The Assassin in the Marais

by Claude Izner

  ‘Look at this pair of ankle boots. True, the soles have come away, but the leather’s in good nick. I’ll take them to a cobbler.’

  The next building housed a dressmaker’s workshop and turned out to be a veritable mine of flannel ends, strips of fabric, selvedges and sheets. This came in handy, as Léonard Diélette was in cahoots with a man who made coverlets.

  When he returned, his flushed face indicated that he had said yes to a few snifters of brandy.

  ‘Dad always has a thirst on him,’ Yvette declared. ‘The trouble is that the plonk he buys from the liquor merchant will end up rotting his liver.’

  A plump blonde woman in a black silk dress rushed past them, looking agitated and muttering to herself.

  ‘Good morning, Madame Bertille!’ cried Léonard Diélette.

  ‘Oh! I’m sorry. I’m so upset I didn’t even see you.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘A terrible tragedy, Monsieur Léonard, a terrible tragedy. Who would ever have imagined? But I must hurry back. I had to leave the old man while I did the shopping, and it’s nearly his lunchtime.’

  ‘Who is she?’ Victor asked, indicating the woman who was hurrying away, her hat half falling off her head.

  ‘Bertille Piot. She cooks for a well-to-do family, the Du Houssoyes, who live at number 28. You won’t find many women as hard working as that. Stubborn as a mule she is, but with a heart of gold. Thanks to her, two days ago Vivi and I had the pleasure of eating half a vol-au-vent and some boiled beef, which she …’

  ‘I’ll go on ahead,’ Victor interrupted him. ‘I’d like to take a look at the Du Houssoye’s house.’

  He reached number 28 just as Bertille Piot, having crossed a cobbled courtyard, was vanishing inside the main body of an eighteenth-century building. Before he had even raised his hand to the door knocker the concierge emerged from the lodge at the entrance.

  ‘I can tell by the look on your face that you’re astonished by my rapidity. The gift of foresight, Monsieur – it helps me spot intruders and spares the owners a good deal of inconvenience.’

  Despite the very tall hat the man was wearing, he looked no bigger than a twelve-year-old, but this didn’t deter him from sizing up Victor most rudely.

  He was about to allude to his acquaintance with Léonard Diélette when the concierge, indicating Victor’s camera with his chin, continued:

  ‘Do you think I was born yesterday? You’re here about the murder. I know, I can smell a hack at a hundred yards.’

  ‘It’s that obvious, is it?’ Victor said, grinning, barely able to contain his excitement at the mention of a murder. ‘I take my hat off to you! You’re absolutely right!’ he exclaimed. ‘Indeed, I was hoping to be the first to describe the scene to the devoted readers of Le Passe-partout.’

  ‘You’re the first all right, and if I have anything to do with it you’ll be the last,’ the man rejoined, folding his arms as if to say: ‘Halt, who goes there?’

  ‘I give up,’ Victor mumbled, playing his last card. ‘It’s a shame, though. A picture of you on the front cover with the caption: “The concierge at the victim’s place of residence” would have caused a sensation.’

  As he turned on his heel a voice barked:

  ‘Crevoux!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Crevoux, Michel Crevoux, that’s my name. I want it spelled out in full.’

  ‘That can be arranged,’ Victor said, pleased he’d got the better of the little man.

  ‘Well, start taking notes! I’ve worked here since ’86. Before that I was in the army. Oh, I’ve knocked about a bit! Cochinchina, Tonkin, Annam, Formosa, Los Pescadores. I fought against the Chinese hordes and was wounded at Lang Son. It took me two years to learn to walk again. I’ve got a peg leg. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Stand over there at the foot of the steps. Don’t smile or move. Remind me of your name again. Is that Crevoux with an x? And the victim’s name?’

  ‘Du Houssoye, Antoine. Double s, o, y, e. And you are?’

  Victor’s heart missed a beat. Antoine du Houssoye murdered! Another murder investigation!

  ‘Are his relatives at home?’ Victor enquired nonchalantly.

