The Montmartre Investigation

by Claude Izner

  Joseph’s arrival interrupted his reverie.

  ‘Well, Boss, talk about a soaking! The only part of me that’s dry is my throat. You don’t mind moving your things so I can warm myself?’

  The landlady, a plump busybody of a woman with a crumpled dish cloth tucked into her waist, served him a bowl of milky coffee and three slices of bread and butter.

  ‘Why, I know your mother! There’s a woman who’s worth her salt, bringing up a glutton like you all on her own! Let me know if you need any extra!’

  When she had moved away, Joseph muttered between his teeth as he tucked in with gusto, ‘I wonder what Maman has been saying about me? What is it, Boss? You’ve got a sad mug this morning.’

  ‘A little more respect, please, Joseph.’

  ‘What I meant to say is you look tired and peaky this morning. I’m showing concern!’

  ‘I had a bad night. Did you tail him?’

  ‘Did I! Talk about an expedition! My legs are killing me. I’m dead beat. That Charmansat dragged me all the way to Montmartre! We went up the hill and through a maze of streets with hovels worse than the ones at Cours de Miracles. I arrived home at Rue Visconti so late I went to bed without any dinner so as not to wake up Maman and…’

  ‘Spare me the details.’

  ‘The Boss is in a mood this morning,’ Joseph muttered under his breath before continuing.

  ‘…and finally my man posted himself outside number 32, Rue Caulaincourt where he waited for…’

  ‘Did you say 32 Rue Caulaincourt?’ Victor interrupted, perking up.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s the address I was given yesterday! The man who lives there is Louis Dolbreuse.’

  ‘I was unable to discover his identity, but I know he works at Le Chat-Noir.’

  ‘Dolbreuse,’ repeated Victor, stirring his teaspoon in his empty cup. ‘What part could he play in all this? He knows Aubertot.’

  ‘Is that the Aubertot from Cour Manon? The doctor you traced to the Salpêtrière?’

  ‘He has another name. Dolbreuse used it when he introduced him to me at Le Chat-Noir. Joseph, we’re nearly there. Our murderer has connections to the medical world. He threw acid in Élisa’s face and strangled Noémi with a piece of gauze.’

  ‘Do you fancy Aubertot as the killer? I’d put my money on Charmansat. He’s a shady character.’

  ‘We can only allay our doubts by cornering our suspects and forcing them to give themselves away before there are any more victims. Here’s what I think we should do…’

  By the time Victor arrived at the bookshop, Joseph had had time to open up and sell a limited edition of Money – volume eighteen in the Rougon-Macquart series – to an admirer of Zola. Kenji looked up from where he was working at his desk and said good morning to Victor, who was frantically leafing through his notebook, his hat still on. He clapped his hand to his forehead.

  ‘Jojo, I’ve just remembered! You must go and deliver a copy of Ronsard’s Loves to Salomé de Flavignol straight away, it’s urgent.’

  ‘Shall I take a cab?’

  Kenji peered over his glasses.

  ‘That boy will ruin us.’

  Victor slipped his assistant a banknote and whispered: ‘Buy a rose for Tasha too.’

  Victor leant on Molière’s bust, taking advantage of the empty shop to look at his adoptive father sitting there hunched over his desk.

  ‘Why are you staring at me like that? Are you testing out your powers as a fakir?’ murmured Kenji, who disliked being the object of such intense scrutiny.

  ‘Do you believe in life after death?’

  ‘Is this the moment for such a discussion?’

  ‘“My love. I have found him. You’ll understand. You must…follow your instinct.”’

  ‘What has come over you? Are you feverish, perhaps?’

  Kenji had put down his pen and swivelled round in his chair.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten Madame de Brix’s English medium, Numa Winner, have you? I came across him when I was investigating the disappearance of Odette de Valois. Those were his words to me, or rather the words of my deceased mother, relayed to me through him.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense. The man hoodwinked you.’

