The Disappearance at Père-Lachaise

by Claude Izner

  Dancing at Le Moulin Rouge

  Place Blanche

  Every evening

  Gala evenings Wednesdays and Saturdays

  Eudoxie Allard shimmied past, trailing an exotic fragrance in her wake. He resolved to move once he was certain that she was out of sight; but then it occurred to him that she might return before he’d had time to invite Isidore Gouvier out for a drink. He gave up on his mission and went instead to have lunch at Le Café Oriental at the corner of Rue des Petits-Champs and Avenue de l’Opéra.

  ‘Why don’t I go over to Odette’s? Boulevard Haussman is just a stone’s throw away…’ he said to himself as he sipped his coffee. ‘Perhaps she’s come home.’ But he did not really believe that, and the mere thought of bumping into that Hyacinthe…He paid the bill and went back up towards the post office on Rue du Louvre.

  Pleased at having wrangled a day of freedom, Joseph paced up and down the study, considering the best way of conducting his investigation. Denise had definitely been murdered, and he was convinced that the The Madonna in Blue had provided the motive for the murder. That old tramp that the boss had taken such pains to follow was probably also involved in the tragedy. He decided to go and explore the Cour des Comptes. Like a character from a Jules Verne novel preparing to set off on a perilous expedition, he assembled his equipment: a muffler, cap, a tweed jacket (a present from Monsieur Mori), and brown leather boots. Since he did not own a Ruhmkorff lamp,2 he made do with candles and matches, which he put deep into his pockets along with his notebook and pencil. He wrote a quick note to his mother, pinned it up near the sink and departed, feeling proudly that Monsieur Lecoq would have approved. ‘I must have a challenge to show my strength, I must have an obstacle so that I can overcome it,’ he sang as he walked briskly along the quays where at this late hour, strollers were few and far between.

  ‘Here’s the paper you asked for.’ Victor put Le Figaro on the catalogue-strewn desk.

  ‘You must have got it straight from the printer – it smells of ink,’ remarked Kenji, ostentatiously looking at his watch. He got up and began to read, leaning against the counter.

  Victor watched him with curiousity. This was a new development; Kenji rarely bought a paper other than when he wanted to keep abreast of literary news. Had he looked over Kenji’s shoulder he would have been even more surprised.

  It will be a real nuisance if I don’t find a studio to rent in the next day or so, thought Kenji, scouring the list of apartments to let. He feared he would not be able to stand Tasha’s presence long, although he did recognise her kindness and tact. He refused to admit that she was anything more than a fling for Victor. He had conceived a clear picture of the ideal companion for his adoptive son: submissive, reserved, devoted to assuring his domestic comfort, preoccupied with the upkeep of his house and bookshop, and cultivated without being involved in artistic creation. Tasha met none of these criteria. Although he was trying to keep his countenance, Kenji feared that Tasha would sow discord between Victor and himself.

  He had to interrupt his search to greet Anatole France and bring him a chair. With a nonchalant air Victor prepared to grab Le Figaro and find out what was of such interest to Kenji. But Kenji quickly slipped the paper into a drawer. Piqued, Victor bowed to the writer and retreated to his apartment.

  He picked up a skirt, shawl and some hairpins, strewn by Tasha across the rooms like so many little stones that led to the unmade bed, impregnated with her benjoin perfume, the same Oriental fragrance that reigned over her bohemian domain in Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. He thought of how he had been through the attic with a fine-tooth comb, even inspecting the guttering. But without success. He had not been able to lay his hand on The Madonna in Blue.

  Discouraged, he flopped down on the bed and buried himself in the perfumed sheets.

  The delicious aroma of hotpot tickled Joseph’s nostrils and fought its way down to his stomach. Madame de Valladier answered his questions while skimming her salt pork.

  ‘Are you sure he’s not there?’ asked Joseph, a hand on his belly.

  ‘Absolutely. I’m a bit worried about it. Especially because, the day he went to Carreau du Temple, he dashed home for a moment, saying that he was at his wits’ end.’

