by Claude Izner
‘What’s got into you?’
‘A mosquito,’ Kenji said, wiping his hands. ‘As a boy, I was very good at doing this.’ He returned to the kitchen. Victor used the moment to empty the teapot in the bathroom.
‘I won’t be dining tonight! I’m going to bed!’ he shouted.
He was starving, but a one-to-one meal with Kenji was more than he could face.
He closed his bedroom door, sat down on the edge of the bed, with his notebook on his knees and wrote, ‘What links Tasha and Kenji? Tasha and Ostrovski? Kenji and Cavendish? Was Patinot murdered, as Gouvier and Clusel suggest? Did Cavendish suffer the same fate?’
He lay back on the pillows. Where did I put the newspaper that had his biography? He wrote articles for Le Tour du Monde …
His eyes were closing. Just before he fell asleep, he wondered at what time he could safely go to raid the larder.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Morning, Tuesday 28 June
VICTOR slept badly because of the heat, and got up early. After making sure that Kenji was still asleep, he took a piece of bread from the kitchen, slipped out of the bookshop and walked up to the Seine.
‘Who’ll buy my coffee? Ten centimes a cup.’
On the riverbank a coffee seller, carrying his tin stove, was offering his bitter beverage to the dog shearers and the mattressmakers, who were already at work near the Pont du Carrousel. Victor helped himself to a large cup, swallowing it in one gulp. Then, eating his bread, he walked along the river. It reflected the cloudy sky as a metallic mosaic in which millions of luminous particles coalesced, then parted again. Just like this situation I’m in. I mustn’t jump to conclusions, I must consider the two of them separately: Tasha on one side, Kenji on the other. And first and foremost, Cavendish.
When he arrived at number 77 Boulevard Saint-Germain, the Hachette bookshop, home of Le Tour du Monde, had just opened. He went over to the reception desk and explained what he was researching to a secretary, who showed him into the archive room. The archivist made a note of his request. A few minutes later he put down in front of Victor several cardboard files containing all editions for the years 1857—1869, lavishly illustrated with engravings. Victor leafed through the first edition. One article caught his attention:
JOURNEY TO SIAM, LAND OF THE WHITE ELEPHANT BY JOHN RUSKIN CAVENDISH
I was in Bangkok in December 1858 when a friend suggested I accompany him to Western Laos to attend a tattooing ceremony. This very painful process is endured by young men in order to please …
Victor turned the pages. South-East Asia was laid out before him — Cambodia, Malaysia, the Philippines, Borneo, Java … Two words caught his attention, ‘blue mountains’. He read:
In Java, the granite summits of the blue mountains rise to 12,000 feet. Their slopes contain gold and emerald.
Kenji’s face, as clear as a photograph, came to him. He was leaning over his childhood bed telling him a story: ‘The blue mountains are home to flying dragons. When the sun beats down, they flap like bats around the fortresses built on the slopes of the volcanoes. The people of Java shoot arrows at them to chase them away. Once, a long time ago, one of these monsters braved the arrows and snatched up a human between its claws. That’s how Princess Surabaja was carried off. She was more beautiful than the dawn, livelier than a squirrel and she sang better than a cicada. Taken by her grace, the dragon Djepu carried her off to his nest on Krakatoa. I must tell you that this Djepu was in fact a valiant warrior turned into a dragon by a wicked witch. So …’ That very evening Victor had vowed that one day he would ascend Krakatoa. Thirteen years later the terrible eruption put an end to his dream.
JOURNEY TO THE ISLAND OF JAVA BY JOHN RUSKIN CAVENDISH, 1858 – 1859
Victor could not take his eyes off that heading. He made a rapid calculation. Kenji was born in Nagasaki in 1839. At the age of nineteen, after studying history and geography, he had spent several months travelling around South-East Asia. The tale of the blue mountains meant one could assume he had visited Java. That could have coincided with Cavendish’s presence on the island in 1859. They may have known each other for thirty years! In 1863, the year that Father engaged Kenji, Cavendish was in London … Overwhelmed, Victor was not prepared to accept what he had discovered. He tried to tell himself that the dates did not fit, but clearly they did.
