The Montmartre Investigation (4 page)

‘Victor, are you angry with me?'

‘You know perfectly well that I always make an effort to be careful, even without protection.'

He pushed a lock of hair back from her cheek.

‘We'll have to wait a little before we move on to the serious business and I advise you not to laugh,' he murmured, clasping her to him.

 

A little later, as they lay together on the narrow sofa, he came close to confessing that he had rented the hairdressers' shop.

‘Tasha, I…'

But she silenced him with a kiss. Everything ceased to exist, except her. He no longer felt the need to explain. Ideas, the future; nothing mattered. She stretched; she was happy. Her eyes were shining. Her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breathing.

‘I adore you. But my back hurts. We'll have to move to the bed!' she said over her shoulder, already making for the alcove.

 

Grégoire Mercier's sciatica was troubling him. How long had he been sheltering under the porch of this building under the suspicious eye of the concierge? Twenty, thirty minutes? And when would those two chatterboxes finally clear off?

He clutched his iron-tipped staff, anxious about his flock, left at home in the care of Berlaud. Angry that his find had been confiscated, the dog had registered his disgust by lying down and growling in Rocambole's cubby hole. That was a bad sign, a very bad sign. Grégoire hoped he would not take it out on the kids. The dog was becoming unpredictable in his old age.

Grégoire Mercier went over to the window and turned his gaze on the woman nearest him, as if he could force her to leave by a simple exercise of will.

Unaware of the thought waves aimed at her, Mathilde de Flavignol refused to comply. Oppressed by a grief she felt unable to contain, she had come to the bookshop hoping to be comforted by the bookseller. The seductive young Monsieur Legris aroused a strange excitement in her. But she was out of luck; he was absent, no doubt off paying court to that Russian hussy. The slightly hunchbacked blond shop assistant was there on his own, munching an apple as he read the newspaper. Still, she preferred him to the other one, the Oriental with the inscrutable expression.

She had scarcely begun to explain that her mourning sash marked the suicide of poor General Boulanger in Belgium, driven to shoot himself on the grave of his lover Marguerite de Bonnemain, when a woman in a fine wool suit, her grey hair braided under a ridiculous Tyrolean hat, had come in.

‘It's not my day; here's the Valkyrie,' muttered Joseph. Then, out loud, ‘Mademoiselle Becker, what a lovely surprise!'

‘
Guten Tag
, Monsieur Pignot. You're going to help me out, I know!'

Madame de Flavignol learned that this German lady was passionate about cycling and that she had come to look for works on the celeripede and the dandy horse, ancestors of the bicycle.

‘You see, Monsieur Pignot, I would like to give our national hero Charles Terront a present for winning.'

‘Who's Charles Terront?' demanded Mathilde de Flavignol.

‘I can't believe that you haven't heard of him! He's the winner of the Paris to Brest race – held last September, on the sixth. One thousand miles there and back in seventy-two hours! He pedalled day and night without stopping to sleep! What an outstanding man. And he's going to be giving cycling lessons at Bullier.'

‘Perhaps that would take my mind off my misery…You see I worshipped the General, a passionate man who could not bear the death of his Dulcinea. I made the journey to Ixelles to attend his funeral. What a magnificent ceremony! He still had many friends – that was clear from the crowd of French who went to his obsequies. Oh, I'll never get over it…Bullier…Isn't that a dance hall of ill-repute? It's said that La Goulue
⁷
danced the cancan there…I'm so miserable. Do you think that bicycling would…?'

‘Assuredly, Madame. The sport has two advantages: it has a very calming effect but it is also wonderful for firming up the calves!'

‘I'm too frightened to get in the saddle…'

‘Do you have a good sense of balance? Can you walk in a straight line?'

‘Well…I rarely drink too much.'

‘In that case you will certainly be able to master the bicycle, take my word for it.'

Joseph Pignot was not the only one to breathe a sigh of relief as the two women went off arm in arm, allowing him to settle down to his newspaper again. Hurrying out from his shelter and escaping the venomous eye of the concierge, Grégoire Mercier made his entrance.

