by Claude Izner
‘And you say they belonged to the maid?’
‘That’s what the old man claims. Her name’s Lucie Robin. He showed me her initials, as well as an embroidered ladybird with seven black spots. I can’t help thinking, Boss, that he’s leading them all a merry dance by pretending to be soft in the head. He fed me the whole story like you’d feed an angry dog a bone, and the old lecher certainly knows his dogs. And then there’s …’
Victor tilted his head to one side. An astonishing thought had occurred to him. Despite his wise decision never to trust his intuition, he had just remembered something Madame du Houssoye had said about her maid. ‘ … left in a hurry to go and look after …’ Look after whom? ‘Yes, that’s right … the secretary asked her if … But when? When did she leave?’ he muttered to himself, stroking his moustache.
Joseph was speechless. He looked at his Boss with a mixture of bewilderment and frustration. Monsieur Legris clearly didn’t appreciate his efforts. Victor, sensing the pregnant silence and seeing the indignation on his assistant’s face, forced a smile.
‘All in all, the only new element is the possibility that the maid is the murderess,’ he said in a soothing voice. ‘She may have tried to fake her disappearance. Well, I’m off to Rue des Saints-Pères. Keep your eyes skinned, Sherlock Pignot, I shall be back at six o’clock sharp!’
‘Hey! Wait, it turns out they’ve all been to … And when am I going to eat?’ Joseph protested.
‘Follow Monsieur Mori’s dictum: when you are hungry, eat,’ Victor cried out as he hopped on to the platform of the omnibus.
Joseph watched him disappear into the distance. He derived a sense of mournful pleasure from being the victim of a cruel oppressor. For several minutes he entertained a poignant image of his prone body as he lay gasping on the pavement, surrounded by a crowd of onlookers, and failed to notice Anna leave the building with her barrel organ.
Inspector Raoul Pérot had at last returned to his office. He stretched, kicked off his shoes and massaged the soles of his feet, observing that his socks were little more than two holes surrounded by a few strands of wool. He loosened his tie and settled back in his chair. He wouldn’t have minded drinking a cordial. The words of Jules Janin sprang to mind: ‘Journalism can get you everywhere, provided you know how to get out of it.’ He replaced ‘journalism’ with ‘the police force’ and concluded that his career would not be a long one, even if it did bring him eight thousand francs a year, a stipend that afforded him the freedom to devote himself to literature.
He had been seized by a morbid curiosity as soon as he spotted the two gendarmes carrying their sinister load through the entrance to the courtyard. Unable to resist the temptation to lift up the blanket that covered the body, he had immediately felt his legs turn to jelly. It was the first time he had seen death close up, and the sight had dampened any enthusiasm he might have had for a career in the force.
He slipped his feet into his shoes and went to close the window. The police station he oversaw was situated at the end of a gloomy back alley behind a building housing several families. It consisted of a guard’s room with a bulbous stove that took up almost a quarter of the floor space, a counter behind which Chavagnac and Gerbecourt played at naval battles, and a cell that mostly stood empty. To use the toilet they went up one flight of stairs and down another to Père Arsène’s eating house, where they also ate and drank. Owing to some clerical error a telephone had been installed on the wall of his office — a tiny room, which he had arranged to suit his tastes.
Inspector Pérot had been appointed to his post sixteen months earlier, and was doing his utmost to take his responsibilities seriously, although his sector was inhabited by artisans and small businesses and therefore almost without incident. The only cases of interest he had been involved in were the break-in at the bookshop on Rue des Saint-Pères, and the incarceration of some poor devil who believed he had lost his wife in a sock.
Life went by, killing time in its wake, one long day, the monotony of which broken only by squabbling neighbours, naval battles, regular checks on three local flea-ridden hotels and tortoise races.
So, on the morning of 17 April, when a group of laundresses and anglers invaded the police station, Raoul Pérot and his four subordinates felt as if their routine had been turned upside down. At dawn, Père Figaro, a dog groomer who frequented the banks of the Seine, had noticed a bundle bumping against one of the piles of the Pont des Arts.