Victor continued to read. What followed in the account raised some difficult questions for him. He made some notes in his notebook but, oppressed by both the heat and feelings of apprehension, he had to take a break.
He went outside, leaving the other articles for later. He wandered as far as Boulevard Saint-Michel and then up towards the Luxembourg Gardens. The pavement was overflowing with people strolling, errand boys and workmen in a hurry. In the pavement cafés, groups of students, engaged in animated discussion, were gathered alongside melancholic old men. A street vendor selling gas-filled balloons came towards him, brandishing her multicoloured wares. Victor moved aside to let her pass.
‘Who’ll buy my beautiful balloons? There’s one for everybody! Red, green or blue, which one’s for you?’
Blue. A blue balloon attached to the wrist of the dead woman on the first platform of the tower. Victor could picture the scene clearly. Then he remembered the little boy with the blue balloon whom he had seen that very day on the same floor. The child had shouted: ‘He was a cowboy, he comes from New York,’ and then: ‘He’s part of Buffalo Bill’s troupe.’ New York!
Suddenly he decided to go to the home of the woman — what exactly was her name? Eugénie Pa … He could not remember her exact name or address, but these details had been in the newspaper reports of her death. As long as Joseph had kept them!
As its name indicated, Avenue des Peupliers in Auteuil was lined with poplars, behind which stood elegant villas. Victor first passed number 35, which bore the nameplate: ‘M. et Mme de Nanteuil’, thinking that Joseph must have given him the wrong address. A few metres further on he turned round and walked slowly back. He was about to pass number 35 for a second time when he noticed a broad woman on the other side of the road, trying to pick up some apricots that had dropped into the gutter. Her stoutness prevented her bending properly. He hurried over to help her. She turned away to set down her basket, gave her pale cheeks a quick pinch and then thanked him demurely.
‘I have difficulty bending so far down because of my rheumatism. Luckily, only one’s been crushed. They’re so expensive right now, you know!’
‘Do you live in this neighbourhood?’
She gave a little laugh, and simpered. ‘I would be lying if I said I didn’t.’
‘I’m looking for Eugénie Patinot’s house.’
‘Eugénie? Wait a moment, you’re not a policeman, by any chance?’
Her friendliness had vanished. Now she was wary.
‘Yes, I … I work at police headquarters.’
‘No one asked me any questions after her death, which is a pity as I was certainly her best friend around here.’
‘Where did she live?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘I was told to go to number thirty-five. But the nameplate says “Nanteuil”.’
‘Oh, I see, you’re new to this, aren’t you?’
She was now regarding him more kindly. Victor tried to look stupid.
‘They treat us novices harshly. When they send us on an investigation, they don’t give us enough information …’
‘An investigation? I knew it! The anonymous letter mentioned in the papers! The one that said that Eugénie knew too much. I really don’t see what she could have known. She was always the last to hear the neighbourhood gossip. In any case, her family have taken it very badly. Oh, the shame of it! Is that what you are investigating?’
‘No, no, they just want to test my abilities.’
‘Right. Well, Eugénie worked for the Nanteuils. She put on airs and graces, but there was no reason to: she was working as a maid, just like me — my name’s Louis
e Vergne. Monsieur Nanteuil works at the Ministry. He’s really only a pen-pusher, but he lives in style, thanks to his wife’s inheritance. Eugenie was Madame’s half-sister, a penniless relation, a widow taken in out of charity. Her job was to entertain the children. I did warn her, going to the Expo with all those foreigners there!’
‘The foreigners were nothing to do with it. She was stung by a bee.’
‘That’s what they say, but one day I saw an Indian man at the market. He was playing a flute to charm his cobra. What if the cobra decided to stay in France? It’s the same with those bees — how can you prove that they’re really French?’
