The Murders at Impasse Louvain

by Richard Grindal

  ‘The damage to your feelings, I suppose.’ Gautier pointed at the instruments of torture which ringed the room around them. ‘Perhaps it was all this which sparked off his violence. If you encourage sadism you should expect to get hurt once in a while.’

  We weren’t even in here. We were in the Byzantine room.’ Why didn’t you lodge a complaint of assault with the police?’

  ‘For the same reason as I’m telling you all this: I didn’t want to lose my job. And the compensation they paid me was generous, I’ll give him that. So why should I drag in the police?’

  ‘Why indeed? Would you know where I might be likely to find this Nicki?’

  ‘No, unless you try Maxim’s. He told me he dines there almost every night.’

  * * *

  Leaving La Maison des Anglais, Gautier decided that exercise might stimulate his brain and he walked home. Although he did not have much for a day spent in following hunches, he was not discouraged. The Juge d’Instruction, Loubet, had accused Josephine Hassler of conspiring to have her husband murdered by paid assassins so she would be free to earn money by a life of coquetry. Newspapers had hinted that the killer was some scoundrel, a servant perhaps, whom she had taken to her bed and who might now be blackmailing her. Gautier did not believe either theory. He was looking for a man with money and social position because he was convinced that Josephine Hassler was too class-conscious and too fastidious to become involved in any sordid affair with sordid people. He also suspected that he should be looking for a man whom sexual passion or jealousy could drive into a homicidal frenzy.

  The man who had attacked Mimi at La Maison des Anglais appeared to satisfy both descriptions. She had said that he was always accompanied by a retainer or bodyguard and Gautier remembered Claudine’s description of the man who waited in the lane outside Josephine Hassler’s house whenever she was entertaining a certain male friend. That could be just coincidence and a slender one at that, but Gautier was prepared to spend a little more time on it, to probe a little further.

  When he reached home, Suzanne was already in bed but not yet asleep. She offered to get up and cook him a meal but he told her he had already eaten. As he undressed he felt a nagging sense of guilt that he had been leaving her alone too much, unnecessarily, because the enquiries he had been making could easily have waited until the following day. Not many women would have accepted the neglect and the loneliness without complaint.

  As he lay next to her in bed, he found himself thinking of La Maison des Anglais, of the almost naked body of Mimi, of her large, provocative mouth. The memory invoked a stab of desire and this, coupled with affection and remorse, triggered a sudden impulse. Reaching out he placed his fingers just below Suzanne’s breast and began very gently to stroke her in a way which invariably aroused her.

  ‘Please, Jean-Paul, not tonight,’ she said and pushed his hand away.

  XVI

  WHEN THE FIACRE drew to a halt in Rue Royale and he helped Claudine out, Gautier, in spite of the cynicism bred by his years in the police force, could not suppress a feeling of excitement. Maxim’s was easily the most celebrated restaurant in Paris, virtually a club for gentlemen of society and a glittering shop-window for the most expensive, the most beautiful and the most coveted women of the demi-monde. Stories of the scandalous liaisons which were paraded there every night, of the restaurant’s gaiety and extravagance, were breathlessly repeated and admired by the whole of Paris.

  It was not so much the reputation of Maxim’s, however, which filled Gautier with pleasurable anticipation, but a sense of the occasion. There he was, walking into a great restaurant, wearing as convention demanded, full evening dress and escorting a girl of exceptional loveliness. When he had called for Claudine at her apartment, the transformation in her appearance had astounded him. The untidy and impatient gamin charm had been replaced by poise, self-possession and a hint of hauteur. The long, full-skirted dress she was wearing could not be faulted for style or cut or colour, nor could the long white gloves and the corsage worn, as fashion dictated, at the neck.

  Diffidently he had sent her the previous day a ‘petit bleu’ or message by the pneumatic telegraph, inviting her to dine with him in formal dress. Knowing her scorn for social conventions, he had been prepared for a refusal, but she had accepted without comment and apparently without surprise.

