Murder on the Eiffel Tower

by Claude Izner

  Alias Eugénie Patinot.

  … Marie-Amélie de Nanteuil, Paris. Hector de Nanteuil, Paris. Gontran de Nanteuil, Paris. John Cavendish, New York, USA …

  His eyes went to the next page.

  Constantin Ostrovski, art coll —

  Ostrovski! So he signed it too.

  For several seconds Victor did not move, except for his hands, which were trembling. He made no attempt to pull himself together. He looked at the signature again:

  Constantin Ostrovski, art collector, Paris. B. Godunov, Slovenia …

  But where is Kenji? Then his heart gave a lurch.

  ‘What is it?’

  In the shock of the moment he had almost cried out. There was a ball in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘You shouldn’t be surprised,’ said the boy. ‘Some people do drawings; they think they’re artists. Naturally, we don’t reproduce them.’

  Victor looked back over the page. He could not believe it. There, just after Cavendish’s signature, was a caricature of the Eiffel Tower wearing a tutu and, with spindly legs, doing the splits over the River Seine. There was no name, but he recognised Tasha’s signature at once. Feverishly he looked at the sixth page. Kenji must be there somewhere; he hadn’t dreamt it!

  Si-Ali-Mahaoui, Fez. Udo Aiker, editor of the Berliner Zeitung. G. Collodi, Turin. J. Kulki, editor of Hlas Navoola of Prague. Victorin Alibert, bandleader. Madeleine Lesourd, Chartres. Kenji Mori, Paris. Sigmund …

  Something was not right: in Le Figaro de la Tour Kenji featured before Cavendish, he was sure of that.

  ‘Are the names of the signatories printed chronologically?’

  The boy sighed in exasperation.

  ‘That would be asking too much. Sometimes the printer might get the sheets mixed up because he’s overworked. The main thing is that everyone appears in the newspaper, isn’t it? Now, have you finished?’

  ‘Just a minute, I need to take some notes.’

  Victor almost missed the lift. There was a real scramble and a woman cursed him roundly. ‘You crush my feet and you don’t even apologise! You cad!’

  Tasha, Tasha … Tasha, Kenji, together on the Tower the day Eugénie Patinot died! … I’ll go to Tasha’s house.

  By the time he finally managed to extricate himself from the crowd of spectators who were cheering Lieutenant Azeef, he had regained his composure.

  She was not there. A note was fixed to her door with a drawing pin:

  Dear Danilo,

  I am at La Chapelle de Thélème. Come and join me at eight o’clock at the Café des Arts at the Expo, opposite the Press Pavilion (which is beside the Palace of Fine Arts). My boss has organised an audition for you tomorrow for a place in the Opera chorus.

  Tasha

  He would not be able to wait until the evening; he was plagued by too many unanswered questions. He went back down, wondering which church that chapel could be in. On the first-floor landing, a women in breeches, pushing a bicycle, appeared from one of the apartments.

  ‘Excuse me, Madame, do you know Mademoiselle Kherson?’

  She stared at him over her spectacles. ‘She’s my tenant.’

  ‘I’m a friend of hers. She asked me to meet her at La Chapelle de Thélème but she forgot to give me the address.’

  ‘Hm, a friend, eh? She has many of those. What are you? A painter? Journalist? Singer?’

  ‘A columnist.’

  ‘Oh, so you must know what they aren’t telling us about the Expo murders! I dream about them at night; I do love a good mystery.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I have no information, I only write about literature. Whilst you on the other hand —’

  ‘Mademoiselle Kherson does not keep me informed of her comings and goings. You should ask the owner of the art shop on Rue Clauzel. He is the confidant of all the so-called painters in this neighbourhood!’

  Not knowing exactly what the cyclist was referring to, Victor went on his way. He soon found the tiny shop selling paint, brushes, pencils and other artists’ supplies.

  He was greeted by a stocky man of about sixty, with closecut hair, who gave him a friendly welcome.

  ‘La Chapelle de Thélème? Yes, of course I know it. Rue Lepic, right at the top. I couldn’t tell you what number it is, but when you leave Boulevard de Clichy, it’s on the right as you go up the hill.’

  ‘Is it a religious institution?’

