by Claude Izner
A pinkish glow made the panelling in the darkened room shimmer. A pair of hands leafed through a notebook filled with a childish scrawl and paused at a page marked with a piece of blotting paper.
You have placed various obstacles in my path, Lord. Are you testing my resolve? I have spent part of the night awake, feeling like a solitary sparrow perched on a rooftop. I will succeed. I have already found a solution to the problem of evil. The avid helper who assisted me is at this very moment floating towards the lake of fire and sulphur. As for the other one, a few coins were sufficient to loosen his tongue and he has shown me the way to the abomination. Henceforth, his lips will be sealed by fear. I march forward wielding my double-edged sword. Look with approval upon your emissary…
Had anyone told Joseph that he would one day lie to Monsieur Mori in order to slip out of the shop for a moment, he would have been mortified.
And yet this model assistant was about to tell an enormous lie and already he felt guilty. Afraid he might let it show, he buried his nose in his handkerchief and blurted out:
‘Bonsieur Bori, Bonsieur Bictor basked be to bake sure …’
‘I can’t understand a word. Let go of your nose and breathe properly if you have something to say. Do you have a cold?’
‘No,’ Joseph replied, turning a deep scarlet as he removed his handkerchief. ‘Monsieur Victor asked me to pick up the volumes of La Fontaine he left with the book binder a fortnight ago. Do I have time to stop off at Rue Monsieur-le-Prince?’
‘Yes, and while you’re about it you can take a copy of my Travel Literature catalogue to Monsieur Andrésy. He is a fan of my work. Don’t stand there gaping – I have an important meeting to go to at ten o’clock.’
Joseph hurriedly put on his coat and cap. He listened out for the sound of Euphrosine banging her pots and pans upstairs and, reassured, left.
He would have liked to have had time to ensure that the lodgings he shared with his mother in Rue Visconti were tidy, but no sooner had he arrived than there was a knock at the door of his study. He hurried to let Iris in.
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘And what if they did? Don’t look so conspiratorial. People will think we’re plotting an assassination attempt.’
‘Let’s not stay in here – it’s freezing.’
‘What a lot of books and magazines! Are they all yours?’
‘They were my father’s.’
He was about to show her into his bedroom, when he was struck by a sense of impropriety. Taking her into Euphrosine’s room would be equally unsuitable. Only the kitchen was neutral terrain.
However, after she had made a tour of it – which didn’t take long given its tiny proportions – admiring the stone sink, the stove and the cast-iron casserole, she expressed a desire to explore the bedrooms. Joseph grabbed her by the sleeve.
‘Perhaps it would be more seemly if …Well, I mean … It would be better if …’
She glanced at him mischievously, amused by his awkwardness.
‘Explain to me, Joseph, why a bedroom is more dangerous than a kitchen?’
She raced into Euphrosine’s bedroom.
‘How quaint! Your mother must love chintz; she’s used it everywhere!’
‘It’s a very hard-wearing and economical fabric,’ he said approvingly, relieved to see that the floor was clean. ‘Hold on a minute!’ he cried as she headed in the direction of his bedroom.
It was too late. He froze in horror as he envisaged his unmade bed, on which two scrunched up pillows lay next to an apple core and an old comb that had seen better days. ‘So this is where you dream of me!’ The ghastly image evaporated at the sound of her words. Standing halfway between the wardrobe and the pristine bed, which he now remembered having made and remade three times before sitting down to breakfast, Iris was in raptures over what she referred to as his ‘sanctuary in the heart of Paris’.
‘There isn’t much furniture – not that Maman and I are Spartan, it’s just that we don’t have much space …’
‘I like people who can manage with the bare necessities,’ she remarked as she plopped herself down on the bed, having noticed that the only chair in the room was creaking under the weight of a pile of laundry.
Mortified, Joseph discreetly opened the window a crack, convinced he had caught a whiff of stale socks.
‘Stop moving about. You’re making me dizzy.’
‘I promised the Boss I’d be back double quick.’