  They went into Maxim’s and the maître d’hôtel showed them to a table opposite the stage where a gipsy orchestra was already playing. Only a short time previously Maxime Gaillard, the owner of the restaurant, had allowed it to be decorated in the daring style of ‘art nouveau’, a decision which had sparked off impassioned controversy, drawing extravagant praise from some, hostility and abuse from the art critics.

  Flowers were the dominant motif throughout. The carved wooden screen, the tables and seats, the plaster mouldings of the cornices, the gilded frames of the enormous mirrors, were all shaped in pattern of flowers and trailing leaves in convoluted spirals. As if that were not enough, there were real flowers as well, everywhere, large clumps of azaleas and gladioli and irises in the corners of the room and on the staircase which led to the balcony. The chairs and wall seats were upholstered in red leather in startling contrast to the incredible whiteness of table cloths and napkins. The colours, the myriad lights of the crystal chandeliers reflected in the mirrors, the sparkle of silver on white tablecloths and, more than all this, the sheer opulence of the place dazzled Gautier.

  When they were seated facing each other across the table with a bottle of Mumm Cordon Rouge in an ice-bucket beside them, Claudine suddenly laughed.

  ‘What on earth are we doing here?’ she demanded. ‘A policeman and a second-rate artist’s model. It’s a surrealist fairy story!’

  ‘Excellent! All fairy stories have happy endings.’

  ‘Why did you bring me here and not your wife?’

  ‘Unreasonable questions run the risk of unreasonable answers.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Men don’t bring their wives to Maxim’s.’

  The urchin grin reappeared. ‘Touche!’

  As the evening passed the restaurant, only moderately full when they arrived, began to grow more crowded. Gautier recognized celebrities among the diners and pointed them out to Claudine. At one table, her regular table he had heard, Caroline Otero, the second or perhaps the third most sought-after cocotte in Paris, sat accompanied by three men. Nearby were the Prince de Selignac and a very rich banker named Krief, who were entertaining two ballet dancers from the Opera. The President of the Jockey Club, a man of almost 80 with fine sideboards and a monocle, was whispering persuasively to a handsome widow of perhaps 40, who had just opened a couturier’s in Place Vendome that was all the vogue among rich ladies.

  ‘How did this place become so popular?’ Claudine asked.

  ‘A mixture of snobbism and fashion. The French will do anything, sacrifice anything, to conform with the fashion of the day.’

  ‘Yes, but how did this fashion start?’

  ‘By sheer chance. It was a very modest eating place until a few years ago and then one evening the great cocotte, Irma de Montigny, arrived at the much more exclusive Weber’s at the other end of Rue Royale to find that a careless waiter had given away her table. In a prima donna’s rage she stamped out with her entourage, came here, liked it and never went back to Weber’s. Almost overnight Maxim’s became the place in Paris for the demi-monde.’ While they were eating – ‘Sole Nantua, Noisette de Chevreuil à Bayonne and Bombe Alhambra – Gautier kept looking round the room, wondering if he might see anyone who matched the description Mimi had given him of the man who had beaten her up at La Maison des Anglais. Late in the evening, when they had almost finished their meal, a noisy party arrived; two girls accompanied by four men who, Gautier decided, could only be Russian. One wore the uniform of a Russian army colonel while the other three spoke a heavily accented French which they punctuated from time to time with strange, guttural oaths. The man who seemed
to be host to the party was massively broad, balding and had moustaches and a beard which matched Mimi’s description.

  When next a waiter came to their table, Gautier asked him: ‘Who are those foreign gentlemen over there? The one in the splendid uniform and his party?’

  ‘They are Russian, Monsieur. The short, bald gentleman is the new Russian ambassador.’

  ‘I see. Does he come here often?’

  ‘He has only been in Paris for a few months but already he’s one of our most regular customers. He and his friends come almost every night. And the money they spend! One evening they played some game with gold coins which they kept rolling across the floor. Next morning the cleaners found no less than fourteen coins, lying in the corners and under the seats, which the gentlemen had left behind. Worth hundreds of francs, they were.’

  Gautier felt a quickening anticipation, quite different to the sensation he had experienced as he had led Claudine into the restaurant. For almost the first time since he had been called to the Hasslers’ house on the Sunday morning after the murders, he sensed that he was about to lift at least a corner of the carpet under which the truth lay hidden.

