by Claude Izner
‘And who’s going to make his soup for him? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’ve got to go to work!’
‘Have no fear, Madame Pignot, Germaine will see to it and in the meantime Mademoiselle Tasha and I shall keep him company,’ said Victor, who had just walked in.
‘I’m not sure if…’
‘Please go now Maman, I’ve got to speak to the boss,’ implored Joseph.
‘Would you like some help, Madame Pignot?’ Tasha enquired from the doorway.
‘No, I’ll be all right,’ muttered the costermonger. ‘Just make sure he gets cream in his soup!’ she barked, and then she went out and trundled away strapped to her cart.
‘Has she gone?’ Joseph asked.
Victor nodded and handed Tasha a set of keys.
‘You have a new lock.’
‘I thought you were joking!’
‘Read this.’
He handed her a newspaper dating from the previous day and she read the article circled with a pencil.
‘Bojemoï! How terrible! The poor girl! Why? Has this anything to do with your friend Odette de Valois?’
‘Madame de Valois has disappeared and the concierge doesn’t know where she went…Tasha, your key wasn’t among Denise’s belongings. I’m worried, that’s why I…’
He drew her close and put his arms around her.
‘You should have told me about it,’ she whispered.
‘Whatever for! You’ve enough on your plate already with your exhibition.’
‘I’m really sorry. Promise me you’ll go to the police today.’
‘I’ve already been and they’re up to their eyes,’ he assured her, remembering the exhausted employee at the Bureau of Missing Persons.
‘I forbid you to carry out the investigation for them! I care too much about you.’
‘So do I. Women! Always fretting over trifles! Go on, off with you now or you’ll be late.’
She hurried out and he watched her cross the courtyard. He hadn’t lied to her, but he’d made no promises either.
Joseph, propped up against the pillows, attempted to smooth down his hair with a damp flannel.
‘Do me a favour and open the window, boss. I’m suffocating in here.’
‘Most certainly not. What’s that smell?’
‘Maman burnt some eucalyptus cigarettes in a saucer before the doctor arrived.’
‘Do you mind if I light one of mine?’
‘Not at all. Listen, boss, I have to tell you, something awful happened yesterday. I went to the Cour des Comptes and…Old Père Moscou, he’s dead, murdered.’ The words came tumbling out.
Victor’s face went blank; he felt completely numb. The match burnt down to his fingers and he let out a cry and sank on to the bed.
‘Dead? What do you mean dead?’
‘I mean dead. Someone pushed him from the first floor, only then his body disappeared. I haven’t said anything to the police, not a word, but it’s been on my mind ever since and I’m afraid whoever did it followed me…’
‘Did you see it happen?’
‘I heard a thud and saw a figure leaning over the body.’
‘And you expect me to believe that the body just vanished?’
‘On my honour, boss, I’m telling you the truth!’
Indignant, Joseph struggled to get up, but Victor held him down.
‘What made you go there in the first place? Have you taken leave of your senses? Answer me, for crying out loud!’ he shouted, angrily shaking the boy.
‘Ow! You’re hurting me, boss! And it’s all your fault, anyway!’
Victor, taken aback by the vehemence of his assistant, relented.
‘Very well, start again, but try to be clear.’
‘It’s because of you, boss. Mademoiselle Tasha asked me to follow you. She was afraid you might walk into trouble – she knows you well enough! I saw you tailing some old fellow and that set me thinking. I realised you weren’t putting me in the picture, so I decided to show you what I’m capable of.’
‘Well done, you succeeded! Carry on.’
So Tasha has me followed, thought Victor, not knowing whether to be pleased or annoyed.
Adopting the manner of a primadonna about to sing her grand aria, Joseph requested a glass of water, a slice of apple and a puff on Victor’s cigarette before recounting his adventure. It gave him immense pleasure to have his boss hanging on his every word.
‘…and when I reached the staircase the old man’s body had gone. I looked everywhere for him. I said to myself: “Jojo, what’ve you got yourself mixed up in now?” I was sure the murderer was watching me. Have you ever had the feeling you’re being watched, but when you look round there’s no one there?’
