by Claude Izner
Joseph raised his head. Victor was looking at him with a mocking expression.
‘It’s a present from Mademoiselle Iris. Learning by any possible means is all part of the English lessons she …’
He bit his tongue – he had been about to let the cat out of the bag. A vacuous smile lit his face.
‘Boss, what does stone mean in French?’
‘Your accent is atrocious – spell it.’
When Joseph had done so, Victor told him.
‘And murder, Boss?’
Victor gave the meaning. ‘That’s enough now. You can concoct your murder stories outside working hours.’
‘I’m not concocting stories, I’m translating.’
‘Well, I approve of that. You should study and persevere. Perhaps Mademoiselle Iris’s lessons will bear fruit.’
Exultant at having obtained the tacit approval of his boss, Joseph folded up his paper. However, his exultation was shortlived. As he was leaving, Victor called back to him, ‘A word of warning: don’t take it too far.’
The studio was empty. Victor looked at the easel before his eyes came to rest on the table. She had left him a note.
Dearest, I’ll be home late – I’m up to my eyes in work at the magazine. Don’t wait up. Euphrosine has prepared a delicious ragout – you only have to heat it up. I love you and kiss you all over. Tasha
p.s. Your photos of children are wonderful.
Through the skylight he could see slate-grey sky. It was about to rain.
He flopped down on the bed. Opposite him Madame Pignot stood clutching her umbrella to her chest and contemplating the blue outline of the Vosges mountains. Almost complete, the painting resembled some of the compositions of Berthe Morisot.2
He awoke with a start in the middle of the night, jerked awake by a thought floating through his dream. It was important, and he was sure it had something to do with the events of the previous evening. But, try as he might, he could not remember what it was.
When Tasha arrived at Rue Fontaine towards three in the morning, Victor was asleep fully clothed, lying across the bed.
CHAPTER 4
Monday, 11 April
‘FULL up down below! Upstairs only!’ bellowed the conductor, shaking his satchel to collect the three sous fare.
Victor would have done anything to avoid going upstairs in the freezing cold. He regretted having hurried to the Clichy-Odéon omnibus instead of hailing a cab. Wedging himself in beside a young woman, who looked irritated at having to move over for him, he turned up his collar, hoping to keep the draught at bay.
I’ll have to buy that bicycle after all, he thought, one buttock hanging off the seat.
He tried to remember his dream from the night before, but it was impossible to pin it down. It kept escaping, drowned out by the conversations that flitted between the seats.
It’s like being stuck in someone else’s sitting room, he thought in irritation, although he could not help listening to two elderly men, each sporting salt-and-pepper moustaches.
‘ … becoming very alarming. One dare not put one’s nose out any more! Any old chemistry student can stock up on chemicals in the university quarter and play at making fireworks, without his neighbours knowing anything about it!’
‘I agree. There should be some control over chemicals. But it’s especially important to regulate the use of rounds of dynamite used in mines and quarries. Had Ravachol not been able to steal the dynamite from the depot at Soisy-sous-Étiolles …’
‘The government promises us measures; it talks of security at every turn! But the expulsion of forty or so foreign anarchists is not going to …’
‘But, my dear chap, it’s a start. And there are too many foreigners now. Ravachol himself is of Dutch descent through his father. He’s called Kœnigstein, don’t forget.’
The bus lurched, jolting the passengers. A top hat fell on the floor, hooves clattered, horns sounded and coins jangled in a chorus, drowning out the men’s conversation. When the bus stopped, the young woman rose and almost fell on top of Victor, whom she gave a filthy look. He caught a glimpse of a scarlet poster exalting the virtues of Tamar Indien Grillon laxative fruit lozenges, and felt a stab of anguish at the thought that Tasha might be hounded from France and he would never see her again.
What drivel! Tasha didn’t consort with anarchists.
Just as the vehicle set off again, a pen-pusher in pull-on boots sat down near him, and the two bourgeois men continued their conversation.
