Murder on the Eiffel Tower

by Claude Izner

  ‘And then …’

  ‘Then we’ll see. All in good time.’

  She passed him his frock coat. Before they left she looked around happily at the untidy room: she had uncovered the dormer and sunshine was now flooding in.

  LE FIGARO, 13 MAY 1889 (page 4)

  CURIOUS DEATH OF A RAG-AND-BONE MAN

  A rag-and-bone man from Rue de la Parcheminerie has died from a bee-sting. The accident occurred yesterday morning at Batignolles station as Buffalo Bill and his troupe arrived in Paris. Bystanders tried in vain to revive the victim. The enquiry has revealed that the dead man was Jean Méring, 42, a former Communard who had been deported to New Caledonia but returned to Paris after the amnesty of 1880.

  The man crumpled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it into the waste-bin.

  Paris dresse sa tour

  ainsi qu’une grande giraffe inquiète

  sa tour

  qui, le soir venu,

  craint les fantômes.

  Paris raises its tower

  like a big, anxious giraffe

  its tower

  which, come night-time,

  is frightened of ghosts.

  PIERRE MAC ORLAN (Tel était Paris)

  ALSO BY CLAUDE IZNER

  The Disappearance at Père-Lachaise

  A FEW HISTORICAL NOTES ON THE UNIVERSAL EXPOSITION OF 1889

  The fourth French Universal Exposition opened on 6th May 1889 to coincide with the centenary of the French Revolution.

  In. 1884, Charles de Freycinet, President of the Exposition Council, had announced that its centrepiece would be a monumental tower, and launched a competition for its design. Seven hundred entries were received, including fanciful ones such as the watering can tower which would have sprinkled Paris with water on very hot days. The contract was won by Gustave Eiffel, the celebrated builder of metal structures. His tower would become the tallest building in the world, a symbol of French power and industry.

  In January 1887 seven thousand tons of iron and cast-iron began to be assembled on the Champ-de-Mars. Painted a reddish bronze, the Tower rose gradually, and soon came to dominate the Parisian skyline, provoking the admiration of some and the anger of others. J.-K. Huysmans called it ‘a solitary suppository, riddled with holes’, Guy de Maupassant ‘a disgraceful skeleton’. As for the poet Verlaine, he made detours around Paris to avoid seeing it.

  Inaugaurated on 31 March 1889, the Tower rose to a height of 300 metres. The many pavilions making up the Exposition were laid out below. Everything was ready to receive massive crowds, which nonetheless exceeded all expectation: in six months 3,512,000 people ascended the 1,710 steps of the tower, and 33 million visited the Exposition.

  In the aisles filled with rickshaws and Arab donkey-drivers, a visitor might come across the Prince of Wales, Savorgnan de Brazza, various crowned heads or perhaps Buffalo Bill or Sarah Bernhardt. English, German Spanish and Russian could be heard. As for the French visitors, they might just as easily have a southern or a Burgundian accent as a Parisian one. There were fewer workers than petit-bourgois, because the price of entry, at five francs (equivalent to one hundred sous) including access to the first floor of the Tower was expensive for those who earned on average 4.80 francs a day.

  The Exposition Pavilions were wide-ranging in their themes, but with a definite emphasis on all things French and modern innovation in general.

  The immense Machinery Hall, in the shadow of the Tower, contained a major exhibit of French iron, a symbol of burgeoning capitalism: industrialists and men of influence had sealed their alliance in the blast furnaces and in the banks. Indeed, the Universal Exposition itself would prove to be an excellent investment for the capital city and for the country as a whole.

  On show at the Exposition were also all the inventions of fin-de-siècle France, a period which saw the appearance of the first submarine, the airship of the Renard brothers, the bicycle, and the four-stroke internal combustion engine. Though not yet widespread in Paris, the wonder of electricity was much in evidence on the Champ-de-Mars and, at night, the Eiffel Tower was ablaze, surmounted by a tri-coloured searchlight, lighting up the hills of Chaillot.

