by Claude Izner
‘I won’t let it go to my head, Boss, don’t worry. I’m trying to think of all the possible criminal combinations. There could have been two murderers, one providing an alibi for the other. Fortunat de Vigneules and his daughter, for example, or Madame du Houssoye and cousin Alexis, or even Alexis and the secretary, you can vary the parings … Oh my God! The day that woman tripped over in front of the bookshop, as I was closing up, it must have been to distract my attention to allow the woman with her to make an impression of my keys!’
‘What makes you so certain there were two women?’ Victor demanded.
‘Their Russki clothes. Madame Ballu remarked on the strangely Russian appearance of the mysterious visitor, and Madame Ballu doesn’t miss a thing. And it was you, Monsieur Legris, who told me about the two battleaxes in Rue Charlot dressed like Muscovite ladies, so I deduce from that …’
‘But you told me you couldn’t remember what the woman who fell over was wearing,’ Victor pointed out.
‘It could also have been two men disguised as women,’ concluded Kenji in a voice trembling with exasperation. ‘If you could kindly stop going off at tangents, I might be able to concentrate.’
He unfolded the letter from John Cavendish, which he kept in his wallet, and was about to read it when Victor pushed his chair back.
‘There’s a vital point we haven’t considered. Lady Stone was killed with a revolver; the same goes for Antoine du Houssoye. Two identical crimes committed within a few days of each other, the first in Scotland, the second in Paris. We have to find out if one or several members of the Rue Charlot clan recently crossed the Channel,’ he said.
‘What about Léonard Diélette, Boss? Do you think he was murdered before he was pushed on to the railway line?’
‘What do you think, Kenji?’
Kenji did not reply. He was reading Cavendish’s letter under his breath.
‘Scrimshaw,’ he muttered.
He pictured the objects laid out on the pavement in Rue Saint-Médard and remembered a narwhal’s tooth.
Clovis Martel … Achille Ménager …
‘Joseph!’
‘At your service, Boss.’
‘I want to study my goblet and figure out its secret and I want you to be responsible for retrieving it. Tomorrow, Achille Ménager will surely be at home first thing. I’ll pay whatever he asks. Can I count on you to take care of it?’
‘You can count on me as you could your own brother, Monsieur Mori.’
‘I’m an only child.’
Kenji folded up the missive carefully.
Anna spent much of the afternoon at the back of one of the three chapels of the Église Saint-Ambrose. She did not dare return to Rue de Nice. She was haunted by the image of Achille Ménager sprawled on the floor like a broken puppet, watched over by a shadow, a spider lying in wait for its prey to return.
She remembered that one of her father’s friends used to go to a shelter nearby when he had nowhere to stay. Built twenty years earlier thanks to the initiative of the Hospitalité de Nuit and overseen by Baron de Livois, the institution offered temporary refuge for anyone, whatever their age, nationality or religion. Indigents could present themselves between seven and nine in the evening and be assured of a bed and a meal. Her pride was offended at the very thought of it, but she was so cold and hungry that she put aside her reservations and set off for Boulevard de Charonne.
Both sides of the road were lined with low, monotonous-looking buildings, allowing glimpses of the brick chimneys of the workshops behind. The shelter was at the far end, number 122. The door stood wide open and a stream of people, mainly men, was entering. Their attire indicated that they belonged to the working classes. Out of work, and homeless due to unpaid rent, they had come with their meagre possessions. There were a few women, young ones clutching infants and old ones reduced to destitution.
Anna joined the queue behind a stooped old fellow whose top hat and black coat had known better days. Head down, he approached the reception office, where a jovial fellow of about forty greeted him.
‘Good evening, Professor!’
The professor filled out his form and went to the end of the corridor to the five-bedded room reserved for the ‘silk hats’.
‘They don’t let us plebs mingle with the gentle folk,’ muttered a mason who had just been assigned to the dormitory.
‘What are you complaining about? You’re going to find work thanks to us. Move on now; you’re not the only one here,’ said the employee, who was in fact the manager.
