by Claude Izner
Joseph cut out this snippet and had just stuck it into his notebook when Victor appeared.
‘I’m happy to see you, boss; there aren’t many customers because of the snow so there’s nothing to distract me. I can’t stop thinking about Denise…’
‘I can’t either, but it’s hard to make sense of everything and…’
Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of a connoisseur of illustrated works on Lepidoptera. ‘Mademoiselle Tasha will meet you at nine o’clock at the Soleil D’Or,’ Joseph whispered to Victor.
The amber light of the street lamps of Boulevard Saint-Michel illuminated a bustling crowd of penniless students, teachers and bohemians of all types, drifting towards the café terraces where absinthe, that goddess of dreams and oblivion, could be imbibed. From there they ogled the ankles of the young women holding up their skirts to keep them from sweeping the trampled snow as they made their way to dinner, or hurried towards the omnibus stand near the ornamental fountain.
The Soleil d’Or, Number 1 on Place Saint-Michel, on the corner of the quay, was an ordinary brasserie that attracted a stream of bearded, long-haired and unfashionably dressed young men. Some had disreputable women, faces caked with powder, on their arms.
Victor followed them in. A staircase behind the counter led down to the basement decorated by Gauguin. Furnished with a piano, trestle tables and chairs, which were now piled with hats, the cellar smelt of cigars, pipes and cheap scent. On arrival, the artists rested their canvases against the walls and then ordered an aperitif from the sulky waiter leaning on the bar. Maurice Laumier, dressed in a wine-coloured velvet jacket, greeted them with a friendly slap on the back and invited them to sit down, always with the same joke, ‘Take a pew, Cinna!’
Disgusted, Victor turned round and bumped into Tasha, looking charming in a pale green dress with a white lace collar and puff sleeves gathered at the cuffs. ‘That’s gorgeous. I haven’t seen it before – you’ve never…’
‘It belonged to my mother. I keep it for special occasions.’
He was hurt that she had never worn the dress for him. As if she could read his thoughts, she added, ‘It’s much too tight at the waist. I have to wear a corset and after half an hour I’m suffocating. Come nearer to the piano. Would you like a glass of champagne? It’s Maurice’s treat. Na zdorovia,’ she said, raising her glass.
He could barely bring himself to swallow a mouthful of a drink offered by Laumier. A man who looked like a second-rate actor, draped in a cape full of holes and wearing a sombrero at a rakish angle, and giving off a pungent odour, greeted them obsequiously and asked for a coin or two for poor Paul and a cigarette for himself. Victor gave him what he wanted.
‘Who’s that?’ he murmured when the pseudo-hidalgo had departed.
‘A famous pianist.’
‘Really?’
‘Didn’t you see his teeth? One black, one white, one black, one white…’
‘Very funny!’ he cried. ‘Seriously, who is he?’
‘That old tramp doused in all the perfumes of Arabia rejoices in the name of Bibi la Purée.’
‘Which poor Paul was he referring to?’
‘Verlaine. Bibi la Purée has set himself up as his secretary, in fact all he does is drink up Verlaine’s dregs and act as messenger to his mistresses. He also sometimes poses for the painters of Montmartre.’
‘Verlaine,’ murmured Victor. ‘A great poet, perhaps a genius. A pity he’s destroying his health in the drinking dens. J’ai la fureur d’aimer. Mon cœur si faible est fou…’
‘I didn’t know you liked poetry! I thought you were only interested in crime novels.’
‘You’ve known me for less than a year! Do you think you know every–’
‘Ah! I must introduce you to my new friend. Mademoiselle Ninon Delarme, Monsieur Victor Legris,’ she said, cutting across his recrimination.
Victor kissed the gloved hand extended by a young woman whose dark-brown hair was escaping from a sable fur hat. When he straightened up, he found himself looking at a low-cut neckline revealing a small, round bosom. Next, he took in a moist mouth and almond-shaped eyes outlined in black.
‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ he murmured.
