by Claude Izner
‘We must go at once to fetch your goddaughter. She can stay in my apartment and I’ll stay with Tasha. It’s high time I fended for myself, and there’s no reason why it should affect our partnership.’
Kenji paced back and forth, tapping together the two index cards he was still holding, and then stopped in front of Victor.
‘You are forcing me to disclose something I would have preferred to keep secret. I suppose in a way it’s a relief. Iris is my daughter.’
‘I suspected as much. Does she know this?’
‘No…Yes, but I only told her recently. Her mother died when she was four years old; she was a married woman. Iris has no memory of her. I wanted to spare her from a scandal.’
‘Why did you keep her hidden from me?’
‘The frog that resides in the well knows nothing of the big wide ocean and is better off in ignorance.’
‘Spare me the oriental wisdom and give me a simple explanation, will you please, Kenji?’
‘You were a withdrawn, nervous and possessive young man at the time. Your mother had put you in my charge and I felt a responsibility towards you; why should I burden you with my worries?’
‘But then I grew up. You really are a terribly complicated fellow. Did you not envisage the consequences of your little secret? I was convinced Iris was your mistress.’
Kenji moistened his lips.
‘A child her age…You’re mad! Have you been spying on me?’
‘Of course not! You are simply very bad at hiding things. Remember the saying: truth will out.’
‘Please do not inflict your crude sayings on me and promise me you will tell no one about this, not even Tasha.’
‘I promise.’
Kenji slipped on his frock coat and bowler, picked up his cane and went out of the shop, still holding the two index cards. Victor addressed himself to Molière’s bust in a jaunty voice:
‘Indeed, Tasha, the young girl is his mistress and I must make way for her. I have little choice in the matter…’
‘A sixteen-year-old girl!’ Tasha exclaimed indignantly. ‘Men! Young or old, you’re all obsessed with the same thing: proving your virility!’
‘Not all of us. You should be grateful that you’ve found the exception to the rule.’
Victor took her in his arms and she resisted a little, as a matter of form.
‘I expect you’re just like him,’ she murmured, ‘one official relationship and ten unofficial ones.’
‘Referring to our relationship as official is a little optimistic, my darling. So far we only snatch occasional glimpses of one another. Aren’t you worried we’ll end up forgetting each other’s faces?’
‘If you want us to see more of each other, then stop running off to Rue des Saints-Pères every five minutes.’
‘Are you saying you want us to live together?’
She gestured at the untidy studio.
‘I feel comfortable with my mess, but you’re an orderly person. Do you really see yourself living here? We would end up quarrelling over nothing. I loathe cooking, and housework bores me to tears. Painting is my only joy!’
‘And how do you feel about me?’
‘I adore you! But you’re possessive and I need to go out and meet other painters, to compare my work with theirs.’
‘The easiest solution would be for me to live across the courtyard. We’d each have our own space – me to develop my photographs and you to paint in peace. Then we could meet more regularly. Would Saturday afternoons between five and seven be convenient?’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘I’ve rented the hairdressing salon and the adjacent apartment.’
‘You’ve…’
‘Close your mouth, darling, you look like a carp.’
The man in the grey alpaca coat took a swig, dried his mouth on his sleeve and put the flask back in his pocket. The appearance of the sun had made him thirsty. He walked alongside the rusty railings, into the Botanical Gardens, past the chrysanthemum beds and up the gravel path towards the maze. From the top of the hillock he took in the view of the dome of the Panthéon, then sat down on a bench circling the cedar of Lebanon. Buffon24 had planted the tree over a hundred and fifty years earlier; it had seen the Monarchy swept away by the French Revolution, the First Empire and the Restoration of the Monarchy, and the Second Republic succeeded by the Second Empire that had finally ushered in the Third Republic. Millions of people had killed each other in the name of ideas that had since run their course, but this tree was still standing.
‘I am still standing too, and I’m free as a bird, which is how I intend to remain.’
