by Claude Izner
‘It is odd to think that we share the same mother and that through you I have ties with Japan.’
‘Oh! I don’t feel Japanese at all! My ways and customs are ever so English and my principles ever so French. Did you know that Father is toying with the idea of naturalising me? In fact, he has already applied.’
‘I think it’s an excellent idea. That way we shall all remain united. Life is full of surprises, don’t you think? We have distant relations living thousands of miles away, in the Empire of the Rising Sun! Astonishing, isn’t it? A country that has remained in stubborn isolation since the seventeenth century.’
‘You must take evening classes, brother dear. Your information is quite out of date. Japan is in the process of modernising. In 1889, Emperor Mutsuhito granted his people a constitution based upon the English constitution. However, there is still a long way to go, since the situation of women is far from acceptable. Drink your tea or it’ll go cold.’
‘Goodness gracious! You astonish me with your erudition! Such an attractive young girl …’
‘Attractive! Don’t tell me that you’re just like all the other men who believe that a woman should be content merely to be attractive?’
‘No, no, you’re taking it the wrong way. I am merely making the point that you are very cultured for someone who so stubbornly resists all attempts to interest her in reading. Have you kept in touch with your great-uncle? The one who gave Kenji that … that fukorishi.’
‘Furoshiki! Uncle Hanunori Watanabe passed away at the ripe old age of ninety-nine.’
‘I’m so sorry. What about the other one?’
‘I wasn’t aware I had more than one.’
‘You know exactly what I mean, you little minx. I’m referring to the furoshiki.’
‘Oh, I see. You’d like to examine the pattern on it before you give Tasha an oriental dress.’
Victor frowned then raised his eyebrows.
‘How did you guess?’
‘Ha! Your wide-eyed innocence doesn’t fool me for a minute,’ she exclaimed, standing up and poking her brother in the arm rhythmically as she chanted: ‘Liar! Liar! Liar!’
Victor began to laugh, delighted to be experiencing for the first time this mock fighting between siblings.
‘Help! Stop! Iris, you’re impossible. You are attributing motives to me …’
‘My dear Victor, why do you insist on defending yourself? Are you perhaps not entirely blameless? Whatever the case, I forgive you. Come with me.’
They went into Kenji’s room. As Iris busied herself moving the cotton mattress and the slats of the bed base, Victor contemplated Tasha’s painting of the Parisian rooftops at dawn. He was grateful to Kenji for having hung it above his bed. Iris handed him a package.
‘This contains the papers relating to my birth as well as my mother’s – our mother’s letters.’
Deeply moved, Victor stared at the furoshiki. There was no need for him to examine it more closely; he was certain: the white storks on a turquoise background were identical to those on Fortunat de Vigneules’s neckerchief. Without saying a word, he handed the package to Iris who put it back where it belonged.
‘Thank you for your … help.’
‘You mean for my transgression, which has allowed you to scrutinise the piece of material identical to the one wrapped around the goblet stolen from my father. You won’t succeed in pulling the wool over my eyes, dear brother!’
‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, ingenuously.
Iris sighed.
‘Poor Tasha! She won’t be very pleased to find out that you are about to take on another case.’
‘You wouldn’t snitch on me!’ he cried out in alarm.
‘Hm. That depends. Mum’s the word, but only if …’
‘Is this blackmail?’
‘Only if you give us – that is to say Joseph and me – your blessing.’
‘So that romantic idyll is still going on, is it? Look, Iris, you’re being foolish. Joseph is our assistant.’
‘I love him. An assistant is no worse than a woman painter!’
‘But there’s no comparison! We are …’
‘You are in love and so are we. The verb has existed in all its conjugations in every language for all time.’
She mussed up his hair.
‘You and I are united by a secret. I hope you don’t mind me being so informal; the Englishwoman in me has difficulty getting used to your French formality. I promise I’ll say nothing because you’re my big brother and I love you,’ she whispered.
He felt his initial reluctance give way. Iris seemed so frail and yet she was so strong, and certainly more determined than he. But they had one trait in common and it united them: the appeal of what was out of bounds would prompt them to overcome any obstacle.