  Foreign inventions were also very much in evidence: in the Palace of Liberal Arts, the latest photography and cameras were on display, including George Eastman’s Kodak box camera; in the Machinery Hall Marinoni’s rotary printing-press heralded the enormous circulation that was soon to be enjoyed by newspapers, whilst the Edison exhibit allowed people to discover his many devices, from the gramophone to the kinetoscope. As for the telephone, invented in 1876 by Alexander Graham Bell, its usage was becoming more common: the first public telephone boxes appearing in Paris in 1885.

  The fine arts were also well represented with their own pavilion, reflecting the continuing strength of classicism despite the challenge of the synthetist realist painters. These painters, led by Gauguin, staged an alternative exhibition of their works in the Café Volpini. Although some artists were concerned about the advance of photography, others saw it not as a threat, but as a complementary art form allowing reality to be captured in a new way. Others still, began to turn their back on realism and to embark in artistic directions that would radically change the history of painting, a departure already noticeable in the work of the impressionists in the 1850’s. The same trends affected music and literature with naturalism and symbolism having their passionate followers.

  The Exposition was also an opportunity to introduce the French to their colonies. Tunisia had been a French protectorate since 1881, Annam since 1883, and Cambodia since 1884. Bamako was occupied in 1882. People were talking about Madagascar and the Congo. They were closely following the digging of the Panama Canal and taking a great interest in China.

  Curious spectators crammed into the Esplanade des Invalides to admire the full-sized reconstruction of one of the temples of Angkor. Enthralled by the Javanese dancers, the crowds passed effortlessly from New Caledonia to Cochin China and crossed the Senegalese village to relax in the Algerian café. Millions of people who had never left France, or sometimes even Paris, discovered whole new worlds. Italy, Spain, Hungary, Russia, the two Americas, Japan … the entire globe awaited them on the Champ-de-Mars, accessed by the little Decauville railway line.

  The Paris of 1889 was made up of a series of villages, some were poorer districts, others were reserved for the more fortunate, and, following the work of Haussman, was already very much as we know it today. In that year, heralding the beginnings of the souvenir industry, one particular location began to be represented in miniature. These tiny models, made from fragments of the iron used to build the Tower itself, were soon on sale in shops all over the world. The Eiffel Tower had become the undisputed symbol of Paris in 1889 and of France itself, a role it continues to fulfil with ease to the present day.

  Turn the page for an excerpt of Claude Izner’s next book

  THE DISAPPEARANCE AT PÈRE-LACHAISE

  Now Available

  Copyright © 2003 by Editions 10/18, Département d’Univers Poche.

  English translation copyright © 2007 by Gallic Books.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Four months later …

  ‘LORD, he was so good and kind. We loved him so dearly! Lord, he was …’

  The words, tirelessly repeated, filtered through the veil masking the face of a woman who sat huddled against a carriage window. From time to time, another woman, seated opposite, emphasised them with a hurriedly executed sign of the cross. This litany, barely audible above the screech of axles and the clatter of wheels over paving stones, had long since ceased to have meaning, like a monotonous nursery rhyme.

  The cabman pulled on the reins and the carriage came to a halt beside the entrance to the Père-Lachaise cemetery on Rue de Rondeaux. He came down from his perch to settle up with the gatekeeper and, having slipped the man a coin, clumsily heaved himself back on to his seat and gave a crack of his whip.

  The carriage entered the cemetery
gates moments ahead of a funeral cortege and proceeded down one of the looped avenues. The rain formed a halo of light above the vast graveyard. On either side of the avenue was a succession of chapels, cenotaphs and mausoleums adorned with plump cherubs and weeping nymphs. Among the tombs was a maze of footpaths and avenues invaded by undergrowth, still relatively sparse in these early days of March. Sycamores, beeches, cedars and lime trees darkened an already overcast sky. On turning a bend, the carriage narrowly avoided colliding with a tall, white-haired man who was engaged in contemplating the ample posterior of a bronze nymph. The horse reared up, the cabman let out a stream of oaths and the old man shook his fist and cried out: ‘Damn you, Grouchy!1 I’ll cut you down!’ before stumbling off. The cabman muttered a few threats, reassured his passengers and, with a click of his tongue, calmed his horse, which set off towards an avenue running southwards, where it stopped beside the tomb of the surgeon Jacques René Tenon.

