The Montmartre Investigation

by Claude Izner

  No thread of grey could yet be seen in his thick dark hair or his jet-black beard frizzled in the old-fashioned style…

  Feeling pleased with the word ‘frizzled’ that he had found by rifling through the dictionary, Joseph smiled at the photograph of his father.

  ‘You’re right, Papa, “nothing succeeds like success”.’32

  Wednesday 16 December

  Bundled in a cape with military-style trimming, Inspector Lecacheur strode purposefully into the bookshop and removed his fur toque. He had to wait for several customers to pay for their purchases before Victor greeted him. Iris was helping Joseph untangle himself from the string used to tie up parcels of gilt-edged books to be offered as gifts. Meanwhile Kenji was moving among the shelves, anxious to satisfy a bespectacled lady whose son was keen on adventure novels. He glanced furtively at the newcomer and saw a resemblance to Jules Verne’s Michel Strogoff; this provoked in him a sudden flutter of emotion at the memory of Eudoxie Allard’s gentle curves as she lay naked on a white bearskin rug. The spirited Fifi Bas-Rhin, last heard of in the royal suite of the Hôtel Continental in the arms of a Muscovite prince, owner of an estate near Nijni-Novgorod! Her farewell present had pride of place beside the telephone, a wonderful typewriter, the Lambert, an extremely original invention, that Eudoxie had shown him how to use during unforgettable evenings during which instruction led seamlessly to practical demonstration:

  ‘It’s all done by touch, my dear Kenji, but that should present no problems for you. You merely have to touch the character plate and it oscillates gently, producing the impression…“No revolving parts but still it writes.” Isn’t that absolutely true?’

  Kenji had literally fallen in love with the Lambert, and no one was allowed to touch its eighty-four keys. It was the height of modernity: all you had to do was change the plate and the Lambert typed in different languages: it was polyglot and had a leather case. Kenji sighed with satisfaction and showed the bespectacled lady the large in-quarto volume of The Robinsons of Guiana by Louis Boussenard.

  ‘I see you are very busy, because of Christmas I suppose,’ observed the inspector, smoothing his dark moustache. ‘Can I offer you a lozenge?’

  ‘No thank you,’ replied Victor. ‘So you succeeded in giving up tobacco?’

  ‘Yes, for several months, but now I’m addicted to the astringent flavour of the lozenges; unfortunately one dependence has been replaced by another…Have you managed to get hold of an original edition of Manon Lescaut?’

  ‘Not yet sadly!’

  ‘But, dear chap, you are a specialist on Abbé Prévost, are you not?…The Salpêtrière holds no more secrets for you than Le Moulin-Rouge, Killer’s Crossing or the environs of the River Bièvre, all places you have been over with a fine-tooth comb…Can we go and discuss this somewhere more private?’

  Reluctantly, Victor led him into the back office, where the inspector looked attentively at Kenji’s collections. He sensed that the bookseller was nervous and took pleasure in fuelling his discomfort. Shaking his box of lozenges like a rattle, he leant against the cabinet and stared at Victor.

  ‘Although this is not an official visit, and our conversation can not be admitted into the file on Élisa and Léontine Fourchon, don’t think that I am taken in. I can’t prove your involvement in this business, but everywhere the case leads me – the boarding school at Saint-Mandé, or Grégoire Mercier’s house, to name but two places – I come up against your shadow. When they arrested Louis Dolbreuse and Prosper Charmansat, whom should my colleagues stumble upon? Upon you, Monsieur Legris. And don’t think either that I am persuaded for one moment by the confused explanations of your assistant Joseph, who, let’s just say, has a vivid imagination. He dared to make out that although he knew Prosper through the pawnshop, you and he were walking past his home by chance when you were alerted by shouting! If I decide yet again not to call you as a witness at this trial, it’s only because I am grateful that you saved Charmansat’s life and put a stop to the murders perpetrated by Dolbreuse. So I will keep quiet about Dolbreuse’s explanation that he misled you, setting you off on a false trail by means of a note that he wrote himself and placed with Gaston Molina’s belongings under cover of fetching a forgotten hat at Le Moulin-Rouge. The literary extracts left beside Noémi Gerfleur’s body were intended to perform the same purpose for the police. Had you not put a stop to him, Dolbreuse would have sent a confession to the press, in Charmansat’s name, revealing that Aubertot and he were the culprits and that after killing the doctor Prosper preferred to take his own life rather than face justice…You see there’s not much that I don’t know, in spite of the fact that several people, including the headmistress of the Bontemps Boarding School, the goatherd and our ex-jeweller, seem to be hit by temporary amnesia whenever your name is mentioned.’