‘I give you my blessing,’ he conceded. ‘In any case, Joseph will one day make an excellent bookseller.’
‘And a talented writer.’
He pulled a wry face and went to join his assistant, who was rubbing his hands together gleefully at having completed a sale of the unfinished works of Delille.
‘Jojo, I am curious about the man who left his visiting card, which you forgot to give me. What did he look like?’
‘Oh, Boss, I wasn’t looking at him that closely. You’re the photographer, not me.’
‘If you wish to become a writer, you will need to hone your powers of observation.’
‘I’m interested in fiction, not in real life. Now, let me think. He looked completely normal. I seem to remember that he was wearing a bowler hat and glasses. He looked well-to-do, or like a policeman out of uniform – and not a very friendly one.’
‘That doesns’t help much. Did he mention anything to you about his research?’
‘He asked to see Monsieur Mori. What kind of research?’
‘Zoology.’
‘That queer fellow runs a zoo? What’s his name?’
‘Antoine du Houssoye,’ Victor muttered, sitting down at the desk and pretending to study the sales catalogues.
How did Fortunat de Vigneules manage to be in possession of the furoshiki? He couldn’t possibly have burgled Kenji’s apartment and stolen the goblet! Then who had? One of his relatives? But why? Victor sensed that he had ignited a tiny flame that would soon shed light on all these strange coincidences. He was longing to go back to Rue Charlot and look into the matter further.
Not so fast. You could bump into the police or be recognised by that concierge with the wooden leg, not to mention the cousin from the museum, who would be most surprised if you showed up, he told himself.
Unable to decide on a course of action, he picked up a pencil and on a blotter began sketching a picture of a skinny bird with spindly legs.
You’re as bad at drawing as you are at deduction. It looks no more like a stork than you do a … an altar boy.
Fortunat de Vigneules, with his top hat at an angle and his neckerchief unknotted and draped over his shoulders, was engaged in swinging a censer and muttering incomprehensible incantations, when he heard a movement outside. Night was falling and clouds were gathering in the sky. He drew back the curtain slightly and was able to make out two police sergeants and a tall man wearing a braided hussar’s jacket talking to the concierge in the middle of the courtyard. The man in the jacket straightened his fur hat and hurried up the steps leading to the doorway.
‘Holy smoke! A hussar flanked by his two spies!’
Keeping hold of his censer, Fortunat de Vigneules kicked off his shoes, walked across the hallway and crept to the end of the corridor, where he ventured to peek through a crack in the main sitting-room door.
He could see his daughter, Gabrielle, prostrate on the sofa striking the pose of a grieving widow. Lucie, her lady-in-waiting and confidante, sat beside her looking tense and dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘Whore of Babylon!’ muttered Fortunat, who was not overly fond of the lady-in-waiting.
Alexis Wallers and Charles Dorsel were
standing with their backs to the fireplace facing the man in the jacket, who walked over to Gabrielle.
‘My heartfelt condolences, Madame du Houssoye. Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Inspector Lecacheur. I realise how painful this ordeal must be for you, but I am obliged to ask you a few questions out of simple formality. I understand your husband left the house early on Friday morning?’
‘Yes, he always leaves early. That day he had to pick up a file from the museum and then he was going to spend four days in Meudon with Professor Guéret. I got up at eight o’clock and we had breakfast.’
‘We?’
‘Monsieur Wallers, Monsieur Dorsel, Mademoiselle Robin and myself. My father was locked in his bedroom. He is very elderly and not right in the head. He only tolerates the presence of Bertille Piot, our cook. She prepares his meals separately.’
Crouched in the dark, Fortunat spat silently in disgust.
‘Oh, the beauty of filial love! Senile, me? The scoundrels! They squander my fortune and force me into a life of thieving! And as for that crank in his hussar’s jacket, what’s he cooking up?’
The inspector had taken a box of lozenges out of his pocket and was tossing them mechanically from one hand to the other.
‘And what did you do then?’
