by Claude Izner
‘What sort of an accident?’
‘A crash. Madame de Flavignol and Helga Becker collided when they were each astride their infernal machines. The outcome: a twisted ankle for the Fräulein and two sprained ones for the battleaxe. They asked whether you might take them some detective stories to keep them amused during their convalescence.’
‘I’ll see to it. Where’s Kenji?’
‘Upstairs. He doesn’t come down any more. A certain person requires his complete attention.’
Joseph’s demeanour was so funereal that Victor felt quite sorry for him.
‘Do you think Helga Becker might appreciate Tales of the River Rhine by Erckmann-Chatrian? And would Voyage Round My Bedroom by Xavier de Maistre, or No Tomorrow by Vivant Denon suit Madame de Flavignol? I hesitate in case she makes a connection between the titles and her future career as a cyclist. Speaking of which,’ Victor said nonchalantly, ‘it turns out there is a connection between Noémi Gerfleur and the murdered girl at the crossroads.’
Joseph’s eyes lit up.
‘Are you feeding me a line in the hope of buying my silence regarding your little excursion to Le Moulin-Rouge?’
‘Absolutely not! I am telling you the truth because I know you will end up wearing me down anyway.’
‘And so you should – only the day before yesterday you gave me your word that I could assist you.’
‘You must keep absolutely quiet about it. Iris’s safety is at stake.’
Joseph leapt off his perch with renewed vigour and stood a couple of inches from Victor. All but clicking his heels together, he murmured: ‘You can count on me Boss – “the hunting lion never growls” – it’s an African proverb. It’s quite something isn’t it! I’m all ears.’
*
A resounding roar dispersed a flock of sparrows perched on top of a cage. It was followed by two, then three, then four formidable snarls. Basile Popêche, his hands behind his back, contemplated with an air of contentment the cage containing his post-prandial charges, who were aiding their digestion with a deafening recital.
‘They don’t seem very friendly,’ squeaked the skinny woman, who had given up trying to sculpt the bearded vulture and moved on to Tiberius the lion.
‘Don’t worry, my dear, lions are least dangerous after they’ve eaten their fill. It’s only that, instead of downing a glass of something like you or I, they voice their contentment.’
‘Yes, but I can’t hear myself think. And I can’t see a thing in this light. I’m going home. Goodnight!’
The painters and sketchers packed away their materials and walked towards the exit, along with the few visitors to the Botanical Gardens who had braved the damp weather. The street lamps came on. Basile Popêche felt strangely euphoric as he took possession of his territory. During this interval between closing time and his departure, he was free to imagine that he was at the helm, under God’s command, of a great arc floating at the heart of the city. He strolled alongside the railings, greeting the lions as he passed: massive Tiberius, beautiful Cleopatra, lithe Mercedes and her two cubs – Castor and Pollux, old Nemea and finally young Scipion.
‘Oh! Why is he walking round in circles like that, growling? If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was hungry. Am I going barmy? I’m sure I gave him his piece of meat.’
He leant against the bars. The lion was certainly behaving strangely. He was twitching his tail along the ground like an angry cat and scratching himself furiously with one of his hind legs.
‘Something’s aggravating him. Strange, I don’t see any sign of meat.’
He entered the building and walked down the passageway that ran alongside the cages. When he reached the one marked ‘Scipion’ he paused for a moment. He only needed to step inside quickly to see what was wrong, and then go for help if needed. He pulled out his keys, opened the door as slowly as he could and went in. Scipion, who was at the far end of the cage pacing up and down angrily, stopped to lick his fur in rapid circles. Basile Popêche noticed something glinting in the middle of his right haunch. Curious, he moved closer.
‘What is that? It looks like…no, it can’t be…it’s a dart! The work of some pesky kid.’
A sudden clanking made him swing round. The cage door had closed, and he had left his keys on the outside. Trying not to panic, he turned the handle slowly. It would not move. A growl warned him that the lion had sensed his presence. Basile turned round very slowly to face the animal. Above all he must not show his fear.