As the mason moved away, mumbling a diatribe against the spongers who were sapping France, the manager greeted Anna in a friendly manner.
‘You’re new, aren’t you? Fill in your name, age and occupation. As it’s Friday evening, you’re entitled to four nights instead of three. The women sleep upstairs, first on the left. Go and have a bit of a clean up and then come down to the refectory.’
She climbed the stairs and found herself alone in a room furnished with basins, soap and towels. After she had washed herself a supervisor gave her half a loaf of bread. In spite of the kindly manner of the personnel she felt as if she were in prison.
On the ground floor she sank down on to a bench and began to eat, looking around at the other inmates with circumspection.
Books and paper, pens and ink were available for the residents to use, but they seemed to prefer to share their tales of woe. Anna was bitterly aware of how alone she was. She had nobody to write to, no relative or friend to come and comfort her. And over there in Rue de Nice a shadow was waiting for her. Would she be able to retrieve her barrel organ?
The manager and the supervisor stood on a platform and announced to the women that the next day they would be provided with soup, a hot meal, shoe polish and new clothes, and, if needed, an employment book. They read out the regulations of the shelter, and invited the women to join in a short prayer. Then each woman was allocated a bed number.
When Anna saw the dormitory with its thirty cots and the meagre sheets and blankets, her reaction was to flee. But where to? The sight of one young woman cradling her baby and another darning reassured her. The old woman beside her was racked by hoarse cough. Certain she would not sleep a wink, Anna settled down on the pillow and fell asleep immediately.
Victor sat, fists clenched, on the high-backed chair facing the bed. He regretted not having found the time to go and interrogate Maurice Laumier. He kept looking at the clock. He had never noticed that irritating tick-tock, which seemed to grow louder with each passing minute. He turned away, wishing that the letter was no longer in the pillowcase.
But it was still there. It burned his fingers. He unfolded it and read.
My Dearest Tasha,
I’m going to make the effort to write to you in French, since that is now your language. I’m happy that everything is going well with you. Thank you for your kind letter. Don’t worry about the money — I’ll manage somehow. I’m arriving in Paris next Wednesday and staying at a cheap hotel that was recommended to me, Hôtel de Pékin. If you can, come and meet me at Gare de l’Est, otherwise I’ll see you at the hotel. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms and see for myself how much your painting has come on. I have dreamt of this moment for such a long time, but as you know events have conspired to thwart my plans. After Berlin, where everything was disciplined, regimented and orderly, I dream of sitting with you at a café table on the terrace of a brasserie. Oh, Paris! The joy of living … Don’t they say, ‘As happy as God in France?’1
See you soon, my darling,
Your loving old fool
It took him a few minutes to take in the contents of the letter. He would not read it again. A feeling of detachment took hold, as if his soul were floating in space outside his body. He didn’t move. Then grief spread through him. A lump blocked his throat; his hands trembled. Jealousy, that old enemy that never gave up the assault, gnawed at his insides. He was overwhelmed by the thought that Tasha had been unfaithful to him. He knew th
at some men did not care about emotions. He had been one of those men, passing from affair to affair without bothering to consider what the other person might be feeling, neither happy nor unhappy, simply satisfying his desire, giving in to habit. But that was before Tasha.
Who was this man who signed himself ‘Your loving old fool’? Tasha had sometimes spoken of her previous lover, a sculptor from Berlin. Hans? Yes, it was Hans, a married man. It must be him. She had been waiting for him. He folded the letter and slipped it deep into his pocket. He was annoyed with himself for having read it. His dismay was replaced by an irrational remorse at having given in to curiosity. This last sentiment brought with it the absolute certainty that if he were to lose Tasha it would destroy him.
He began to formulate dozens of theories, all designed to convince himself that she had in fact gone to Barbizon. He stared at the ceiling, working out a plan of action. What reason could he give for visiting Laumier unannounced that would not make him look ridiculous?
