by Claude Izner
The ladies cried out in horror. Unperturbed, Joseph went on:
‘As soon as I was sure he was dead, I undressed him, laid him out on his bed and covered him with a sheet.
‘The next day, I had a cab driver take a note signed “Capus” to Victor’s home. In it he asked Victor to visit him. I returned to Rue de la Parcheminerie and lay in wait for my prey. I was there in the shadows, my arm raised, ready to smash his skull, when I suddenly had a turn. I missed my target, my heart was racing. I just about managed to drag myself to the newspaper.
‘Even while I waited to resolve this problem, I needed to continue with my plan and rid myself of the fourth person on the list, Danilo Ducovitch, alias Boris Godunov, Tasha Kherson’s next-door neighbour. Knowing about my connections in the world of the arts, she had asked me to arrange an audition for her friend at the Opera House. That’s how I found out he was working at the Human Habitation exhibit where he was playing prehistoric man. Nothing was easier than surprising him in his cave.
‘Thursday 30 June, ten in the evening. All I need to do now is to see off Tasha Kherson with a view to throwing suspicion on Victor Legris by leaving the tattooing needle in the young woman’s body.’
‘Here ends Marius Bonnet’s confession. His criminal plan was foiled thanks to the courage and wisdom of Victor Legris and Kenji Mori. But his dream did come true. Le Passe partout’s circulation is on track to equal that of Le Petit Journal. It is not for me to judge the actions of my editor-in-chief. I am simply respecting his final wishes.
‘Antonin Clusel’
Joseph closed the newspaper.
‘Your name isn’t mentioned anywhere,’ said Valentine, disappointed.
‘Real heroes always remain in the shadows,’ he declared in a world-weary way.
Late Afternoon, Saturday 2 July
Their return from police headquarters was inauspicious. Victor and Kenji did not exchange a single word. They crossed the bookshop, one behind the other, muttering a vague ‘Hello’ to Joseph as they passed.
Disconcerted by their attitude, he just called out: ‘Germaine has left you something cold to eat!’
Kenji rooted around in the cupboards and took out two plates, two sets of cutlery and heated the water for his tea. Slumped in front of the bowls of crudités, Victor was rolling bread balls.
‘That ham looks a bit strange,’ said Kenji, sitting down.
‘Like us,’ Victor grumbled.
They finally dared look each other in the face and were able to see the ravages of the last few hours. With red eyelids, rough cheeks, and drawn features, Kenji really looked his age. As for Victor, deprived as he had been of proper sleep and food for several days, he was beginning to resemble a ghost.
‘You’re right,’ Kenji agreed, ‘we’re not at our best. But it’s not just our bodies that have been affected.’
‘Oh, yes?’
Kenji drank down some tea.
‘You suspected me. I would never have believed I could provoke such negative thoughts in someone that I think of as my son.’
Victor sighed in relief. Anything was better than silence. Daphne had often said to him when he was little: it’s better always to talk about your troubles.
‘Inspector Lecacheur didn’t trust you either, Kenji. He didn’t trust either of us. He had known the results of John Cavendish and Eugénie Patinot’s autopsies since the twenty-ninth of June, so he knew they’d been poisoned with curare. What I’ve really been trying to do is show that you were innocent.’
He pushed back his chair, went into his apartment and quickly returned with an engraving.
‘Why are you showing me a Rembrandt reproduction?’ Kenji asked.
‘The chiaroscuro. Shadow is what stimulates the imagination. I recently discovered that there are many shadowy areas in your life.’
‘You do like to make up stories,’ said Kenji, smiling.
‘You gave me the taste for it.’
‘Shadowy areas? Tell me where.’
‘You claimed to be going to assess a book collection, but instead I saw you sell off some rare books to a book dealer and let Ostrovski have your Utamaros.’
‘You followed me!’
‘I felt sure you were going to meet a woman. You’re so secretive about that part of your private life! You must admit that going into a luxury goods shop to buy some trinkets makes one think …’
‘You’re in the wrong business. You could have been a detective.
