The Assassin in the Marais

by Claude Izner

  Maurice Laumier’s apartment, on the ground floor of a courtyard, had a little front garden filled with rose bushes and cats. Victor had to knock several times before a thick voice mumbled, ‘Who is it?’

  When he’d given his name, the door half-opened, and then stopped as if reluctant to reveal the tousled, naked man.

  ‘You?? This is a shock! … Come in, old chap, sorry, you’ve interrupted saturnalia fit to make a field of poppies blush.’

  They went through into a bedroom. All that could be seen of the occupant of the bed was some black curls. The walls were wet with condensation. Laumier tugged on some trousers and a paint-stained sweater.

  ‘It’s freezing in here. We’ll be warmer in the studio.’

  He turned towards the bed, where the owner of the black curls lay stretched out, and said: ‘Mimi, go and draw some water and then run over to Rue Norvins and ask the fruiterer for two bowls of soup … Or three?’ he added to Victor, who shook his head.

  ‘Suit yourself, but you’ll regret it – it’s free, you know. That bloke’s a godsend to penniless artists, and his vegetable soup with bacon will see you through till evening.’

  The adjoining room was filled with canvasses of all dimensions, on the ground or propped on easels, all of a dark-haired woman in her glorious nudity, presumably the woman getting dressed next door. The brushwork was reminiscent of Gauguin, even though the paint was almost translucent, as if it had been watered down.

  Over-exposed and blurred, Victor concluded.

  Laumier opened the flue of a large wood-burning stove and rubbed himself voluptuously against it. After a few seconds, he opened the door of the stove and poured in half a sack of chestnut coal.

  ‘That’s better … So what brings you here?’

  ‘I need some information. Tasha told me about an exhibition in Barbizon … I’d like to join her there, but I wanted to be certain I hadn’t got the location wrong.’

  ‘An exhibition in Barbizon? It’s possible. It’s been ages since I was privy to Tasha’s confidences. Oh, and by the way you win; she refused my offer of collaborating on Paul Fort’s scenery.’

  ‘I didn’t influence her either way.’

  Laumier shrugged. ‘You only need to frown for her to bend to your will. I know you don’t like me, Legris, but you don’t need to worry: I’m not going to take her from you. I admit I did set my cap at her, but that was a while ago, before your time, Magnus Victor. It was a fiasco.’

  Victor’s spirits rose a notch.

  ‘Admit it, she’s dumped you, hasn’t she?’ asked Laumier, yawning.

  ‘Don’t rejoice too soon.’

  ‘My God, you’ve a one-track mind! Personally, I don’t give a rap if she leaves you. But if she has taken that step, perhaps it’s a way of telling you she needs some breathing space.’

  ‘You’re hiding something from me!’ shouted Victor.

  Laumier burst out laughing.

  ‘Beware of the dog — he bites! I’m as innocent as the pitiful lamb in the fable, Legris. “I am taking a drink of water”, etcetera, etcetera … I’m just striving to open your tyrannical, possessive, puritanical eyes. Escape is even more necessary for the survival of a couple than warmth is for the survival of an artist.’

  He held his hands over the stove and continued.

  ‘I speak as an attentive observer only, since I have no desire to be part of a couple. But I know Tasha. She’s crazy about you, and — ugh! Here’s a repulsive word — she’s faithful. Unfortunately, like all privileged people, you want more than you can have.’

  ‘Please don’t lecture me. You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘What question? Oh yes, Barbizon, and on and on. Listen, if Tasha told you she was exhibiting there, she’s exhibiting there. Instead of getting in a spin, why don’t you jump on a train, go there and find out? Don’t forget your photographic paraphernalia. You’ll be able to take pictures if something’s amiss: adulterer in flagrante delicto. That’s a favourite theme for many painters! On that note, I’m going to leave you. My stomach is protesting loud and strong, so you can bugger off now!’

  Victor could not get out of the place fast enough. He was exultant. Laumier’s exasperation was a balm to his suspicions.

  She’s crazy about me! She’s crazy about me!

