Paris Requiem

by Lisa Appignanesi

  ‘You understand my meaning?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Yes. I told her on that path, because of the person she was, lay only destruction.’ A sob escaped him.

  James leaned forward on his chair. ‘Are you telling me that you now think she killed herself? Killed herself for love.’ He imagined Arnhem’s words tumbling into Chief Inspector Durand’s all-too receptive ear.

  ‘No, no. Not at all. I didn’t mean now. Not now. Not yet. She was happy. She was afloat on a wispy cloud in a summer sky. I was concerned for the future. Now there is no longer a future to be concerned about.’

  His hand had shaped itself into a fist and he pounded the table with it. Once, abruptly, so that the teacups shook.

  James waited. When he said no more, he asked softly. ‘Bernfeld. Tell me more about him.’

  Arnhem’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are not a man to be deflected, I see that, Monsieur. Isak Bernfeld is a fine man. I will have nothing said against him. He helped me at the time that the first tragedy struck my family – when some lunatic burnt down our business premises. No one was ever charged, Monsieur. No one. They put it down to accident.’ His gaze drifted.

  James brought him back. ‘And Bernfeld?’

  ‘Bernfeld helped me. But trust me. After the funeral, I will find him. I have already made a start.’

  ‘The funeral?’ James asked.

  ‘Yes, Tuesday. Madame de Landois … she is a generous woman. She approached the police for me. Will you honour my daughter with your presence, Monsieur?’

  ‘I certainly will.’

  Arnhem was already on his feet. He put some coins on the table, refusing James’s offer to pay. ‘No, no. And I will hold onto this letter.’ He folded it into his coat pocket.

  Unable to argue despite his sudden suspicion, James watched the letter disappear. What if Arnhem had kept things from him? He would never be able to verify that now.

  The suspicion was contagious. ‘Do you have anything else of my daughter’s, Monsieur?’

  James looked down and shook his head. He felt the man’s stare on him, deflected it with a question as they walked out of the café.

  ‘One more thing occurs to me, Monsieur Arnhem. You said Isak Bernfeld moved to Toulouse. Yet in the letter, he mentions Marseilles. Do you know why he moved and moved again. Has he never contacted you?’

  Arnhem quickened his pace, shook his head. ‘Rachel’s refusal of him was an insult. We didn’t part on the best of terms,’ he mumbled, then asked in a clearer voice. ‘When will you visit my eldest daughter?’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon, I hope.’ He didn’t mention the earlier visit.

  ‘Good. That is far more important.’

  James nodded equably, then noticing a display of chocolates in the window of a small bakery, he paused. ‘Please. Wait for me just a moment, Monsieur.’ He made his purchase quickly and presented Arnhem with the package. ‘For your little ones,’ he said. ‘Because I have taken you away from them.’

  Arnhem stared at him without moving. There was a querulous pride on his face. At last, he took the package. ‘Thank you. For their sake.’ He bowed. ‘But, Monsieur Norton, we do not need pity. We need justice.’

  James tiptoed up the stairs of the apartment building. He stared at Ellie’s door, then, with an internal shrug not a little mixed with guilt, knocked softly at Raf’s. He needed to speak to his brother. Ellie would keep him possessively at her side and his thoughts, already none too orderly, would be further scrambled.

  While he waited, he wondered at the slight aversion he had developed for his sister’s presence. It had never been there in the past. He trusted it was a passing aberration which would vanish with the present irregular circumstances.

  He gave Arlette only a cursory nod as she opened the door and rushed in without speaking. He didn’t want to risk being overheard.

  ‘Monsieur Rafael is not here,’ the woman said, her stance belligerent. ‘And I was about to leave.’

  He kept his eyes from the babe in her arms, the minute hand which seemed to be pounding at her bosom. ‘Don’t bother about me, Arlette. I’ll just wait. Right here.’ He pulled out a chair at the dining table and positioned himself so that he could look at Fromentin’s imposing picture. Its aspect was altogether different in the fading, early evening light.

  The woman hovered and waving her away, he felt her sullen glance. Decidedly, she had not been trained to the civilities of a servant.