  A very young woman in simple black clothes consisting of a woollen dress, a waisted jacket covered with a shawl, and a cotton bonnet from which a few strands of blonde hair had escaped, opened the carriage door and jumped to the ground to help another woman, also blonde, but more buxom, of heavier build, and in full mourning. It was she who had invoked the Lord from behind her veil. In her chinchilla hat and astrakhan coat she looked more suitably dressed for a polar expedition than a visit to a cemetery. The women stood side by side for a moment, staring at the carriage as it gradually darkened into a silhouette against the fading afternoon light. The fur hat leaned towards the cotton bonnet.

  ‘Tell him to wait for us in Rue de Repos.’

  The younger woman passed the order on to the cabman and paid him. He doffed his oilcloth topper and with a loud ‘Gee up!’ hastened away.

  ‘I ain’t waiting about for queer birds who don’t know’ow to tip a bloke. They can go’ome on foot!’ he muttered.

  ‘Denise!’ cried the woman in the fur hat.

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ the young girl replied, hurrying to her side.

  ‘Come along now, give it to me. What are you gaping at?

  ‘Nothing, Madame. I’m just a bit … scared.’ She pulled a flat rectangular package out of her basket and handed it to her mistress.

  ‘Scared? Of what? Of whom? If there’s one place where the Almighty is sure to be watching over us, it is here in this cemetery. Our dear departed are close by, they are all around us, they can see us and speak to us!’ cried the woman.

  Denise grew more flustered. ‘That’s what scares me, Madame.’

  ‘You poor, foolish child! What am I to do with you? I shall see you shortly.’

  Alarmed, the young girl grasped her mistress’s arm. ‘Am I not going with you?’

  ‘You will remain here. He wishes to see me alone. I shall return in an hour and a half.’

  ‘Oh, Madame, please. It’ll be dark soon.’

  ‘Nonsense, it’s not yet four o‘clock. The gates close at six. If you don’t want to die ignorant, you’ve plenty of time to visit the tombs. I recommend Musset’s, over there in the hollow where they’ve planted a willow. It isn’t very grand but the epitaph is most beautiful. I don’t suppose you know who he is. Perhaps you’d better go up to the chapel. It’ll do you no harm to say a prayer.’

  ‘Please, Madame!’ implored the young girl. But Odette de Valois was already walking away briskly. Denise shivered and took shelter under a chestnut tree. The rain had turned to drizzle and a few birds had resumed their singing. A ginger cat moved stealthily amongst the tombstones, and the lamplighter, carrying his long cane in one hand, crossed the avenue and winked at the young girl. Telling herself she couldn’t stand there for ever, she tied her shawl over her bonnet and wandered about beneath the gas lamps, around which raindrops formed haloes.

  She tried to put her mind at ease by recalling the walks she’d taken in the Forêt de Nevet with her cousin Ronan, with whom she’d been in love when she was thirteen. How handsome he had been and what a shame that he had chosen another! Lost in thought, she gradually forgot her fears as she relived the few happy moments of her childhood: the two years spent in Douarnenez with her uncle the fisherman, her aunt’s kindness, her cousin’s attentiveness. And then the return to Quimper, her mother’s illness and death, her father’s increasing violence after he took to drink, and the departure of her brothers and sisters, leaving her all alone at home, dreaming that a prince would come and whisk her away to Paris …

  She was suddenly reminded where she was when she came upon a dilapidated, pseudo-Gothic mausoleum adorned with interlocking names. She walked over to it and read that the remains of Hélöise and Abélard had lain there since the beginning of the century. Was it not strange that her memories of Ronan had brought her to the tomb of these legendary lovers? And what if Madame was right? What if the dead …

  ‘Soldiers, your general is relying on your bravery! It’ll be a bloody battle, but we’ll take this enemy stronghold and plant our flags here! Zounds! Let them have it!’ roared a drunkard, popping out from behind the monument.

