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

by Izner, Claude

  ‘Here we are. I can’t decide between this damask brocaded with flowers, or this green satiny one.’

  ‘What colour is the wallpaper?’ asked Djina, running her fingers over a bolt of ornately patterned chintz.

  ‘Ivory,’ Kenji whispered, and his fingers touched the same roll of cloth, advanced crab-like towards Djina’s, hesitated, and then grasped hers.

  ‘In that case, you should choose this warm shade, with the flowers,’ she advised him, her heart pounding, astonished at her own temerity.

  He nodded his head gravely, as though she had just imparted a pearl of wisdom, and beckoned to the shop assistant.

  ‘Would Monsieur like to order some curtain fabric? What are the measurements? Two windows? I’ll call a sales assistant.’

  A young woman armed with a tape measure and a pair of scissors cut out four sections of cloth and folded them meticulously.

  ‘Is there anything else Monsieur desires?’

  They avoided looking at each other, as the possible meaning of the words struck them.

  ‘We’ll take a set of ties for the curtains, in the same material but without the pattern, and a set of copper rings and rods,’ Djina decreed.

  They formed a small procession as they followed the sales assistant to the tills, the male assistant bringing up the rear, making swift calculations in his counterfoil book. Kenji paid the bill, and a second copy of it was stuck on a large metal spike on the counter. The man wrapped up the parcel and asked for the address to which it should be delivered.

  ‘Monsieur Kenji Mori, 6, Rue de l’Échelle, first floor on the left,’ Kenji recited clearly, casting a meaningful glance at Djina as he did so.

  CHAPTER 11

  The same day, in the evening

  Euphrosine Pignot was keeping Iris company at 18, Rue des Saints-Pères. Since their reconciliation, they had begun to spend many hours together preparing for the arrival of the new baby. Despite indulging in considerable speculation regarding its sex, they chose a white layette, suitable for either. Euphrosine, queen of protocol, had planned everything down to the very last detail. The newborn’s maternal grandfather would be its godfather, and it would have its paternal grandmother as a godmother. As for names, she had accepted a compromise: Daphné Euphrosine Jeanne, if it turned out to be a girl, or Gabin Victor Kenji, if it was a boy.

  The bookshop was deserted, and Joseph hadn’t sold a thing all day. There was still an hour to kill before setting off for Tasha’s exhibition with his mother. Iris had decided to stay at home, unwilling to expose her small round belly to public scrutiny.

  Joseph sat ruminating behind the counter, slumped on a stool, certain that he was not equal to the task he had taken on. He would have done better to devote his free time to his wife instead of tormenting himself with yet another complex riddle, even though it did give him new material for his writing. Suddenly, the tension he had been holding in check for so long seemed overwhelming.

  ‘The sixth of March! Only two more weeks to champ at the bit! It’ll be on the second page of Le Passe-partout: Thule’s Golden Chalice, by Joseph Pignot! They’ll all be laughing on the other side of their faces then! Iris will be bowled over, Maman will buy every single copy from the newsstand, and Madame Ballu will tell the whole neighbourhood all about it. As for Victor and Monsieur Mori, I know perfectly well what they’ll think: “His style isn’t worth much, and his imagination is worse. He’s bombastic half the time, and just plain silly the rest of the time.” They think even less of my work than they do of the stuff churned out by those scribblers the battle-axes are so enamoured of. I don’t give a damn – Ollendorff has taken a chance on me.’

  He hadn’t dared ask for a larger fee, for fear of being sent packing, and had even agreed to make some changes to his manuscript to keep Antonin Clusel, publisher of Le Passe-partout, happy. ‘My dear Pignot, your novel is set in Transylvania, but no one’s ever heard of it. Simplify: stick to sentiment and intrigue, and let’s have a bit less of the descriptions and the psychology.’

  ‘My time will come. Then they’ll see that a true artist never lets criticism shake his resolve.’

  He leafed through his notebook.

  Bricart, Sylvain, stale-bread seller, ergot, candle, trial …

  That blasted trial! If only he could get at his precious stock of newspapers, stashed away in the basement.

  ‘You can’t turn back the clock,’ he sighed lugubriously.