‘Have you been to Rue de Clichy? It’s frightening to see number 39.1 All the windows exploded, the staircase collapsed, the flats were gutted, only the outside walls are still standing. What’s odd is that some of the buildings on either side are intact.’
‘According to one of my friends, the furniture has fallen to the bottom in such a bizarre manner that it looks like stones on the edge of a volcanic crater.’
Stone, stone, there were stones in that dream he was trying to remember. I am fair, O mortals! Like a dream carved in stone, a rolling stone gathers no moss, carved in stone … The flood of words submerged his thoughts.
‘ … fifteen injured, a miracle! But he did manage to kill three people in the Loire. He should get the guillotine for his crimes.’
‘I feel certain that he will, dear chap. And in the future Bertillon’s methods will surely save us from such plagues. From now on the fact of knowing the murderer’s distinctive features will be enough to identify him. It’s lucky the Saint-Étienne police who already caught Kœnigstein in ’79 for theft used “Bertillonage”. They sent the rogue’s exact measurements to the police anthropometric department, which sent them to the press. That was how Lhérot, the waiter at the Restaurant Véry, was able to identify Ravachol from the scars on his hand and face, leading to his arrest. Alphonse Bertillon was able to measure and photograph Ravachol and establish that he and Kœnigstein were one and the same. It’s simple logic.’
‘I would be much less worried if our Minister of Interior2 could guarantee that Paris does not turn into a barricaded camp; we don’t want to end up like Germany or Italy, terrorised by fanatics and everyone running scared …’
Victor got off at Carrefour de l’Odéon, glad to see the back of the yellow omnibus as it clattered on its way. He had certainly been shaken by the explosions on Boulevard Saint-Germain and Rue de Clichy, since the first was near the bookshop and the other near his home. But he did not share the general apprehension of the two old fellows. His fear was for those close to him, especially Tasha. What if she were to be caught up in a bombing? Of all the anxieties that had assailed him of late, this new one was the most alarming.
‘It always has to rain just as I’m about to do the shopping. I could swear the clouds are spying on me!’
Euphrosine was convinced she was the victim of a conspiracy. She passed the desk without looking at her son, who was busy helping a pretty young woman with a retroussé nose. She had decided that, following the excitement of the previous day, she was perfectly entitled to come and go through the bookshop, and she would complain to Kenji if Victor reproached her for it. She tugged a large purple madapollam parasol from the umbrella stand. A piece of paper fluttered to the ground and she stooped to pick it up, muttering to herself.
‘I’m going to do my back in if this goes on. Oh, it’s a visiting card. Strange place to leave your address.’
Joseph could see his mother from the corner of his eye, fiddling with the files on the counter. I hope she doesn’t mix up the sales slips, he thought to himself. That would be the icing on the cake!
He made a show of turning his back on her as Victor arrived.
Victor immediately spotted the calling card propped against the pencil jar in which Joseph kept his scissors. He quickly read the three lines of neat handwriting:
Dear Monsieur Mori
I need to see you as soon as possible. Lady Stone gave me your address and assured me you were the person I should contact.
I do
hope you will be able to help me.
Antoine du Houssoye
It took him several minutes to take in the note. Stone … Stone … When had he heard that name? He flicked the card absentmindedly:
ANTOINE DU HOUSSOYE
Zoologist
Lecturer
The Museum of Natural History
As he leaned on the counter the penny dropped. ‘Well, I’ll be damned! My dream!’ A hail of pebbles raining down in Kenji’s apartment, which had turned into a dump with some unfortunate tortoises stranded in the rubble. Everything fell into place. Joseph had asked him the meaning of stone in French, and his question had related to an article in a copy of The Times brought back by Iris. He remembered that Joseph had also asked what the French for murder was. He stood stock still, filled with a feeling of unreality. The Times! He would have to look at the paper immediately.
‘Joseph, do you have that English newspaper you were struggling to translate?’
