Rue Fontaine was only just coming to life. The few passers-by zigzagged along the street, buffeted by the wind, looking more like wisps of straw than human beings. Cycling to the circus on a Sunday; it was like being a child again. But he remembered how much he used to hate the clowns that the other children loved so much. He always found them uncouth and menacing …
* * *
Locked in his dressing room, Absalon Thomassin had put on his costume and applied a layer of white make-up to his face, which he was now covering with powder. The Winter Circus was empty except for the manager, come to watch the rehearsal of the much-anticipated new routine, a few stagehands, a scattering of circus performers and Vassili, the young acrobat trained by Absalon himself.
When Absalon had gone down into the bowels of the circus building, the familiar smells of sawdust, animal droppings and dust had momentarily eased the lead weight in his stomach.
Now that he was alone, looking at his lavishly dressed reflection in the rectangular mirror, he let his guard down, and the fear that had tormented him all night took hold again. The haunting vision of his drawings splattered with blood, and of the inscription on the mantelpiece, brought such a lump to his throat that he could barely breathe. He inhaled deeply, and breathed out through his mouth, feeling a sudden thirst. Neither the deep breath nor the glass of cold water that he drank could calm the pounding of his heart.
Already, Vassili was knocking at the door and telling him that Monsieur Franconi was getting impatient. He tried to clear his mind, as though he were about to dive into a deep lake. But it was impossible to shake off the feeling that he was going to faint.
* * *
Victor managed to get into the circus easily. He slipped down a corridor leading to a flight of stairs surmounted by an equestrian frieze and found a seat as close to the ring as he could. He wanted to be able to speak to Absalon Thomassin as soon as the rehearsal was over.
The only lamps were in the small arcades near the entrance, and these lit the lower part of the arena and the ring, where a group of stagehands was setting up a safety net. Up above, the flies were lost in darkness, and the highest galleries could just be made out emerging from the gloom, rows of red velvet seats with their wooden backs painted white.
A man in a bowler hat and tailcoat came and took a seat in the stalls. Victor looked at him curiously, guessing that this was the manager Joseph had met the previous day. Then a movement high above caught Victor’s eye. Without any fanfare, a figure had appeared, spinning on the end of a rope and looking more like a fluttering leaf than a human being. With his white face thrown back and his teeth clenching a bar at the end of the rope, the acrobat began to spin faster and faster, and his jewelled costume glinted in the lights, finally blending into one dazzling streak of light. He gradually slowed down until he came to a complete stop and, seizing the rope, moved his taut body away from it until he was entirely vertical, the muscles in his arms bulging with the effort.
At almost the same moment, a young assistant began to swing two trapezes so that they travelled back and forth a few feet below the Great Absalon. Just as the first trapeze came perpendicular to the ground, the acrobat let himself drop into the void and caught the bar as he flew. A lightning change of hand position allowed him to turn and face the second trapeze, which was now heading towards him. He swung forward and seemed to freeze for a fraction of a second. Something shot through the air, and Absalon Thomassin dropped like a stone into the net, struck on the back of the neck by a black ball.
There was a stunned silence, then a murmur of alarm, and a confusion of cries and panicked movement. Victor leapt up and scanned the tiers of seating. Behind one of the thin metal pillars, he could see a figure hurrying towards the exit. He sprinted off in pursuit, elbowing performers and stagehands out of his way, and eventually emerging on Boulevard des Filles-du-Calvaire, where he had left his bicycle. He was just in time to see a man with a limp haul himself up onto the seat of a cart, which had the words ‘Lambert Removals’ painted on the side in green, before it galloped off at top speed.
The limper! So it was him, Victor thought, as he, too, rode off as fast as he could.
Luckily, the weather was dry and the traffic was moving smoothly, enabling Victor to keep his prey in sight. The cart took the first road on the left, quickly merging with the traffic on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.