It’ll be all right, it’ll be all right, he reassured himself. That’s it, that’s it, easy does it, my friend, easy does it…
Scipion lay on the ground licking his fur more and more frantically until a noise stopped him short. He remained motionless, turning his ears to try to pinpoint the rustling sound outside the cage. Someone was walking over from the garden. Basile Popêche flattened himself against the cage door. He had heard the muffled footsteps too. If he cried out, it might alarm the lion, who was staring in the direction of the path. Risking everything, Basile slid along the inside of the cage.
‘Help,’ he whispered, ‘I’m locked in. Get me out of here!’
He felt his whole body freeze as he recognised with horror the face emerging from the darkness. In the light of a street lamp a road sweeper was staring at him with a look of profound pity. The man extended his arm in a rapid movement. A second dart pierced Scipion’s flesh. Crazed with pain, the ravenous lion tensed its muscles and crouched, ready to pounce. Basile Popêche curled up in a ball and began to scream.
A pile of books toppled over. Joseph cursed as he searched through the scattered volumes. He picked up an armful and set them down on the old packing case that served as his desk. He curled up in his rickety armchair and began leafing through an anthology. A bulky shadow clad in a night cap and holding a candle glided into the study.
‘Do you know what time it is, my pet?’ Euphrosine Pignot bawled.
‘Maman! You scared the wits out of me! I thought you were asleep!’
‘Off to bed with you, quick; it’s freezing in here. You’ll catch your death, then you won’t be able to go to work tomorrow. I’m confiscating all these books or you’ll wear your eyes out!’
‘You forget that I work in a bookshop…’
‘And what of it? Nobody says you have to read every book you sell.’
‘How am I supposed to recommend them to my customers if I don’t read them?’
‘Your customers can do what I do and go by the titles. For example The Loves of Olivier is very enticing while Roger the Rogue26 sounds awful!’
‘Maman, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t be rude, my pet, and go to bed. I’ve given you a foot warmer.’
Joseph reluctantly did as he was told. While he was undressing he repeated to himself out loud the beginning of the message Victor had relayed to him.
‘The dear one was naked…the dear one was naked…’
Euphrosine, leaning back against her bolster, was listening. She sat bolt upright and groaned: ‘And what’s more he’s reading smutty novels! Oh, the cross I have to bear!’
Chapter 9
Berlaud was bored. He sat between Mélie Pecfin and Nini Moricaude, watching the six goats pawing the ground, impatient to get home and not understanding the reason for the prolonged stop. He stood up, stretched and growled at an insolent pigeon, then decided to abandon his post just long enough to go and mark his territory on an area of Place Valhubert.
‘Holy Mother of God, what is Basile up to?’ said Grégoire Mercier crossly, shaking the bowl he had brought to fill with Pulchérie’s milk. ‘Hoy! Berlaud, stop messing around, you mutt! That coxcomb is past it. He cuts and runs at the slightest provocation instead of staying at his post; he forgets everything when he feels the need to raise his leg. Monsieur! Monsieur!’ he shouted, running towards the gate of the Botanical Gardens through which he could see a park keeper. ‘I’ve come to see Monsieur Popêche. Have you seen him
by any chance?’
‘Popêche? The wild animal keeper? A lion mauled him yesterday evening. He had terrible injuries and they’ve taken him to the emergency section of the Hôpital Pitié. Do you want to come in a minute?’
‘No, no…Poor Basile, that’s terrible! Do you think he’ll pull through?’
‘I couldn’t tell you,’ said the keeper over his shoulder as he left the dismayed goatherd.
‘My God, what am I going to do? I’m his only relation…’
Grégoire Mercier thrust the bowl into his satchel and whistled at length for Berlaud, who lolloped excitedly over, his tongue hanging out.
‘Calm down now, you great oaf! You want to play games like little Pervenche, but at your age you should be like Mémère; at least she behaves with dignity! Go and stand beside her. There, that’s good – birds of a feather stick together. Now let’s go, no dawdling!’
They hurried up Rue Buffon – never had a herd of goats passed so rapidly along that street – turned off at Rue Geoffroy-Saint-Hilaire and walked along the side of the Pitié as far as Rue Lacépède, where the monumental gates of the hospital loomed.
