The Assassin in the Marais

by Claude Izner

  The letters, in blue ink, ran into one another like a row of tiny octopuses.

  27 March. This morning, the wrath of God resonated once more, piercing my eardrums and shaking my bones to the marrow …

  2 April. We’re leaving for London. The National Geographic Society Conference. I have read Antoine’s notes without him knowing. Horror! God has severely taken me to task. I did not sleep a wink last night.

  Victor slowly looked through the journal. On another page he read:

  7 April. On the boat. It’s done, the old woman has been eliminated; she did not suffer. I have the name and address of the owner of the abomination: Monsieur Mori, 18 Rue des Saints-Pères.

  8 April. Monsieur Mori is abroad. Lucie thinks we are after a valuable jewel. Her greed will be her undoing.

  Saturday 9 April. Success! I have the infamous object. Lucie believes the precious stones set into it are worth a lot of money. We hid the abomination in the cellar among the old furniture …

  Tuesday 12 April. The scene at the morgue: Gabrielle grief-stricken, Lucie in tears – perfect. Alexis doing an excellent impression of a bereaved cousin bravely suppressing his grief, when deep down he was overjoyed, thinking, ‘Now I’ll have a free run at Gabrielle.’ I’m sure God disapproves of their relationship …

  A visit from the police inspector. He concluded the murderer was after money. Lucie took the old man by surprise; he dropped his neckerchief and Alexis put it in his pocket. Lucie recognised the material in which the abomination had been wrapped. We went down to the cellar: the thing had disappeared! Was Lucie trying to double-cross me? God advised me to get rid of the avaricious woman there and then. But she’s so pretty and has pleased me so often…

  The small cramped writing danced in front of Victor’s eyes and he stopped for a moment before plunging back into the diary.

  The old man told me he’d thrown what he thought was the cursed chalice of the Templars in the rubbish! I convinced him that the Templars would exact revenge if he ever mentioned our little trade. Farewell, Lucie.

  Thursday 14 April. The associate is looking for Clovis Martel, second-hand merchant at Saint-Médard market. Thank you, God, for guiding me. I am scything your fields and gathering a renegade harvest that will populate the Kingdom of Satan and fill you with joy! No one will be able to take possession of that abomination … Oh, Lord, arm your emissary!

  ‘The emissary was on your heels constantly, Monsieur Legris,’ said Gabrielle, leaning over Victor’s shoulder. ‘He used a velocipede.’

  ‘Now you mention it, I do remember that once or twice … a bicycle, yes … But there are so many of them nowadays. In fact I aspire to own one myself. I wasn’t paying enough attention.’

  ‘Charles was very cunning.’

  ‘And yet you insist that his behaviour never gave you cause for concern?’

  ‘He was a religious crank. But he had such self-control that he pulled the wool over our eyes. You know as well as I do that most people, while appearing completely normal, are, in one way or another, psychologically unbalanced. Charles Dorsel illustrates the malign influence of a narrow, bigoted religious upbringing. So, Monsieur Legris, do you feel you understand everything now? And do you agree with me that it would be best simply to erase the memory of that murderous insanity and everything that flowed from it?’

  Gabrielle patted her hair with a delicate, rather seductive gesture. She glanced at Victor, smiling as if seeking his approval.

  ‘Dear Monsieur Legris, what can the ins and outs of this affair matter now to the inspector? Wouldn’t it be better if only you and your friends and Alexis and I knew the whole story?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. If you’ll excuse me, I’m not feeling too well at the moment. I’m going to have to go home and lie down.’

  ‘I’m so glad we are of the same view.’

  She accompanied him to the door, saw him out and closed the door. She did not see the figure barring Victor’s way as he went along the corridor.

  ‘Sycophant … I recognise you; you’re my purveyor of voluptuous dancers!’ exclaimed Fortunat de Vigneules. ‘Have you come to replenish my stock of ample posteriors?’

  ‘No, I just happened to be …’

  ‘Ah-ha! You were having a rendezvous with the perfidious Gabrielle. Watch out, she would stop at nothing – not even patricide!’

