by Claude Izner
‘I should have killed him, but there were too many people around … These two know more about this than I do.’
The Japanese fellow and his associate walked away.
He would follow them on his bicycle. He mustn’t lose sight of them. This was his last chance.
In her panic, Anna Marcelli fled without warm clothes. She walked up and down the streets of the Popincourt quarter, her teeth chattering. The bakeries opened their shutters, soon followed by the dairies and fruiterers. Bare-headed women walked along briskly, baskets on their arms; children arrived to fill their tin-plate pots with milk; and navvies began their working day with a glass of red wine or cheap brandy in the cafés.
Anna wandered aimlessly, still reeling from shock. She felt oddly naked without the reassuring weight of her barrel organ in front of her. She had the impression she was in a foreign land and that everyone knew she was a coward and despised her for it.
The clock struck nine. She entered the Église Sainte-Marguerite, where she and Luigi had prayed. She had been visiting that bleak building each week to commune with herself since her father’s death. Inside those forbidding walls was a peaceful sanctuary hung with paintings by Italian artists — most notably Salviati, Luca Giordano and Brunetti. Her favourite place to meditate was at the back of the chapel of the souls in purgatory, which was decorated with monochrome trompes l’œil. Behind a Corinthian colonnade stood a group of statues. One of them reminded her of her father, and she liked to kneel and confide her hopes and fears to him. Today she closed her eyes and described the dreadful scene she had witnessed at breakfast. When she finally had the courage to look up, she thought she saw the statue pointing a hand at her and waving the other one in the air in a familiar gesture. It had been Luigi’s way of dismissing the young Anna’s anxieties. Feeling reassured, she resolved to go back to Rue de Nice to fetch her barrel organ and a few other things before the bric-a-brac merchant’s body was discovered and she was charged with his murder. He had probably only fainted, she convinced herself. He had been knocked out, that was all. He would soon come round.
She found a sou in her pocket and bought herself a croissant in Rue Basfroi. The gloomy courtyards were lined with shops selling stretchers, wheels, second-hand springs and bar tops. The scrap merchants, their caps pulled down over their ears, were setting up their melting pots and cauldrons alongside the gutter. One of them grabbed her arm and asked her brazenly whether she didn’t want to go and have a bit of fun with him at one of the café-bars. She pulled her arm free and walked away quickly. In the distance, a black strip stood out against the dull sky: the Colonne de Juillet, crowned by a gilded figure of Liberty vainly stretching out its wings. She doubled back. Underneath a chestnut tree, employees of the carriage hire company in copper-buttoned uniforms held their grubby hands over a glowing brazier. She looked at her reddened fingers. How she would love to warm them over the embers, but she was scared to go near the men. Behind a factory smokestack, hemmed in between two buildings, she recognised the pale green of a public garden. She was overcome by weariness. She needed to rest before she collapsed.
The first raindrops began to fall.
The emissary watched the rainwater wash down Rue Tournon. From his shelter beneath the awning of an antique shop that specialised in ancient string instruments, it was impossible to tell whether the Japanese fellow and his associate were still enjoying the main course or had moved on to dessert. Each time the door to Foyot’s opened, the emissary’s hopes that his persistence would be rewarded were dashed. However, it was impossible for him to leave now, even though it was very likely that the two accomplices would head back to the bookshop.
His stomach was rumbling. The rain stopped and a handful of people ventured out on to the pavements.
Finally, they emerged and began walking towards Carrefour de l’Odéon. The emissary followed at a distance, pushing his bicycle along and pretending to look in the shop windows.
‘Do you think this is a good idea?’
‘After what you’ve told me, I am convinced that it is. After all we’re not supposed to know about Antoine du Houssoye’s murder,’ Kenji replied. ‘We haven’t been notified, have we?’
‘It has been reported in the newspapers.’
‘But we’re not in the habit of reading news items. No, this gentleman wrote to me asking for my help. It is only natural that I should want to meet him.’
‘And how did you discover his address?’