‘Follow me,’ said Tasha, ‘I’ll show you the canvases I’m thinking of exhibiting.’
‘Who came up with the idea of this exhibition? Laumier?’
‘No, it was Léon Deschamps, the editor of the magazine La Plume. Two Saturdays each month he also invites poets to come along and give a reading of their work in public.’
As soon as Tasha had led Victor away, Maurice made a beeline for Ninon. ‘Don’t tell me – let me guess! You’ve come to see me!’ he exclaimed, putting his arms round her waist.
With an animated gesture, Ninon spread out a silk fan, aware that the eyes of all the men were on her. Victor, charmed, was not immune from the general infatuation. Tasha invited them to join her.
‘Maurice, I have four canvases here. I’ll bring five more at the beginning of the week.’
‘That’s annoying; we won’t be able to decide how to hang everything if we don’t have…Let me see that.’
He made a face as he looked at one of the paintings. ‘More roofs of Paris! You know perfectly well that I don’t like them. Why didn’t you choose your male nudes?’
He stepped back to judge the overall effect of the canvases. ‘They lack virility.’
‘Surely virility, which is the characteristic of men, would be inappropriate for women, who would worry about growing a moustache?’ suggested Ninon.
Tasha burst out laughing. ‘Don’t worry, Ninon, I’m used to that word, the only word that impresses men – it reassures them.’
Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at Victor who judged it prudent to accelerate the retreat he had embarked on when Laumier had mentioned the male nudes. But Maurice, taking up the gauntlet good-naturedly, held him back by the arm. ‘My dear Legris, how can we take women seriously? What have they ever created? Has there ever been a great female genius? And I hope you’re not going to put forward Sappho or Madame Vigée-Le Brun!’2
Ninon smiled sweetly and batted the ball back in a honeyed tone: ‘How many male geniuses would history have counted had men spent two-thirds of their existence peeling potatoes and washing nappies?’
‘My dear child, please don’t tell me that your daily activities are confined to those two things!’ protested Laumier.
‘Where did you meet that girl?’ Victor whispered in Tasha’s ear.
‘We met yesterday afternoon at Bibulus. She helped me carry my canvases to the framer. You were at the morgue, otherwise…She wants to pose for me, but I turned her down.’
‘Why?’
‘I wouldn’t be able to pay her. No, no, I know what you’re going to suggest, but it’s out of the question and, besides, female nudes…’
‘Shame.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I would have asked permission to be present at the sittings.’
‘Oh, you! Look, you can apply to Maurice; he’s already got her in his clutches. Go and wait for me downstairs – I’m just coming.’
He sat down at a table in the room downstairs where sullen bachelors were gorging themselves on sausages. He unfolded one of the dailies, skimmed through the articles, which were largely devoted to Chancellor Bismarck’s resignation and the news in brief, but there was nothing new.
‘My dear, don’t believe anything printed there – it’s all made up!’
‘Don’t speak ill of the press; we need them to publicise our work.’
He turned round to find the brunette and the redhead, each as attractive as the other, seated next to him.
‘Tasha has told me about you. Bookseller, photographer, gallant lover, amateur detective. That’s a lot for one man!’
‘Well, as for the amateur detective, Tasha is exaggerating,’ observed Victor.
‘Hypocrite!’ cried Tasha. ‘Admit that you love i
nvolving yourself in what doesn’t concern you; last summer you risked your life on a case!’
‘I did become involved in that case, but not because I wanted to…’
‘Stop squabbling,’ said Ninon, ‘and enlighten me. Tasha claims that you’re a devotee of crime novels. Don’t you find them a bit dull? I’ve read two or three and they all seemed to be written according to the same formula: good triumphs over evil, the murderer is interrogated, judged, executed and, hey presto, society can sleep soundly again.’
‘They’re much more than that,’ replied Victor. ‘Honest people are fascinated by crime. The authors of these books lead us along routes we don’t dare venture down in real life, but which we delight in exploring in our imaginations.’
