The Assassin in the Marais

by Claude Izner

  There was a knock at the door. Victor, who was sitting in his underwear, the coffee grinder between his knees, was dismayed to see Maurice Laumier hove into view. That ambitious, daubing charlatan had been hanging around Tasha again for several weeks now. He was trying to persuade her to paint theatre scenery.

  ‘Greetings and prosperity,’ he brayed, tossing his top hat on the bed. ‘Don’t worry about me – I’ve already had breakfast! Dearest, I just bumped into the young Paul Fort. He has grandiose plans for his Théâtre d’Art. Let’s have a go at the trompe-l’oeils!’

  ‘You’re obsessed,’ groaned Victor.

  ‘My dear chap, you are totally incapable of grasping our precept, which can be expressed in ten words: “Scenery is as much created by speech as anything else.” Edgar Alan Poe’s The Crow was performed before a simple backdrop of brown paper.’

  Not wanting to hear any more, Victor dressed hastily and was preparing to leave. He would have liked to kiss Tasha, but could not bring himself to under the sarcastic gaze of Laumier.

  ‘What about your coffee?’ she cried.

  ‘I’m late for a meeting, then I have to go to Rue des Saints-Pères. I’ll be back this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll be here …’

  ‘Too bad,’ he murmured.

  Just as he was about to grasp its handle, the door opened, revealing a small man in bowler hat and pince-nez, smoking a cigar.

  ‘Lautrec! What a coincidence! I went to the Indépendants,’ bellowed Laumier. ‘It’s superbly laid out. I adore your La Goulue Entering Le Moulin-Rouge. It’s a riot!’

  Really, this was too much. Victor strode the short distance to his apartment and went to shut himself in his darkroom. He didn’t care that Tasha would reproach him for being surly; he absolutely could not bear to know she was surrounded by those men, each as vulgar as the other. Creative, Tasha called them. And what about his talent, did she not value that?

  ‘Painting, painting, always painting! And what of photography?’

  Victor had studied the work of the Scottish photographer John Thomson closely, especially his photographic account The Illustration of China and its People. He hoped to do for the people of the streets of Paris what Thomson had done for London, but without falling into pathos and the stereotypical images of misery. He would position his work somewhere between Charles Nègre and Charles Marville.7

  He looked at his photographs of children at work, taken on Faubourg Saint-Antoine and Rue des Immeubles-Industriels: a girl embroidering cloth with gold, a boy busy sawing wood for veneer, the pupil of a rhinestone cutter, the apprentice of a wallpaper maker. These portraits, taken in apartments converted into studios, had demanded enormous care; he had put as much sensibility as technique into them, seeking to ensure that the subjects stayed natural in front of the camera.

  He shrugged on his frock coat, crammed on his felt hat and snatched up his gloves and cane. Since he could not eat with Tasha, he would go and find sustenance on Boulevard des Capucines, at Café Napolitain, and hard luck, Joseph!

  Madame Ballu, the concierge of 18 Rue des Saints-Pères, had risen grumbling at dawn, and had been scrubbing the courtyard and staircase of the building ever since. Now she judged that she had earned a little relaxation, and planned to tuck into a plate of cabbage with chopped bacon in her lodge. Then she would allow herself a mouthful of the vintage port with which her late husband, Onésime Ballu, had kept the sideboard stocked. After that she would take advantage of the bright spell to pull up a chair on the pavement and watch the world go by.

  This programme was disturbed by the arrival of a woman in a veiled toque and an Orloff overcoat revealing a hobble skirt. The outfit was banded with astrakhan and the woman appeared to be hesitating.

  ‘Who are you looking for?’ barked the concierge, eyeing the hatbox the woman was clutching to her chest.

  ‘The people who live on the fourth floor – they’re expecting me. I’ve come for a fitting.’

  ‘The Primolins? Well, make sure you wipe your feet. The mat’s not there for decoration, you know.’

  The woman had barely entered the hall when she stopped.

  ‘Is the flat on the first floor for rent, by any chance? The shutters are closed … I’m just thinking it would be perfect for my elderly aunt, who can’t manage more than one flight of stairs. It would be a blessing for her.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, m’dear, you’ll have to look elsewhere. The shutters aren’t closed because the flat is empty. Monsieur Mori and his companion are abroad. They’re coming home tomorrow.’