  ‘So this is not just a social occasion!’ Claudine remarked after the waiter had left. ‘I should have known.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d mind if I combined a little business with what for me is the very great pleasure of your company.’ She made a rude noise expressing disbelief at the flattery and reinforced it with an even ruder word. Gautier went on: ‘Besides it was the only way I could afford to bring you here.’

  ‘I’ll accept that. What case are you working on, anyway?’

  ‘Still the same one.’

  ‘Hassler’s murder? I thought his old bitch of a wife had been arrested.’

  ‘She has and she’s to be sent for trial. That was announced only today.’

  ‘But you don’t believe she’s guilty?’

  ‘Guilty or not, someone else must have been involved; for Josephine Hassler couldn’t possibly have murdered two people unaided.’

  They finished their dinner with two glasses of Grand Marnier. When Gautier called for a cigar, Claudine demanded and smoked a cigarette. Anywhere else but in Maxim’s this might have caused a minor sensation because for women to smoke in public was still unacceptable, but Maxim’s was accustomed to eccentricity. Seeing her parade her contempt for convention gave Gautier an idea.

  ‘You could earn your dinner by helping me in a small way,’ he suggested.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Do you see that short, bald man in the noisy gang just behind me? Give him a few encouraging glances. Nothing too obvious or vulgar, you understand.’

  ‘So that’s how you hope to pay for this extravagant dinner! Haven’t you heard that pimping is against the law?’

  ‘Just a few sexy looks. It won’t go any further than that. I just want to see how he reacts.’

  ‘I’m not very good at that sort of thing, but I’ll try.’

  Gautier was sitting with his back towards the Russian party and while he could see the sidelong glances and faint smiles which from time to time Claudine threw in their direction, he had no means of judging whether they were having the desired effect on the bald man. After about ten minutes, however, a waiter appeared and under the pretext of sweeping crumbs from the tablecloth, he slipped a folded piece of paper to Claudine which Gautier was not supposed to notice.

  She unfolded it and read it quietly: ‘Mademoiselle, if you wish to free yourself of your present company I will put my coach at your disposal. The coachman will take you to a place where you and I can meet later. If you will do me the honour of accepting this invitation, just nod your head.’

  Taking the note from her fingers, Gautier jumped up and crossed the restaurant to the table where the Russians were sitting. He looked at the bald man, held up the note and demanded insolently: ‘Was it you, Sir, who had the impudence and ill-manners to send this to the young lady at my table?’

  The bald man looked at him, clearly disconcerted by this unexpected confrontation. ‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur?’

  The Russian colonel said angrily: ‘Are you aware, Monsieur, that you are speaking to His Excellency, the Grand Duke Varaslav?’

  ‘Did you or did you not send this note?’ Gautier demanded, ignoring the interruption.

  ‘We in Russia,’ the ambassador said coldly, retreating into a defensive hauteur, ‘do not speak with strangers, especially on the subject of women.’

  ‘Evidently. Perhaps if you had spoken a little more freely Madame Josephine Hassler would not now be standing trial for murder.’

  The effect of this sneer on the Russian was devastating. His face, already flushed with an excess of good living, turned slowly crimson. Panic, like a danger signal, lit up his eyes then died away to be replaced, first by fear and then by anger. Jumping to his feet he lashed out with the back of his hand and caught Gautier a stinging blow across the cheek.

  ‘My seconds will call on you, Monsieur.’

  Gautier bowed slightly, said nothing, but took one of his business cards from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of the grand duke. The colonel quickly snatched it up to read it.

  ‘Ambassadors do not duel with policemen, your excellency,’ he told the grand duke and then turning to Gautier added: ‘In Russia we do not even speak to them.’

  ‘No, you take the coward’s way, just as now you allow Josephine Hassler to stand trial alone.’

  To Gautier’s disappointment, this calculated gibe did not sting the ambassador into a further revealing outburst. Instead the Russian remained silent, although he was clearly having the greatest difficulty in suppressing his anger.

