The Disappearance at Père-Lachaise

by Claude Izner

  Murder at the Canal de L’ourq

  The young girl fished out of the Canal de l’Ourcq had been hit over the head before being thrown into the water.

  He let himself sink down on a bench, the newspaper slipping from his grasp.

  Quick, think. My deductions are ill-founded. The day I went to Tasha’s to talk to Denise, Madame Ladoucette told me that she had gone to the employment agency at seven in the morning. I went up at ten o’clock and found it in a terrible state, so Tasha’s room was searched before the murder, not afterwards, let’s say between seven thirty and my arrival.

  Staring unseeingly at a starving dog who was scavenging in a rubbish bin, Victor decided that Joseph was right to invoke the methods of his hero Gaboriau: ‘Easy puzzles are of no interest – let’s leave them to the children. What I need are unsolvable enigmas, so that I can solve them…’ Adopting the method of Monsieur Lecoq, I need to identify with the criminal, what would I do in his place? Let’s see, the letter has enticed Denise out of Tasha’s room, you’re lying in wait near the building, you watch her. She comes out. She doesn’t have The Madonna in Blue. You’re taken by surprise. You follow her to make certain. No, she doesn’t have it. Her little cloth bundle couldn’t possibly contain a flat, rectangular object thirty by forty centimetres. She must have left it upstairs. It’s early, you’ve more than enough time to make it to the meeting place you’ve fixed with her. You go back to number 60, manage to cross the courtyard without exciting the attention of the concierges. You go up. The key is indeed under the mat. The coast is clear. You search everywhere, systematically. In vain. Yet you’re certain Denise didn’t have the picture with her. You hurry to the Church of Saint-Jacques-Saint-Christophe. You’re angry. Denise is there. You threaten her: what has she done with the picture? Where has she hidden it? She takes fright, denies having it – if she’s accused of theft, she’ll lose everything. You grab her bundle and she flees, but you catch her and hit her savagely. She falls: she’s dead. No witnesses. You throw her into the water. You scrabble through her belongings…Nothing, the wench misled you, you’re empty-handed…

  He got up briskly. The murderer didn’t recover The Madonna in Blue, he’s still looking for it! And if he’s still looking…I have to make certain.

  He hurried to find a cab rank.

  Disappointed, he ran down the stairs and was about to cross the courtyard when he stopped himself just in time and lit a cigarette, to give Helga Becker the time to leave on her bicycle. He had inspected everything again and looked at each picture, no Madonna in Blue. He knocked at the concierge’s lodge and the door was opened by Madame Ladoucette, brandishing a broom. ‘Oh, it’s you, Monsieur Legris! You know the saga of the key that you started is getting on my nerves. Mademoiselle Tasha was furious, I’m telling you.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s all sorted out. Do you remember how many bags the maid was carrying when she left the building?’

  ‘Why? Has she stolen something?’

  ‘No, I’m not suggesting anything like that. I just wanted to know if she had inadvertently taken a long, flat package, like a large book or picture.’

  ‘A long, flat package? No, I didn’t notice. She only had her bundle, you know, a square of material knotted at each corner. And she wouldn’t have taken one of Mademoiselle Tasha’s canvases would she? If she did, I wash my hands of her. That’s what happens when you lend your house to other people; it’s nothing but bother.’

  ‘You’re right, Madame Ladoucette. I’m going to have the locks changed.’

  Victor pushed open the bookshop door. Tasha sat in front of the counter looking through a study of Rembrandt.

  ‘Are you still here? Where’s Joseph?’ he asked.

  ‘I sent him home, he’s ill.’

  ‘Ill?’

  ‘Yes, I hope he hasn’t caught influenza.’

  ‘He hasn’t been ill once in the last five years; it’s surprising.’

  ‘Talking of surprises, Monsieur Mori is amongst us.’

  Appalled, he looked towards the stairs. ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘Of course, I’m not invisible.’

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘I said to him, “Hello, Monsieur Mori, did you have a good journey?”’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘The sea was choppy, but, yes, I did have a good journey.’

  ‘You’re making fun of me.’

  She stared at him mockingly for a moment. ‘You’re obsessed by what he thinks. You have to stop feeling guilty towards him, you’re thirty years old, more than four times the age of reason. I suppose you’re going to ask me to move out?’

