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

by Izner, Claude

  ‘Go home.’

  Like a naughty child, he refused to obey his own instructions. He had got himself caught up in this impenetrable Dostoevskian tangle, which could only end in more suffering. There was something mysterious, even to him, about his own obstinacy. All he had to do was break out of the vicious circle that was drawing him further and further in, pack his bags and go back home, but an inexplicable force kept him inside the circle. He had to find the third criminal.

  The cries of children chasing each other down the stairs were unwelcome. Outside, the street was coming to life, as the daily grind began all over again. People were opening up shops, running errands or going to work. All these people, humble folk, shopkeepers, housewives, led ordinary lives from which he was excluded.

  He took out a map of Paris and located Rue des Martyrs.

  * * *

  The shifty-looking cab driver had been reluctant to drive all the way to Rue de Belleville, but a generous tip had done much to improve his temper. Joseph made a mental note to thank Victor for paying for the cab, and began walking up the street through the crowds of hawkers. He was disappointed to see that this neighbourhood looked just like other poor parts of the city, with its launderettes, chemists, herbalists, haberdashers, locksmiths and other small businesses. He had hoped that the American quarter would be more foreign and exotic.46

  Struggling just like the Belleville-Lac Saint-Fargeau omnibus, Joseph finally reached the top of the hill, where the twin spires of Saint-Jean-Baptiste church rose above the city. He couldn’t spot anyone dressed in Bricart’s distinctive blue belt and red shoes in front of the large neo-Gothic door, an imitation of a thirteenth-century sanctuary.

  Joseph asked a man hard at work in a china mender’s shop for directions to Sentier de l’Encheval, and he gestured vaguely towards Rue de Palestine.

  When he had walked past the school that Sylvain Bricart had mentioned, and got as far as Rue des Solitaires, Joseph lost all sense of direction and asked two young laundresses carrying heavy baskets for help. They burst out laughing and made off. He persisted, first asking a woman sitting outside a shop repairing the seat of an old chair, who turned out to be nearly deaf, and then a crowd of apprentices hanging about in front of a bistro. Eventually, he gleaned enough information to make his way to Rue de la Villette, where a round-faced concierge with an impressive bun and a spotted apron directed him towards a little dead-end alley. There, he suddenly did feel transported to a foreign land, but it was far from being the America he had dreamt about. He climbed four steps. In front of him was a row of decrepit wooden shacks and brick hovels facing one another, separated by a stream of dirty water. This was home to several families who managed to survive here in abject poverty. A few ragged children were playing alongside a group of hens pecking about between the tumbledown dwellings. Dogs barked, a cow was mooing and a cockerel aimed several vicious pecks at Joseph’s calves before he managed to escape to the relative safety of a small courtyard. A woman and two little girls, all shivering with cold, were fetching water from a well and pouring it into a tub for their cow, a black and white Normande.

  ‘She’s lovely,’ Joseph remarked, relieved to be safe from the ferocious fowl.

  ‘She’s our saviour: without her milk we’d starve to death, all of us.’

  ‘Is this drinking water?’

  ‘I think so – it tastes better than the stuff that comes out of the well in Rue de l’Atlas: that smells of rotten eggs! We only use that to water the vegetable patch. Would you like a glass?’

  ‘Thank you, but I’m not thirsty. Do you happen to know where Sylvain Bricart lives?’

  ‘The Millionaire? At the end of the alley – you can’t miss it. His is the biggest house by far. It’s made of stone too, and always locked up tight. He’s afraid of burglars.’

  The cockerel returned for a second attack, seeing that the cow didn’t seem to pose a threat, but the girls chased him away and drove him into a coop further down the alley.

  ‘I’m sure he can’t be as rich as all that. He only sells crusts of bread,’ Joseph said, keeping a close eye on the girls to make sure that they shut the door of the coop firmly.

  ‘He makes a fortune from it, believe you me. But he’s not a bad sort, I must say. My Théodule got the sack from the workshop a while ago and since then he’s had to find whatever work he can, unloading barges down on the quayside, or working at the station putting foot warmers in the first-class carriages. Well, all that time, Monsieur Sylvain has been helping us out. Only yesterday he gave me a big bag full of stale brioches. You just dip them in some milk and they’re delicious. It’s difficult to get any credit with the butcher or the coal man, and I’ve already pawned almost everything I own.’

