Strangled in Paris: A Victor Legris Mystery (Victor Legris Mysteries)

by Izner, Claude

  I’m going mad, she thought – he could have killed me easily just now if he’d wanted to. Could he have read the blue notebook? Should I trust him? Dangerous …

  Even so, the familiarity of Rue Albouy was preferable to being shut up in this hostile hotel.

  The sun was setting. She ran the whole way. When she reached the garden, she feared that a fist would strike her from behind. She turned the key in the lock.

  Five minutes later, a light flickered briefly behind one of the blinds on the first floor.

  Corentin Jourdan stood stock-still near the glowing windows of the bakery. Thank God she had obeyed him.

  * * *

  The weather had grown milder. Workers and shop girls flocked onto Rue de la Paix. A shadow fell on number 10 just as a swarm of apprentice milliners poured out, hurrying to catch their omnibuses. Going against the flow, the shadow flitted into the building. Nobody paid the slightest attention to this figure, half hidden as it was by a roll of material that it abandoned surreptitiously against a doorframe. The shadow quickly slipped towards the back stairs and shut itself away inside a broom cupboard. The long wait had begun.

  The concierge was busy extinguishing all the stoves, moving from one workshop to the next. Heavy shoes clattered on floorboards and young female voices cried out, ‘So, Père Michon, what are you looking in the stove for? Have you lost your wife?’

  ‘Watch out, Père Michon, you know the Bible says it’s better to marry than to burn in the furnace!’

  The girls were all in cahoots when it came to jeering at the concierge, a ribald old widower with wandering hands. Permanently tipsy on cheap spirits, Michon grumbled that they all treated him like a doormat, and it wasn’t just these dirty hoydens, but the big boss too. He maintained that in thirty years of honest work, he had never suffered the insults of such a cruel mob.

  The shadow held its breath in the cramped space, listening to the confused sounds from all around. That door banging meant that the concierge had gone back to his lodge, and the quiet humming came from the cleaning lady at work in the crystalware shop next door. The sewing workshops would not be cleaned until early the next morning.

  It was becoming difficult to breathe, and it was vital not to get cramp now. Only a few steps separated the cupboard from the mezzanine landing. From there, it was possible to see down to the ground floor and the bottom of the stairs. Too much haste now would be dangerous: observations made on previous days had revealed that the big boss liked to linger after his troops had retreated, and that he often had a prisoner with him. A creaking sound soon confirmed this to be the case. Somebody was coming down the stairs. They paused for a moment and then continued, making gurgling noises that sometimes sounded more like laughter, sometimes more like sobs.

  Quickly, the shadow crouched behind a ficus plant in a terracotta pot.

  In the half-light, a young girl appeared. As she clung to the banisters, she was shaken by a great heaving sob. She pulled herself together, breathed out slowly with a quiet moan, and hobbled down to the tiled hall. Lamplight filtered in through the fanlight above the front door and was reflected in a tall mirror hanging on the wall. The figure of a seamstress, who was no more than fifteen, appeared in the mirror, her hair messy, her cheeks scratched and her stockings falling around her ankles. When she saw her pitiful reflection, she burst into tears of despair. She let a bundle of crumpled clothes fall to the floor, and then gradually her sobs subsided. Eventually, she smoothed down her skirt and bound the cotton strips which were all she had in the way of underwear more tightly round her bony chest. She buttoned up her blouse and pulled on her cape. She wiped away her tears with her arm, put on her hat and turned towards the door. The concierge had not padlocked it, so she only had to lift the latch. A good escape route.

  The shadow checked that the leather pouch and its contents were in place, even though their weight was proof enough, and then set off, step by step, slowly. Only a few more feet. Stop. Carefully forward. Don’t think about the little seamstress.

