Paris Requiem (18 page)

‘Let us say these women are cousins of friends.’

James suddenly felt something tug at his jacket. A woman kneeled behind him. Her hands pawed at his clothes. Her lips were poised in the parody of a salacious kiss. She gestured at him obscenely. He stepped back.

Comte smirked, relishing James’s discomfort. ‘Cousins of friends. So you are not a Jew?’

‘No, Doctor. Nor am I an African or a German or an Englishman.’

‘I dare say it’s a lucky thing you are not the first.’ Comte finally ordered the woman back to her bed with a whisk of his plump hand. ‘Semites have a particular affinity for a whole gamut of neurological and neuropathological
conditions
– chorea, ataxic tabes, epilepsy. We have a higher
proportion
than the general population would normally allow within the Salpêtrière. If you were really a cousin of the ladies in question, I would have felt drawn to interrogate you on your family history, your secret family history, perhaps.’ His chuckle was malign. ‘As for these other races you mention, my researches haven’t extended to them.’

James tried to still his galloping unease. He didn’t know how to interpret what the man was saying to him. He was alert though to the undertow of threat in his manner. He wished he could take the doctor into another room, away from the tumult, the leering faces, the constant movement, and focus on one discomfort at a time.

‘And you carry on your researches both here and at Saint-Lazare?’ he asked, puzzled at the doubling up.

‘Indeed. And the research you should know is very important, Monsieur.’ Dr Comte’s tone was puffed with arrogance. He took off his spectacles and like a lecturer addressing a large audience used them as a pointer. ‘Both Saint-Lazare and the Salpêtrière are sites where the poorest women from the most depraved backgrounds are to be found. I am interested in the high frequency with which prostitutes, loose women if
you will, move from the first to the second – or naturally to any other asylum. My hypothesis is that degeneracy, sexual disinhibition, catapults them from one to the other. But now I must ask you what it is that brings you to seek out my patient – since you are not her relative.’

James was about to invent a long-winded excuse, when the word leapt from his lips with its own counter menace. ‘Murder, Doctor. Murder.’

The man’s glasses slipped from his hands. A capped patient whisked them from beneath his feet. All the while, she shrieked the word, ‘Murder, murder’. It had the ring of an injunction.

In a moment like a freak wave, the words tore through the room, re-emerging from every mouth in a mounting
torrential
chorus.

Comte stamped his feet, shouted, ‘Silence.’ From
somewhere
, he found a walking stick and like a lion tamer, beat it against the edge of one bed after another until the women cowered against their pillows and fell restively quiet.

‘Nurse, take this man – your name again, Monsieur?’

James provided it.

‘Take this man to see Mlle Arnhem. You will probably do no more than see, Monsieur Norton. I had to administer
chloroform
. If she is awake, do not mention that terrible word. You see the effect it has. You have caused quite enough of a disturbance already.’ With a scowl, which made the pucker on his brow throb, he turned on his heel and marched away.

It was only when James reached the quiet of the corridor that it struck him as decidedly odd that Dr Comte hadn’t paused to ask him a single question about the nature of the murder. But this was no time for reflection.

The nurse had turned the lock on a door to reveal a minute cubicle of a room. A figure lay stretched on the bed. One frail arm protruded from the grey blanket and arched above her
head. A mass of dark waving hair spread like a fan against the thin bolster.

James stared and took a step backwards. His blood ran cold. The resemblance was uncanny. The motionless figure on the bed could have been Olympe, the Olympe he had seen in pictures. The Olympe, bar the puffy discoloration of her face, he had glimpsed on the floor of the barge. Perhaps it was a trick of light or the fact that Judith, too, lay as still as a corpse.

The nurse was muttering. ‘There is no point, Monsieur. There’s no waking her now. She won’t hear a thing.’

‘Why was chloroform administered?’

The woman shrugged, her face as stolid and expressionless as a prison warder’s. ‘She was wild. Uncontrollable. The doctor feared she would injure herself.’

‘How long had that been going on?’

‘Three days. Four. Maybe a week. She was worse after her father came to visit. They’re always worse after visits.’ She gave him a steely look, willing him away.

He nodded and turned a feeble smile on her. It was all that he could muster. But he needed to interrogate her. He took a last look at Judith Arnhem and stepped into the hall.

‘Have you ever met Judith Arnhem’s sister?’ he asked once she had locked the door.

‘I don’t believe so.’ She was already walking away.

‘They look very much alike.’

‘If you say so, Monsieur. I must get back.’

‘Are you certain? The sister would have been well-dressed, of course.’