  ‘How can you think that of me? I’m the one who asked you to come here. There’s no question of you having to leave, this is your home! Move out, good heavens, what do you take me for? A…I don’t care what Kenji thinks!’ he cried.

  She went up to him and laid her finger on his lips. ‘Calm down. In any case, I have to go back to prepare the last canvases for the framer, the exhibition opens…’

  He seized her arm. ‘I forbid it!’

  ‘You forbid me to exhibit?’ she shot back coldly, freeing herself.

  ‘I forbid you to return to your garret until I’ve changed the locks. Denise took the key with her, and she’s been…You can surely wait until tomorrow, can’t you?’

  Since he seemed genuinely worried, she softened. ‘You’re wrong to think that I’m at home here, and neither am I exactly sharing your home: we’re both sharing…his. But it’s agreed, I’ll stay another day. I’m going to Bibulus. See you this evening.’

  She went out, giving him a little wave through the window. He wasn’t going to risk losing her through cowardice. He decided to confront Kenji immediately.

  He found him writing a letter, dressed in a maroon smoking jacket with white spots, and grey pinstripe trousers.

  ‘British elegance!’ exclaimed Victor, shaking his hand. Without wanting to admit it, he was pleased to have him back.

  ‘I brought you a printed velvet waistcoat, over there, the package on the sideboard, and for Jojo there’s a purple silk tie. He’s not well.’

  ‘So Tasha told me,’ said Victor, unfolding the waistcoat. ‘It’s magnificent! Thank you.’

  He was relieved that he had already mentioned the young woman’s name, now he would have to press on. But with one of his habitual changes of tack, Kenji steered the conversation in another direction. ‘No doubt you’re surprised to see me back in the fold so soon? I was able to wrap up affairs in London, so there was no need to prolong my stay, and besides there was a fog you could cut with a knife.’

  Poor Iris! thought Victor, recalling the beautiful, childlike girl he had seen in a photograph. He only devotes the minimum of time to her. It can’t be fun loving a man who keeps his emotions so completely in check.

  Determined to broach the subject, he launched in: ‘And you must have been surprised to find Tasha here?’

  Showing no more emotion than if he were a stone, Kenji signed his initials at the bottom of the letter, which he carefully folded, and contented himself with replying, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, there’s a simple explanation. I…she…’

  A dull fear swept over him, as if he were eight years old again, had stolen some biscuits and was trying to blame the dog. If he told the truth, he risked souring the harmonious relationship he, whose father had been a tyrant, enjoyed with his adoptive father who was full of solicitude but too perfect.

  ‘She was asked to leave her garret by her landlady…Mademoiselle Helga Becker, she wanted to put up a cousin from the provinces.’

  ‘Does she have the right to turn out a tenant who has paid her rent?’

  ‘She gave it back. Tasha is only staying for a few days. She’s looking for a studio.’

  Kenji gave a little smile, showing that he was not taken in, and began to address an envelope. Miss Iris Abbott, Victor could make out, by reading upside down. He felt irritated at being made to fe
el like a schoolboy caught out in a flagrant lie. The far-off tinkling of the door bell came to his rescue.

  ‘I’ll go down. There’s no one there to greet the customers.’

  ‘I’ll join you shortly,’ said Kenji.

  A man sporting a bowler hat and monocle was advancing purposefully on the counter. ‘Good morning, Monsieur. Would you have The Illustrated Jewish France by Édouard Drumont?1 I’ve looked everywhere for that book; all the editions are out of print.’

  ‘Why do you want to read it?’ Victor demanded, becoming angry.

  ‘Well, to inform myself, Monsieur, to learn…’

  ‘I only sell authors whom I admire, and not those who preach hate and distort the truth, among whom Monsieur Drumont can pride himself on being the leader of the pack. Good day, Monsieur.’

  ‘And you claim to be a bookseller!’ exclaimed the man with the monocle. ‘You may as well call yourself a grocer!’

  The bell jangled under the violence of the man’s exit. Soothed by having vented his spleen, Victor lent his elbows on the counter. A voice from upstairs declared: ‘There are as many fools on the earth as there are fish in the sea.’