  ‘Well, they must have kept him.’

  ‘Kept him? Who’s that?’

  ‘The coppers. Yesterday he caused a rumpus at the market, and the police arrested him. But, don’t worry, they will release him. My compliments, Madame.’

  He left the concierge’s lodge after bowing to Madame de Valladier. What a charming young man. I wish I’d dared to invite him in for supper!

  Now that he knew there was no risk that the old man would take him by surprise, Joseph walked from Rue de Lille as far as Rue de Bellechase and from there reached Quai d’Orsay. It was not too difficult for him to grab hold of the branches of a maple tree that hung over the wall on to the pavement. Then he had to slide all the way down the trunk, landing in the middle of a clump of blackberry bushes and grazing his hands. The light of the street-lamps was sufficiently bright for him to make out the gutted carcass of the building. Several times his feet got caught up in tendrils of ground ivy and he cursed the annoying creeper, while congratulating himself on having come in his boots. He went up a flight of steps and crossed a square room denuded of its parquet. He caught sight of the moon between enormous iron girders twisted by the fire, which had ravaged the building. More excited than if he were exploring in the Amazon, he boldly entered a passage of archways overgrown with weeds. When I’ve conquered your territory, Père Moscou, I’ll name it after me. I’ll christen it…let’s see…Pignot Isle, the jewel of the Islands of…of…Saints-Pères!

  These comforting thoughts helped him to forget the aroma of the salt pork. He stopped at the bottom of a monumental staircase, telling himself that it was time to light a candle. To his amazement, he discovered faces, animated by the flickering flame, regarding him. A woman urged him to silence, a finger on her lips. Opposite her a semi-naked warrior was untying some horses from branches, their tails swishing and their hooves pawing the ground. He went cautiously over the crossbeams covered with boards, his head turning to left and right towards the high walls covered with the cracked frescoes, whose titles were barely visible in their tarnished casings: Meditation…Law, Force and Order…War…Peace protects the arts and works of the Earth…He remembered Théophile Gautier saying of the painter Théodore Chassériau: ‘He’s an Indian influenced by Ancient Greece.’ But, rather than Antiquity, these allegories awakened in Joseph memories of a childish universe of fairy tales, devoured at the back of his father’s study, a supply of apples to hand.

  He ventured along a porters’ corridor, an interminable arched and vaulted passage bordered by cracked walls, and littered with metal debris and undergrowth. He hauled himself up on to a terrace open to the sky from where, like an alpinist at the top of a mountain, he could see the roofs of the neighbouring houses, the white walls of the barracks on Rue de Poitiers, the great plane trees in the courtyard of a townhouse, their branches dotted with nests. On the horizon the clouds pursued the moon. Leaning forwards he made out a curtain of creepers tumbling down into the courtyard. He was overtaken by dizziness and only just managed to keep his balance.

  ‘Whoa, it won’t help if I fall over the edge!’

  He lay down flat on his stomach and directed the light of his candle downwards. He could vaguely make out a corridor in which there was an opening covered by a faded hanging that was flapping in the breeze.

  ‘I’ll wager that that’s Ali-Moscou’s cave! I’ve got to get down to the ground floor – come on, move yourself!’

  Joseph pulled back the hanging to reveal Pignot Isle, whose messy aspect strangely resembled his own little study in Rue Visconti. Joseph whistled through his teeth.

  ‘That there can be such marvels, right here in Paris! This room is as exotic as old Hugo’s sacred elephant. Look at all those trinkets! Bits of military uniform, and medals
…Oh and books! Let’s have a look. Jules Verne The Underground City, I haven’t read that one. Ali-Moscou, you’ve secured yourself a magic cave. I’m sure you don’t pay rent for it. I’m going to explore further.’

  He made a tour of the room looking for clues, but amongst all the bric-a-brac he didn’t know what to focus on. His candle went out and he lit another, and it was then that he saw the inscription, etched above a mountain of quilts:

  WHERE HAVE YOU HIDDEN THEM?

  A.D.V.