‘Berlaud, you’re going to have to behave like a leader. I’m entrusting our flock to you. Protect them as if they were your own puppies and when I come back, if you’ve been a good guardian, I promise you a feast you’ll never forget!’
Overcome with anxiety, Grégoire Mercier paced up and down a few times before entering the building. Inside, he spotted a young doctor and asked where he might find Basile Popêche in one of the six hundred beds of the hospital. After wandering from wing to wing, holding his nose against the stench of carbolic acid, the goatherd finally succeeded in finding a man swathed in bandages stranded at the back of a room whose windows looked out on the Botanical Gardens. A doctor had just checked on the wounded man and was about to leave.
‘Don’t tire him; his life is hanging by a thread,’ he whispered.
Grégoire Mercier removed his hat and, kneading it with his fingers, timidly approached the mummy, whose breathing was barely perceptible.
‘Basile? Is that you?’
‘Who’s it by? Who’s it by, for heaven’s sake? I’ve read it somewhere, damn it, but every time I think I’ve remembered the poet, it slips out of my mind! “The dear one was naked and knowing my desire…”’
Victor paced about the bookshop, now empty of the few customers who had ventured in since opening time. He was so absorbed that he forgot Joseph was there. Those two mysterious verses had cost him a sleepless night. The previous evening he had thought that they had given him a trump card, but this would disappear as soon as Le Passe-partout hit the news kiosks. He was enraged at not having been able to use his knowledge to his advantage, and exasperation pushed him to soliloquy.
‘“The dear one was naked…”’
Joseph, who was engaged in collating the ten volumes of Casanova’s Memoirs, blew his nose noisily and regarded Victor as he marched about.
‘I looked through at least fifty books, Boss! I was up till dawn. I had to wait until Maman was asleep to get up and ransack the study from top to bottom; the only thing I gained was a cold!’
‘Joseph, I can’t concentrate if you talk!’
‘“The dear one was naked and knowing my desire, wore chinking gems as her sole attire…”’
‘“Her rich apparel gave her a vanquishing air,”’ intoned a solemn voice from the floor above.
‘Kenji! Do you know who wrote that?’
‘Is this a new game? What does one win?’ asked Kenji, coming downstairs, impassive.
He sat down at his desk and spread out his index cards and his catalogues, under Joseph’s admiring eye.
‘The Boss is a mine of information!’
‘Who’s the author?’ Victor demanded.
‘Baudelaire, from The Flowers of Evil. I’m amazed you didn’t know that. The poem is called “The Jewels”, but it doesn’t appear in every edition, because it’s one of the poems banned in 1857 by the courts, and published clandestinely with other unpublished works, in 1866 in a pamphlet called Scraps.
‘And this one, Boss, “My love reigns at the Hospital, most infamous of all creatures…”’ recited Joseph. ‘Do you know where that is from?’
‘Alas, I am not omniscient, sorry,’ said Kenji.
He went to greet an old dealer, who was bent over a wallet, from which he extricated various works bound in hide. Joseph dragged Victor over to the bust of Molière.
‘M’sieu Legris, do you know what it means, “My love reigns at the Hospital”?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘M’sieu Legris, why would a murderer, who’s trying to escape detection, leave two lines from Baudelaire and an incomprehensible text, apparently signed with a pseudonym, at the scene of the crime?’
‘I don’t know. But it means he’s a cultivated man…’
‘Or woman.’
‘…And he chose those lines with a very specific aim in mind; he did not pick them at random. So first he chooses a poem entitled “The Jewels”. Next…Wore chinking gems as her sole attire…Wait a minute.’
He took the card he’d found at L’Eldorado and read:
‘To the Jewel Queen, Baroness of Saint-Meslin, a gift of ruby red roses in fond memory of Lyon – from an old friend. A. Prévost.’
‘What strikes you Joseph?’
‘The Jewel Queen; the ruby roses! This must surely be all about jewels! We’re getting warm, Monsieur Victor, we’re getting warm!’
‘And there’s another thing. Noémi Gerfleur’s death has in common with the death at the wine market, think.’
‘My brain’s turned to mush; I’m at a loss.’
‘Read the note again: “in fond memory of…”’
‘Lyon! Noémi Gerfleur began her career in a café-concert in Lyon! Oh that’s it, I get it! M’sieu Gouvier’s article…’
Joseph flipped feverishly through his notebook.