‘Thank you very much. I’d better go and ask the Nanteuils some quest —’
‘You won’t be able to. They aren’t there. They have gone to choose the marble for the grave — so they say,’ she added in a lowered voice. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if they made do with granite. They’re a bit careful with money.’
‘In what way?’
‘They’re mean. They paid Eugénie a pittance. Personally I ruined myself buying a beautiful geranium to take to the cemetery, but they just took everlasting flowers. It’s cheaper that way. You can ring the bell. The governess is there — she will let you in. But watch out, she’s a terrible woman. She couldn’t stand poor Eugénie. Mademoiselle Rose, she’s called. What a joke! She’s nothing like a rose, apart from her prickliness!’
Victor bowed and crossed the road.
‘If you need to ask me any more questions, I live at number fifty-four, at the Le Massons’!’
He rang the bell. The gate opened and he crossed the garden, which was filled with box and ornamental pots. A maid was waiting for him on the doorstep.
‘May I speak to Mademoiselle Rose? I’m from police headquarters.’
The governess received him in the parlour. She was tall, bony and ill-tempered. She resembled a cactus more than a rose, and even had hair on her chin.
‘Monsieur and Madame are not here. They will be home this evening.’
‘Perhaps you could give me some information on Madame Patinot?’
‘I have already given information to the police. I didn’t know her very well. I have only been with the Nanteuils since …’
Three children, two boys and a girl, came tumbling into the room, shouting and laughing. The youngest, armed with a cardboard revolver, was chasing the others. They began to run around the governess, who cried, ‘Marie-Amélie! Control yourself!’ and tried to catch the child as she ran past.
Victor recognised the children he had seen on the first floor of the Tower.
‘Hector! Come here!’
‘Can’t, we’re playing Buffalo Bill, they’re the ferocious Indians Black Beaver and Red Wolf!’ shouted the little boy, breathlessly.
The governess succeeded in pinning him to the wall, and took him firmly by the wrist.
‘Gontran, I am ordering you to come here.’
Red Wolf slowed down and looked sadly at his sister. She disappeared down the corridor.
‘Excuse me a moment, Monsieur. I have to have a little talk with these gentlemen in their bedroom,’ scolded Mademoiselle Rose.
‘Please.’
She left the parlour, holding the boys by the hand.
‘What a way to behave, now your aunt is in heaven. I’m going to ask the inspector to lock you up with bread and water.’
A door closed and Victor heard no more. A rustling noise made him turn. Open-mouthed and tousle-haired, the little girl had sidled into the room and was watching him.
‘Are you really a policeman?’
He nodded.
‘Have you come for … me?’
‘That depends, Mademoiselle.’
‘I didn’t mean to take it, you know. Only it was so pretty, I just put it in my bag. I didn’t steal anything.’
‘Tell me all about it.’
‘The other day, at the Eiffel Tower, there were so many people and I wanted to see everything. We took the lift to the second floor and we queued up to sign the Golden Book. I saw how you make a newspaper. Afterwards we went down to the first floor to buy a present for Mama in the shops. My aunt was tired so she sat down. Hector gave her his balloon and he went off with Gontran. But Aunt didn’t want me to leave her. I was fed up, as the boys could do what they liked, but not me; I could only watch them. Suddenly my aunt cried, “Ow!”, something had stung her on the neck. She said it was a bee. At the same time someone fell on her: that made me laugh. Then Aunt leaped to her feet. It was funny; she looked like a jack-in-the-box. Then she sat back down. I saw that she was sleeping and very quietly I went over to the shop window. When I came back she was still asleep, but I was hungry. I wanted a toffee apple so I shook her to wake her up. Then I saw something by her feet. It looked like the handle of a nail file, but it was broken. I picked it up, that’s all. I didn’t do anything bad.’
‘I would like to see it.’
‘Not in front of Mademoiselle Rose. She should be called Mademoiselle Thorn. She’s a real telltale — she tells Mama everything. Watch out, there she is!’
‘Find a way of going into the garden. I’ll meet you by the front gate.’
The governess bore down on Marie-Amélie and tried to catch her, but the little girl was too quick for her and bounced out of the room.