‘Perhaps that’s all it was – a feeling.’
‘No, boss, I’m certain. I’m not crazy. I told myself: “He doesn’t know where you live, so you’ve got to lose him at all costs.” I crossed the Seine and walked as far as the Grands Boulevards. There were people everywhere, and it was brightly lit, so I walked around until midnight, then took a carriage home.’
‘Perhaps the old man staged his death,’ Victor suggested.
‘I had…blood on my fingers. Whoever did it threw him over the handrail and then made him disappear, a veritable conjuring trick. Why exactly were you following him, boss?’
Joseph shuddered, and Victor suppressed a smile.
‘Stop looking at me as if I were the murderer! Père Moscou worked at Père-Lachaise cemetery and I thought he might have seen Madame de Valois and Denise last week.’
‘Of course,’ murmured Joseph. ‘I’ve been doing some thinking myself. Tuesday morning, when the battleaxes came into the shop, I heard Madame de Gouveline mention a clairvoyant whose name she couldn’t remember. Well, it put me in mind of what Denise told me at the funfair. She was convinced there was an evil force at large in your old lov–I mean friend’s apartment. According to her, this clairvoyant who Madame de Valois was seeing had given the place the evil eye. Well, it’s a start isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘We shouldn’t ignore any clues. Denise was really scared. She didn’t even want Madame Topaz to read her palm, and when I suggested we go and see the re-enactments of famous crimes she insisted on waiting outside, but I’m glad I went in because it’s an impressive show and–’
‘Stick to the point.’
‘I have a clue that could help us find this clairvoyant. Denise told me that the building where she lives is near one of the panoramas and it has statues of nude women on the front. She also said they’d been up to the second floor. If I wasn’t feeling so rotten I’d follow it up right now.’
‘You just stay put and take your medicine! I need you back at the bookshop.’
Joseph rummaged under his pillows and pulled out his notebook containing the mysterious sentence which he’d seen scrawled on Père Moscou’s wall: WHERE HAVE YOU HIDDEN THEM? A.D.V., and showed it to Victor.
‘I wonder what it means,’ Victor pondered. Could it be Latin? ‘Ad vitam, for life? Ad valorem, according to worth?’
‘Attention Danger Vengeance?’ suggested Joseph.
‘It could mean anything or nothing. What’s more it might have been there for years.’
He remembered Odette’s locket, and what Madame Valladier had told him, that Père Moscou’s room had been ransacked, which meant ‘somebody’ was searching for something.
‘Another thing, boss. Where the old man’s corpse should have been I found these.’ Joseph looked like the cat that had got the cream as he produced his pièce de résistance.
‘A pair of gloves! So what? Where could that possibly lead?’
‘It’s a clue, boss, you must never–’
‘Ignore any clue, I know. I’m going back to the shop. Look after yourself and I’ll have some soup brought over. And later on we’ll decide what we’re going to do. I’ll keep you informed of any developments.’
‘Is that a promise, boss? You won’t ditch
me, will you? I’ve proved to you I have a brain in my head.’
As soon as Victor had gone, he jumped out of bed and went to put the gloves at the back of the little study between two spiked helmets.
The canvases, framed in pale wood, were heavy. Tasha and Ninon breathed a sigh of relief as they reached the sixth floor.
‘The Promised Land,’ Tasha sighed, producing her new set of keys.
As soon as they had set the paintings down inside, she bolted the door.
‘Victor told me not to let anyone in. I feel like Little Red Riding Hood. Boo! I’m scared! The big bad wolf is coming to get me!’
‘Well, it looks like your Victor has vanquished us! We must rise up!’ cried Ninon.
‘I agree! Men have been our masters for too long!’
‘Now we must become their mistresses!’
They fell about in fits of laughter, one collapsing on a chair, the other on the bed. Tasha hadn’t felt this close to anyone since she’d left Russia. Ninon reminded her of her sister Ruhlea and also her best friend Doucia, although her free ways were no match for their sweet natures.