  ‘They’ve been summoned to the morgue. All except Madame’s old father – he’s not quite right in the head and doesn’t realise there’s been a tragedy. Poor Madame Gabrielle, she’s lucky to have Monsieur’s cousin living with her; he’ll take care of the funeral arrangements. What a world we live in! Such an educated man, a curator at the Museum of Natural History! The police were here this morning, on their best behaviour they were. I was there; I heard everything. Monsieur left on Friday, to be precise, having told his wife and his secretary that he was going to Meudon. And last night he was found with a bullet in his chest! Madame Gabrielle fainted and I had to help Monsieur Wallers lay her out on the sofa.’

  ‘Where did they find the body?’

  ‘In a cellar near Les Halles. His wallet had been pinched, but luckily there was an old laundry ticket stuck to the hem of his coat or they’d have had the devil of a job identifying him!’

  ‘On which floor do the Du Houssoyes live?’

  ‘The first. The cook, butler and servants live on the mezzanine, and the ground floor is owned by a publisher of sheet music. They call it Bérancourt House, but actually it was converted in 1705 by Monsieur de la Garde, you can put his name next to mine.’

  Victor aimed his lens at a window in the limestone façade. He glimpsed the vague outline of a face behind the chiffon curtain.

  ‘Zounds! A spy …’

  Fortunat de Vigneules stepped back from the window and went and stood in front of a fly-specked cheval glass. He straightened the brown top hat perched on his head, to which a few pale strands of hair still clung, and then pulled open his suit jacket to reveal a threadbare yellow waistcoat patched in several places.

  ‘The brave knight cuts a dashing figure. Zounds, we’ll drive the traitors from the kingdom! Your Majesty, I shall tear up the dirt with my teeth if I must, but I swear by the Holy Cross that I will restore the Templars’ wealth to your descendants. May your execution be avenged!’

  He knelt before a portrait of Louis XVI beneath which a few candle stubs sputtered and a bouquet of roses lay wilting. The walls were bedecked with prints of French kings, and a hand-drawn map of the Marais neighbourhood and a lithograph of the old Enclos du Temple, the fortress of the Knights Templar, adorned a marble dressing table. Aside from these few ornaments, the place looked more like a bear’s mountain lair than a Parisian aristocrat’s apartment. A sea of objects gave the impression of having been dropped higgledy-piggledy through a crack in the ceiling. There was a pile of rusty old swords beside the bed, heaps of clothes and books everywhere and a veritable deluge of scraps of paper: carefully folded, screwed up into balls or torn into tiny pieces.

  The old man stood up straight, massaging his back with both hands. There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’

  The cook entered without saying a word and placed a tray on the edge of his desk.

  ‘Here’s your chocolate. Drink it while it’s hot. You should let me clean this place up – it’s not proper. It’s a pigsty!’

  ‘Silence, slattern! Your broom will never cross the threshold of this sanctuary even if I have to fight to the death to keep it at bay!’

  He waved a mottled rapier at her. ‘A pox on the English Queen, who declared war on us!’

  Bertille Piot was accustomed to these outbursts. She shrugged her shoulders and left. She closed the door behind her and stooped to press her eye to the keyhole. The ensuing spectacle might raise her spirits, which were low after Monsieur’s death.

  After circling the desk for a few moments, as though assessing the enemy’s strength, Fortunat de Vigneules settled back in a chair covered in a grey film of dust. He nonchalantly picked up the pot of hot chocolate from the tray, puckering his lips in disgust as he filled
a cup, then poured some whipped cream from a jug on to the steaming liquid. Much to Bertille Piot’s delight, the old man began to scold the beverage.

  ‘So it’s you again, is it, with your white quiff? I thought I told you never to show up at my table again! It defies the limits of disbelief! What? Is that an objection I hear! Look, my dear fellow, you know full well that I’m not allowed to drink you. My liver and my arteries shrivel at the mere smell of you. Do you wish to sabotage my health? I’ll have nothing to do with you.

  ‘What are you insinuating, you scoundrel? That you came to take your leave of me for good? Did you indeed? That’s what you said yesterday … You continue to insist? Stop blathering and be gone, infernal brew! I won’t give you the pleasure of turning me into an invalid. May the devil take you!’

  Bertille Piot spluttered with laughter. She watched the old man’s hand reach out, pause and then pick up the cup.

