ABSALON, KING OF ACROBATS,
ACROBAT OF KINGS
Pathetic!
Corentin felt a lump in his throat at the sight of the Pigalle–Halle aux Vins omnibus, which was toiling up Rue des Martyrs. He had witnessed the scene twice already: a man50 would attach an extra horse to the original two sturdy animals, so that the heavy, swaying omnibus could be dragged up the hill to Montmartre. He would never have dreamt that horses could be so ill-treated in Paris. Evidently, there was no limit to people’s cruelty; they abused animals while pretending to protect them. For example, the men employed to do this maintained that they were alleviating the horses’ suffering. In that case, why not simply ban omnibuses from going up these steep streets? Let the intrepid travellers get out and walk! He thought of his own dear Flip and felt a surge of anger. The fate of these animals had nothing to do with the task he had set himself, but the rage it provoked in him confirmed his determination. He must succeed no matter what, for the sake of Flip, and for Clélia, another victim of social hypocrisy …
The sight of a smartly dressed dandy in a checked jacket and trousers leaping out of a coupé interrupted his musings. It was him: he recognised the neat moustache and carefully trimmed beard. The man was followed by a servant weighed down with suitcases. They went up the steps to the porch of number 2.
Corentin Jourdan forced himself to be patient. Hurrying now would only cause the man to panic. Far better to let him make himself comfortable, and then go in by the servants’ entrance and carry out his plan.
As he waited, he began to count shoes instead of carriages, just for a change. A pair of grey ladies’ boots with square toes. Two patent leather shoes – that made four. Two more boots, spattered with mud, six. Two cracked galoshes, eight. Two delicate slippers, offering little protection against the cold. Two heavy postilion’s boots …
* * *
Absalon Thomassin placed his top hat carefully on a bedside table and put on his flannel-lined slippers with a sigh of pleasure. Despite the persistent anxiety that had been eating away at him ever since he had heard of the deaths of Edmond de La Gournay and Richard Gaétan, it was comforting to be back in his own apartment. There, he rediscovered the well-ordered security that he had missed during his long stay at his family home in Chantilly where, surrounded by cloying memories, he had perfected a complex new acrobatic routine.
He closed his eyes, conjuring up the series of daring moves that he was now able to perform with absolute accuracy. They would guarantee his success at the Winter Circus where, after the rehearsals that were due to begin the following day, he would be the star of the new season.
The acrobat’s butler unfolded his employer’s favourite dressing gown and announced that he was going out to run some errands.
Feeling suddenly anxious again, Absalon Thomassin paced up and down the large sitting room full of Oriental carpets and furniture, trailing his fingers over an ornate hookah. The newspaper articles about the murders had mentioned a message scrawled in Gaétan’s chamber, signed Angelica. It was enough to drive him mad. But, in the end, there was no reason to panic. It was perhaps a simple case of a woman’s revenge, which would hardly be surprising, given Richard’s sexual habits. Moreover, La Gournay’s murder could have been the work of a crazed individual, and the similarity between the two murders just a coincidence rather than some intricate plot. Absalon could thus reasonably conclude that this terrible business had nothing to do with him and look forward to becoming the sole head of the Black Unicorn. He had already sent his condolences to Clotilde, but he would have to meet her and find out more about the circumstances of her husband’s death. The newspapers had hitherto not mentioned anything about his collection of unicorns being damaged. And unless Absalon was much mistaken, the chamber also contained manuscripts and rare ancient works which Clotilde, who cared nothing about them, would probably agree to sell to him for a very small sum. She would also hand over all responsibility for the occult society to him, and might stop resisting his advances now that her wan charms were no longer the sole property of Edmond. Should he marry her? It wasn’t impossible. He was rich enough to pay off the dead man’s debts and even to buy his title. Baron Absalon de Thomassin had a nice ring to it.