‘The law of seriality,’ concluded Raoul Pérot. For, the previous evening, an anonymous caller had notified him of a corpse in the eleventh arrondissement. He had been obliged to report this to his immediate superior on Boulevard du Palais, since the constables in the eleventh arrondissement had indeed discovered the body of a bric-a-brac dealer with a bullet hole through him on Rue de Nice. Raoul Pérot and his superior, the big shot Aristide Lecacheur, had been at a loss to understand why anybody would inform a police inspector on the Rive Gauche about a crime that had been committed on the Rive Droite.
There was a knock at the door. Anténor Bucherol walked in looking pale, his kepi askew.
‘A nasty business, Boss, the body’s gone to the morgue. A woman of twenty-five or thirty years old. Pretty underwear, with the initials L. R. embroidered on them. She has a tattoo of a ladybird on her shoulder. The doctor is certain that she was shot through the heart then tossed into the river.’
‘Poor creature, she must have been fond of beetles,’ Raoul Pérot murmured, and rattled off a rhyme:
Ladybird, ladybird fly away home
Avert your gaze from the decline of Rome
‘Very heartfelt, Boss! There’s a fellow asking to see you.’
‘Show him in.’
Raoul Pérot hurriedly laced up his shoes. His face lit up when he saw Victor.
‘Monsieur Légris! Have you brought a list of stolen objects?’
‘You can close that case. I wanted to give you this hardback by way of thanking you for releasing the girl.’
‘L’Imitation de Notre-Dame la Lune, by Jules Laforgue! Well, thank you indeed; it is a wonderful anthology! What a shame we can’t sit and have a relaxed conversation. I’m dreadfully busy. There’s been a murder.’
‘A murder? That explains all those people outside the police station.’
‘Somebody threw a corpse into the Seine. Poor woman, her lucky ladybird didn’t protect her. I have to go the morgue — though I’d rather not. She was shot. Ah! Our lives are so ephemeral.’
‘A ladybird!’ exclaimed Victor.
‘Yes, tattooed on her shoulder. It may help us to discover who she is.’
Victor, suddenly excited, leant forward. ‘May I ask you a favour, Inspector? Could you keep me abreast of the investigation? You see, I’m writing a detective novel. Naturally I won’t reveal my sources.’
‘What a coincidence, Monsieur Legris! You’re a writer too. You can count on me to tell you anything that won’t hamper the investigation.’
He had at last agreed to leave the Hôtel de Pékin in daylight after Tasha had persuaded him that he was not in danger.
‘Thousands of foreigners arrive in this city every day. Who is going to notice you? You have an exaggerated idea of your own importance!’
It was chilly, but sunny enough for them to wander aimlessly as had been their custom in bygone days. They walked along Boulevard de Ménilmontant and crossed the eleventh arrondissement without stopping, absorbed in their conversation. Only when they reached Canal Saint-Martin did they feel the need to rest. They sat on a bench on Quai Jemmapes, near Hôpital Saint-Louis.
In silence, they watched the golden flecks rippling out across the water as the laundresses beat their washing. Further on, mobile cranes were unloading barges, dark patches against a sky bristling with factory chimneys.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked. ‘You have such a hectic lifestyle, my little Tasha.’
‘You know nothing about my life,’ she retorted, suppressing her irritation.
‘I am not looking forward to my boat trip. I’d enjoy it a lot more if I was even a little bit like those two scamps,’ he said with a chuckle, and then became serious. ‘Foolish thoughts, since I’m nowhere near embarking.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve only been able to raise a quarter of the money. But I promise you’ll have your passage by the end of May. My editor assures me that he’ll pay me on receipt of half the illustrations for the Poe, and I have high hopes of selling a painting to the Boussod et Valadon Gallery. Of course if you would only reconsider my suggestion, the problem would be solved.’
‘No. I already told you.’
‘He’s very open-minded. He’ll lend you the money.’
‘No, I said.’