  He took a few steps along Allée des Brouillards where the succession of detached houses surrounded by greenery gave him the impression of being in Barbizon. He experienced a brief moment of joie de vivre so intense that he seemed to be soaring, intoxicated, outside his body. Then he came down to earth with a jolt.

  Why had he demeaned himself by turning to that charlatan? He hadn’t really learnt anything, and all he could now do was return to Rue Fontaine and await Tasha’s return. Or perhaps he should concentrate on something else entirely? A little trip to Le Passe-partout might shed some light on Léonard Diélette’s death.

  The meowing of a cat made him lift his head. Perched on a low wall, a thin black cat was trying to catch his attention.

  From her seat on the bed, Anna Marcelli looked around the bedroom, which was constructed from four partitions. She took in piles of books on the floor, mainly from the Collection Populaire, an armchair losing its stuffing, a bow-legged table and a squat unlit stove. The bed was covered with striped canvas rather like the regulation garb of convicts. But what delighted her was the window, only a modest skylight, but with a sill on which you could lean your elbows and gaze out at the comings and goings on Place Saint-André-des-Arts.

  Anna savoured this little corner of peace and safety. All her worries flew out of the window, to be swallowed up by the sky. The burden of anguish and fatigue that had weighed on her for eight years melted away in the light of this April Saturday. She was astonished that the narrow little garret, with its sloping ceiling, could have such an effect on her.

  Mathurin was installed at the table, scrawling on sheets of paper that were immediately screwed into balls. He chewed his pen, stared into space, then began feverishly writing again, murmuring incoherently.

  ‘The gold of your eyes … No, that’s not right. Your eyes like rare pearls … Yes, much better. Your eyes like rare pearls that shine at sunset … No! Shine in the firmament …’

  During their long walk from Popincourt to Saint-Michel, he had told her of his youth in Bordeaux, his desire to come to Paris, the opposition of his scrivener father who would only allow him to go on condition that he studied law. For a year, furnished with a monthly allowance of two hundred francs that allowed him to rent a room for fifty francs and buy forty centime steaks at Chartier, Mathurin had climbed the hill of Sainte-Geneviève each morning to start getting to grips with the intricacies of the law. But one day, encouraged by his poet friends who had dropped out of university and with whom he frequented the arcades of l’Odéon, he had bidden farewell to the civil code and embraced the dramatic arts. After he failed his law exams, his father had cut off his allowance, and he had taken odd jobs — porter at Les Halles, stove lighter at police headquarters, bill-sticker, monitor.

  ‘Who knows if my plays will ever be performed? I don’t care; I have no regrets. I’m like the genie imprisoned in the bottle until the cork popped out. I’m free! Finally free! I’m rich in liberty!’ he had shouted in the street.

  Anna had suppressed a sigh. She knew what that kind of richness entailed. They would have to find food, oil and coal, for Mathurin’s raw potatoes were not an enticing prospect.

  ‘Eureka! Mathurin began to declaim.

  ‘Your eyes like rare pearls shine in the firmament

  Of that great city where I’d known such torment’

  He leant towards her, seeking her approbation.

  ‘That’s very beautiful. Listen, I’m used to being busy. I’m going to leave you to your inspiration and go home to fetch my barrel organ. Thanks to you, I have the strength to do it. I’ll go and sing and with luck I’ll be able to buy us something for dinner.’

  ‘Let it never b
e said that Mathurin Ferrant allows himself to be supported by a person of the weaker sex!’

  ‘No, no, I assure you, I love my work! See you this evening.’

  He stared at the closed door.

  ‘Will I see her again? I’ve never had much success with women. Shame, she’s delightful enough to eat, that little one and … Your eyes like rare pearls … Your ivory breasts … What rhymes with breasts?’

  On the first floor of the smart building on Rue de la Grange-Batelière, the editorial office of Le Passe-partout was, as usual, in turmoil. In the middle of the toings and froings, a small, tubby, placid man, an unlit cigar tucked behind his ear, confronted a tall, robust chap in a braided hussar’s jacket who was sucking lozenges.

