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

by Izner, Claude

  ‘Oh, honestly? That would be awful.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Mimi twisted the string on the little box she was carrying. She handed it to Tasha awkwardly.

  ‘It’s for him … to say thank you, because of Loulou. You can have some as well. It’s some chocolates, Swiss ones, expensive too, not just any old sort! Well, bye then. Tell him that Mireille Lestocart sends her best wishes. And if he gets put in jail I’ll bring him some oranges.’

  Feeling rather ashamed of herself, Tasha hurried back into her studio in order to avoid André Bognol’s silently reproachful look. The former butler had an astonishing ability to express his emotions without opening his mouth. His imposing height, his slightly balding head, his carefully tended handlebar moustache and his neat beard made him look like a clergyman. But this dignified exterior concealed a rather shy man who was extremely intimidated by women, strange creatures who filled him with confusion. He found domestic work both enjoyable and reassuringly predictable.

  Tasha cast a critical eye over the watercolours she had produced for Iris. Would they suit the delightful story, The Dragonfly and the Butterfly, that the young woman had written for her child? What a shame that she refused to show her writing to Joseph and Victor! This feeling of artistic inferiority was common to so many women … I shall encourage her to continue and eventually to publish her work, Tasha said to herself. Yes, these illustrations are rather good. I hope she likes them.

  She wrapped the sheets in brown paper and went over to André Bognol.

  ‘Could I ask you a favour? Would you deliver this parcel to my sister-in-law, and make sure you go to her apartment, and not to the bookshop? You can take a carriage, of course.’

  ‘As soon as we have finished dressing the salad, we shall be on our way.’

  * * *

  André Bognol had assumed that Madame Pignot herself would answer the door, not this young girl with a freckled face and huge hazel eyes.

  ‘Who … who are you?’ she stammered.

  ‘Get out of the way, you oaf! Go away, Zulma! What can I do for you, Monsieur?’ Euphrosine simpered, doing her best to persuade some dimples to appear in her fleshy cheeks.

  ‘Madame Legris asked us to deliver this parcel directly into the hands of her sister-in-law.’

  ‘We?’ said Zulma. ‘Who’s we? Are there more of you?’

  She craned her neck to see.

  ‘It’s just a turn of phrase, you silly idiot,’ snapped Euphrosine. ‘Leave it to me, Monsieur. I’ll give it to Madame Iris. I am her mother-in-law.’

  Still standing stiffly to attention, André Bognol looked stubborn, and did not obey.

  ‘Give it to me, I say!’

  ‘Madame Legris gave us very specific instructions, from which we would be wrong to deviate,’ he enunciated calmly.

  ‘So I’m not trustworthy then? Well, if that’s the way it is, then you can go and find her, scatterbrain – I need to get back to my oven!’ Euphrosine shouted at Zulma, before turning on her heel and disappearing.

  The maid gave an ecstatic curtsy, utterly fascinated by André Bognol, who, for his part, fell prey to a violent emotion hitherto unknown to him. Zulma retreated backwards down the corridor and disappeared into the apartment, before Iris emerged in her turn.

  ‘Zulma tells me you have a parcel from Tasha?’

  He handed it to her with a grave bow. Iris only just managed not to burst out laughing, and ran off to shut herself in her room.

  In a trance, Zulma flicked the furniture uselessly with a feather duster, murmuring to herself, ‘So that’s how it feels, love at first sight!’ while, still barricaded in the kitchen, Euphrosine fumed with frustration at not having got her way.

  ‘The first thing I’ll do when I get home will be to write about him in my diary, the pretentious lackey!’

  Iris marvelled at Tasha’s watercolours, with their delicate blue and green colour scheme. She would put together a book just like the beautiful volumes from the Middle Ages and would read it to her daughter every night. When she heard Joseph approaching, she quickly hid the pictures under the mattress, with the notebook.

  ‘My darling, he spoke to me as an equal and he encouraged me to carry on writing! He even said that I could sign a copy of my novel for him!’

  ‘Who did all this, my love?’

