‘Indeed. You are married, Chief Inspector?’
A lightning scowl crossed Durand’s face, but he answered blandly enough, puffing out his chest a little. ‘Oh yes. And I have two fine boys. But there is a related problem. You undoubtedly sniffed it out for yourself the other night at Madame de Landois’s gathering.’
‘I don’t altogether follow you.’
‘Women. They no longer accept anything. They refuse their place. In marriage and in everything else. They question everything.’
James had a distinct memory of the Chief Inspector pontificating on women’s innate suggestibility. He didn’t question the contradiction. ‘Oh yes?’ he urged Durand on, wondering where the conversation would take them.
‘Yes. And the men in those circles are no better. Feminised, that’s what they are. Over-refined, sensitive, lacking in moral fibre, nervous. Like the Jews. Like women. They can only point their guns out of drunken passion or at themselves. We must stop the rot, Monsieur. The enfeeblement.’
James murmured agreement.
‘It’s the nerves, Monsieur. They are shattered. The modern disease. We sleep badly, eat and drink too much or too little. The speed, the crowding, the noise, the excessive demands and excessive democracy, the emancipation of women, all of it rots the social fabric. How well do you know the beautiful Madame de Landois?’ he asked with no transition.
James faltered, realising this was where Durand had been leading. ‘Not at all well, Chief Inspector. She’s a gracious woman. Hardly like the images you’ve just conjured up.’
‘You don’t think so? What is the nature of her relation with your brother?’
James pretended not to have heard. Given the rush of passing traffic, it was easy enough. ‘I know she was very attached to Olympe Fabre. She took the woman in hand when she was still a girl. Raised her to the heights she reached. Almost like a daughter.’
‘A daughter, you say?’ Durand frowned and was silent for a moment, as if he were performing a feat of mental arithmetic.
‘I didn’t mean literally, Chief Inspector. I meant in terms of the sentiment she had for Olympe.’
They had reached the Rue du Bac and James pulled out his watch. ‘I will leave you, Chief Inspector, or I will be late for my appointment.’
‘In the 6th, is it? Or the 7th? You are seeing Madame de Landois? Do remember, Monsieur Norton, these aristocrats are not like us. We can so easily be taken in by their smooth manners.’
‘Indeed, Chief Inspector. But you needn’t worry. I am not so fortunate as to be meeting Madame de Landois. Just an American friend. A Mrs Elliott,’ James heard himself saying.
The Chief Inspector nodded shrewdly. ‘By the way, Monsieur, I wish to interview your sister. My men were prevented access. Her companion said that number one, she was ill, and number two, she spoke no French.’
James had a mental image of Harriet, barring the gates like some armed, antique goddess to shield his sister.
‘Yet despite her illness, Mademoiselle Norton came to the funeral.’
James stiffened, stretched to his full height so that he towered above the man. ‘In a wheelchair, as you may have noticed Chief Inspector. Elinor is indeed ill. The doctor has insisted on complete rest. Her trip to the cemetery was against his specific orders.’
‘Indeed, Monsieur. I see your women, too, are loathe to listen.’ He considered James for a moment. ‘You understand, we still have no confirmation of your brother’s movements from the day of Olympe Fabre’s disappearance until midday Sunday. Your brother’s housekeeper, I think you’ll agree, leaves something to be desired as a witness. One of my men tells me he knew her well – when she was on the streets.’
‘Indeed, Inspector. My brother may be naïve, but he is kind-hearted. He took the woman in because of the child. He loves children.’ Suddenly seeing the advantage of the line he had stumbled onto, James pursued it home. ‘That is why it is clear to me, Inspector, that if Raf knew of Mlle Fabre’s pregnancy, that would have made him even less capable of any violence than he already is.’
Durand considered for a moment. ‘That is all fine and well, Monsieur, but we still have no witnesses to your brother’s movements. What we do know from Mlle Fabre’s landlady is that he certainly turned up at her apartment. What we don’t know is what he may have taken away with him. Good day, Monsieur.’
