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

by Izner, Claude

  ‘There’s something fishy going on,’ she said to Euphrosine. ‘This is the third time in a week that Lambert Removals have graced us with their presence, but every time, once it’s parked, the cart stays in exactly the same place, and the driver just sits there, with his cap pulled down over his ears. I’ve had a look and the cart’s empty, and it’s always still empty when he finally pushes off. And another thing – he limps. I noticed that when I saw him pacing up and down one evening, smoking his pipe.’

  Euphrosine rolled her eyes.

  ‘Is it a crime to have a limp now? You’ve been spending too much time with Monsieur Victor. Mind you, so has my Joseph – that’s why we had to get an omnibus instead of coming home with him in a cab. He’s rushed off to goodness knows where, when he should be at home looking after his pregnant wife. A customer indeed! At this time of day, honestly! A little outbreak of detective fever, more like.’

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. I know something suspicious when I see it,’ said Madame Ballu, piqued. ‘The removal man even followed me into the courtyard once.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, he … he…’

  Micheline faltered as Euphrosine fixed her with an incredulous stare. She wished that she had kept that detail to herself.

  ‘He did what? My poor Micheline, if you hadn’t already had the change, I’d say you were having some kind of hallucination, or that you’d started confusing your desires with reality. Why on earth would any man follow you? It’s absurd. You’re getting yourself all worked up over nothing!’

  ‘I saw what I saw.’

  ‘Oh, and what has that clumsy great oaf gone and done now?’ Euphrosine cried, as Zulma Tailleroux crept out of the building carrying a canvas bag which clinked with the sound of broken pottery.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault, Madame! I was cleaning Monsieur Mori’s room when a book fell off the shelf. I bent down to pick it up and I kicked the chamber pot. Luckily it was empty—’

  ‘You’re a walking disaster! It’ll be taken off your wages!’

  Zulma burst into tears and ran off towards the Seine.

  ‘What an old curmudgeon you are! And all for a chamber pot, which your boss doesn’t use anyway, not since he had his own “water closet” put in!’

  ‘My boss? My daughter-in-law’s father, more like. We’re equals now, I’ll have you know. If he wants to have a chamber pot there in case of emergencies, that’s his business, and nothing to do with a silly gossiping woman who dreams that all the men in Paris are running after her!’

  Micheline Ballu felt as though some kind of earthquake had knocked the Queen of Sheba off her pedestal and was scattering the broken fragments in the gutter. Dethroned, the noble Sheba was nothing but a lowly concierge. Her face contorted with anger, she retorted, quick as a flash, ‘Sling your hook, you old trout!’

  ‘Isn’t it past your bedtime, Madame Methuselah?’ Euphrosine roared.

  Micheline opened her front door and slammed it behind her.

  ‘And to think I was kind enough to see her home! Talk about pearls before swine,’ Euphrosine thought to herself, as she made her way back to Rue Visconti. She conveniently forgot that she had only walked along with her friend because she had also wanted to interrogate Iris about Joseph’s desertion. Following the spat with Micheline, it had completely slipped her mind.

  ‘An old trout? I’m only forty-two, and I’m not over the hill yet!’ she said to herself, once she was back in her own apartment.

  She threw her hat and cape onto a chair, unbuttoned her flounced dress and ran her hands over her hips.

  ‘I may have a little bit of extra padding, but no more than what you see on those big amazons in the museums! They were on every wall when Tasha dragged me to the Louvre. Strong thighs, generous bosoms, and a good womanly behind! I’m a bit like them. But Micheline Ballu, well, she’s just flabby. Take off her corset and she looks like a blancmange!’

  She glanced at the portrait of Gabin Pignot that hung over the sideboard, and let out a sigh. He would always be like that: leaning against his bookstall by the Seine, thirty years old and full of bonhomie.

  ‘Why do men have it so much better? Monsieur Mori must be well past fifty but he’s still a ladies’ man, and women love him. And why is it that women get uglier as they get older, but men get more handsome?’

