Paris Requiem (29 page)

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 arm. 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.’

Tears had gathered in the man’s eyes and threatened to overflow.

James’s mind raced. Could he imagine the man lifting a violent hand to Olympe, physically menacing her perhaps while under the sway of alcohol, and somehow forcing her to her death. He wasn’t sure. He could certainly imagine him applying pressure which threatened violence. He could imagine blackmail. He could also at last imagine Olympe flinging herself into the river’s swirling waters. Better that than life with this anguished madman who seemed to love and loathe her in equal measure. Durand would have to be involved, after all, whatever Arnhem’s imprecations. There was no way round it. If only to exonerate Raf from any collusion in blackmail.

The Olympe his mind had created would have been too ashamed to ask Raf for money he would probably readily have given. So under Bernfeld’s pressure and instruction, she might have considered blackmailing someone else.

‘If you’re innocent of murder and of blackmail, Bernfeld, as you insist, I recommend we go to the police right now and you make your statement. Otherwise things will go badly for you.’

The man shuddered. ‘If I go to the police, things will go badly in any case. They’ll lock me up and throw away the key. Isn’t that what they do with my kind.’

‘Chief Inspector Durand will only want the truth,’ James asserted a little uneasily.

An idea came to him. ‘Tell you what, Bernfeld. Write down your address for me – and maybe just a sentence saying you had no part in the murder of Olympe Fabre. I’ll take it to the Inspector, and instead of bringing you in, we’ll both come and interview you. And don’t give me the wrong address or suddenly disappear, because that will only provide proof, as you know.’

Congratulating himself on his cleverness in extracting a sample of writing he could now bring to the Inspector for comparison with the blackmailing letter, James presented his notebook and pencil to Bernfeld. The man gazed at it. Then with a shrug of pronounced hopelessness, he began to write. James saw incomprehensible characters appearing on the page. ‘In French, Bernfeld. Write in French, damn you.’

‘But Monsieur … this is the only writing I know.’

J
ames walked slowly back towards the Grand Hotel. He was tired. Very tired. Like some light skiff tossed by waves, his mind swirled and swayed in a stormy sea of impressions. There had been too many in the last days. But it was the relentless attempt to introduce order which caused the exhaustion, he suspected. The sheer effort of the will it required.

He gave it up for the moment and allowed the associations to play havoc with him.

The back streets here were quiet, not like the hubbub of the river front where he had talked to the young woman, her babe cradled in her arms. Olympe had been with child, too, and it had perhaps precipitated her end. Like Maisie. The much-wanted child had brought death in its wake. Madame de Landois had no children. Neither did he. Nor Ellie, nor Raf, now. Would his mother, who presumably would
appreciate
some grandchildren, have commanded him to Paris had she known that Olympe was with child? Yes, and probably with even greater haste. Some children were better than others. Some were no good at all. Bad blood. No. It made no sense. Bernfeld, like James’s own mother, would have been
enraged at the thought of Olympe with child for the same and opposite reasons – a child conceived with someone
outside
the clan.

Money or marriage, Bernfeld had threatened her with. He could imagine the poor girl wondering whether Raf would have her against his mother’s will and with a threatening Bernfeld to boot. Here were motives for suicide far more urgent than any hypnotic pass.

Something knocked at the corner of his mind. Something the woman on the boat had said.

But he was already at the hotel and a large, distinctly American contingent clustered round the reception counter demanded his attention. Three boys of varying sizes
shuffled
their feet and teased a small tearful girl who fled from the group into the capacious skirts of a black-clad dowager guarding a cabin trunk.

The sternly dramatic, angular features of this raven-like figure thrust James into confusion. How could his mother so suddenly appear in Paris? He stopped in his tracks and took a long, ragged breath, armouring himself with explanations. Then, slowly, he forced himself forward.

Proximity dispelled the illusion. The woman was not his mother, though the resemblance was marked. His heart still beating too quickly, he stared at his momentary mis-
incarnation
. She was indubitably a sign. A sign of his guilt. His last missive home had been all lying solace and procrastination, the lies bolder as his own awareness of the tangles Raf and Ellie were trapped in grew clearer. His mother had
undoubtedly
read the reality between the lines and if she wasn’t
actually
here in person, there was probably a telegram awaiting him at the desk, one which might indeed announce her imminent presence.

He turned and moved grimly towards the counter. A vociferous argument between a red-faced man and the hotel
manager was in full progress. A long ungainly queue for keys and mail had formed. With a shrug James changed course and made for the bar.

‘Mr Norton!’

James turned to see a parasol wielded with vigour in his direction from amidst a row of palm fronds.

‘There you are, at last, Mr Norton. Join us please.’ Mrs
Elliott
sat back into her chair and pointed to a place on the sofa beside Charlotte, who smiled at him brightly displaying a row of strong teeth.