‘Well, I’ll be darned! That bloke who was topped in the wine market, that Gaston Molina, he did a spell in prison in Lyon!’
‘Bravo! Lyon is the golden thread that links the two murders.’
‘Three murders, Boss,’ corrected Joseph excitedly. ‘You’re forgetting Élisa, Noémi Gerfleur’s daughter; you told me Gaston Molina was her lover…So, there’s no doubt – the body at Killer’s Crossing; it’s definitely her. Her body was left near her mother’s building. So we now know it’s something to do with jewels…and the city of Lyon. But when? We need more facts – should we go to Lyon? But we’ve no leads…’
‘Let’s not get carried away; it’s probably much simpler than we imagine. Let’s see, Noémi Gerfleur was born in 1856. So the jewels incident could have taken place between…let’s say 1875, the year the café-concerts began, and 1886, the date she crossed the Channel.’
‘Great Scott! Eleven years, that’s a long time! You’d have to wade your way through tons of newspapers to unearth a story about corruption and jewels taking place in Lyon. Perhaps it’s a sordid family drama, a stolen inheritance, and no one has said a word. Do you have any other clues?’
‘No. Although…I thought no more about it, it seemed to make no sense, but who knows…’
Victor extracted the note, picked up in Gaston Molina’s cloakroom, from his wallet and held it out to Joseph.
‘So my friend, what do you make of this gibberish?’
Charmansat at uncle. Aubertot, rite cour manon, sale pétriaire. Rue L., gf 1211…
‘I did my best to decipher the jargon. Apart from the fact that whoever wrote it can’t spell, I worked out that Charmansat and Aubertot must be people, that “sale pétriaire” means the Salepêtrière and that Rue L. gf 1211 is an address. Can you think how this might have a bearing on our case? Could Charmansat be someone Molina was supposed to meet at his uncle’s house?’
Joseph looked at him mockingly.
‘Oh! M’sieu Legris. That says a lot about you! You’ve obviously never been h
ard up! When I was a lad, Maman regularly pawned our linen “with uncle” it’s what you call the pawnshop. Maybe Molina had a rendezvous with Charmansat at Rue des Francs-Bourgeois…Or maybe Charmansat was a clerk at the “casino”, that’s another name for “uncle”. We’ll have to find out; that would be a lead worth pursuing. So that’s that one! As for M’sieu Aubertot, I suspect he’s a chap living at the Hospice de la Salepêtrière, on the right, in a courtyard where someone called Manon – his mistress perhaps? – also lives.’
Victor did not reply.
‘Boss?’
‘I’m thinking. What if we’re barking up the wrong tree? What if the sibylline message I stumbled on by accident has nothing to do with the murders?’
‘What about “sale pétriaire” then? “My love reigns at the Hospital, most infamous of all creatures.” I know that the Salepêtrière is a home for old women, but under Louis XIV it was called “the hospital”. And today they treat mental health problems there…Perhaps Inspector Lecacheur is on to something. But you’re a step ahead; you know things he doesn’t.’
‘Time will tell…In view of the way this note is written, it’s possible that Molina, or whoever wrote it, meant a building named Aubertot situated in the left wing of the Salepêtrière, where a certain Manon was supposed to have an appointment, probably for treatment.’
‘Steady on, Boss, you’re getting muddled up. You have to think logically and calmly about this. I’ll wager that Aubertot is a patient or a member of the medical staff. That’s the second one. Now let’s move on to that street, Rue L…That’s a nuisance, because streets starting with L are ten a penny in Paris. It must be incredibly long to have a street number 1211. And gf, do you think…?’
He was unable to finish his sentence. Iris had suddenly appeared like a glorious apparition on the spiral staircase. The four men turned to look at her slim figure moulded into a fuchsia dress in vicuña wool, decorated with lace. She wore a soft, wide-brimmed hat in the same colour. Smiling at Victor and Joseph, she joined Kenji, giving him his frock coat and bowler hat. Kenji saw the old dealer out and announced: ‘We’re leaving now, we have some purchases to make, have lunch without us.’