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

by Izner, Claude

  Victor skipped another few pages that were pinned together, and started reading again.

  November 1891

  This terrible trial! The newspapers aren’t talking about anything else. Loulou’s godfather made a big impression. He used to be a missionary and he wasn’t afraid to say exactly what he thought.

  An American man sent me flowers just before the jury began their deliberations. He’s called Samuel Mathewson and he has an orange plantation. He noticed me at the trial. He seems kind. He’s old enough to be my father, except that I never knew my father, of course.

  We were acquitted. I will be tarnished by this for ever. I have terrible migraines, so painful that I want to bang my head against the wall to make them stop.

  There followed several more private pages, and then:

  10 January

  Samuel wants to marry me. I’m going to go a long way away, to California.

  Still more pinned-together sheets, and then one page written in purple ink.

  San Francisco, at the hotel. 20 November 1893

  I’m taking the train tomorrow, for a long journey across the United States. I feel as though I’m coming back to life. Money can do anything, they say. They’re right. I’m going to have my revenge on those three beasts. They’ll all get it: Absalon Thomassin and Richard Gaétan for me, and Baron Edmond de La Gournay for Loulou. At last, I’m going to do something: everything’s planned and Loulou has agreed to do her bit. We’ll destroy their treasures. Oh, if only we could see their faces when they discover the carnage! Loulou is going to come and live with me on Rue Albouy while we carry out our plan. This is what we’re going to do …

  The final pages had been torn out. Victor was disappointed. There wasn’t a word about the limper. He handed the notebook back to Hermance Guérin.

  ‘Burn it,’ he said, pointing to the stove.

  CHAPTER 16

  Saturday 13 March

  Joseph snuggled up to Iris. She was sleeping curled up, with the sheets wrapped around her. The night before, they had begun a conversation that had lasted long into the night. Explanations, apologies and promises never to put himself in danger again had been pretexts for forgiveness, consolation and embraces.

  ‘Would it be unwise to…’ he whispered as Iris, nestling in his arms, nibbled his ear lobe.

  ‘Dr Reynaud says that it’s all right, as long as we’re careful.’

  He was tempted to reply that her caresses were making him want to be anything but careful, but he thought better of it, not wanting to alarm her.

  How lovely it would have been to laze in bed this morning! Alas, he had made a solemn promise to Kenji that he would distribute all of the orders still awaiting delivery that very day, and he was determined to keep his word. His father-in-law had, in fact, given him to understand that a change of attitude would be not only welcome but necessary.

  ‘You’re going to be a father by the summer. Do you want your child to lose his father before he’s even learnt to say “Papa”? And my daughter – have you thought about her? My patience has run out. This latest investigation bordered on madness. What were you and Victor thinking of? Chasing a scoundrel disguised as a priest, and then being nabbed by the police in a hideout for criminals! What good publicity for the bookshop, of which you’re about to become one of the owners!’

  ‘It was all a terrible misunderstanding. I only wanted to study the street life in Fort Monjol and … What did you just say?’

  ‘We’re going to become partners, you, me and Victor. Victor insists upon it. Until now, I’ve put it off, but as it’s clear to me that I’ll never be able to knock any sense into him, I’ll have to rely on you. Next September, we’ll employ a new assistant, and we’ll just have to find the money somehow.’

  ‘I swear that you won’t regret it!’ Joseph had cried, overcome with gratitude.

  He kissed his wife on the forehead and said, ‘I’m going to start by doing the rounds of the battle-axes: old Salignac will finally have her precious book on education. And after that, guess what, darling? I’m going to deliver a book to Émile Zola himself while he’s having a meeting with his publisher, Fasquelle! It’s a collection of essays about Rome!’

  This reference to the famous writer made him pause for a moment. How would he find the time to write his stories when he would have so much more work to do in the bookshop? Iris would help him, of course, but she would be spending most of her time looking after their little offspring.

  ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ he said to himself as he shuffled to the bathroom in his slippers.

  Iris let out a groan and turned over onto her other side.

  When she woke up an hour later, she lifted her arms over her head and gripped the bars of the bedstead, stretching luxuriously. She felt a faint movement inside her: the baby was waking up too. She was certainly hungry enough for two. As though she had read Iris’s mind, Euphrosine came in, looking cross and carrying a heavily laden tray.

  ‘Would you like to eat your breakfast in bed? I’ll plump up the pillows for you.’

  ‘No, thank you, I’ll get up. Are you all right?’

  ‘How could I possibly be all right when my boy causes me such terrible worry? At his age and in his position, wrestling with criminals in a neighbourhood full of streetwalkers, and then going and getting himself arrested! His picture will be in the papers – there’s no doubt about it!’

  ‘But his next story will be in the papers too, Thule’s Golden Chalice. You should be proud of him.’

  ‘Proud! I certainly am! My son has got something published, and there are people who buy Le Passe-partout just because of his stories, it’s true. But what are they going to think when they hear that the author was arrested armed with a pistol?’

  ‘They’ll be thrilled by his daring, and will read his stories even more avidly than before.’

  ‘You make a joke of it, but their monkey business could have made you a widow! And me, what would become of me without my Joseph?’

  Her cheeks red and her eyes moist, she wrung her hands just as the heroine of The Treasure of the Rajahs had before she was tied to the stake to be burnt.

  ‘Joseph survived, he’s still alive and he’s going to settle down and devote himself to his writing. He told me so.’

  ‘His writing … stuff and nonsense! He should be looking after you and your little boy!’

  ‘Or little girl, Euphrosine. I’ve got a feeling that it might be a girl. As soon as she’s born, Joseph will calm down.’

  ‘You’re very optimistic. I suspect that they may be beyond help, Joseph and Monsieur Victor. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, sometimes my cross is too heavy to bear! Have you got enough toast there?’

  Iris nodded, her mouth full.

  ‘In that case, I’ll be off. I want to get the shopping done before Zulma finishes cleaning Monsieur Mori’s room. I need to check that she’s done it properly, the clumsy girl!’

  * * *

  ‘You look very handsome! Have you got a meeting?’ Iris asked Kenji, who was finishing his breakfast in the kitchen.

  He was wearing a new white silk shirt and a pair of woollen trousers. Over his double-breasted waistcoat with its two rows of buttons, he had tied an elaborate knot in his cravat. His calfskin boots were polished, the jade knob on the end of his favourite cane shone and he smelt distinctly of lavender. He deposited his teapot and bowl on the draining board and put on his suede gloves.

  ‘I’ve got a whole series of meetings in my new office. You look very elegant too.’

  She had put on a deep-purple watered-silk dress, which was loose enough to conceal her new curves.

  ‘You work too hard. I don’t like it.’

  ‘There are worse things to worry about in this house!’

  He had his black frock coat over his arm and was trying to make for the door, but Iris blocked his way.

  ‘You mean so much to me, my beloved Papa! Overwork doesn’t do you any good. I’m not the only one who has b
een worrying about their parent’s health: Tasha is afraid her mother is wearing herself out too.’

  ‘But her mother looks wonderful. She certainly doesn’t show her age – anyone would think she was her daughter’s older sister,’ he said enthusiastically.

  ‘Oh, so you’ve seen her recently?’

  ‘Yes, at Tasha’s exhibition on Rue Laffitte.’

  Iris looked at him in consternation. For a while now, she had suspected that an affectionate relationship was developing between her father and Djina. As far as she was concerned, love was a sentiment strictly reserved for those under the age of thirty-five, and it was bordering on indecency that these two should feel anything like it. But it would really be beyond a joke if that love should actually involve physical attraction between two such old people. How could this father of hers, with his greying hair and a few wrinkles, be capable of exciting the passions of a respectable mother? And could it possibly be right that he should feel the same about Djina? She desperately wanted to tell him that she knew what was going on and that she was strongly opposed to it. But she guessed what his reaction would be, so she simply said, ‘It’s difficult to imagine that I’ll be fifty one day.’