What now? Jojo thought, his nostrils assailed by a pungent odour.

A strangely attired, snub-nosed fellow advanced towards him, pulled a woman's shoe from his cloak and laid it on the counter.

‘There you are. Berlaud found it this morning; he loves to pick up whatever's been left behind. Mind you I let him do it; nothing is more important than freedom and independence. When we got home again, I took a good look at what he'd found. Well, I said to myself, a lady's slipper. The lass who left behind that trinket must be furious, especially since it's beautifully made. I'm giving it to you; it just needs a bit of work from the cobbler. He'll be able to fix the holes; my dog bit it a little too hard.'

Stupefied, Jojo looked first at the embroidered red slipper, decorated with pearls, and then back at the strange man.

‘Why are you giving it to me?'

‘Because it has the name and address of your shop fitted inside, like an inner sole.'

He held the folded sheet of headed notepaper out to Jojo, who opened it out and read:

 

ELZÉVIR BOOKSHOP

V. LEGRIS – K. MORI,

Established in 1835. Antiquarian and New Books.

First Editions. Catalogue by Request.

18 Rue des Saints-Pères, Paris VI

 

‘Well that's truly bizarre!' he exclaimed. ‘Perhaps it belongs to a client.'

‘One who's not short of a penny? Who could afford to have precious stones on their shoes?'

Guessing that the visitor was fishing for a tip, Jojo opened the till and proffered two francs, but the strange fellow recoiled, offended.

‘Grégoire Mercier does not accept payment, other than for the produce of his goats. Naturally if the owner of the shoe wants to thank me with a little something I won't say no.'

He touched two fingers to his hat and turned to go.

‘Wait! Where did you unearth this shoe?'

‘In the middle of my rounds, after having delivered a bowl of milk from Nini Moricaude, who I feed on carrots, to Quai de la Tournelle…'

‘So your dog…?'

‘Berlaud scampered off. I heard lions roaring and I thought he'd pilfered a piece of their meat; he's old but intrepid. I whistled for him, he didn't come back, so…'

‘Right, well I'll do my best to return this shoe to the correct foot,' said Jojo nasally; he was breathing through his mouth to avoid the overpowering stench of goat. ‘Where can we find you if there's a reward?'

‘Ruelle des Reculettes, in the Croulebarbe quarter. Over there everyone knows Grégoire Mercier.'

When the man had gone Jojo examined the slipper carefully.

‘Yup, there's something odd about this shoe business. I'll have to put it in my notebook.'

‘Joseph! Who was that?'

‘Boss! Are you up? That's not allowed! What will become of us if you give the customers scarlet fever?'

‘I'm recovered. My quarantine expired thirty-four minutes and eighteen seconds ago. Show me that,' said Kenji, leaning over the banister.

Murmuring, ‘The Boss has put himself on Paris time,'
⁸
Jojo held out the shoe against his better judgement. Kenji studied it carefully, and his expression suddenly changed as if something terrible had happened. He let the slipper clatter to the floor. Jojo put it back on the counter.

‘Go and fetch me a cab, this instant!' commanded Kenji, in a husky voice.

‘A cab! You're joking! If he finds out, Monsieur Legris will slaughter me!'

‘It's an order!' shouted Kenji.

 

The afternoon was dull. The only visitors to the bookshop were a Paul Bourget enthusiast, a woman in pince-nez anxious to buy the latest book by Edmond de Goncourt on the painter Outamaro and two young men seeking travel books. At each tinkle of the doorbell, Jojo looked up hopefully, but neither of his bosses deigned to appear. At seven o'clock, neglected by everyone, he closed the shutters and abandoned ship. On the way out he picked up the red slipper and, not knowing what else to do with it, stuffed it into his pocket.

