The Montmartre Investigation

by Claude Izner

  ‘And the flashes of lightning?’

  ‘Easy: you light paper dipped in saltpetre and then release it into the air.’

  Victor’s attention was caught by that word: saltpetre. He suddenly remembered the note found the previous night in Molina’s cupboard: sale pétriaire. At the time the two words had seemed meaningless. But now he realised what they meant: the Hospice de la Salpêtrière, built on the site of Louis XIII’s gunpowder arsenal.

  They left Henri Rivière. Dolbreuse was hanging around, determined to offer them one for the road. They refused. Victor did not like the way Dolbreuse was looking at Tasha.

  ‘And did you solve Gaston Molina’s cryptic message?’

  ‘No, I’m stumped, it makes no sense,’ mumbled Victor.

  ‘Come on, make an effort!’ said Dolbreuse.

  Victor managed not to lose his temper, but he could not hide his exasperation. Dolbreuse took the hint and bowed, smiling.

  ‘Here come some friends less frightened at the prospect of a nightcap!’ he declared, greeting several visitors who had just arrived in the guard room.

  ‘Jean Richepin, Jules Jouy, Xanrof,21 Maurice Vaucaire, the flower of modern song,’ explained Tasha. ‘And that one there, already drunk, do you recognise him?’

  ‘Verlaine,’ responded Victor immediately, relieved to see that she did not seem to be in a vindictive mood.

  But they had scarcely gone ten yards towards home when she turned on him.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were at Le Moulin-Rouge yesterday evening? Were you spying on me? Who is Gaston Molina? You accuse me of duplicity, but it’s you who’s leading a double life!’

  He weathered a hail of stinging reproaches without flinching, as he stood rigidly, trying to come up with a plausible explanation. He was amazed to hear himself say:

  ‘I was simply trying to save a friend from embarrassment.’

  ‘A friend? Which one? Joseph? Kenji? You don’t have any others.’

  ‘All right, I admit it; it was Jojo. I was worried he was going to do something stupid. He is in a furious rage with Boni de Pont-Joubert for marrying Valentine de Salignac, and he knew that Pont-Joubert was going to be at Le Moulin-Rouge last night. I followed him and succeeded in convincing him to go home and sleep off his rage.’

  The words seemed to come to him of their own accord.

  ‘Did you see me with Lautrec?’

  ‘No, you know that I can’t stand that kind of place. I left very quickly.’

  ‘And Gaston Molina?’

  ‘A relation of Boni. He sent Joseph a threatening note, ordering him not to see Valentine on any account; that’s why Joseph was so angry. But I couldn’t find Molina or Pont-Joubert.’

  Victor was sweating in spite of the cold. He felt like a schoolboy digging himself deeper into trouble after a reprimand from his tutor. He had rarely reeled off so many lies. And, worst of all, Tasha would probably grill Joseph about it, and then he’d have to spill the beans in exchange for Joseph’s complicity, thus involving him in this new investigation.

  ‘Tasha, are you angry with me?’

  ‘I am neither resentful nor jealous; you on the other hand…’

  He silenced her with a kiss.

  Boulevard de Strasbourg was buffeted by gusts of wind. Noémi Gerfleur had to hold tightly to her feathered turban as she hurried to the cabriolet waiting to take her home after her performance. Before getting in she studied the area around L’Eldorado. She held herself defiantly as she scrutinised the passers-by. Was the sender of the roses watching her from under a porch? She was obsessed with the idea that he would show himself sooner or later. Well, let him dare! If it were his intention to stir up old history, she would know how to receive him. She rapped on the frame of the hood and the coachman registered her signal. She sank back against the banquette and hummed a song from her childhood:

  To man and bird alike on earth

  God says softly, make your nest!