  ‘Monsieur Zola! Just as I was leaving, I was struck by inspiration – this is how I’ll finish The Devil’s Bouquet: the dastardly Zandini, having been locked up in Toulon prison, will be freed by the beautiful Carmella dressed as a gypsy. He will fall in love with her, give up his idea of killing her and the two of them will set sail for Argentina.’

  ‘Wonderful! Just like the hero of the Rocambole stories!’

  While Iris was planning to write a second story about a donkey who dreamt of running in the Derby, Joseph was wondering whether he should have given Carmella red hair, like Madame Tasha’s. From there, his thoughts began to wander to his old sweetheart, Valentine de Pont-Joubert, but he soon pulled himself together and decided to write a letter to Émile Zola. Busy composing a dramatic opening sentence, he snatched up his pen, not noticing that it was leaking and leaving blots all over the page.

  * * *

  Micheline Ballu was fuming. That man who looked like a cross between a waiter and a policeman had dirtied her clean staircase with his muddy boots! She hammered on the door of the Pignots’ apartment and, when Euphrosine answered, launched into a bitter tirade on the general lack of respect for her work and her lumbago.

  ‘That awful man with the beard, he went up to your apartment – I saw him!’

  ‘That servant? He’s a cretin of the first order, just as ill-mannered as that noodle Zulma!’

  Comparing notes on the fools they had to deal with, the two women were soon the best of friends again. Madame Ballu almost hugged Euphrosine when she suggested that they should read extracts from Joseph’s work together every evening.

  * * *

  By the time Victor had put his bicycle away and opened the front door of the apartment, Tasha had got dressed and laid the table. She kissed him fondly before admitting that she had behaved unjustly towards Mimi.

  ‘The poor thing, she must have spent a fortune on those chocolates. You’ve really made a conquest there…’

  ‘Well, this is a turn-up for the books – you’re jealous! For once it’s not me who’s guilty of being possessive.’

  ‘You’re guilty of much worse. When will you stop trying to pull the wool over my eyes? You’re a liar!’

  ‘We haven’t been married long enough for you to make an unpleasant scene, my darling.’

  ‘Oh, that’s it, try to wriggle out of it, as always. Ah, Kochka, at least you haven’t got to deal with a husband who treats you like part of the furniture!’ she cried to the cat, who was in the process of transferring her brood from Victor’s wardrobe to the bathroom.

  ‘Oh no, not there – we’ll keep stepping on them!’

  Victor put his arms round her and whispered, ‘And upon whom are we planning to bestow these lovely little balls of fur?’

  ‘Inspector Lecacheur? He’s certainly earned one.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’d be game.’

  ‘Raoul Pérot?’

  ‘Yes, he might be open to persuasion. He’s already got a tortoise … Who else?’

  ‘There are lots of people: André Bognol, Mireille Lestocart – it’s the least she can do – Madame Ballu, Euphrosine, the woman who owns the Temps Perdu café…’

  ‘So many people are queuing up for a kitten? Who would have thought it? In any case, I hope it doesn’t happen again.’

  ‘You hope what doesn’t happen again?’

  ‘This occupation of our flat by a pack of felines.’

  ‘What can we do about it?’ Tasha said, biting her thumbnail. ‘Poor Kochka, we’ll have to lock her up when she’s feeling frisky.’

  ‘How will we know when she is and when she isn’t?’

  ‘Well, it�
��s not exactly the same for women as it is for cats, but I’ll do my best to show you what it looks like,’ Tasha replied.

  EPILOGUE

  Gilliatt came tumbling out of the cat flap and sniffed the sharp outside air. Although the frequent showers made spring seem far away, there were subtle signs that it was waiting in the wings: a dandelion flowering at the top of a wall, the buzzing of an insect, the velvety moss covering the thick thatched roof where the cat took his usual route up to the ridgepole. Over in the pasture full of crooked little apple trees, tiny buds studded the branches, which were already filling with sap. But the clearest sign of new life was the man, who never seemed to stop working.