Rue Visconti, where Madame Pignot and her son lived, had been transformed by a fine and persistent autumn rain into a dark tunnel. Joseph bounded over the threshold and took refuge in the study his father, during his too-short life, had transformed into a bookseller's treasure trove. Euphrosine Pignot had finished her costermonger's rounds and was stirring her pots on the stone sink of their narrow lodgings. Joseph lit a match and adjusted the wick of the petrol lamp. The shelves, weighed down with books and newspapers, acted as a balm to his soul. He hung his soaking jacket on the back of a chair and hummed the disparaged couplet that had incurred Victor's displeasure:

The word ‘venom' revived his despair, reminding him of Valentine de Salignac, his lost treasure. Last May the niece of the Comtesse had married the nephew of the Duc de Frioul, a pretentious, drunken young rake named Boni de Pont-Joubert. Ever since their marriage, celebrated in the Église Saint-Roch the day after the shooting at Fourmies,
⁹
Jojo had been prey to those changes of mood that so annoyed Victor. The pain was gradually abating, but was reawakened by the merest trifle. Deep down he had known that his love for Valentine could never lead anywhere, and that the young girl had been forced into her alliance despite her own feelings for Joseph. But this had not stopped him from shelving his great literary project, destined to outdo the mysteries of Émile Gaboriau:
Blood and Love.

‘Women! First they inspire you and then, because of them, the muse deserts you! So, what am I going to do this evening? Perhaps I should go back to writing
The Life and Times of Rue Visconti
. I was at the chapter describing the attempted murder of Louis-Philippe by Louis Alibaud, resident of number 3, with a rifle-cane…'

Taking up a manuscript and a pencil he settled himself in a rickety armchair.

A chubby face topped with a chignon appeared round the door connecting the study to the rest of the apartment.

‘So, you are there, my pet? I thought I heard singing. You might have let me know you were here! Are you going to tuck into some lovely cabbage soup?'

‘Not hungry.'

‘You've got to eat! You're as white as a sheet and your arms are like lollipop sticks! You're wearing yourself out; I might have something to say to your bosses. And for heaven's sake, how many times over could Monsieur Mori have given you scarlet fever? That would have taken the biscuit! He's better at least?'

‘No, yes, I don't know. I'm writing in case you're interested…'

‘He should have taken my advice. Cupping is what draws the illness out from under the skin or leeches; it's six of one and half a dozen of the other. Writing or not, you've five minutes to come through for dinner.'

She wrinkled her nose and sniffed, looking about suspiciously.

‘There's a strange smell, and it's not my soup! Is it you, by any chance?'

‘Me? What does it smell of?' asked Jojo, flaring his nostrils.

Madame Pignot studied her son dispassionately; when had he stopped shaving?

‘It smells of goat. Right, five minutes!' she finished in a threatening tone as she went out.

Jojo sniffed his jacket. His mother had a keen sense of smell. The shoe! He pulled it from his pocket, took it over to the lamp and let the light play on it, the pearls shimmering. A fairy tale slipper, a Cinderella slipper…‘
The girl who fits this slipper shall be my betrothed…'

He imagined Valentine slowly removing her corset, her underskirts and her blouse…but his fantasy was ruined by the extremely disagreeable smell emanating from the red silk. What had that bizarre character been telling him? He'd mentioned a sheepfold, a street called ‘croule' something or other, a dog, goats, lions, a real muddle, but that smell…There was no doubt, it was the smell of goat. And the headed notepaper from the shop – was that just a coincidence? And why had Monsieur Mori run off like that at the sight of the shoe, as if he had had the devil at his heels?

‘Say what you like, it's not normal. I'll note it all down; it might come in handy…'

Just as he picked up his notebook, a ferocious voice thundered: ‘My pet! The five minutes are up! Your soup is getting cold!'

Friday 13 November

The bookshop was still slumbering, bathed in a gloomy half-light. A wisp of steam rose from a cup that had been left beside the bust of Molière. Kenji had spread a green cloth over the centre table and was busily arranging the wicker chairs that Jojo had fetched from the back of the shop. The silence was broken by the occasional rumble of a carriage on Rue des Saints-Pères.