  ‘My dear inspector, with all due respect, writing about Prussia’s celebration of Bismarck’s seventy-seventh birthday, or telling our readers there is a dog for every dozen people in France, or that Rosita, the gigantic Austrian woman exhibited at Fernando’s Circus, is eight foot tall and weighs thirty-four stone, is hardly likely to boost our circulation! On the other hand a juicy, unsolved crime … You understand me?’

  ‘Monsieur Gouvier, I am not taken in. From now on, you will have to make do without your police informer. He has been transferred to the provinces.’

  Isidore Gouvier smiled angelically at Inspector Lecacheur.

  ‘I couldn’t care less. Police headquarters is swarming with moles. I’ll dig out another one. In the meantime, our readers are revelling in tales of police negligence. An emeritus professor from the Museum of Natural History gunned down and found devoured by rats — that’s what gives the masses a frisson. And they’re already stirred up after the anarchist bombings!’

  Inspector Aristide Lecacheur shook his lozenge box angrily, turned on his heel and strode across the editorial office. He had nearly reached the door when he almost knocked down a man in a black frock coat.

  ‘Victor Legris! Good God, is it written somewhere that you must dog me wherever I turn?’

  ‘What a surprise! Hello, Inspector, how goes it? I see you are holding out, congratulations.’

  ‘What do you mean, holding out?’

  ‘Cigarettes,’ explained Victor, pointing to the box of lozenges.

  ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ murmured the inspector. ‘I trust that your relations with any criminal investigations are purely platonic, Monsieur Legris?’

  ‘I’m as chaste as an innocent young girl; my morals are intact. I am confining myself exclusively to the sale of philosophical novels.’

  ‘I don’t believe a word of it, Monsieur Legris. You’re always ready to jump the barrier to satisfy your curiosity. I bid you a good day.’

  Victor raised his hat and made his way towards the editor’s office.

  Antonin Clusel, alias Beau Brummell, alias The Virus, was gesticulating wildly in the midst of a group of journalists and typesetters.

  ‘M’sieur Clusel, where shall we put the theft from the Cluny Museum, you know, the warden who stole the Gallic coins?’ one of them was asking.

  ‘Fit it in wherever there’s a gap. On the front page in big letters, I want: M. BERTHELET TELLS ALL. Because, my children, melinite and dynamite are the breasts of current affairs, the only subject that can interest both our exalted politicians and the lowest frites seller. They all think about them just before they go to sleep, they dream about them at night, they tremble at the thought of them by day. Eulalie! My angel, what are you up to? Pay attention. And, you reporters, open your ears. I want an interview with Berthelet. Besiege the institute, the senate, his home and bring me the expert opinion of our Minister of War. Ask him what’s going to happen tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, in the months to come, since the manufacture of explosives is in private hands. What does he think of The Perfect Anarchist’s Handbook, which is as readily available as lollipops? Are we all in great danger, as much danger as the Russians with their Nihilists? Right now, off you go, and make it good!’

  Antonin Clusel wiped his forehead, poured himself a cognac and suddenly noticed Victor.

  ‘My good fellow! Did you hear that? We’re not letting the grass grow. Crime! Yes, crime in all its manifestations, the subject our readers love to read about tucked up at home in their slippers. What brings you here?’

  ‘Oh, a little clarification about …’

  ‘Terribly sorry, I’m overwhelmed. The Virus has to write a portrait of Ravachol. He’ll probably be tried at Montbrison and condemned to the guillotine. Off with his head! See you around, Legris; maybe Isidore Gouvier can help you. Eulalie, back to work,’ he concluded, slamming his office door.

  Victor spotted Isidore Gouvier and tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘M’sieur Legris! Where’s your crime novel? I’m dying to read it. I thought you were just putting the finishing touches to it?’

  ‘It’s maturing slowly, like the finest malt whisky. I suppose you’ve heard about that rag-and-bone man from Cité Doré who was found on the railway tracks at Gare d’Orléans?’

  ‘Indeed I have. We’ll never know if it was an accident, murder or suicide. Why?’

  ‘I wanted to know if he’d been shot.’