  ‘Not at all!’ laughed the man. ‘You know the famous Thélème monastery created by Rabelais in Gargantua? Well, La Chapelle is an eclectic coterie of artists who share the same approach to art. That’s why they use a name that evokes a clan, a brotherhood. You see, nothing monastic about that, especially as the chapel in question is the back room of the bistro Le Bacchus. It was founded by Maurice Laumier, a rising young artist. The members meet each week to paint a life model. The first time Laumier came here, I sent him packing. He had the nerve to ask for a tube of black paint. Black! Whereas I believe wholeheartedly in the dazzling colours used by the Impressionists! Then he came back and we sorted it out. I even traded the paint for one of his pictures.’

  He pointed to one of the shop walls that was covered in portraits, landscapes, and still lifes. Disconcerted, Victor went up to a small, delicate picture. It depicted the head and shoulders of a naked woman fixing her hair in front of a mirror, her arms raised, her firm round breasts in full view. It was Tasha!

  ‘Is it for sale?’ Victor asked in a neutral tone.

  ‘They’re all for sale! Laumier and his associates have talent, but the best are these masterpieces that have not unfortunately found a buyer — this one for example.’ The man pointed to a small square canvas of irises in a vase. The red, yellow and white flowers seemed to want to leap out of their blue background.

  ‘Vincent Van Gogh, a genius, misunderstood like all geniuses. I’ll wager you’ve never heard of him. No one paints flowers better than him. They’re so beautiful! Each time I look at them, I’m filled with wonder. And to think that he hasn’t sold a thing! Not a single canvas! People think he’s mad. But that’s the kind of madness I would be happy to have round to supper. And what about Cézanne! There’s another one who doesn’t sell, and to think that all the ones I admire, and who leave me their pictures in exchange for paint, will never earn me a bean. Never mind, any man who lives on more than fifty centimes a day is a scoundrel! But tell me, have you ever seen such wonderful art?’

  Victor glanced distractedly at the paintings of pears or apples in dishes, of crooked houses and of mountains in geometric shapes. The richness of the tones did not distract him from the portrait of Tasha. The shopkeeper sighed.

  ‘Oh, you’re just like all the others! It doesn’t matter, just mark my words, one day everyone will be talking about those two and fighting over their works, even if it is after they die. So, you like the Laumier, do you? It’s not expensive. Twenty francs … fifteen. Oh, have it for ten, if you like.’

  ‘It’s not a question of money. I am not arguing about the price, it’s just that … I’m not sure.’

  ‘That’s the problem. No one is ever sure. You’ll see, soon museums will be fighting each other for the privilege of exhibiting these canvases. Believe me, Monsieur.’

  Out on Boulevard de Clichy, home to dance halls, cabarets and music halls, Victor stopped outside a tavern named Les Frites Révolutionnaires. A tramp, hanging about near the entrance, told him that the establishment was owned by an ex-colonel from the Commune, and in return cadged a few sous from Victor.

  ‘Tell me, my friend, Le Bacchus, is it really at the top of Rue Lepic?’

  ‘Never heard of Le Bacchus, and I’ve been working this area for thirty years and been in every alehouse. Don’t you mean Bibulus?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bibulus. Yes, the owner is a native of Flanders, like King Leopold. Bibulus is the name of a dog in a book, and that dog is as keen on beer as an old drunk. The geezer who wrote the book, he’s Belgian as well.’

  ‘Tyl Ulenspiegel.’r />
  ‘What on earth’s that?’

  ‘The name of the book. This bistro, is it far?’

  ‘Go back up Rue Lepic as far as Rue Tholoze. Turn right there and you’ll see the sign, you can’t miss it.’

  Constructed under Napoleon, Rue Lepic was named after a Napoleonic general. Wider than the twisty alleyways of the neighbourhood, the street rang with the clatter of the coaches and cabs that horses struggled to drag towards the summit of Montmartre. After the Carrefour des Abbesses, Victor passed tall brand-new buildings, which in their immaculate whiteness towered over the two-storey hovels, the windmills and the dives with their wooden shutters. This strange assortment of buildings was dominated by the construction site of Sacré-Coeur, where work had started fourteen years earlier.

  Le Bibulus, which advertised itself to customers with a sign representing a suckling dog, was a smoky bar with a low ceiling, and barrels for tables. The owner, a fat man with a ruddy complexion, was rinsing glasses and pontificating behind the bar.