‘I can't see a thing. Turn the lights up, will you, Joseph,' said Victor, yawning.

He tottered down the stairs. He should have resisted the urge to go back to bed after returning from Tasha's at dawn. He felt about as refreshed as a drunk nursing a hangover. He narrowly avoided colliding with Kenji.

‘What are you doing here? What about the quarantine?'

‘The ship is ready to weigh anchor. Dr Reynaud has given me a clean bill of health.'

‘And you have organised a party to celebrate this new freedom?'

‘May I remind you that we are receiving the Friends of Old Paris? Monsieur Anatole France said he would be coming. Why are you waving your arms about like that, Joseph?'

‘It's the battleaxe, Boss! I mean…the Comtesse de Salignac.'

Joseph indicated a haughty woman wrapped in a large, floral cape and wearing a stern expression who was standing outside the shop, waiting for someone to deign to let her in, which Kenji hurriedly did.

‘Not a moment too soon. I was beginning to believe you intended leaving me out there to freeze. It would appear you are opening late today. I see you have returned from your travels, Monsieur Mori.'

‘Yes, I…How may we be of service, my dear lady?'

The sound of the telephone ringing took Victor away.

‘I want three copies of Georges de Peyrebrune's latest book,
Giselle,
which Charpentier and Fasquelle are about to bring out. First editions, if possible.'

While Kenji went over to his desk, Joseph turned his back on the Comtesse and picked up the newspaper he had bought on his way to work.

‘If you had a modicum of manners, young man, you would offer me a seat on one of those numerous chairs. Unless of course they are merely for show,' said the Comtesse.

Jojo dropped the newspaper with a start, and it fell open on the floor. Victor, having hung up the receiver, was hurriedly pulling up a chair for the Comtesse. Ignoring his gesture, she extracted a lorgnette from her reticule, bent down and began reading an article out loud:

‘These rags are sickening!' cried the Comtesse, standing bolt upright. ‘Gore is all that interests them! If it isn't train crashes and executions, it's murder! And it is contaminating our literature. This article is as grotesque as the latest novel of Monsieur Huysmans!'

‘Are you referring to
The Damned?
' Victor asked.

‘I am indeed. Monsieur Huysmans might one day regret having written it. Many of his admirers, Monsieur Legris, already regret having read it. Poor France!'

She exited imperiously before Kenji, who had stood to attention, had a chance to say goodbye.

‘Was she referring to Monsieur Anatole?'

‘She was lamenting the moral state of the country,' Victor replied wearily. ‘Would you go and buy me a cigar, Joseph?'

Jojo grabbed his newspaper, relieved to have an excuse to slip away. Kenji watched him leave and then went upstairs under the pretext of writing a letter. He stood at his desk, fiddling with the corner of his blotter and idly contemplating a very fine ink-on-silk drawing of Mount Fuji by Kanõ Tanyu,
¹⁰
which he planned to frame. Through his clouded vision, the volcano took on the form of an enormous, snow-capped shoe. What had he done with the shoe that had given him such a fright? He seemed to recall having dropped it in the bookshop, or had he left it in the carriage? He had nearly asked Joseph, but stopped himself just in time, for that would have meant mentioning Iris. The events of the previous evening had been so confused! His panic when he had recognised the shoe Joseph had proffered as one he had bought in London; his frantic race to the Bontemps Boarding School, expecting to learn some tragic piece of news; his dread of revealing his secret to Victor; his relief when Iris came running towards him, overjoyed at his surprise visit, and the explanation she had given for the lost shoe. He had been awake all night rehearsing the conversation he had now resolved to have with Victor, which he had put off for so long.

He shut himself in the bathroom, and after holding his hands under the hot-water tap for a moment placed them over his face. He looked at a photograph in an ornate frame that stood on a marble shelf above the washbasin:
Daphné and Victor, London 1872.
A young, dark-haired woman was lovingly embracing a boy of around twelve and staring at the camera with a dreamy expression. Kenji picked up the portrait and pressed it to his lips.