  The shadow reached the first-floor landing, silent and agile as a cat, as though an invisible wire were there to guide it in the right direction. Now, turn right, past the rooms where clients came to inspect their new dresses, and then the bathroom. Perfect, perfect. It had been easy to bribe the young pattern cutter, who had been fired a month before. She had provided an accurate sketch of the layout of the whole place. There was, just as she had said, an office at the end of the corridor, where the head seamstress brought certain lucky clients who had been invited to take a glass of curaçao with the big boss. There was no need to look around: the pattern cutter had described the room in minute detail, also relating how, one evening, summoned to share a glass of wine with the boss, she had fought tooth and nail when he threw her down on the satin divan. There was a jug for hot chocolate on a side table, and an ornate bowl full of sweets. Two squat armchairs in front of the stove, a vase full of artificial flowers, a Chinese screen and a terracotta nymph dancing on her pedestal completed the decor. The whole room was suffused with the orange light of a Rochester lamp. And there he was, sprawled on the divan, a spider in the middle of his web, replete with the evening’s savagery, and exhausted because he wasn’t young any more, and raping a little girl required an awful lot of energy.

  This time, it would be possible to take aim and strike in one fell swoop. The big boss would not suffer, would not even know what had happened, and when he found himself in the next world he would surely think that his end had been quite merciful, given the terrible acts he had committed. And how pleasant it was, this final caress of the heavy object that was about to dispatch the enemy on his final journey!

  Richard Gaétan stretched and yawned, overcome with fatigue. This sort of sport was too much at his age, and his heart wasn’t what it used to be. And, damn it, the divan was covered in stains. He would get them to send the loose cover to the laundry before the workshop opened. Never mind; that yellow bedspread, pressed into service on several previous, similarly messy occasions, would do the job for a few days. Solange, the head seamstress, would give him a roguish look, but a few banknotes would ensure that she forgot the whole episode. He would summon the little seamstress discreetly, give her notice and buy her silence with a well-filled envelope. What a tedious performance, all in the name of a few paltry seconds of pleasure!

  He tucked his shirt-tails in, buckled his belt and combed his hair in front of a swing mirror surrounded with stucco cherubs. Then he froze in the act of smoothing his hair. He thought he had seen a face over there in the shadows. Ridiculous – that little minx would never have dared come back. He turned round and took a sweet from the bowl. All he wanted now was to bathe, go home and change his clothes, have something to eat on the Boulevard and sleep, sleep … He started combing his hair again.

  The shadow took aim. There was a brief gasp. Struck on the back of the neck, Richard Gaétan fell heavily, his mouth still full.

  The shadow bent over the inert body, looking for signs of life. Nothing. This could justifiably be called a great leap forward in the mastery of the weapon. Practice, it would seem, did indeed make perfect. Where had it rolled away to? Here, next to the comb.

  The iron ball was carefully picked up, and the lamp extinguished. There was nothing left to do, except to take one’s leave and to concentrate on the next step of the plan.

  CHAPTER 10

  Wednesday 21 February

  Solange Valier, the head seamstress at Le Couturier des Élégantes, was feeling greatly relieved. The visiting dress for Madame de Cambrésis was ready on time and, thanks to a few final touches, looked even more beautiful than she could have hoped. She carefully arranged the black skirt, with its moss-green inserts on either side, on the wicker dummy. The bodice was gathered round a delicate ruff, and its voluminous sleeves tapering down to narrow wristbands were really something special. All that remained was to attach the beaded satin rosette, and the ensemble would be perfect.

  The junior s
eamstresses were taking their places in the workshop, chattering and giggling. Solange Valier sent one of them to tidy the boudoir: it was strictly out of bounds to the cleaning ladies, but had to look immaculate because the boss would sometimes entertain a client there after she had given a new outfit her seal of approval.

  ‘And don’t forget the toffees and the sugared almonds, Marguerite – you know how much he likes those. The boxes are in the little side table.’

  The girl in question, a young apprentice with a mop of curly hair, pushed back her chair eagerly, only too happy to have the chance to set foot inside this sanctuary usually reserved for the elite of Parisian high society.

  ‘I’ll need a lamp, or I won’t be able to see a thing!’

  ‘There’s always something, isn’t there? Hurry up!’

