by Claude Izner
He rattled the handle frantically.
Not knowing how to occupy her mind, Tasha examined the sepia drawing hanging above the bed. Daphne Legris had certainly been very beautiful, and yet how melancholy she looked. Victor was very like her – except for his nose, which he must have inherited from his father. Curiously, he never mentioned his father. She thought of her own parents. She’d lost the only photograph she had of them together. When would she see her mother Djina and her sister Ruhlea again? The Ukraine was so far away! And her father, Pinkus – where was he now? She glanced at the drawing again. No. It was no use trying to be interested in the portrait, she was too anxious. ‘He was supposed to pick me up at Bibulus, I know something’s wrong!’ She went down to the street through the main building and walked briskly over to Rue Visconti. It took Madame Pignot ages to open the door.
‘Oh, it’s you! One is more careful at this time in the evening, especially a poor defenceless woman like me with a sick person to–’
‘Might Joseph know where Monsieur Legris is?’
‘Pet, have you seen your boss?’
Joseph hoisted himself up from under the eiderdowns that were almost suffocating him.
‘He came round yesterday afternoon to bring your cart back. Is that you, Mademoiselle Tasha? Don’t fret. He must have been detained looking at a collection. I’m sure he won’t be long.’
‘What a good boy,’ said Madame Pignot, accompanying Tasha to the door. ‘Sick as he is, he still tries to put your mind at rest, just like his father – the blind leading the one-eyed. I’ll walk with you part of the way.’
Joseph took advantage of his mother’s departure and pounced on his clothes, which lay neatly folded at the end of the bed. He slipped them on hurriedly, rolled his nightshirt in a ball and stuffed it under the pillow with the poultices.
He knew Victor well and sensed his absence must have something to do with the case. ‘I should let him stew – that’d teach him to leave me out of his investigations.’ He got back into bed and pulled the eiderdowns up under his chin.
Kenji stepped out of the carriage, almost ruefully. It was so mild out he would happily have continued his evening ride. He strolled along the pavement outside the bookshop slumbering behind its wooden shutters. He was pleased with his day and savoured every moment of it: dawn at the Gare du Nord; Iris’s pale yellow dress and white parasol standing out against the smoky platform and beside her the porter bearing her heavy trunk. The journey to Saint-Mandé and their arrival at Mademoiselle Bontemp’s boarding house, the wild garden where the early hyacinths were sprouting fierce blue buds, the bright room, simply and tastefully furnished. He felt a rush of pleasure as he recalled Iris opening one by one the gifts scattered over the bed, and her cry of delight when she saw the dress the colour of Bengal rose with the little azure lace hat garlanded with primroses. ‘It’s sheer madness!’ She had changed into the frock at once, and put on the Jasmin de Provence perfume purchased at La Reine des Abeilles. They had taken lunch at a restaurant near the lake. Throughout the meal, alternately jealous and proud, he had shot sidelong glances at a young man who was clearly bewitched by his companion. They had spent the afternoon strolling in the grass in the Bois de Vincennes, building their plans for the future.
As he walked along the passageway to his apartment he heard a faint noise coming from Victor’s rooms. Ought he to make his presence known? What if Tasha opened the door? He hesitated, deciding to change into his dressing gown first.
The scent of Cuir de Russie pervaded his rooms and he opened the windows to air them. He could still picture Ninon lying on the bed, naked but for her mid-length gloves. Undoubtedly the contentment he had been feeling all day was as much due to her as to Iris. He was at one with life, ready to share this blissful feeling, and when he heard another sound from Victor’s rooms, he made up his mind to knock on the door. There was no answer. He waited a moment then desisted, not wishing to intrude. And yet someone was moving about in the apartment. He was seized by an irrational fear. Might it be a burglar?
He cautiously opened the door. The gas lamps were lit. He moved towards the dining room and saw a figure crowned with red hair lying motionless on the floor. Tasha! He rushed to her side, but before he could even reach out his hand he was suffocated by a piece of cloth pressed to his face. He felt himself sinking into a quicksand reeking of chloroform.