‘Put yourself in my shoes. What would you have thought if you’d seen on a newspaper belonging to me: “Meet J.C. 24 — 6 Grand Hotel Room 312”? J.C. being John Cavendish, who was found in circumstances that can be described at the very least as unusual.’
‘You’re right. One should chase the shadows away.’
Kenji got up, picked up the pot of sake, filled two little cups and sat down again.
‘In 1858 I was nineteen. I had just finished my studies, and could speak Thai and English fluently. I met John Cavendish at the United States legation in Nagasaki. He was preparing an expedition to South-East Asia to classify flora and study the indigenous tribes. He took me on as an interpreter. We spent almost three years in Borneo, Java and Siam. In 1863 we stayed in London, where he introduced me to your father. I moved to Sloane Square. Cavendish went back to the United States and we regularly exchanged letters. A month ago he sent me a letter to let me know that he was coming to Paris, with an invitation to a reception that was to take place on the twenty-second of June at Gustave Eiffel’s apartments. Do you remember that day I arrived late at the Anglo-American bar, you were with the Le Passe-partout team?’
‘Yes, I remember. I gave you a watch for your birthday.’
‘At that reception, I met my friend Maxence de Kermarec …’
‘The antiques dealer from Rue de Tournon?’
‘The very same. A few days earlier, I had suggested he buy the two Utamaro prints from me. He wasn’t interested, but he knew an amateur collector, Constantin Ostrovski. He was one of Eiffel’s guests. Maxence introduced me and we agreed to meet on the twenty-fourth of June at Café de la Paix on Boulevard des Capucines. That would work well for me as I was to have lunch with John Cavendish in the restaurant of the Grand Hotel. I noted down the meeting in the margin of the newspaper, which you found when you were rummaging in my room.’
‘I tried to convince myself that I was reading too much into your meeting with Cavendish. What frightened me was that you knew Ostrovski, and that your name came after his on the Figaro list.’
‘I was also worried by your perpetual absences from the bookshop. I went into your apartment and knocked over a notebook. I read the page at which it opened and I understood the gravity of the situation.’
‘So we’re quits, then.’
‘Yes, except that I was the one who was right. I wasn’t in possession of the massive amount of information that was weighing you down. All I had were the three photos you’d taken of the redhead at the Colonial Exhibition the day of Cavendish’s death. The dates were written on the back. The solution was there but you missed it. Amongst the crowd I recognised a familiar figure. I urgently needed to take the train to London. I put the photos in my pocket with a view to studying them on the journey. In the station foyer at Gare du Nord I read in the newspaper of Ostrovski’s death. I read the witness statement by the cabman who’d taken the fare and I realised I was on to something. If the cab driver corroborated my hunch, then I’d know who the murderer was. I gave up my trip to London and went to see Anselme Donadieu.’
‘What did you need to know that was so important?’
‘The description of the hat belonging to the man in the Inverness cape. Anselme Donadieu is no longer in the first flush of youth, but he has extraordinary powers of observation. Without hesitating he told me that the customer he had picked up on Place Maubert had a white hat, with a low dented crown and a wide black ribbon. He said, “That’s what’s called a Panama nowadays.” Only one person I knew wore a
hat like that, and that was Marius Bonnet. He was on the Tower the day that Eugénie Patinot died. He was also at the Colonial Palace at the time of Cavendish’s death, as your photographs can attest. He was with Ostrovski in the cab. Why had he killed these three people? I was reminded of a conversation with Maxence de Kermarec and I went to see him to find out a little more. Ostrovski had sworn him to secrecy when he told him that he was financing Le Passe-partout. So I understood the motive for that murder: money. As to the two others, it was a mystery. I decided to go and have a snoop around at the newspaper, which was when I came across Isidore Gouvier, who told me the team were on the Tower. You know what happened next.’
They got up and went into the dining room, carrying their sake.