  ‘I thought so too, at the time. Now I’m not so sure. Answer me truthfully. Did my mother find love with you?’

  Had Victor not known Kenji for so long, he would probably have taken his apparent impassiveness at face value. But his sudden pallor and the half-gesture of loosening his tie spoke louder than if he had visibly winced.

  ‘And what if it were so?’ Kenji replied defiantly.

  ‘I would be overjoyed.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No less than if I were to learn that your daughter is…my half-sister.’

  This time Kenji was unable to contain his emotion. He pushed back his chair and began pacing up and down between the fireplace and the shop counter.

  ‘She knows and she couldn’t stop herself from telling you,’ he concluded, gesturing with his chin to the floor above.

  ‘Well!’ Victor exclaimed, his expression neutral, ‘supposing my mother really did send me a message from the hereafter, you must admit it was rather cryptic. And yet I often think of it. When you confessed to me that you were Iris’s father, naturally I noticed a certain resemblance, and…’

  He stopped mid-sentence at the sound of footsteps on the stair. It was Germaine looking furious, her bun half-undone.

  ‘I’m a slave to no man!’ she screeched, waving a packet of meat at them. ‘This is a republic and if the food I make isn’t good enough for Your Highnesses, I shan’t hesitate to go elsewhere and you can go and poison yourselves in some cheap eating-house like Duval’s!’

  ‘Come now, Germaine, calm yourself,’ breathed Victor, glancing anxiously towards the street.

  ‘I’ve had enough, Monsieur Legris! You’re too fussy!’

  ‘Fussy? Me? Germaine!’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent with me. You dine out at the first opportunity! But it’s not about you this time. What I’m trying to say is…It’s your guest, Monsieur Mori.’

  ‘How has Mademoiselle Iris offended you?’ Kenji enquired, articulating each syllable.

  ‘Little Miss Fusspot! The defender of lambs! She won’t eat them, she says, on account of their being killed too young. Why, she all but called me a cannibal! And yesterday it was the veal she took issue with, and before that the chicken! I was up at the crack of dawn to buy carrots, turnips and onions at the market like a good slave and what do I get in return? A grilling!’

  ‘You’re right. It is unacceptable behaviour. I shall plead your case to Iris. In the meantime I suggest you punish her by giving her boiled eggs, and I promise I shall have second helpings of your…’

  ‘Of my lamb Navarin,’ Germaine finished his sentence for him, her voice distinctly mellowed. ‘Oh, Monsieur Mori! If it weren’t for you, I’d have long since given in my no–’

  ‘Navarre! That’s the name I was trying to remember!’ exclaimed Victor, dashing through the door.

  ‘You see! It’s just like I said, he dines out at the first opportunity!’ cried Germaine.

  ‘Where is he off to now, the blighter,’ Kenji groaned, furious at being deserted again. ‘Just when we were finally going to have a serious conversation.’

  ‘About what?’

  He turned round. Germaine was stomping past Iris, who stood at the bottom of the stairs, an enigmatic smile on her face.

  Joseph flattened himself against the wall of Le Chat-Noir in an attempt to shelter from the rainstorm. He was relieved to see Victor arrive with an umbrella.

  ‘Sorry I’m so late. Was Tasha at home?’

  ‘Yes, Boss, she was very pleased with the rose.’

  Finally their knocking paid off and Bel-Ami, the guard, dressed in a grey smock and holding a feather duster inched open the door warily.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I am a journalist. I’ve be
en commissioned to write an article about some of the artists who perform here.’

  ‘We’re cleaning; you’ll have to come back this evening,’ the man muttered, and began to close the door.

  ‘But surely this evening you’ll be much too busy for interviews.’

  The door swung open.

  ‘Do you want to interview me?’

  ‘Naturally,’ Victor assured him.