James watched him walk away, quickly, officiously, as if the pavement crowds must needs part for him. When he could no longer distinguish his figure, he turned and with a sigh, retraced his steps.
It was almost too late now to make a stop at the houseboat, though he was drawn there. Something about the place niggled at the edge of his consciousness and when he reached the embankment, he found himself making a detour towards the boat. He called out a ‘bonjour’ and walked up the ramp.
The young woman appeared again through the curtain of sheets. She was cradling her infant and she stared at James with visible apprehension. ‘My husband’s not here.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’ He smiled. ‘You remember me, don’t you? I was here that night – when the body was found.’
She flinched as if he had hit her. He suddenly noticed the bruise on her cheek, her pallor, the untidiness of her hair. ‘How’s your little one?’
‘Asleep.’ She clutched the babe more closely to her, all the while bunching the sheets behind as if to prevent his entry.
‘I … I just wanted to ask you some questions about that night. You know that young woman, she was my brother’s … well, his sweetheart.’
Her eyes grew wider.
‘He can’t sleep, can’t rest. He wants to know everything. Everything that happened to her. And I’m trying to help him. How did your husband find the body?’
She took a step backwards.
‘Please tell me about it,’ James urged softly. ‘I’d like to hear it for myself.’
She hesitated, then blurted out. ‘There was this banging, like an animal knocking itself against the hold, trying to escape. Horrible. I went to see what it was and there was this white shirt billowing. Then hair …’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Go away. Go!’ she wailed, then stumbled back behind the sheets, leaving him only with an image of black boots running along the deck until they too vanished from view.
Mystified, he played over her words and manner as he walked, speedily now, along the uneven path which wound through the mammoth construction site that would soon be the Universal Exposition. The sounds of hammering and sawing were everywhere. Grit flew through the air like so many June bugs intent on attack. Dust rose in clouds from half-erect structures. Workmen shouted in incomprehensible languages.
The flags of various nations billowed, demarcating zones. Behind the Italian one, the intricate lacework of vaulting arches and unglazed windows seemed to combine with a whiff of Mediterranean herbs and a heavy meaty smell. Perhaps the interior was in fact a huge canteen. As the American zone gave way to the Austrian, then to the architectural vagaries of the Hungarian and the British, he felt he had entered a world of shifting façades where the senses could no longer be trusted.
He forced himself to concentrate on his task. He examined faces, though he had only a vague image of the one he was looking for.
Just past the Serbian flag and near the Pont de l’Alma, he wound his way through a ragged queue of workmen and looking back to see the reason for their line, understood that he had probably reached his destination. The men were crowded round a makeshift table, heaped with baguettes and cakes and fruit. Behind it stood a small cart and an ancient, bowed draught horse. To the other side of the stall, atop barely smouldering coals there was a vast urn, from which a white-shirted man, his sleeves rolled up, morosely ladled what could be soup. He was short, his beard scraggy and on his head sat a wide-brimmed hat which resembled Arnhem’s. James joined the queue.
When he finally got to the front, he said softly, ‘Isak Bernfeld?’
The man met his eyes for a fugitive second. ‘Who wants him
?’
‘I do. I’m a friend of Arnhem’s.’
The man scowled. ‘What do you want to eat?’
‘A cheese baguette. I’ll wait for you over there.’
James waited and watched. Custom was good and the queue never seemed to diminish. The man he was now certain was Bernfeld looked round at him occasionally. The glance was both apprehensive and menacing. He wasn’t a prepossessing man – not like Arnhem. James judged him to be about forty. His lips were thick, his eyes bulging, the skin pockmarked, the nose too brief. He was short-legged and stubby, though there was no excess flesh and his arms were strong. He moved about his tasks with the coiled energy of a man who hungered after larger gestures.
James had a moment’s anguish as he thought of this Bernfeld with the delicate Olympe. One swipe of that thick arm and the girl could easily have toppled into the river, never to rise again. He stopped his baleful leap into imagination. It would serve no purpose to prejudge the man.
