Читать книгу Strangled in Paris: 6th Victor Legris Mystery - Claude Izner - Страница 11

Never in all his life had Alfred Gamache been as worried as he was now. Even thinking about the sight of Pauline’s generous breasts as she unlaced her bodice was not enough to calm him down. If he had known that their amorous rendezvous would lead to so much bother and trouble with the police, he would have left well alone. And all this because of some silly fool who was completely unable to take any responsibility for things himself!

Through half-closed eyes, he observed the column of two-legged ants hunched over unloading a cargo of bricks from a barge whose full belly was blocking the whole of the La Villette dock. His attention was caught by someone approaching him. It was a young man with regular features and a neat black moustache, dressed in a tweed suit and a felt hat set at an angle on his head.

‘This looks like more trouble,’ he said to himself as the stranger accosted him.

‘Excuse me, could you direct me to the person who found the body of the strangled woman?’

‘I knew it! First the inspector in the hussar’s jacket, like something out of an operetta, then the tall, mysterious chap with a limp, and now you. Everybody’s looking for him – shame he’s gone!’

Victor raised an eyebrow. The mention of the hussar’s jacket had made him think of his corpulent rival, Inspector Lecacheur.

‘He’s already cleared off, the rascal!’

‘I’m sorry? I don’t think I follow you. Is Monsieur Gamache no longer here?’ Victor asked the uniformed man.

‘I’m Gamache.’

‘Ah, you’re the watchman at the tollgate and, unless I’m very much mistaken, you take your duties seriously!’

A flicker of doubt crossed Alfred Gamache’s mind. Despite his relaxed air, this fellow could be some kind of plain-clothes official, one of those mysterious superior beings who moved in such distant spheres that trying to picture them in his mind was rather like trying to picture the gods of Olympus. In which case, it would be no use covering for an imbecile and jeopardising his own job.

‘I only reported the death. As for the other bloke, the actual witness of the crime, I didn’t tell anybody about him because he’s a little bit simple, and I’d have felt like a swine if I’d brought him into it. He’s scared out of his wits, poor old Lorson.’

‘Lorson?’

‘Martin Lorson. He used to live around here, but he’s upped sticks and gone to live in the abattoirs, or at least he sleeps there, anyway. During the day, he doesn’t stay in one place – a real nomad! He must have set up camp with one of his friends.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Berthier, Norpois, maybe Collin. Unless he’s gone as far as Jaquemin’s place, on Rue de Flandre, at the Érard piano factory. Why are you writing that down? Who are you?’

‘Victor Legris, your humble servant. My wife does illustrations for a newspaper, Le Passe-partout. She draws the latest news items for the front page, sometimes for pieces on politics, sometimes on crime. She’s also a painter, and is preparing for an exhibition soon, so she asked me to come and find out the facts of this case.’

‘Oh, she’s a painter!’ exclaimed Alfred Gamache, as a huge weight suddenly lifted; he was so relieved that he put aside his bayonet, leaning it against one of the columns of the rotunda. ‘I’ve got a friend who’s a painter – a colleague of mine. He’s been a customs officer for more than thirty years at the Vanves tollgate. In his free time, he does a bit of painting. I’m not very taken with his pictures – they look like a cross between a child’s drawing and those advertisement posters; you know the sort. The ones that say “Nasty cough? Géraudel lozenges”, or “Julius Maggi consommé”, except that his pictures have titles like The Artillerymen, The Revolutionaries, and the like…’

‘Really?’ mumbled Victor, in a hurry to get away.

‘Yes, yes. Every time he has an exhibition, I go along with my old lady – it’s a nice outing for us. Last year, we went to the Independent Salon, and there were some real jokers exhibiting there! Perhaps you’ve heard of him – Henri Rousseau, otherwise known as Le Douanier Rousseau?14 His colours and shapes aren’t half peculiar!’

‘My wife must know him, I’m sure. Thank you.’

‘Hey! Monsieur, seeing as you hang around with journalists, try not to mention Lorson’s name. It may be no big deal to you, but he’d go barmy with fear if you did!’

‘Don’t worry. If he tells me his story, I’ll say it came from an anonymous source. My wife can do a very impressionist rendering of the whole scenario.’