‘I had a fitting … Oh, this is too much! I am exhausted! Lucie …’
‘I went out at nine o’clock,’ Lucie Robin continued, ‘and it was I who posted Monsieur’s mail. At eleven o’clock, I joined Madame Gabrielle at Madame Coussinet’s on Rue Richer. Madame ordered two floral dresses. We had a snack in town and then went to make a few purchases. We were back home by five o’clock. Monsieur Wallers and Monsieur Dorsel were here working on the draft of a dissertation. Augustine, the chambermaid, served us a light meal, after which I took a short ride in a cab to Madame’s jeweller on Place des Victoires, and was back in time for supper. Oh, dear Lord! Poor Monsieur du Houssoye! To think that he braved all those dangers on his travels in foreign lands only to be murdered right here in Paris! It is horrible! Horrible! Could we be excused, Inspector? Madame is tired.’
‘Of course,’ the inspector replied. ‘My respects, ladies.’
Fortunat de Vigneules felt a lump in his throat. ‘Antoine! Murdered! Why, it’s incredible! Good Lord, the curse is at work!’
‘Surely, Inspector, you do not suspect one of the members of this family of having killed my cousin?’ asked Alexis Wallers.
‘Of course not, my dear Monsieur, but you are no doubt aware that … I must make a thorough report. I am a civil servant and officialdom is a serious matter … According to the pathologist, Monsieur du Houssoye’s death occurred roughly seventy-two hours ago, which takes us back to Friday. It is difficult to calculate the exact moment. Am I to understand that you were here on Friday?’
‘Yes. Monsieur Dorsel and I spent the whole day filing Antoine’s notes.’
‘Forgive me for contradicting you, Alexis, but you went out in the morning, if you recall,’ murmured Charles Dorsel.
‘Oh yes! So I did. I dropped in on a colleague on Boulevard Saint-Germain. He will confirm it.’
‘And you, Monsieur Dorsel?’ the inspector demanded.
‘I did not leave the house all day. You can ask the servants!’
‘Fine, fine,’ agreed the inspector, stuffing a handful of lozenges in his mouth, ‘I shan’t bother you any further. In my opinion, Monsieur du Houssoye was murdered for his money and …’
‘Excuse me one moment,’ Alexis Wallers interrupted him, opening the door.
At first he saw nothing, then he made out a dim shape flattened against the wall.
‘What are you playing at, Fortunat?’
Fortunat de Vigneules jumped violently and his neckerchief slipped to the floor. Clasping the censer to his chest, he backed away slowly. Alexis burst out laughing.
‘What’s that smell? Opium?’
‘It’s a deadly serious joke, Monsieur Braggart!’ retorted Fortunat.
‘Really, grandfather, you’re getting worse every day! We shall discuss this later. In the meantime go to bed,’ Alexis ordered, grabbing him by the elbow.
‘Vade retro, traitor! It’s all the fault of that wicked relic! No one must touch it, ever! Oh, God, protect your humble servant! Help me find a way of saving us from this evil!’
Fortunat was mouthing the words breathlessly. He pulled away suddenly and hobbled as fast as he could back to his chambers.
‘Hey! One moment, Fortunat! You dropped …’
Fortunat’s cry rang out again. ‘Warn them never to touch those execrations of Beelzebub! Warn them!’
Alexis stooped to pick up the neckerchief, studied it for a moment then placed it carelessly in his pocket.
‘The old man has completely taken leave of his senses,’ a woman’s voice murmured.
Alexis swung round.
‘Have you been here all this time?’
‘Yes. The inspector has left.’
‘How is Gabrielle?’
‘She is lying down. I gave her a sleeping draught.’
Fortunat awoke feeling suffocated. For a moment he thought that his retriever was sitting on his chest; he even imagined he could hear the dog panting. He tried to pat Enguerrand’s side and his hand flailed about in the empty air. He realised then that his companion preferred to stay on his blocks of ice in the cellar.
‘I am the only one left.’
He felt neglected, weary, at death’s door. He was filled with an indescribable sadness.
If only youth were wise and old age vigorous! How charming that little Adeline was whom I met at the Théâtre-Français during the premiere of Chatterton!3 And the adorable Mimi Rose from the Opéra-Comique, who sang her love song so well!