‘Go to your room! Immediately!’
‘In five minutes! First I’m going to take my doll for a walk.’
‘No!’
Marie-Amélie had disappeared. The governess let out a sigh.
‘That child is the limit.’
‘I don’t want to take up any more of your time. I’ll come back again,’ said Victor, taking his leave.
She did not see him out. At the bottom of the garden, as he reached the gate, Marie-Amélie ran to him, her doll in her arms. ‘You won’t say anything to Mama, will you?’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die, if I tell a lie.’
‘Here it is.’ Onto his outstretched palm she put a metal rod inside a tapering ivory handle, which was etched with deep grooves and broken exactly in the middle.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘No idea. It looks like a … no, I don’t know. I’m going to take it to the prefecture for analysis. I will give it back to you later. In future, don’t go picking up things lying on the ground.’
‘Bang, bang! You’re dead, Black Beaver! Buffalo Bill got you!’ yelled Hector, who had escaped and was racing towards them, the governess in pursuit.
Victor made off, slipping the object into his pocket. He directed his attention to the important piece of information the child had given him: Eugénie Patinot had signed the Golden Book on 22 June. Patinot. Kenji. Cavendish … Tasha? Her name doesn’t figure on the list but she went up to the Figaro Pavilion, and yesterday in her apartment I saw a copy of the newspaper. She snatched it out of my hands before I could read the date. Was it from 22 June?
The yellow blur of an omnibus appeared at the corner of Rue d’Auteuil. He ran towards it, waving his arm.
By the time he reached the second platform, he was exhausted. A particularly dense crowd was pressing around the feet of the metal monster, awaiting the arrival of the Russian Lieutenant Azeef, who had come all the way from Pultava on horseback in just a month, by riding eight kilometres an hour for eleven hours a day. It was also announced that six British firewomen would climb the Tower. Fortunately no one was at all interested in Victor Legris’s visit to the Tower so he was able to wander as far as the kiosk that housed the Figaro offices. Through the glass wall, he saw the sub-editors, printers and stereotypers. A clerk pushed the door, which caught a gust of wind and Victor went in.
‘I am a reporter for Le Passe-partout and I need some information about the Golden Book.’
‘No time, I’m in a hurry. The Cossack is nearly here.’
Victor produced a five-franc piece, which had an immediate effect.
The boy murmured: ‘That’ll do nicely,’ and pocketed it. ‘Couldn’
t be a better time. Let’s hide. If someone complains I’ll say: nothing on the horizon.’
‘How many signatures do you get each day?’ asked Victor.
‘Several hundred. People queue up for hours! They sign and fill in their surname, first name, occupation and address. At the beginning it was yours truly who copied out the information into the register. It gave me cramp in my wrists! The Golden Book weighs more than the Nautical Almanac, you know. I was like a slave. I handled the great slab of a tome and made entries in my best copperplate: Monsieur So-and-so, Rue Such-and-such, manager of Such-and-such shop, and then ran it over to the compositor. It was penal servitude! Now I have an easier time of it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because now we have loose sheets, which are filled in by the public and which we give directly to the printer. Then they are added to the Golden Book. Soon I am going to put in the ones from this morning.’
‘Could any get lost? Names that don’t get included?’
‘It’s rare, but it does happen.’
‘Can I see the twenty-second of June?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure about that … In principle, it is not allowed.’
Victor put another coin into the boy’s hand, which he pocketed with alacrity.
‘There go my principles,’ he muttered. ‘Come on, we need to be quick.’
They went into the inner sanctum. A huge register lay on a desk, much like a Bible on a lectern. Victor looked over it, turned the pages and eventually found those for 22 June. He began to decipher the names one by one. First page, second page, third page: nothing. Some signatories had added a comment or a sketch. He started to read the fourth page and there it was:
… Marcel Forbin, lieutenant of the second cuirassiers. Rosalie Bouton, laundress, Aubervilliers. Madame de Nanteuil, Paris …