  ‘Very well, I shall indulge you, but it’s the last time, do you hear? If you have the nerve to show up tomorrow I shall hurl you to the bottom of the latrine!’

  Fortunat de Vigneules, drank the hot chocolate with a flourish, licked his lips and sighed.

  ‘Ah! You rascal, you’re so devilishly delicious …’

  The performance was over. Bertille Piot scurried away. Almost at once, the old man opened the door and moved stealthily along the corridor towards a flight of stairs. When he reached the ground floor, he rushed to the lobby from which three separate entrances led down to the cellars. He slipped through the first of these. On a small shelf lay a candelabrum and a box of matches.

  At the bottom of the steps, the musty air made him sneeze. He crossed the vaulted room crammed with trunks and bits of broken furniture and, after turning a large key in a lock, entered a narrow chamber in which the stench was so overpowering he was obliged to hold a handkerchief to his nose.

  ‘A small dose of medicine will improve matters.’

  He noisily snorted two pinches of snuff.

  ‘Here I am, brave companions. Heel, boys, heel. Nogaret! Artois! Mortimer! Loyal to the last. I’ll wager Évreux is out hunting bitches. Tallyho! Fall out!’

  He was addressing four stuffed dogs – three spaniels and a setter – that stood frozen in various poses on an altar adorned with candlesticks, sprigs of box tree and religious images. He walked over to a tub. Curled up on some blocks of melting ice lay the corpse of a retriever in an advanced state of decomposition. Droplets of wax had hardened into balls on the surface of the water.

  ‘My poor Enguerrand, take heart, you must hold out for a few more days. I’ve secretly searched every purse in the house, but I still don’t have enough to pay the taxidermist. Not today, tomorrow perhaps …’

  He walked back the way he had come.

  ‘And that’s not all. I need to replenish my supply of snuff. Come, come, a few pennies won’t break the bank!’

  Returning to the first room, he walked over to a small linen chest concealed behind a double wardrobe. His hand touched an object wrapped in a piece of material. He began to unwrap it, having first placed the candelabrum on a chair. When he saw what it was, Fortunat de Vigneules let out a horrified gasp. No! Impossible! It must be some sort of joke. What wicked person could …

  ‘Vade retro, Satana! Curses! It’s … It’s …’

  Fortunat de Vigneules was unable to articulate the horror he felt at that moment. With a shudder he examined the vile object more closely.

  ‘No!’ he shrieked, his face screwed up in disgust.

  Without bothering to close the chest, he wrapped the object tightly in the piece of material, grabbed the candelabrum and rushed out of the cellar.

  Safely back in his apartment, Fortunat de Vigneules was careful to lock himself in. He was about to wrap the loathsome bundle in a copy of XIX Century when he hesitated.

  ‘Well, this might make a nice addition to my wardrobe!’

  He unravelled the piece of cloth enveloping the reviled object and tossed it on to his bed.

  ‘The game is up this time, Fortunat. Immediate action is required, or else … Sodom and Gomorrah!’

  After he had finished making his parcel, he made his way to the kitchen, which thankfully was empty. Quickly he lifted the lid of the rubbish bin and shoved the package under a pile of vegetable peelings and a chicken carcass.

  Heart pounding, he heard the floorboards creak under Bertille’s step just as he reached his bedroom. By this act of bravery he had saved the household from a fate worse than death. He carefully washed his hands so as to cleanse them of diabolical secretions and went to pour the soapy water into the slop bucket. As he did so he noticed the piece of cloth lying crumpled up on the eiderdown.

  ‘A handsome neckerchief! Never lower your guard, though! A gift from the enemy can be lethal! We must protect ourselves.’

  He bowed to the south and then to the east, muttering a ritual incantation:

  ‘Ada ada ada. Per ada. Perdidi. Festina. Dulco. Ignoto. Felix.’ 1

  He spat into his hands, rubbing them together, before finally tying the printed piece of fabric round his neck. He studied himself in the cheval glass, straightened the knot and, content with his reflection, returned to his lookout post beside the window casement.