  He took out his notebook.

  Sweating profusely in his greatcoat, Père Moscou paced along Quai d’Orsay, tormented by total indecision.

  Damned weather, it’s always changing; Christmas in the morning, then spring by the evening. What in God’s name am I going to do? I’m famished. I would go straight to Maguelonne’s but I fear that Grouchy is lying in wait to spy on me in the dark – it would be just like that dirty dog – well, that’ll be the end of me!

  He thought mournfully of Madame de Valladier’s cooking, warming and flavoursome. No doubt a soup would be simmering on the stove, an excellent thick pea soup, which sticks to your insides and leads you gently into the arms of Morpheus. He went towards Rue de Poitiers, but fear was gripping him again. He stopped near a lamp-post. He would dearly have loved to come across a police patrol.

  These coppers! The less they do the more they have to rest. Now they’ll be tucked up at their station, leading the life of Riley and playing cards. When honest people need them, not a sausage, nothing! But there’s no one here, not a cab, not a body in sight!

  He was relieved to see a figure wrapped up in shawls half-hidden in an alcove and went over to her. ‘Please could–’

  A woman’s voice shrieked, ‘What’s going on? Can’t a soul have a moment’s peace?’

  Leaning on a cane, she moved off, muttering.

  ‘Oi, no need to be frightened, I just wanted to…Damnation, wait!’

  The woman had disappeared. Confused, Père Moscou stood still, his arms dangling. I can’t go on pounding the pavement all night. I know! Back there, beside my muse, I’ll have shelter. And tomorrow, at crack of dawn, I’ll go and check that I really did dig Josephine’s grave under the big plane tree. I’ll put clematis and then lilac on the top, even if it hasn’t flowered yet, it will still give her pleasure. Come on Moscou, pow, pow, pow, after all it’s not Berezina!

  He bent double to get into his secret entrance, a crevice concealed by an acacia bush, which led straight into the Cour des Comptes. To give himself courage he sang loudly:

  Mother Fanchon, wipe your tears away, I’ve come to comfort you.

  I’ve covered myself in glory and only lost an eye…

  Alerted by the din that Père Moscou was making, Joseph blew out his candle and tried to find a hiding place close to the monumental staircase.

  With his lantern in hand, Père Moscou climbed the stairs. A strangled cry shattered the silence. Joseph jumped, his heart beating wildly.

  ‘It’s only me, old fruit! Don’t you recognise your old friend? You should be ashamed, giving me a fright like that!’ burst out Père Moscou. He resumed his ascent, holding on to the handrail. Finally he reached the Oceanid with the bare breasts, and stared at her fixedly. ‘So my beauty, all well?’

  The gaze of the Oceanid, liquid like stagnant water, refused to acknowledge the intruder.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that? It’s me, Moscou, your mate!’

  A velvety silence enveloped him, so thick he could hear his blood pounding in his veins. He remained still, sensing a presence. There was a furtive movement to his left, and then a flashing light exploded in his skull. He glimpsed the serene face of the Oceanid as he toppled over the handrail.

  Joseph was jolted by a metallic vibration followed by a dull thud. Instinctively he dived down and crawled as far as a niche at the foot of the staircase. The moon emerged from behind the clouds, playing hide and seek between the broken beams of the first floor. Joseph could make out a shadow bending over an immobile form. He retreated further into his niche, crunching over some old plaster, and the shadow straightened up suddenly. Joseph hunched up, holding his breath. The shadow took a few steps forwards, then raced away. Frozen to the spot, incapable even of taking a gulp of air, Joseph waited, all his senses alert, before stealing out of his hiding place towards the imprecise shape which looked like a sack.

  When he realised what it was, he could not repress a cry, ‘No, No!’ he pleaded. ‘For pity’s sake…’

  Père Moscou, his eyes wide open, his lips pulled back in a mute cry, stared without seeing.