Joseph abandoned the young blonde girl and rushed over.
‘I wasn’t struggling; I was managing very well!’
‘May I borrow it?’
Reluctantly, Joseph handed over the paper, which he had rolled into a cylinder and tidied away with his notebook.
‘I’ll need it back, you know.’
‘Don’t worry. Tell me, that visiting card – when was it left here?’
‘What visiting card? Oh yes! It’s from that chap who came in on Friday wanting Monsieur Mori’s address.’
‘And you gave it to him?’
‘Well, obviously, since he lives above the shop.’
‘Are you going to be much longer?’ added Victor with a nod in the direction of the customer, who was growing impatient.
‘She’s one of Salomé de Flavignol’s friends. She’s passionate about Pierre Loti – he’s just been received into the Académie Française. We were just exchanging views on The Icelandic Fisherman.’
‘I didn’t know you were keen on cod fishing. Why don’t you ask Monsieur Mori to take over? Look, he’s just coming down – he’ll be delighted to analyse Madame Chrysanthème for the benefit of that nice young lady, and you can go to the stockroom and find me La Harpe’s Abridged General History of Travel.’
‘But there are thirty-two volumes and we certainly don’t have them all!’
‘Just bring up whichever you can dig out. I’ve promised them to a dealer.’
Joseph obeyed with a lugubrious air. Victor feverishly unrolled The Times. It was the edition of 8 April 1892 and it included a macabre item:
LADY FRANCES STONE MURDERED AT HOME IN BROUGHAM HOUSE
On 5 April at nine o’clock in the evening Miss Olivia Montrose, maid to Lady Frances Stone, discovered her mistress dead. Lady Stone’s doctor, Dr Barley was immediately summoned but could do nothing other than confirm the death and state that it had been caused by a gunshot wound. Sergeant John Dumfrie of the local constabulary and officers Dennis Blythe and Peter Starling of Scotland Yard are leading the murder inquiry. According to the witness statements of the Brougham House staff, Lady Stone received a visitor shortly before her death …
His mind blank, Victor stared at the words, trying to remember who had first mentioned the name Stone.
‘Am I going mad?’
Suddenly he straightened up, struck by an idea.
‘Kenji! His letter about the goblet – I’ll have to check.’
Salomé de Flavignol’s friend, the blonde enamoured of Loti, was still chattering as Kenji listened with a polite smile. Since there seemed to be no end to what she had to say, Victor decided to interrupt.
‘Excuse me; may I borrow Monsieur Mori a moment?’ Victor asked apologetically. He led Kenji over to the bust of Molière and asked softly, ‘Have you noticed whether anything else is missing?’
‘No, nothing other than the Elzévir, the Baronne Staffe and that goblet of which I was so fond.’
‘Do you know the woman who sent it to you?’
‘Lady Stone? I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her; she’s John Cavendish’s sister.’
‘The naturalist murdered three years ago at the Colonial Exhibition?3 I thought he was American!’
‘He was. His sister married a Scottish aristocrat and he was living with them when he died. I would have preferred not to have to think about all this – it stirs up old emotions. Look at this – I found an old letter of his.’
My dear friend,
If you are reading this, it is because I have gone to meet my maker. I shall await you impatiently on the other side of the Acheron.
In 1886, I led an expedition to Krakatoa to study the flora that had grown there after the eruption of the volcano. When I was in Surabaya, I bought this goblet with you in mind. It is the work of a Malayan sculptor from the Trinil region. Although the gems on it are virtually worthless, I am sure it will remind you of the happy days we spent together, in particular that terrible crossing of the China Sea aboard that wretched boat skippered by Captain Finch who was so passionate about scrimshaw. You were very impressed by his collection of engraved whale jaws, especially the ones depicting a whaling expedition. I remember he gave you a walrus tooth decorated inside with a coloured engraving of Commodore Perry’s landing on the Japanese coast – did you keep it? Consider this gift a pledge of posthumous loyalty (I have no idea what it’s meant to be used for. I suppose it’s a spittoon or an incense burner).