‘He didn’t build up his stocks and shares himself. He inherited them from his father! He has already offered to cash them in for me several times.’
‘And you really believe he’ll do it? Put him to the test: tell him who you want the money for and I guarantee you’ll be disappointed.’
‘He’s more tolerant than you think!’ she cried.
‘How can you be so naïve? In any case, I won’t touch his dirty money. The stock exchange is as decadent as a whorehouse.’
‘And you’re as white as the driven snow, you who left your wife and daughters in order to fight for a good cause!’
‘Don’t mix private life with politics.’
‘Why not? So long as men fail to apply in the home the revolutionary theories they advocate in the street, the world will never change!’
She stood up abruptly, trembling with rage.
‘You look so beautiful when you’re angry, katzele.’1
‘Stop treating me like a child.’
She strode off until she reached a row of factories towering above the masts of the barges moored on the canal. Near the Bassin de la Villette a sickly smell mingled with a lingering odour of mud filled her nostrils. He caught up with her, out of breath.
‘Rage gives you wings, feigele.’2
‘Forgive me. It’s just that … You’re being unfair. Victor may be a member of the bourgeoisie in a social sense, but he has a heart, and it is thanks to him that I have found my place here in France.’
‘Love blinds you, and you idealise him. The situation suits Victor very well. You risk everything and he takes no responsibility.’
‘That’s not true! He has begged me to marry him. I’m the one who doesn’t want to.’
‘Why not? Then you could become the wife of a dabbler in stocks and shares.’
‘You really are impossible!’
They reached the abattoirs. The sweet smell of the blood of slaughtered animals hung in the air. A troupe of butchers with sides of beef slung over their shoulders came and went in the bleak, dirty alleyways. Tasha tried hard not to cry.
It was nearly eight o’clock when Victor finally spotted a young woman with a barrel organ coming round the square. She walked into number 3 Rue Saint-André-des-Arts. He paused, unsure of what to do. Should he call out to her? No. She was their only chance of finding the goblet. When she emerged again on the arm of a long-haired fellow wearing a fedora, he decided to follow them.
Among the crowds of well-dressed students spilling out of the brasseries was an occasional Bohemian dressed in old-fashioned or eccentric garb. Rebels against formalism, they refused to pursue a career that might compromise their desire for freedom, turning their backs on conventional society to form a parallel world of their own. The Italian girl’s companion clearly belonged to this alternative universe. He doffed his hat with a flourish at the gaunt-looking individuals dressed in 1880s garb, with their waisted jackets and tight-fitting trousers, and to the long-haired youths wearing berets and voluminous, faded capes who were cadging money for beer.
The Italian girl clearly controlled the purse strings, as she was the one who shook her head. Victor had no difficulty keeping the couple in his sights on Boulevard Saint-Michel, which was heaving with newspaper sellers, women looking for a dupe to buy their dinner, civil servants and clerks mixing with low society.
On the corner of Rue des Écoles, the love birds ducked into Café Vachette. Victor stood in the doorway, hesitating, jostled by the people going in. Finally he decided to enter.
Most of the tables were taken. He would have sat down at the one just behind the Italian girl and her companion, but was put off by the sickening sight of a drunkard sprawled across the bench snoring, his hat covering his face. He managed to squeeze on to another bench within earshot of the couple and, despite the rowdy gathering, could hear some of their conversation.
A fellow with a thick mop of hair hanging down over his face sat down with them. The man in the fedora introduced him to the Italian girl as Trimouillat, the poet. Trimouillat asked how The Virgin of Lutetia was coming along.
‘She’s about to drive back the invading hordes. During the winter of 451, the Huns were camped at Melun and bivouacked at Argenteuil and Créteil. Attila was tightening his hold. Panic had set in at Lutetia, and everybody was trying to flee, which is when Geneviève uttered these words:
‘“Friends, I implore you!
You are nowhere safer than here
Fear not, Paris will be saved thanks to your
Fervour!”
And thanks to my muse, Anna,’ Mathurin declared with a catch in his voice.