Feeling queasy in the stuffy carriage, Victor leant out of the window. Under the stark light of the street-lamps the passers-by came into focus for a moment before turning into shadows again, like whoever had locked him in Tasha’s room. He would still be there if it hadn’t been for old Ladoucette, who was worried when Choupette didn’t appear and had gone up and found her locked in the water closet. Alerted by Victor’s cries, he freed him next, swearing he’d lock the little joker who was responsible for this in a Mazas cell.3
Victor rapped on the glass and ordered the driver to take him to Rue Visconti. There was something he needed to clarify.
Joseph was asleep, snoring with his mouth open. Madame Pignot gave Victor permission to look through the newspapers in the study.
‘Just make sure you leave them as you found them. My pet is even fussier than his father, and that’s saying something! And then you’d do well to hurry home; Mademoiselle Tasha’s having kittens about you.’
He nodded, and picked up the lamp from the night table. Joseph opened one eye, thought of offering to help him, but changed his mind. Never in his life had he been so hot.
Victor had no trouble finding the newspaper, which was sitting on top of the pile. As he moved under the skylight to read it, he felt something soft underfoot and, looking down, thought he saw a scrunched up animal with claw-like legs. He shuddered and recoiled in fright. He’d been terrified of spiders since he was a child and this looked like a huge one. ‘No, it can’t be. It’s the size of a crab!’ He overcame his revulsion and bent down, chuckling with relief when he realised it was only a glove.
The dining room! He must go through the canvases again, one by one. Goodness, there were as many as in the galleries of the French school at the Louvre! He gave up, disheartened. He’d examined them all and found nothing – it was maddening. A noise behind him caused him to turn round just as a raised cane, wielded by a schoolboy wearing a cap and uniform, was about to come down on his head. Instinctively, he lifted his arm to protect himself. Just then someone grabbed his assailant firmly from behind. The cane fell to the floor and Victor pounced on it, sending it skittering under the table. He leapt up and ran to help Joseph who was trying with difficulty to immobilise the struggling young man. Dodging a kick, Victor aimed a slap at the boy, whose cap went flying, revealing a thick braid. The scene froze like an image in one of Baptiste Delcourt’s projections.
‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Marie Turnerad, alias Ninon Delarme,’ said Victor, out of breath. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. Joseph, take the curtain cord and fasten her hands.’
‘Marie Turnerad? How did you know, boss?’ Joseph quizzed Victor, as he did what he’d been asked.
‘He knows nothing,’ said Ninon.
‘Don’t be so sure. Sit down – you must be tired after all your activity. Help me, will you, Joseph.’
They tied her to the back of the chair. She had stopped trying to resist and was looking at them mockingly. Victor walked straight over to the sideboard and, crouching down, slid out his nude portrait. He turned it over and removed a rectangular wooden object wedged behind the canvas. Joseph gasped as Victor waved The Madonna in Blue in Ninon’s face.
‘This is what you were looking for, isn’t it?’
She shrugged, smiling.
‘What a pity for you that in her distress poor Denise hid it behind the one canvas I didn’t want exhibited. Otherwise you’d have found it by now and you’d be…Where would you be, Palmyra Caicedo? Or should I call you Zénobie Turner?’
‘I can’t keep up with you, boss!’ cried Joseph.
Ni
non’s smile broadened.
‘You’re very good, Monsieur Legris. I like that. I’m glad I didn’t disfigure you. I see you are all in one piece. You looked the worse for wear when you came out of that building on Rue d’Assas. You chased after my carriage, no doubt thinking I was getting away. But you were mistaken. I was spying on you. After turning down Rue Madame, I ordered the cabman to go back up Rue de Fleurus and park near the bench you were sitting on. I didn’t want to lose you; you’re so unpredictable. When you hailed a carriage, I followed you to Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. I had a double of Tasha’s key and I improvised to gain time. I locked you in so that I could search your apartment. Unfortunately, it’s like a railway station in here – there’s no chance of any peace.’
Victor, suddenly anxious, became aware again of the strange smell he’d noticed when he arrived.