  ‘Well, in that case, come in, but you’ll have to excuse the mess. Last night there was a hell of a rumpus. Some of the gentlemen took it into their heads to play bullfighting and grabbed some wretch off the street. They wrapped him in a towel and took him to the guard’s room where they made him sing along…’

  ‘Is the uniform you wear to greet your customers genuine?’

  ‘An authentic Swiss Church costume: the cane has a solid silver handle and the halberd cost a fortune.’

  ‘You must cut a dashing figure. I’ll wager you dream of treading the boards!’ declared Joseph, following Victor’s lead.

  Bel-Ami struck a pose.

  ‘I am not without talent, or so I’ve been told. My rendering of “Wilting Flowers” by Monsieur Paul Henrion makes the ladies weep. He began to wail:

  Poor flowers, that wilt as the day doth end

  We two shall be joined for ever my friend

  For your dear face…

  Joseph’s timely fit of coughing and request for a glass of water successfully ended the recital. Bel-Ami cleared his own throat and was about to finish the couplet when Victor tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Bravo! Dolbreuse was right. What a marvellous voice you have!’

  ‘Did Monsieur Dolbreuse mention me to you?’

  ‘Yes, and he’s not the only one! Oh, by the way, what time will he be here?’

  ‘He didn’t turn up yesterday, even though Monsieur Salis made it clear at the beginning that if he wants to become known he must show his face regularly.’

  ‘At the beginning?’

  ‘Monsieur Dolbreuse has only been coming here to recite his poems since late summer. But he’s unreliable, and at this rate he’s going to lose his place. Poets are ten a penny up here in Montmartre.’

  ‘You appear to know everybody. I’d also like to interview a man called Navarre. I believe he is a writer too.’

  ‘Yes. He spends a lot of time at 16 Rue du Croissant, at the offices of L’Écho de Paris.’

  ‘What a mine of information! We shall come back this evening.’

  ‘Monsieur! You didn’t tell me the name of your newspaper!’

  ‘Le Passe-partout!’ cried Joseph.

  Rue du Croissant was less busy at this time of day than at dawn. Gigantic rolls of white paper protected by oilcloths stood in the doorways waiting to be turned into printed pages. Joseph’s hearty breakfast was now a distant memory, and he would gladly have gobbled up a whole plate of croissants or a couple of apples or even some frites, but Victor would not spare him the time. Just as they were approaching number 16, where the offices of L’Écho de Paris were located, a fair-haired young man with a monocle and a cigar charged past them.

  ‘Alceste, Alcibiade, Alcide!’ Victor muttered to himself and then cried out, ‘Alcide Bonvoisin!’

  The young man stopped dead in his tracks.

  ‘Monsieur…?’

  ‘Victor Legris, we exchanged a few words at Le Moulin-Rouge. Would you mind awfully if I…’

  ‘Yes! I remember you. Wait for me here in reception. I’ll be five minutes.’

  The fair-haired young man hurried to the end of a corridor that had a large window with a sign above it saying ‘Cashier’ and hurried back again wearing a look of contentment.

  ‘Forgive me. My column nearly went by the board and with it my dinner. Now I have enough in my pocket to pay my landlady. Who dares maintain that the muse of letters does not feed a man? How might I assist you?’

  ‘Tell me what you know about a fellow named Navarre.’

  ‘Not a lot, except that he is mad keen on literature and writes articles about everything except medicine, despite lecturing at the Salpêtrière.’

  ‘Does L’Écho de Paris have an archive?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll show you where it is.’

  He led them to a room full of glass-fronted cabinets containing bulky volumes bound in green cloth that were presided over by an elderly, melancholy man in a peaked cap.

  ‘Tell Herbert what you want and if he can he will be only too happy to help. Goodbye!’

  ‘Much obliged,’ replied Victor.

  ‘November 1886,’ Joseph announced to the archivist, who scratched his chin forlornly.

  Victor and Joseph exchanged disappointed looks.

  ‘In that case, perhaps we could take a look at the year 1887.’