  She felt the urge to note down some of her observations. On the page devoted to Zulma, she wrote:

  Zulma broke a chamber pot. She’ll have to pay for it. That girl will find any excuse not to do a stroke of work. And her royal highness Micheline Ballu defends her. Micheline’s not so keen on working either – she never even so much as sweeps the corridors! She’ll pay for that too!

  Suddenly, her pencil stopped moving, and she nibbled on the end, overcome with anxiety. Where could Jojo have got to? Was he chasing some woman? Oh, nobody knew the cross she had to bear! She lifted her head and gazed once more at her Gabin Pignot, the love of her life and Joseph’s father, called to God before they had even got married.

  * * *

  The tram from Nation to the town hall at Montreuil went down a series of bleak roads lined with factories, building sites and warehouses. The two horses, whose driver kept nodding off, struggled to pull the vehicle with its half a dozen or so passengers. It passed the premises of Bébé Jumeau, an enormous china-doll factory.

  What was it that Gouvier said? wondered Joseph, get off at Rue du Pré, in the middle of the allotments.

  The light was gradually failing. Here and there, gas lamps cast shadows that looked like ragged cloths clinging to the façades of the houses.

  With his hat pulled down low and his hands thrust deep into his pockets, Joseph plunged into a maze of small streets.

  ‘The fourth house on the right. This must be it, this bungalow. It’s a bit of a dump.’

  Isidore Gouvier had inherited the house from his parents, lowly shopkeepers who had spent their lives saving up enough money to buy this little plot of land where he had been born, grown up and grown old. Joseph crossed a tiny, overgrown garden with a wooden table and two benches on one side. Perhaps someone had once thought that this would be a good place to relax, sip an aperitif and enjoy the scenery.

  Gouvier opened the door, after fiddling for a while with the rather capricious lock. The coat pegs in the hallway were groaning under the weight of the clothes piled on top of them. The kitchen was relatively clean: Gouvier enjoyed his food. He showed Joseph into his office, where all his books were piled higgledy-piggledy on the shelves.

  ‘Only people who never read keep all their books shut up behind pretty panes of glass,’ he said, chewing on a cigar.

  The room was full of trinkets and pictures, and there were hundreds of files covering the floor. An antique clock that looked as though it must have stopped years ago blocked one of the windows.

  ‘It kept time in my parents’ day, and since then it’s been resting. Have a seat, Monsieur Pignot. I’ve made a cassoulet. Can you smell it? It’s already a veritable feast for the nose!’

  Gouvier went into the kitchen. He owed his limping gait to a few nasty kicks from a burglar, who had broken one of his shins while he was still working as an ordinary bobby on the beat. Joseph thought of the limper at the Hôtel de l’Arrivée. He looked around the room. A blackened paraffin lamp stood on the corner of a dresser, among a jumble of skeleton keys, handcuffs and crowbars, which had belonged to noteworthy criminals. Joseph could never have dreamt up such a treasure trove; this eighth wonder of the world was a true goldmine for a writer.

  After a boozy meal, he began to feel euphoric. He was eager to find out whether Isidore Gouvier, with all his years of experience, might be able to help him.

  ‘So you want to know what the words ergot, candle, sponge and trial might possibly mean, is that it, M’sieu Pignot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ergot … ergot. Really, M’sieu Pignot! It’s a fungus that’s often used to bring on contractions and get rid
of unwanted offspring. Sponges and candles can have the same effect.’

  ‘How awful!’ Joseph cried.

  ‘Well, yes, one of those everyday horrors. As for the trial, I seem to remember … One moment.’

  Gouvier bent down to read the dates on some of the files.

  ‘I know it’s recent. Two or three years ago. We can check.’

  He pulled a few files bursting with loose papers out of the pile.

  ‘I keep everything. I’ve never been able to throw things away … Ah, it’s coming back to me now. It was the year of the Fourmies massacre! My brain is just like a piece of M’sieu Edison’s wax – even tiny details are inscribed on it! Here’s the year: 1891. It was Clusel who covered the trial. The newspapers had a field day. It’s strange that you never heard about it. What were you doing in November ’91?’