  Leaving them Gautier walked back to his own table, aware that most of the diners in the restaurant were staring at him. In spite of the raised voices and the resounding slap, however, the incident provoked no more than a mild interest. Maxim’s had known far more tempestuous quarrels and even though duelling was supposed to be illegal, the sight of a challenge was still in no way unusual.

  As he crossed the room, Gautier noticed a man with heavy drooping moustaches and a brown bowler hat peering into the restaurant from the vestibule.

  ‘Now at last I know what it feels like to have men fight over me,’ Claudine mocked him when he reached her.

  ‘No fight, I’m afraid.’

  ‘A pity! But did that little piece of contrived melodrama tell you what you came here to find out?’

  ‘I’m not certain yet.’

  Soon afterwards they left Maxim’s. Outside in Rue Royale coachmen waiting for their masters were gossiping with two uniformed chauffeurs of motor cars. The man in the brown bowler hat was with them and for an instant Gautier saw his face clearly in the light from one of the gilded lanterns over the entrance to the restaurant.

  ‘That man!’ Claudine exclaimed suddenly pointing towards him.

  ‘He’s the one whom Félix Hassler and I saw standing outside his house. Remember, I told you about him.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely certain.’

  ‘I know him too.’

  Gautier had recognized the man in the bowler as Fénelon, a former police inspector, now retired, under whom he had once served for a time in the fifteenth arrondissement. He led Claudine towards him.

  ‘Inspector Fénelon?’

  Fénelon did not seem surprised to see him. ‘Yes. Let me see, you’re Gautier aren’t you?’

  That’s right. Also an inspector now, in Sûreté headquarters.’

  ‘Well, well.’ Fénelon looked at Gautier’s evening clothes and then at Claudine. ‘The pay must be better than in my day.’

  ‘What are you doing these days?’

  ‘Got my own business. A detective agency. Quite a nice little proposition now that divorce is becoming so fashionable.’

  ‘Are you here on a job?’

  Fénelon nodded and winked. ‘That’s right. And a good, steady job too.’ He
pulled a business card out of his pocket. ‘Drop in and see me at my office sometime. I’ll tell you all about it and we can have a chat about the old days.’

  ‘I might do just that.’

  The fiacre which the doorman at Maxim’s had fetched for them was waiting. Gautier nodded to Fénelon, helped Claudine in and they were driven off in the direction of Montmartre. When they reached the vicinity of the Butte, the driver insisted on dropping them off in Boulevard Rochechouart, saying that his horse was too tired to climb up the hill to where Claudine lived. He was obviously not pleased, having assumed that a client from Maxim’s would have been heading not for the grimy suburbs but for a more fashionable district. There was little likelihood of his picking up a return fare to the centre of Paris from Montmartre. Drivers of fiacres were an independent, often truculent breed and Gautier decided not to risk spoiling the evening by exercising his police authority.

  So he and Claudine climbed the long flight of stone steps that led to Place Ravignan and walked from there to her apartment. When they stopped outside her door and he held out his hand to say goodnight, she asked: ‘Aren’t you coming in?’

  ‘Isn’t it rather late to sit for my portrait?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And really I don’t think I want any more to drink.’ Privately Gautier was thinking that she might not have much drink to offer and certainly none to spare.

  Raising one hand she ran her finger along the length of his jaw, the same gesture that she had used after the first evening they had spent together. She said seriously: ‘That isn’t what I was offering you.’

  XVII

  THE JUGE D’INSTRUCTION, Loubet, had an office in the Palais de Justice next to the room in which he had been conducting the examination of Josephine Hassler. He was a small, slightly paunchy man with moustaches and beard trimmed in the style still popular among middle-aged and elderly Parisians who liked to model themselves on the King of England. This admiration for Edward was part of the love-hate emotion which French society felt for England. Politically Britain was still bitterly resented and memories of Fashoda still rankled; so much so that for years Queen Victoria had been the subject of abusive and sometimes scurrilous cartoons in French newspapers. Yet the manners and dress of the British were assiduously imitated. Every home of any standing had an English governess for the children whom it dressed in sailor suits, while men hunted foxes, started gentlemen’s clubs and sent their evening shirts to be laundered and starched in London.