She stopped to confront him, her stout body as much of a barricade as the doctor’s. Visitors to the world of the asylum were decidedly unwelcome.

‘Dr Vaillant’s policy is to rotate his staff. I work here only two weeks out of every four. I have enough to do without keeping track of visitors, Monsieur. And you are the second
one today to come in search of Mlle Arnhem who, as you can see, is in no state to receive anyone. Now if you’ll excuse me.’

Watching her determined tread, James wondered whether Raf’s impatience had paralleled his own and he had decided to make an early visit to Judith Arnhem.

He walked slowly back through the maze of courtyards and corridors, letting his feet find the way. Even when the vast façade of the Salpêtrière was behind him, his mind was still in the swirling ward with its melee of shrieks and strange faces. He replayed his eccentric exchange with Dr Comte, trying to determine whether its oddness was due to the surroundings or was intrinsic to the man’s words. Was it unusual that he should work both in the prison infirmary and at the asylum?

His thoughts returned again and again to the supine figure of Judith Arnhem. Had he imagined the resemblance? It was troubling and for more reasons than he could put words to.

Without realising where his steps had taken him, he found himself in the Sunday jostle of the Jardin des Plantes. Children shouted their excitement as they pointed through the bars of a cage where a tiger prowled in taut confinement. James stared for a moment, felt the tiger’s insolent gaze on him and hurried away.

On a winding street behind the zoo, he stopped in a café. Leaning against the bar, he ordered a brandy and a coffee. A well-proportioned, clear-eyed face stared out at him,
radiating
good health and firm intentions. It took the heat of the brandy for him to recognise himself in the mirror. He gave his returned image a sheepish, lopsided grin and took his coffee out onto the
terrasse
.

He lit his pipe and sat there, only dimly aware of the life of the street. Like one of those hangovers he had been prone to in the months after Maisie’s death, the Salpêtrière clogged his veins and his thoughts. He finished his coffee and got up restlessly, half wishing for Raf’s presence or even better,
he admitted to himself, Marguerite’s so that he could share or argue through his impressions. He had a distant
memory
of one of his first cases, one which had filled him with tension because of its human rather than legal complexity. Because every fact seemed to billow away behind a shroud of half-truths.

Reaching in his pocket for change, he felt the crunch of paper. Of course, the letter in the indecipherable language. That would give him something concrete to pursue. He walked quickly towards the river, then unsure of the exact trajectory, hailed a cab. Only as he alighted on the tawdry boulevard near Arnhem’s home, did it occur to him that the man might be less than pleased to find a letter which belonged to his daughter in James’s hand.

T
he insalubrious street where Arnhem lived was hot and dusty from the day’s sunshine. It was also more crowded than James had ever seen it. Women had pulled chairs onto the pavement and sat outdoors with their sewing. Girls played skipping games across the stream of murky water which flowed from the gutters. A beggar held out a worn cap.

James found himself examining everyone for any visible contortions of limb or visage. Tossing a coin to the beggar, he forced his mind onto a different track

At Arnhem’s door, an ancient jowly figure, all in black, reclined on a rickety stool, her back against the building. Her eyes were half closed and James crept past her, only to hear a thundering ‘
oui
’ issue from her lips.

‘
Pas-là,
’ she said peering up at him with marked suspicion after he had asked politely for Monsieur Arnhem.

‘When might he be back?’

‘Never, would be best.’ She gave him a scowl, then settled back against the wall once more.

James was tempted to wait, but there was nowhere to do so. He walked to the far end of the street and back again. Seeing a man with a coat and hat like Arnhem’s, he almost approached
him. A few centimes would certainly provide him with a translation. But he stopped himself. The breach of privacy was uncalled for. And the man might well know Arnhem.

He was about to give up and set off for the hotel, when he saw Arnhem appear from round a corner. He had his two youngest children in tow. James paused before greeting him. The children were remarkably attractive, the girl curly-haired, her cheeks dimpled, her dress a spotless white midi with a blue-trimmed sailor’s collar. The boy, slightly smaller, was equally agreeable, with chocolate round eyes and tousled hair. He pulled against his father’s grip, eager for a run, but Arnhem held on to him with the fierce protectiveness of a man who had already lost too much.

‘Monsieur Norton,’ the man spoke before James found his voice. ‘You were looking for me?’

James nodded. The little girl gave him a shy, fetching smile. ‘I have something I wanted your help with.’

With an air of indecision, Arnhem looked from the children to James and back again. ‘Of course, of course. We’ll go to a café,’ he murmured. ‘Wait for me here.’