  Her childhood had been difficult. Her mother and sister had died when she was five years old and her father, a miner, had been killed in June 1869 during the strikes of La Ricmarie. After that she had lived in Lyon with her aunt Suzanne Fourchon, a cook for a household of weavers, and had been started off in the art of spinning. She still remembered the boorish boy who used to take her to the café-concerts. The owner of the Taverne des Jacobins had noticed her pretty voice. She had rapidly acquired notoriety, and people travelled from far and wide to hear the vivacious Léontine Fourchon. When Élisa came along, she did not try to discover who the father was, and refused to be parted from the child:

  To man and bird alike on earth

  God says softly, make your nest!

  She had split her existence in two, devoting her days to the little girl and performing in the evening. Later, she sent Élisa to boarding school, to the Veuillot sisters where piano, English and good manners were taught. At twenty-two years old she had been bursting with ambition. She knew she was seductive, she attracted men, she wanted to embrace life in the fullest possible way, broaden her horizons and become a lady…

  The cabriolet was struggling on through the crush, but the noise of the traffic and the brouhaha of the spectators leaving the Théâtre Gymnase, where they had savoured Numa Roumestan,22 failed to distract Noémi from her thoughts. Eight years, it had taken her eight years of effort, to draw up the plan that would buy her freedom. She had conceived a scenario without flaws, chosen the ideal dupe and promptly set about carrying out her plan. The results had exceeded her wildest expectations. And now the imbecile had raised his head again, putting her entire way of life at risk! She felt spied on, and as if actual blows had rained down on her. What a mistake to have given in to homesickness! She had been safe in London. What was he after? Did he hope to collect his share?

  ‘You can whistle for it my friend! You have no proof – if you think you’ll make me talk, you’re out of luck!’

  A downpour had emptied the terrace of the Grand Café de Suède, and the Salle des Variétés was closing its doors. At the crossroads, inquisitive onlookers drawn to the spot where the body of an unknown woman had been found defaced by acid were flowing along the pavements, like a flock of stupid sheep. She despised them just as she despised the men bleating outside her dressing room. They should all be taken off to the abattoir – they were animals, lovers of fresh meat!

  The cabriolet dropped her off near Passage des Panoramas. The rain was icy. She reached number 1, turning round as she went to check that no one was following her. The passage was deserted. She forced herself to climb the dark stairs. Mariette opened the door, yawning. As always, Noémi would have liked to order her to cover her mouth, but she desisted, too weary to try to instil manners in the girl who was so badly raised that nothing could cure her slovenly ways. She contented herself with asking for tea with milk and some buttered toast, and hastened to take refuge in her room.

  The wallpaper depicted an infinity of downy mimosa petals, and amongst this excess of yellow, the rosewood furniture took on a sickly pallor. She let her cape fall to the ground and parted the saffron drapes at the window overlooking Boulevard Montmartre. There, opposite, beside the Musée Grévin, that man waiting about near a poster advertising a re-enactment of the Gouffé affair,23 was that him? No! A plump young miss on tottering high heels threw herself into his arms and led him off towards one of the restaurants lighting up the pavements.

  She settled down at her dressing table, and leant towards the mirror.

  Look at you! The creases at the corners of your mouth, little wrinkles everywhere, bags under your eyes…At thirty-five!

  How many times had she longed to hurl her fan, mantilla and wig into the dustbin, pack her trunks and give it all up! But she lacked the courage. Becoming Noémi Gerfleur had cost her too much time, too much effort. Even if she had been a fool to think she could capture happiness with money and success, she was too old to give up what was certain for a chimerical hope. She would have to be satisf
ied with fading glory and passing lovers. And as for love? A delusion, a cheap little ditty:

  A nest is like a tender berth

  A haven that the spring doth bless

  And yet she had determinedly sought this unreachable tender berth. But at the end of it all she found herself alone, without a shoulder to lean on, without a friend to confide in, except for Élisa. Thank God she had been careful to keep her apart from the mire, in the hope that one day she might find a good husband who would provide for the declining years of his mother-in-law.

  Mariette came in bearing a tray. The tea was chalky, the toast burnt. Noémi sighed. Did she really deserve such injustice?

  ‘Put that there for me and run my bath. Don’t forget the lavender salts and stop sniffing. Don’t you have a handkerchief?’