  Marguerite slowed her pace as soon as she was out of sight. She wanted to make the most of this unforeseen treat, which would transform her humdrum day into something magical. She was no longer a slave to the needle, but a tragic heroine just like her namesake, Margot, the lovelorn queen in the stories her mother used to read to her from the big illustrated edition of the works of Alexandre Dumas. She crossed the storeroom where rolls of velvet, silk, shining taffeta, and tussore and surah from India waited, ready for the big boss to transform them into reception dresses or dinner gowns. She went down some steps and came out of a hidden door which led to the main staircase. The boudoir was adjacent to the fitting rooms and the bathroom. The light of the lamp revealed all sorts of luxury items lined up on the shelves of the bathroom, and she found the sight of them utterly bewitching. She reached up and touched the coveted bottles and boxes, savouring the privilege of possessing such objects, even if only for a moment, running her fingers over a scented soap or a silk handkerchief. She felt like a queen.

  Much as she would have liked to linger there, the thought of being reprimanded made her move on. She pushed open the door of the boudoir, and once again felt as though she were entering a dream world. Now she was a princess dressed in sumptuous robes, about to awaken her prince, who lay slumbering on the divan. She was so absorbed in her role that she curtsied respectfully to the terracotta nymph, but as she did so, she froze.

  Somebody’s watching me, she thought.

  She glanced down to the floor. Lying on his side, head thrown back and lips stained with a dark-brown liquid, Richard Gaétan seemed to stare at her with eyes that glinted with a strange amber light. She drew back, unable to tear her gaze away from his. Somewhere inside her, a hysterical voice told her to act as if nothing had happened. She lost her nerve, whirled round, staggered and caught hold of the terracotta nymph, which fell and shattered into a thousand pieces.

  * * *

  These battle-axes! Did they turn into vampire bats, hanging upside down from gutters, ready to swoop on the bookshop the minute it opened? Joseph was pondering this question just as Mathilde de Flavignol and Raphaëlle de Gouveline entered the shop, brushing their wet coats against the bookshelves. Thank goodness! The wet weather meant that the Schipperke and the Maltese had been left at home.

  Which is ironic, given that it’s raining cats and dogs, thought Joseph.

  Mathilde de Flavignol was criticising the ceremonies marking the bicentenary of Voltaire’s birth and Raphaëlle de Gouveline was describing the details of a charity tombola in the town hall of the ninth arrondissement when the telephone rang and put a stop to their chatter. It was Isidore Gouvier, wanting to speak to Monsieur Legris.

  ‘He’s not in the shop at the moment, but, whatever it is, you can tell me,’ Joseph said. ‘Yes, I’m married, and going to be a father soon … What?… Murdered?… When?… Good heavens!… Yes, I’ll tell him … Yes, he was a regular customer of ours. Thank you, Monsieur Gouvier, goodbye.’

  No sooner had he put down the receiver than the cry went up.

  ‘A murder?’ gasped Raphaëlle de Gouveline.

  ‘Which regular customer?’ squealed Mathilde de Flavignol.

  ‘Please, Mesdames, a little calm. It’s a nasty business involving a rather prominent person. A crime of passion. The details will all be in the newspapers.’

  He bounded up the stairs.

  ‘Mesdames, hold the fort, if you would be so kind.’

  They acquiesced, open-mouthed. He hammered on one of the first-floor doors, which opened slightly to reveal Kenji in his blue dressing gown with red spots.

  ‘Victor needs me urgently – a fabulous set of first editions! Can you tell Iris I’ll be back as soon as I can? The battle-axes – that is, Mesdames de Gouveline and de Flavignol are eager to talk to you!’

  Kenji’s eyes were narrow with anger and he was about to protest vehemently, but Joseph had already careered back down the stairs. Under the astonished gaze of the two women, he grabbed his coat and bowler hat from a peg and dashed out of the shop.

  * * *

  The day that Tasha had been dreaming of for so many weeks had finally arrived. In a few hours, Thadée Natanson would open the Revue Blanche exhibition – her exhibition. Five years’ work would be exposed to public scrutiny. Would it attract compliments, criticism or indifference? Would she succeed in dazzling one or two buyers? Even that might be too much to hope for, given that Vincent Van Gogh had only managed to sell one painting during his lifetime. Now that she was called Legris, she was protected from malicious gossip, but this dependence, which Victor seemed to find completely natural, wounded her pride. He was possessive and jealous of other men, and no doubt always would be, but he was also so thoughtful and so unselfish in his behaviour towards her that she longed to be a success and make him proud of her.

