The Disappearance at Père-Lachaise

by Claude Izner

  ‘This place is becoming gentrified. One day it’ll be so thick with men of independent means that we shall be obliged to decamp, unless of course we show them what’s what!’

  The others laughed approvingly and shot sidelong glances at Victor, who feigned indifference. He had more important things on his mind. How was he going to explain Denise’s disappearance to Tasha? The question was still plaguing him when at last he saw her. Ignoring Maurice’s calls, she was making a beeline for him in her embroidered blouse and grey skirt, her red hair held up by two gilt hair combs.

  Later, he promised himself, rising to his feet and offering his arm to the young woman who smiled at him as she adjusted her little hat adorned with flowers.

  ‘See you tomorrow, Tasha. Get some sleep!’ Maurice Laumier called out.

  Since she had drifted off to sleep half an hour earlier, he’d been trying unsuccessfully to do likewise. He got up quietly, a cramp in his calf, and went into the room that served both as study and sitting room. He sat facing the roll-top desk, lit the Rochester lamp and glanced wearily at the engravings of Charles Fournier’s phalanstery that his uncle Émile had left him. The universal harmony propounded by the Utopian had been left behind by the bandwagon of history; was this something to rejoice over or to deplore? He emptied out the contents of the envelope he had purloined from Odette’s apartment. Over the course of the evening, which had started out in the restaurant of the Hotel Continental and ended in the bedroom, he couldn’t stop thinking about Denise and how annoyed Tasha would be when she discovered what had happened, and about Odette’s disappearance. He had done his best to hide his concerns and was certain he’d been successful, despite their having somewhat interfered with his enjoyment of the caresses they’d exchanged in bed.

  His discomfort at his own duplicity quickly gave way to a feeling of renewed excitement about the investigation and, setting aside Armand’s letters to his wife, he concentrated first on the black leather appointments diary, decorated with a tooled portrayal of General Boulanger astride a horse. At the top of each page Odette had written the date, beginning 1st October 1889. The entries were unremarkable. Monday 6th: hairdresser…Wednesday: tea with A.D.B.…Who was A.D.B.? Friday 24th October: fitting with Maud…Monday 27th: Received package from Armand, hung Madonna on his bedroom wall…Tuesday 28th October: sent telegram to Armand…He forced himself to read on through a list of trivia largely concerning visits to hairdressers and dressmakers. From 20th December onwards the entries related to the arrangements for the memorial, the ordering of a marble plaque and further meetings with different people. 20th December: appointment with Maître Arnaud…22nd December: Turner…appointment with Zénobie three-thirty p.m. Pâtisserie Gloppe, Champs-Élysées…28th: Père-Lachaise…3rd January ’90: A.D.B.…7th January: Zénobie. 10th January: Église de la Madeleine, memorial mass for Armand…And from then on as regular as clockwork on Monday and Thursday afternoons, Zénobie, Zénobie, Zénobie up until March.

  ‘Who was this Zénobie? A relative of Armand perhaps?’ he wondered, closing the diary.

  He scanned the papers: legal documents notarised by Maître Arnaud relating to Armand’s will and apparently naming Odette as sole heir. There was also an official letter from the French Consulate in Colombia.

  Tumaco, 22nd November 1889

  Dear Madame,

  It is our sad duty to inform you of the death of your husband Armand de Valois, geologist with the Inter-Oceanic Canal Company, who succumbed to yellow fever on 13th November 1889 in the village of Las Juntas. His body was laid to rest in the ground with all the respect due to him. We hereby return to you his papers and personal effects.

  Please accept our deepest sympathy and sincere condolences.

  There was another letter from Armand de Valois, written in October and containing some underlined passages.

  Cali 8th October

  My dear wife,

  I am sending you the portrait of the Madonna we saw together at Lourdes in ’86. It is very dear to me so please take great care of it. I want you to hang it up in my bedroom above my desk next to the portrait of the Archangel Saint Michel which Monsignor Carette left me. Send me a telegram as soon as you receive this letter telling me it has arrived safely. All is well here. I am heading for Panama, and will sail to France at the end of November. I shall be back in Paris in time to celebrate Christmas with you. Until then.