‘It was easy, Victor. You told me. Don’t worry. I have no intention of interfering with your investigation. Sleuthing is not my forte. I shall limit myself to portraying the image that you westerners — who do not know the difference between China and Japan — have of us Orientals.’
‘Oh! And how do you propose to do that?’
‘I shall look sly and enigmatic and bow a great deal, and if my hostess offers me anything to eat I shall pepper my speech with exotic vocabulary: Arigato okamisan: thank you very much, Madame.’
Victor raised his eyes to heaven. ‘I never know when you’re joking and when you are serious.’
‘I am deadly serious. I want to get a closer look at these people, who appear to be caught up in a very shady affair. Driver! Rue Charlot.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ said Victor.
The emissary let the cab go on ahead before he climbed on to his bicycle. Early the next morning he would go back to Rue de Nice and conduct another search.
CHAPTER 11
Friday afternoon, 15 April
THE door opened to reveal a large waiting room, its walls covered with Chinese engravings. A plump servant relieved them of their coats, looking furtively all the while at Kenji. They were led through interminable corridors to a second waiting room from where a footman in livery showed them into a drawing room.
The vast space contained two apricot-coloured sofas. The curtains depicted scenes from mythology and the chairs were upholstered in this same material. There was a fireplace, four armchairs, old-fashioned oil lamps (the kind that had to be regularly adjusted with a key), framed photographs on the inevitable piano and an oak table near one of the windows.
A woman in a black silk dress stood by the fireplace. Kenji took in her slender figure and energetic expression with approval. He bowed. Victor saw him flinch when she held his hand in hers while inviting him to sit down. Her ingratiating smile was tempered by melancholy. As Victor removed his hat, he noticed the mahogany bookcase lined with magnificent calfbound books.
‘Please excuse my appearance, Messieurs, I wasn’t expecting visitors. But do sit down. You knew my husband?’
‘No, Madame, we never met. I was travelling when he left his card in the care of Monsieur Legris, my associate here,’ replied Kenji.
Gabrielle du Houssoye rapidly read the words scribbled on the back of the card.
‘I don’t know what he was referring to,’ she murmured. ‘My husband did not always keep me informed of his activities.’
‘Excuse me, Madame, you speak in the past tense, is Monsieur du Houssoye … ?’
‘Alas, Monsieur Mori, the poor man was taken from us suddenly. He’s been murdered … A bullet straight to the heart.’
‘Good heavens, that’s appalling! Has the murderer been found?’
‘The police are investigating.’
Two men came in. One of them was well into his forties, cynical-looking but elegantly turned out. The other, who was young, clean-shaven and tanned, wore a half-smile like a facetious child.
‘May I introduce Alexis Wallers, my deceased husband’s cousin, and Charles Dorsel, his secretary? Monsieur Mori, Monsieur Legris.’
Alexis Wallers’s look of amusement accentuated his air of weary cynicism. ‘Let me guess, Mori, Mori … You’re undeniably not Italian. And you’re not Chinese — the surnames of those opium eaters are unpronounceable! You’re … Japanese! Oh, how I would have loved to explore Japan, that exquisite archipelago of the yellow seas! The home of flowery hospitality and
charming …’
‘I think you’re embellishing somewhat.’
‘Monsieur Legris, we’ve already met. At the museum, if memory serves.’
‘Correct.’
‘To what do we owe the honour?’
‘These gentlemen wanted to see Antoine; they have a friend in common,’ said Gabrielle du Houssoye.
‘Lady Frances Stone,’ explained Kenji, ‘the sister of a very dear friend of mine.’
‘It’s most unfortunate,’ said Alexis Wallers. ‘Alas, I can’t be of any help. My cousin was not in the habit of confiding in me. Can you add anything, Charles?’
‘No,’ the young man replied.
‘What’s the matter, Charles? You have a face like a wet weekend.’
‘I’m in the middle of classifying Monsieur du Houssoye’s travel notes. I can’t stop thinking about him. I just can’t take in his disappearance. Madame Gabrielle, did Lucie show you the translated extract from the review All Round the World?’
‘Dear boy, you know perfectly well that she left the house in a hurry to go to a sick aunt. I told you that myself.’