CHAPTER 12
Saturday, 16 April
THE night in the shelter had restored Anna. She was rested, and the thick pea soup had been very satisfying. What’s more, her boots were now polished and she had been given a cape, a donation from one of the local traders. She was all ready to return home. But once outside, partly because of her nightmare, fear twisted her stomach. She had dreamt that Achille Ménager, his mouth dripping blood, had tried to kiss her, before turning into a tiny crow with a beak that dripped deathly poison. She had woken just as the miserable day cast its grey light over the face of her elderly neighbour, who was still racked by a dry cough.
Uncertain of where to go, she leant against a wall, discouraged and shivering. Her hands, holding the sides of her cape, were like two pale stains on the dark material. A man with large sideburns shambled by, eyeing her. He went past her then thought better of it and turned back.
‘Hey there, sweetheart, you look exhausted. The night must have been steamy, but I’m sure you’ve enough ardour left — let’s go upstairs together. Coming?’
Anna reared back in disgust and fled, taking refuge under the awning of a bakery.
‘Leave me alone, you pig!’
Furious, the man called out to passers-by, ‘I’ve just been accosted by a cheap prostitute, right here in the street!’
He tried to grab her by the arm just as a tall young man came out of the baker.
‘Attila the Hun!’ he shouted in a strong southern accent.
Catching the fellow by the collar, he spun him round and shoved him away. The unwelcome visitor left without a fuss. Anna’s saviour looked down at her and raised the Rembrandt fedora perched on his long hair.
‘Sainte Geneviève!’ he exclaimed.
Speechless, Anna dared not make the slightest movement lest this stranger, who was visibly deranged, should also threaten her.
‘Don’t be alarmed, my love — I’m not bonkers. It’s just that you look exactly like the heroine of my play, at least you look like the way I’ve portrayed her.’
‘Your play?’ she managed to say.
‘A drama in five acts called The Virgin of Lutetia. I only have two scenes left to write.’
‘Oh! You’re a writer?’
‘Mathurin Ferrant, aspiring poet,’ he announced, bowing so low that she smiled in spite of herself.
‘Well, I’ll be jiggered! So my comic efforts are rewarded with success! Perhaps I ought to abandon tragedy.’
He pulled a pain au lait from his pocket, split it in two and offered her one half.
‘And whom do I have the honour of addressing, sweet demoiselle?’
‘My name’s Anna Marcelli.’
‘That surname has a Latin ring, like Dante, Aristotle and Tacitus! May I offer you a cup of French coffee, Madame, or is it Mademoiselle Marcelli?’
‘Mademoiselle.’
They sat down at the back of an almost empty café at a little table covered with an oilcloth. The short, plump owner served two bowls of café crème, as well as some bread and butter, because, she said, she liked to feed up the artists.
‘Thank you, Madame Noblat. I’ll invite you to the dress rehearsal of my play at Théâtre-Français,’ said Mathurin, pinching her cheek.
He waited until she was back at the counter before saying to Anna, ‘She thinks I’m going to become a celebrity and then marry her. She’s wrong on the second count!’
He chuckled and gulped down his coffee. Anna felt comforted in the presence of this strapping long-haired lad; she couldn’t have said exactly why. So when he asked her what she did, she replied on impulse, ‘I’m a musician. I sing and play the barrel organ. I perform Italian or French songs, some of them written by my father. He’s dead now. When I sing, even when I’m at rock-bottom, I feel happy and I try to inspire my listeners with the same joy. Often they take up the chorus and join in, and that gives me great pleasure.’
‘That’s like me, when I write! I escape. Sometimes I’m riding over plains and through forests, singing at the top of my voice! I’m unbelievably ferocious. At other times I’m Geneviève exhorting the inhabitants of Lutetia to resist the barbarian hordes, and I feel imbued with a profound sense of inner peace. You and I are made to get on well together. Shake my hand!’
He almost crushed her fingers; his palm was warm and firm.
‘You’re frozen … Madame Noblat, a cognac please!’
Anna wanted to refuse, but Mathurin was so insistent she resigned herself to taking a gulp of alcohol. Her grimace delighted him.