  Denise recognised the old man who’d nearly been knocked over by the carriage. Arms flailing, he rushed towards her. She turned and ran.

  Odette de Valois stood motionless in front of a funerary chapel that was more substantial than its neighbours, its baroque pediment decorated with acanthus and laurel leaves in bas-relief. After looking around to make sure she was alone, she placed the key in the lock of the fine wrought-iron gate. The hinges creaked as it opened. She entered and descended the two steps that led to an altar at the back of the chapel. She placed her package between two candelabra and proceeded to light the candles. She looked up at a stained-glass window depicting the Virgin Mary, and crossed herself before kneeling on a prayer stool. The candles illuminated the stucco plaques with their gilded names and dates:

  Antoine Auguste de Valois

  Division General

  High-ranking officer

  of the Legion of Honour

  1786—1882

  Anne Angélique

  Courtin de Valois

  1796—1812

  Eugénie Suzanne Louise

  His Wife

  1801—1881

  Pierre Casimir Alphonse

  de Valois

  Notary

  1812—1871

  Armand Honoré Casimir

  de Valois

  Geologist

  1854—1889

  Straightening up, Odette read out in a low voice the words inscribed on a marble tablet:

  Lord, he was so good and kind!

  We loved him so tenderly!

  You have given him eternal rest

  In the bosom of a strange land.

  We are stricken by your justice.

  Let us pray for him and live in a way

  That will reunite us with him in heaven.

  She placed her hands together and, raising her voice, began to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Then she stood up and, unwrapping the package, cried out excitedly:

  ‘Armand, it is I, Odette, your Odette! I am here, I have brought what you asked for in the hope you might forgive the past. Give me a sign, my duck. Come to me, come, I beg you!’

  The only reply was the sound of rain splashing on stone. She sighed and knelt down again. The shadow of a tree, resembling a Hindu goddess with many arms, danced between the candelabra. Her eyes glued to it, the woman moved her lips silently. She stared in wonder, hypnotised by the dancing shape that grew and grew, until it reached the stained-glass window. She wanted to cry out but could only find the strength to whisper, ‘At last!’

  Denise was wandering, lost, in the Jewish part of the cemetery. She walked past the tombs of the tragedienne Rachel, and Baron James de Rothschild, without noticing them. She was afraid of bumping into the old drunkard again, and had only one desire: to find Tenon’s tomb.

  Finally she got her bearings. There in front of her stood the memorial cenotaph to André Chenier, built by his brother Marie-Joseph. She re
ad one of the epitaphs, finding it beautiful: ‘Death cannot destroy that which is immortal.’

  Musing over the words in an attempt to forget how dark it was becoming, she turned right. She had no watch, but her inner clock told her it was time to go to the meeting place. When she arrived, there was no one there. She stood for a while, shivering with fright and cold. Her shawl was soaked through by the fine rain. Finally, she could wait no longer. She ran back up the avenue. She remembered from a previous brief visit with her mistress that the chapel dedicated to the de Valois family was a little further up, a few yards from the tomb of the astronomer Jean-Baptiste Delambre. She cried out as she ran:

  ‘Come back, Madame, I beg you! Saint Corentin, Saint Gildas, Holy Mother of God, protect me!’

  At last she could see the funerary chapel where a faint light was glowing. Looking anxiously around, she began to walk cautiously towards it. All of a sudden, a shadow darted out of a bush, chased by another. She recoiled in terror. Two cats.

  ‘Madame … Madame. Are you there?’

  It was raining more heavily now and she couldn’t see. She slipped, grabbing hold of the open gate to stop herself from falling. The chapel was empty. One of the two candles, burnt half down, dimly lit the altar where a lifeless object, resembling a sleeping animal, lay. In spite of her terror, she leaned closer and recognised the puce-coloured silk scarf her mistress had used to wrap the package she had brought with her. She was about to pick it up when something struck her wrist. A stone bounced on to the altar.

  She turned round. There was no one there. She rushed out into the avenue. It was empty. Scared out of her wits, she ran as fast as her legs would take her towards the Rue de Repos exit with only one thought in her head: to alert the gatekeeper.