Alfred Gamache went back to his guard duty, happy to have escaped the vigilance of the police bigwigs and to have contributed to the production of a work of art.

Large wet snowflakes were falling from a heavy sky and turning to slush as soon as they touched the pavement of Rue de Flandre. Victor took care not to slip, feeling glad that he had taken public transport rather than his bicycle. The low grey cloak which seemed to envelop the city gave the morning a twilight feel. He kept on having to step aside to avoid passers-by wrapped up in mufflers. Commercial vehicles rumbled along the dirty roadway in a steady stream, and were occasionally sprayed with mud by a passing omnibus or carriage that seemed out of place in this industrial zone. Everything contributed to the melancholy atmosphere, and yet a feeling of excitement was gradually creeping over Victor. If he had stopped to analyse it, he would have recognised the thrill of a new investigation beginning.

Near the abattoirs, the ground floors of the buildings contained an astonishing number of little cafés: À l’Amiral, Au Veau d’Or, Au Mouton Blanc, Au Bélier d’Argent. The strains of a merry-go-round barrel organ blended with the clanking of the railway that ran nearby, and a series of hideous papier-mâché cows revolved in time to the music, pursued by equally hideous cockerels in an endless round.

Victor came to the vast expanse of the abattoirs. There was an imposing pillar with a clock and behind it five wide avenues opened out before him. He felt uneasy. Which way should he go? Should he take the avenue named ‘Pigpens’, or one of the ones simply called ‘North’, ‘Centre’ or ‘South’, or the one named ‘Coaches’? Either way, he would have to penetrate deeper into this hell of wails, groans and cracking whips. What insatiable demons reigned over this place of torment? Men, nothing more: butcher’s boys in clogs and stained aprons, armed with mallets and cleavers.

Directly ahead was a succession of numbered sheds. A group of slaughterers was hoisting a skinned cow onto a large iron hook. Carcass-cutters, gutspinners, blood collectors, scourers and knackers moved busily around the dead animal in a gruesome ballet that could have been set in an ogre’s kitchen.

Victor set off, his eyes fixed on the ground, plunging into the maze of streets, scattered with piles of debris. With clenched teeth, jostled and scolded as he went, he made his way past sheds strewn with the unspeakable by-products of butchery. He stopped to catch his breath on the threshold of a large low-ceilinged room. Five strapping young men, with their sleeves rolled up above their elbows, were working around a long table and, a terrible sight to behold, their arms were red with blood. Victor’s stomach churned and he had to look away, but what he saw next was even worse: on a wooden tray, a pile of sheep’s heads gazed at him. In their eyes he saw a terror which was to haunt his dreams for many nights to come. He drew back, unable to wrench his gaze away from the animals’ empty stares. He swayed and nearly fell against two men who were extracting tongues and brains just as though they were removing the stones from fruit. Victor felt as though he had been transported back to the time of the Inquisition, into a torture chamber where innocent victims were being interrogated. He was still trying in vain to gather his thoughts when he heard the sound of his own voice.

‘Norpois, Collin, Berthier?’

‘In the tripe-house!’

He beat a hasty retreat. As he went mechanically from one room to the next, his only thought was that he should try to forget all this, and pretend he had never been here.

The first room was full of workers sorting piles of horns and hooves, destined to become combs or buttons. The tufts of hair from the ends of the cows’ tails would be turned into cushions or plumes for military helmets. The hairs pulled from inside their ears would go to make fine paintbrushes.

Victor reflected that humanity relied for its comfort on the daily annihilation of millions of living creatures. No historian had every documented this particular martyrdom. Civilisation rested on an immense mountain of suffering and fear. He would have given anything to be elsewhere, but he continued on his way.

In the third room he came to, his luck finally changed. About twenty men were dealing with piles of stomachs: future slippers and bandages. Others were handling ewe foetuses, soon to be made into household soap.

‘Monsieur Norpois! Monsieur Berthier! Monsieur Collin!’ he cried.

One of the workers pointed to a red-haired giant washing down a heap of entrails with a hose.

‘That’s Berthier.’

