when she was twelve, but she got lucky and was adopted by someone who helped orphans, who got her a room in a hostel.’
‘She had recently been given a job by a rich American woman. Could that have been Sophie Clairsange?’
‘How am I supposed to know? By the time Loulou was killed, I hadn’t heard from her for a month. Is Sophie Clairsange in Paris?’
‘It would seem so.’
‘Do you think that her being here is in some way connected to Loulou’s death?’
‘Possibly. Come back with me.’
‘Are you completely mad?’
‘Maurice is heartbroken. He’s got his faults, I know, but he does love you. Why did you leave him?’
‘We had an argument.’
‘He’s very sad.’
‘Really? The poor suffering mite!’
‘Does the name Angelica mean anything to you?’
‘Isn’t it something people use to decorate cakes?’
* * *
Tasha picked up the telephone. It was Joseph.
‘It’s your brother-in-law,’ she said to Victor. ‘What does he want now? When you’ve finished gossiping, come over to the studio.’
Victor took the receiver and made sure that Tasha was out of earshot.
Joseph told him that Sophie Clairsange had left the hotel suddenly and that, thanks to his stratagem, he was almost sure that she had gone back to Rue Albouy.
‘Excellent work, Joseph. You’ve given me an idea. Have you got a pen? Write this down:
Paris, Friday 23 February
Dear Madame, it is vital that we exchange some important information. Your safety depends on it. Come to the café in the Gare de l’Est at midday. Wear a hat without a veil and a white rose in your buttonhole.
‘Put that in an envelope addressed to her, and give it to the maid as early as you can tomorrow morning. Must go – Tasha’s back.’
Victor began to speak more loudly.
‘How many times do I have to tell you, Joseph! I’ll go and see Madame Albouy tomorrow morning. If Monsieur Guérin asks for the travel book The Blue Chinaman, tell him that I’m making arrangements with the supplier. I’ll see you tomorrow at the bookshop.’
Friday 23 February
Under the impassive gaze of a pneumatic clock that marked out the passing seconds, a noisy, hurrying crowd swarmed over the station concourse. Porters wearing a cap, shirt and belt emblazoned with the initials of the Eastern Railways Company argued with baggage handlers over huge piles of luggage. An endless stream of passengers snaked down the marble staircase. Victor stationed himself in front of the café. He could have arranged to meet Sophie somewhere quieter, but had reasoned that in a station they could easily melt into the crowds, unobserved. He had a commanding view of the huge concourse: a limping man would have his work cut out to go unnoticed here.
* * *
Corentin Jourdan walked as fast as his crutch would allow, even though, in a place like this, the most difficult thing wasn’t to pursue his quarry but to keep her insight without being noticed. His siren did elude him a couple of times, but by elbowing people firmly out of his way he managed to catch sight of her again. She stopped in front of the café and, obviously on her guard, cast her eye over the people sitting there. Instead of trying to limp as little as possible, Corentin Jourdan exaggerated the movement. His messy hair sprinkled with ash under the battered hat, his unshaven chin and his clothes caked in dried mud made him look like a broken-down old tramp who had had a little too much to drink. He walked along the row of ticket offices and stopped in front of a newspaper kiosk. He saw a man approach his siren and whisper something in her ear. The man from the bookshop! Was Sophie Clairsange about to tell him what had happened at Landemer? What should he do? He didn’t have much room to manoeuvre. Unless … Yes, he had one card left to play: the third criminal.
* * *
Sophie Clairsange walked over to a table set slightly apart from the others, adjusted the white rose in her buttonhole and took off her gloves. Victor looked her up and down: medium height, slim figure, brown curls, and slightly dark complexion – extremely attractive. She was wearing neither a wedding ring nor an engagement ring. He invited her to sit down and did the same himself.
Sophie Clairsange looked Victor straight in the eyes.
She’s one of those haughty upstarts who look down on everyone, he thought to himself. I’ll let her stew for a bit. If she thinks she can intimidate me, she’s wrong.