  ‘So he’s a kind man then, this Bricart.’

  The woman told him that local gossip had it that the Millionaire had a big country house in the Berry region, and that it wouldn’t be long now before he retired there, to live out his old age in peace.

  ‘Mind you, he deserves it. He works like a Trojan, and he hasn’t even got any other mouths to feed,’ she added, looking at her own offspring.

  Joseph had a sudden vision of a slant-eyed baby with a mouth gaping like a baby bird’s, and he hurried off towards the end of the alley.

  She was right: this is more like a fortress than a house, he thought, when he found himself in front of a cement block with a metal front door.

  He knocked several times before a little spyhole opened.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Sylvain Bricart, opening the door a crack and showing his craggy face with its protruding jaw. When he was sure that Joseph was alone, he allowed him to cross the threshold.

  ‘Why do you take so many precautions?’

  ‘You can never be too careful. When people know you’ve got a bit of money, they come sniffing around.’

  The enticing odour of warm bread wafted from one of the rooms. Joseph imagined an oven filled with marzipan pastries and spiced buns, two of his favourite things, and his mouth began to water. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a book that had been rather hastily wrapped up in brown paper.

  ‘I’ve got a delivery for Sophie Clairsange – or rather Mathewson. I’ve discovered what the rest of her name is, since that day when you told me the first syllable.’

  Sylvain Bricart scratched his greying head. He wasn’t dressed in the flamboyant outfit he wore for work, but in an old shirt, patched trousers and a pair of worn-out boots. He was covered with a light dusting of flour.

  ‘Why are you giving it to me? You might as well deliver it to the hotel!’

  ‘Mademoiselle Clairsange has disappeared.’

  ‘In that case, why not take it along to the sweet shop?’

  ‘Which sweet shop?’

  ‘The Blue Chinaman, on Rue des Vinaigriers. It’s run by Hermance Guérin.’

  ‘The thing is, my boss is going to get angry if I’m late back. I told him I’d only be gone for a short while.’

  ‘And I’ve got a pile of bread in the oven, Monsieur, so if you’re wondering whether I’m about to go trotting off to Rue des Vinaigriers, the answer is no way! To tell you the truth, her ladyship the owner sends me packing half the time anyway. There’s no getting away from it: women become madder as they grow older. What is it? A novel?’

  ‘The History of a Crime, by Victor Hugo.’

  ‘Ah, Hugo! I once spent the night in a prison cell because of him. I’d been kicking up a bit of a fuss with a gang of students because the government had banned a play Hugo had written, Ruy Blas.47 We exchanged a few blows, the police and I. There was some strong stuff in that play, it has to be said:

  ‘Bon appétit, messieurs!

  Ô ministres intègres

  Conseillers vertueux! Voilà votre façon

  De servir, serviteurs qui pillez la maison!’48

  To Joseph’s dismay, as soon as Sylvain had finished this declamation, he made as if to leave, eager to return to his oven. Joseph had t
o find a way of getting the conversation going again.

  ‘Those lines are still relevant today because in fact the bigwigs who run things are still fleecing us … Congratulations on remembering them – you must have been very young when you heard them last!’

  The Millionaire succumbed to the flattery.

  ‘Well, I do have a natural flair when it comes to acting. I should have trodden the boards myself. I was as good-looking as I was popular in those days. I used to toil away in a sweet shop, earning next to nothing, but I had a thing for the girl who worked there. She was eighteen, comely and not shy with it. She preferred my friend to me, though. That’s life.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Hermance.’

  ‘Like the woman who owns the Blue Chinaman?’

  ‘The very same, with a few extra years, a few extra pounds and some wrinkles.’

  ‘And did she marry your friend?’