James munched at his long, thin sandwich. Napoleon’s soldiers came into his mind. The Emperor General had thought of everything, had invented a bread without clumsy bulk, a rifle-shaped bread that could easily be strapped to a soldier’s waist. His father had told him that. Had told him on their first trip to France. His father admired Napoleon, his efficiency, his attention to detail.
The queue was now only three-men long. James looked at his watch. The lunch break must be over. Girding himself for his task, he moved closer.
Suddenly he heard a bellow. A burly customer had erupted in a string of expletives. He banged his fist on the makeshift table and sent its remaining wares flying. ‘Sale Juif,’ the man roared. He turned to his companions. ‘He’s short-changed me. The Jew-skunk’s short-changed me. You saw it.’
Bernfeld muttered something James couldn’t hear and then the worker in blues was round the back of the table. He landed a punch on Bernfeld’s chest. Without flinching Bernfeld returned it. His assailant staggered backwards.
A small crowd had already gathered to watch the commotion, spectators at a ring, and now shouts rose from everywhere, thrusting the man towards Bernfeld, who pranced and feigned like an experienced street fighter. More punches fell. Two gendarmes burst into the fray, waving truncheons, ordering a halt, pinning the men’s arms back, asking what had happened. The crowd spoke as one and pointed at Bernfeld.
James found himself addressing the policemen in the calm, authoritative voice of the courtroom. ‘Pardon me, Messieurs, but I was standing just there when it all started. I’m afraid it was this man here, who threw the first punch, scattered the vendor’s wares as well.’
The workman eyed him with a swagger. ‘What’s it to you? The Jew cheated me.’
‘Out of how much?’ one of the gendarmes asked.
The man shuffled his feet. An avid look flew over his face. ‘Twenty centimes.’
‘It’s not true,’ Bernfeld spoke for the first time. ‘Not true, I tell you. But what does it matter. Here.’ He whipped his arm away from the gendarme, drew some change out of his pocket, and flung it to the ground. ‘Take it. Take all of it. Good riddance. Now go away. All of you. Go away. Leave a poor man in peace.’
With swift gestures, he dismantled the table, heaved it onto the back of the cart, along with the urn and the remaining provisions. While the other man was still scouring the earth for coins, he pulled the back of the cart to. The policemen looked at each other and shrugging, dispersed the small crowd.
Before James could stop him, Bernfeld was seated in the cart and urging his old draught horse on. James raced after him and leapt up on the seat beside him.
‘I want to talk to you.’
The man mumbled something about a stomach which James couldn’t make out. He gripped the wooden seat. Bernfeld was driving recklessly, urging his old horse on so that the wagon squeaked and shook. They turned away from the broad avenues and were soon in a part of Paris he didn’t know. The streets were barely wide enough for the cart, here, the pavements crowded with scruffy children and scurrying men.
With no notice, they abutted on a vast and ugly iron structure and came to a rattling halt. Everywhere around them were other carts and wagons heaving with crates and baskets. Of course. The Stomach was Les Halles, the city’s central market. Pungent smells rose from the ground. Broken crates spilled rotting vegetables on wet pavement. A small girl picked up a stinking, goggle-eyed fish and popped it into her basket. Dogs tore apart hunks of raw meat, dropped from some vehicle. On another sat coops of squawking fowl, giving off a repellent smell.
Bernfeld leapt to the ground. James followed swiftly.
‘Okay then. If you’re still here, you might as well help.’ Bernfeld indicated a pannier for James to carry.
Moments later they were through a door and walking beneath an immense glass canopy held aloft by iron ribs like some prehistoric monster too large for the delicate earth. The stalls were all but empty, the hall sparsely peopled. The Stomach was a nocturnal creature, James recalled reading. In the small hours while Paris slept, it would fill its belly only to disgorge it at dawn.
At last Bernfeld spoke. ‘What do you want of me? I should thank you, but I am not grateful. You followed me, so the police will now think that we are in some racket together. They will harass me.’ The man’s eyes bulged with barely controlled irritation. His accent was like Arnhem’s but thicker.
‘I want to talk to you, that’s all. About Olympe Fabre. Rachel Arnhem.’