‘Really? Perhaps I spoke too hastily. I must admit that I’m more interested in the interaction of men and women. You’ll have to initiate me, Monsieur Legris. I’m counting on you,’ she said, pressing Victor’s hand for longer than was necessary before taking her leave.
Victor watched her going out of the brasserie.
‘A panther,’ he murmured.
‘Has Denise been identified by a relative?’ asked Tasha.
‘No.’
‘What have you decided to do?’
‘Give me two more days.’
‘I’ll give you two and no more, you understand? I’ve no desire to share my life with a high-wire artiste who could crash to the ground at any moment.’
‘You really want to share my life?’
‘What do you think we’re doing?’
On the way back, he abruptly held out the ivory combs he had bought on Rue Pernelle. Touched by this gesture, she kissed him and held him tight against her shoulder. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him that she had a horror of things that came from dead animals, that for her they evoked suffering and death. Deep in his pocket, Victor fingered Odette’s locket, that frozen little heart and keeper of a secret that he would have to reveal to her. It was still snowing.
Madame Pignot piled up the plates and cutlery on the draining board in the kitchen. ‘Have you had enough to eat, my pet?’
‘Yes, Maman.’
Armed with her poker, she lifted the cast-iron lid of the stove and threw in a lump of coal, then pulled back the curtain from the window.
‘Still falling, falling, really vile weather. If this goes on, I’ll stay at home tomorrow.’
‘And you’d be right to, Maman. At your age you have to look after yourself.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m strong. Your poor father used to say, “Euphrosine, you’re as strong as an ox.”’
‘I’m going into Papa’s study.’
‘Don’t go to bed too late, my pet.’
Joseph shut himself in and put the petrol lamp in the middle of the table, which was littered with a confusion of cartidges, broken shells, pointed Prussian artillery helmets and relics collected by his bookseller father who had been in the National Guard during the war of 1870. Adjoining the tiny ground floor apartment he shared with his mother, the little study sheltered his entire inheritance: old books, prints, magazines, piles of newspapers carefully sorted into years. It was his kingdom. It was here he planned out his stories, drafted his novel, sorted through his press cuttings and thought about Valentine de Salignac.
This evening he was feeling low. He sat down and gloomily considered the newspapers spread out in front of him. Denise was only a short news item amongst other miscellaneous snippets; it was as if her death counted for nothing. He would have liked to work on his novel but his heart wasn’t in it. He closed the school exercise book with Blood and Love on the cover and, opening his brand new notebook wrote Lady Vanishes from Père-Lachaise, March 1890 at the top of the first page. For a moment he chewed the end of his pen, then made up his mind and started writing:
Go back to Cour des Comptes. The boss is hiding something from me. Why was he tailing that old man?
He gazed at the photograph pinned up on the wall. A twenty-year-old Madame Pignot and a rotund secondhand bookseller were smiling at him, leaning against the parapet of Quai Voltaire.
‘You’re right, Papa, you should never throw in the towel; when you really want to do something you find a way. I’ve decided I’m going to apply myself wholeheartedly to this case; you would be proud of me.’
Chapter Seven
A warm sun, worthy of spring was melting the snow. But far from feeling relieved by this sudden improvement, Joseph felt outraged. It seemed wrong that the weather should be clement when the Éclair announced on page 4:
Drowning at Pont de Crimée
An autopsy has shown that the unidentified young girl found in the Canal de l’Ourcq three days ago had been knocked out before being thrown in the water. Was she killed by a prowler or was this a crime of passion?
He cut out the paragraph and stuck it into the new notebook he had prepared the night before. Then he browsed through the other dailies, seizing on Le Passe-partout, which also mentioned Denise.
The young girl found in the Canal de l’Ourcq had been savagely beaten before she went into the water. Her identity remains unknown. It is time the police devoted more effort to guaranteeing the safety of our citizens…
He placed this article after the first one. A door banged overhead. Hastily tidying away the newspapers and notebook, Joseph threw on his jacket and took up his pen as Tasha came down the stairs.