  ‘You’re mistaken, your daughter never tried to …’

  ‘I’m not the bumbling old fool she takes me for! And even though she got her doctor to drug me, I still believe she wanted to kill me!’

  ‘It was Charles Dorsel who tried to kill you,’ responded Victor calmly.

  But, far from appeasing the old man, Victor’s measured tone enraged him.

  ‘Charles? You’re blaming little Charles? He’s the only one in this damnable house who had the courage to come to my defence! Vade retro, spawn of the devil! You may have taken on the body of a photographer in the hope of deceiving me, but I have seen through your disguise. You are the execrable Jacques de Molay! Don’t rejoice too soon though – I’m not giving up without a fight!’

  He ran off to a bedroom where, judging from the racket, he was barricading himself in. Victor sighed, concluding that the old man was locking himself in to escape being carted off to a psychiatric hospital, and resolved to send him a parcel of saucy, titillating photographs as soon as possible.

  Fortunat de Vigneules, hidden behind the curtain, watched regretfully as his source of nymphs disappeared under the porch just as a black cat sprang out. Believing he had witnessed an incarnation of the devil himself, Fortunat fell to his knees before a portrait of Louis XVI, stammering imprecations against evil.

  Victor was relieved to find that Tasha had not yet returned and would therefore remain unaware of his outing. He had just lain down when he heard heavy footsteps in the courtyard, and Euphrosine came in, weighed down by a basket of cleaning materials.

  ‘Hello, Monsieur Legris. You’ve returned from death’s door. This time you very nearly escaped this purgatory in which we are all mouldering. Poor us … the sooner we shuffle off this mortal coil the better!’

  ‘Why so pessimistic?’

  ‘I can’t tell you; I can’t tell anyone!’

  ‘You can tell me – I’d like to know.’

  ‘I’ve sweated blood and tears for twenty-two years to raise my son and now I’m going to lose him!’

  ‘I didn’t know Jojo was so ill!’ Victor exclaimed in alarm.

  ‘Oh, it’s not his health. Although, of course, he is a bit shaken after grappling with a murderer at the feet of Le Génie d’la Liberté and tipping him head first over the edge. Since you don’t seem to know about it, and in case you’re interested, yesterday Monsieur Mori gave him your sister’s hand in marriage in recognition of the debt he owes him for killing his attacker,’ Euphrosine intoned, rather as if she were reading an obituary.

  Forgetting his injury, Victor sat up, letting out a cry of pain. ‘Joseph and Iris are getting married?’

  ‘They’re to be engaged next year, just after my son’s birthday, which is 14 January. The wedding will be six months later.’

  ‘I can’t deny I’m surprised. I think it’s a little hasty and I don’t really approve. But it is true that without Joseph Kenji would not be alive.’

  ‘Of course it’s true!’

  ‘And, if I’ve got this right, you’ll have fifteen months before the ceremony so you’re not going to lose him immediately. And afterwards,’ he added with a hint of regret, ‘you’ll still see him every day in the shop.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m worried about, Monsieur Legris!’ she exploded. ‘It’s just that I would have liked to see him marry a real French girl!’

  ‘Oh, now we’re getting to it,’ he declared. ‘Iris is not French enough for your taste.’

  ‘I have nothing against her. She’s pretty, and educated, and everything. It’s just … if they have children …’

  ‘It’s true they might look
a little Japanese, but they’ll sound Parisian. You yourself are originally from La Charente aren’t you?’

  ‘Indeed I am, Monsieur Legris. My family is from Angoulême.’

  ‘In that case, permit me to point out that Le Comte d’Angoumois only attached himself to the French Crown under Philip the Fair. Angoumois was then ceded to England, taken back again, and given for a while to François I’s mother, Louise of Savoie. That chequered past hardly entitles you to disparage my sister’s origins.’

  ‘I’m not disparaging them at all! It’s something else …’ Euphrosine burst into tears.

  ‘There, there, pull yourself together. It can’t be that bad,’ murmured Victor, acutely embarrassed.

  Euphrosine wiped her eyes and blew her nose several times.