  ‘I’m a friend of Laumier’s,’ said Victor, ‘I —’

  ‘At the back, on the right,’ mumbled the man without even looking up.

  Victor went down a narrow corridor that reeked of cabbage. At the end there was a door with a glass panel. He pressed his nose against the misty square of glass and discovered a long room littered with easels. A group of young people, about ten of them, were painting enthusiastically. On a trestle table stood a man posing in the bare minimum of clothing. Shocked, Victor noticed Tasha, very much at ease, engaged in studying the model from every angle. A large long-haired, bearded man went up to her, slipped an arm round her waist and murmured something that made her roar with laughter.

  Victor’s shoulders drooped. She was nothing but a whore! One of those easy girls who would sleep with anyone. He desired her so intensely that he could not bear to see anyone else with her. He could picture himself punching the large bearded character, who was now looking at Tasha with a proprietorial air.

  Victor hurried out of the bar and found himself standing outside on the pavement. To hell with her! He strode off, his face flushed, breathing hoarsely. He told himself that she cared nothing for him. But he still wanted her. Eight o’clock, Café des Arts …

  Without realising, he had returned to Rue Clauzel, to the artists’ supplies shop. The owner was chatting to two young artists.

  ‘I’ll buy the Laumier,’ said Victor. ‘Here’s twenty francs.’

  ‘It’s not worth that much. I don’t want to fleece you.’

  ‘It is worth that. Take it.’

  ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t prefer a Van Gogh?’

  ‘Could you wrap it for me?’

  The shopkeeper shrugged and picked up an old newspaper.

  ‘See you soon, Monsieur Tanguy, we’ll be back,’ called the young people, as they left the shop.

  Victor put the little picture away in the pocket of his frock coat.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Evening, Tuesday 28 June

  IT was late afternoon when Victor reached the Expo. The cannon fire from the Tower’s second platform made everybody look up and he almost collided with a street vendor selling bread rolls, saveloys and fresh herring. He looked at his watch: 5.45 p.m., two hours to kill. Moving away, he wondered where on earth fish could be fried here. No doubt in the troglodyte habitat.

  He wandered through a forest of pylons and overblown constructions. The flow of visitors on their way home crossed with those out for the evening festivities. Armed with baskets brimming with provisions, they had taken over the History of Habitation and settled on the ancient ruins, transforming the dolmens into dining rooms. The passengers on the little Decauville train en route for the Esplanade des Invalides shouted a few insults in their direction as they went by.

  Victor walked back towards the Tower, but there too the picnickers had taken over, laying siege to the lower steps of the staircases. The Press Pavilion offered him a refuge and he dived straight in. On the first floor there was a library, flanked by two big rooms, the first for foreign correspondents, the second for French journalists. He was heading straight for a comfortable armchair when he recognised Antonin Clusel, immersed in a dictionary. He quickly did an about-turn, returned to the ground floor and, having crossed the telephone hall, entered a restaurant that was full to bursting. Above the sound of conversation and laughter, an orchestra was playing an Offenbach Allegro. A head waiter came up to him.

  ‘Are you a journalist, Monsieur?’

  Victor shook his head.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Monsieur, but this restaurant is only for members of the press and their guests.’

  ‘Victor, what are you doing here?’ Marius Bonnet and Eudoxie Allard were leaving their belongings at the cloakroom. She dragged her fingers through her black curls, and looked at him, pouting.

  ‘Georges,’ said Marius to the head waiter, ‘I would like to dine well away from the orchestra.’

  ‘That is not a problem, Monsieur Bonnet. Please follow me.’ He led them to a quiet table and sought Marius’s approval.

  ‘Perfect, Georges, perfect.’

  ‘It’s an honour, Monsieur Bonnet. I buy your newspaper, I share your opinions. One wonders what the police are up to. These deaths are very bad publicity for the Exposition.’ He pulled out the chairs, dusted the tablecloth and laid out the menus. ‘I’ll send the wine waiter over,’ he said as he left.

  ‘Good Lord!’ Victor exclaimed. ‘Have you got shares in the place?’

  ‘I am in possession of the secret formula: everything can be bought, everything is for sale, even people. Will you join us?’

