by Claude Izner
‘I’ll cut off your tongue, not your hand, if you don’t pipe down,’ Victor hissed out of the corner of his mouth, casting a meaningful look towards Kenji, who was hunched over his index cards.
‘Oh, I see. This is our secret. In that case fair’s fair. I’ll keep silent in exchange for a few afternoons with you.’
She had lowered her voice to a whisper. He replied in equally hushed tones:
‘I was under the impression that you were involved with Monsieur Dolbreuse.’
‘Does that pose a problem for you, darling? Louis is a nice boy but utterly conceited. His entire conversation revolves around what he’s done, what he’s doing, what he’s going to do and how talented he is. It’s terribly dull!’
‘I ought to warn you that I am already…’
‘Hush! Never say never. Here’s my address. Who knows, I might be able to assist you in rushing to the aid of some new maiden in distress.’
EUDOXIE ALLARD
16, Rue d’Alger, Paris 1er
He stooped to kiss her hand after reading the card and then hurried back downstairs.
‘Men are a veritable mystery to me, Monsieur Mori. They beg for your help and when you give it they send you packing! No doubt your bookshop is full of novels about the folly of women. How would you describe that of men?’
‘A man most loves a woman who loves him not.’
‘Do you really think so? I’d be interested to put your theory to the test, but unfortunately I’m in a hurry. Please accept this complimentary ticket. It’ll give you a chance to become acquainted with Le Moulin-Rouge, if you don’t already know it, and you will be able to enlighten me as to the intimate practices of the Orientals. Be sure to wrap up warm; I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else catching cold!’
She had barely closed the door behind her when Victor shot out of the front of the main building.
‘Where did you spring from? Like a jack-in-a-box!’
‘Forgive my rather cool reception, Euxodie.’
‘Is that a euphemism?’
‘I didn’t want to talk in front of my associate. I assume the police are already investigating Molina’s murder?’
‘Yes, that delightful Inspector Lecacheur has honoured Le Moulin-Rouge with a visit. Thank God he didn’t recognise me, or I’d be suspect number one. He still bears a grudge against Le Passe-partout.’
‘Do you know whether my name was mentioned?’
‘You aren’t celebrated enough for the cabarets to be proclaiming your attendance from the roof tops! Don’t worry; Lucienne and Josette were unable to describe the dark, handsome gentleman who was hot on Gaston’s trail. However, if the police continue their questioning, they might ask to interrogate Alcide, Louis or me and…’
‘It is vital my name is kept out of this!’ he growled, squeezing her arm.
‘You horrid man, you’re hurting me! When you request such things of a lady you should use tact and diplomacy.’
She pulled away in a pretend sulk.
‘I thought I’d explained…’ Victor began, and then plunged his hand into his pocket and extracted his cigarette case just as Joseph, whistling nonchalantly, returned from a delivery.
‘You have very strange manners. Do redheads find them especially attractive? Come now, Victor, let us part on friendly terms. I shall do my best to ensure that you remain anonymous. After all, my ungrateful darling, who else at Le Moulin-Rouge cares about you enough to remain silent under threat of torture!’
Victor went back into the bookshop to find Joseph battling with a ball of string he was using to tie up a parcel of books. The muffled voices of Kenji and Iris were audible upstairs.
‘Another delivery?’
‘Alas! The complete works of Zénaïde Fleuriot25 for a certain Salomé de Flavignol, Madame Mathilde’s cousin who lives at Passy! Damn, damn and triple damn, what a pain!’ groaned Jojo, trying without success to tie a knot.
Victor helped by pressing his finger down on the string.
‘Much obliged, Boss. By the way, do you know who Diogenes was?’
‘He was a humble Greek philosopher who chose to live in a barrel. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, that’s what Monsieur Gouvier calls the fellow they found in a barrel at the wine market. Though actually the police already know him; he had a record. Shall I go on?’
‘Yes.’
‘This will help me with my book. His name was Gaston Molina, a petty criminal, only if I were to include him in my novel I would change his name. He could fall madly in love with…’
‘Brilliant idea!’ cried Victor, rushing out of the door.