‘Are you Monsieur Berthier? I’m looking for Martin Lorson – it’s important.’

The giant nodded and showed him to a courtyard surrounded by small huts.

‘The third from the left.’

Victor had to knock at the worm-eaten door for a long time before it was inched open.

‘Monsieur Lorson? Martin Lorson?’

The man, as fat at the front as he was behind, peered at him with bulging eyes from beneath a moth-eaten old top hat.

‘I’m a friend of Monsieur Gamache’s. I’ve come to ask you about the terrible scene you witnessed. As a detective, I shall be able to ensure your safety.’

Feeling suspicious, Martin Lorson blocked the door with his foot.

‘Why should I believe you? Show me your badge.’

‘I’m a private investigator, and I work freelance, Monsieur Lorson. I’m not employed by the police, but you are free to enquire into my good character – here’s my card.’

‘You work in a bookshop?’

‘Yes, I do. It’s up to you, Monsieur Lorson. You’ve got my address,’ said Victor, doffing his hat.

Martin Lorson considered the card for a moment, and then his visitor, who was walking away now.

‘Monsieur, wait! Come back!’

The hut stank of manure. Victor forced himself not to cover his nose with his handkerchief. They remained standing in the dim light.

‘Will Gamache really answer for you?’

‘Yes, I told you, he’s a friend of mine.’

‘What’s his first name?’

‘Alfred.’

Victor’s instantaneous reply dispelled Martin Lorson’s suspicion. He heaved a sigh and whispered, ‘You won’t go telling the police?’

‘You have my word.’

‘You haven’t got a cigarette, by any chance?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’d give anything for a few puffs.’ With his hand outstretched, Martin Lorson suddenly became still. ‘Excuse my bad manners, but I’ve been living off what I can steal for nearly four days now, I haven’t got a penny left and I’ve lost my job. Would you mind …?’

‘Keep the packet.’

‘I’m sorry to be indiscreet, Monsieur … Legris, but I’d like to know why you’re concerned for my safety.’

‘The reason may surprise you. I’m not only a bookseller, I also write stories for serials in the newspapers, and I’m interested in unsolved cases. I use them to test investigation methods that I want to write about. I don’t ask for any money, naturally.’

‘I’m extremely grateful to you,’ said Martin Lorson.

‘And, now that you’ve questioned me, I hope you won’t mind if I ask you something in return?’

‘Not at all.’

‘What exactly did you see?’

Martin Lorson lit a second cigarette.

‘I need to talk about this, get it off my chest. I’ll tell you the story as I remember it. But just because I say it happened a certain way, that doesn’t mean that it was actually like that – I was awfully drunk and it was dark …’

He described the masked woman playing hopscotch, the sudden appearance of the man in the felt hat, the murder, the flight of the assassin, followed by his immediate and incomprehensible return. He mumbled, swallowing half his words. When he had finished, he rummaged in the pockets of his threadbare suit and pulled out a chain with a medallion hanging from it, on which there was an engraving of a unicorn shown in profile, seated on its haunches and surrounded by a black border.

‘I picked this horrible beast up next to the corpse. Please take it – it gives me the creeps. It’s a talisman and it has some kind of malign influence,’ he said in a low voice.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Ever since I picked it up it’s been bringing me bad luck.’

Slowly, concealing his excitement at being the first to see this concrete clue, Victor put the trinket in his pocket.

‘Are you going to stay living here for long?’

‘Why?’ asked Martin Lorson, becoming suspicious again.

‘I might need to contact you. This investigation still has a long way to go.’

‘I’ll get in touch with you.’

‘I’ll only contact you if it’s absolutely necessary,’ Victor insisted. ‘Would it be of any use to you if I …’

He held out a five-franc piece. Martin Lorson hesitated, took the coin and then, looking shamefaced, made as if to give it back, but Victor said, ‘No, keep it.’

‘Thank you. What a life. I haven’t always lived like this, Monsieur, if only you knew—’

‘I had guessed as much. Goodbye.’

‘Freeloaders, and women’s meddling, that’s what brings down a ministry!’ Lorson muttered to Victor’s receding back.