Did the limper know that he was being followed? There was no reason why he should. It wasn’t surprising that a murderer should flee the scene of his crime. The bridges and locks along Quai de Jemmapes flashed past too fast for Victor to admire them, but his photographer’s eye unconsciously noted the potential of the passing scenes: washing flapping in the wind on a barge, a barrel-organ player swearing at a dog that had just cocked its leg against his instrument, a soldier in red trousers embracing a buxom woman.
The cart swerved onto Rue des Écluses-Saint-Martin. Keeping his distance, Victor skirted round a coal cart and rode along next to it in the gutter. He had only gone about twenty feet like this when the back tyre of his steed suddenly burst. Feeling rage and frustration welling up inside him, he saw a post office and began to run towards it. As he did so, he spotted a boy of about twelve leaning against a building with his arms folded, looking the picture of indolence.
‘Hey, you, do you want to earn yourself some money?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I’ll give you half now, and half when you get back.’
‘When I get back from where?’
‘You see that cart over there, stuck at the crossroads? You run after it, and if it stops you look at the name of the road and you come back here and find me in front of the post office. Hurry up!’
With Victor’s coins clutched in his hand, the boy hared off with surprising speed for such a sluggish specimen. Victor reflected that the chances of seeing him again were small: even if the boy was interested enough to come back for the second half of his reward, he might well end up following the limper as far as Pantin or goodness knows where. Another coin persuaded the woman working at the ironmonger’s next to the post office to look after his bicycle. At this rate he’d be a pauper before long.
* * *
Kenji put down the receiver, feeling worn out. Would the Comtesse de Salignac ever accept the fact that the bookshop was closed on Sundays? This woman whom Kenji, too, secretly thought of as the ‘battle-axe’ kept on demanding that a book about education be delivered to her immediately, even though she knew perfectly well that it had already been ordered.
No doubt she’s impatient to read it because her own education was so lacking, he decided, going back up to his room.
His daughter and his son-in-law were still sleeping. Euphrosine had, mercifully, been invited by an old friend from Les Halles to go to Châtelet Theatre and swoon over The Treasure of the Rajahs, and would therefore not be gracing them with her presence.
He ran a steaming-hot bath. Feeling lethargic in body and mind, he settled down to imagining Djina shedding her clothes in the intimate interior of his new studio flat in Rue de l’Échelle, where the damask curtains were now hanging in all their glory. The final layer of clothing was about to fall to the ground and reveal a stiffly boned corset which sat low on the hips and squeezed the bosoms, just like the ones he had seen out of the corner of his eye in a shop window on the Boulevards. Somebody knocked at the door. He didn’t react. They knocked again. Annoyed, he pulled on his dressing gown and dried his feet on a bath mat to avoid dripping water all over the tiles.
‘It’s Sunday,’ he grumbled, when he saw Joseph in the doorway, fully dressed and looking sheepish. ‘Is something wrong?’ he added, suddenly worried about Iris.
‘I’ve been dreaming about it all night. I can’t get it out of my mind. Do you know who Velpeau is, by any chance?’
‘Are you joking?’
‘No, honestly, I’m not. I would have gone and looked it up in one of the reference books in the basement, but I don’t like going down there a
t night. And as you’re a living encyclopedia, I thought…’
Flattered, Kenji swallowed his irritation.
‘He was a famous surgeon who specialised in trepanations. Why on earth do you want to know about him?’
‘It’s just something to do with my book. Thank you so much.’
‘Go and answer the telephone,’ Kenji muttered, and disappeared back into the bathroom, fearing that it would be the Comtesse de Salignac again, returning to the fray.
Joseph went slowly down the spiral staircase, engrossed in a mathematical formula that was obscured by a fog of confusion. It was Tasha on the telephone, suspicious and upset. Was it really true that Victor had no choice but to be away from home on a Sunday morning because of some errand for the bookshop? A vision of the Winter Circus appeared in the middle of the dimly lit shop. Joseph cleared his throat and claimed ignorance, before shouting, ‘Yes, darling, I’m coming! I’m sorry, Madame Tasha, but Iris is calling me.’
He had only just replaced the receiver when the telephone rang again. This time it was Victor, sounding agitated.