  Joseph tried to remember, but his mind was a blank.

  ‘It’s a long time ago, 1891.’

  ‘Well, have fun. I’m going to get some shut-eye.’

  Joseph pushed the plates to one side, cleared up the remains of the meal and put the contents of the file on the table in front of him. The sheaf of cuttings was in chronological order. On the first one, taken from La Justice, he read:

  15 November 1891

  Tomorrow (Monday), the Crown Court of the Seine, presided over by Judge Robert, will begin its examination of the abortion case which may well last as long as fifteen hearings. There are fifty-two defendants … The female defendants are a varied group, including servants, shopkeepers, manual workers, bread sellers …

  Le Figaro for 16 November announced:

  TRIAL OF THE CHILD KILLERS

  There they are, three rows of them, overflowing into the journalists’ benches, some of them dressed in black, but the majority wearing their best clothes. There is a sea of beribboned hats, feathers and flowers, or bonnets covered with jet beads, which shine in the dim light of the courtroom. Some are little more than girls, some are sixty if they are a day. A refined blonde who describes herself as a painter of miniatures sits next to a cook; further down there are a couple of servants, the husband very respectable and neatly shaved, the wife looking thin and lost, wrapped up in one of Madame’s old coats. What were they supposed to do? They worked for middleclass families who didn’t want any children around … So the woman went to see Madame Thomas …

  Joseph scanned an article from Le Temps dated 18 November.

  Thirty-six names were placed in the urn, and fourteen names were drawn: twelve to be actual jury members, and two in reserve. Among those not chosen were the painter Jean Béraud, the sculptor August Cain and the lawyer Clément Royer, who is the leader of a prominent Bonapartist group …

  The cuttings formed a large pile. Journalists had come up with article after article about the trial, with readers lapping up the salacious details. It was a truly sensational case, a sordid tear-jerker, rather like a story by Eugène Sue. Joseph picked out another article at random, from La Gazette des Tribunaux, dated 16 and 17 November.

  The hearing began at half past twelve. The accused were presented to those assembled in the courtroom … Ugly and vulgar, they all belong to the same class: most are servants or manual workers. There are also some men among them.

  The usher asks them the usual question, and they give their names:

  Marie Constance Thomas, forty-six.

  Abélard-Sevrin Floury, thirty-one.

  Delphine Céline, married name: Couturier, concierge, fifty-two.

  Marie Naïs, married name: Vire, cleaning lady, thirty-eight.

  Marie Honorine Duval, servant, twenty-two.

  Joseph ran his finger down the list of the accused. Suddenly, he gave a cry and, moving the lamp closer to the table, remained deep in thought for a few moments.

  ‘Where did I put my fountain pen? Quick, some paper!’

  He bent over the table and began to fill up sheet after sheet.

  ‘Find anything?’

  Joseph started, and made a large blot on what he had just written. Gouvier settled himself in an old armchair.

  ‘I can’t sleep. It’s twelve years tonight since I lost my wife. She left me on 21 February.’

  ‘I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t know,’ Joseph stammered.

  ‘Oh, she’s doing very nicely. She’s set up home with a butcher. She got tired of living in this shambles. She wanted a tidy little life, her house all spick and span, you know. She used to make me wear slippers, and she’d spend all day polishing and dusting. We never got on. Look, here’s a picture of her.’

  He pulled a wallet out of his jacket pocket and showed Joseph a grainy photograph taken at a fair. In front of a backdrop painted with a mountain scene, a man and a woman, their arms dangling awkwardly by their sides, stood to attention, gazing fixedly at the camera.

  ‘Is that you?’ said Joseph incredulously, amazed to discover that Isidore Gouvier had once had a relationship with a woman.

  ‘It most certainly is, young man. Thirty years younger, with a spring in my step. You can’t believe your eyes, can you? The years have their way with us all, in the end.’

  He began to sing.

  ‘Old age! You might as well be dead!