Victor had nearly reached the exit to the abattoirs when he came across a mob of people. He stopped, unable to believe his eyes. A group of men and women were waiting their turn to sip from a bowl of red liquid that a butcher was holding out to them.

Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He had never seen anything as bad as this.

‘Get in line!’ a policeman warned him.

Victor made a faint gesture of refusal. He felt as though he were losing his grip on reality. He leant against the railings and closed his eyes. He had heard of this practice: a dose of warm, fresh blood was reputed to cure nervous disorders and tuberculosis.

Trembling, and revolted by the sickly smell, he walked along past a cold store and found himself back at the Ourcq canal. A stray dog eyed him for a moment before going back to foraging among the contents of a bin. The snow had stopped falling.

*

Kenji had been careful not to let his irritation show when, for the hundredth time, his business partner had not arrived at work until almost midday. Kenji had sat down at his desk and carried on working imperturbably on his spring catalogue. Although on the outside he was a picture of serenity, on the inside he was outraged.

‘No respect! Part of the furniture! I’m just part of the furniture! Everyone has abandoned me!’

Iris, his precious daughter and the centre of his universe, had become a stranger to him, enamoured of his shop assistant, who was infatuated with himself: Joseph had become even more insolent since his marriage. A little brat would soon arrive and turn the household upside down with its screaming and its tantrums. Euphrosine Pignot had extended her despotic rule over the whole family. And, to cap it all, Victor clearly begrudged the time he spent working in the bookshop. It seemed to Kenji that growing old was indeed like swallowing a bitter draught of tea. Was this a transition period? Had he been alone for too long? He felt himself becoming intellectually weaker, as the passing years relentlessly sapped his enthusiasm, and yet he still wanted to see more of life.

The voice of youth seemed to whisper: ‘Throw off your ties! Live your life!’ Torn between his love for his family and his desire for independence, he could not quite resolve to leave Rue des Saints-Pères and the Elzévir bookshop, the fruit of so many years’ work.

There’s nothing to stop me renting a room in town, he thought.

This vision of escape had begun to occupy his mind at the beginning of the year. He had received a letter from the disconcerting Eudoxie Allard, alias Fifi Bas-Rhin, alias the Archduchess Maximova, who assured him that she had not forgotten him in icy St Petersburg, and that soon she would be coming to Paris to embrace him. Kenji’s thoughts, however, had turned away from Eudoxie Allard. Instead, he was building castles in the air for Tasha’s mother, Djina Kherson, whom he imagined crossing the threshold of the room he could not quite resolve to rent.

That’s all very well, but how will I persuade her to come and see me, he wondered. How should I play it with a woman as intelligent, cultivated and slightly puritanical as she is? A woman who has passed the first flush of youth but still seems so youthful. A woman who would accept me as I am?

First of all, he would ask her advice about trifling details to do with the decoration or the colour of the curtains in his bachelor flat. Then he would try to get closer to her, tell her more about himself, make her laugh … In his mind, he began to construct an intimate relationship, rich in shared pleasures, emotions and promises.

When the time came for the family to gather for the midday meal, a minor incident confirmed his decision. Victor had stayed to eat and Euphrosine, annoyed by this unforeseen eventuality, had grumbled that she had made enough for four, not five, and that the portions would all be too small. She had prepared a celery salad followed by broad beans in a béchamel sauce, a feast of vegetables that suited Iris but left the three men feeling rather disappointed. Nevertheless, they ate heartily, careful not to offend their chef, who served them with such authority and refused to sit down herself until they had finished everything on their plates. The moment had finally come when they were about to tuck in to an eagerly anticipated orange blancmange, when Iris suddenly stopped chewing and, after a discreet exploration with her index finger, pulled a morsel of food out of her mouth and examined it suspiciously.

‘This looks … This looks like a piece of ham!’

Euphrosine responded with a bellow like an enraged bull.

‘Anybody would think I was trying to poison you! Oh, nobody knows the efforts I go to!’

Iris looked to Kenji and Joseph for support, but they maintained a diplomatic silence, although they had rather enjoyed the rich flavour of the ham in amongst all the vegetables.

‘And they call themselves men!’ cried the young woman indignantly. ‘I can’t count on anyone!’