In spite of the murders he had committed his thirst for life was insatiable, and he would do anything in his power to escape retribution. He watched a crow cleverly taking pieces of rubbish one by one from a bin and pecking at them tenaciously. He smiled at the thought that the litter would be attributed to some negligent passer-by. ‘People break the rules and others get the blame. That’s life!’ He looked at his fob watch: three thirty. It was time for him to make sure the old man he had been stalking all week was keeping to his routine.
He spotted him in the deer enclosure, stroking one of the does after changing her straw. He had become accustomed to the man’s wrinkled face and walrus moustache. The old fellow had spent so long caring for animals that he had become like them, docile, timid and withdrawn; and each afternoon without fail he made the same rounds. The old man walked past the bison and antelope and down a path leading to the aviary. There he stopped for a moment to look at the Sunday painters attempting to reproduce the beaks and talons of the vultures and the priest-like silhouette of the marabou storks.
The old fellow exchanged a few words with a skinny little woman who was struggling to make a lump of clay look like a bearded vulture. He shook his head doubtfully and carried on, past the crocodile pit and the bear enclosure, before finishing his rounds at the lion house, where the wild beasts languished behind double bars in twenty cages.
Satisfied, the man in the grey alpaca coat sat down on an iron bench near a nursemaid who was reading an illustrated fashion newspaper and rocking a perambulator with the tip of her boot. He brushed off his coat sleeves with a brisk gesture, and reviewed his plan. At first he had considered getting locked in after the place closed, but that was foolish – he might be seen climbing over the railings. Then he’d had another idea. The Botanical Gardens, like all other public places, were cleaned each night by municipal workers.
‘All I have to do is mingle with them. Two days is more than enough time to find a straw hat and smock and pass myself off as a road sweeper.’
The occupant of the perambulator, feeling it was being rocked too vigorously, began to wail. The man jumped up, his nerves on edge, and snapped at the nursemaid:
‘Just give it some bromide!’
The clouds drifted like huge, dark sails over the rooftops. A poor, skinny wretch with unkempt hair, his clothes in disarray and gasping for breath, was running as fast as he could behind a cab that was making its way up Rue des Saints-Pères. The concierge, Madame Ballu, leapt out of the way on to the porch, but was still splashed as the cab drew up alongside the gutter.
‘Hooligans!’ she muttered, picking up her broom.
She stood hands on hips at the entrance to her courtyard and watched Monsieur Mori jump from the carriage and help down a young lady she had never clapped eyes on before. Pignot’s son staggered after them carrying a pile of hat boxes followed by the skinny fellow who had just heaved a huge trunk on to his shoulders.
‘Well now! I hope that porter won’t be going up my nice shiny stairs! I nearly broke my back polishing them!’ the concierge cried out crossly.
‘Please, Madame Ballu, he has my permission,’ Kenji Mori said, doffing his hat.
‘Permission, says he! Permission! What do I care about his permission? And what’s he doing bringing this hussy here? Who’s in charge of this building anyway?’ muttered the
concierge, following closely behind them. ‘Oh, and don’t bother wiping your feet, will you!’ she barked at Joseph, who was bounding up the stairs.
‘They’re here, Monsieur Legris,’ he said, bursting into the bookshop. ‘Between you and me, the young lady is a little young for…for…Well, you know what I mean. Will she be staying long?’
‘I have no idea, Joseph, and I fancy you’re being rather nosy.’
‘That’s a bit rich; accusing me of being nosy when you’re the one doing all the ferreting about!’
‘If the cap fits…They’re expecting me upstairs, Joseph. I’ll see you later.’
Father and daughter were standing side by side in the kitchen making tea. In contrast to Kenji, who looked almost embarrassed, Iris had a joyous expression on her face.
‘Monsieur Legris! How kind of you to give up your apartment to me. Finally I shall see how my godfather lives!’
She laughed. ‘Tongues will wag, but let them. Who cares? I’m so happy!’
‘I just need to pack a few clothes into a suitcase and then you can settle in.’