  ‘He was so mangled when they found him the sawbones from the mortuary couldn’t tell. You’d have to read the tea leaves to find out if there was a gunshot wound. Why? Are you adding a chapter on the perfect crime to your saga?’

  ‘Thanks, Isidore, I owe you one.’

  Joseph was delighted to be able to play a key role in the current investigation, but he was desolate at not having an opportunity to see Iris. He had been tucked away in his study since dawn, avoiding Euphrosine’s recriminations, and had spent a long time admiring the fountain pen bought in London by his beloved. It was a little marvel that enabled him to write two thousand words without having to fill up. With a pen like that, he would be able to produce a new serial full of adventure and rich vocabulary. And with the money he earned from it he would buy a typewriter even more sophisticated than Monsieur Mori’s Lambert: he would buy a Remington. He ran through in his mind the advert he’d seen in L’Illustration: ‘Unrivalled in simplicity, solidity and speed.’

  He began to write, in a firm hand, in the pages of a brand-new notebook.

  Frida von Glockenspiel had been hunting in vain for years for the fabulous hidden treasure of the Knights Templar, when in the middle of one stormy night, striped by flashes of lightning, her mastiff began to scratch feverishly on the floor of the cellar.

  ‘Éleuthère!’ she yelled.

  By the time he arrived at Rue de Nice, Joseph still didn’t know what the Teutonic lady’s dog would unearth, but he had a strong suspicion that it would be human remains. He laid his cogitations to one side when he came to the isolated little shop, not far from some wasteland. On the outside, painted in whiting, were the words:

  ACHILLE MÉNAGER ANTIQUES AND SECOND-HAND GOODS

  Hanging on a dirty little window, another sign read:

  Closed for the Day If Your Query is Urgent, Please Go To Number 4

  Fearing he might be confronted with the same spectacle he’d found in Léonard Diélette’s shack, he tried the door. To his surprise, it opened. Although there was a good deal of disorder, the contents of the shop appeared to be intact. He made a quick inspection. Everything was covered in dust and smelt musty. The dirt and mess made Joseph wonder whether the bric-a-brac merchant ever sold anything.

  ‘It would be a wonder if anyone stumbled across the shop, but if they actually bought any of this junk it would be a miracle,’ he said to himself.

  He looked around at the relics.

  ‘A wicker mannequin, a sailor’s chest — empty, a copper spittoon, a soldier’s tin trunk, a donkey on wheels — flea-ridden, chamber pots, more chamber pots, oh, and broken old mustard jars, an anvil, a suitcase full of Andalusian fans with engraved names: Concepción, Manuelita, Carmen. Olé!’

  Dumped amidst this jumble were walking sticks of ivory, ebony and tortoiseshe
ll, as well as bamboo canes. But of goblets decorated with the face of a cat: not a sign.

  Unable to tell whether someone had already searched through the junk, Joseph hunted through all the corners of the shop before giving up. And then, since the owner was still nowhere to be seen, he left the shop, went in under the porch next door and crossed a barren courtyard at the far corner of which was a tumbledown dwelling. After casting an eye over a lean-to under which were a barrel organ and a bicycle, he set off up the steep, dark staircase. When he put his foot on the fifth step, it emitted a sonorous creak.

  The emissary jumped. Suddenly on the alert, he froze. Footsteps. Someone was coming up.

  He abandoned his search and looked around for somewhere to hide, somewhere he could spring out from and overcome the intruder, if he was alone. Too late! There was only one thing to do – it was risky but would put him in a strong position if attack were the only option. He held his breath; the intruder was approaching.

  The door half opened. Joseph paused in the doorway. His eyes swept the bedroom, which had been turned upside down. Even the floorboards had been torn up.

  ‘Monsieur Ménager?’

  He stopped at the door of a second room, feebly lit by a narrow window. He saw an overturned cupboard, a table and a bed in disarray.

  ‘Monsieur Ménager? Are you there?’

  Flattened against the wall behind the door, the emissary slipped out on to the landing, climbed the ladder and silently lifted the trap door; child’s play for someone who was careful to keep himself in shape.

  As Joseph entered the room, he saw him. He lay on his back, one arm folded under him.