‘Are you afraid of him or me? Come here.’
He walked over to her shyly. She took his arm and pulled him down beside her.
Flustered, he tried to create a diversion.
‘My English is coming along nicely,’ he exclaimed. ‘Listen to my irregular verbs: Arise, arose, arisen. Awake …’
It was too late. Their lips were already touching, their fingers intertwined. His hand moved up instinctively to unbutton Iris’s blouse as they fell back on to the bed.
Suddenly, like some deus ex machina, a vision of his mother appeared before him, glaring, her finger pointing menacingly like the Pharaoh ordering Moses into exile. He leapt to his feet.
‘I really must go!’ he gasped.
She laughed good-naturedly and replaced her hat, which had rolled on to the floor.
‘Darling, you must at all costs convince Kenji that we … that you …’
‘I’ll do my best. Are you going back to the bookshop?’
‘No. I lied to my father. I am supposed to be in Saint-Mandé gorging myself on Mademoiselle Bontemps’s cakes. Instead I’ll spend the morning at Le Magasin du Louvre where, notwithstanding the dress and coat sale, I shall be thinking only of you.’
Joseph was walking on air. He bought a copy of Le Passe-partout from a little street vendor and marched triumphantly into the bookshop, where Kenji was waiting for him.
‘Goodness gracious, Boss, you are dressed up to the nines! What a magnificent yellow cravat! Why, your boots are so shiny I can see my reflection in them! And that eau de cologne … Lily of the valley?’
‘Lavender, Joseph, lavender.’
Striking a pose, Kenji adjusted his black top hat and pulled on his taupe gloves. He seized his cane with its jade handle in the shape of a horse’s head and pulled a face at Molière’s bust.
‘I’m leaving you now. Don’t forget that we’re meeting Madame de Brix’s new husband, Colonel de Réauville, at three o’clock on Rue Drouot. He wants my opinion on an illuminated manuscript he’s interested in acquiring. After that we will accompany him to his villa on Avenue du Bois, stuffed with books on military history, which I shall endeavour to pick up at a good price.’
‘You can rely on me, Boss!’
‘Incidentally, where are the La Fontaine volumes?’
Joseph suddenly became flustered and, turning bright pink, he stammered:
‘The book binder was … he was running behind schedule … too much work, he’s … he’s very sorry.’
Baffled by Joseph’s loss of composure, Kenji decided he’d get to the bottom of it later.
No sooner had the door bell sounded than Joseph took advantage of the empty shop, and flicked through the newspaper. An article signed ‘The Virus’ caught his attention.
LES HALLES CORPSE
We are now in a position to reveal the identity of the man whose body was discovered by Monsieur Rivet on Monday night at eleven o’clock near Les Halles. He was Antoine du Houssoye, an eminent researcher in zoology at the Museum of Natural History, who had recently returned to France after a long field trip in Java. He was killed by a single bullet fired at close range. We have it from a reliable source that the nation’s bloodhound, Inspector Lecacheur, after interrogating the victim’s nearest and dearest has eliminated them from his inquiry. It seems we are in the presence of one of those sordid crimes whose increasing numbers can only be lamented …
In a fit of nervous excitement Joseph screwed up the newspaper, forgetting to cut out the article.
A zoo
logist! Du Houssoye! The name and title on the visiting card of the man in the bowler hat! The man Monsieur Legris was casually asking me about yesterday. So, he’s been murdered! There’s something fishy going on … The Boss is on the hunt! If he thinks he can pull the wool over my eyes …
He was obliged to interrupt these reflections in favour of making a quick sale of Essay on the Basic Elements of Conscience by Bergson to a forlorn lady who looked in need of a book to cheer her up. Just then, Victor walked through the door.
‘Do I look like an ass to you, Boss?’
‘No, Joseph, nor like a donkey for that matter.’
‘In that case why didn’t you tell me that your zoologist was a goner?’
He brandished the crumpled newspaper.