  When she brought in a bottle of wine, a hunk of cheese and a baguette a moment later, he regretted his judgement and thanked her profusely. Realising he had eaten nothing since breakfast, he had stopped for a quick steak-frites on his way here, but had left it half finished in his worry that he might miss Raf again if he were going out for the evening.

  ‘Has my brother come back from the races?’

  Arlette shook her head.

  ‘But you expect him?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Arlette said with so much emphasis that he suspected she had no idea whatever of Raf’s movements.

  ‘Good,’ James smiled.

  Still she waited, so he asked her, ‘Did you ever meet Olympe Fabre, Arlette?’

  ‘Of course I met her,’ the woman scoffed. ‘She came here, didn’t she.’

  James nodded, uncertain whether her disapproval was directed at Olympe or at his own questioning.

  ‘If you want to know what I thought of her, I thought she wasn’t good enough for Monsieur Rafael.’ With that she flounced towards the door, turning back only to add, her cheeks flushed, ‘Not that I wanted her dead.’

  ‘Of course not,’ James soothed. ‘That’s a very pretty baby you have there, Arlette.’

  The colour in her face deepened. ‘I’ll leave you now, Monsieur. I’m meeting a girlfriend this evening. Monsieur Rafael said …’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’

  When he finally heard the click of the door, he relaxed into his chair and let the tumult of the day’s events play through him. With a wayward nostalgia, he saw himself back at his desk at the law school. The orderly rows of books, the regular progression of his days had provided a shelter for him, a protective bubble which had burst in this last week to let in the raw anarchy of life. He had hardly anticipated all this when he had set out on his journey. Yet, he found himself oddly prepared, indeed hungry for it, relishing its unaccustomed texture.

  It was almost as if the tragic foreshortening of that poor, unknown girl’s life had thrust him into the thick of his own, had cut the rope that had kept him blindly anchored for so many years to Maisie’s death and that of his lifeless daughter. And now he was loose on turbulent seas and somehow able to look again at his own deaths, to confront the images which had hovered for so long at the brink of his conscious mind, though he had never allowed them in. Closing his eyes, he let them in now and stared at the face of his unborn child, his dead wife. An uncontrollable sob shook him.

  The moment passed and a chilling fear took him over – as if the wild, shrieking creatures within the walls of the asylum might break out to assault him, to take them all over.

  He tightened his fist. Order, clarity had to be maintained. If he could do nothing for the dead, he could at least take a few small steps towards fulfilling Arnhem’s injunction. Justice, the man had said, giving the word such force that James had felt he was thinking not only of Olympe’s killer, but the charnel house of his wife’s death, his mad daughter, the future of his remaining children, Captain Dreyfus bound for a new trial.

  Yet what if Olympe’s death pointed to Bernfeld? Would that satisfy Arnhem’s call for justice?

  Without realising that he had moved, James found himself in Raf’s study. A painting on the wall caught his attention. It was of Olympe. Yes, Olympe wearing the sad mask of a clown. The signature at the bottom was that of Max Henry. So Raf knew of the man, indeed had certainly met him. James allowed himself a rueful laugh.

  He looked down at the desk. There was a sheet of paper in the typewrit
er. He read through it quickly, noticed more sheets to the side of the machine. Raf had been working, charting the most recent developments in the Dreyfus case, the attack on the President. Perhaps his visit to the races today would provide the final paragraphs for the unfinished article.

  His eyes strayed round the desk. There was a newspaper, part of a column circled in thick black ink. James read, horror mounting in him. The bottom of a woman’s severed body wrapped in a thick burlap sack had been found floating in the Seine by a fisherman. The police were conducting their investigations.

  He shuddered and turned the paper over only to find a stack of postcards. The top image was a troubling one. It showed a woman in a lewd pose. He pushed it aside and the cards tumbled onto the floor. As he picked them up, he was forced to see that one after another they revealed women in various stages of undress striking lascivious postures. Their lips were pursed, their eyelids lowered in self-absorption, their legs bare or stockinged … James could feel his colour rising. Superstitiously he glanced over his shoulder. Of course he knew that men collected such images. But Raf?