  Victor smiled. Kenji could not stand moral baseness and confronted it with a withering humour that largely made up for his arrogance on other occasions.

  He glanced through Le Passe-partout and found an article devoted to the Gouffé affair, which recounted the tribulations of two French policemen in New York and San Francisco on the trail of one Michel Eyraud, suspected murderer of the porter whose body was found in Millery, concealed in a trunk. The article was written by Isidore Gouvier. That name evoked the solid form of the perspicacious and phlegmatic reporter whom Victor had met the previous June during the Universal Exposition. Gouvier had previously worked at police headquarters; he would be able to give him invaluable advice.

  He went upstairs to tell Kenji, who had put on a frock coat and was in the process of knotting his tie.

  ‘I have to go out, but I won’t be long.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ said Kenji. ‘Could you buy me Le Figaro? And post that letter for me?’

  Victor picked up the envelope, touched by this show of trust. Perhaps he had been hasty in his judgement of Kenji, perhaps he would come to accept Tasha’s continued presence.

  And will I accept Iris’s?

  At the far end of the back room studio of Bibulus, a new model was posing on a podium. To her surprise, Tasha recognised Ninon Delarme, dressed only in long black gloves. With legs crossed, back arched and her breasts jutting forward, she was like a pagan divinity ruling over a secret brotherhood, waving not incense sticks, but paintbrushes. Sitting right at the front, Maurice Laumier interrupted his work at regular intervals to go and correct her pose, turning her torso or putting one of her arms behind her head. He was so absorbed in his task that he was oblivious to the ribald comments being tossed between the artists.

  Tasha wandered amongst the easels. Laumier’s picture seemed uninteresting to her. She recognised the style of painting that he favoured and which recalled at once the stylised drawing of Ingres, the flatness of Gauguin and the technique of partitioning, giving the effect of a stained-glass window. She felt increasingly alienated by that type of composition and thought of the works of Renoir and Monet, which she loved so much, with their exploration of light. Maurice Laumier seemed to be dedicated to darkness.

  He hadn’t noticed her; nothing could distract him from the rectangular canvas which was the focus of his attention. She half-closed her eyes and even in the artificial darkness which she conjured up, his efforts seemed unconvincing.

  He’s so full of theories, he’s making ‘works of art’. I need to work towards an ideal, I want to express my intimate thoughts and I’d better get on with it, time presses.

  She took out her drawing pad and sketched a caricature of Laumier.

  ‘My dear, rescue me, I need someone to talk whilst I’m doing my contortionist’s act! Otherwise I’ll go mad.’

  Tasha made an effort to come back to earth. She couldn’t help smiling at the sight of Ninon frozen into a grotesque postion. She glanced again at Laumier’s picture and felt a fit of giggles coming on. She tried to disguise it as coughing but in the end gave free vent to her laughter. Ninon herself chuckled and cried out in a tremulous voice: ‘He’s using me like modelling clay! I’ve had enough of this! I’m tired, cold and hungry!’

  Laumier, his hair in disarray and gaze fixed firmly on her, implored her not to move: ‘Please, my angel!’

  ‘I’ve got pins and needles – I have to move about. Let’s go, Tasha…’

  Ignoring the outcry of the painters, she jumped down from the podium, wrapped herself in a pearl-grey satin peignoir and went into the little room where her clothes were tucked away.

  ‘Come on, Ninon, you can’t be serious! We only started an hour ago!’ protested Laumier.

  ‘One hour! One hour of torture! It’s too much. Believe me, if I don’t eat something, I’ll faint.’

  She gestured dramatically. Laumier gave in with a smile. ‘But promise you’ll hurry.’

  ‘We girls are going off to have lunch, then, my friend, I will be back, I promise.’

  ‘You girls? That’ll take all day!’ cried one of the artists as they went off arm in arm.

  Seated in a modest restaurant on Rue Tholozé, the women laughed at the memory of the painters’ indignation.

  ‘Thank you for introducing me to Maurice,’ said Ninon, cutting her lamb chop. ‘He’s very handsome and rather sweet.’

  ‘Introducing you? He practically threw himself at you. I had nothing to do with it.’

  She was fascinated by the freedom with which Ninon, who was taking a second helping of mashed potato, expressed her opinions.