  Joseph knelt down and bent over the body. His fingers brushed the old man’s greatcoat. He encountered a warm sticky substance. Dead! The old man was dead! His skull crushed. Horrified and nauseous, Joseph frantically rubbed his hand against the floor, in the grip of the kind of terror that makes you want to wake up in bed, telling yourself, ‘It’s all right – it was only a dream.’

  When he finally succeeded in controlling his trembling, he forced himself to look again at the corpse of the old man. A little round object in the palm of his hand caught the light of the moon. Joseph had to brace himself several times before daring to take it from the old man and stow it in his pocket. Then everything happened so rapidly that he could barely take it in. He was suddenly aware that someone was spying on him. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he definitely felt he was being watched. His legs reacted before he had time to think. They carried him across the corridor and the square room; he climbed over a pile of debris, but skidded, tumbled down the steps of the entrance and collapsed, waiting for the blow that would finish him off.

  He lifted his head, his vision clouded. Spirals of mist were rising from the ground. There was not a sound nor any sign of life. He got painfully to his feet. ‘I have to go back there. I can’t just leave the poor old man.’

  A branch cracked. He listened, straining to hear the least sound. ‘If only the boss were here!…No, I don’t need anyone else: it’s going to be all right, it’ll be all right.’

  Pulled between terror and excitement, he relit his candle, turned round and sped back along the corridor, then stopped abruptly a few feet from the staircase.

  ‘My God,’ he breathed.

  Père Moscou had evaporated.

  He shook his head, incredulous. Where the lifeless body had been a few moments earlier there was now nothing but a whitish object. A handkerchief? No, a pair of gloves.

  Chapter Eight

  From behind his newspaper Kenji observed Victor, who was cataloguing the works of Buffon.

  ‘I am going to ask Dr Reynaud if he’ll go and examine Joseph. His mother came round early this morning while you were still asleep. He has a high temperature.’

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself, Monsieur Mori, I’ll take care of it,’ said Tasha, who had just come downstairs.

  ‘You are too kind,’ Kenji mumbled.

  She walked over to Victor and planted a kiss on the corner of his mouth, her eyes fixed on Kenji who remained impassive, holding her gaze unflinchingly while Victor feigned a sudden interest in anatomical illustrations of Neuroptera.

  ‘See you this evening,’ said Tasha softly, tousling his hair.

  The moment she’d left Kenji folded away his newspaper.

  ‘I have some good news. I’ve found somewhere for your friend to live. You did tell me she had been asked to vacate her lodgings?’

  ‘Er…yes.’

  ‘In any event it’s all arranged. I went to see an old print works that would be ideal for a painter. The rent is reasonable; naturally it needs some work done on it.’

  ‘She’ll never leave her neighbourhood!’ Victor protested in an exasperated voice.

  ‘It’s only a stone’s throw from her old house, 36a Rue Fontaine.’

  ‘I think I’ll go and see how Joseph’s doing,’ muttered Victor, pushing his chair back violently.

  In his irritation he put his jacket on inside out.

&nb
sp; Immobilised under three eiderdowns, Joseph recognised Tasha standing next to Dr Reynaud, who was just leaving. Madame Pignot wrung her hands and invoked all the saints in Heaven.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I knew no good would come of it! When I heard him come home after midnight last night, I thought to myself: “It’s not like my boy to stay out at all hours without letting his mother know; he’s up to something!” Well, I was right – just look at him now! He’s dying! Dying I tell you! He’s going to end up like his poor father, and they’ll shut me away in the Salpêtrière Hospital with all the nutters!’

  ‘Now, don’t upset yourself. You heard what Dr Reynaud said, it’s only a chill. A few fumigations, some hot soup and a sachet of cérébrine and he’ll be as right as rain.’

  ‘Traipsing around at night in this weather! And he had the cheek to say: “Don’t worry, Maman, I’m searching for clues.” Searching for hussies more like!’

  ‘He’s twenty. It’s the age for falling in love.’

  ‘Not my Joseph. He only loves me! Cupping glasses! What if I cup him?’

  ‘No, Maman, not the cupping glasses!’ Joseph wailed, sitting up in bed.