  ‘If you’re referring to Madame Kherson, let me tell you that she is only forty-eight.’

  ‘That’s the beginning of old age.’

  ‘I could resent that remark, given that I’m nearly fifty-five!’

  ‘You’re a father. It’s different.’

  ‘I’m going to let you in on a secret: a father is a human being like other people. Even though I may look different, the young man I was before you were born is still there somewhere inside me.’

  She threw her arms round his neck, suddenly upset.

  ‘Life goes by so quickly. I’m afraid of getting old, of dying—’

  ‘Put your fears aside for now,’ Kenji advised her, smiling. ‘When the earth has gone a hundred more times around the sun, you and I, and all those who are dear to us, will be ghosts in the palace of dreams, free from our cares and waltzing to the sound of an ethereal music, not one bar of which is audible on this troubled earth. That is why it’s useless to worry about the future. Speaking for myself, my only ambition is to be as happy as I can, and to seize moments of joy when I can, without hurting anybody else along the way. Is there anything wrong with that, now?’

  He had taken her gently by the shoulders, and his wry expression made him look so youthful that she dared not say anything in reply.

  ‘Go downstairs and find your brother. He’s working until midday, and then he’s going back to Rue Fontaine to see Tasha. I hope that Joseph will be back by then, unless he has been hypnotised by the illustrious Émile Zola.’

  Kenji slipped out of the first-floor-landing door so as to avoid seeing Victor, whose recent conduct he found so irresponsible. He could not, however, escape the menacing glare of Madame Ballu, who was polishing the banisters. Ever since her row with Euphrosine, she had been nursing enough rancour to encompass the entire extended family of her ex-friend. In his hurry to escape, Kenji tripped over a step, much to the satisfaction of the concierge, who was sure that she was possessed of special evil powers.

  * * *

  Djina hurried up the stairs, hoping that none of the other tenants had spotted her. The small apartment smelt strongly of fresh paint. Despite the cold, she opened the windows, stopping to run her fingers over the curtains that brought back such sensual memories. She twirled around happily and then stopped short. The bed, with its virginal white sheets, seemed to mock her.

  What was going to happen? Was she making a terrible mistake?

  If you had any sense at all, she told herself, you’d get out while there’s still time! Don’t even take your hat off! Run!

  Deaf to her own reasoning, she took off her hat decorated with cherries, a present from Tasha, and smoothed her hair, which was carefully done up with combs. Was she giving in to simple curiosity, or to the desire to develop, at long last, an intimate relationship with a caring man, even though he could only spend one day a week with her?

  No, you’re not being fair, she thought. You were the one who insisted that the two of you should only meet once a week. It’s true that he didn’t protest much…

  She suddenly remembered a decisive moment from her past, in Odessa. She had been leaving the Rousseau library on Richelieuskaya, a book clutched to her chest. Pinkus had been running down the street in the opposite direction, and they had collided. As he picked up the catalogue of Rembrandt’s works that she had been carrying, he had been impressed by her taste in art and invited her to have a glass of mineral water with him at the café in the park. That evening, they had gone to an open-air concert together, and afterwards he had hired a landau to drive her back to her Aunt Clara’s house, in the Moldavanka district. A week later, he had asked her to marry him. She loved the artist in him, but the man had disappointed her: he was too brusque and too capricious, but, more importantly, he was too overbearing.

  This time, it was different. There was no use tormenting herself about it: Kenji’s good temper and her good sense would go well together. And, this time, it would be on her own terms.

  She untucked the ivory satin bedspread and folded down the edge of the sheets under which they would soon be lying. When she tried to imagine their two bodies together, all she could conjure up was a blurred picture in which only Kenji’s laughing eyes were clear and compelling.

