In the Shadows of Paris (15 page)

‘Andréa's the name. He told me I had the makings of a star.'

‘A shooting star, no doubt,' quipped a plump woman.

‘He said something about an Amazon,' the young woman parried.

‘An Amazon on an old nag? He must have meant in Fernando's Circus!'

‘Eugénie, you're a spiteful old bitch!'

‘And you're a common little tart!'

‘Ladies, please! Show a little decorum, if only out of respect for Monsieur Edmond. Suicide is an act of deep despair that takes great courage.'

‘And what would you know about courage, Monsieur le Duc d'Épernon!'

‘What? You mean he killed himself!' exclaimed Joseph.

They all began chattering and gesticulating at the same time. Joseph took advantage of the confusion to usher Épernon into the wings.

‘Did he really kill himself?'

Flattered that a journalist would want to interview him, Épernon whispered to Joseph, ‘Between you and me, he was crippled by debt. Still, I'd never have believed him capable of ending his own life in such a tragic way. He was so intent on getting his theatre up and running again! I'll let you into a secret: he was counting heavily on my performance.'

‘You say he had debts?'

‘Apparently l'Échiquier was mortgaged. Do you think that might explain why he began his farewell note with a verse from La Fontaine:
a monkey and a leopard made money at the fair
?'

‘A leopard?'

‘Yes, I copied it out while nobody was looking. It goes on:
Cleaned out and completely ruined, I'm leaving this sewer. Farewell. My condolences to the other mugs. E. Leglantier – misunderstood genius.
Ah! Money is the root of all evil! Strange, though, that Jacques Bottelier should nearly run me through with his dagger when he was supposed to be stabbing Henri IV – I mean Leglantier. Would you like to see my dressing?'

‘Hang on a minute, who's Bottelier?'

‘He plays Ravaillac. The police are holding him for questioning. You're not leaving already, are you? Hey, Monsieur, don't forget to take down my name. Germain Milet – like the painter, only with one ‘
l
'!'

As Joseph was walking past the concierge's lodge, a woman's voice called out.

‘Mr Journalist!'

Andréa appeared, looking very appealing with her heaving chest and flushed cheeks.

‘Monsieur, I don't know what Germain's told you, but did he say anything about the bald bloke Monsieur Leglantier quarrelled with just before he died? I couldn't help overhearing them – they were making such a racket. They were calling each other all the names under the sun. I distinctly heard Monsieur Leglantier say, “I've been fleeced.” I'm sure that bald bloke is not to be trusted. In my opinion, if anyone's to blame it's him. Ravaillac, I mean Jacques, wouldn't hurt a fly – he's the sort who faints if he sees a spider. He takes care of his mother and what'll become of her if he loses his job? You should stick that in your newspaper.'

‘Are you in love with him?'

‘Who with?'

‘With this Jacques Bottelier.'

‘Come off it! I don't like injustice, that's all. I missed my chance with the manager, Monsieur Leglantier, though. He fancied me, only I don't like sharing and he had an insatiable appetite. He'd already had Eugénie. She told me he had an official mistress, Adélaïde Paillet – a woman of at least thirty-five who runs a shop selling the latest fashions in Place Clichy.'

‘Thank you kindly, Mademoiselle…You'll make a splendid Amazon.

‘A sight for sore eyes in a tight bodice!' he muttered under his breath.

 

‘The leopard and the Ambrex shares hold the key to this affair, don't you think, Boss?'

Down in the basement, out of earshot of Kenji, Victor listened to Joseph's account of his visit to Théâtre de l'Échiquier.

‘That actor…'

‘Épernon, Boss.'

‘Yes, well, he says Leglantier wasn't the sort to have taken his own life, but he breathed in enough gas to put him six feet under.'

‘He was broke, terrified of scandal. From what I could gather, the Duc de Frioul – the bald bloke has to be him – wasn't exactly gentle with him: threats of repossession, a lawsuit, a duel…Do you think it was murder? The scheming white-gloved hand of the aristocracy? Yes! Murder made to look like suicide.'

‘Don't jump to conclusions.'

