The Assassin in the Marais

by Claude Izner

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘A big cheese at the institute, a George something or other, something. The last name sounds like a bird.’

  ‘Sparrow? Lark? Finch? Dove?’ Victor suggested.

  ‘No, it’s on the tip of my tongue … Martin, yes, that’s it.’

  ‘George Timon-Martin, a disciple of Fernand Cormon, I believe. Where’s his studio?’

  ‘Somewhere chic — in the Muette quarter, I think.’

  Victor thanked him with another drink.

  The emissary stayed tucked against the Louis XIV façade, and was careful not to get back on his bicycle until the associate had hailed a cab. The bookseller was certainly covering the miles. Where was he off to now? There was nothing for it but to stay hot on his heels.

  Victor left the cab at Place de Passy and set off along the road of the same name. He asked the street traders where Timon-Martin the painter lived and eventually discovered that it was in Avenue Raphaël.

  The shade provided by the trees on Chausée de la Muette was stippled by cyclists. Walking through this peaceful and opulent quarter, strewn with beautiful residences, Victor had the leisure to consider his fears. Two mysteries had been haunting him for several days. One involved the goblet, which trailed death in its wake, the other Tasha’s letter. The two had become fused in his mind in an image as clear as a photograph: Tasha’s head smiling enigmatically at him from the top of a tripod. He stopped a moment, closed his eyes to shake the image and succeeded in dislodging it.

  He strolled on, deep in thought. A whistling sound brought him back to reality. It was a train puffing its way along the Ceinture3 railway line. It overtook him, reminding him of Léonard Diélette’s untimely end.

  He reached George Timon-Martin’s pretentious villa, as exhausted as if he had circumnavigated Paris. Luckily he had the ability to recover quickly, and he managed to sound quite brisk as he presented himself to the butler. The Cerberus studied his business card haughtily, and Victor had to insist before he was allowed in. He was led to a small salon where he was told not to move or talk and was informed that in quarter of an hour the models would be entitled to stretch their legs. The master would see him then.

  The room to which Victor was confined was more like a military junk shop or an exhibition of ‘war through the ages’ than a salon. There were bludgeons and swords lined up against a catapult, blunderbusses, halberds, crossbows and every type of sabre and dagger. Mannequins in breastplates and uniforms on pegs fought for the meagre space, and any square inches left were taken up with figures displaying helmets from various epochs. Victor noticed a tapestry moving lightly in a gentle breeze. He lifted it. The door behind it was half open, revealing a studio.

  The first thing he saw was a large painting on an easel: the light from campfires in a bivouac showed a group of privates parading under a cloudy sky and dreaming of the triumphal armies of Napoleon. Behind the painting, side on to him, were five men on a podium with a handrail against which some of them were leaning. Should their majestic moustaches and breeches have left any doubt as to their identity, the stuffed cockerel brandished above the head of the oldest of them was conclusive: these were Gauls.

  ‘I’ve had enough. I’m leaving!’ threatened the man with the cockerel.

  ‘Hang on. And stop fidgeting or I’ll bite you!’ responded a glacial voice from the right.

  Victor opened the door wider and saw the painter, a slim man of about forty dressed in a jacket with an officer’s collar. Brushes and palette in hand, he was installed at the top of a staircase before an enormous canvas, like a captain at the helm of his ship.

  ‘Cannibal,’ muttered Vercingetorix.

  The master swept down the stairs to judge the effect of his last brushstrokes, and Victor noted the comfortable snow boots he was wearing below his rather formal attire. Then he took the stairs back up four at a time, corrected a detail and declared in a lugubrious tone that he was according them a fifteen-minute break.

  ‘Be careful of the costumes!’ he cried to the models, who were removing their blond wigs.

  Victor went back to the hallway and mingled with the Gauls as they headed for a little courtyard. He had no trouble spotting the Italian, whose white hair marked him out as the oldest of the models, and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘Are you Osso Buco?’

  The old man, mortified, stared at him and retorted harshly. ‘A bit of respect, you’re talking to a hero of the Battle of Gergovia!’4,5

  ‘Shame they don’t make the Romans and their enemies pose at the same time, old man. I would have bet on Julius Caesar!’ remarked a young man with a sharp face.