‘It took me ages to get through – the line’s been constantly engaged! Are you listening? Absalon Thomassin was attacked during his rehearsal, and he’s badly injured, perhaps dead. I followed the attacker and it’s the limper. I had to give up the chase because I got a puncture and … don’t go away.’
Joseph heard his brother-in-law talking to somebody, and could just make out a piercing voice. Victor came back on the line, sounding even more worked up.
‘I got a boy to follow him and he tracked him to Rue Burnouf, just next to Rue Monjol! I’m going straight there – come as quickly as you can.’
‘Rue Monjol? That’s not where he lives…’
All of a sudden, the fog cleared and the answer was there, as clear as daylight.
‘Victor! I think I’ve found—’
Too late. His brother-in-law had already put down the receiver.
‘Oh, the stupid idiot!’ he cried. ‘He never listens to me! If I don’t get there straight away, he’s going to find himself in a terrible mess, the lunatic … Now, where did he hide it?’
Joseph remembered that, after their last investigation,51 he had seen Kenji hiding a pistol at the back of one of the drawers in his desk. He opened them one after another, resisting the temptation to turn everything upside down. He found it at last, hidden underneath the accounts register from 1880, and put it in his pocket with the trepidation of a new recruit about to take part in his first skirmish. Only one thing worried him: he had no idea how to use it. If only he could have transformed himself into the dastardly Zandini, who was far more expert at handling a gun than his creator.
‘There’s going to be trouble,’ he murmured, as though just saying the words could imbue him with a little more courage and a little more expertise with firearms.
He slipped back the bolts on the door, hoping that no opportunist pilferers would steal the books while it was left unlocked, and, by making himself as thin as possible, managed to slip out without the bell tinkling.
Iris felt as though she were living through some sort of nightmare. She had been standing at the top of the stairs for some time and had heard part of Joseph’s conversation. Rooted to the spot, she had watched him search the desk and witnessed his furtive departure. She felt a terrible weight of guilt descend upon her. It was her fault: she had suspected for some time that Joseph and Victor were caught up in another investigation, but she had refused to intervene. How could she make up for her mistake? In bare feet, wearing only her camisole and slip, she ran to the telephone and asked for a number. Tasha answered almost immediately, and when Iris had finished relating what had happened, she let out a cry of anger.
‘I suspected as much! That night at the exhibition, Laumier’s mistress was saying all sorts of strange things to Victor. And Joseph gave himself away by accidentally telling me the address of a couturier who had been murdered. So they’re at Rue Monjol, are they? Where’s that?’
‘Tasha, I’m so afraid. Joseph’s borrowed Papa’s pistol—’
‘Who wants to borrow my pistol?’ asked Kenji, appearing behind Iris.
Iris jumped, and dropped the receiver.
‘Joseph. He’s already taken it … Oh God! What if they’re injured?’
‘Who are you talking to?’
‘To Tasha.’
He seized the telephone.
‘Tasha, it’s Kenji. I’m going to call the police. Goodbye.
‘Are you sure he said Rue Monjol?’ he asked Iris.
Iris nodded. He dialled another number.
‘Mademoiselle, get me Inspector Lecacheur’s office – 7, Boulevard du Palais. It’s a matter of life and death.’
He waited, tapping the edge of the desk nervously.
‘My dear, you must go back to bed. Think of the baby,’ he said to Iris. ‘Hello, Inspector Lecacheur? This is Monsieur Mori.’
* * *
Victor reached ‘the Monjol’ after a mad dash in a cab. Having hoped, not so long ago, never to come back to this sordid area, he was becoming very familiar with its miserable streets. He was sprinting towards Rue Burnouf when he noticed two young rascals shooting at a pigeon with catapults. He stopped short, indignant.
‘You should be ashamed of yourselves!’
‘What about it? We’re training! Father Boniface told us the story of David and Goliath! It’s from the Bible! It’s a great story!’