  Madame Ballu, hands on hips, watched the stranger disappear up the stairs.

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me that those old skinflints on the fourth floor associate with people who covet other people’s homes! Well, am I finally going to be able to tuck in?’

  She took the precaution of hanging her The Concierge is in Town sign on the door, before closing it firmly.

  The visitor, who was standing listening on the third floor landing, heard the door shut. She leant over the banister to make sure she was on her own and then crept downstairs and pressed the bell of the first-floor flat. She counted up to thirty, rang again, waited, then went down to the ground floor and headed for Rue Jacob.

  ‘I’m feeling a little peckish,’ hinted Joseph as Euphrosine buzzed around him.

  He hoped that would send her off to the kitchen.

  ‘You’re a bottomless pit! If you’re hungry, chew your fist, or have an apple. And leave me to think about the delicious meal I’m going to prepare for Monsieur and Mademoiselle Mori. Oh, there you are, M’sieur Legris. Just the man I need – what do you think of this? For the entrée, tongue in piquant sauce, followed by lamb croquettes with artichokes, veal pie with fried salsify and braised celery with parmesan. For dessert, a lovely vanilla soufflé. Mademoiselle Iris will have to make do with gratin dauphinois. And what do you think for wine?’

  Not bothering to reply, Victor placed a pile of catalogues given to him by a fellow bookseller at the Booksellers’ Circle on Kenji’s desk.

  ‘Any customers?’ he asked Joseph.

  ‘Slim pickings.’

  ‘Well, I’m obviously wasting my breath – I might as well be talking to the sheep on Rue Fontaine. I’ll go and put your grub in the bain-marie. Don’t bother to thank me.’

  As Euphrosine went up, invoking Jesus, Mary and Joseph, two women entered the shop. One was rigged out in a woollen suit and a Tyrolean hat, the other was drowning in a voluminous purple coat and her ridiculous hat was adorned with symmetrical green feathers like the antennae of a giant praying mantis.

  ‘Fräulein Becker, Madame de Flavignol!’ exclaimed Victor, strenuously fighting an impulse to laugh.

  Joseph had taken refuge behind the counter.

  ‘We’ve come to see you specially, my dear. Helga has finally found the brochure on the new Papillon cycles, and didn’t you say you wanted to buy a bicycle?’ simpered Mathilde de Flavignol, who had a secret crush on Victor.

  ‘Das ist wahr,’ confirmed Mademoiselle Becker. ‘Here you are. You can keep it as long as you like. The choice of a velocipede is as fraught as the choice of a domestic animal. One is destined to spend a good many years together.’

  ‘Oh, dear heart, have you seen the dog Raphaëlle de Gouveline has bought to fill the gap left by her Maltese lap dog? It’s a hideous black fur ball with no tail. That’s too much mourning for my liking, but what can you expect; it’s the Prince of Wales who started the fashion for schipperkes …’

  Just then Euphrosine came into view, descending the stairs with a heavy tread, overburdened with baskets containing her feather dusters and cloths. She was muttering that the lunch was ready and she was going to Rue Fontaine even though her feet were absolutely killing her. ‘And of course I don’t even have time to apply my Russian corn cream. Ah, now Russia, there’s a sympathetic country, not like some I could mention,’ she grumbled, jostling Helga Becker.

  ‘Joseph,’
murmured Victor, ‘please tell your mother that from now on she is not to go to and fro through the shop.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell her yourself?’ returned Joseph out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Do you like animals, Monsieur Legris?’ enquired Mathilde de Flavignol. ‘You do? In that case, may I suggest you go and see the baby orang-utans adopted by the Botanical Gardens? They come from Borneo – Paul and Virginie are their names, and they are fed exclusively on …’

  ‘M’sieur Legris,’ Joseph interrupted, ‘talking of Paul and Virginie, we have a commission from Monsieur Hilaire de Kermarec. He’s looking for a copy of the edition published by Curmer in 1838, the illustrations are protected by tissue paper and it has a Simier morocco-leather binding.’