  A tiny light flickered at the back of his mind.

  ‘Your brain’s scrambled, my friend! You haven’t got the newspapers from 1891. You stopped collecting them the year you got the job at the bookshop, in 1885, you idiot!’

  The light grew stronger. He was suddenly filled with optimism. He would make it a point of honour to extract the answer from his brain, using forceps, if he had to. Now then, concentrate …

  He frowned and bent over his notes, looking through them methodically.

  19 February. Victor went to Rue de Varenne without me. I’ll get even with him for that. He met Isidore Gouvier as he left the La Gournays’ house. Gouvier is going to write an article on …

  ‘Good heavens!’ he cried.

  He leapt up and grabbed the telephone, tapping feverishly to alert the operator.

  ‘Hello, Mademoiselle, put me through to Monsieur Isidore Gouvier, reporter at Le Passe-partout, 40, Rue de la Grange-Batelière, please.’

  He talked for about ten minutes, and then pulled down the shutters and closed the shop.

  * * *

  Although they were on the small side, the two exhibition rooms next to the Revue Blanche offices showed off Tasha’s paintings to great advantage. The first room held her Parisian cityscapes, together with the still lifes and the male nudes – with the exception of the one of Victor. The second was devoted to modern scenes showing the influence of Nicolas Poussin, and to depictions of fairgrounds, alongside the photographs that had inspired them.

  With her new departure into the realm of acrobats and the circus, Tasha was working towards a more personal style executed with fluid brushwork and luminous colours, which blended dream and reality.

  There were many artists among those present, some unknown, some famous, some disdainful, some delighted. Édouard Vuillard and Maurice Denis were full of praise for the paintings’ rich palette and the sense of rhythm in their composition. Toulouse-Lautrec had just returned from travelling through Belgium and Holland where, with his colleague Anquetin, he had sampled the museums and the beer. He was more reserved in his judgement of Tasha’s work.

  ‘All rather vapid,’ he murmured to the satirist Maurice Donnay, who reproached him for being so harsh.

  ‘Well, it’s only to be expected. I’ve just been having lessons from Rembrandt and Hals,’ Lautrec replied, in his nasal tone.

  He was nonetheless charming to Tasha, hoping that if he couldn’t actually seduce her he could at least persuade her to pose for him.

  Pierre Bonnard arrived bearing bad news: Gustave Caillebotte, who had caught a cold in his garden a few days earlier, had suffered a stroke and was dying. It was thought that he could breathe his last at any moment.

  ‘Such a delightful man, so selfless … And he’s only forty-six! Fate really does seem to have it in for artists at the moment. We’ve already lost old Tanguy,’ said Lautrec.

  ‘If Caillebotte goes too, what will become of their collections?’ asked Maurice Laumier, who had appeared behind Bonnard.

  ‘Tanguy’s will certainly be sold.41 As for Caillebotte, rumour has it that he has appointed Renoir as executor of the will…’

  Tasha glanced around the room, looking for Victor, disappointed that his photographs weren’t attracting anything more than a few polite comments. He was talking to Joseph, who disappeared off into the crowd. Next, Victor was accosted by Euphrosine Pignot and Micheline Ballu, whose extravagant dresses, embellished with flounces and feathers, attracted some amused attention. There was more laughter when Fräulein Becker made her entran
ce in a kilt and tartan cape, topped off by a hat covered with grapes and vine leaves. Mathilde de Flavignol and Raphaëlle de Gouveline were more elegant, in their fashionable dresses decorated with sequins. They stood slightly apart from the others in order to be able to gossip in peace.

  ‘My dear, have you heard, Colonel de Réauville went to see the tidal bore at Quillebeuf-sur-Seine with Adalberte yesterday, and he fell into the water!’ whispered Mathilde de Flavignol.

  ‘Did he drown?’ asked Raphaëlle de Gouveline.

  ‘No, he just swallowed a mouthful of water, and they say he’ll get away with nothing worse than a bad cold.’

  Helga Becker was following Lautrec’s movements, and looking very perturbed.