She jumped up and ran off to shut herself in her bedroom. Joseph plucked up the courage to brave his mother’s wrath.

‘You know perfectly well she can’t stand meat!’

‘It’s not for the meat, it’s for the fat! She’s as skinny as a rake, that girl! I’m just trying to help the poor little baby!’

Victor chose this moment to interject.

‘If everybody who ate meat took the trouble to have a look at what goes on in abattoirs, they’d be permanently cured of their taste for a juicy steak. Luckily for them, they never do!’

‘Jesus, Mary and all the saints!’ cried Euphrosine. ‘Is that the way it is now? In that case, you can all make your own food!’

A second door slammed. Looking pale, Kenji quietly folded his napkin. ‘Well done, Victor, nicely timed. I’m going out and I’ll be back late,’ he muttered.

‘I’ll look after the shop,’ said Victor.

Joseph listened for a moment to Iris’s loud sobs and to his mother’s curses, and then he opened the door of the cupboard where the remains of a plate of roast beef and some cold potatoes still sat, looking a little forlorn by this time. As he chewed his way through it, he began to think about the second instalment of his serial, The Devil’s Bouquet, in which the unfortunate Carmella was destined to be murdered by the dastardly Zandini. Such literary concerns allowed him to rise above life’s little trials.

The afternoon passed without mishap. Euphrosine had taken refuge at her home in Rue Visconti with the dignity of a queen who has been severely wronged, and Iris hadn’t reappeared.

Victor was going over various theories about the murder of Louise Fontane and turning the unicorn talisman over and over in his hand, when the door opened and Horace Tenson, otherwise known as Pocket Size, also known as Abridged Edition, burst in.

‘I bring fresh news, Legris. I’ve got a petition here against the proliferation of velocipedes. The bicycle is killing the book trade! Devotees of this form of transport no longer have time to discover the wonders of literature! You agree, I assume?’

‘Of course, of course. I support your demands and will put my stamp on your petition.’

Satisfied with this response, Horace Tenson straddled a chair and began to recount the strange tale of the manuscript of Le Neveu de Rameau, which had been bought three years earlier by Georges Monval from a colleague of his.15 Meanwhile, Joseph was distracted by having to answer the telephone twice and promise the caller, who happened to be the Comtesse de Salignac, that he would order the book by Dr Lesshaft that she wanted to give to her niece, Valentine.

‘Yes, Madame la Comtesse, On the Education of the Child in the Family, and its Significance. No, I haven’t forgotten. Yes, I’ve noted it down. Goodbye, Madame la Comtesse.’

He put the phone down, muttering that the battle-axe was going soft in the head. Victor hardly raised an eyebrow, cornered as he was by Horace Tenson’s endless tirade.

Joseph heard the sound of footsteps upstairs and, suddenly feeling a surge of desire for his beloved other half, decided to close the shop. He was pulling the first shutter to when Kenji appeared.

‘Already? It’s not time yet!’

‘It’s only five minutes to closing …’

‘All right, carry on,’ said Kenji, and made his way towards the back of the shop, whistling.

There was a sudden cacophony of crashing and clanking.

‘Victor! How many times have I told you to keep your bicycle somewhere else?’

Victor coughed sheepishly as Tenson froze and eyed Victor with all the haughtiness he could summon.

‘Traitor!’ he bellowed.

He swept out of the bookshop under Kenji’s amused gaze.

‘I fear I may have committed a faux-pas,’ he remarked sardonically.

‘You did it on purpose.’

‘Of course I did it on purpose! It was the only way I could rid you of that agitator. His petition is doing the rounds of the bookshops, and I’ve had the privilege of signing it too. I bet he subjected you to the saga of Le Neveu de Rameau.’

‘You seem to be in a good mood,’ said Victor, who suddenly noticed that his adoptive father’s hair was turning grey.

‘Yes, I am feeling rather sprightly. This morning, I was down in the dumps and this evening everything looks rosy. I have no idea what the reason for this change might be.’

He was lying shamelessly but didn’t feel any remorse. The reason was a certain widow, Madame Duverger, owner of a small apartment to rent at 6, Rue de l’Échelle. Negotiations were already well under way and a decision would probably be made the next day.