  * * *

  ‘My Mikado! What a piece of luck! I was just thinking that I must come and see you!’

  ‘What a surprise, my dear! Are you staying long?’

  As taken as he was with Djina, Kenji felt a pleasant flutter of excitement when he saw Eudoxie Allard, alias Fifi Bas-Rhin, now Archduchess Maximova, weighed down with parcels and hat boxes as she walked under the arcades of Rue de Rivoli.

  ‘I intend to stay for some time. I’ve had enough of Russia. It’s not a country, darling, it’s an icebox! And so dull! I was growing ill, simply wasting away. The doctor told me that I should go abroad. Don’t you think I look terrible?’

  He looked at her glowing complexion, her slim waist shown off to advantage in a beige fur coat with a large collar, and replied that she seemed a little tired but that it did not detract in the slightest from her beauty.

  ‘Oh, you still know how to flatter me, you rascal! Will you walk with me?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have an appointment…’

  ‘With a woman, no doubt! Ah well, I was never a jealous woman. In case you want to pay me a call, I’m at the Hôtel Continental, number 3, Rue Castiglione. My suite has windows overlooking the Tuileries Gardens. You’d like it, my Mikado.’

  He kissed her hand and set off towards the Palais-Royal, not wanting to go to the apartment in Rue de l’Échelle while there was any chance that she might see him.

  After she had handed her parcels to a page-boy and jumped in a cab, Eudoxie drove across Paris feeling only half awake, but nonetheless vaguely regretful: she should have followed Kenji.

  ‘I shall solve the mystery another day. There’s no hurry,’ she murmured, yawning.

  For now, she was going to spend the afternoon in the amusing company of a young dandy she had been flirting with the previous night at the Moulin-Rouge. What was his name? Amaury de Champlieu-Mareuil – a ridiculous name, but he did have a wallet simply overflowing with cash, and it seemed a shame not to help him spend some of it.

  She stopped the cab at Rue Lepic, where the young whippersnapper had rented a bijou apartment at his parents’ expense.

  * * *

  In his impatience to reach the top of the hill, Maurice Laumier bumped into a woman wearing a beige fur coat and was severely reprimanded by its imperious owner. He increased his pace, cursing the steepness of the hill, all the while savouring the good news he was about to communicate. Not only had Georges Ohmet paid him handsomely for the completed portrait, but he had also introduced him to a couple of friends of his who had recently moved in
to a large house in the Plaine Monceau district, and who wanted full-length portraits of themselves, in order to impress their future visitors. They were a pair of imbeciles, but they’d pay him well. And, in any case, the woman wasn’t bad-looking. A rather disappointing bosom, but nice hindquarters. That look she had given him out of the corner of her eye seemed to suggest that their sittings might not be entirely devoid of interest.

  He turned onto Rue Girardon, singing a song he had composed himself:

  ‘I’m in the money,

  Joined the gentleman’s club

  But I want to stay an artist,

  There’s the rub!’

  He burst into the studio and bellowed, ‘Mimi! We’re rich!’

  A piece of paper held in place by a glass told him that his beloved was not there.

  My sweetheart, I have gone to see your friend Legris. I thought I should at least go and thank him. Many kisses.

  Maurice Laumier threw himself on the bed without taking off his shoes and lit a cheap cigar. The smoke rose in sensually curvaceous wisps that Raphael himself would have been proud of.

  * * *

  ‘I hope I haven’t woken you?’

  ‘No, this is just what I wear when I’m painting.’

  Dressed in an old shirt, with her hair pinned up messily, Tasha was loath to invite Mimi in, especially as Mimi was dressed up in her finest clothes.

  ‘Can I speak to your husband?’

  ‘He isn’t here,’ Tasha replied tersely.

  ‘When will he be back then?’

  ‘He’s being questioned by the police, and it’s all because of you, Mademoiselle. He might even be put in prison.’