‘I was cold myself yesterday evening in my garret. So I went to stay with one of my colleagues from the Lice Voltaire, where I used to be a supervisor.’
‘Supervisor?’
‘A monitor. Unfortunately I was sacked a week ago on the false pretext that I had read the pupils an immoral tract. Maupassant, immoral! True, I also sold lottery tickets to the boarders, promising them my hat if they drew the winning number … Bah! Life is a succession of miseries we must bear in philosophical silence. Another job will come along. I’m rambling. You must be in a hurry to get singing.’
She blushed.
‘I can’t. My barrel organ’s at home and I dare not go back. I spent the night in a shelter.’
‘I see … A lover’s tiff.’ He tugged at his beard with his thumb and forefinger.
‘No, you don’t see. Yesterday morning I was having breakfast when there was a …’
‘Not another word! It’s your secret and I respect it. As I indicated, I don’t have any coal, but I do have a place to stay. It’s not the Grand Hôtel, although the view over Place Saint-André-des-Arts is rather agreeable. If you promise to pipe down while I wrestle with my alexandrines, I’ll invite you to share my little abode. No strings attached, no dishonourable intentions. And I still have a full crate of potatoes. You take the bed, I’ll be fine on the sofa – what do you think?’
‘It’s the nicest suggestion anyone’s ever made me.’
‘Let’s go then, Mademoiselle Anna.’
The cab journey had allowed Victor time to reflect. Although he was trying very hard not to think about the purpose of his journey, he was as anxious as a patient eagerly awaiting a diagnosis from his doctor. Am I ill? Is it serious? Will I recover?
At the same time, his conscience whispered to him that his jealousy was the spice that ensured his continuing love for Tasha, just as this new investigation livened up a routine that might easily have become dull.
The air rang with the sound of bells and pale sunlight fell on the couples climbing the hill in search of a breath of fresh air and a bite to eat before going dancing. Streams of housekeepers were massing round the costermongers interspersed among the pork butchers, pastry cooks and restaurateurs.
Victor turned right on to Rue Tholozé. He felt a pang as he passed the saloon doors of Bibulus with its sign of the suckling dog. The bar was dear to his heart because he had met Tasha there many times before she had moved to Rue Fontaine. Although he immediately recog
nised the odour of cheap plonk, he was disconcerted by the décor. The owner, Firmin, had thrown out the stools and barrels in favour of cane chairs and pedestal tables. In the middle of the bar was a large porcelain coffee urn decorated with flowers. On the shelves, standing to attention in serried ranks, were bottles, slender or pot-bellied, glasses and cups, all impeccably polished. Gas lamps had replaced the old petrol ones.
‘Ave, Firmin, remember me?’
The fat bartender with a ruddy complexion adjusted his spectacles. ‘Monsieur Legris! Amen! You haven’t changed.’
‘What’s happened here? War?’
‘I married, M’sieur Legris, that’s all you need to know. And the wife is very particular. I preferred it in the good old days, but you can’t have your cake and eat it, now can you?’
‘I’m looking for Maurice Laumier — is he here?’ called Victor, already halfway towards the narrow corridor that led to the studio.
‘That’s all in the past. Bye-bye “Chapelle de Thélème” — my wife has her eye on a different clientele; now it’s a snooker hall. What must be must be! It’s sad, but I’m about to become a father and that will liven the atmosphere up a bit.’
‘Congratulations, Firmin. Do you by any chance know where Laumier lives?’
‘He lives over there on Rue Girardon, number 15, near Allée des Brouillards. But I haven’t seen him for an age …’
Victor retraced his steps, thinking over a Buddhist adage that Kenji was forever repeating: Remember, nothing is constant except change.
As the end of the century approached, everyday life was changing rapidly. Scarcely a day passed without some innovation appearing, and a fashion or quarter falling out of favour. The twentieth century was beating at the door and Victor felt resistant.
Perhaps, he thought, that was the nature of each individual life: the grains accumulate at the bottom of the hourglass and you sink into nostalgia as you advance in years.