‘That’ll teach me a lesson. He couldn’t care less! He’ll change his tune when I’m famous!’ muttered Joseph, savagely finishing tying up the most dreadful parcel of books that had ever come his way.
Victor strode down Rue des Saints-Pères, Le Passe-partout under one arm, reflecting on the article he had just read by Isidore Gouvier. It described how a man had been found stabbed to death and stored in a barrel of wine at the wine market. His body had been there for several days. Gaston Molina had been born in Saint-Symphorien-d’Ozon in 1865. His father had been a silk worker and his mother a washerwoman, and he was known to the police. Caught thieving red-handed, he had been sentenced to six months, which he’d served in a Lyon prison in early 1891. He would have done a longer stretch had the authorities been able to establish his involvement in a series of robberies in the Saint-Étienne area three years earlier. The only witness to his guilt was a peddler who was too fond of his drink to stand up in court.
Victor tried to make sense of the facts. Molina had been the lover of Noémi Gerfleur’s daughter, Élisa. But why had the three of them been murdered? He reread the card he had picked up in Noémi’s dressing room at L’Eldorado, sensing that it contained the key:
To the Jewel Queen, Baroness of Saint-Meslin, a gift of ruby red roses in fond memory of Lyon – from an old friend.
He was about to cross the road to the bookshop when he saw Jojo closing the door and putting up a sign that read: Back at half-past two. He had forgotten that he was supposed to be having lunch with Tasha!
He bought two portions of sauerkraut and a bottle of white wine at the Brasserie d’Alsace on Boulevard de Clichy. Then, his coat collar turned up against the icy wind, he hurried in the direction of the studio, whistling the tune to L’Alsace et Lorraine, but paused at her door. She had company. Standing next to her beside the stove, looking as though he owned the place, was a man wearing a sombrero and striking a handsome pose. It was Louis Dolbreuse, the charmer from Le Chat-Noir he had met at Le Moulin-Rouge. He was after Tasha! Victor’s suspicions became instant certainties: she was deceiving him with this dandy.
‘Have you brought lunch? Excellent timing; I’m famished!’ Dolbreuse cried.
‘It was meant for two,’ muttered Victor.
‘Oh! I wouldn’t wish to intrude. I shall sit in the alcove.’
‘In that case we’ll need another portion.’
‘Let me see. There’s more than enough for three! Look, I don’t mind admitting I’m penniless, so I’d be only too delighted to share your lunch. Do you know what I’ve been living on for the last week? Spinach kindly donated by my landlady, and horribly bitter because I cannot afford the luxury of cream.’
‘You’re exaggerating, of course!’ Tasha laughed. ‘Take a plate from the dresser, pile it with food and go and sit on the bed. And try not to make a mess!’
Victor waited until Dolbreuse was out of earshot.
‘What’s he doing here?’ he muttered angrily.
‘Salis gave him my address. He came round yesterday to look at my work. He likes my style. He’s a good person to know. He’s well-connected in the entertainment world and thinks I should try my hand at set design. I invited him here today to sketch his portrait.’
Victor was so furious he couldn’t swallow. For a moment he thought he would choke on his sauerkraut. When he finally managed to br
eathe again he remarked drily:
‘He won’t be able to pay you for his portrait; he’s penniless.’
‘I don’t mind. I need models.’
‘I can’t believe it! You’re attracted to him!’
‘Calm down, Victor, please! You’re always imagining…’
‘Monsieur Legris!’ Dolbreuse shouted from the far end of the room. ‘Have you seen the newspaper? That chap you were looking for, Gaston Molina, he’s kicked the bucket. They found his body in a vat of wine. Funny coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘Gaston Molina…Isn’t that the name you mentioned at Le Chat-Noir?’ Tasha asked, glaring at him. ‘And now he’s dead? Victor, what are you cooking up?’
That was the last straw. Consumed by jealousy and anxious at the prospect of being peppered with questions, Victor put down his plate, picked up his hat and muttered something about having to go and buy a book. Tasha looked at him, frowning.