  She examined her reflection in the mirror. It was impossible to tame her red hair: no matter how many pins she used, a stray curl would always escape. She buttoned up the embroidered bodice of her pink velvet dress. She would have to hold her stomach in to make up for the absence of a corset, an instrument of torture which she could not bear to wear. Finally, she pulled on her lace gloves, powdered her face and put on a little scent, conscious of André Bognol’s admiring gaze.

  This former butler, with his curious combination of efficiency and stiff dignity, was busy tidying the large room that Tasha used as her studio.

  ‘We are almost ready. There is a ragoût with fresh herbs ready in the kitchen, and now all we have to do is dust the studio.’

  At first, his use of the royal ‘we’ had astonished Tasha, but she had soon got used to it.

  ‘There’s no hurry, André, we – I mean, I am going out now, first to the framer’s and then to the Revue Blanche offices. I promised to be there before midday.’

  Most of the paintings selected for the exhibition were already in place, but she needed to make a second trip to arrange the transport of four particularly large canvases.

  She stroked Kochka, who was curled up next to the stove. Victor was developing some photographs, and would go on to the bookshop before joining her at Rue Laffitte towards the end of the afternoon. She thought that a goodbye kiss would bring her luck, and hurried towards the apartment, but before she got there she had the misfortune to bump into Joseph.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Victor sent for me – a collector has some first editions…’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In his laboratory.’

  ‘I meant the collector,’ she said.

  ‘43a, Rue de Courcelles,’ said Joseph, immediately regretting having blurted out the first address that came into his head.

  He gave her a winning smile, hoping to soften her up, thinking back with nostalgia to the time when she used to call him ‘my little moujik’.

  She hesitated. She assumed that Joseph was lying, but knew that it was useless to contradict him. He and Victor had demonstrated often enough that, despite their frequent disagreements, they were as thick as thieves when they were investigating a crime. Was that what they were doing? She didn’t want to confront Victor just now, and, in any case, she might
be mistaken.

  ‘See you this evening, darling!’ she called to Victor.

  ‘Good luck, my love!’ he called back cheerfully.

  She left the apartment, casting a rather hostile glance in Joseph’s direction.

  ‘Dear brother-in-law, I think that your wife smells a rat,’ Joseph said.

  Victor came out of his lair.

  ‘Well, as long as she keeps quiet about it … Tell me again, word for word, what Gouvier told you,’ he said, selecting a waistcoat.

  * * *

  Richard Gaétan’s home stood out from its neighbours with its neo-Gothic architecture groaning with ogives and gargoyles. A skinny butler wearing a tail coat, pinstripe trousers and a stiff white cravat fixed the two visitors with a baleful gaze, the corners of his mouth contorted by a nervous tic. When Victor informed him of his master’s demise, the tic stopped for a moment, but this was the only sign of emotion he betrayed.

  ‘Will you be needing to question me, officers?’

  Preferring not to correct this misapprehension, Victor and Joseph followed him into a large, comfortable library. With his hands solemnly behind his back, Joseph eyed the titles of the books that filled the room, with their green and red spines embossed with gold. Although most of the great names of literature were represented, he realised that the books were all fakes, and retreated, disappointed.

  The butler began to dust a vase mechanically.

  ‘It wasn’t unusual for Monsieur not to come home of a night, but last night I felt as though there was a great weight upon me and I couldn’t sleep a wink.’

  ‘How many staff are employed here?’ Victor asked.

  ‘There’s the cleaning lady, Sidonie Mandron. She only comes in the mornings and cleans a different room each day. There’s Madame Couperie, the cook, but she never goes up into the rooms. Then there is me. I’ve been in service here for twelve years now, but recently he got himself so worked up – I’d never seen him like that before.’