He began to speak calmly, a slight smile playing on his lips.
‘I hope that we can come to an understanding, Madame. There is no point in us both wasting our time. You are in danger, and you are afraid. I’m here to offer you my services.’
‘How dare you? Do you really expect me to take you seriously when I don’t even know who you are?’
Victor continued in a neutral tone, ‘For your own safety, you would do better to take me seriously.’
‘Monsieur, whose name I don’t know, you’ve been reading too many novels.’
‘Quite possibly: I’m a bookseller, my name is Victor Legris and I have pipped the police to the post in several criminal investigations. Here are my credentials.’
He handed her a sheaf of press cuttings, which she studied minutely.
‘This doesn’t tell me why you’re doing this. I don’t need any help, and what have I got to be afraid of?’
‘I’m going to be honest with you, Madame. In return, I hope you’ll be honest with me. I have been asked to look into the death of an acquaintance of yours, Louise Fontane. She has been strangled.’
‘I know. A stranger – you, perhaps – had the good taste to communicate this to Madame Guérin. I was very sorry to hear it. Louise was a childhood friend of mine.’
‘Madame Guérin denied all knowledge of her.’
‘She wanted to consult me first. I have no desire to get mixed up in this business.’
Victor pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, met the woman’s mocking gaze and put it down on the table.
‘Was Louise staying with you on Rue Albouy?’
‘Yes, she was.’
‘Why didn’t you tell the police that?’
‘Monsieur, it was purely out of curiosity that I came here to meet you. I was intrigued. Yes, I used to know Louise Fontane, a long time ago. We hadn’t seen one another for three years. She lost her job and I offered her somewhere to stay, as is natural. You can report me to the police, but they won’t find anything wrong with my story.’
You’re lying, my dear, Victor thought. Louise didn’t lose her job: you offered her a new one.
‘There’s no point beating about the bush,’ he replied, astonished by her aplomb. ‘I know a number of things about you and, seeing as you don’t seem to want to cooperate, a few other people might end up finding out about them too. Now, let’s start at the beginning. You worked at Rue de la Paix, didn’t you, at Le Couturier des Élégantes?’
‘I don’t see why you’re asking me that, given that you obviously know the answer already.’
‘What is your married name, Madame Clairsange, and what are you doing in Paris?’
She flushed with anger, but answered without objecting.
‘My husband, Samuel Mathewson, died six months ago. He o
wned several orange plantations in California. Once I had set everything in order, I decided to return to France. I was homesick.’
‘Where were you the night that Louise was killed?’
‘At home, in Rue Albouy. I have witnesses.’
Victor lit a cigarette without bothering to ask her permission.
‘There’s something else I know that I didn’t mention before. You were a defendant at Constance Thomas’s trial in November 1891. Your maiden name appears on the list of the accused, along with those of Louise Fontane and Mireille Lestocart.’
‘Mireille Lestocart? Who’s she? Yes, I was tried. I couldn’t keep the child. I was acquitted, like all the rest.’
‘Who was the father? Richard Gaétan or the Baron de La Gourn…’
His voice trailed off, but the implication was clear.
‘How many women have you abandoned without giving a thought to whether or not they might be in trouble?’
‘Richard Gaétan and the Baron de La Gournay have been murdered.’
‘Do you suspect me? Monsieur, you lack imagination. Everybody knows that Richard Gaétan regularly exercised his droit de seigneur on the women who worked for him. As for the Baron, he used to get up to the same tricks behind the scenes at Le Couturier des Élégantes as he did at the Opéra and the Folies-Bergère!’
‘What do you know about Richard Gaétan?’
‘I only know what anybody can read in the gossip columns. He worked first as a pattern cutter, and then he became a tailor at Larive, near La Madeleine.’
‘I suppose you’re familiar with the name, the Black Unicorn?’