  It makes you ugly, makes you weak,

  Adds some wrinkles on your cheek,

  And takes some hairs from off your head.’42

  ‘I didn’t know you were a poet, Monsieur Gouvier.’

  ‘A friend of mine wrote it. Have you found what you’re looking for?’

  ‘I certainly have, and it’s really important! It’s all still confused in my mind, though.’

  ‘Don’t worry, M’sieu Pignot, just evaluate the situation as calmly as you can. When we want to find something out, we need to be patient. Little morsels of information always come your way in the end. I spend as little time as possible at the editorial offices: all those meetings with Clusel calling the shots are just too boring. The atmosphere at press conferences reminds me of a bullfight, when you’re never quite sure if people want the bullfighter or the bull to be killed. I’m not ashamed to admit that I always hope that the toreador will be gored. You have to be heartless to enjoy watching an innocent beast suffer, don’t you think? Shall I make us some coffee?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no.’

  ‘Why are you taking the trouble to copy all this out? You can take the file away with you and give it back to me when you’ve finished. It’s eleven o’clock and there are no more trams. Why not sleep here on the sofa? I’ll wake you early tomorrow morning.’

  Joseph couldn’t get to sleep. Suddenly, he remembered the writing Victor had seen in the Baron de La Gournay’s secret chamber: In memory of Brumaire and the night of the dead …

  He felt a rush of excitement. The trial had taken place in November ’91. Loulou and three Sophies had been among the accused … and also Mireille Lestocart!

  ‘Brumaire means November! And the night of the dead is All Saints’ Day, and All Saints’ Day is in November! My dear brother-in-law isn’t going to believe his ears!’

  * * *

  It was past midnight when Victor and Tasha devoured André Bognol’s ragout without even bothering to heat it up. The opening had been a success, and most of those present had been full of praise. As well as Anatole France, two other people had bought paintings, and Mathilde de Flavignol had taken a fancy to a photograph of a merry-go-round that she had promised to pay for very soon.

  Tasha piled some mincemeat onto a plate and put it down next to Kochka, who was curled up in her basket next to the bed. The cat only condescended to open her eyes for a moment and sniff at the offering, before falling asleep again.

  As always, Victor folded his clothes carefully as he took them all off except for his flannel underpants. When he had placed them on a chair, he climbed into bed. Tasha unpinned her hair, dropped her clothes on the floor and lay down next to Victor, who began to kiss her, unable to resist a small caress despite their exhaustion. Nestling next to her, he explored the n
eckline of her nightdress until he found a way in and stroked his fingertips over one of her breasts, feeling her nipple respond immediately to his touch. She grasped his hand, murmuring, ‘Three sales, five counting your photographs. I only sold the pictures of fairgrounds, though – it’s a shame that—’

  She was interrupted by a hoarse cry, and sat up so suddenly that she banged her head against the wall.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘The cat,’ Victor groaned.

  Tasha felt her way over to the lamp on tiptoe. She stumbled twice, tripping over her own clothes, but eventually managed to find the box of matches. Just as she lit the wick, Victor gave a horrified cry.

  ‘Oh no! I’m drenched!’

  The lamplight fell on the guilty feline stretched out on Victor’s lap. Her waters had broken.

  ‘She’s going to have her kittens!’

  Feeling nauseous, Victor took refuge in the bathroom. Kochka let out a series of pitiful wails as Tasha stroked her reassuringly.

  ‘I’m here, puss. Go on, push! You’re nearly there.’

  Kochka panted, her ears flattened and her pupils dilated.

  Victor reappeared, wrapped in a towel. He turned away from the bed, transformed into an impromptu maternity ward, and began to put his clothes back on.

  ‘How many is she going to have?’

  ‘It depends. Two, perhaps three…’

  A terrible vision appeared before him, of Tasha propped up in the bed, nursing three screaming babies.

  ‘Why don’t you go over to the studio? I’ll come and join you as soon as it’s over.’

  ‘Will it take long?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been a midwife before.’

  He made good his escape, thankful that they had a second place to sleep. At four o’clock in the morning, Kochka gave birth to a black and white kitten.