‘But, Boss, it all fits! It's simple. Frioul goes to see Leglantier, they quarrel, Frioul tampers with the gas meter, types out a letter that he leaves in the typewriter, then departs, locking the door behind him. Frioul's the leopard!'

‘Why would he choose a spotted feline as an alias?'

‘No doubt he's got some ancestor who was loyal to the King of England. The Hundred Years War, and all that…Oh, I've got it! He owns a country seat at Quercy. I'll bet his coat of arms has a leopard passant or a spotted lion on it. I saw one once in a book on heraldry.'

‘Your reasoning is a little far-fetched, Joseph. Do you really think Leglantier would have waited patiently to be gassed?'

‘A good clout on the head might have helped.'

‘It's possible. Your scenario would make a perfect plot for a serialised novel. Unfortunately the Duc de Frioul hasn't the gumption or the imagination to be a murderer.'

‘You underestimate those toffs.'

‘Let's be serious, when the Duc de Frioul was born, the good fairies rummaged through their sack and gave him the dross: a title, an estate in the sun and very little else. No, Joseph, our Léopardus is a notch above the rest in the brains department.'

‘All right, you win, but how about this for a scenario? Leglantier cooked up a scheme to sell fake shares, did away with one of his accomplices – the enamellist Léopold Grandjean – then took his own life when the swindle was exposed.'

‘And where does your clever theory about the arson attack on Pierre Andrésy's shop fit in? You're not thinking straight.'

‘Will you stop criticising me? I'm fed up with it! What about you? What information have you brought to the case?'

‘Drat, I'm late. I'm taking Tasha to a concert. We'll drop in on this Adélaïde Paillet woman tomorrow morning. Hopefully she'll be able to tell us more about her lover. Go on up, I'll follow.'

‘You're in charge,' Joseph muttered, hiding the satisfaction he felt at having shut his boss up.

I'll go to Rue Monsieur-le-Prince next week. The errand boy at Fulbert's will be back by then, and he's bound to remember where he delivered the wine for this Gustave fellow, Victor thought to himself.

Joseph emerged from the basement and bumped straight into Kenji.

‘Now that your secret assignation in the catacombs is over, I'm going out. You're dining here tonight.'

‘What do you mean I'm dining here?'

‘Have you forgotten? You're supposed to give the Balzacs and the Diderots a polish and arrange them in the window. We discussed it a fortnight ago. Your mother is making fried tomatoes and creamed spinach – she'll bring it to you down here. Good night.'

‘Spinach! I can't stand that muck!'

‘You're wrong there, pet,' Euphrosine shouted from the top of the spiral staircase, ‘spinach cleans out the bowels.'

Thursday 20 July

Kenji, his eyes closed, gave his vow of abstinence the final coup de grâce as he made his way in a cab towards the Bibliothèque Nationale. He felt rejuvenated after his night with Eudoxie. He had replenished his energy with a seafood platter and some chilled white wine at Prunier's,
⁴⁷
and was now focusing on his inner sensations, allowing his mind to drift freely – an exercise he practised whenever his attention was not needed elsewhere.

The cab dropped him off at Rue de Richelieu where he re-engaged with reality.

He spotted the fellow whom the clerk with the paper knife had mentioned at the far end of the second row of tables to the right of the main desk. Dressed in a wide-sleeved tunic, a pair of baggy trousers and a green skullcap, the Armenian was fast asleep behind a mound of folios, his arms crossed over a thick volume. Miraculously, the seat next to him was free. In fact, the reading room was almost deserted on account of the heat. Kenji quickly began leafing through a catalogue he'd chosen at random. He filled in a form specifying where he wanted to sit and the reference number of the books he wanted to consult, handed it to an assistant librarian and went to take his place next to Aram Kasangian.

Kasangian sat up slowly, his doleful face half hidden by an imposing black moustache and flowing beard. He looked Kenji up and down with suspicion, and shifted the pile of folios to conceal the volume he'd been using as a pillow. Shielding his work with his arm, he began taking notes.

Aware that he was under observation, Kenji started meticulously polishing his spectacles. He was wondering how to initiate a conversation with his neighbour, when the man muttered, ‘You are in great danger, Monsieur.'

Kenji, alarmed, thought that he was about to reveal some terrible secret about the Persian manuscript.