  Corentin Jourdan had so much to do! He needed to cut back the vine and the ivy from the front of the house, and rake over the manure pile where the chickens loved to scratch around in the warm, steamy air. Then he must clean Flip’s stable from top to bottom. And the inside of the house urgently needed to be plastered: the lathwork and yellow earth had begun to show through the peeling whitewash. Throwing himself into his work stopped him thinking about what he had lived through in Paris. Sometimes, though, memories would consume him.

  When he had finally managed to drag himself out of the grotto where his adversary had dealt him so many cruel blows, he had collapsed behind a rock and lost consciousness. He had been woken from his daze by the terrified cries of a nurse and two children. With some difficulty, he had dragged himself to his feet, beating his dusty cap against his leg. When he touched his face with his hand, he could feel cuts and grazes. He must have bled a lot, judging by the expressions of the woman and the two children.

  ‘It’s nothing – I was just taken ill,’ he had muttered.

  He had gone back to the grotto, which was now deserted, and, kneeling down near the little stream, had dipped his handkerchief in the water and done his best to clean his cheeks and forehead.

  He knew that he had to escape, without even stopping to collect his things. He must run to the station and take the next train to Cherbourg, in case the police caught up with him and decided that he was guilty of these murders which he had been unable to put a stop to. Could he go and pay one last visit to his siren? Show her his swollen face and dirty clothes, suffer her indifference or sarcasm, perhaps even suspicion? It was more than he could stand. He would expunge her from his soul just as he had done with Clélia. Then at least he would be free of her during the day, and it was just too bad if henceforth his nights were destined to be haunted by the figures of two beloved women.

  Five days later, when he had reached his home, Madame Guénéqué had appeared unexpectedly and let out a series of astonished exclamations. Oh, was this the state people came back in? That horrible, dirty city. She had insisted on rubbing butter into his bruises – a traditional remedy – and had relieved her anger by polishing the pots and pans as though they were personal enemies of hers. He had waited patiently for her to leave so that he could wash properly.

  He decided to spend the rest of the morning cleaning the mould from the trough next to the well. He balanced a plate of beef, a slice of bread and a glass of cider on the edge of the well, rolled up his sleeves and prepared to start work. At that moment he heard the creaking of an old cart. He recognised old Pignol’s grey mare. Had the man finally decided to repair Corentin’s roof? The cart stopped a few feet away from the house, and a woman got out. The roofer handed her a large carpet bag and waved a greeting to Corentin with his whip.

  Shading his eyes with his hand, he watched her approaching slowly, wrapped in a long velvet coat with a hood that covered her hair. She stopped a few steps away from him, dropped her bag and waited.

  He remained rooted to the spot, thinking at first that this was all a figment of his imagination. Then he realised that the person standing staring at him was no vision. It was her, beautiful, seductive and unattainable as ever.

  ‘Well, are we going to stand here all day? I’m frozen right through and famished,’ she said, eyeing his meal.

  Clumsily, he picked up her bag and tried to take the plate as well.

  ‘Let me do that! You’ll drop it.’

  They went into the house, where the fire had died down. Sophie Clairsange looked around the room.

  ‘So this is where you live? It’s a real hideaway! Let’s have more fire.’

  Mechanically, he threw some more logs into the fireplace and blew on them with the help of a tube made from elder wood. Soon, the flames leapt up again. He got up and shut the door, covering the cat flap with the bunch of broom twigs that he hung there to keep out the cold. Finally, he turned towards her. She was standing in front of the fire, she hadn’t tasted the food and, still holding herself erect, had only taken off her hood.

  ‘What do you want here?’ he asked in a low voice.

  ‘I want my blue earring back. Did you pick it up, by any chance?’

  He walked over to the sideboard and, from among the pile of pipes and tobacco pouches, extracted a small pillbox of dull silver. He took out the jewel.

  ‘I thought as much,’ she murmured. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why did I keep it?’

  ‘Why did you follow me all the way to Paris? Why did you try to foil those crimes?’

  ‘I had read your diary. I was very touched by what you had been through, because a long time ago a woman who meant the world to me died after having an abortion.’