  ‘No need to waste your money, since we know our much-esteemed chief will be humiliated at the siege of Alesia,’ said a young man with an affected air.

  Osso Buco contented himself with belching, and followed Victor away from the others.

  ‘Yesterday one of your compatriots sold you an object stolen from one of my friends. It’s a goblet made out of a skull. I’d like to buy it back — you can name your price.’

  ‘What does your friend want with that filthy object?’

  ‘It’s a family souvenir.’

  ‘With souvenirs like that I’m happy I’m to be an orphan! It’s true that I did have it in my mitts briefly, your goblet. I thought I might be able to make something with it, a cup or an ashtray. But when I discovered what it was made of. I got rid of it.’

  Victor slapped his forehead in despair.

  ‘You should have given it back to the girl instead of throwing it away!’

  ‘Who said I threw it away? I didn’t keep it, that’s for sure. I didn’t want to be accused of cannibalism! I’m only a humble inhabitant of Piedmont. I hire myself out at the model market on Place Pigalle where that man-eater Timon-Martin took me on for only three francs a day. The French models get five! Basta! Normally I’m painted in the costume of a Breton fisherman or a monk. When I’m not posing like a graven image for painters, I sell my artefacts to whoever wants them. I get all my materials from my cooking pot.’

  ‘Where does cannibalism fit in?’

  ‘I’m coming to that. I have sculpted from everything, tibias, kneecaps, vertebrae or parietals. I make mustard spoons and nail files from the bones, all of which come exclusively from ruminants. I never, repeat never, use human bones! Not only because it’s immoral and religion forbids it, but because it’s against the law! If I was suspected of devouring my own species, they’d put me in jail and throw away the key!’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘That goblet, it’s a baby’s skull. It’s revolting!’

  ‘Baby? Nonsense, it’s the skullcap of a monkey.’

  ‘My eye! I showed it yesterday evening to a medical student and he was categorical: a human skull. So I handed it over to a neighbour on Rue Houdon who’s been selling his pigs at the Easter ham fair.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Esprit Borrèze. By now he will have passed it on to his cousin who sells knick-knacks at the scrap-metal fair.’

  ‘On Boulevard Richard-Lenoir?’

  ‘Yeah, in the Bastoche quarter.’

  Osso Buco hastily pocketed a forty-sou piece.

  ‘Thanks for that contribution to the arts. If I see you on Boul’Mich, I’ll favour you with an ear pick or bill file made from finest ox femur!’

  Victor left the house, not daring to hope. Even though it appeared once again that John Cavendish’s goblet was within reach, the ill-luck that contrived to make it as unattainable as the Holy Grail might strike again. He had to tell Kenji immediately.

  They had agreed to meet in front of the Gare Vincennes. Kenji and Joseph were the first to arrive, and stood shelling warm chestnuts while a stream of passengers spilled around them. A dandy in a boater with a carnation in his buttonhole waved a bunch of lilacs, and was immediately joined by a young woman dressed in pastel colours. Joseph looked away from the couple, jealous at their public display of
affection. Would he ever be allowed to demonstrate his feelings for Iris? He stared at Kenji who was chewing, impassive, among the tide of dressed-up families. Because of him their love would languish in furtive kisses in the back room, until Iris married some aristocratic drunkard, like Valentine before her!

  A cab ground to a halt, hemmed in between a company of Republican Guards and the Bastille-Porte-Rapp omnibus. Victor sprang out and raised his cane to attract their attention. They barely exchanged a word — everything had been said on the telephone. They crossed the busy square and reached the boulevard. The sun had returned and all around them a whitish dust was thrown up by the passers-by.

  They soon found themselves among small houses that were squashed one against the other, salivating at the aroma of frying bacon. A land of plenty greeted them, one given over to the glorification of smoking and curing meat. Rosaries of sausages hanging from hooks, tripe like organ pipes and choirs of sausages swaddled in silver paper paid tribute to the joy of the feast. Joseph stopped as if hypnotised before a display of hams nestling on a bed of leaves, and Victor had to take him by the arm.

  ‘Come on, we don’t have much time!’