  ‘The other day, I carefully peeled one of his posters for the Moulin-Rouge off an advertising column. Do you think he would agree to sign it for me? I collect all the posters I can – I’ve got about sixty already,’ she whispered to Mathilde de Flavignol. Mathilde, however, only had eyes for Victor, whose charming smile made her feel rather flustered.

  Victor was amusing himself by standing behind people and listening to their comments. He had stopped near a painting of a group of women sitting at an open-air café.

  ‘Goodness me, how vulgar! And the colours are simply atrocious!’

  He realised that it was the Comtesse de Salignac and her nephew, Boni de Pont-Joubert. He knew that, as far as they were concerned, it was scandalous to use such trivial subject matter for a painting. They could no more recognise its hidden power than they could understand that its power lay precisely in its vulgarity.

  ‘Oh! That fellow again! What a cheek! Walking around shamelessly like that, a divorced man!’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ Helga Becker whispered.

  ‘Anatole France, the novelist. Last year, he and his wife separated, no doubt because she had grown tired of his affair with Léontine de Caillavet. In court, the blame was all laid at his door, not hers! Since then, he’s been living at the Villa Saïd, on Rue Pergolèse, but only in the mornings. After lunch, he goes to see his mistress, and spends the afternoon writing in a room in her house that she has set aside for him. Then they have dinner together.’

  ‘What about her husband?’

  ‘Monsieur Albert Arman de Caillavet? Why, he sits down to dinner with them! He’s the philosophical sort – he gets on so well with his rival that people call him “France’s domestic affairs minister”!’

  Victor was revolted by what he had just overheard, and as a great admirer of France, author of At the Sign of the Reine Pédauque, he couldn’t help commenting.

  ‘The Caillavets would have divorced long ago, but they’re afraid of damaging their son Gaston’s career prospects.’

  As soon as Victor moved off to welcome Kenji and Djina, Olympe de Salignac expressed her righteous anger.

  ‘I’m not surprised he’s playing devil’s advocate, given the sort of life he leads! And do you know, his Japanese friend has had a bathtub installed in his apartment – it’s disgusting!’

  ‘They are used for washing, you know,’ Raphaëlle de Gouveline reasoned.

  ‘But first you have to be completely naked!’ retorted the Comtesse.

  Anatole France was standing in front of a painting of a tightrope walker balancing on his wire high above a busy street. France’s asymmetrical face, with its mischievous eyes, wore an admiring expression. He twirled his grey moustache.

  ‘It’s very finely observed. Did you draw it from life?’

  ‘Only the background. I took the figure of the acrobat from this photograph,’ Tasha said.

  ‘Superb. I shall buy them both,’ the writer announced, and went off to greet Thadée Natanson.

  Tasha blushed with pride, and hurried over to tell Victor the good news. Victor was also feeling pleased, having heard Lautrec announce to Vuillard that he had moved from Rue Fontaine to Rue Caulaincourt.

  Now there’s some good news! You won’t keep turning up at Tasha’s studio all the time! he thought.

  ‘Where has my son got to?’ said Euphrosine.

  ‘He’s gone to see a customer. He told me to tell you to go home with Madame Ballu.’

  ‘He could at least have said goodbye to me!’ grumbled his mother.

  ‘Or hello to me,’ Tasha said.

  Victor gazed contemplatively at a sunrise over the Île Saint-Louis, thinking that Joseph had done well to take the initiative, and that he would have liked to go with him. His reverie was broken by Maurice Laumier, who tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘A brilliant idea of yours, Legris, to put all those photographs next to the paintings. That way, we can all see how the artist appropriates the real.’

  ‘I’m only too glad to do anything to help Tasha,’ Victor replied tersely.

  ‘Don’t worry, Legris, I’m not criticising your work. Especially now that you’re making real progress.’

  ‘I’m so honoured that you like it.’

  ‘And your investi—’

  He broke off as Tasha appeared. He praised her work enthusiastically, but only got an ironic smile in return.

  ‘Dear sister artist, I was just telling your husband that Lautrec and Bonnard are showering praise on your genius.’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet, or I’ll collapse under the weight of your compliments.’

  The Comtesse de Salignac had been lurking nearby, and seemed to be on the point of suffocating. Mathilde de Flavignol, too, was quite overcome.