‘Kenji?’ he called out.
‘Don’t worry about him – he’s sleeping. So is Tasha.’
‘What have you done to them!’ he roared.
‘Just a spot of chloroform. I dragged them into your room. They look so sweet lying there side by side on the carpet.’
‘Go and see, Joseph!’ ordered Victor.
‘I’ll make the most of this interlude to put you right, Monsieur Legris. I’ve known the whereabouts of the Madonna since the day I helped Tasha fetch her paintings from the framer. So you see I could easily have killed her and taken back what was mine, but I dislike violence. And then the gallant Monsieur Legris offered to store his beloved’s paintings here! All I needed to do to gain entry was to seduce Monsieur Mori, which I did, thoroughly – men really are the same the world over. I thought I’d be able to come in here that night, but I was unpleasantly surprised to find the door locked.’
Victor cast a critical eye over the Madonna.
‘You don’t expect me to believe it was the picture’s artistic worth that compelled you to carry out this slaughter, do you?’
‘What slaughter? Explain yourself, Monsieur Legris.’
‘Come now, Ninon, don’t take me for a fool. You saved your neck ten years ago but you won’t escape justice this time. You played and lost. That’s life.’
Joseph came back looking pale.
‘She was telling the truth, boss. They’re out cold. I’ll go and sprinkle some water on their faces.’
‘I didn’t murder Dante!’ Ninon exclaimed. ‘I’m innocent – they released me. What do you know about life? You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. I come from the back streets, miles from the fancy neighbourhoods. Life was a struggle, and just when I had my head above water they threw me in prison, dragged me through the courts. I lost everything in a few months!’
‘I know. They charged you because you had a cut on your hand. But this time it’s different. You’re guilty and you’ve left a clue,’ Victor said, pulling a glove out of his pocket.
‘That’s one of the gloves I picked up at the Cour des Comptes!’ cried Joseph, walking in holding a damp cloth. ‘I wondered what you were doing in the study, boss. Where’s the other one?’
‘It’s not important. This is the one we’re interested in because the left thumb is worn through. You wear a prosthesis on your left thumb, don’t you, Ninon?’
‘Why ask if you already know the answer. How did you work it out?’
‘By putting two and two together. Francine Blavette’s story revealed to me why you felt nothing yesterday when you caught your thumb in the door. Anyone else would have screamed out in pain and yet you remained perfectly calm. It didn’t strike me at the time, but when I found the glove I understood.’
‘There’s no denying it, boss, you’ve got a real nose for this. But you must admit I have too, because if it hadn’t occurred to me to follow you – whack!’
‘Don’t congratulate yourselves too soon, dear sirs. This glove may belong to me, but it doesn’t prove I was at the scene of any…slaughter. You could have picked it up anywhere.’
‘But, boss…’
‘She’s right. Go and fetch me a knife, Joseph. We’re going to discover the Madonna’s inner secret.’
Joseph rummaged in the kitchen, muttering to himself indignantly.
‘“Tie up her wrists, Joseph!” “Do this, do that, Joseph.” “Go and fetch a knife, Joseph!” Never “Thank you for saving my life, Joseph.” It’s nice to feel appreciated!’
He came back with a large meat knife, which he held out purposefully, blade first. Victor sliced open the picture and slipped the knife easily between the Madonna and the backing board. He extracted an official document drafted in Spanish and covered with various stamps. On it was the name Armand de Valois.
‘What is this?
‘The deed of sale to a piece of land in Colombia,’ Ninon replied.
‘Does it belong to you? I see no mention of the name Palmyra Caicedo.’
‘Let’s just say it reverts to me by right.’
‘And in order to recover it you didn’t hesitate to kill three people. No, four, including Armand de Valois.’
‘May God receive him in heaven! Dear Armand was a scoundrel, but I was fond of him. We were similar in many ways. Come, admit it, the most you can have me charged with is attempted theft without breaking and entering, since Monsieur Mori invited me on to the premises.’
‘How did you get hold of the double key to the garret?’
‘Tasha lent it to me. She left some materials behind yesterday and asked me to go and fetch them for her.’