  Led away despite himself, Joseph almost knocked over a little boy having a tantrum.

  ‘Want juice!’ he was yelling, ignored by his parents, who were leaning over a regiment of black puddings.

  ‘They’re the best, my crépinettes — they melt in the mouth, not in the pan!’

  ‘Galantines as rich as butter!’

  Stallholders in regional costume or white aprons were noisily promoting their produce, brandishing knives ready to cut slices to offer to the passers-by. Victor, still holding on to Joseph, was trying to read the placards bearing the names of the traders.

  ‘Kenji!’ he called suddenly, pointing to a broad banner in the middle of a swarm of pigs. Painted green letters announced:

  ESPRIT BORRÈZE

  King of Touraine Rillons

  12 Rue Houdon, Paris XVIII

  Joseph was captivated by a pretty young gypsy girl from La Franche-Comté, who was feeding him little pieces of pâté.

  ‘Come on, Monsieur, taste that, delicious enough to make you swoon!’

  Victor retraced his footsteps and yanked his assistant away from the outraged trader and dragged him to the stall where Kenji stood waiting. Borrèze was a large lad with a booming laugh, whom customers could spot from afar by his ruddy complexion.

  ‘A piece of the finest head cheese, Messieurs? Or perhaps you prefer rillettes?’

  ‘We’d like to retrieve a goblet that Osso Buco sold you. He told us that you would probably pass it on to your cousin.’

  ‘And he’s right, the old villain! I offloaded it on Jean-Louis Digon, whose stall’s next door, in the scrap-metal fair.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know — we did the deal in a bar. But you can’t miss him; he lost an eye and wears a black patch like a pirate.’

  Joseph, flanked by his Bosses, regretfully abandoned the gourmand’s paradise for the much less enticing world of junk.

  A progression of grey huts housing the second-hand dealers stretched out along the alleys, interrupted here and there by fabric shops or second-hand clothes stalls spilling in a torrent on to the pavement. Eager crowds jostled their way along. It was no use Victor being impatient; he had to wait behind these bargain hunters.

  ‘What are all these dawdlers after? I can understand people wanting to buy all that grub back there. But this heap of old rubbish … There’s nothing to get excited about,’ grumbled Joseph.

  ‘I agree,’ responded Kenji. ‘It only confirms my view of the décor of western homes: incoherent and cluttered. What I find curious is that people come to sell off a porcelain ring or a coal shovel inherited from their great-grandmother then hurry off and buy a bust of Jean-Jacques Rousseau that a dealer has persuaded them is extremely rare. Objects just move round from house to house.’

  ‘Nature abhors a vacuum,’ Victor grunted, resisting the urge to inspect some photographic equipment complete with flasks and trays displayed in a spanking new portmanteau.

  For his part Kenji regretted that, having poured scorn on the buyers, he could not now, despite his profession, take a good look at the books. He recalled how at last year’s fair, a bookselling friend had come across a Molière illustrated by Boucher. Their progress was held up again by a girl in fashionable ankle boots who had decided to scramble up to the top of a pile of crates to sell her wares. She was offering locks, keys, corroded saucepans and pokers which she claimed were all very modern, and all at half the price of shop goods! Joseph was gazing appreciatively at her silk clad calves when the girl broke off. Joseph’s glance slid to the girl’s left and alighted on a dark shape. His brain made the connection.

  ‘Over there! The man with the eye patch!’ he shouted.

  Although Jean-Louis Digon’s stall displayed a mishmash of disparate goods from ballet pumps to stuffed alligators, he mostly sold used umbrellas.

  ‘Ten francs! Five francs a brolly! Come on now, everything reduced, three francs, Madame. Of course the spokes aren’t rusty, no more than the stays of your corset, my love, and they’re doing a lovely job in giving you the body of a goddess. Aphrodite in person! And this gentleman will agree with me!’ shouted the one-eyed man to Kenji, indicating the buxom matron.

  Kenji bent down and, reaching under a battered tricorne, pulled out an object that neither Victor nor Joseph had spotted.

  ‘How much?’

  The man immediately lost interest in the goddess and the umbrella.