He removed several sketches that he had made during his exile in Chantilly from the parcel in which they had been carefully wrapped. There were three in particular of which he was very proud: the costume adorned with small paste jewels that he would wear for his dramatic swallow dive, a scarlet and silver creation for the horsemen in a future equestrian show and a richly embroidered Hindu snake charmer’s dress, which he would offer to Nala Damajanti, a dancer at the Folies-Bergère.
He heard a noise.
‘Léopold, is that you?’ he said.
There was no reply except for the murmur of the noisy street outside. Feeling worried, Absalon walked down the long corridor which led to the servants’ entrance and his office.
He entered his office and stifled a cry of fear. It was as though a scarlet rain had lashed down on the whole room: the boxes where he stored his sketches, the drawings pinned to the walls, the two dummies draped in shimmering tunics and the sketchbooks filled with watercolours that provided the inspiration for whole troupes of jugglers, clowns and dazzling horsemen were all stained red.
He touched the spine of one of the books with his index finger then sniffed the finger, feeling sickened. Blood. He crossed the room and, opening the window, leant out. A man emerged from the servants’ entrance and hurried, limping, towards the porchway. Absalon was about to cry ‘Stop him!,’ but he held back: it was too late. He turned round. That was when he saw the letters traced in white paint above the dark blue mantelpiece.
YOU LET THE SEED DIE.
PREPARE TO DIE YOURSELF.
LOUISE
‘W-what can it mean by “seed”? Louise? Who is Louise?’ he stammered, his voice trembling.
He had had many mistresses in his time, like all men. He tried to remember their names: Catherine, Georgina, Aliette. Then there had been a Scottish lion tamer called Helen MacGregor. Sophie, Philomène, Cécile. But, as far back as he could remember, there had never been a Louise.
* * *
Joseph pulled down the first of the shutters and wished Victor a good evening. Madame Ballu was on watch outside the large main door. She waved to Victor absently as he walked down the street towards Quai Malaquais, but then her gaze returned to the carriage on the other side of the street.
‘First it was a removal cart and now it’s a carriage! But what does he want from me?’
Euphrosine’s cruel comment was still ringing in her ears: ‘My poor Micheline, if you hadn’t already had the change, I’d say you were having some kind of hallucination. Why on earth would any man follow you?’
‘Is it so impossible that a man should follow me? Hallucinations, my foot! There’s no age limit on seduction! She’s just a bitter old harpy. She’s full of airs and graces, but she started off working at a market stall. Ever since her boy married the boss’s daughter, she’s been lording it over us all. But someone is spying on me, that’s for sure. It’s not as if I enjoy being spied on anyway!’ she muttered, locking herself in her room.
She was in urgent need of a drop of vintage port from her late husband Onésime’s stash and didn’t notice the carriage moving off at a jog trot.
Victor was lost in thought and had just passed the Temps Perdu café when something white flew down in front of his nose and landed at his feet. A rose. He turned round quickly. A cab had come to a halt a few feet away. The door opened and someone called his name.
‘Monsieur Legris! Get in – I’ve got something to tell you.’
He hesitated.
‘I’m alone. Make up your mind; I’m not going to put a spell on you!’
Victor jumped up onto the running board.
‘Good evening, Madame Clairsange, or should I say Mathewson? Am I being kidnapped? This isn’t the Wild West, you know!’
‘Just one question: why are you lying to me? I know you were the one who got Loulou out of her job at Rue d’Aboukir. Why did you do that?’
She was certainly a fascinating mixture of innocence and daring. She remained silent, deploying her full armoury of smiles, lowered eyes and delicate hands nervously smoothing her gloves. It was a charming spectacle even to someone familiar with her techniques.
‘Oh, Monsieur Legris,’ she cried, ‘you’re the only person I dare speak to. If I tell you my secret, will you help to protect us from any scandal?’
‘Possibly. I’m curious to hear your version of—’
He stopped short, confused by the direction his own thoughts were taking. She let out a heavy sigh and knocked on the glass to attract the driver’s attention.
‘Close the door, Monsieur Legris. Let’s drive on for a while,’ she murmured.