‘Isn’t the boss with you?’ he asked, dusting the desk.
‘He left very early, saying he had a meeting with a client. I’m sure he’s lying; he had that worried look…’
‘Don’t tell me, I know. He raises his eyebrows a little and gets two big creases right across his forehead. You’d swear that he was going to bite.’
She couldn’t help laughing as he pulled a face like a sulky dog.
‘I think he’s hooked on sleuthing again, and I don’t like it,’ she murmured.
‘And she thinks that I do?’ Joseph said to himself. ‘The boss promised to include me in his investigations but he was just fobbing me off! A bit of trust would be nice.’ A wave of rancour swept over him, hitting him in the pit of the stomach. He shook his duster angrily over the bust of Molière.
‘Well, if he’s going to cast me aside, he’ll see what I can do on my own. I’m going to be ill, starting this afternoon. In five years’ good and loyal service I’ve never been off sick, so now…He’d better not accuse me of not pulling my weight! This will teach him, no more running off across town leaving me with sole responsibility for the shop, and this way Mademoiselle Tasha won’t have to worry any more.’
He was muttering to himself, waving his duster and lifting up books only to slam them noisily down again.
‘What’s wrong, my little moujik?’
‘What’s wrong is that I caught cold yesterday, chasing after Monsieur Legris. I’m feeling under the weather, I’m ill, that’s what’s wrong!’
He was going to continue when his attention was caught by a carriage stopping in front of the bookshop. He went over to the window. ‘Well, well! Mademoiselle Tasha, come and see what’s blown our way!’
Victor was furious. He left the police station, tapping the ground with his cane – he had arrived too late! Père Moscou had been set free twenty minutes earlier than normal, because his cell was urgently needed to house five people accused of burgling an apartment. He consulted his watch: five past nine. He would have to go back to the bookshop or Tasha would bend his ear again. He took the time to buy the new edition of Le Siècle and unfolded it just as he was passing a bistro on Rue du Vertbois.
Slumped against the bistro stove, Père Moscou was gleefully tucking into his black pudding with apple, and between mouthfuls regaling his audience of shop girls and drunkards with anecdotes of his night at the police station in the company of prostitutes.
‘One of them, who was past her best and was as wide as a house, said that during the Prussian siege she had been so hungry that she’d had to survive on rats and
Jerusalem artichoke and that ever since she’d eaten enough for four. I raise my glass to her!’
He took a swig of wine. ‘She called herself Madame Sans-Gêne, like Bonaparte’s friend. Oh, how he loved women; he was mad about his Josephine…Damnation!’
That name, which he had given to the dead woman, had reminded him of something. He could picture the exact place where he had buried the body, with the two uprooted and replanted lilac bushes. His wine went down the wrong way and he almost choked. A girl banged him cheerfully on the back, and he rose to his feet in a sudden panic. ‘Got to go back to the courtyard to collect my things so that I can disappear somewhere, otherwise I’ll be done for.’ He took three uncertain steps towards the door, to an oh of disappointment, whereupon he sat down again and everyone applauded.
‘I’m not an idiot!’ he thundered.
‘No, you’re a pig, you drink and you blame it on me!’ shouted a drunken voice.
‘You’re just waiting for that, aren’t you, Grouchy! You’re waiting for me to show my face, then you’ll take me unawares! I’m not an idiot, but I’ll make you look like one! I’ll just slip home quietly when it’s dark – you won’t see me, at night everyone looks alike.’
‘But you’re as round as a barrel!’ bawled the voice
‘To the slaughter!’ yelled Père Moscou. ‘While I’m waiting I’ll just settle down here, nice and warm with a good bottle of wine. And if anyone objects to that…’
He half stood up then fell back on his stool trumpeting: ‘We’ll breach their flank, talley-ho!’
Victor stood stock still in the middle of the pavement in front of the large hotel in the Magasins Réunis building, indifferent to the passers-by who cursed and jostled him. He heard nothing and saw only the words running across the top of the page.