‘For you it was a hat that got you on the right track, for me it was a cigar band that was found not far from Danilo Ducovitch’s body,’ Victor remarked. ‘But then I made another mistake. I felt sure that Clusel was the culprit. I hurried to the newspaper offices and arrived shortly after your departure. In Bonnet’s cupboard I saw the yellow kid ankle boots. I recalled Henri Capus’s description of someone who had been offering advice at the very moment that Méring died, and who was wearing the self-same boots. When Gouvier mentioned your visit, I must admit that I began to doubt everything I thought I knew. I felt confused.’
‘Well, now you know.’
‘Oh, there are still shadowy areas! For example, Los Caprichos. Why did you make up that story about the bookbinder’s?’
Kenji turned away and looked at the little Laumier painting for a moment.
‘Appearance is no more reality than a sunset is a fire.’
He smiled and emptied his sake cup with one gulp.
Early Morning, Tuesday 5 July
Covered up, the dormer still let in enough light for the outlines of the furniture to be visible. Lying up against the wall, Tasha opened her eyes and slowly freed her arm, which was trapped under Victor’s neck. She briefly looked at the man who lay asleep beside her. Something was missing this morning. She suddenly remembered Danilo Ducovitch. He would never wake her again with his singing exercises. She felt a pang. Poor Danilo, he was about to sing at the Opera House! Was he singing arias now in the company of Rossini and Mussorgsky?
Victor groaned. She put her fingers on his thigh and felt a muscle twitch. He was snoring. She loved the smell of him. Could this man, who only three days earlier she had sworn never to see again, make her happier than Hans? When he had knocked on her door a few hours earlier, embarrassed and bumbling, overflowing with flowers, the questions she wanted to ask him evaporated into thin air. She found herself once again in his arms, her mouth pressed up against his, her body wanting him and her hands finding their way through his clothes to his skin. What would happen now? Another worrying thought occurred to her. Would she lose her job at Le Passe-partout? If Clusel took over the newspaper, as seemed to be his plan, would he keep her on? That furious madman Bonnet had wanted to kill her. Now he was dead, but would that leave her unemployed?
Victor moved. She held her breath and turned to face the wall.
He gradually woke up and realised that he was about to fall out of the bed. He hung on to the narrow mattress, and twisted round so that his face ended up on Tasha’s chest. He gave thanks to God or Providence — he wasn’t sure which — for sparing them. Marius would have made a fine mess had he killed one or the other. What happens when lovers are separated by death? he asked himself, then he noticed the marks on her forearm and rolled over to kiss them. The mattress groaned. Tasha was clinging to his shoulder.
‘I think the bed is going to collapse,‘she murmured. ‘Don’t move.’
They remained motionless for a moment, laughing like idiots. Tasha got up carefully.
‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, but with sugar, please.’
‘I don’t think I have any left.’
‘Well, we’ll go out to have some.’
‘You lead a life of luxury, don’t you? You need the good things in life.’
‘You, for example.’
She straightened up and stretched. He admired the splendour of her supple body. She began to dress.
‘Up you get, lazybones!’
He sat up. He noticed the special edition of Le Passe-partout on the floor.
MURDERER CONFESSES
Because of this article, Joseph had spent the afternoon of the previous day sending away huge numbers of people who were curious to see Kenji’s display cabinet.
‘I just can’t conceive of Bonnet being so insane as to come up with such a diabolical plan. I thought I knew him, but it was all a charade,’ Victor said.
‘According to Clusel he was not a madman but a genius. I thought I had the measure of him too. We’ll never know everything that was going on in his mind. It’s probably for the best. It’s funny, you work closely with people, you get used to them, you think you have a sense of who they are, and then one day you discover you know them no better than a stranger.’
She held out his long johns. ‘You can’t go to the café like that.’
‘Why not? Don’t you like the way I look?’ he asked, pulling her towards him. ‘You know, as a result of this experience I’m very tempted to live with a stranger, to think about her day after day, year after year.’