Bernfeld speeded up his step. James followed him past stalls, past a pannier full of sheeps’ heads, the eyes glittering strangely. They stopped at a counter to drop unsold provisions. Bernfeld counted out money for a capped and squat ruddy-faced man whose manner was distinctly surly.
Then they were out on the street again and through a crowded lane into another huge, girded structure. The place was a teeming labyrinth.
‘All right. If we must, we must. But I have nothing to tell you. Nothing.’ Bernfeld gestured him through another door into a crowded, insalubrious bar. He ordered two brandies and set one in front of James. They stood at the counter face to face, so that he could feel the man’s breath on him as he spoke.
‘I only met Olympe Fabre twice. Twice was enough.’
‘But I was told you knew her well, you had proposed …’
‘That was to Rachel Arnhem. She died – died many years before this Olympe.’ Bernfeld’s face was set in stone. ‘Who are you, anyhow? What are you trying to pin on me?’
‘My name is James Norton. My brother …’ James stopped himself. Something about the man’s previous statement had just made him aware that any mention of Raf’s relations with Olympe would hardly be calculated to make him amenable. ‘My family … we were friends of hers. Why did you write to her? Threaten her?’
‘Ha!’ A gutteral sneer emerged from the man’s lips. His thick, gnarled fingers tightened around the glass. ‘So Arnhem didn’t tell you? No, of course not. He’s become too good for money. Too well-connected for memory. I wanted my money back. What do you think I wanted?’
‘Olympe owed you money?’
‘Arnhem owed me money. They owed me money. I gave him money. A tidy sum. Years ago. We were to be married. Rachel and I. Rachel and Isak. A lot of money. Did she marry me? No. Did Arnhem return the money? No. No. He needed it. He was desperate. Always desperate. And Isak was cheated. Cheated.’
James tried to make sense of this. ‘So you went to Rachel, to Olympe, to get your money back?’
‘With interest. Seven years. I was broke and she was rich. You’ve seen her apartment. Her clothes. Her friends. Look at you. Look at me.’
‘And you murdered her for it?’
‘Murder? Who said anything about murder?’ Beads of perspiration appeared on the man’s forehead. A smell came from him, like the smell of fear. ‘No, no, no. No, I tell you. You can’t pin that on me. Just because I’m an old Jew, down on his luck.’ He looked for a way out of the bar, but James already had his hand on his a
rm. He kept it there.
Bernfeld met his eyes. ‘All I wanted was my money. Arnhem should have told you. I wouldn’t murder one of my own, even if she had become a slut.’ He slammed his glass down on the counter and called for another brandy.
‘Where were you on the night of Thursday the 1st of June and for the five days thereafter? I want a specific account.’
‘Where was I? How do I know. I was here. Or at work. Or in my grubby room. Look, Mister, I may not be Captain Dreyfus, but I’m no more guilty than he is. Unless having a drink or two is against the law. And then you can lock up the whole Stomach.’ He grinned, showing ragged yellow teeth. ‘Sure I may have threatened Rachel a little …’
‘How did you threaten her?’
The grin turned into a scowl. ‘She didn’t believe what I told her. About the debt. I told her to ask her father. I told her I would give her a month to raise the money, if she didn’t already have it hoarded away. Otherwise, she would have to marry me. That was the deal Arnhem made way back when I was on top of my fortune. That was the basis of the sum I gave him.’
‘Did Rachel agree? Did she have the money?’
Bernfeld shrugged. ‘She said she didn’t have it to hand. I didn’t believe her. But I told her if she didn’t have it, she could raise it from one of her rich friends.’
James gripped Bernfeld by the shirt. ‘So you forced the poor girl to resort to blackmail.’
‘Who said blackmail? I said nothing about blackmail.’
‘You sent her a letter which told her exactly how to go about it.’
Panic contorted the man’s features. ‘I didn’t. Is that what Arnhem told you? I only wrote to her once. Once to arrange to meet her. And I wouldn’t hurt her. Arnhem knows that. He must have told you. Not little Rachel.’
Paris Requiem Page 27