  Mariette produced a large linen square and blew her nose noisily.

  ‘Dreadful,’ murmured Noémi. ‘Wait…’

  Mariette stared at her with her frog eyes.

  ‘Do you have a suitor?’

  ‘Oh yes, Madame, Martial. He’s training to be a baker. He gives me brioche every Sunday. When we marry, our children will always have bread.’

  Noémi studied her maid’s irregular features and lank hair and told herself that life truly was unfair.

  Mariette had not been gone five minutes when she returned, much excited.

  ‘Madame, you have a gentleman caller!’

  ‘Not this evening!’ cried Noémi, tying the belt of her negligee. ‘What does he look like? Young or old?’

  ‘I don’t know, Madame, the hall is dark. He says he’s an old friend; here’s his card.’

  Noémi glanced at it then sank on to a chair.

  ‘Are you all right, Madame?’

  ‘Yes, yes…take the gentleman into the drawing room.’

  ‘What about your bath, Madame?’

  ‘You go up to bed; I’ll see to it. Go on, hop it!’

  She was trembling with emotion, could not even tidy her hair. Dragging on a peignoir took enormous effort. Her heart was racing. She staggered as far as the drawing room. Standing in front of the fire, a man was contemplating the flames. She could only see the back of him. At the sound of the door, he spun round.

  ‘You…it’s you,’ she breathed.

  ‘Good evening, Madame de Saint-Meslin. I’m overjoyed that we meet again. We’ll be able to recreate the past. Did you appreciate the ruby roses? I see from your expression that you did.’

  He spoke calmly, in a monotone. She supported herself against the door frame. He smiled and indicated an armchair.

  ‘You must sit down. I have news of your daughter, Élisa. I’m very much afraid that it’s bad news…’

  Chapter 7

  Tuesday 17 November

  His long roam through the lonely streets brought him an immense feeling of peace. He was able now to view the evening’s events with the detachment of an onlooker.

  When he had rung the door bell at Noémi’s house he felt his resolve wavering, but as soon as she joined him in the drawing room he had regained his composure. She had immediately recognised him. As for her…How could a face and figure change so much in five years? He was in the presence of a stranger. He remembered the young woman with whom he’d been madly in love when her name was still Léontine Fourchon; her silky blonde hair, her guileless face, her voluptuous body. That image rekindled the pain he had experienced when he discovered he’d been used. The candlelit room appeared to grow darker; he had to rid himself of this thorn in his side.

  He invited her to sit down, and delighted in describing Élisa’s last moments to her, relishing the spectacle of her increasing despair as he furnished each fresh detail. She remained silent; not even weeping, her sorrow too great for words. Then suddenly she stood up, clutched her chest and fell to the floor. Faced with this stranger’s prostrate body he felt numb. He had longed to savour the sweetness of revenge, but all he experienced was a deep sense of weariness. He knelt down beside her unconscious body and tied the thin band round her neck, to finish her off. When he rose his legs were trembling. He paused for a moment, his mind blank. Then, gradually, he felt his will to live return, like the distant echo of a half-forgotten melody. With the spontaneity of an actor at ease in his role, he pulled the petals from the roses, deposited the shoe and the notes and left.

  As he wandered through the empty streets it occurred to him that life was in constant flux. Just as Paris was a bustling metropolis from dawn to dusk and at night a ghost town, he was no longer the naïve man who six years earlier had been taken in by sweet lies.

  ‘I promise you,’ she had kept telling him, ‘everything will go according to plan. Trust me. We’ll live the good life. No more money worries. We’ll go away – just the two of us!’

  Day in day out, week after week, she did not let up until he had agreed. He would play a very small part. She had a brilliant imagination and a formidable talent for acting. A talent so great, she had taken him in too. He knew her farewell letter by heart:

  Don’t try to come after me. I wouldn’t hurt a fly as you know, but if you talk I’ll swear it was you who dreamt up the whole scheme and forced me to go along with it by threatening my daughter. To the devil with you and your soppy sentimentality, just hold your tongue or else…

  He knew what it was to be heartbroken. The hardest part had not been her running off with the money, but that she had played with his feelings, that she did not love him, she had never loved him. The poison of humiliation, despair, anger and hatred had taken him over, dulling his mind. One night in a drunken rage he had attacked a police officer. During his detention he had elaborated his plan for revenge. And yet this dish best eaten cold had lost all flavour now.