  ‘Joseph’s father … He was married when we fell in love. And then after his wife fell ill, he swore he would marry me when she passed away. But he died a few months before she did. Thank God he had recognised Joseph, so my son is a Pignot. But the same doesn’t apply to me, my name’s still Courlac!’ Euphrosine bellowed, waving her vast checked hankie about.

  Victor suppressed a nervous giggle.

  ‘That’s what you’re so worried about? You’ve never told Joseph, is that it?’

  ‘How could I bear his contempt?’

  ‘There’s nothing scandalous about this. Joseph loves you and will quickly get used to the truth. Do you really want him to stay a bachelor all his life just so that you don’t have to reveal the truth to him? Anyway, Iris won’t care; it’s Joseph she’s marrying, not you!’ The Lord be praised, he added to himself.

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur Legris. You’ve taken a weight off my mind.’

  ‘Go over to Tasha’s; you’ll find some vodka there. I advise you to pour yourself a little glass and lie down for a moment on her bed. Unless your love of country prevents you accepting an offer from an Anglo-Frenchman living in sin with a young Russian émigré …’

  ‘Oh, Monsieur Legris, I’m ashamed of what I said! I deserve a slap!’

  ‘Well, I’m too tired to slap you,’ he groaned, closing his eyes.

  She stole out and he immediately sank into sleep.

  He awoke with a start, aware of a presence. Kenji was smiling at him from the foot of the bed.

  ‘I would have come yesterday if the tigress guarding you had not sent me packing. How is your wound?’

  ‘I can’t wait to have these damned stitches out.’

  ‘Be patient. A stitch in time saves nine.’

  ‘Very witty. How are you?’

  ‘I’ve a few inconveniently placed bruises.’

  ‘Madame Pignot told me about the marriage.’

  ‘I’m indebted to Joseph, but although I’ve agreed to his request I did try to slow things down a little. They’re both as scatterbrained as each other, so I do worry about them. Still, birds of a feather stick together.’

  ‘You and your adages … I went to see Gabrielle du Houssoye this afternoon, and now I finally have all the pieces of the puzzle. Would you like me tell you all about it?’

  ‘I certainly would. I expect your account will have the name Eugène Dubois somewhere in it … I’d advise you to close your mouth now, lest you swallow a fly.’

  ‘How do you know about Dubois?’

  ‘When I read John Cavendish’s letter again, I noticed a name: Trinil. It just so happens that in my youth, during a trip to Java, I stayed in that village and had the opportunity of looking at the fragments of gibbon skeleton that the inhabitants had retrieved from the banks of the River Solo. On a hunch, I rang a friend of mine at the National Geographic Society in London who knows South-East Asia well. He gave me some important information on Eugène Dubois, who had undertaken palaeontological digs. Very few people knew what his aim was. I thought that if Antoine du Houssoye was interested in my goblet, it was probably something to do with Dubois’s researches. Over to you.’

  ‘When I was small and I had seen something amusing in the street or the bookshop, I would long for you to return so that I could tell you about it and savour your amazement. But I was always disappointed because, by some devilish trick, you always knew part of what I was going to say!’

  ‘Yes, but only part. For some unknown reason, I never knew the ending of your stories and you always had to fill me in. So we complement each other perfectly, I think you’ll agree?’

  Victor nodded reluctantly and prepared to deliver an account of events.

  ‘You can’t even tell me anything about it?’

  ‘Not even you, Iris. I promised your father when he agreed to let me have your hand. I swore on Maman’s head!’ protested Joseph.

  Iris pouted. Then she consoled herself with the thought that once they were married she would know all of Joseph’s secrets.

  ‘What I’m most annoyed about is that I won’t be able to use any of the material for my next novel. Too bad, Thulé’s Golden Chalice will have to be all about the Templars’ treasure, which, after all, is better than nothing.’

  ‘Have you been able to do any writing today?’ murmured Iris, coming over to the counter behind which Joseph sat on his stool, looking in a melancholy way from the morocco-bound notebook his beloved had given him the day before to the finally empty shop. ‘No, not a single word. I’m feeling a little out of sorts today. Iris … Do you think you will regain your respect for me?’