‘What happened to Monsieur Turner?’
Ninon burst out laughing.
‘Give me some trousers, a frock coat and a bowler and I’ll give you Monsieur Turner. I enjoyed playing that dual role, the husband then the wife – they weren’t a very close couple, those Turners; you never saw them together. That concierge fell for it. I had a good teacher. I was trailing you when you went into the Théâtre Robert Houdin. Doubtless that fool Médéric told you some sob story. Poor wretch! He was far too sentimental for my liking.’
Irritated, Victor glanced at Joseph, who was jotting everything down in his notebook. This interrogation was leading nowhere. He needed to change tack.
‘You killed Odette, Denise and Père Moscou,’ he pronounced.
‘Pure supposition on your part.’
‘You threatened Madame de Brix. The letter signed by her dead son nearly killed her, and who knows? She may still die as a result of her stroke.’
‘Although I’ve never met her personally I am terribly sorry to hear it. I wasn’t aware that her health was so fragile.’
‘You posed as a clairvoyant in order to exploit Madame de Valois’s suffering and her gullibility.’
‘Suffering! Isn’t that a slight exaggeration, dear man? She was so in love with her husband that she deceived him with you! At worst I caused her to shed a few crocodile tears. If that’s my only crime, then I plead guilty.’
Joseph stopped writing and, beaming, stuck up the hand in which he held the pencil.
‘Can I have a word, boss?’
He pulled Victor to one side and whispered in his ear: ‘I’ve got proof of her guilt. I’ll run home and fetch it, sharpish.’
Victor nodded and Joseph ran out immediately.
Ninon gave Victor a look of complicity.
‘Now we’re alone you can let me go and no one will know. You can say I escaped.’
‘What have I to gain from it?’
‘Why, everything: riches, love. We’d make a formidable pair…’
‘It’s very tempting, but I already have all that. And you’re wrong, we’re not alone.’
He motioned with his chin as he walked over to the bedroom. Reconciled in sleep, the two people he loved most in the world lay like a couple of children, dead to the world. He couldn’t help feeling grateful towards Ninon. She could have killed them too.
A tornado appeared to have hit Madame Pignot’s usually tidy abode. Joseph’s wardrobe doors were flung open and a heap of clothes lay scattered on the flo
or. At last he found the jacket he’d been wearing on the night of the attack on Père Moscou. He turned out the empty pockets. ‘Oh, Maman! What have you done with it? I know you haven’t chucked it away; you save everything in case there’s another war.’
He tore over to the cupboard where she kept her bits of string and brown paper, and biscuit tins containing pins, pennies and buttons. He spread the contents of the tins over the table and combed through them feverishly. Joseph’s fingers closed around his catch, and he made his way back to Rue des Saints-Pères.
‘Boss, boss, I’ve got it – the proof!’
Lying on his outstretched hand was a gold button from a student’s uniform. Victor compared it to the matching ones on Ninon’s dark frock coat.
‘What fools you are! The Lakanal School is swarming with students dressed in identical rags! All right, so I lost a button, you little cretin, but how will you convince the gentlemen from the police that I lost it at Cour des Comptes?’
‘She said it, boss! Boss, she confessed, she said, “Cour des Comptes”! She did it!’ shrieked Joseph, still smarting at being called a ‘cretin’.
‘Of course she did. The question is how do we prove it?’
‘Crikey, you’re hard to please. I’ve given you a glove, a button, newspaper articles and…’
‘And you’ve just given me an idea that might help expose our dear friend here. I am eternally grateful.’
Joseph went red as a beetroot – he would have hugged Victor only he didn’t dare.
And thank you, Numa, thought Victor. ‘Follow your instinct.’ Isn’t that the message he passed on to me from Daphne and Uncle Émile?
‘Joseph, go round to the police station, will you? Please,’ he added, with a grin.
Chapter Eleven
For the third time since the interview began, Inspector Lecacheur stopped in front of the mottled mirror, adopted a flattering pose and smoothed down his thick, black moustache before continuing to circle the desk near which Victor was seated.