He felt her stiffen.
‘How about you?’ he added.
‘How about me, what?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to share my … private world?’
‘I love you.’
She tried to break free, but he held on to her.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really, despite your hot-headedness. Even if you did think I was a criminal.’
‘So, marry me.’
She pushed him away gently. He stood there, naked, looking at her with a proprietorial air. She turned away, and looked at the unfinished painting on the easel.
‘Ask me anything, but not that.’
‘Why? Why?’ He spoke in a tone of incomprehension and wounded pride.
‘Because I need my freedom.’
‘Your freedom … Does that mean spending time with, the sort of friends that I would not choose to have?’ He was thinking of Laumier.
‘Freedom does not mean free and easy. I’m talking about my freedom to be creative,’ she retorted.
‘But you would be completely free with me. You could paint however and whenever you liked! What’s more, I also value my independence. I’m very careful never to let people interfere in my life. Don’t think I made my proposal lightly. I know life as a couple isn’t simple.’
‘Have you ever tried it? I have.’
He suddenly felt a blast of jealousy.
‘Was it Laumier?’
She snorted. ‘That oversized chubby baby? Are you joking? He was called Hans. I met him in Berlin. He was an artist, a skilled sculptor, he was kind, protective …’
‘Did you love him?’
The look of pain on his face was not lost on Tasha.
‘Yes, for a time. You’re not a boy. You’ve had mistresses. I had a lover. Hans never proposed marriage to me and with good reason: he was already married. He installed me in a pretty room, bought me the materials I needed, cared for me. I could eat as much as I wanted, and paint. Everything was going well, and then he began judging my work. “You ought to put a bit more green here, a little less yellow here, and if I were you I’d make this character, not that one, the main subject of the painting … Don’t you think you could lessen the light on these folds?” Gradually he undermined my work and my self-confidence. His advice may have been justified, but he was expressing his own personality, not mine. I left him. That was hard, very hard. But I took charge of my life and came to Paris.’
‘You did the right thing,’ Victor said, deciding to put on his long johns, relieved that the sculptor had been left behind in Berlin. ‘But you’re forgetting one detail — I’m not Hans.’
‘I know, you are Victor.’
S
he stood on her tiptoes and dropped a kiss on the edge of his mouth.
‘It’s just that it’s too soon. I’m not ready yet. You see those rickety chairs, the peeling wallpaper, the wobbly bed? I had to fight to have them. I am queen of all I survey.’
She struck a regal pose with a paintbrush between her teeth. He could not help laughing.
‘You have to admit that an apartment would make you a slightly better-off queen. Instead of marrying me next week, you could come and live in a different neighbourhood near to the bookshop. I solemnly swear never to stick my nose in your artistic life.’
‘Why can’t we stay as we are? We could see each other every day.’
‘I’m too jealous. Aren’t you?’
‘I saw the Laumier painting in your room. As long as you keep that on show on your dresser, I’ll know that you still care for me enough not to go around having little affairs. That will be the measure of your love: my nakedness, on show to everyone, even your business associate who doesn’t like me.’
She finished dressing. Victor went very still: Kenji! It was true, he didn’t like Tasha. That would have to be sorted out. How? He could never have Tasha to stay at Rue des Saints-Pères for as long as Kenji lived there. And, of course, he would never be able to ask him to go and live elsewhere.
‘You’re probably right,’ he said finally. ‘Let’s take our time. The main thing is that we love each other.’
Surprised at this, she gave him a sidelong glance. He looked anxious. What was he hiding? That woman done up in all her finery? She felt slightly disappointed. Her victory had been too quick. Should she be pleased or worried?
She picked up her only pair of ankle boots and sat down on a chair to put them on.
‘Let me at least buy you some new shoes,’ he said, kneeling down by her and caressing the tip of the shoe, which had completely lost its shape.
‘I’d really like that. Some cakes too, please. And flowers, as many as you like.’