 

Joseph walked, reading his newspaper so avidly that he narrowly avoided colliding with a passer-by.

‘Well, I'll be damned!' he muttered.

He hurried back, racing through the bookshop to where Victor stood, holding a leather-bound volume.

‘I thought you were never coming back. Where's my cigar?' asked Victor.

‘Just listen to this, Boss! The dead woman at Killer's Crossing had no shoes on! And guess what? She was dressed in red.'

‘Joseph, when will you get over your morbid interest in murders?' groaned Victor.

‘But, Boss, it's astonishing, because yesterday this strange fellow came in here with a red shoe and you'll never guess what he'd found in it: a piece of the bookshop's headed notepaper, and when Monsieur Mori saw it he turned so crimson I thought he was ill again!'

‘When Monsieur Mori saw what?' Victor asked, exasperated.

‘The shoe! He sent me out to hail a cab while he got dressed quick as a flash. He was in a right old panic!'

‘And you let him go! Well done!'

‘Confound it! Am I a shop assistant or a nursemaid?'

‘Just calm down and tell me exactly what happened.'

‘Very well, I shall speak clearly to avoid confusion. The chap with the shoe reeked of goats and looked like a peasant. He talked so loudly that Monsieur Mori overheard him. I had no choice but to show him the shoe. He looked as if he'd seen a ghost!'

‘Do you know where he went?'

‘Saint-Mandé 15 Chausée de l'Étang. That's the address he shouted to the cabby.'

‘Where is this shoe?'

Victor carefully examined the slipper Joseph took from his pocket. On the inside he noticed the name of the manufacturer printed in gold lettering:

‘Blimey! Made in England,' Jojo breathed, leaning over his shoulder. ‘Do you think Monsieur Mori…? I mean he's often been to London.'

‘Don't talk such rubbish. Go and serve that lady. I'll be back shortly,' Victor said, pocketing the shoe.

‘Morbid interest, eh! People should practice what they preach,' Joseph muttered, making his way over to the customer.

 

The cab dropped Victor in Rue de la République. He walked away from the Bastille-La Varenne railway line, the recent site of an appalling accident, and past the Saint-Mandé town hall. The rhythmic tapping of his cane on the pavement punctuated his thoughts.

This really is the limit! There's no earthly reason for poking my nose into Kenji's affairs. Naturally, anything that affects him concerns me, and I do find his peculiar behaviour worrying, but anxiety does not justify indiscretion. Admit it, Victor, you've once again fallen prey to your fondness for mysteries!

As he strolled past the fine villas, whose gardens stood in a row overlooking the lake and the Bois de Vincennes, he had a sudden urge to bring Tasha to this place. He recalled a line from a poem by Victor Hugo:

Did not the remains of the poet's great love, Juliette Drouet, lie in the Saint-Mandé graveyard?

He read the brass plate on the railings of number 15:

 

C. BONTEMPS BOARDING SCHOOL

Private Establishment for Young Ladies

 

‘This is a strange place to keep a mistress,' he muttered.

A plump, moon-faced woman of about forty greeted him. She was dressed in the style of the Empress Eugenie and wore her hair parted in the middle and drawn into a bun.

‘My respects, Madame; I am here on behalf of Monsieur Mori, my business associate.'

‘Oh! Are you a bookseller too? What an honour. Please come in. Dear Monsieur Mori! He seemed so upset yesterday. Mademoiselle Iris realised only a few moments after her godfather's departure that he had left his cane behind. Your visit couldn't be better timed; you will be able to return the precious object to him.'

Victor stood in front of a mantelpiece adorned with flounces and porcelain statues, desperately trying to gather his thoughts. Iris! Was he finally to meet the mysterious woman who had aroused his curiosity these past two years; the woman Kenji visited regularly in London but kept hidden from him? It had been months since Kenji had last ventured across the Channel and Victor had assumed their romance was over. Iris was the very young girl once glimpsed in a photograph taken at the Universal Exhibition, but whose face he simply could not remember.