  Much love,

  Armand

  What a cold letter! I wouldn’t have credited dear Armand with such religious zeal, Victor thought.

  He looked briefly at a third letter written by Odette.

  29th July 1889

  Dear Armand,

  How are you, my duck?

  Oh, so she calls him by that silly nickname too, he observed, a little piqued.

  …I returned from Paris yesterday. I thoroughly enjoyed my stay at Houlgate…

  He skimmed through the letter, ashamed of prying.

  …met some charming people, in particular the well-known English spiritualist Monsieur Numa Winner…

  Numa Winner…The author of the booklet about the table-turning in Jersey?

  …he assured me that your troubles will soon be over […]. Did I tell you that your bookseller M. Legris, from Rue des Saints-Pères […] a loose woman who poses nude as an artist’s model […] he doesn’t wear a top hat and has a Chinese servant?

  ‘Marvellous’, muttered Victor. ‘Bah! It’s fair enough, after all I left her – she’s just getting her own back.’

  It occurred to him that their separation might have caused her grief. Shrugging off the idea, he replaced the papers in the envelope, disappointed not to have discovered anything of real interest. He yawned. It would be better if he stopped trying to invent a plot based around some make-up left behind in a bathroom. Odette had run away with a lover and her maid had taken advantage of the situation to carry out a series of petty thefts. That was all there was to it.

  Victor returned to the bedroom. He pulled the sheet back and was displeased to find Tasha stretched out in the middle of the bed. He tickled her, without success. Lying at the edge of the mattress, he felt her breath caress his neck and not for the first time found himself wondering how two such independent men as he and Kenji could have fallen under the spell of a woman.

  It’s more understandable in my case, but he seems so resilient, so indifferent to the weaker sex…However hard he tried to put it out of his mind, he couldn’t help imagining his associate and adoptive father performing lascivious acts with a certain Iris. Slightly ashamed, he snuggled up to Tasha and found refuge in a fitful sleep.

  Chapter Five

  Two scholars tightly buttoned into their black frock coats were examining works on genealogy and exchanging observations in hushed voices at the back of the bookshop. Victor stood holding a bundle of yellowing papers and conversing with a long-haired gentleman in his sixties, who was looking for documents relating to Marshall Lefebvre.1 When the man took his leave, Victor accompanied him to the door and said goodbye politely.

  ‘Joseph, please wrap this package properly, and deliver it immediately to Monsieur Victorien Sardou. Damn! The battleaxe,’ he groaned, beating a retreat to the shelter of the office.

  To his utter astonishment, Jojo, beaming, hurried over to greet the Comtesse de Salignac and her niece Valentine.

  ‘Young man, have you received Spirit of Stone yet?’

  As he rushed to her niece’s side without answering, she addressed Victor frostily.

  ‘Must one go on a waiting list in order to enjoy the privilege of finding you at home, Monsieur Legris?’

  ‘I have been awfully busy of late,’ he replied, with the utmost affability.

  He was about to continue, when a woman of around forty, plump and cheerful and enveloped in the folds of a tartan cape, with a Maltese dog tucked under arm, burst into the bookshop.

  ‘Olympe! I knew I’d find you here. Have you seen L’Éclair?’ she cried, brandishing the latest issue
.

  Before the Comtesse had time to open her mouth, she read aloud:

  Two university doctors have been examining the question of whether life can continue after a man has been guillotined. Whilst one insists that the moment of death definitely marks the end of thought, the other, having satisfied himself that a man’s heart carries on beating for several seconds after decapitation, concludes that mental activity still occurs in the brain after it has been separated from the body.

  ‘What do you say to that! Isn’t it thrilling? Doesn’t it put you in mind of our friend Adalberte’s experiences?’