John Ruskin Cavendish
p.s. It is said that a jewel loses its burnish when its owner dies. I am certain that these ones will not fade until well into the twentieth century.
‘You can understand how painful it is for me to rake this up. I have never quite accepted my friend’s tragic death. That goblet represented a sign from the hereafter,’ said Kenji, carefully folding the letter.
Victor shook his head sorrowfully, feigning sympathy, although his mind was racing like an overheated engine. He said nothing and stared at the bust of Molière.
The abandoned customer left the bookshop at the precise moment that Joseph reappeared, covered in dust and weighed down with tomes.
‘Here are your shelf-fillers, Boss. All there except for three.’
‘Who’s that rubbish for?’ asked Kenji.
‘For Père Maubèche.’
‘The bookseller with a stall on Quai Conti?’
‘He has some gaps to fill in his display and he only wants octavos. Joseph, wrap that lot in some canvas. I’ll be back in about an hour.’
‘An hour! That’s what you always say, but you never are. Hoy, Boss! My newspaper!’ Joseph cried, pointing at Victor’s pocket.
The green canvas rested heavily on Victor’s shoulder, but he didn’t care. He needed to walk to clear his head, and had seized on the excuse which Kenji and Joseph would be most likely to swallow.
It was milder now and the sky, thoroughly washed by the recent rain, spread a veil of blue over the embankment where at this hour of the morning only four or five stall-holders had opened their boxes.
Victor leaned on the parapet of Quai Malaquais and watched the bargemen’s children playing a game of ‘What’s the time, Mr Wolf?’ on the river bank. At the head of the pack, one of the kids suddenly turned round and yelled, ‘Dinner time!’ He ran at his friends, trying to catch them, but they bombarded him with swipes of their handkerchiefs, shrieking and laughing, and he had to retreat, vanquished.
Unperturbed by their noise, Victor thought hard about the two riddles. First, why had Antoine du Houssoye visited the bookshop? The note he had written on the back of his business card left Victor in no doubt that he knew Lady Stone. And, second, was it possible that the burglary was somehow linked to her murder?
The theory was rather enticing. Victor could never resist the lure of a mystery. It was not enough just to live, although life itself could be full of enigma; it was better to dare to venture down shadowy paths, feeling his way along a tunnel, with only the hint of a feeble light at its end, gradually growing brighter un
til the darkness was no more than a memory, mingled with regret.
From which end should he approach this bizarre tale?
Horace Tenson, also known as the Giant or Little Boots, specialised in the sale of Cazins.4 He was one of the last stallholders not to have a box fixed permanently to the parapet, and he was busy taking the compartments that made up his display out of his cart. He gave Victor a gladiatorial salute.
‘Hail, Legris. Important news! I’ve finally succeeded in getting my book published, The Greedy Octopus. I strongly urge you to sign my petition calling for the immediate destruction of all the department stores. It’s a question of life or death! It’s all about saving the livelihood of individual traders. The tentacles of monopoly stretch all around Paris and if we don’t take care we will be snuffed out of existence before we know it.’
Inventing an urgent meeting, Victor promised to come back later to sign. Still bowed by the weight of his canvas, he headed back to the bookshop. He had made a decision. He would dash over to the Museum of Natural History that very afternoon and try to find the famous Antoine du Houssoye.
‘You didn’t drop the books off!’ said Joseph, giving up on the parcel he was attempting to tie.
‘Père Maubèche wasn’t there. I’ll have to go back later. I’ll just pop these down in the corner.’
‘That was well worth botching a sale for then. And she was charming, that lady. The Boss would have been better to go to the police station. Raoul Pérot will be wondering what’s going on.’
‘Instead of muttering into the beard you don’t have, why don’t you go and persuade your literary colleague of the merits of Jules Laforgue’s prose. I imagine that you will have a lot to say to each other,’ Victor retorted.