  ‘Ah, now that’s very valuable, Monsieur. It looks a bit strange, but it’s a rare pearl. An exotic chalice I’m told was used by a Patagonian to prepare the poison he soaked the tip of his arrows in to hunt wild boar in the forests of the Amaz—’

  ‘How much?’ repeated Kenji with a disdainful sniff.

  Cut off in the middle of his improvisation, the one-eyed man blurted out, ‘Ten francs,’ and closed his mouth.

  Kenji paid with two silver coins.

  ‘Aren’t … aren’t you going to bargain with me?’

  ‘No point, didn’t you say it was a Patagonian chalice?’

  ‘Wait, I’ll wrap it for you.’

  ‘No need,’ replied Kenji, who was already pushing his way through the crowd, watched tenderly by Aphrodite.

  Joseph almost applauded the stallholder, impressed by his rhetoric. But he didn’t have time — his Bosses were leaving. He hurried to catch up with them, cursing their tyranny.

  ‘You paid much too much for your Patagonian chalice! It’s trash. You’re flinging money away,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Really? You think so? Shame you kept that to yourself instead of proffering your advice. Too bad, I’ll keep the sum back from your wages,’ Kenji retorted, without slowing his pace.

  Joseph was so furious that he whisked back through the Easter ham fair seething with curses that he could not utter. When they reached Place de la Bastille with its knot of vehicles, he marched purposefully along the road, savouring in advance the little speech he would make to Kenji when he caught up with him. ‘Tomorrow morning, Boss, it will be my turn. I’m going to give you a piece of my mind. For ages I have been burning to get things off my chest, and when I’ve finished I’m going to run off with your daughter!’

  He did not hear Victor saying, ‘He’s only joking — ignore him,’ nor did he notice the bicycle behind him forging its way through the traffic. It was only when he heard a rustling that he realised a bike was brushing past him. He was about to shout at the rider when he saw the machine swoop down on Kenji. An arm shot out and grabbed the goblet; the bike set off again, gathering speed before crashing into the Vincennes-Louvre omnibus. The rider went sprawling across the road just as the bus driver yelled a warning, and the passengers on the upper deck shrieked. The cyclist got to his feet, still clutching the goblet tightly, abandoned his bicycle and ran round the bus. Victor gave chase. Kenji, entan
gled in the crowd, eventually managed to free himself, and Joseph, bringing up the rear, was filled with exhilaration as he zigzagged between the carriages and coaches, deaf to the imprecations of the coach drivers. Where on earth was the wretched thief headed?

  My goodness, he’s heading for a dead end! No, he wouldn’t be that stupid …

  But the thief was indeed headed for the Colonne de Juillet. Was he going to climb the monument? A warden was guarding the entrance, arms spread wide. There was a shot. The guard screamed. The thief disappeared, followed at speed by Victor.

  A second shot rang out.

  The bullet caught Victor on his right side, spinning him round. Kenji ran past, not noticing that Victor had been shot, and up the stairs, hard on the heels of the thief. For several seconds Victor did not move. Then he felt himself falling, just as Joseph appeared.

  ‘Boss, no!’

  Victor made an effort to pull himself up on a wall and managed to stagger to his feet. He tried to undo his belt, gave up and stumbled. He collapsed slowly, his hands pressed to his side. His eyes closed.

  ‘Boss, Boss, are you all right?’

  ‘It’s not serious … just a scratch … Kenji …’

  ‘But Boss, you’re bleeding! You need a doctor!’ Joseph wailed.

  Victor struggled to open his eyes. He saw Joseph’s worried face and whispered, ‘Kenji … needs you …’

  ‘Boss, I …’

  ‘Run … quick … it’s urgent …’

  Voices around him … A welcome woozy feeling … Strange murmurings like the rustling of trees. Then darkness.

  The spiral staircase was wider and lighter than Joseph would have imagined. The sight of Monsieur Legris covered in blood had frightened him. And running up two hundred and forty stairs had the same effect as the wine he had drunk in Cité Doré. By the time he burst out on the viewing platform his thoughts had lost all coherence. He didn’t know whether to turn left or right. Blinded by the light, everything appeared deformed, distorted and striped with dazzling flashes. His ears were pounding.