Victor turned to the window. He knew that Sophie Clairsange’s actions were all perfectly calculated and that she was observing him coldly from underneath her lowered eyelids.
‘Poor dear Loulou! It was all my fault. What I’m about to tell you is all so extraordinary that I couldn’t possibly have made it up. After the death of my husband, Samuel Mathewson, I dreamt up a plan to wreak revenge on two men who had ruined what should have been the most carefree years of my life. I wrote all my plans down in my diary. I wanted Richard Gaétan and Absalon Thomassin to get their comeuppance. The first raped me and the second turned me out on the street when I was pregnant.’
‘And the third, the Baron de La Gournay?’
‘He got Loulou, my best friend, pregnant. I wanted to ruin their reputations, but never for a moment did I dream of murdering them.’
‘Absalon Thomassin isn’t dead yet, as far as I know!’
‘And I hope he lives to a great age.’
Victor was startled. It was strange to hear this woman, who had been so wronged, say such a thing. She fixed him with a worried gaze.
‘Let me tell you the whole story,’ she said, ‘because I still think you don’t believe me. My plan was simple. I asked Loulou to come and live with me on Rue Albouy. I told her about my plans, and she agreed to play her part. I made sure that the three devils were still living where they always had, and then I wrote to Gaétan, saying: “I am in Paris. If you want to avoid trouble, do exactly what I tell you.” I signed the letter “Angelica”.’
‘Why Angelica? And what did you tell him to do?’
‘He would always give his victims pet names that made them sound like sweet treats. Mine was Angelica, but there were plenty of others: Mirabelle, Clémentine, Cerise, Amandine … He really was a strange man. Loulou looked quite like me, except that she had blonde hair, and, in order for us to be able to do what we intended to do, she had to look just like me. So she dyed her hair. We agreed a time and place for the meeting with Richard Gaétan, in an out-of-the-way spot. We needed to get him a long way away from his home so that I could carry out my plan. Loulou was to pretend to be me, and he wouldn’t know the difference. While she was meeting him near the La Villette rotunda, I went to his house at Rue de Courcelles. I got rid of the butler with some excuse or other, opened the door to the secret chamber where he kept his precious collection of dolls and didn’t hold back.’
‘You were the one who vandalised it?’
‘Yes. Then I wrote a warning on the wall. I wanted him to know who had done it, but I used the name Angelica so that the crime couldn’t be traced back to me if he reported it to the police.’
‘And what was Loulou supposed to say to him?’
‘That she was going to expose the fact that he’d never designed the dresses he produced, that the creations he was so famous for were not his own – that he would be a laughing stock. It was a game, and I never thought of taking it as far as murder! I went back to Rue Albouy and waited in vain for Loulou to come back. The next day, I read in the newspaper that a woman had been found strangled near the La Villette tollgate. I realised what must have happened and I was devastated. The brute! I suppose that when she told him what she knew, he must have panicked and killed her, thinking it was me he was murdering.’
She wiped her eyes. Victor thought over what she had told him. He wanted to believe her but doubted her sincerity, influenced by his own prejudices against women who seemed to him too arrogant. Perhaps his judgement was biased against her because she was so obviously attractive and at the same time so condescending towards him. Where was the clear-sightedness that he was usually so proud of? Modesty: that was what he liked in a woman.
‘A second person appeared at the scene of the crime,’ he replied, more gently now.
‘I don’t know him, I swear. I have suffered, Monsieur, and suffering can lead you to follow dangerous paths, but you must believe me. I had nothing to do with these murders. Somebody must have got wind of my plans and carried out acts which I would never have dreamt of committing.’
‘You must have spoken about it to someone.’
‘Only Loulou knew what I was doing, and she died before the Baron de La Gournay and Richard Gaétan were killed.’
‘So how do you explain—’
‘The blue notebook – my diary. Several people could have read it without my knowing.’
‘Who? Do you have any idea?’