‘Everybody has heard of it, and the way it takes money from so many people. Richard Gaétan, the Baron Edmond de La Gournay and Absalon Thomassin are its co-founders.’
‘The Great Absalon from the Winter Circus?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did Gaétan become so renowned? Did the business at Rue de la Paix simply fall into his hands?’
‘In 1888, when he was at Larive, he did some work for Absalon Thomassin, who had just come back from a tour of India where he had gone to study the techniques of self-taught acrobats. Richard Gaétan dreamt of rising to the top, but although he had the technical skill he lacked creativity. Absalon Thomassin agreed to hand over the sketches of exotic costumes that he had made during the course of his travels. He was a talented artist and had an eye for choosing the right material. Richard Gaétan created a dress inspired both by the sketches and by Thomassin’s advice … Oh, I’ve had enough of this!’
‘Please go on.’
‘If you insist … In August 1889 there was a big reception for the Shah of Persia. The president was there, along with lots of ambassadors and the cream of Parisian high society. Madame Clotilde de La Gournay made a dramatic entrance wearing Gaétan’s famous creation, which he called the Dress the Colour of Time, inspired by Perrault’s story “Donkeyskin”. It was a wonderful thing, in gold and blue brocade. She caused a sensation, and Gaétan’s name was on everyone’s lips. Add to that the cachet of his aristocratic clients, and Le Couturier des Élégantes was guaranteed success from that moment. I remember what Thomassin said at the time: “I hope I’m not like that donkey which got skinned even though it made so much gold.” Have I made myself clear?’
‘No, I still don’t see what you mean.’
‘Have you read Perrault, Monsieur the bookseller? In Perrault’s tale, the princess wears the skin of a magic donkey which, when it was alive, had produced droppings of pure gold. The poor donkey was sacrificed – it saved the princess’s skin by losing its own. And you call yourself a sleuth! Everything you’ve said has been much too fanciful. Just think about it: there were three of them, and now there’s only one left. Absalon was the truly creative one, and he didn’t see a penny of the profits. Gaétan made very sure that the business belonged to him and him alone.’
‘So you think it was Thomassin?’
‘The big fashion houses are like extended families. It’s better to keep some secrets under your hat if you want to hold on to your job.’
Victor hadn’t foreseen this hypothesis, and he paused for a moment to take it in.
‘Tell me about the man with a limp who’s been following you from one hotel to the next.’
Sophie Clairsange-Mathewson’s expression darkened for a moment, but she soon regained her confident air.
‘A man with a limp? Is that one of your little helpers, hired to watch me wherever I go? Why should I believe that you are who you say you are?’
‘You seem to be angry.’
‘Angry? What a nerve! You barge into my life, and stick your nose into my past. Haven’t you got anything better to do with your time?’
She fixed him with an intense gaze, pleased with her performance.
‘Goodbye, Monsieur the bookseller. I’m going now.’
‘Just one moment, Madame,’ said Victor, who had decided to play his final card. ‘Did you know that the Baron de La Gournay’s precious collection of unicorns was found completely destroyed?’
‘Well, what about it?’
‘Somebody had written on a mirror in the room, “In memory of Brumaire and the night of the dead.”’
‘Now that really does sound like something from a novel.’
‘There was a signature, “Louise”.’
‘Obviously a trick, that’s all! Louise had been dead for eight days by that time.’
She seemed completely calm as she said this, but the colour had disappeared from her cheeks, and she was frighteningly pale.
‘Goodbye, Monsieur.’
Victor grasped her arm.
‘What does the name Angelica mean to you?’
She shook him off and disappeared into the crowd. She had forgotten her gloves.
* * *
When she got outside the station, Sophie Clairsange-Mathewson managed to contain her anger. She needed to keep walking to empty her mind. Everything would be all right. It had to be.