‘I thought she might have left the article in your study.’
‘Really, Charles, now is not the moment.’
Alexis Wallers looked severely at Charles Dorsel, who stared insolently back.
Victor broke the ensuing silence by indicating the photographs on the piano.
‘Did you take these, Madame? They’re very beautiful.’
‘No, my husband took them in Java, a few weeks before the terrible volcanic eruption.’
‘Krakatoa?’ asked Kenji.
‘Were you there, Monsieur?’
‘No. By 1883 I had been in Europe for many years, but I was very upset when I heard. I know the Sunda Islands well. I have friends there.’
‘We lived through the terrible event. It is etched in our memories,’ murmured Gabrielle du Houssoye.
‘Where were you at the time?’ asked Victor.
‘We were staying not far from the Governor General of the East Indies’ residence, at Buitenzorg, a town south of Batavia. Antoine had undertaken a study of orang-utans and we were about to leave for Borneo. Early in the afternoon we heard muffled rumbling, like claps of thunder. We thought a storm was brewing. The air was hot and humid. A little while later we heard loud explosions. At about five in the evening they became very violent and that lasted all night. If you have not lived through the experience, it is very hard to imagine how a mountain erupting eighty miles away could shake the ground so brutally. At seven the next morning there was an explosion so powerful that the house shook. Lamps shattered, pictures fell to the floor, doors and windows slammed, generating incredible panic. Then silence fell and the sky darkened. The unbelievable clouds of steam and cinders expelled by Krakatoa were moving towards us. By nine o’clock, the sky was enveloped in darkness, like a window with the curtains drawn. That night was like the end of the world; there were thirty thousand victims.’
Victor hung on every word, remembering the fantastical stories Kenji used to tell him as a child.
‘The blue mountains are home to flying dragons. When the sun beats down, they flap like bats round the fortresses built on the slopes of the volcanoes … Once, a long time ago, one of these monsters snatched up a human between its claws. That’s how Princess Surabaja was carried away …’
‘Gabrielle, may I go and lie down? I’m worn out,’ said Charles Dorsel.
Madame du Houssoye nodded.
‘You must excuse him, Messieurs; he was absolutely devoted to my husband. He won’t be able to rest until he has finished putting his notes in order.’
‘And what about me, Gabrielle? Does my contribution count for nothing?’
Alexis Wallers stood at the window, contemplating the courtyard below. The smoke from his cigar formed a halo round his head. Kenji coughed discreetly and changed seats.
‘What happened next?’ asked Victor.
‘Part of the island of Krakatoa disappeared to the bottom of the ocean. The gigantic wave that followed the eruption was almost thirty-six metres high. When it flung itself on the eastern coast of Java, it swept away dozens of villages. The impact of the surge of waves was not only felt in the Indian Ocean, but also in the Atlantic and the Pacific. The photos you see there were taken before the eruption occurred.’
‘Yes,’ said Kenji. ‘I went there with Lady Stone in 1860. At that time the island was covered with thick forest. The vegetation was luxuriant; it was like the Elysian Fields. For months after the cataclysm, strange luminous phenomena were observed all over the world. Do you remember 1883, Victor? We had just opened the bookshop. In Paris and all over France, shimmering clouds were seen at sunset. People thought they were caused by fires.’
Kenji rose. ‘I’m very sorry I never met your husband, Madame, and sorry too not to know what it was he wanted from me.’
‘The friend you had in common, Lady Stone. Perhaps she could enlighten you?’ suggested Alexis Wallers. ‘If you find anything out, do let us know.’
‘Of course,’ replied Kenji. ‘Thank you for seeing us.’
Joseph’s feather duster had rarely moved so rapidly over the rows of books. The resulting dust clouds tickled Euphrosine’s nose. She was overcome by a fit of sneezing.
‘What have those books done to you, my pet? Anyone would think you were trying to bite the dust! Isn’t it enough that the child — God knows where they dragged her in from — is coming down with pneumonia? And, while we’re on the subject, Mademoiselle Iris was wrong to call Doctor Reynaud; his remedies are about as useful as poultry on a wooden leg.’