  ‘Did she hell! As soon as he’d got her in the family way, he packed his bags and left. The little mite was only a month old when her father enlisted and went off to fight in the Battle of Sedan. War might seem very moving when we hear songs and stories about it, but when it comes to actually having a bayonet stuck into you it’s a different story. I went to my mother’s in Bordeaux and managed to lie low until things calmed down.’

  ‘What happened to your friend?’

  ‘He disappeared without a trace in all the fighting. He always wanted to be as good as Velpeau. In the end, no doctor could bring him back.’

  ‘And what about you – are you married?’

  ‘Married? You must be joking! There are too many women on earth – I can’t marry them all. Now, young man, it’s nearly time for my first round.’

  ‘I’d like to come along with you.’

  ‘I thought your boss was pining for you.’

  ‘Let him wait! Down with the bigwigs, that’s what I say!’

  ‘Bravo! That’s fighting talk. But I’m warning you, you need legs of iron for this job. I do it all on foot! Wait there – I’ll go and get changed.’

  He soon reappeared, dressed in his black, blue and red uniform, his eyes partially covered by the brim of his top hat. He piled several crates full of warmed-up bread into his cart, covered them carefully with a blanket, and they were off.

  An hour later an exhausted Joseph was doing his best to keep up with the old bull terrier, who was feeling rejuvenated by a good morning’s business, which had filled his purse and emptied his cart of almost all its load. At this rate, Sylvain Bricart would soon have the wherewithal to add another wing to his country residence.

  ‘We’ve done well, my boy! Let’s drink a toast to our success!’ the Millionaire suggested.

  They ended up at an inn, where the landlady served them two small measures of beer, all the while casting flirtatious glances at the stale-bread seller.

  ‘It’s not my handsome face she’s interested in, it’s my loot,’ Sylvain Bricart whispered.

  ‘You had a good idea there. Selling stale bread is a fine profession: you’re free to come and go as you please,’ said Joseph, happy to be back in the warm and off his feet.

  ‘I’m as free as a bird. I started once the war was over and I got back to good old Paris. There wasn’t any more work for yours truly at the sweet shop. Hermance had just got married to the boss, Marcel Guérin. She did start to take more kindly to me, though. She wasn’t so young and carefree any more! When her dear beloved Guérin snuffed it without warning, he left her with a lot of debts. Hermance had to mortgage the business. It was then that I bumped into her one day in Les Halles, and she told me the whole story, with that expression of hers like a lost kitten. I didn’t stand a chance. I paid off the mortgage, and paid for the shop to be renovated. I even painted a new sign: Hermance insisted that the shop be called the Blue Chinaman.’

  ‘Why blue?’

  ‘In memory of her father, who kicked the bucket in China in 1860, on the banks of the Yangtze River, or the Blue River. It cost me a pretty penny but Hermance was grateful. I moved in with them in the end and we were like a proper little family. So Sophie’s like a daughter to me.’

  ‘If Madame Guérin is her mother, why is she called Clairsange?’

  ‘That’s Hermance’s maiden name. Marcel Guérin refused to let the child take his name.’

  ‘But you don’t live with Madame Guérin any more?’

  ‘All these questions! Are you thinking of writing our life stories, or what? A tale of two idiots, you could call it! We stayed together for ten years, and then that minx went and fooled around with some other man! I decided to call it a day after that, but we’ve stayed more or less friends, and in the end it’s probably for the best.’

  ‘And what about the trial? You helped Sophie then, didn’t you?’

  ‘That was a nasty business! Those judges couldn’t stand the fact that a few women, some rich but most of them poor, had dared to end pregnancies that would have produced a brood of unwanted children. I pleaded her cause and I’m proud of it, even though it did mean that my name was mentioned in the papers!’

  He produced a tattered notebook full of press cuttings. His name appeared several times in the list of witnesses for the defence, along with that of a missionary who now looked after vulnerable orphans, and a seamstress who claimed to have witnessed the rape of one of her friends.

  ‘My day isn’t over yet – the second round’s about to start! I’m off home. Bottoms up, young man!’ cried Sylvain Bricart, draining his glass.

  Joseph did the same, and the room began to spin. Unable to move, he shook the hand that the Millionaire was holding out to him and remained slumped on his chair, aware that the landlady’s covetous gaze had turned to him in the absence of any other eligible male.