  ‘These gentlemen have started to use jargon, so we should make a move. I’m dying to know the results of the bicycle paper chase8 that was run on Sunday at La Concorde. Come, my dear,’ commanded Helga Becker, in a tone that brooked no refusal.

  Mathilde de Flavignol took her leave reluctantly, but not before she had cast a languorous eye over Victor.

  As soon as they had gone, the latter turned to Joseph. ‘If it hadn’t been for your presence of mind, we would still be hearing about the monkeys.’

  ‘Oh, before I forget, some fellow came in to see Monsieur Mori, and also a woman telephoned. She wanted to sell her collection of seventeenth-century books. She insisted she had to speak to Monsieur Mori, but I told her he was away and that you would be able to do the valuation. If you want to take the business, you’ll have to go there early this evening because you won’t be the only one interested. I wrote the name and address down for you – 4 Rue des Hortensias, in Neuilly. She’s expecting you at seven o’clock.’

  ‘I’d planned to have dinner with Mademoiselle Tasha.’

  ‘Monsieur Mori is complaining that we haven’t bought many books since Christmas. Anyway, that’s just my opinion …’ muttered Joseph, his nose already buried in La Vie Populaire.

  ‘Now I can get on with it; old Zola knows how to spin a good yarn. Thanks to him, the afternoon is going to fly by.’

  It was freezing and Joseph was hastening to shut up shop so that he could get home to Rue Visconti and enjoy the soup he was certain his mother would have prepared. He had the key in the bookshop lock and was about to close the final shutter when a cry drew his attention. A few yards away, a woman had slipped on the deserted pavement. She lay spread-eagled and was trying to get up. He hurried over to help her.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘More shaken than hurt. I’ll be all right, thank you.’

  ‘Would you like me to call you a cab?’

  ‘No need, I can walk.’

  Muffled by a veil, her voice was expressionless. Joseph watched the figure moving off in the direction of the Seine and turned back to deal with the shutter. He went to lock the door, and to his surprise saw that his keys were lying on the ground.

  ‘What on earth? My keys are imitating the bells of Rome – they have wings … I’m seeing things, which just proves I’m desperately in need of some nosh.’

  Saturday morning, 9 April

  The emissary turned his head and looked at the wooden cross hanging above the bed. For a moment it was as if the bedroom had disappeared; only the rays of golden dust that fell from the heavens across the slats of the closed shutters existed. Gradually his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. His hand struck a match and lit the wick of a lamp. The pinkish light quivered above the white page of his notebook.

  Lord, I am witness to your glory. I, your emissary, have faithfully followed the mission you have conferred on me. The mark of infamy is hidden. I must prepare to be patient, and to wait for the right moment to annihilate it. No trace of it will remain, and false prophets will be unable to use it to assault your work, and humanity will no longer incur your wrath.

  CHAPTER 3

  Saturday, 9 April

  JOSEPH loved to polish the leather-bound books. Delicately buffing the vellum, morocco-leather and cowhide gave him sensual pleasure. He felt particular joy if he managed to revive the sheen of the gold lettering on the spines and front covers. He was interrupted in this work, which had put him in an excellent mood, by Victor’s morning arrival. Joseph greeted him with a smile, a magnificent ‘fanfare’ binding in his hands. Victor, however, wore a glowering expression.

  ‘I should have realised – it’s a ridiculous name!’ he burst out.

  ‘What name, Boss?’

  ‘Hortensias. You sent me to Neuilly yesterday evening on a wild goose chase. That street of yours was completely made up!’

  Offended, Joseph put the book down on the counter.

  ‘Excuse me, it wasn’t my street. It was the name the woman gave me on the telephone.’

  ‘You must have misheard, and it wouldn’t be the first time!’

  ‘Why don’t you say straight out that I’m as deaf as a post or have bats in the belfry? Maybe she’s the one who muddled up her flowers. Perhaps it should be dahlias, or zinnias, or magnolias. How should I know?’

  Joseph rose suddenly and went out on to the pavement. The boss had succeeded in spoiling his good humour and he felt the need to stretch his legs. A woman, hunched over and wearing a voluminous cape, which made her look like a little barrel, was going into the adjoining building. He recognised his mother and was about to call out to her but held back at the last minute – she was not speaking to him.