  ‘Her husband? Her husband?’ she kept repeating. ‘So they’re married then?’

  ‘Surely not in church, a pair of heathens like that!’ gasped the Comtesse, fanning herself energetically.

  ‘You must admit, Olympe, they do make a handsome couple.’

  ‘If it weren’t for my love of reading and for Monsieur Mori’s exceedingly polite manner, I would boycott that bookshop! Come, Boni, we’re leaving.’

  She pushed past Tasha, who was making her way over to her mother.

  ‘Do you really like it, Maman?’

  ‘I think it’s wonderful, my darling. What progress you’ve made over the last six years! Such finesse!’

  ‘I should have hung some more neutral material on the walls before we put up the pictures. This horrible lilac wallpaper ruins the contrasts. And what about that big grey curtain with the mauve sash right in the middle of the room there – do you think we should have it removed?’

  This last remark was aimed laughingly at Kenji, who was standing in front of a rather severe male nude, envying the young man’s well-developed muscles. He and Djina exchanged glances, and began to smile despite themselves. Their faces took on contorted expressions as they did their best not to burst out laughing.

  I seem to be suffering from an advanced case of curtainmania. Thank goodness decorum prevented him from showing me his collection of Japanese prints! Djina thought to herself, feigning a coughing fit.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  Tasha was moving off, feeling somewhat disconcerted, when she heard a woman’s voice behind her.

  ‘I just hope your friend Legris has got what it takes. I’m counting on him, so he’d better come up with the goods. Those police couldn’t care less about Loulou now that she’s out of sight, chucked into some communal grave.’

  ‘Try one of these canapés, my sweet,’ said the man she was with.

  Tasha turned round, just in time to see Maurice Laumier shoving a biscuit into Mimi’s mouth, almost choking her. He tried to drag her off in the opposite direction, but Mimi resisted and cornered Victor instead.

  ‘When are you going to solve this mystery for us, Monsieur Legris?’ she managed to say, still trying to swallow the biscuit.

  ‘It’s still too soon. Be patient. I promised you—’

  Mimi squeezed his arm.

  ‘You’re such a hero. I do trust you – and if there’s anything you want from me, you only need to ask!’

  This time, Laumier pulled her away so forcefully that she nearly fell
over.

  ‘Have you lost your marbles?’ she squealed.

  Lautrec cast an appreciative glance in Mimi’s direction.

  ‘A fine specimen!’ he remarked.

  ‘Who is Loulou? What are you and Laumier up to? And what have you promised to do for that little tart?’ shouted Tasha, enraged.

  Several heads turned. Embarrassed, Victor led her towards the door.

  ‘You’re mistaken, my darling. This woman’s cousin died recently at the hospital – of tuberculosis. And I’ve known Laumier for a long time—’

  ‘I know that! I introduced you to him, and you’ve always hated him!’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind – he’s not so bad. I promised to try to recover this Loulou’s belongings, because they seem to have been stolen by another patient or a nurse.’

  ‘Do you really think I’m going to fall for that? I’m sure you and Joseph have been bitten by the detective bug again. Where have you sent him off to, anyway?’

  She was red in the face now, determined to expose his lies. He adopted an affectionate expression and nodded towards the room full of her work.

  ‘Nowhere. I love you, that’s all that matters now. This evening is your triumph and I’m delighted to have played a small part in it. Don’t spoil it all.’

  He was a master of the art of evasion. She could have insisted and forced him into a confession, but instead she banished her suspicions about Laumier and Mimi from her mind. It was better to remain in a state of blissful ignorance.

  As they were making their way back into the room, they met Euphrosine Pignot and Micheline Ballu on their way out, eager to get the long trip home in the omnibus over and done with.

  * * *

  The journey had proved to be an arduous one. The only available seats on the omnibus had been on the upper deck, where an icy wind had frozen their cheeks and found its way under their coats. Madame Ballu’s feet, squeezed into a pair of narrow boots, were begging for mercy by the end of the journey. When she finally came within sight of her street, she felt like a thirsty explorer who spies an oasis on the horizon. Her satisfaction would have been complete had it not been for the removal cart, parked on the pavement opposite the bookshop.