  When he finally managed to control the shaking that had kept him glued to his seat, Joseph took advantage of a moment when she was looking the other way and staggered out onto Rue de la Villette, where he hailed a cab and asked to be taken back to Rue des Vinaigriers.

  I need to strike while the iron’s hot and talk to this Madame Guérin, he thought. If she’s been concealing the fact that Sophie Clairsange is her daughter, then she must either be covering for her, or have something to hide herself.

  Falling suddenly into an alcohol-induced doze, he found himself on a battlefield where a gigantic cockerel called Velpeau was pursuing the dastardly Zandini, who was disguised as a black and white Normande cow.

  ‘Are you deaf? We’re here!’ bellowed the driver, shaking Joseph’s arm.

  Feeling dazed, Joseph paid the driver, forgetting the tip this time. He ignored the string of insults that followed.

  The Blue Chinaman lit up the dreariness Rue des Vinaigriers like a beacon in the gloom. The shop, with its combination of stucco, marble and mirrors, provided a pretty and elegant setting for the tempting sweets lined up on the counter. And there was Hermance Guérin behind the till, her black lace bonnet bent over the knitting that kept her busy when the shop was quiet. Joseph was pleased to see that there were no other customers. When she heard the bell tinkle, Madame Guérin lifted her faded doll’s head and blinked her blue eyes, as though she were slowly coming back to reality.

  ‘Can I help you, Monsieur?’

  ‘I’m looking for a present for my wife. She’s expecting a baby and has cravings for sweet things. What would you recommend?’

  ‘I can give you an assortment: pralines, fondants, humbugs … Does she like mint?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then I’ll add some mint drops and some marshmallow. Ah, and a few violet pastilles. When is it due?’

  ‘What?’ Joseph said, transfixed by a huge jar of caramels.

  ‘The baby.’

  ‘Oh, not till July.’

  ‘Have you chosen a name?’

  Hermance Guérin’s interest was tinged with polite indifference.

  ‘If it’s a girl, Évangéline, and if it’s a boy, Sagamore.’

 
‘Are those real names?’ she asked, taken aback.

  ‘My parents-in-law are American. Oh, I nearly forgot – have you got any angelica?’ he asked nonchalantly, fixing her with a hard stare.

  ‘It’s more the sort of thing you’d find at a baker’s.’

  ‘Yes, exactly; my mother wants to bake a cake and if I don’t manage to find some angelica for her…’

  ‘I haven’t got any, I’m afraid. Will that be all?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll come and buy some sugared almonds when it’s time to celebrate the birth.’

  ‘Do you live around here?’ asked Madame Guérin, as she counted out his change.

  ‘We moved to Boulevard Magenta a month ago. It’s rather noisy but very comfortable. That reminds me: my wife sends her regards to your daughter, Sophie.’

  The ruse was so unexpected that for a fleeting moment Hermance Guérin let her professional mask slip. She mastered her emotions almost immediately, but her voice still trembled when she replied, ‘You must be mistaken; I haven’t got a daughter.’

  ‘But I’m sure I can’t have got it wrong. It was old Sylvain who told me, and he wasn’t drunk, as far as I could tell. He gave me your address because, believe it or not, my wife is an old friend of Sophie’s.’

  ‘As I said, you are mistaken.’

  ‘I understand that you might not want to admit it, after all the fuss during the trial, but, seeing as we’re talking about the past, I may as well tell you that my wife was one of the accused too. You see, we’re in the same boat, you and I.’

  Hermance Guérin had turned pale and fiddled nervously with a strand of hair.

  ‘Who are you?’ she murmured.

  ‘A friend of the man with a limp.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Leave me alone. Go away.’

  ‘You’re hiding your daughter Sophie here, Madame Guérin, admit it. We know why she came back from America. Tell her that. Thank you for your help!’ he concluded, waving the parcel with its pink ribbon.

  The boss – I mean, Victor – won’t half be pleased with me. I did really well! Joseph said to himself as he set off in search of an omnibus.