  ‘Preposterous,’ retorted Madame de Salignac, sniffing haughtily.

  ‘Is Madame de Brix in the habit of frequenting the guillotine?’ Victor was surprised.

  Joseph, all agog, had posted himself next to Raphaëlle de Gouveline, hoping she would forget her paper so he could cut out the article.

  ‘Since her son’s death she’s become obsessed with spiritualism. And when her husband disappeared Odette went the same way. I never made such fuss when mine gave up the ghost! Well, Monsieur Legris, I’m waiting!’ said the Comtesse.

  ‘Poor Odette! One can’t blame her for finding it hard to bear such a loss! Nevertheless, I agree with you, Olympe; spending more than three months in deep mourning is perhaps excessive. We were supposed to meet last Sunday at Adalberte’s – she’s not very well at the moment, by the way, heart trouble – just us widows, we find a certain solace in evoking the memory of our dear departed, but Odette let us down. She probably decided to go and see that clairvoyant of hers at the last minute, that…oh, what is the name of that charlatan, I never can remember! I shall go over to Boulevard Haussmann at the end of the week. Do you have a message for her, Monsieur Legris? She’s so lonely these days,’ concluded Raphaëlle, looking meaningfully at Victor, who remained impassive.

  ‘You’d do well to put off your visit, what with the Mid-Lent parades. One never know–’ Madame de Salignac stopped mid-sentence, her eyes fixed on a point behind Victor’s shoulder.

  ‘Monsieur Legris, a young woman is asking for you,’ whispered Raphaëlle de Gouveline.

  He turned round. Tasha, her hair loose, was leaning over the banister. She waved to the little group before going back upstairs, followed closely by Victor.

  ‘So that’s the Russian hussy,’ Raphaëlle de Gouveline sighed.

  ‘Why men fall for such creatures is a mystery to me. Animals, my dear, all animals!’

  Joseph took advantage of the diversion to take Valentine to one side.

  ‘You spend an awful lot of time with your aunt; you must be very fond of her,’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s her. She won’t let me out of her sight,’ she sighed, blushing. ‘But I intend to go and see the new spring collection at the Grands Magasins du Louvre tomorrow. Alone,’ she added meaningfully.

  Joseph understood, but with one boss away and the other blissfully in love, it would be hard for him to get out.

  Victor came back down the stairs and graciously handed a paperback volume to each of the women.

  ‘Allow me to offer you these editions printed on Japan paper in the hope that you will forgive my absences.’

  ‘Spirit of Stone! How terribly kind!’ exclaimed Raphaëlle de Gouveline.

  She leant over to Victor while the Comtesse was busy examining the book through her lorgnette: ‘Between you and me, my dear man, I prefer Guy de Maupassant’s novels to those of Georges Ohnet. They’re so much racier, don’t you think?’

  ‘I am of the same opinion as you. Please convey my regards to Madame de Valois if you see her.’

  ‘I shan’t forget, my dear man, I shan’t forget. Are you coming, Olympe?’

  The Comtesse called out sharply to Valentine, who detached herself reluctantly from Joseph’s side, and the three women left the shop, followed by the two scholars.

  During his lunch break, Jojo climbed on to his library steps with his customary apple and newspaper – delighted at having been able to pinch Raphaëlle de Gouveline’s copy of L’Éclair. Victor sat at his desk mechanically flicking through the orders list, preoccupied by the events of the previous day. Joseph let out a cry:

  ‘Listen to this, boss!’

  Corpse at St Nazaire continued…The cause of death of the unidentified body found on the cargo ship Goéland has finally been established. According to the pathologist who carried out the autopsy it was a murder. The man was approximately 5 feet 9 inches tall and aged between thirty-five and forty-five. He had dark-brown hair and a beard. His right femur being somewhat shorter than his left would have given him, when alive, a slight limp. The back of his skull was fractured in two places, suggesting heavy blows to the head resulting in almost instantaneous death. His body was undoubtedly pushed into the hold and then concealed. According to the pathologist, the attack occurred weeks, possibly months ago. Messieurs Lechacheur and Goron spent part of yesterday afternoon checking the lists of shipping entering and leaving St Nazaire harb–

  ‘Enough!’ Victor, at the end of his tether, exploded. ‘I’ve allowed you to display those detective novels in the shop window, though they’re hardly likely to attract any real bibliophiles, but please spare me your ghastly news items!’