  The old man bounded with extraordinary agility over to one of the cabinets and climbed to the top of a rolling ladder in order to reach the volume. Joseph offered to help him, but the old fellow only relinquished the tome in order to set it down on a lectern.

  ‘You’re in luck. We have a few copies of L’Éclair. Don’t put spittle on your finger when you turn the pages,’ the old man stipulated, returning to his desk.

  Standing side by side, they scoured the back issues.

  ‘Boss, I think we’ve drawn a blank.’

  ‘There!’

  Victor pointed to a headline and, bending over, murmured:

  ‘14 January 1887…’

  Joseph continued reading under his breath:

  ‘Yesterday saw the close of the hearing marking the end of the jewel trial, the two unfortunate protagonists of which were cleared of all charges of colluding with the fraudulent Baroness de Saint-Meslin. The following is a summary of events…’

  They became engrossed in their reading.

  On 15 November 1886, an elegantly dressed lady in a veiled hat went to Les Asphodèles, a private clinic run by Doctor Aubertot, the well-known psychiatrist, situated some twenty miles from Lyon. The lady explained that her husband, Baron Saint-Meslin, was suffering from a nervous disorder and that the eminent Professor Jardin of the Faculty of Medicine at Lyon had advised her to seek his help. She produced a letter of recommendation stating that the Baron was suffering from persecution mania and believed people were trying to steal his possessions. Doctor Aubertot assured her he would be able to treat the patient. In order for her husband not to suspect anything, the Baroness implored the doctor to receive him in person. She paid him three months in advance.

  The following day she walked into a jewellery store in Place Bellecour. She informed the manager, Monsieur Prosper Charmansat, that she wished to make her sister-in-law a wedding present of a set of diamonds. She urged the jeweller to accompany her to her house with a collection so that her husband, who was confined to bed, might help her choose. The jeweller agreed. They arrived at an opulent residence surrounded by parkland. The Baroness ordered the maid to inform the master of their arrival, and asked the jeweller to give her the briefcase containing the diamonds. She invited him to take a seat and said she would call for him when it came to discussing a price. Prosper Charmansat did as he was told. On her way out the Baroness bumped into Doctor Aubertot. She informed him that her husband was in the next room and that she preferred to leave in case he had an attack. She promised to deliver all the necessary papers for his confinement the following day. Tired of waiting, Prosper Charmansat left the room. When the man he assumed to be the Baron, but who was in fact Doctor Aubertot, blocked his way and refused to tell him where the diamonds were, the jeweller grew angry. Doctor Aubertot signalled to a male nurse, who restrained Charmansat, taking him to be Baron Saint-Meslin, gave him a cold shower, then put him in a straitjacket and locked him in a padded cell.

  It took more than three weeks for the police to unravel the plot, during which time Monsieur Prosper Charmansat remained incarcerated. The Baroness and the jewels have yet to be traced.

  ‘What an incredible story, Boss! I can just picture it: the mysteriou
s Baroness behind her veil, Prosper Charmansat trussed up and desperate, and the Doctor austere and…’

  ‘Yes, but this is real life, Joseph, and if we don’t get a move on dear old Herbert is going to start looking daggers at us!’

  They avoided the old man’s baleful glances. Out on the pavement of Rue du Croissant, they stood for a moment, stunned. A sudden downpour roused them, and Victor swiftly put up his umbrella.

  ‘One thing is sure; this is a case of revenge. But who is taking revenge on whom? Charmansat on Aubertot? Or vice versa?’

  ‘It might seem strange, Boss, but I think those two are as thick as thieves. I wouldn’t be surprised if Aubertot was the man I followed who met Charmansat at Saint-Étienne-du-Mont and then in Rue Caulaincourt again yesterday!’

  ‘Yes, your description fits,’ agreed Victor.

  ‘And what’s more I followed him down Rue de Navarre, near the Roman arenas and Rue Monge, so maybe that’s where he got the idea for his nom de plume.’

  ‘Joseph! You’re getting quite good at this.’