Unable to think of an excuse, James sat. It served him right, he thought, for having used Mrs Elliott’s name earlier in
making
his escape from the Chief Inspector.

‘Charlotte and I hoped you wouldn’t tarry too long. We’re having tea, but you might like something stronger.’ Mrs Elliott waved at a
garςon
and barely waited for James to place his order before announcing, ‘We’ve been to see your sister again, Mr Norton, and we wanted to have a word about her.’ Her face held a sombre warning.

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. She’s emphatically unwell.’

‘Mother’s right, Mr Norton.’ Charlotte’s eyes were wide and James read something like fear in them. ‘She … she couldn’t concentrate. She hardly seemed to recognise us. And she was very angry at your brother. Very. We couldn’t quite understand why. She just … well, it felt like delirium.’

‘I told her maid to call the doctor instantly. Harriet wasn’t there, you see.’ Mrs Elliott shook her head in dismal
disapproval
. ‘I hope they haven’t quarrelled.’

‘No, Mother. Harriet never quarrels. She was probably off with one of her other charges.’

‘In any case, I think the girl understood me, because soon a man arrived. The trouble was he didn’t speak English and he seemed to be asking us to leave. It was only as we got into
the carriage, that I realised he didn’t have a bag with him, so he might not have been the doctor after all.’

She gave James a querulous look as if everything were his fault. ‘We think you should go to her, Mr Norton. She shouldn’t be alone. She should be with her family.’

‘Of course. I’ll go straight over.’ James downed the Scotch that had just been placed in front of him. ‘Thank you for
letting
me know.’

Mrs Elliott put a staying hand on his arm. ‘If you want my advice, Mr Norton, you will get your sister home on the first possible sailing. I suspect the doctors here are all quacks. And she needs her mother.’ She shot a glance at Harriet. ‘This is no place for young women on their own. You understand me, Mr Norton.’

‘I do, I do. You’re quite right. Excuse me now, I must be off.’

‘You’ll let us know how Elinor is, won’t you,’ Charlotte said while he hastily signed his name to the bill.

‘Of course.’

He had only taken a few steps, when Mrs Elliott called him back. ‘That’s him, Mr Norton. The doctor, if he is a doctor. Perhaps he’s come to find you.’

James followed the line of her finger and saw Chief
Inspector
Durand making his way through the lobby. His heart sank.

‘Yes, yes,’ he mumbled and hurriedly extricated himself, afraid that Mrs Elliott might insist on an introduction. He had no choice now, but to make straight for the Chief Inspector.

‘Just the person I was looking for,’ Durand greeted him with a show of pleasure. ‘I imagine your companions have already told you that I paid a little visit to your sister.’ Durand missed nothing. He bowed ostentatiously in the direction of the ladies.

‘Let’s go somewhere quiet, Chief Inspector. But first I must make a telephone call. Tell me, did a doctor turn up while you were with Ellie … with my sister?’

‘No, we were quite undisturbed, Monsieur Norton. A charming woman, your sister.’ He smiled a satisfied little secret smile, which spoke loudly of information he wasn’t prepared to reveal. ‘Though, yes, I agree. She didn’t seem altogether well. A doctor might be of assistance. Something to calm her.’

James had a bounding desire to wipe the smile off the Inspector’s face. What could Ellie have told Durand to make him so happy? He thought it over while he put a call through to Dr Ponsard. It would undoubtedly be something to do with Raf.

‘It seems your sister knew Olympe Fabre very well.’ Durand spoke as soon as James emerged from the cabinet. ‘She didn’t approve of her.’

‘Really? She told me they were great friends. Look, Chief Inspector, unless there’s anything precise that you need to ask me, I really must hurry. My friends tell me Ellie is delirious.’

‘Delirious. No, no. They exaggerate. Voluble, certainly. Perhaps even a little confused.’ He peered up at James and openly scrutinised his face. ‘You seem to be the only member of your family who doesn’t suffer from an excess of nerves, Monsieur Norton.’

‘What did she tell you?’

‘She told me at great length about an expedition she and Olympe Fabre had made to the Louvre.’

James had a sudden memory of Ellie telling Dr Ponsard about the flashing pains in her legs. They had begun at the Louvre. Was Olympe the friend she had mentioned? The one who had helped her, Ellie had said.

‘And does this explain anything at all about Olympe’s
subsequent
death, Chief Inspector?’

‘No, not really. But I was interested.’

They had reached the concierge’s counter and James now stopped to check for post. There were three letters.

‘I trust there will be a message from your brother,
Monsieur
Norton. It is really him I have come in search of.’

‘Have your men lost his trail?’ James asked innocently.

‘Have you, Monsieur Norton?’ The Chief Inspector retorted with a touch of menace while blatantly examining the envelopes as James glanced at them. ‘Is there anything here from your brother?’