  ‘What were you doing before now?’ asked Tasha.

  ‘Before? The past isn’t relevant any more – the only thing that counts is today. My dear, there are two things I can’t do without, men and money. They are indispensable to my happiness. Without money, you can’t live as you please.’

  ‘But men are often an impediment to our independence, don’t you think?’

  ‘You just have to manage them, to make use of them, as they make use of us. They’re objects, beautiful objects to use for the satisfaction of our desires, but burdensome as soon as they try to control us. Are you shocked?’

  ‘Well, no…yes. And love? What do you think about that?’

  ‘Love? An invention of men to make us bend to their will. Believe me, Tasha, love or not, without money, a woman is at the mercy of men.’

  ‘I don’t agree, and anyway if you have an artistic passion, money takes second place.’

  ‘Does it? Why shouldn’t art be renumerated? Love is, often.’

  ‘Yes, but only prostitutes…’

  ‘By prostitutes, you mean those amoral women, scorned by right-thinking people? But does prostitution not exist in every walk of life? Doesn’t the artist sell himself when he makes money out of his talent? And the actor when he interprets someone else’s text? The journalist when he writes what everyone wants to hear? Even the bookseller, when he exchanges works he hasn’t written, for coin of the realm?’

  ‘Are you referring to Victor?’

  ‘Victor the Vanquisher, that trips off the tongue. But be careful, his victory over you might cost you dear.’

  ‘No, Ninon, you won’t convince me. I love waking up beside him and having him hold me in his arms.’

  ‘I like waking up beside a man too. As long as he gets up and goes away.’

  ‘Stop it, you’re undermining my sense of morality!’

  ‘That would be a good thing. Besides, it would be perfectly immoral if you kept your bookseller all to yourself.’

  ‘Watch out, Ninon, I’m jealous!’ Tasha said, laughing.

  She stopped short. Jealous, like Victor? She added, ‘If you want to seduce a bookseller, I would advise you to go after his business associate, Kenji Mori, instead.’


  ‘Is he Japanese?’

  ‘Yes. He avoids women.’

  ‘Does he prefer men?’

  ‘No, no, he has a crush on a London girl.’

  ‘You’re making me curious. Is he glamorous?’

  ‘He possesses a certain charm, if you like your men crabby and over the hill.’

  ‘I love a challenge. I wager that I can have your misogynist eating out of my hand! I’ve never had an Oriental man before. Nor an amateur detective either,’ she remarked, winking at Tasha. ‘And what was the mystery that Victor the Vanquisher solved?’

  ‘It was last year – there was a series of murders at the Universal Exposition. He put a stop to them. You must have heard about them. They were all over the front pages.’

  ‘I was in Spain last year. But heavens, may it rest in peace, my past is dead and buried. I’ll get the bill. It’s time to take up my pose again,’ said Ninon, pushing back her chair. ‘Aren’t you going to finish your meal?’

  Tasha did not respond. She had found the chop rather tasteless. She would have given anything for some salted pickles and zakouskis washed down with a glass of kvas.

  Victor followed Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs. He had not been back to this district since Tasha had left her job as caricaturist for Le Passe-partout. It felt strange to be here again. And yet it also seemed as if they had met only yesterday.

  ‘Buy my fresh endives!’ sang a market gardener as he passed by. He reached Galerie Véro-Dodat and leant against the gate, beyond which a succession of courtyards led to the offices of the newspaper. A boy with a satchel on his back was spitting into a puddle to make ripples, and a little girl was playing with a rag doll. She would throw her into the air, then catch her again, cradling her in her arms as if to comfort her. Another little girl was gathering dandelions from between the paving stones. When was the last time I gave Tasha a bunch of flowers? As he was about to push open the gate, he caught sight of a familiar figure coming towards him and thought better of it. The woman, under the straw hat adorned with yellow acacia, was a picture of fashion. She was beautifully corseted, emphasising her slender waist whilst accentuating her curves. She knew how to present herself to her best advantage…Eudoxie Allard the secretary-accountant for Le Passe-partout; it was her, without a shadow of doubt. Since the day she had set her cap at him, he had resolved never to find himself alone with this succubus. He hastily turned back to face an old half-torn publicity notice, which he forced himself to read slowly.