He’s getting old, thought Victor. He’s pretending to be happy, but he can’t pull the wool over my eyes. I’ve known him for too long. He still has a childlike side. He needs us to look after him.

Choked by a flood of emotion, he cleared his throat and, for the first time, dared to stretch out his hand and put it on Kenji’s shoulder. The gesture made Kenji jump, with its unexpected tenderness. He looked at the son of his now-dead beloved, Daphné Legris, with a strange pleasure. He had nursed him through all his childhood illnesses, and had taught him to love literature, to face up to his fears and his inhibitions. He had also given Victor his love of mystery.

‘You who are the embodiment of learning,’ said Victor, removing his hand, ‘do unicorns have some kind of special symbolic significance?’

Joseph, still wrestling with the final shutter, stopped short and listened. Kenji looked up, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. His gaze passed from Victor to his son-in-law and then back to Victor again.

‘You flatter me,’ he said ‘I’m not as knowledgeable as all that. Unicorns … unicorns … Some say that it’s nothing more than an idealised or sublimated version of a rhinoceros or a narwhal. I’ve seen some … Let me think … It was in an illuminated bible … Ah yes! The Petrus Comestor Bible.16 A very rare book, a real gem, printed in 1499.’

‘And?’

‘He depicts the unicorn between Adam and Eve, under the tree of knowledge. It’s the same theme as the tapestries in the Musée de Cluny.’17

‘Is that all?’

‘If I remember rightly, alchemists associate this mythical animal with sulphur and mercury. Does that satisfy your curiosity? On that note, good night. I’ve been working on a new combat technique with a friend just back from Japan and I’m worn out.’

‘Aren’t you a bit old for that sort of thing?’

‘You must be joking! There’s nothing old about me!’ retorted Kenji, bounding towards the staircase.

Joseph waited until his brother-in-law had left the room before locking up the shop. As Victor, pushing his bicycle, was about to leave, Joseph barred his way.

‘Boss – I mean, Monsieur Legris – I overheard your conversation. There are two places in Paris where you could find more detailed information about unicorns: the Supernatural Bookshop, run by Monsieur Chamuel, on Rue de Trévise, and the Independent Art Bookshop on Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin.’

‘Thank you, Joseph. Just a moment.’

Victor handed his steed to Joseph, emptied his pockets onto the counter and took down the addresses in his notebook.

‘Why are you interested in this horned creature?’

‘No real reason, just a funny dream I had. Good night, Joseph. See you tomorrow.’

‘Look how fast he skedaddles on that thing! He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t come a cropper one of these days. I’m sure he’s hiding something from me. I could swear it,’ muttered Joseph, walking back towards the counter.

Victor had left his pen and a folded piece of paper near the telephone. Intrigued, Joseph saw that it was a page torn from L’Intransigeant.

‘Hmm, he reads that now, does he? What’s this all about?’

He noticed that one article in the ‘news in brief’ section had been circled in red.

‘Gosh!’

This morning at dawn, two police officers on their beat around the La Villette area discovered the lifeless body of a young woman of about twenty-five, elegantly dressed and wearing a black eye mask. She was lying, strangled, near the rotunda, not far from the canal. She has not yet been identified. Alfred Gamache, the watchman at the tollgate, was questioned by the police but said that he had not seen anything. The body was taken to the morgue.

A few names had been scribbled in the margin; Joseph recognised Victor’s handwriting.

Maurice Laumier. Mireille Lestocart. Louise Fontane, her cousin, blonde hair dyed black. Alfred Gamache. Martin Lorson at the abattoirs or at the Érard piano factory.

I bet the sly old dog’s started on a new investigation! This time, he’s going to collaborate with me whether he likes it or not, right from the beginning! I’m sick of always being ten steps behind him.

He checked the date on the newspaper: Saturday 10 February 1894. The scent was still fresh! Feeling buoyed up, he went upstairs and into the kitchen. Sitting opposite each other at the table, Iris and Kenji were nibbling at a dandelion salad. He kissed his wife chastely on the forehead.

‘You should go to bed, my sweet. I’ll do the washing up and then I’ll come and join you.’