‘Oh, so you’ve found out,’ Victor muttered, ‘and I suppose Sherlock Pignot will now insist on collaborating …’
‘With Sherlock Legris. Naturally.’
‘I had every intention of asking for your help.’
‘Did you? Come on then, out with it. Monsieur Victor. I’m all ears.’
‘Earlier this month, Lady Stone, an acquaintance of Monsieur Mori, was murdered in Scotland. I found out about it thanks to your translation of The Times. It seems this lady gave Kenji the goblet that was stolen during the break-in. And it is more than likely that this seemingly worthless object was responsible for the violent deaths of Antoine du Houssoye and Lady Stone. And, wait for it, Joseph, I think I’ve located the goblet, which is where you come in. Yesterday, I spoke to an elderly gentleman who might be involved …’
‘I’ve just remembered something puzzling, Boss. Last Friday, just as I was locking up the shop a woman tripped and fell on the pavement. I left the keys in the door and rushed to help her and when I came back they were lying on the ground!’
‘A set-up do you suppose? If so, then the woman must have had an accomplice … Or else it was a simple coincidence.’
‘It seems unlikely, Boss. True, I didn’t see anyone else, but it would be easy enough to have hidden in a doorway.’
‘What did the woman look like?’
Joseph made an apologetic face.
‘There’s something else bothering me, Boss. The telephone call that sent you off on the wild goose chase to Neuilly – that caller was a woman too. Someone wanted you away from the apartment.’
‘We can discuss that later. Right now, I want you to go to 28 Rue Charlot, next to Le Marché des Enfants-Rouges. And take …’
‘Le Marché des Enfants-Rouges?’
‘Do you know where the Conservatoire des Arts et Métiers is? Well, from there you go down Rue Réamur then take Rue de Bretagne and you’ll come to it.’
He opened a drawer in Kenji’s desk. Lying under a register was a collection of prints. He took one and slipped it into an envelope.
‘Give this to Antoine du Houssoye’s father-in-law – an elderly gentleman by the name of Fortunat de Vigneules – on behalf of the photographer he bumped into yesterday.’
‘But, Boss, what will the Boss say when he notices …’
‘He won’t notice a thing. They’re all identical. Do your best to speak to him alone. See if you can get him to tell you the whereabouts of the goblet that was wrapped in the scarf he was using as a neckerchief, and try to find out whether he really is as mad as he seems.’
‘Is that all? Do I have to go now?’
‘You should already be on your way there.’
‘But that’s impossible! I have to be at the auction house at three o’clock sharp to meet Monsieur Mori!’
‘It’s not even eleven o’clock.’
‘And when am I supposed to eat?’
‘I’ve made a rough sketch of the goblet: the skullcap of a monkey – probably a gibbon – attached to a little metal tripod decorated with three jewels and the tiny face of a cat with marbled agates for eyes. I know I can rely on your natural curiosity.’
‘So I’m nosey, am I?’ Joseph muttered angrily as he scoured the street for a cab. ‘That’s a bit rich.’ He leant up against a tree and, turning his back on the passers-by, opened the envelope. The contents made him gasp.
‘Oh, moon of my delights!’
‘What on earth is going on here?’
A cart piled high with furniture and bundles had stationed itself outside number 28 Rue Charlot. Two stocky men with red faces were straining under the weight of a grand piano they were lugging across the courtyard, while a gang of porters carried crates into the town house.
‘Hey! You, what do you think you’re doing there?’
The exclamation came from a sour-faced little man stationed at the entrance.
‘I’m one of the porters,’ Joseph replied on impulse, grabbing a crate filled with tablecloths and napkins.
Clasping it to his chest he marched towards the steps, nervous of being intercepted. He entered unchecked, and found himself in a hall, where he put down his load. Dashing up the stairs, he bumped into a maid on the mezzanine landing, carrying a tray bearing a steaming kettle.
‘Excuse me, Mademoiselle; I have an appointment with Monsieur de Vigneules. Where are his apartments?’
‘On the first floor. Just follow me.’