  He thought involuntarily of his mother, was glad he had already sent that reassuring, if somewhat curt telegram home, telling her there were a few immediate difficulties to overcome, but a matter of weeks should do it.

  Suddenly his pulse set up an erratic rhythm. That face. He loosened his collar, turned on the desk lamp for a more accurate view. The photograph showed a young woman with wildly loosed hair, her face down-turned, her expression musing. She was dressed in a maid’s apron and nothing else. In her hands she held a bowl of fruit. But it was the face James recognised. Olympe’s face, just as he had seen it in the photograph in her apartment. He was certain of it.

  Raf’s relation to these erotic images abruptly took on a new and ugly twist. A perilous twist. James thought of Chief Inspector Durand and what he could make of this. He had an overwhelming desire to tear the picture into a hundred pieces and reduce each sliver to ashes. Instead he shuffled all the images into a drawer, despite himself taking a quick look inside to see what else his brother’s secret life might reveal. He told himself it was a matter of Raf’s own protection.

  There was nothing of interest inside the desk, not even a stack of letters from Olympe. Perhaps the girl’s talents didn’t extend to writing.

  He sat back in the chair and tried to think calmly about what he had discovered.

  Was it possible that someone from her past, someone like Bernfeld, having been utterly rejected, perhaps in need of money, had returned, his passion still alive and now allied to vengeance, and tried to blackmail Olympe for the work she had undertaken as a model for such lewd photographs? Oriane, the woman in the theatre, had mentioned blackmail. In the web of rumour she could have got everything wrong. It could be Olympe who was being blackmailed, rather than doing the blackmailing.

  James took the photograph out of the drawer again and stared at it for a long moment. The melancholy sweetness of the face tugged at his heart. Yes. A blackmail threat that had gone savagely wrong. Abruptly, he placed the image into his jacket pocket and leaned back into the chair, closing his eyes for greater concentration.

  Yes. When Olympe had refused to pay, either with love or money, Bernfeld had sent this photograph to Raf, a first step in his master plan. When the man had told Olympe of his action in order to demonstrate the seriousness of his intent, they had argued. Yes, yes. James could see them on the banks of the Seine somewhere, engaged in bitter conversation. Olympe had refused both his passion and his blackmail and in a rage, he had knocked her unconscious and thrown her to the waters. Yes, of course. And he had undressed her first, so that she couldn’t be as quickly recognised. And then he had fled.

  Arnhem had testified that Bernfeld was a good man, but good men were not unknown in the heat of passion to commit violent acts. Bernfeld had probably not intended to kill. Indeed he might only have accidentally knocked Olympe unconscious and then presuming her dead, in panic thrown her to the waters.

  James closed his eyes and re-imagined the scene. The next thing he knew, someone was shaking him by the shoulder and calling his name. He jumped up, his head fuzzy from interrupted sleep.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jim. I’m not about to punch you for invading my office.’ Raf snapped.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry. I was just …’ James’s eyes fell on the telephone. ‘I was wanting to use the phone. Couldn’t get through. I must have fallen asleep.’

  Raf chuckled. ‘You were always a terrible liar, Jim. Could never trust you to cover for me with Father. Did you like my piece? I’ve got to finish it off now. But we could have a drink first. Since you’ve obviously been waiting. You should have come to the races with me, Jim. It’s been quite a day.’

  ‘I saw the procession along the Champs Elysées. I didn’t realise it was going to be a major event.’

  ‘Beautiful horses. But not much action apart from that. No attacks on the President. Though there was a God Almighty kerfuffle at the Pavillon d’Armenonville later on. That’s where I’ve just come from. A row broke out. The aristos were dining in relative quiet, all passion having been spent at the races, when the mighty matter of Dreyfus’s homecoming came up, and within seconds there was a brawl. Don’t know how the news got to the champions of the people, but suddenly there they all were storming the pavilion as if it were the Bastille itself. I managed to get out, just as the police pounced, on what side I’m not sure, but probably in the general squall, on both.’