‘Please explain.'

‘If you persist in this harmful habit you will be afflicted by unimaginable suffering. Constricting the blood vessels can lead to a blocked artery. Deprived of blood, the heart starts struggling and slows down until it stops completely.'

‘To what are you referring?'

‘To your cravat.'

The Armenian leant over his book again as abruptly as he'd sat up.

Just my luck. The man's a raving lunatic, Kenji thought, as the librarian brought over an octavo volume.

‘I see you're keen on Africa,' his neighbour resumed in a low voice.

‘Not really.'

‘Then why are you consulting Stanley's
Through the Dark Continent
?'
⁴⁸

‘I'm interested in the sources of the Nile. And what is the nature of your research, Monsieur?'

Aram Kasangian chewed his penholder and studied him.

‘If anybody asks, tell them you don't know.'

Exasperated, Kenji stood up, walked behind the Armenian and tried to catch a glimpse of the book he was so zealously guarding. The man responded by flattening himself over it completely.

‘Could you tell me the name of the manuscript – I assume that's what it is – which that wild-eyed fanatic is consulting?' he asked the assistant librarian. ‘Shh!'

He'd spoken too loudly and a few heads were raised.

‘I'm afraid that's confidential. Monsieur Kasangian is a renowned philologist. He's been coming to the library for the past twenty-five years and is honouring us by drafting on these premises what will be the definitive Persian–French dictionary. In their eagerness to assist him the librarians have done everything in their power to acquire as many Arabic and Persian texts as they can. Ah! If only we could compete with the libraries of Mecca and Constantinople!' the assistant added, ruefully. ‘May I at least have a look at this rare work when he returns it at the end of the day? I myself am an expert on Sufism.'

‘As well as on Africa?'

‘The one does not exclude the other.'

‘Monsieur Kasangian stays right up until closing time and will reserve for first thing tomorrow the books he's been consulting today.'

‘But surely they're not his exclusive property!' Kenji exclaimed.

‘Please try not to raise your voice above a whisper, Monsieur!'

Kenji gave up. He went back to his seat and spent the next hour devising strategies to glimpse the famous manuscript. He dropped his pencil under the Armenian's chair, asked to borrow a rubber, sat sideways on his seat in an attempt to force him to rearrange the wall of folios shielding the coveted treasure. To no avail – his neighbour never lowered his guard.

As the minutes ticked by, Kenji resigned himself to following each arduous step of Stanley's journey in search of Dr Livingstone, whilst dreaming of Eudoxie's charms. As six o'clock approached, he leant towards the Armenian, who had begun gathering up his folios, and stood on tiptoe in a last attempt to see over the stack of books. But in a sleight of hand worthy of a conjuror, Aram Kasangian had already spirited the manuscript away under an encyclopedia. Refusing Kenji's offer of help, he triumphantly carried his hoard of books over to the main desk.

Kenji stared at him, screwing up his eyes, and, with a cat-like expression on his face, vowed silently, I'll get the better of you yet.

 

‘I hate those great big statues with their arms sticking up in the air!' Joseph said, pointing to the monument glorifying General Moncey's heroic stand.
⁴⁹
For his part, Victor was busy studying an enormous poster depicting an Arab standing with his camel opposite a chap in colonial dress who was admiring an Oriental carpet. On the side of the same building, a shop sign inspired by Chéret featured a woman swathed in lace, her foot perched boldly on a tombstone inscribed in letters of fire:

TO DIE FOR

The New Fashion Store

Adélaïde Paillet's shop, although unpretentious, nevertheless boasted a foyer lit by a glass cupola, and an open fretwork staircase leading up to the first floor. The manageress oversaw two sales girls on the ground floor, which was devoted to lingerie and the latest Paris fashions. An affable male assistant was in charge of accessories on the first floor, catering to ladies wishing to liven up their outfits with a velvet flower, a feather boa or – the height of luxury – a fox fur or sable stole.

Madame Paillet's professional sycophancy changed to marmoreal coldness as soon as Victor explained the reason for their visit.

‘We're from
Le Passe-partout
. We've been assigned to write a portrait of the manager of l'Échiquier, who recently took his own life. I believe he was a friend of yours.'