  The inspector felt the need to suck on some more lozenges. Victor, a little red in the face, said nothing and seemed fascinated by the state of his fingernails.

  ‘I have come to disturb you because I am missing a piece of evidence that I suspect you of holding. You see, I already have the necessary proof to convict Louis Dolbreuse, or rather Louis Carnot, Léontine Fourchon’s lover and Madame de Saint-Meslin’s coachman, who was so in love with her that he couldn’t forgive her for trampling over his feelings to avoid sharing the spoils of their larceny. That’s right, Monsieur Legris; all these crimes had only one motive, betrayed love: when you see what these feelings can lead to you can understand why I prefer celibacy. But returning to the case in point, even though I hold many trump cards, I just can’t help wanting more. So, without you having to say a single word, I would ask you, if you are indeed in possession of it, as I think you are, to place by the door of this room the second shoe belonging to Élisa – or rather to Iris Mori…oh yes, I am well-informed, the stutterings of Grégoire Mercier, the simpering of Corymbe Bontemps were no match for the temptations of the jingling stuff, which never fails to deliver up information. I shall therefore now lose myself in reading Journal des Voyages and when I have recovered the shoe I shall leave your bookshop without any fuss…’

  A few minutes later, Inspector Lecacheur addressed an amiable greeting to everyone in the bookshop and went back out to brave the biting cold. The right pocket of his cape, now curiously misshapen, would long remain impregnated with the smell of goat. Victor let out a sigh and hurried over to help Kenji, who was teetering under a pile of books by Jules Verne and Alexandre Dumas.

  Joseph clutched Le Passe-partout, not daring to open it, although the temptation was overwhelming. He resisted. Supposing it was not there? The weather was becoming bitter. He sheltered under the awning of the packaging shop opposite the bookshop, and watched Inspector Lecacheur leave. Slowly, he unfolded the daily, lingering over the page layout. Suddenly his hands trembled. It was so unbelievable that he remained rooted to the spot, his lips moving as he read:

  We are happy to announce to the many readers of Le Passe-partout that we are introducing a new serial entitled:

  THE STRANGE AFFAIR AT COLUMBINES

  from the pen of promising author, Joseph Pignot. In a mystery that will keep you on the edge of your seat, the action takes place at Paris and Lyon, in the most diverse milieux. The Strange Affair at Columbines, the first episode of which appears in this edition, is tipped for great success.

  ‘Papa, Papa, do you see this? That’s your son’s name there!’ murmured Joseph in a quavering voice.

  Kenji took a step back and contemplated the picture he had just hung in the alcove of his bedroom: The Rooftops of Paris at Dawn. He had kept it for more than eighteen months in his solid oak chest, so that he could put off telling Tasha and Victor that he had bought it at her exhibition at Le Soleil D’Or. What had he been worried about? That Victor would misunderstand his intentions and be jealous? That Tasha would imagine…No, the time for all that had passed. He would never again let the fear of what people might say dictate his conduct – that way of doing things had already cost him t
oo much suffering and difficulty. From now on, he would live his life without pretence. He experienced a moment of absolute happiness as he took in the jumble of roofs and gutters lit by a yellow light. How beautifully she had rendered it all! How good it was to be able to drink it in, to see the sun rise over the city, to dream of all that a new day promised! And what joy to finally be free of the burden of the secrets that had been gnawing away at him! Iris and Victor knew the truth, and there had been neither tears nor recrimination. Each time he looked at the picture, he would experience the same gratitude at the way life had turned out. He was proud to think that soon everyone would know Iris was his daughter.