  James followed Raf out to the front room and accepted a glass of wine. Raf chewed on a hunk of cheese and examined him astutely. As he did so, he frowned, his face growing abruptly solemn. ‘I can see you’ve been pursuing matters of more immediate interest.’ He sliced through the slab of cheese with a violent gesture. ‘What have you found out?’

  James told him briefly about his visit to the Salpêtrière, mentioning only that Judith had been unseeable, and then about the letter he had found in Olympe’s apartment after Raf had left and how he had taken it to Arnhem for translation and had discovered it was from Bernfeld. Had discovered, too, that the man had probably seen her.

  Raf stopped chewing, emptied his glass in one large gulp. ‘All right. We have to find the bastard.’

  ‘Arnhem promised that he would.’ James paused.

  ‘We’ll make sure that he does. What other letters did you find, Jim?’

  James coughed. ‘There was a bundle from you. They’re at the hotel. I’ll pass them over.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Raf was staring at him and James decided not to prevaricate. ‘A handful from admirers. You know the kind. I imagine all actresses receive them. There were more I couldn’t quite pack into the satchel in my hurry. I’d like to go back … before the police find them.’

  Raf nodded, but his frown deepened.

  James changed the subject. ‘I … I was wondering about those photographs on your desk.’

  ‘What photographs?’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent, Raf. You know very well what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t know that I do.’

  ‘The pictures of those women. Undressed women.’

  ‘You mean the pornography.’ Raf laughed abruptly. ‘Mustn’t be coy, Jim. Does it appeal to you?’

  ‘Really, Rafael.’

  ‘Oh I see. You think I’ve fallen into the pits of unspeakable corruption. Sorry to disappoint, Jim. They’re Touquet’s.’

  ‘Touquet’s?’

  ‘Yes, my journalist friend. You remember.’

  Raf had misinterpreted his query.

  ‘Yes, but why …?’

  ‘I told you Touquet was interested in all that. Brothels, prostitutes. The lot. He says that it’s not only our dear Bertillon and his detectives who are making use of the new photographic technology. Oh yes, the police may use it to chart and identify the physiognomy of criminals. But there’s a rather more lucrative, indeed burgeoning use – a trade in erotica. Touquet has been carrying out an
investigation. What happens is that the pimps or brothel keepers provide their most fetching girls to be photographed. The girls don’t get paid. Or maybe just a pittance. They think they’re having a day out. They pose. Do what the photographer asks of them. And then the images are developed and duplicated, again and again. And sold. Here, there and everywhere. The mails are efficient. I wouldn’t be surprised if your most respectable Harvard friends have some in their private collections, Jim.’ He chuckled. ‘Ask them when you get home. Ask them who they buy them from, too.’

  James flushed.

  ‘And report back to Touquet. His file is growing. Soon there’ll be enough for a big exposé.’

  ‘Do you know any of the girls in those pictures?’ James blurted out bluntly, angry now.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint, Jim. Can’t say that I do.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely sure. I’m not a prude, Jim. But ask Touquet. He probably does. He can introduce you.’ Raf was still baiting him.

  James let it pass for the moment. Perhaps he was wrong. Or perhaps Raf was simply blind to a resemblance his lover’s blinkers didn’t permit him to see. He was about to ask him, rather more gently than he felt inclined to about the rumour of blackmail he had heard from Oriane, when Raf went on.

  ‘By the way, I saw Touquet briefly yesterday. He’s on to something, he thinks. He talked to some worried plainclothesman, who told him he was almost certain there was a new white-slavery ring bringing women in from the East. Jewish women. Some of them seem to have disappeared. He wants us to pose as clients, separately would be more efficient, and go to the designated brothels. Choose the most recent arrivals. Try and find out who their keepers are, who arranged for their travel, who met them once they got to Paris, and so on. He thinks we’ll find out more than he can, ’cause we can pose as innocent, God-fearing Americans, just the type they might confess to, even if they’re scared. And in the hope of getting out. Also, Touquet is too well-known in those circles.’

  James was taken aback. ‘I don’t see how that can help us with Olympe. You were so certain she had never been involved in anything of that kind. Have you changed your mind?’