Her godfather my eye! So this is where he keeps her locked up! Victor thought to himself.

‘Please take a seat,' said Mademoiselle Bontemps, pointing to an ottoman. Monsieur…'

‘Legris. I should like to speak to Mademoiselle Iris. Here is my card.'

‘Oh! Well, I did not wish to appear suspicious, but…'

‘It is only natural.'

‘I am glad to hear you say so. You see I have my instructions. Of course, our boarders are free to walk about town; they watch over one another and report on each others' deeds and conduct, but as far as conversing with strangers is concerned…Monsieur Mori never mentioned an associate. Have you worked together for long?'

‘I was three years old when my father first employed Monsieur Mori.'

Mademoiselle Bontemps lifted a plump hand to her mouth to suppress a nervous giggle.

‘Goodness, how extraordinary that he never once mentioned your name!'

‘He is a reserved gentleman.'

‘Such reserve is comparable with deceit! That said; judge not that you be not judged. Would you care for a macaroon?'

She held out a plate to him, which he declined with a smile. She helped herself generously before going to find Iris.

Victor was astonished to see a young girl, not more than seventeen, walk towards him. Her childlike features brought back the faded image of the photograph he had glimpsed without Kenji's knowledge. She was pretty, possessed of an exotic beauty: olive skin, almond eyes and a dainty, delicately curved nose. Her dark hair, worn in braids tied with a ribbon at her neck, made her look even younger.

Surely it's rather lecherous of Kenji, who's fifty-two, to have such a young girl for a lover! I'd never have guessed. And he is attracted to women of an entirely different type: mature, shapely, provocative. His last lover, Ninon Delarme,
¹¹
would have turned the head of a saint…Who is this girl? Might she really be his goddaughter? Or even his daughter? If so, then her mother must be a European. His daughter! Impossible! He would have told me!

He felt uneasy, afraid of committing an indiscretion. It seemed best to go straight to the point.

‘Good day, Mademoiselle. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Victor Legris, an associate of…'

‘What a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Legris. Godfather has often spoken of you!' cried Iris.

‘Oh! I assumed…Mademoiselle Bontemps did not know of my existence.'

‘My godfather doesn't tell everybody everything! He loves to shroud himself in mystery. I'm sure it's because he reads so many novels. I rarely read them myself; I avoid filling my head with fantasies. The day I leave this boarding school, I shall start to look after him, bring him down to earth a little! Nothing bad has happened to him, I hope?'

‘He is in perfect health. He is concerned about you, that is all.'

‘Why? I explained to him about the shoes.'

Victor handed her the single slipper that had been stuffed in his pocket. Iris took it, trying to conceal the flicker of emotion that crossed her face. She fingered the marks Berlaud's fangs had made.

‘Yes, I lent them to Élisa, a schoolmate. She insisted – even though they were too wide for her. It's odd that she should have lost one. How featherbrained she is!'

‘This piece of paper was inside.'

‘I know. My idea was to make an inner sole to stop her foot from slipping out. She wanted to look elegant and…If I had known it would create such trouble…'

She blushed as she handed the shoe back to Victor, who sensed that she was lying.

‘And where is your friend?'

‘At her mother's house.'

‘Are you sure?'

He started at her so intently that she began to lose her nerve.

‘Oh! Monsieur Legris, please don't mention it to anybody! Élisa trusts me. She begged me to help her, so I told Mademoiselle Bontemps that while she was out Élisa's mother had telephoned to say that she was unwell and asked that her daughter go to her immediately. Mademoiselle Bontemps believed me.'

‘What is the man's name?'

She looked at him, aghast.

‘What is her lover's name?' Victor repeated.

‘Gaston. He's very nice. He came secretly to Trouville with us.'

‘Where does he live?'

‘Élisa hasn't told me his address. But she said she likes his place because she can hear the wolves howling from his bedroom.'