  He wandered until he came to a halt, surprised to find himself at the end of his street. The air in his unheated bedroom was chilly and damp. He sat beside the only window, watching the mist swirl among the branches of the chestnut trees. He liked to sit up until dawn giving free rein to his thoughts, one or two of which would linger in his mind. The next stage of his plan would require complete self-control. The die was cast. He decided not to sleep.

  The wild life Victor was leading did not agree with him. He was tired and his sole wish was to laze in bed.

  ‘On my own or with Tasha?’ He put the question to himself as he crossed the boulevard. What were all those people doing beside the entrance to Passage des Panoramas?

  A little baker’s boy, his dish of pies balanced on his head, was trying to push his way through to the front of the crowd.

  ‘Has there been an accident?’ enquired Victor.

  ‘A murder,’ whispered the boy.

  Victor made a beeline for the nearest officer, a police sergeant, and pretended to be a reporter.

  ‘A woman’s been strangled. The maid found her this morning. Some of your colleagues are already there. How do you lot manage to sniff these things out? Like a pack of dogs trailing a meat cart you are!’ said the officer, twirling the ends of his moustache.

  ‘Where did the murder take place?’

  ‘At number 1. Move along now, please.’

  ‘What times we live in!’ cried a stooped old woman. ‘When you think that only last week another one was bumped off just round the corner!’

  A man joined in:

  ‘In any event, burglary clearly wasn’t the motive. It appears the lock was intact which means she knew her killer – she must have if she allowed him in.’

  ‘And you were there, I suppose?’ remarked the police sergeant.

  ‘You ought to read the newspapers. The statistics are all in there. I’m an accountant and I can assure you figures don’t lie. In sixty percent of cases, the killers are known to their victims.’

  ‘That’s true!’ exclaimed the old woman. ‘Those hussies attract a type of man that brings nothing but trouble; if I were you…’

  ‘Mariette alerted my mistress; she was white as a sheet,’ interrupted a chambermaid. ‘She said a fellow called
after midnight, but she never saw his face. La Gerfleur was covered in rose petals, and she had a red shoe stuffed down her front.’

  His legs feeling like jelly, Victor moved away from the crowd and found the nearest cab rank. He was only half aware of murmuring an address to the cabman. The name Iris kept running through his mind.

  *

  Victor had never seen Kenji in such a state; a single well-thought-out sentence had been sufficient to cause him to drop the pile of index cards he had been filling in at his desk.

  ‘Iris is in great danger at Mademoiselle Bontemps’.’

  ‘W-what did you say?’ Kenji stammered, turning the shade of scarlet he went when he had drunk too much sake.

  ‘Her best friend, Élisa Fourchon, has been…’

  ‘Who told you that Iris was in France?’

  Victor had to think on his feet again. Luckily, Joseph was out delivering some novels to Mathilde de Flavignol and the shop was empty.

  ‘Joseph overheard the address you gave the cabman the day that shoe was brought here. You were upset and he thought you were having a relapse, so he told me about it. I was worried and decided to go to Saint-Mandé.’

  ‘So it was you who brought back my cane…Did you speak to Iris?’ Kenji asked in a stern voice.

  ‘I did indeed meet your goddaughter. She told me she had lent a pair of red shoes to Élisa Fourchon. And I am afraid that this young woman might have met with a fatal accident, particularly since I discovered that her mother, the singer Noémi Gerfleur, has been murdered.’

  ‘How did you know about this?’

  ‘I read it in the newspaper.’

  Kenji stood up. Victor could not help noticing how white his hair was growing, and the shadows under his eyes. He suppressed a surge of affection.