  ‘My respect? You’ve got it wrong: the important thing is love, and I love you, Joseph!’

  ‘Yes, but respect is important too. I’m a murderer.’

  ‘No, you’re not! The inspector keeps telling you: it was self-defence! My dearest, thanks to you Kenji is alive!’

  ‘Your dearest, you mean that?’ Their lips were almost touching. ‘You should lock the door,’ he murmured at the precise moment that the doorbell tinkled and Euphrosine, red-faced and out of breath, dumped down her basket and dusters and held out a large rectangular package wrapped in thick brown paper.

  ‘It’s an engagement present from Mademoiselle Tasha, because she’s going away soon and doesn’t know for how long. It would be best if you hang it up in your apartment for the moment,’ grunted Euphrosine to Iris, before picking up her bags and leaving.

  Intrigued, Joseph cut the strings. He spent his whole week packing up parcels for other people and was happy for once to be on the receiving end. A familiar sphinx-like face appeared suddenly out of the paper, complete with an ironic expression in the eyes, which were lined with crow’s feet.

  ‘Papa!’ cried Iris. ‘It’s the portrait I admired at Tasha’s. That’s so kind of her!’

  Joseph said nothing; he felt rather less enthusiastic.

  ‘Don’t you love me any more?’ Eudoxie had been on the point of asking as she pulled on a negligée. She stopped herself just in time. There was no point in asking, since he had clearly demonstrated his incapacity to express anything other than physical attraction. So she said instead, ‘Don’t you desire me any more? Excuse me, you’re probably tired. I’m going to let you rest and I’ll go and have a bath.’

  Kenji was stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head. ‘It’s not that, my dear, it’s that … I’m unfit at the moment – I received a low blow. We’ll have to wait a while,’ he replied evasively.

  ‘A blow? Were you beaten up?’

  ‘It happens sometimes.’

  ‘But you? I can’t imagine … Are you in pain?’

  ‘Let’s not talk about it. Come here, I’ve a present for you.’

  He stretched out an arm towards the bedside table and placed a little jewel case in the lace at the top of her negligée. Inside she discovered a necklace of tiny golden pearls that seemed to contain sequins.

  ‘Amber! It’s so beautiful, and very generous of you!’

  ‘I though it would complement your dark colouring. You see, darling, I’ve had a bad experience that has made me appreciate life, and to want to give more than I receive. I know other ways of pleasuring a lover,’ he murmured,
slipping a hand under the black crêpe de Chine that barely hid Eudoxie’s nudity. ‘Could you postpone your bath a little? Come and lie down beside me. Make yourself comfortable.’

  Victor was gradually drifting off to sleep. Already he was tipping over into a universe where the maddest adventures became logical and where reality was distorted. A hand lifted the sheets and covers, a cool body slipped in beside him, an arm embraced him. He hesitated, attracted by nocturnal chimeras.

  ‘Wake up, my love, no, don’t move, your dressing will slip, just relax …’

  He groaned for appearances’ sake and abandoned himself to Tasha’s caresses, soothed by the hail that was battering the capital after the wintry day.

  EPILOGUE

  Tuesday, 10 May 1892

  IN the dusk the glass awning of the Gare de l’Est had a bluish tinge. Clouds of steam billowed out from under it. Locomotives vibrated and processions of porters cut through the crowds. A murmuring grew louder – a regiment of sappers was setting off on manoeuvres. A cheer went up.

  ‘Long live the army!’

  There was a splutter of applause, muffled by the hiss of a locomotive.

  Tasha hurried along the platform, navigating her way through the baggage trolleys, looking for her compartment. Victor followed, carrying her case. He had hoped that some mechanical failure would prevent the train from being there. But the flow of passengers swept them both along past carriages with lighted windows all ready to devour the miles. In ten more minutes she would be on her way towards Strasbourg, her first stop.

  ‘Here it is.’

  He glanced at the newspaper vendor hawking the evening papers.

  ‘Do you want one?’