‘If it weren’t for you, I’d have had to make three trips to the framer, and with his wandering hands…Spassibo!’
‘Don’t mention it! You can offer me a drink, though.’
‘I only have water.’
When Tasha returned holding the jug and glass, she found Ninon examining the nude canvas of Victor.
‘What a handsome man! He looks good enough to eat…’
‘Ninon! Isn’t Maurice enough for you?’
‘He’ll do until I find something better, though his clumsy lovemaking scarcely satisfies me.’
‘Do you never feel love?’
‘Hardly ever – why should I bow down before bucks who worship their own virility? I’d rather have them trembling in my presence and be the one in command: “I’ll have you, but not you!” Tell me, are you going to exhibit this oil painting? It’s very good.’
‘You’re not serious! Victor would die!’
‘I can see no reason for him to be ashamed; on the contrary!’
‘Well, I’m taking it away and then maybe you’ll stop thinking about him.’
Tasha removed the canvas from the easel and hid it behind one of the framed paintings propped against the wall. She chose two other canvases, one of some pale yellow – almost white – pears in a fruit bowl, and another of a basket of oranges tinged with blue, and handed them to Ninon.
‘What do you think?’
‘Well…still lifes aren’t really my…’
‘I’m moving towards this type of composition because it allows me to work on my own and to study form and light more deeply…Maurice doesn’t want them in the Soleil d’Or. He only reluctantly agreed to exhibit my Paris rooftops.’
‘Have you painted any female nudes?’
Startled, Tasha gazed at Ninon, whose sensuous, faintly provocative smile was disconcerting.
‘Yes, at the studio, as a compulsory subject. I have a preference for male models.’
‘You don’t know what you’re missing. A woman’s body is beautiful and should sell. I’ll pose for you if you change your mind.’
Tasha blushed.
‘I mean what I say. I’ll pose for you whenever you want, free of charge and…I’ll keep still.’
Tasha’s mounting unease was swiftly dispelled. She had been converted. Why refuse? At least if she failed Ninon wouldn’t laugh at her.
‘All right. After the exhibition.’
On their way down, they met Helga Becker coming up the stairs. She was terribly excited and carrying a long roll of paper under her arm.
‘Isn’t it lovely? I only had to give it a little tug and it came off all by itself. I already have more than fifteen in my collection,’ she explained as she spread the advertising poster out on the landing.
They looked on, amused, at a young woman dressed in a boater and culottes scattering a gaggle of geese as she rode through them on her bicycle. Against a bright, canary yellow background the words, Take the Royal Route with Royal Bicycles were printed in large blue lettering.
Out in Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, the patch of bare wall bearing witness to Helga Becker’s petty larceny revealed an old, half-torn electoral poster. A Gaul armed with an axe and a strident Marianne wearing a crested hat announced the general election of 22nd September 1889. Tasha recognised the work of the illustrator and lithographer Adolphe Willette.1 She went closer and read:
Ad. WILLETTE
ANTISEMITIC CANDIDATE
IX Arrondissement 2nd electoral constituency
VOTERS
The Jews stand tall because
We are on our knees!…
IT IS TIME TO RISE UP!
JUDAISM is the true enemy!
The poster was soiled with brown streaks. All of a sudden Tasha was overcome by grief. She could still see the bloodied face of the man lying in front of the house on Rue Voronov. To have escaped that, and…She remembered the explosion of hatred, the screaming, the soldiers on horseback armed with sabres…Windows smashing, furniture splintering…Millions of swirling flakes – not snow, but feathers from the slit-open mattresses…
She leant against the wall, waiting for her emotions to subside.
‘Tasha! What are you doing? Are you coming? Laumier’s going to complain.’
She must put it behind her! She was in France now, in Paris…The notice was curling at the edges. She ripped it off the wall and tore it to pieces.