‘No,’ James said truthfully and tucked the letters into his jacket pocket. ‘And I don’t know where he is.’

‘Neither did your sister. It struck me that she was quite inconsolably disappointed in him.’

‘Ellie has always been a perfectionist, Chief Inspector.’

‘And so remains unmarried.’ Durand chuckled.

‘I must go to her, Chief Inspector. There is something I need to tell you about, but there isn’t time enough now.’

‘If it’s important, I can accompany you part of the way.’

‘It’s important.’

Durand followed him into the carriage the doorman had hailed.

‘Before I tell you, Inspector, I want to remind you of the fact that several times now you’ve insisted to me that you’re a Republican. I take it that you also mean by it that you have no grave prejudices against our poor Olympe’s people?’

Durand stared at him cannily. ‘What have you found, Monsieur Norton?’

‘Can you reassure me?’

The Inspector nodded once, abruptly.

‘I’m not sure exactly what I’ve found. I’ve traced an old suitor of Olympe Fabre’s. But I wouldn’t want you to stir up a hornet’s nest by locking him up either prematurely or wrongly, just so as to fall in with police prejudices. You follow my meaning?’

Durand’s face expressed uneasiness. ‘I follow your
meaning
, Monsieur. But if the man is guilty …’

‘There is as yet no substantial evidence. I will tell you
everything
, but only on condition that you promise to interview him first on his own ground.’

‘You mean without Maître Chardon?’ Durand grinned.

‘Yes, your examining magistrate feels just a little blinkered to me, if you’ll pardon my saying so.’

‘All right, Monsieur Norton, I give you my word as a fellow Republican, that I shall do my best to be blind to this man’s origins.’

James took his notebook out of his pocket, gave the
Inspector
Bernfeld’s name and address and explained. ‘Bernfeld was putting undue pressure on Mlle Fabre over a debt her father had incurred at the time when the man was courting her – in full expectation that they would marry. This menacing
pressure
, I believe, may well have been what led Olympe to try her hand at a little gentle blackmail. Once you’ve talked to
Bernfeld
, you, too, will see that my brother can have had nothing at all to do with that messy business.’

‘So that’s it, is it? Fighting your brother’s corner again. Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Tell me, Monsieur Norton. How did you come upon this Bernfeld?’

James almost said ‘through a letter’, then bit his lip. ‘Through an old friend of Olympe’s. A childhood friend.’

‘Indeed.’ The Inspector tipped his hat. ‘You have been busy. And is your own view that this Bernfeld is implicated in Olympe’s death?’

James swallowed. ‘Perhaps indirectly.’

‘Indirectly. I think I see. I shall leave you now, Monsieur. Convey my respects to your sister. And do try to calm her a little.’

He paused to wink at James as he stepped from the carriage. ‘You know, I have a feeling she may enjoy her hours in front of the jury.’

Harriet opened the apartment door to him. Her eyes were
red-rimmed
, her features swollen. She had evidently been crying.

‘She’s not well, James. I just got here half an hour ago. I’ve been trying to round up a doctor.’

‘It’s all right, Harriet. Dr Ponsard will be over as soon as he can.’

She gave him a grateful look. ‘Ellie’s just closed her eyes. Maybe she’ll sleep now. We should leave her to do so until the doctor comes.’

‘Tell me what’s happened.’

Harriet sat down a little unwillingly. Her fingers picked at the top buttons of her blouse, as if the collar constrained her and trapped her breath. He had never seen her so perturbed. He found himself reaching down to pat her shoulder in
reassurance
. It was oddly yielding.

He waited until she had regained a little of her composure. ‘Only if you can, Harriet. The Elliott’s alerted me that she’d taken a turn.’

‘It’s just … I don’t know …’ She looked round, as if afraid that Ellie might overhear. ‘When I got here, she started to rail at me. Told me it was all my fault.’

‘What was all your fault?’ James asked gently.

‘Well, that’s just it. I couldn’t make it out at first. Then I
realised
it couldn’t be me that she was addressing. She thought I was someone else. Or maybe she didn’t see me at all.’ Tears flooded her eyes. She wiped them away with a crumpled handkerchief.

After a moment, she astonished him by asking, ‘Why did Elinor never marry, James?’

‘I … I don’t rightly know.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘Did she say anything about it?’

Harriet shrugged. ‘Not directly. She was … well, I didn’t understand what she was saying exactly. There were
obscenities
. So much hatred. Such resentment.’ Her voice quivered.
‘I thought maybe if I knew more about that side of her life, about why she hadn’t married, it might clarify things.’

James thought back over the years. The question of Elinor’s marriage or lack of it wasn’t one he had ever put to himself directly. And it was so long since he had been privy to his sister’s daily life.

‘There was someone, a suitor, David Soames, if I remember correctly. It was when Father was still alive. She refused him.’