  ‘No, I must go.’

  Marius took him to one side. ‘Stay, you’ll be doing me a favour. Eudoxie has set her cap at you. I’m just a stop-gap. And in any case, she’s not my type. I prefer them more …’ His hands moved eloquently.

  ‘Sorry, old man, I’m not for sale and I’ve got a rendezvous.’

  ‘Blonde or brunette?’ asked Marius.

  Victor withdrew, his mind busy with plans. What would he say to Tasha? ‘Well, what a surprise, who would have thought it, you’re here for the fireworks display too?’ No — too banal!

  It was oppressively hot. He pushed back his hat and dabbed his face with his handkerchief. At the entrance to the restaurant he got caught up in a large group of chattering women outside the ladies’ lavatories.

  ‘Certainly, Monsieur Ostrovski, it’s a pleasure, please do come this way …’

  Stunned, Victor turned. He saw the head waiter in his white jacket lead a man with a tonsured pate towards the back of the restaurant.

  Ostrovski? He recalled his feelings of unease during the visit to his house. He managed to break free of the crowd in order to scan the tables, but a group of revellers pushed him against the cloakroom counter and obscured his view. Feeling suddenly very weak and lethargic, he made for the revolving doors.

  Outside in the fresh air he felt better. He lit a cigarette, stayed a moment to look at the great crowds, much denser now than in the early evening. Ostrovski! Who was he meeting?

  Against a red and white stripy background the sign declared:

  THE IMPRESSIONIST AND SYNTHETIST GROUP CAFÉ DES ARTS

  MANAGER: VOLPINI

  UNIVERSAL EXPOSITION, CHAMP-DE-MARS

  OPPOSITE THE PRESS PAVILION

  EXHIBITION OF PAINTINGS

  Paul Gauguin Émile Schuffenecker Émile Bernard

  Charles Laval Louis Anquetin Louis Roy

  Léon Fauché Daniel Nemo

  Irritated by these ‘-ists’ and deterred by the names of unknown artists, Victor resignedly crossed the threshold of Café Volpini. In the centre of a brightly lit dance-floor, a Russian princess with golden hair was conducting a group of young female violinists in Muscovite costume. On the lookout for a red chignon, he went past sideboards and beer pumps, and collided with the counter, from which the well-endowed torso of the cashier rose up. A waiter charged out of the pant
ry, bumped into another coming in the opposite direction, and the two trays crashed to the floor. The cashier heaved herself up over her till, grabbed a saltcellar and sprinkled the unfortunate waiters with it. Victor slipped in discreetly amongst a group of hotheads who were gesticulating and talking loudly.

  ‘You don’t understand! Individual initiative is trying to do here what incalculable administrative idiocy would never have allowed to happen!’

  ‘But the Palace of Fine Arts —’

  ‘Don’t give me the Palace of Fine Arts!’

  ‘That chamber of horrors!’ yapped a small thick-lipped man, wearing a bowler hat and pince-nez. ‘They managed to rid themselves of Cézanne, by hauling his Hanged Man’s House right up a wall to just beneath the ceiling, so that nobody would notice it there. Meanwhile, there’s a crush to see the official exhibitors. Ooh! Joan of Arc Entering Orléans by Scherrer. Aah! The Death of Ivan the Terrible by Makowsky! Messieurs, it is worthy of Cormon’s mammoth hunts.’

  ‘My dear Henri, you speak wisely. It’s thanks to a café owner that we’ve managed to create a rival to that exhibition!’

  What have I done to deserve this? wondered Victor. He felt as though he had woken up suddenly on the stage of a vaudeville show and was trying to work out which role each person was playing.

  In simple wooden frames, a hundred canvases covered partitions hung with dark red fabric. Some resembled stained-glass windows, their warm palette creating an unusual effect, their pronounced line depicting an impression of subjects without attempting to render the objective reality of a landscape or a model.

  What is he trying to express? Victor wondered, looking at a canvas signed ‘Gauguin: The Sea’. A naked woman with loose red hair was surrendering herself to the caress of the waves. The unusual tones, the economy of method evoked a sensual pleasure in the viewer. The old man of the Rue Clauzel had been right: it was physical. He stared down at the floor but the feeling did not go away. He looked back up at the painting; the sensation persisted.