However intently he stared at it, Constable’s watercolour of the verdant English countryside failed to soothe Victor. Had Père Moscou really been murdered, or had he staged his own exit? What part had he played in Odette’s disappearance? He’d been in possession of her locket, but did this mean he had been party to kidnapping…Or murder? He banished the thought. Then it came to him in a flash: ADV! Armand de Valois!
He searched through the pile of papers on his desk and reread the letter from the French Consulate in Colombia. There was no conclusive evidence that the body buried at Las Juntas was Armand’s. Had anyone identified him? What if he were still alive? What if Odette and he were in league together…? But why? And then there was the picture, The Madonna in Blue, which had appeared to be so dear to Armand’s heart. Had it cost Denise her life…and Père Moscou’s too?
He now had two clues to follow up: the famous Numa and the clairvoyant Joseph had mentioned. He decided to pay a visit to Adalberte de Brix to try and learn more, and then to question Raphaëlle de Gouveline.
He scoured the contents of Odette’s Private envelope one more time, and went through her appointments diary page by page. Zénobie – the ubiquitous name intrigued him. He read the entry for 22nd December 1889: Turner…Appointment with Zénobie. Three thirty p.m. Pâtisserie Gloppe…
Annoyed, he pushed the diary and it fell to the floor. A letter became dislodged from a hidden pocket in the cover. He picked it up. It was dated 18th December 1889. He read it aloud:
Dear Madame,
We do not know each other and up until a few days ago I was unaware of your existence.
You may be ill-disposed to trust my good intentions, but if this is the case I beg you to set aside all your prejudices and to believe in me. For I possess the heaven-sent gift of being able to speak with the dead. Several weeks ago one such appeared to me. He told me his name was Armand de Valois, and that he has been unable to find peace since his death in a far-off land. When alive, he resided in Boulevard Haussmann with his spouse. I took the liberty of making enquiries and traced your address. I am writing to you in the hope that you are indeed the person with whom he wishes to communicate through me. Please believe me, Madame, when I tell you that I would not normally proceed in this way, but given the circumstances I did not hesitate. Meet me on 22nd December at Gloppe’s, the pâtisserie on the Champs-Élysées. I will wait for you there, Thursday at three thirty. I shall sit at a table near the counter, wearing a lilac hat.
&
nbsp; Yours faithfully,
Zénobie
What on earth is all that about!
He put the papers and diary back into the envelope, slipped it into his coat pocket and went downstairs to join Kenji.
‘How is Joseph?’
‘Just a chill. Nothing serious.’
‘You look exhausted.’
‘I have a headache coming on. I’m going to take the air.’
He was just leaving when Kenji called out.
‘We have an appointment at seven this evening to visit the studio.’
‘The studio?’ Victor repeated blankly.
‘Rue Fontaine.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
He should have known. Kenji was as stubborn as a mule! He hailed a carriage.
Adalberte de Brix’s townhouse had a white façade with wooden shutters and was situated at number 22 Rue Barbet-de-Jouy, a stone’s throw from Les Invalides. As soon as Victor rang the bell, the housekeeper, Madame Hubert, popped up at the small round window next to the carriage entrance. Her eyes were red and she held a handkerchief to her mouth as she led Victor silently to the plush reception room, where he found himself in the company of people speaking in hushed tones. Blanche de Cambrésis was there, as well as the Duc de Frioul, Raphaëlle de Gouveline, Olympe de Salignac, her niece Valentine, a military man festooned with medals, Mathilde de Flavignol and a priest in a cassock and roman collar. They all wore solemn expressions on their faces. When the hand-kissings and greetings had been exchanged, Raphaëlle de Gouveline pulled Victor aside.
‘Ah! My friend, it is a terrible thing. Who told you?’
‘What has happened?’
‘Then you don’t know? Poor Adalberte suffered a stroke yesterday evening. I came at once and sat up all night with her. She has lost the power of speech, she, who was such a talkative woman! All who knew her, including her relatives, were convinced she would live to be a hundred – she’s buried three husbands – and now her life is hanging on a thread; her heart could fail at any moment. Excuse me.’