Victor looked around his apartment and picked up a few of Tasha’s things. He dropped a pair of gloves, some pieces of charcoal and a few crumpled sketches on to the counterpane then carefully folded his shirts, waistcoat and trousers. He remembered the little picture, a nude of Tasha, leaning on the dresser in the dining room and was afraid it might shock Iris. He was looking for somewhere to hide it when Iris walked in.
‘I’ve been exploring my godfather’s rooms; an interesting mixture of styles. Please don’t worry on my account. I have already seen the picture of the woman bathing so you can leave it where it was. She’s your sweetheart, isn’t she?’
‘I’m not sure that…your godfather…’
‘This is your home, and I’m not a child any more,’ she replied, following him into the bedroom. ‘She’s very beautiful. What’s her name?’
‘Tasha,’ Victor murmured.
‘The tea is ready,’ Kenji said, interrupting their conversation, which he had overheard.
‘And who is she?’ asked Iris, standing in front of a photograph of Daphné Legris. ‘She has a sweet, thoughtful face.’
‘My mother,’ Victor replied, pointing to an oval frame above his bed.
Kenji silently left the room and hurried through his apartments to the bathroom, where he seized the photo of Daphné and the young Victor and hid it in the trunk at the base of his futon.
Joseph cupped his chin in his hand and contemplated the stack of frames leaning against the wall of the studio. Mademoiselle Tasha was really coming along. Maybe one day, when his reputation as an author was established, he would ask her to illustrate his books.
What’s keeping the Boss? He left his suitcase in the alcove and said he’d be back in one minute. One minute! An eternity, more like!
He moved the potted palm he had given Tasha last spring away from the stove. It seemed to have grown so much that if it got any more warmth it might burst out of its pot!
‘There he is, and about time,’ he grumbled as he heard the key in the lock.
Victor came in without saying a word, slumped into a chair and opened a copy of Le Passe-partout.
‘What’s new, Boss?’
The main headline read:
MORE FAT ON THE FIRE
NOÉMI GERFLEUR FOUND MURDERED
AT HER HOME
The article, signed by The Virus, described the career of the singer who, after humble beginnings in Lyon, had triumphed in London and Brighton. Returning to Paris at the time of the Universal Exhibition she had become a roaring success at L’Eldorado. The world of entertainment had been brutally deprived of her talent, for in the early hours of the morning her strangled corpse had been found strewn with red roses in her drawing room. On her chest lay a red shoe containing the label Made in England, Dickins & Jones, Regent Street, W1. The odd thing was the shoe did not fit her foot.
‘Well I never! That’s the same make of shoe as the one that strange fellow left!’ exclaimed Joseph, who was reading over Victor’s shoulder.
Irritated, Victor went to close the newspaper, but checked himself and looked up at his assistant with a kindly expression.
‘Tell me, Joseph, when did we last collaborate on a case?’
‘Have you started another investigation, Boss?’
‘Yes and no…Funnily enough it was I who advised Monsieur Mori to bring his…to bring Mademoiselle Iris to Rue des Saints-Pères. I was concerned for her safety.’
‘Why, Boss?’
‘One of her classmates, Élisa, went missing from their residence. Mademoiselle Iris had lent her a pair of red shoes, they were a little big for her and…’
Joseph clutched his head in both hands.
‘I’ve got it! It’s her! Élisa is the girl at the crossroads! And would I be right in saying that her murder is related to that of Noémi Gerfleur?’
‘We cannot be sure yet. I’m following a trail that has led me to Le Moulin-Rouge. Élisa’s lover worked there. The annoying thing is that Tasha saw me, and you know how she hates this hobby of mine. I was obliged to put her off the scent by implicating you and…’
‘Me and who?’
‘Boni de Pont-Joubert.’
‘Not that dandy! And what was I supposed to be doing at Le Moulin-Rouge?’
‘Challenging him to a duel.’
‘A duel! Hang on a minute! Let’s not get carried away! I value my life, you know! So you want me to back up your story, is that it? And what do I get out of it?’
‘You can assist me.’
‘Word of honour?’