He shunted the children past the woman in black who scowled at them despite their polite greeting. James saw them disappear up the stairs, heard the little girl ask, ‘Why can’t we come, too, Papa?’

For a moment, James felt a distinct pang of envy. It was mingled with instant remorse. He wouldn’t have come had he known that it would involve tearing Arnhem away from his children. But the man quite rightly felt that their conversation couldn’t take place in front of them.

Arnhem was back quickly, his coat flapping. ‘The children have homework to do. But I mustn’t leave them long.’ He looked over his shoulder periodically as they walked along the street, then offered. ‘I haven’t told them about Rachel yet. I couldn’t bring myself …’ His voice trailed off.

‘They’re lovely children,’ James murmured when they had already turned a corner. The thought leapt into his mind that Dr Comte would be hard put to find any of the
hereditary
taints he spoke of with such assurance in Olympe’s younger siblings.

‘Here. We can stop here.’ Arnhem looked around him
nervously
. ‘Though perhaps it would be better inside. It’s quieter.’

The interior of the café had never been touched by the sun. The tables were less than clean, the floor stained. The birdlike woman behind the counter had brightly rouged cheeks which clashed oddly with her smeared apron. A solitary old man, who had the tattered mien of a beggar, nursed a glass of absinthe at a table near the front. But James understood Arnhem’s desire to be away from curious eyes and long ears. They found a place at the back. Arnhem quickly ordered tea and James joined him.

‘What is it that you have for me?’ The man asked, wasting no time. His look was grim. He slouched into his chair as if all he could hope for was another blow from fate.

‘It’s only this letter. I felt sure you could translate it for me.’ James unfolded the sheet of paper and placed it in front of him.

Arnhem scanned the writing. An instant change came over him. He was now all hard-edged tension, his expression fierce. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘In Olympe’s apartment.’ James raised his hands in apology. ‘We’re trying to pursue all clues.’

‘This is from Isak. Isak Bernfeld.’

‘So he
was
in touch with Olympe again. As we were led to believe.’

‘It would seem so. She didn’t tell me.’ Arnhem looked as if he was about to scrunch the sheet of paper into a ball and throw it across the room.

‘What does he say?’

‘He says he is back in Paris from Marseilles. He says he
wishes to see her. He says he has something to tell her. Something she should know.’

James was suddenly excited. ‘Does he give his address?’

‘No. But I will find it out. Never fear.’

‘So how did he expect her to get in touch with him?’ James had the sense Arnhem was holding things back.

‘He says he will wait for her outside the theatre. It was through the theatre announcement that he traced her.’ Arnhem frowned. ‘I didn’t know he had followed her career, her change of name.’

‘But he evidently did.’ James paused, letting the weight of that sink into both of them. ‘When does he say he will wait for her?’

Arnhem looked down at the letter again. ‘He says Thursday.’

‘Thursday!’ James was as jubilant as if all the threads of the case had suddenly come together.

‘No, no, Monsieur. I follow your train. But we do not know which Thursday. The letter is dated over a month ago.’ A storm cloud passed over Arnhem’s face. ‘She never told me,’ he murmured.

James sipped his tea and waited. When the man didn’t speak again, he plunged in. ‘Do you know why she might have kept it from you?’

Arnhem shrugged.

‘Might she have been afraid that you might try to convince her that … that she should move back into the fold.’

A strange laugh issued from Arnhem’s lips. ‘That is not an unintelligent question, Monsieur Norton. But Rachel … Olympe had moved beyond that. Well beyond that. There was no coming back.’ He had the sudden look of a desert patriarch who had banished a black sheep from the fold.

‘Perhaps Bernfeld felt otherwise. What kind of man is he? The other day you said he was a man of traditional values. But people can change.’

Arnhem studied him, his eyes luminous above the jutting arch of his nose. ‘Why do you take such an interest in us, Monsieur Norton?’

James was unprepared for the question. He waved his arm vaguely. ‘My brother.’

‘Ah, I see. Of course. You are your brother’s keeper. Loyalty to one’s family can be a burden, Monsieur.’

‘You have it.’

‘I … I have little choice.’ His eyes clouded over. ‘And it is different for us. You should know that I did not care for your brother, Monsieur. Not in himself, of course. I know nothing of that. But for my daughter, the relations they had embarked on. I told Rachel … Olympe, he would do her no good. It was a mistake to put sentiment where reason should be. If she was to lead the life she had decided on for herself, then she had to be like those French women. She had to be thoroughly practical.’

James watched the emotions warring on his face. At one moment, he looked as if he might spit. At the next, he was rubbing his forehead, the way Raf did when the internal pressure grew too great.

‘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.