  Joseph also knew the truth, but it was not Kenji who had told him. Iris had jumped the gun during one of the English lessons she gave Joseph in the back office. Her pupil had been so surprised that he had finally succeeded in pronouncing ‘father’ correctly, which linguistic prowess had been rewarded by an unforgettable kiss on the cheek.

  How many times had Joseph dreamed of nonchalantly tossing the newspaper containing his published serial on to the counter and mentioning casually to Victor as he climbed his ladder:

  ‘Take a look at page four. I think you’ll find a piece by someone you know quite well.’

  But the scene so often replayed in his mind now had a different protagonist, because all his thoughts were taken over by a charming young girl.

  Taking advantage of having to sort a range of dead stock, he led Iris down to the basement and without a word held out the copy of Le Passe-partout to her. She scanned the page, flabbergasted, then said in a husky voice: ‘It’s your name. It’s you!’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind that I have found a publisher?’

  ‘Of course not, it’s brilliant, Joseph!’

  ‘Yes, it’s a bit easier to read when it’s printed,’ he said as if that was the only thing that mattered to him.

  ‘When did you write it?’

  ‘In my spare time – during lunchtime, at night, after work. It was child’s play – I wrote about the things I had experienced and then added a bit of imagination…You don’t have to read it, of course! I know you’re not very fond of literature.’

  ‘Oh, but I…Yes, I am, you’re mistaken!’

  ‘I wanted you to be the first to know, because now I don’t have to worry about my future. Writing pays well, you know.’

  ‘Won’t we see each other any more? Are you going to leave?’

  ‘No, I have a future now, but I can’t only live by my pen. I need other work as well until…And I still have to master English.’

  ‘So you’re staying – I’m so happy! Do you know what? I could type your next manuscript on Father’s typewriter. Without him knowing, obviously.’

  ‘Of course, I…Bother! Listen, there are customers. Wait a little bit before you come up,’ murmured Joseph.

  She touched his hand. He recoiled as if she had burned him, hurried to the door, flew up the stairs then froze when he reached the shop. Those voices! If only the ground could swallow him up…

  This is the last straw, he told himself wandering along the shelves, filled with the absurd hope that he was invisible.

  He spotted Kenji and guessed from his unctuous manner that he was struggling valiantly to remain courteous. Opposite him, in the manner of Juno reigning at Jupiter’s right hand, stood the Comtesse Olympe de Salignac flanked by Raphaëlle de Gouveline and the Maltese lap dog that was her constant companion. As for Monsieur Legris, he seemed to be fascinated by Molière’s thin moustache.

  ‘Delighted, Madame, it’s such a long time since we’ve seen you.’

  ‘I’ve been otherwise engaged, Monsieur Mori. I’m going to be a great-aunt. My niece Valentine is awaiting a happy event, due in the summer.’

  ‘Splendid, splendid, we can no longer say that France is failing to populate itself. And how is Madame de Brix?’ enquired Kenji, clearing his throat discreetly.

  ‘She couldn’t be doing better; she has almost recovered. Do you know that she has found a fourth suitor? She met him at Lamalou-les-Bains, a retired colonel. They are to be wed in February. Naturally it will be a very simple ceremony, at her age…No maids of honour or veil. We have chosen a dress of silver grey and a white lace hat embellished with a very delicate sprig of orange blossom.’

  ‘Splendid, splendid,’ repeated Kenji, beating a strategic retreat behind the counter.

  ‘Indeed, Monsieur Mori. She has charged me with ordering the complete works of Claire de Chandeneux. I hope you have them,’ she concluded in a tone that brooked no refusal.

  ‘Claire de Chandeneux…Claire de Chandeneux…Uh…I…’ stammered Kenji, throwing a desperate look at Joseph, who stepped valiantly into the breech.

  ‘That’s lucky, Boss. I put all her books aside in the bilge section when we were doing the stock take. They’re in the stockroom. I’ll run down and fetch them.’

  Relieved, Kenji gave a sigh of relief and deigned to smile at Joseph, who had just won himself an ally.

  Raphaëlle de Gouveline had nonchalantly gone over to Victor.