‘In January, the schooner on which I was travelling from England to France was wrecked, and a man saved me from drowning. I spent some time at his home, but I only have very hazy memories of it. He could have read my diary. He left me in the care of a convent in Urville, but the nuns refused to tell me his name. Later, I encountered him at the Hôtel de l’Arrivée. He told me that he was the man who saved me and I believed him. He was in a terrible state: he had been attacked just outside my bedroom door. He seemed to want to protect me, and told me to go and hide in the house on Rue Albouy. That evening, Richard Gaétan was murdered.’
Victor was silent for a moment. Why would a stranger encountered in such singular circumstances have become some sort of redresser of wrongs? he thought to himself. And was she guilty, this woman who was now supposedly confessing all to him? Was she a criminal? A liar?
‘Who else could have read your diary?’ he asked.
‘Soon after I returned to Paris, I had a relapse: it was pneumonia, brought on by having been in the sea for so long. I was delirious for several days. A friend of my mother’s was often at my bedside.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Sylvain Bricart.’
‘Was he the only one?’
‘There was the doctor, of course, and my mother, but they can hardly be suspected.’
‘A mother is capable of committing all sorts of crimes in order to protect her children.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘You’re right – we are straying from the point. Let’s forget about your diary for a moment. Yesterday, you said that Thomassin had a lot to gain from the early demise of his two associates.’
‘Yes, of course. But he would have had to know who Loulou was, and nobody ever formally identified her body.’
‘Or perhaps he knew that Richard Gaétan had killed a woman?’
‘Impossible! Why would Gaétan confess to a man who was blackmailing him?’
‘Ah, now there’s something else you forgot to tell me. So Thomassin was blackmailing Gaétan?’
‘Well, it goes without saying! Why do you think that Le Couturier des Élégantes was still producing new designs after so many years? So, Monsieur Legris, what do you think?’
‘I need some time to reflect. I’ll contact you when I’m ready. I’ll get out here.’
‘Don’t you want me to ask the driver to take you back to where I found you?’
‘No, thank you. I’d like to stretch my legs.’
He crossed the Seine, kick
ing a stone absent-mindedly as he went.
‘A pack of lies,’ he said to himself. ‘That woman is leading me up the garden path.’
His nimble mind tried to follow several trains of thought simultaneously and he got muddled up. He recited the names of all the people who could have read the diary in which Sophie Clairsange claimed to have written down her far-fetched plan. He talked to himself as he walked, occasionally stopping and then setting off again.
‘The mother, Madame Guérin: possible. Sylvain Bricart: also possible. The limper: what would his motive be? Why are there two names, Angelica and Louise? I can’t work it out. Joseph’s right: we should pass the whole business over to Lecacheur … No, not yet, there’s still Thomassin to think about. Is he involved? Is he a potential victim? I need to meet him, and quickly.’
Victor looked up and realised that he was on Rue de Rivoli. He hailed a passing cab.
CHAPTER 14
Sunday 25 February
Escaping from Tasha’s arms without waking her was a delicate operation. Victor began to inch away from the tight embrace in which they had been sleeping. A groan and a sharp intake of breath, and he froze. The soft, warm sheets seemed in league with his sleeping wife to persuade him to stay in bed. With an effort, he escaped their dual charms, put his feet on the icy floor and looked behind him. Tasha’s eyes were closed and she was lost in a dream that he would never know about; she moved occasionally, and her damp lips were half open in a mute dialogue with an invisible presence.
He dressed quickly, scribbled a note in which he apologised for having to go out on a Sunday morning to attend a meeting with a client that he had forgotten to tell her about and assured her that he would be back before midday. If he had to stay away longer, he could always invent some excuse.
He found some bread and an apple to take with him. Kochka, warm and cosy in her wardrobe, was purring contentedly, her three kittens suckling quietly. She gave a small miaow by way of goodbye.
Strangled in Paris: A Victor Legris Mystery (Victor Legris Mysteries) Page 25