  Her arms rigidly extended by two baskets overflowing with victuals, Euphrosine ducked under the porch, where she almost stepped on Madame Ballu. The concierge was on her knees, furiously scrubbing the first step of the stairs with a stiff brush.

  ‘Damned floor, it absorbs and absorbs, it eats your soap like a drunkard drinks his spirits and gives you nothing in return! I’ll have to scrape that with a knife,’ she murmured.

  ‘Madame Ballu, you sound as if you’d like to murder someone!’

  ‘I would, that good-for-nothing on the third floor – a mucky pup who seems to be fatally attracted to coal tar. He’s strewn mud everywhere, and one of the tenants stepped in it … It’s really too much! But, Madame Pignot,’ she added silkily, ‘don’t you use the shop entrance any more?’

  ‘Apparently I don’t fit in, and the sight of me offends the customers. They treat me as if I were some kind of slattern,’ Euphrosine burst out, choking with indignation. ‘How dare they! Me! Having to use the service entrance!’

  ‘But, Madame Pignot, this isn’t a service entrance.’

  ‘Oh, you, go on with your scrubbing; you won’t be able to console me. The truth is I have reared a serpent. Disowned by my own son!’

  ‘Cheer up, Madame Pignot; would you like to pop in for a moment? You can have a nice strong juice and tell me all your troubles, eh?’

  ‘No time – I’m paid by the hour. Monsieur Mori and his young madam will be turning up this evening and I have their dinner to prepare. Farewell!’ called Euphrosine, with all the majesty of a tragic heroine.

  Out of breath, she let her bags drop and inhaled deeply. She put her key in the lock, but the door would not open. It took Euphrosine a moment to understand what had happened: someone had fixed the security chain in place on the inside. She stood there on the landing, assailed by doubt, her mind in turmoil.

  ‘My goodness, I must be losing my marbles. I don’t recall …’

  But suddenly she had a wonderful thought. Overcome with remorse at having hurt his mother’s feelings, Joseph had made honourable amends. Not wanting to lose face, he had simply gone to the flat and closed the security chain so that his mother would have no choice but to go through the bookshop to reach the flat. No doubt he could not bear being ostracised any longer, and didn’t know how to break the silence.

  ‘That’s my pet!’

  Buoyed up, she grasped the handle of her baskets and went back down the stairs, much to the annoyance of Madame Ballu, who was busy again burnishing the steps.

  Watched balefully by
Victor, Euphrosine made a dignified entrance and crossed the bookshop.

  When she reached the flat on the first floor, she deposited her load on the kitchen table, hung her cloak on the peg and swapped her clogs for comfortable old slippers. Then she went through to Monsieur Mori’s bathroom with its copper bathtub. To Euphrosine it was the height of luxury. She lit the lamp. What joy it would be to open one of the jasmine soaps nestled in the porcelain shell! And perhaps to dry herself with one of those soft towels marked K. M. Or even to adjust her chignon in front of the silver-framed mirror. Perhaps the frame was just plate though? One day, when the house was empty, she would fill the bathtub and immerse herself. But would she remove her undergarments? She could not help chuckling at the idea of soaking naked in the warm water.

  She had just re-emerged into the dark corridor when her foot met an obstacle. She tripped, grabbed the handle of the half-open door and succeeded in righting herself. Although the light from the bathroom lamp was dim, it was enough for her to make out a jumble of knick-knacks that had no business lying on the dining-room floor. She felt an icy shiver up her spine, and ran towards the stairs, yelling, ‘Come quick, help!’

  Victor smiled ruefully at his customer who was just paying for Montesquieu’s Dialogue between Sylla and Eucrates, and took the stairs, four at a time.

  ‘Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph, a burg—A break-in!’

  Euphrosine, hands on her cheeks, was blocking the corridor.

  ‘Calm down, Madame Pignot,’ Victor begged, shepherding her into the kitchen.

  He opened the blinds in the dining room, and stared in stupefaction at the carnage that greeted him. He went into Kenji’s part of the flat: the same disorder was to be found there.

  ‘Boss? What is it?’ called Joseph.

  ‘Oh, my pet, it’s dreadful!’

  ‘Stop wailing, Madame Pignot. You go downstairs. I’ll be with you in a moment.’