  Under the prying eyes of the concierge, the spy was taking photographs of the little girl while the market toby loaded his cart with his pickings from the refuse bins.

  ‘Vade retro, burn in hell, evil relic,’ murmured Fortunat de Vigneules, as he watched the man take away the object wrapped in newspaper.

  When he was sure that the market toby, his daughter and their donkey had left the premises, he inched open his door.

  Just as he was preparing to go, Victor noticed an eccentric-looking old man hopping towards him.

  ‘Who is that?’ he whispered to the concierge.

  ‘The deceased’s father-in-law.’

  Victor, hand outstretched, hastened towards the man, who was dressed in what appeared to be an old-fashioned riding habit, consisting of a waisted woollen jacket, a canary-yellow waistcoat, white trousers with a beige stripe and ankle boots with spurs.

  ‘My condolences, dear Monsieur.’

  ‘Thank you, you are too kind, but do not pity him. His passing into the realm of darkness was painless. He now awaits the taxidermist in a cool place where fresh ice is brought each morning.’

  Victor wondered in astonishment at the morgue’s outmoded methods, and was about to go deeper into the matter when he noticed the scarf tied round the old man’s neck. Why, it looked like … It looked like …

  He had a distinct feeling of déjà vu, and recalled dimly a conversation with Kenji about a piece of Japanese silk.

  ‘Those birds … Are they cranes or … storks?’

  ‘Hush! The grand master of the order must not find out that this evil gift comes from Jacques de Molay.2 There’s nothing to fear; I have exorcised it. Do you do portraits?’ he whispered, screwing up his eyes at Bertille Piot, who was charging towards them, fuming.

  ‘Monsieur Fortunat, you know you’re not allowed out!’ she chided.

  ‘By God! I’m being kept a prisoner. My son-in-law and nephew are in league against me! Tell the world, Monsieur, and bring me some nude portraits of women to add to my collection. I possess some marvellous prints by Henry Voland for use by painters. Ah, the sixties! Women then were buxom without being flabby!’ he cried, glaring insinuatingly at the cook, who was growing impatient.

  ‘Monsieur Fortunat …’

  ‘All right, I’m coming. I used to buy from Alfred Cadart, a dealer in prints, Rue … Rue … Remember me, Monsieur! Nudes, nudes!’

  Bertille Piot was already leading him away.

  ‘At your service, Monsieur. Don’t forget, nudes!’ he cried out.

  Victor gathered up his equipment and joined the concierge, who had been observing the scene.

  ‘Is Monsieur du Houssoye’s corpse really going to be embalmed?’ he asked on his way out.

&nbs
p; ‘I warned you the old man had a screw loose. He was talking about his dog!’

  Victor reached the street just as a carriage was drawing up beside the pavement. He ducked behind a cart bearing a load of gravel and watched as two women, one of them more slender and petite than the other, stepped out. They both wore veils and were dressed in the Russian style. A man in a frock coat followed them, and Victor instantly recognised him as Antoine du Houssoye’s cousin, whom he had met the previous evening at the museum.

  He waited until they had entered the house before continuing on his way. When he reached Rue de Picardie, near the ruined tower at the corner of L’Enclos du Temple, he took advantage of a lull in the traffic to step out into the road. A speeding cyclist narrowly avoided running him down and bellowed furiously: ‘Watch out!’ Victor took no notice. He was thinking about the neckerchief stamped with the pattern of long-legged white birds.

  Victor hurriedly greeted Joseph, who had been assailed by three customers, and went upstairs. He knocked on Kenji’s door, but it was opened by Iris, wearing a man’s black silk kimono.

  ‘Father is in town buying some books. I was about to clean the bathtub. What a face! Come in then; I am decent. Would you like some tea?’

  He followed her into the kitchen. She filled the tea pot and he hadn’t the heart to tell her he preferred coffee. He studied the young girl as she neatly laid out the place mats and cups and saucers and then sat down opposite him. A year earlier he would have staked his life on her being Kenji’s mistress and now here she was, transformed into a delightful, impertinent sister, whose character – a mixture of pragmatism and inscrutability – he found disconcerting. He felt a sudden surge of warmth, which he could not translate into a gesture, but which was audible in his voice.