  Incensed by such a blatant display of hypocrisy, Joseph let his newspaper drop and stammered: ‘But–but Monsieur Legris, that’s unfair! You’re the one who introduced me to that kind of literature and, as for the window display, it wasn’t my idea – you suggested it just before Christmas! But, if that’s how you feel, I’ll dismantle it this minute!’

  Victor couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘Forgive me, Joseph, I’m sorry. I’ve got a few things on my mind at the moment. Take no notice of me – I didn’t mean a word I said.’

  ‘So you say,’ muttered Joseph, retrieving the scattered pages of his newspaper.

  A headline caught his eye and he drew the page closer so he could read it. Victor watched him, intrigued. He was scanning one of the articles, visibly distressed.

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘Top right-hand page,’ Joseph murmured, ‘“Woman drowned”…’

  ‘“Woman drowned at Pont de Crimée”.’ Victor had snatched the paper and was reading in a low voice.

  Early yesterday evening, a boatman by the name of Jean Bréchart, who was waiting to pass through the Pont de Crimée, pulled a young woman’s body out of the river. All evidence points to the poor creature having committed suicide. The corpse was taken to the morgue where it is waiting to be identified. The drowned woman, blonde, approximately twenty years old and of slender build, was dressed in shabby clothing and wore a cheap bracelet on her right wrist with a pendant in the shape of a dog.

  ‘It’s Denise,’ gasped Joseph.

  Disconcerted, Victor tried to reassure him. ‘Now what makes you think it’s her? Why do you think she’d–’

  ‘It’s her, I tell you. We were at the funfair the day before yesterday, Sunday. That bracelet…I won it for her at the shooting gallery.’

  ‘Hundreds of girls wear trinkets like that.’

  ‘It says in the paper that she’s blonde.’

  ‘And there are thousands of young blondes in Paris, Joseph…’

  But he was careful not to mention that only one had gone to a meeting at Pont de Crimée.

  ‘Monsieur Legris, I want to be sure. I’m going to the morgue.’

  ‘All right, I’ll close the shop and go with you. I’ll just tell Tasha…’

  Despite the warmth of the stove, Joseph suddenly felt very cold.

  The carriage ride took place in silence. Joseph was imagining Denise laughing aloud astride her wooden horse, pleased as punch when he presented her with the bracelet and hungrily devouring the pile of frites served up to them by his mother, Euphrosine Pignot. She was too full of life to have thrown herself off a bridge. Monsieur Legris was right: it wasn’t her, it couldn’t possibly be her…Victor, his head turned stubbornly towards the window, was trying har
d to make sense of the young girl’s desperate act. He could see only one explanation: guilt at some irreparable wrong. But how could a simple theft justify suicide? Was there another motive? He was beginning to feel seriously worried about Odette.

  Behind the chevet of the Notre-Dame, a levy office, which looked like a Greek mausoleum, jutted out of the Seine at the tip of l’Île de la Cité. Victor had often crossed Pont Archevêché without paying attention to the morgue. He certainly never imagined he would one day have reason to enter the squat building. He recalled someone saying to him recently: ‘People queue up to see drowned bodies like they do the latest fashions.’ He was unsurprised, therefore, to discover a crowd standing outside the doors to the sinister establishment. Joseph, however, wasn’t expecting to come across so many women, young and old. There were shop assistants, dressmakers on their way back to their workshops and mothers carrying brats. Navvies too, who had slipped away from their gantries, and children playing truant. Not to mention shifty individuals up to no good. Some were laughing and they were all jostling for position in the queue.