‘Aren’t you going to finish your sauerkraut?’ Dolbreuse called.
The door slammed.
Victor walked into a café where he took a glass of rum and lemon to lift his spirits. He must stop thinking about Tasha with other men, or he would lose his mind. He forced himself to unroll a newspaper on a pole. It was a special edition of Le Passe-partout.
The article on the first page, signed by The Virus, was devoted to the Gerfleur affair and gave details of the crime scene. A red shoe containing two cryptic messages had been discovered close to the wretched woman’s body and would doubtless provide the police with a lead. Victor was so intrigued by this new piece of information that his disastrous luncheon went right out of his mind. He resolved to head straight for Rue de la Grange-Batelière.
The hue and cry was at its peak. On the corner of Rue Montmartre and Rue du Croissant, Victor glanced at a bust of Émile de Girardin and dawdled in front of one of the cheap bookshops, plastered with posters. At the entrance to the printworks, the pavement was encumbered with bundles of the evening editions wrapped in thick yellow paper advertising in big letters the name of the newspaper. High-wheeled carts trundled over the cobblestones, returning to dump their unsold copies. Le Passe-partout’s offices were a few doors along Rue Grange-Batelière from the auction house.
Victor made his way through the turmoil of the typesetting room, which was on the same floor as the editorial offices.
‘We’re running late,’ the typesetter groaned.
Discarded pages of newspaper were scattered all over the floor. Telegraphists hurried to and fro delivering dispatches. Le Passe-partout employed a staff of twenty including five journalists.
When Victor asked a buck-toothed secretary whether he might see the journalist who signed himself The Virus, she showed him in to the editor’s office.
Dressed in one of the tailored English suits that had earned him the nickname Beau Brummel, patent leather ankle boots and a cravat that was a work of art in its own right, Antonin Clusel was engaged in dictating his leader article to a shapely blonde.
‘My dear chap, what a surprise!’ he exclaimed, advancing towards Victor. ‘You may go, Eulalie.’
‘So, you’re The Virus!’
‘I’m filling a variety of roles at the moment, out of necessity. If you want something done, it’s better to do it yourself! Not that Gouvier and the others don’t do an excellent job, but I’ve noticed that our readers particularly like The Virus’s mordant style, especially when Lecacheur and his henchmen are on the receiving end of it. Care for a cigar?’
‘No thank you, I am on my way to the auction house. I just dropped by to see your new offices. When you say they are “on the receiving end” do you mean you know something they don’t about Noémi Gerfleur’s murder?’
Clusel broke into a broad grin. He poured out two small glasses of cognac and handed one to Victor.
‘You don’t beat about the bush, do you? I’d call it your weakness. Settle back in my chair; you’ll find it wonderfully comfortable,’ he said, pushing back the two telephones and various papers scattered over his desk so he could perch there. ‘It’s a scandal all right! La Gerfleur is still well remembered from the years she spent on the London stage between ’86 and ’89. And when she returned to Paris she triumphed each night at L’Eldorado. What a waste.’
‘Why have you not divulged the contents of the two messages left in the shoe?’
‘I can see what you’re up to, old chap, but you’re shouting into the wind. I’m not giving anything away. “Silence is golden” is my motto. Facts should be revealed gradually, as in the serialised novels the people love so much. It’s the secret of success. Three magic words send the average reader to the kiosk every day to buy our paper: “to be continued”.’
‘Are the notes authentic?’
Clusel lit a Havana cigar. He was clearly enjoying himself.
‘Who can say? The good inspector becomes very cagey when he feels he’s getting nowhere, which is often! All I know is that these texts are of interest to the police, as well as to me and my fellow journalists, and they will soon captivate my readers. Incidentally, you’re a secretive fellow. You let me do all the talking, but you don’t give much away…Any news of Fifi Bas-Rhin? Don’t look so disapproving! Have you seen her dance? You haven’t! I recommend you go down there this instant, and don’t miss the chahut. Our darling Eudoxie is sublime! I wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up marrying a grand duke!’