  He ran his fingers through his hair, still feeling dazed by emotion. The young woman with her golden skin was listening to him attentively. He stared at one of the copper pans and went on in a voice full of emotion.

  ‘I got myself a room next door to the house where you were hiding. I knew what you were planning to do, and I was worried that you would put yourself in danger. I was right to worry. Unfortunately, when your friend, dressed in your clothes and with her hair dyed to look like yours, was strangled, I arrived too late. I saw a woman fall to the ground and a man running off. I was paralysed: you had been murdered before my very eyes, and some strange force stopped me moving. The truth was there before me: you were dead – it was all over.’

  He looked up, dared to meet her gaze, and continued. ‘I refused to believe what I had seen. This terrible crime, which I had been too slow to prevent, had so many strange aspects to it that I was completely confused. When I looked at the victim’s face, I’m ashamed to admit that I felt overwhelmingly relieved – full of joy, but anger too. You had begun to carry out a childish plan that was now out of your control. I tried to stop the murderer, but failed in my endeavour. He was always one step ahead of me.’

  ‘Is that such a bad thing? Those men deserved to die. I’m safe and sound, though. You didn’t answer my question.’

  Puzzled, he moved closer to her.

  ‘But I’ve just explained—’

  ‘You described what you did, but you haven’t fully explained your motives. You went to an awful lot of trouble to help a stranger.’

  ‘I … It was all so similar to what happened to Clélia.’

  ‘When I woke up in the convent at Urville, they told me that a man had rescued me from the sea, taken me to his home, brought me back to life…’

  She stroked the four-poster bed covered in a soft eiderdown, and ran her hand over the two snow-white pillows.

  ‘They told me I smelt of alcohol…’

  He drew back slightly. ‘You were so vulnerable, so soft…’

  ‘I was almost naked.’

  ‘I had to act quickly: I was afraid that you would catch pneumonia.’

  ‘In the hotel that day, when you told me to leave, why weren’t you more … explicit?’

  She was so close to him now that her face almost touched his.

  ‘I didn’t dare. You … you had taken on such importance in my mind. I was afraid that you would reject me.’

  He thought of Clélia, and it was a bitter memory, bringing back all the sadness of the moment on that day when he had realised that she cared nothing for him.

  Sophie
Clairsange was looking at him strangely, as though she was trying to answer a question that was troubling her, deep down.

  ‘You were wrong,’ she whispered.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You understood me, Captain. Do you think I’ve gone mad? You’re wrong.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘You’re beautiful, so beautiful, and…’

  He stopped short.

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so, Captain,’ she said softly. ‘We’ve both been shipwrecked, you and I, and we’re floating on a raft, hoping to reach land somehow … I wanted to forget you, but I couldn’t.’

  He took her hands, but she held him gently at arm’s length.

  ‘This time, Captain, we’re going to swap. We’ve finally been washed up on an unknown shore. You are lying unconscious on the beach. I’m going to help you. But, before I do, I want to take advantage of your weakness, just as you took advantage of mine.’

  He offered no resistance as she unbuttoned first his waistcoat and then his canvas shirt, letting them fall to the floor. He took his boots off himself, and she untied the belt of his drugget trousers. Bare-chested now, he abandoned himself to her. She was smiling slightly, with an almost triumphant expression. He leant forwards and caught her in his arms. Their lips met hungrily, then parted, then met again. They fell onto the bed and he began to undress her as she removed the rest of his clothes …

  * * *

  Gilliatt couldn’t understand why his cat flap was shut up again. He miaowed and scratched at the door. Madame Guénéqué walked towards him, dragging two heavy bags.

  ‘Well, puss, has he shut you out? Are you being punished, you greedy thing?’

  She bent down and put her eye to the keyhole.

  ‘He’s got company – that’s unusual. Oh!’

  She rubbed her back, suddenly feeling flushed. She took a second look, to make sure that she was right, and then, half laughing, said to the cat, ‘They’re making the beast with two backs in there! You can cry as long as you like – they’re not about to finish! I’ll leave the food in the stable.’