‘I wanted to offer my condolences to the family.’
‘They’re not at home. Monsieur Wallers and Monsieur Dorsel are seeing to the transfer of the body. Madame is here, and the doctor. It doesn’t help matters having these people moving in on the ground floor. I must hurry. She’ll need her tonic before the funeral. Carry on down the corridor and you’ll find Monsieur de Vigneules’s apartments at the end.’
‘Hell’s bells and buckets of blood, this place is a veritable labyrinth!’
Joseph wandered for several minutes – the corridor seemed to go on forever. Which room was his? There were five doors – four on the left and one on the right.
He knocked at random. ‘Vade retro Satana,’ boomed from within. Joseph pressed his mouth to the door.
‘Is that you, Monsieur de Vigneules?’ he whispered. ‘The photographer from yesterday sent me. He asked me to bring you this print. I’m sure you’ll like it.’
‘Slide it under the door.’
Joseph bent down and watched the envelope disappear, snatched by unseen fingers.
‘Zounds! What opulence!’ exclaimed a muffled voice. ‘I take my hat off to you, Monsieur. I concede and clear the way forthwith.’
Joseph heard a scraping of furniture followed by the crash of a heavy object. A bolt squeaked and a shrivelled, ferrety face peered out, examining him with keen eyes. ‘Come in quick! They’re after me, but I can hold out under siege. Have you any more like these?’ the old man cried, waving the decidedly provocative print in the air.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ murmured Joseph.
‘Give me the address of the artist – his work is every bit as good as Henry Voland’s best.’
‘What artist?’
‘Why, the photographer of course!’
‘18 Rue des Saints-Pères,’ Joseph muttered, instantly regretting having imparted the information.
He stepped over a bronze figure of Diana lying face down on the rug and deduced from the dresser pulled away from the wall that the apartment’s occupant had barricaded himself in.
‘Holy Mother of God! What is the name of this luscious creature whose posterior is so amply and appealingly enhanced by her black stockings, raised veil and charmingly jaunty position?’
‘La Goulue. She dances the cancan at Le Moulin Rouge.’
‘Oh, the wanton creature! If only this alluring temptress would liven up my solitary nights. I’d rather be the quarry of this huntress than of the deplorable Jacques de Molay.’
‘Is he threatening you?’ Joseph asked, his eye on the door.
‘My poor boy, ever since he discovered that I’m after his treasure he wants me dead, and my soul damned! Why, only the other night I sensed the little runt prowling around, intending to purloin my neckerchief. Had my brave Enguerrand
not been here to defend me, suggesting I put up a barricade …’
Jacques de Molay, Enguerrand, treasure … It’s complete gibberish. The old man is clearly off his rocker, thought Joseph, preparing his retreat.
‘And where is this Enguerrand?’ he enquired, good-naturedly.
‘I shall lead you directly to his bedside for he needs cooling down again.’
Oblivious to the look of bewilderment on Joseph’s face, Fortunat de Vigneules opened the door a chink.
‘Take care. We must be sure the coast is clear. We don’t want to run into the slouch who bullies me with her scolding … Make haste, but not a sound. Step lightly!’
He moved along the corridor, Joseph following close on his heels.
‘The draggletail will be at the market stocking up on game at this hour. We must hurry before she returns to her quarters.’
They went into the kitchen. The old man spied a huge lump of ice on the stone sink.
‘Grab it and we’ll scarper,’ he hissed at Joseph.
Scarcely had Joseph’s hands touched the transparent slab than he leapt back.
‘It burns!’
‘Stand aside, coxcomb! Zounds, I wasn’t born in the year of the Battle of Berezina for nothing. My leathery hide has weathered more cold than your popinjay’s skin – no offence meant.’
Fortunat removed his waistcoat, wrapped it around the block of ice and led the increasingly nervous Joseph down a narrow staircase to the cellar.
In the dim candlelight the two men bent over the corpse of a dog, which stank enough to decimate a swarm of flies. Joseph felt himself go faint.