Combien je regrette
Mon bras si dodu
Ma jambe bien faite
Et le temps perdu …4
He hummed.
He lost himself in mental arithmetic as he attempted to enumerate his conquests of the fair sex, only to end in the sad fact of his late marriage to Melaine Le Héron, who had given him a disobedient and ungrateful daughter.
That name, belonging to a wading bird, troubled him. The piece of silk he had exorcised that afternoon before turning it into a neckerchief! Where was it?
He heaved himself off the bed, lit the row of candle stubs underneath Louis XVI and began rummaging through the clothes scattered over the floor. It wasn’t there. The scarf with the storks on it had vanished. He heard a creaking noise and stood still.
Somebody was behind the door.
‘Who is it?’ he whispered.
There was no reply. Everything went quiet again. In a low, husky voice, he said, ‘I know it is he. It is he.’
The emissary advanced furtively, carrying a bundle over his shoulder. The candle he was holding at arm’s length lit up the slippery ground, which was strewn with rubble and refuse. The place gave off a putrid odour. This murder had been more onerous for him than the others. Bending to the will of the Eternal One was no less of an ordeal than self-flagellation and penitence had once been. The emissary had soon learnt to torment his flesh with the helping hand of the one in whose charge heaven had placed him. What tears, what revulsion before finally accepting, enjoying even, the abuse and humiliation! At times the Divine revelation let its rage be felt – a booming reminder of his servitude. Then carrying out the orders became like a moral duty. But not this murder, no, it had not been easy.
The emissary had braced himself, his eyes half-closed, and moved away from the river’s edge with its rows of dark trees and rustling leaves. Only the lapping of water against the bridge piers and the creak of a vessel moored to the pontoon of a laundry boat broke the dull murmur of the sleeping city. A passing barge making its way downriver towards L’Hôtel de Ville had masked the sound of the revolver going off, followed by the loud splash.
The relief he had felt at having overcome his aversion would never be surpassed. But it was not over yet. Now
he must make the murder look like a disappearance.
He walked for a long time. The rest of the world seemed to recede until he reached the underground passage concealed at the far end of a courtyard overgrown with dandelions.
A grotto. Dank and foul-smelling. It had been rumoured that when the new sewers were being built underneath land that was once inside L’Enclos du Temple, a coffin had been discovered containing the remains of a man wearing the clothes of the order of the Templars. The clasp on his cloak suggested he had been a commander of the order.
The emissary believed that one endlessly deferred crime had yet to be committed. It would constitute the supreme victory. All of a sudden, something brushed against his leg. A rat. It disappeared swiftly between two dressed stones – the perfect hiding place!
The emissary pushed his bundle into the narrow space through which the rat had scurried and, grabbing a handful of mud, filled the gap then walked back out into the fresh air.
Two figures frozen in prayer cast an eerie shadow on the walls of the Église Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois. The emissary crossed himself, slipped a coin into the collection box, grasped a candle and mumbled a Pater and an Ave as he knelt on a priedieu and addressed the heavens.
‘Oh, God, only your Gospel can guide my actions. As man embraces wrong, so will evil be my avenger. Oh, Lord God, arm your emissary! Help me to find the abomination that is a stain on your work of creation!’
Leaning against a pillar, the emissary pulled out of his pocket Texts and Essays in Holy History5 moving his lips as he read.
‘From the creation of the world up until the flood: 4963 – 3308 BC (a total of 1,655 years)
‘ … And so God did take the silt from the earth and with it created the body of the first man to whom he gave an immortal soul, and named him Adam …’
CHAPTER 6
Wednesday, 13 April
ATTRACTED by a pile of debris lying in a recess on Quai de Gesvres, a flock of gulls squabbled half-heartedly over a few fish bones. One of them tilted its head towards the river. In the early dawn light it had spied a dark bulky mass buffeted by the leapfrogging current. The gull took flight, circling several times round the curious piece of debris. It hesitated. Should it land on the thing that resembled a biped? Seek out with its beak the soft second skin covering the body? But what if the specimen wasn’t really dead? Too risky. The gull decided to content itself with the pile of refuse while the body bobbed slowly towards Le Pont-au-Change.