Victor could see he’d get nothing more out of Antonin Clusel, so he took his leave, plunging back into the commotion of the editorial office.
‘My article has to go in!’
‘No, I said. It’ll take up nearly the whole of page two.’
‘Leave out the piece on equipping the army.’
‘Are you being deliberately dense? We don’t need your drivel, for goodness’ sake. What we need is ideas. New ideas. Brilliant ideas!’
Victor immediately recognised the slow delivery and timbre of the voice. He made his way over to the plump figure gesticulating at the far end of the room.
‘Good day, Monsieur Gouvier.’
‘Ah, Monsieur Legris! You’ve come at a bad time. We’re running late – yet another ace reporter who goes berserk if we move a single comma. I’m fed up with it. It’s good to see you again. What brings you here?’
‘I need the benefit of your wisdom.’
‘Are you still doing research for your detective novel? I thought you’d have finished that by now.’
‘I’m at the editing stage; I belong to the Flaubert school. Actually, I’m interested in the Noémi Gerfleur case.’
‘And you thought you might worm something out of me? All I can tell you is that Lecacheur is following a lead.’
‘Is he really?’
‘It’s no use turning on the charm with me, Monsieur Legris; I’m not giving anything away. You might get caught up in more trouble.’
‘Come on, Gouvier, you know I have a passion for solving mysteries.’
‘“To be continued…” Tomorrow, Le Passe-partout will reveal all.’
‘And what am I supposed to do between now and then? I’m not Sherlock Holmes, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s the hero of a novel.’
‘Oh! You and your detective stories! No, I mean it. I’m not giving anything away.’
‘Come on, Isidore, as a special favour to me, your old friend. What has your friend at headquarters been telling you?’
‘Oh, all right then, I give in, but only if you promise to keep mum until after tomorrow’s edition is out. And not a word to Beau Brummel either!’ he added, pointing towards Clusel’s office. ‘It seems the singer was strangled with a piece of gauze, and that’s the trail Aristide Lecacheur is following.’
‘But what does it mean?’
‘Don’t play the innocent with me, I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s obvious what it means. Gauze suggests the murderer might be a doctor or a chemist.’
‘But why leave behind such an obvious c
lue?’
‘Not all criminals are infallible.’
‘Is that all?’
‘You are the most obstinate man I have ever met. No, that isn’t all. A shoe manufactured in England was found near La Gerfleur’s body, but it didn’t fit her foot. However, because the poor woman spent time in London, Lecacheur has wasted no time in dispatching two of his henchmen over to investigate her past in Albion. And…’
‘And what?’
‘There were two love letters.’
Isidore fished a couple of crumpled leaflets out of his pocket.
‘I jotted them down. This is the first:
My love reigns at the hospital,
Most infamous of all creatures
And this is the second:
The dear one was naked and knowing my desire
Wore chinking gems as her sole attire
It’s signed A. Prévost. I’ll wager that oaf of an inspector is going to question every Anatole, Alphonse, Auguste and Anselm Prévost he can find in every hospital between here and Navarre! A complete waste of time, of course, as A. Prévost is almost certainly a pseudonym. Do you know what I think, Monsieur Legris? The murderer is testing us by leaving clues in the form of riddles. He’s playing with us! We’re dealing with a criminal who is well-versed in the art of poetry – unless of course he copied them from somewhere. You’re the scholar. Do you recognise them?’
‘No,’ Victor sighed, careful not to reveal that he knew the name A. Prévost.
He felt exhilarated. Once again, he was a step ahead of both the police and the press. For the wily Gouvier appeared not to know that Noémi Gerfleur had a daughter.
Jojo was nodding off, his notebook open on the counter. Victor’s arrival nearly caused him to fall off his stool.
‘Oh! It’s only you,’ he mumbled.
‘You look worn out.’
‘It’s not surprising, two deliveries in one day, and to top it all one of the battleaxes, Raphaëlle de Gouveline, kept me talking for hours because of an accident at Bullier.’