‘Word of honour.’
As soon as Joseph had left, Victor examined the card he had pocketed in Noémi Gerfleur’s dressing room: In memory of Lyon…
Lyon. Where La Gerfleur had begun her career. He looked again at the scrap of paper he had found in Gaston Molina’s locker.
Charmansat at uncle. Aubertot, rite cour manon, sale pétriaire. Rue L., gf 1211…
Apart from the reference to ‘Salpêtrière’ he could make no sense of it for the moment.
‘Cour manon,’ he murmured, his face pressed up against the window.
On the other side of the courtyard, the windows of the hairdressing salon stared back at him blankly.
‘Tomorrow I must get in touch with a decorator…by Christmas time I should have a home of my own.’
Chapter 8
Thursday 19 November
A Sudden breeze scattered the pile of index cards Kenji had just filed as a brunette waltzed into the shop flaunting feathers, flowers and jewellery in the most audacious fashion.
‘Monsieur Mori…Do you remember me?
Kenji was at a loss to recall where he had seen those dark eyes and that sensuous mouth. He stammered:
‘Mademoiselle…Mademoiselle…Allard? You…you look more beautiful than ever!’
‘Call me Eudoxie. Thank you for the compliment. Do you mean it?’
‘Yes…yes, in…indeed. I…Please have a seat…’
She found his embarrassment amusing, and when he pulled up a chair she moved closer, brushing against him. He tried to rearrange his index cards, but they fell through his fingers.
‘I came here to see Monsieur Legris. Is he out?’
‘He’s down in his dark room developing photographs. I’ll call him for you.’
Eudoxie grabbed a catalogue and buried her face in it as Victor came up the stairs. He walked unsuspectingly over to the studious customer, who lowered her mask with a giggle. He was trapped.
‘What are you staring at, darling? Your associate was far more gallant – he at least offered me a chair.’
‘In that case make the most of it. You’ve caught me at a bad moment; I have nothing to offer you.’
‘Don’t be so sure. At least allow me to try to change your mind,’ she said loudly enough to be heard by Kenji, who had retreated behind his desk.
She gave a mocking smile, and brushed
Victor’s cheek with her glove.
‘Darling, I’m challenging you and all you can do is frown! You were in a much nicer mood the other night. I only wanted to tell you about Gaston Molina! Ah, that’s better! I prefer your face when it’s relaxed. What do you think, Monsieur Mori, should I accept your offer of a chair and tell my tale to horrid Victor?’
‘I-I do not know to what you are referring,’ Kenji stuttered.
‘Well, well, how wrong I was. I could have sworn you two were as thick as thieves! Hasn’t Victor told you about the awkward situation one of your customer’s daughters is in? What’s all that noise? Are you moving house?’
Kenji looked up abruptly. Iris was banging about upstairs, rearranging the furniture to her liking. Victor had a sudden fit of coughing.
‘Have you caught a cold? It must have been when you were at Le Moulin-Rouge; we certainly get chilled lifting our legs to do the quadrille. Grille d’Égout insists that the immoral atmosphere corrupts men’s minds. Maybe that’s what brought Gaston to an early grave.’
‘Is he dead?’ cried Victor.
‘As dead as a doornail. Don’t worry it wasn’t consumption or the pox that carried him off. Some joker stuck a knife in his belly, no doubt for services rendered. Josette went to the morgue to identify her lover, shed a few crocodile tears and then began screaming at him. And well she might! He relieved her of her life savings and left her in the lurch. Be thankful that your customer’s daughter is out of harm’s way. Has she returned to the bosom of her family, by the way?’
Eudoxie picked up a piece of blotting paper from the table and began fanning herself nonchalantly. Victor made an evasive gesture.
‘I am grateful to you for this piece of information and I shall relay it to my customer,’ he muttered.
‘Poppycock! You can’t fool Fifi Bas-Rhin! No one can. You can cut off my hand if there’s not more to this than a girl’s honour. Come on, tell me everything. It’s to do with one of your investigations, isn’t it?’