Victor set off again until, as he had foreseen, he caught sight of the Lambert Removals cart outside the clinic. He banged on the door. No answer. He grabbed the handle and the door opened easily. The waiting room was empty except for the pretty little girl with the blue eyes and the one-legged doll whom he had met on his first visit.
‘Have you seen Father Boniface?’
‘Yes. He was in a rush. He took off his surplice and shut himself inside the room where he sees the patients. Then the other man knocked on the door, and knocked and knocked. Then he bashed the door open, but Father Boniface had jumped out of the window, so the other man jumped out of the window too, and he nearly cracked his head, because of his funny leg.’
‘Where did they go?’
The girl shrugged her shoulders.
‘They didn’t tell me!’
Discouraged, Victor felt in his pockets for a coin.
‘Here, buy yourself some sweets,’ he said, handing her his last coin.
‘Oh, thank you, Monsieur! If I were you, I’d go and look in the grotto.’
‘The grotto?’
‘In Buttes-Chaumont park. When the police are about, Father Boniface tells everyone to go and hide in the grotto,’ she explained, as she ran her dirty fingers through her doll’s hair. ‘It’s a good hiding place. There’s a waterfall. In summer, it’s fun – we go under the spray. In winter there’s never anyone there, so when the pimps want to have a fight that’s where they go, because the flics…’
She realised that as she looked down at her doll she had started to dribble. She jerked her head up and saw that the man was gone.
* * *
Corentin Jourdan was paying the price for all the weeks he had spent pacing the streets of this rainy, unwholesome city. His foot was in agony, but he still refused to give up the chase. Despite his age and heavy build, the man he was pursuing was astonishingly agile. He had shot up the steps on Rue Asselin as quick as a flash, and then run along Rue Bolivar as though Genghis Khan and his marauding army were hot on his heels. A stab of unbearable pain forced Corentin to pause for a moment, and he tried to get his breath back and gather his strength.
The man now had a good lead on his pursuer, and he carried on running, never looking behind. Corentin quickened his pace and saw his prey jump over a gate and disappear into a large area of wasteland. Keeping his arms close to his sides, panting with exertion, Corentin followed him. He found himself surrounded by tall grass and little stones, on which he slipped several times, twisting his ankles. Ahead of him, t
he other man seemed to be moving without any difficulty at all, and he eventually climbed over a small stile and disappeared. Corentin swore. His shoe slipped and he felt himself thrown forward. He only just had time to stretch his arms out in front of him to break his fall. He was overcome by a sudden rage. He got up as quickly as he could, climbed a hillock and saw below him a man-made lake with an island of rocks in the middle, on top of which stood a small Corinthian temple. Some ten yards below, there was a metal bridge. He felt as though he had been transported far away from Paris. In the time it had taken him to get his breath back, his prey had vanished into thin air. Where should he search for him? Had the man melted into the undergrowth, or had he crossed this little oasis in order to lose himself in the metropolis on the other side?
‘I know you’re here somewhere,’ Corentin said. ‘You must be just as exhausted as I am. Go on, get your breath back, but don’t think for a second that I’m going to give up and go home.’
He collapsed on a bench and allowed himself to relax. He could see a few people strolling in the park, despite the biting east wind. Most were braving the cold for the sake of their dogs, who were busy marking their territory.
He gritted his teeth in an attempt to distract himself from the stabbing pain in his foot. To give up when he was so close to his goal would be to go back on his promise. He had vowed to achieve his end, whatever the cost, and he must remain impervious to the pain and explore the park with the same dogged persistence with which, years ago, he would have triumphed over a stormy sea.
Although impeded by his limp, he nevertheless succeeded in walking all the way round the lake, with its scattering of ducks. Next, he climbed a hillock planted with cedars. A mossy path led him to a deserted café. The bronze sculptures dotted among the trees observed his progress with their empty eyes. Suddenly, there was a shower of sparks, and a train pulling several carriages emerged from a tunnel. What was the use of searching when the railway skirting the park had probably provided the fugitive with a convenient means of escape?
Strangled in Paris: A Victor Legris Mystery (Victor Legris Mysteries) Page 26