The bustle of Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin seemed far off. Things were taking a turn for the worse. Suddenly, she understood, and the realisation made her catch her breath. She had to stop and lean against a wall. It was glaringly obvious what was going on and the thought of it overwhelmed her. She couldn’t trust anybody. She had set off a chain reaction even though, on paper, everything still seemed to fit together.
An old invalid leaning on a crutch overtook her and went down Rue des Récollets. He followed a barge that was making its slow way along the canal. As he watched it, Corentin Jourdan thought of his past life, disturbed by ripples like the surface of the Saint-Martin canal. In what unknown port would he finally drop anchor?
* * *
When Victor got back to the bookshop, he found Kenji doing battle with Euphrosine, who was working herself up into one of her apoplectic rages. Joseph had taken refuge near the fireplace, and was looking on, biting his lip.
‘So Zulma makes better tea than I do, does she?’ growled Euphrosine. ‘Can you be more specific, Monsieur Mori? For example, does the spout of your teapot need to face north, south, east or west? And do the tea leaves have to be picked at full moon? And, tell me, does the milk need to come from a particular cow? Do you have a favourite?’
‘I leave the milk to the English, actually,’ Kenji replied evenly.
‘Oh, do you? I’m so sorry – you drink it black, do you, like the Cossacks, or the Archduchess Fifi Maximova? One sugar, or two?’
‘Madame Pignot, you seem to be somewhat bad-tempered today,’ Kenji observed, sitting down at his desk.
‘With good reason! When I think that that cunning little Zulma Tailleroux had the nerve to try her hand at cooking! If you all die of food poisoning, don’t come crying to me!’
‘Madame Pignot, let’s keep things in proportion. You were out and I simply asked Zulma to boil some water for me.’
‘Boiled or not, water is my department!’
‘What’s the matter?’ Victor asked Joseph
.
‘Oh, a big fuss over nothing! Zulma dared to set foot in the kitchen while Maman was out at the market. Did you see Sophie Clairsange?’
‘We had a most interesting interview. She told me a pack of lies. All credit to her! She’s got nerves of steel.’
‘Do you suspect her?’
‘I think she’s involved somehow. She has an obvious motive.’
‘Such a beautiful woman!’
‘Appearances can be deceptive, Joseph. Our first impressions are often wrong. She’s a widow, and her married name is Mathewson. When I told her about the writing in La Gournay’s secret chamber, she turned very pale.’
‘Hmm. Well, that solves the mystery of the Mat anyway! Bricart was right – it’s a name that doesn’t sound the same as it’s spelt! In any case, we can be sure now that there’s a link between the abortion trial and the murders. November 1891 … Brumaire, the night of the dead … It would make a good title for a story. Something doesn’t seem quite right, though, Boss … I mean, Victor. Why was Loulou killed? Did she know too much? Was she an inconvenient witness? Are we getting out of our depth? It might be best to tell Inspector Lecacheur about the whole business. I don’t want my son to grow up an orphan.’
‘You’re not turning into a bourgeois stay-at-home, are you, Joseph?’
‘I’m tired of hanging around on street corners! And what about the limper, what’s he got to do with it all?’
‘Madame Sophie Clairsange-Mathewson avoided the question.’
CHAPTER 13
Saturday 24 February
The first glimmers of dawn were showing at the window when Corentin Jourdan heaved himself out of bed, still half asleep. He looked in the cracked mirror. An exhausted face that hadn’t shaved for several days stared back at him. Forcing himself into action, he lifted up a jug, poured some water into the basin and took up his shaving brush. He was about to raise it to his chin, when he stopped short.
‘I’m poor Ben Gunn, I am,’ he muttered. ‘I’m marooned, mate!’45
Disconcerted by this eerie comparison, he contemplated the solitude in which he was fated to live out his days and wondered how he would stand it. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thought. He felt as though he were simultaneously an actor on stage and a member of the audience, and that neither actor nor spectator was particularly enjoying the story.
Strangled in Paris: A Victor Legris Mystery (Victor Legris Mysteries) Page 22