‘You mean poultice, Maman, “as useful as a poultice on a wooden leg”.’
‘Well, I know what I mean, that’s what matters. And there’s only one cure for influenza.’
‘I know, syrup of snails.’
‘No! It’s mulled egg!’
‘Oh please, now I feel sick!’
‘There’s no two ways about it – that thing’s shaking worse than if we were on a boat.’
Joseph clenched his jaw to stop himself from yelling. What was his mother playing at? She had been stationed at the counter for a good half hour, like a fat hen jealously guarding her egg.
And I’m the egg, he thought. She’s suffocating me.
If only Iris would come down. But no. She was so infatuated with Yvette that she never left her side.
Alone, abandoned by everyone and left in his mother’s clutches! Please could a customer appear, in spite of the vile weather. Or could one of the Bosses show up …
The feather duster resumed its jig, provoking another storm of sneezing from Euphrosine. She made for the door, her eyes watering, and took up her umbrella, ready for action.
‘I’d rather brave the hail than stay here. Oh, the cross I have to bear.’
Joseph was immediately assailed by guilt, and was about to persuade her to stay, when Victor and Kenji burst in, soaked through.
‘You look like you need to be put through the wringer,’ said Joseph, relieved to have a valid excuse not to go after his mother.
‘Where’s Iris?’ enquired Kenji briskly, shaking his sodden bowler hat.
‘Upstairs. She’s dealing with Dr Reynaud. Yvette’s coughing.’
‘Perfect. Lock up and join us in the back room,’ ordered Kenji, pouring himself a glass of sake. ‘Apparently we can’t decide anything without you.’
‘What’s got into him? Has he swallowed his sword?’ whispered Joseph to Victor.
‘Shh! We’ve made progress with the investigation.’
So now we’re all three investigating together, Joseph thought, aware that an important new phase had begun. The Bosses were treating him as an equal, even though one of them was regarding him in a rather disagreeable manner.
Victor described their escapade to him.
‘Madame du Houssoye didn’t exactly appear heartbroken by her husband’s brutal death. As for cousin Alexis, although he was affectin
g weary boredom, he’s clearly mad about her,’ said Victor, addressing Kenji.
‘Are they lovers?’ Joseph asked.
‘Who knows? Lovers, accomplices, it’s possible,’ replied Victor. ‘And then there’s the secretary …’
‘An insignificant youth,’ cut in Kenji.
‘I think, Boss, they were putting on an act for you … They’re all in it together.’
Kenji looked doubtful.
‘They would have to be masters of improvisation, since they didn’t know we were coming. I was observing them closely. Each time I mentioned Lady Stone, they showed no reaction. Perhaps we’re on the wrong track in seeing them as suspects. What do we suspect them of? Stealing my goblet? Murdering Lady Stone and Antoine du Houssoye?’
‘You’re forgetting Léonard Diélette. Are you saying that there might be an éminence grise pulling the strings in the background?’
‘I don’t know,’ murmured Victor. ‘If we knew what the motive was …’
‘It’s Monsieur Mori’s goblet, Boss, definitely!’
‘Let me think a moment. We have three suspects, who’ve done nothing suspicious.’
‘Five, Boss. Don’t forget the missing lady’s maid and the crazy old man. Perhaps he’s just confusing us with his pack of stuffed hounds and his Templars’ treasure! He might be the brains behind the operation.’
‘All right. So my goblet provides the motive. But why? What’s special about it? Whatever angle we approach this riddle from, the solution escapes us. I don’t believe for a minute in the enchantment John Cavendish’s poor sister referred to in her letter,’ said Kenji.
‘Java!’ cried Joseph. ‘The goblet originated in Java! John Cavendish bought it there, six years ago. And Antoine du Houssoye had just returned from a long trip to Java when he was murdered. It would be interesting to know if his wife, cousin or secretary went with him, or the maid or the old lunatic. I bet you hadn’t considered that question.’
‘Joseph, your brilliant deductive powers are opening new vistas for us,’ declared Kenji, his voice laden with sarcasm.