  ‘Monsieur Legris,’ she murmured out of the corner of her mouth, ‘would you by any chance have a copy of The Damned? I like keep up to date, and everyone is carping about that book! And, while you’re at it, could you add in Nana and The Kill? I’m behind with my reading. Could you make me up a gift parcel, but out of sight of Olympe?’ She pointed her chin meaningfully in the direction of the Comtesse de Salignac. ‘Oh, I almost forgot, I would also like Madame Bovary and The Vatard Sisters33 – I’ve heard it’s a very interesting novel of manners, if you understand what I mean.’

  ‘Perfectly, Madame de Gouveline, perfectly.’

  ‘We have identical views on the spice of life, don’t we, Monsieur Legris?’

  She gave him a conspiratorial wink and rejoined the Comtesse, who was examining the books brought by Joseph.

  ‘Have them all delivered to me,’ ordered the Comtesse. ‘Claire de Chandeneux departed this world too early, depriving Catholic literature of its most ardent exponent.’

  ‘Oh yes! Claire de Chandeneux!’ agreed Raphaëlle de Gouveline. ‘You finally have her complete works, dear Olympe! I adore her chaste, sentimental stories; they have none of the vulgarity of masculine writing. Monsieur Mori, I shall immediately buy The Brambles on the Road and Val-Régis the Great for my long winter evenings. And it’s lucky there are two of them; I’ll be able to lend them to Mathilde de Flavignol and her friend Helga Becker who are both still immobilised after their terrible bicycle collision.’

  Monday 21 December

  ‘Madame Pignot, I have one! I was lucky – they’re fighting over them!’ yelled Madame Ballu, brandishing Le Passe-partout. ‘But have you lost your mind? You shouldn’t have got up with that knee of yours; it’s bigger than an ostrich egg! Dr Reynaud’s going to tick you off and, as for your son, he’ll tick me off. Does it hurt?’

  ‘My dear Madame Ballu, it’s like having a piston thumping away in my leg.’

  ‘You must get back into bed under the warmth of your eiderdown and take your soothing remedy, otherwise I won’t read to you. Do you remember where we were?’

  ‘Yes, Baroness de Saint-Pourçain left in a hurry, begging Dr Rambuteau not to frighten her poor husband, lest he have a fit right there in the drawing room.’

  ‘Right, time for Bedfordshire. Prop yourself against the pillow, there, that’s good. I’ll pour us some juice, settle myself down and reread you the last sentence, because it’s so beautiful:’

  Dr Rambuteau nodded gravely. He understood. She was an adorable little woman, very unlucky in marriage; she did not deserve such a fate…

  ‘That’s exactly like me, I didn’t deserve that my Ballu should rise to heaven because…’

  ‘Read!’

  ‘All right, all right.’

  Felix Charenton twisted in his seat, unable to bear it any more. He had pins and needles in his calves. The sofa was extremely uncomfortable. He rose and began to pace u
p and down the drawing room, looking several times at his watch. The family confabulation was dragging on interminably.

  ‘At this rate, I could be hanging about here until evening! But what on earth are they doing, for the Lord’s sake?’

  He felt an overpowering desire to smoke a cigarette.

  ‘Very well observed, don’t you think? Just like my Ballu, when he had been reading his newspaper too long and he…’

  ‘Continue reading!’

  ‘Oh, you, you’re hooked!’

  Unable to restrain himself he gently opened the door and found himself face to face with a man who looked at him strangely. Adjusting his pince-nez, he noticed the Légion d’Honneur on the man’s lapel and deduced that here was the Baron of Saint-Pourçain, not so ill after all. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Are the jewels to your liking?’

  ‘Of course, my friend, of course.’

  ‘Have you chosen the set of rubies or the set of emeralds? It’s late and I’m hungry.’

  ‘That’s just like my Joseph; he has a good appetite, you know,’ remarked Euphrosine.

  Madame Ballu’s face softened. She continued:

  ‘Do you wear braces?’ asked the man with the Légion d’Honneur.

  Felix Charenton opened his mouth without knowing what to say. It was true: the Baron was completely deranged.