Trimouillat studied the Italian girl as he twisted a strand of hair round his finger. ‘Mademoiselle, you are the spitting image of Victoire de Samothrace before she was decapitated.’
‘Are you writing anything at the moment?’
‘I have just begun a political work entitled A Crisis at the Elysée.
‘Parliament being restive
Drives a minister to drink
The chief of the executive
Is also on the brink
For …’
Interrupted by the waiter plonking a couple of espressos down on the table, Trimouillat lost his train of thought and continued to inspect his hair. The waiter hovered.
‘What’ll you have?’ Mathurin asked.
‘Can you afford a cherry brandy?’
‘Of course! Oscar, a cherry brandy! We’re flush. Not content with being my inspiration, Anna has shared the fruits of her undeniable musical talent with me. Imagine! She sings like an angel. Moreover, she has brought us a godsend in the form of a piece of old junk that will see us through to the end of the month.’
Victor started. Could this piece of old junk be the goblet? He swivelled in his chair, ready to question the Italian girl. The return of the waiter stopped him short.
‘One cherry brandy!’ shouted Oscar. ‘You’re quite right to be celebrating,’ he added. ‘It’ll be 1 May soon.’
‘And?’
‘And the anarchists will be putting on a fireworks display for us, Monsieur Mathurin — watch out for the bangers!’
Victor swigged back his vermouth. He was in luck. Mathurin chose that moment to begin unwrapping a package he had taken out of his pocket. He shared the contents with Anna and Trimouillat.
‘It’s not good to drink on an empty stomach.’
‘Saveloy! Have you struck gold?’ Trimouillat, his mouth full, continued. ‘You mean it’s not good to drink. You only have to look at Verlaine. He’s slowly destroying himself. Drunk as a lord he was this evening and causing quite a hullabaloo in Saint-Séverin, bellowing at the top of his voice that he wanted to confess. He’s sleeping it off at the police station.’
As an admirer of Then and Now, Victor thought that this might be a good moment to join in their conversation. A loud cheer went up as an imposing figure in a monocle, Inverness cape and topper entered, flanked by a group of loudmouths, and imperiously demanded some dominoes and a lamb chop.
‘Who is he?’ whispered Anna.
‘Jean Moréas. His real name is Papadiamantopoulos, a Gr
eek poet and genius. He looks like a dandy, but he’s a real gentleman.’
‘He made an amusing remark to some flatterer yesterday: “Stand firmly by your principles and they’ll end up caving in!” Excuse me while I go and pay him my respects. I’ll be seeing you,’ said Trimouillat.
‘Why don’t you go too, Mathurin?’ Anna urged.
‘No. Moréas makes me nervous. Also, I thought I saw Huysmans and Barrès with him. And Barrès …’
Anna felt out of her depth. Never before had she witnessed such a gathering of scholars: professors, lawyers and doctors sitting, not with their students, clients and patients, but in a smoky room, discussing literature or the latest journals. Nauseated by the smell of pipe smoke and cheap cigars, she turned the other way. A pair of brown eyes caught hers. Who was that man staring at her? Why was he getting up and walking over to them?
Victor sat down in Trimouillat’s place.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Inspector Victor Pérot. Mademoiselle, a little bird tells me that you are hiding something from me.’
Anna turned pale. Her hand gripped Mathurin’s broad thigh.
‘Leave this young lady alone,’ Mathurin said.
‘I won’t trouble her for very long. I know she is innocent of any crime and provided she cooperates, no blame will attach to her.’
‘How can we be sure that you’re a policeman?’ Mathurin said.
‘Would you like to accompany me down to the station?’
‘What is it you want to know?’
‘What you have done with the goblet with the face of a cat.’
Anna and Mathurin exchanged uneasy glances.
‘On my advice, this young lady sold it this morning to a man who sculpts figurines out of bone.’
Victor’s heart missed a beat.
‘Did you take your organ with you when you went out this morning?’
‘No, because I was taking the goblet to the sculptor.’