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

by Izner, Claude

  Strangely, though, when Joseph recounted his story in the basement of the bookshop, Victor frowned.

  ‘You’ve stirred up a hornets’ nest and now they’re all going to be terrified – the widow, her daughter, the limper and goodness knows who else! You acted rashly.’

  ‘I might have known it! I get up at the crack of dawn, I go all the way to Belleville, I get some really first-class information out of the Millionaire and you—’

  ‘It’s true, you did gather some very important information,’ Victor said, with a rather forced smile. ‘Well done, Jojo.’

  Joseph considered this grudging compliment to be far less than he deserved, and left his brother-in-law standing in the basement. He decided to go upstairs and see Iris, telling Kenji that he would soon be down to help out in the shop. When he got upstairs, he found Zulma beating a hasty retreat while Euphrosine, a carrot in one hand and a knife in the other, shouted after her, ‘Go on then, tell tales on me if you like! I don’t care! I’m the one in charge here! I’ll get that into your head if I have to use a hammer to do it!’

  Joseph greeted his mother and gave her a kiss in an attempt to calm her down. He was about to leave the kitchen when he suddenly had a thought.

  ‘Does the name Velpeau mean anything to you, by any chance?’

  At this, Euphrosine dropped her carrot.

  ‘I’m at the end of my tether, and all you can do is ask me silly questions! The cup of my bitterness runneth over! Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’

  Joseph slipped out before Euphrosine started to expand on the weight of her cross. As he went into the bedroom, Iris quickly hid a notebook, in which she had been writing the story of the dragonfly and the butterfly, behind a cushion.

  ‘I’ve finished typing out the third chapter of The Devil’s Bouquet,’ she told her husband.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Victor was still down in the basement, thinking.

  What did Joseph tell me that was actually important, in amongst all the gibberish? The Millionaire was a witness at the trial along with a missionary who went on to help orphans. Mireille Lestocart also mentioned someone who looked after orphans, who got Loulou a place in a sewing workshop … Who was it who said he’d been a missionary?… Father Boniface! Yes, that’s it. He helped Louise Fontane. What an imbecile I am – why didn’t I think of him before?

  ‘Victor, do you happen to know where we put Hippolyte Castille’s Political Portraits?’ Kenji called.

  Victor went back up to the shop and managed to find the books underneath a stack of Marmontel’s complete works. Kenji was eager to get rid of these tomes, which had proved difficult to shift, and was doing his best to work his charm on a young, prosperous couple who wanted to fill their empty bookshelves with some pretty volumes that smelt of leather.

  Joseph came back downstairs. Victor pulled him into a corner and whispered, ‘I’m off. Make up something to tell Kenji … I’m going back to Fort Monjol. I’ve been thinking over what you just told me, and I need to go and see Father Boniface.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do? Just twiddle my thumbs?’

  ‘After lunch, you have a special mission: go to the Winter Circus and talk to Absalon Thomassin.’

  ‘Aren’t you taking your bicycle?’

  ‘No – I’d have to drag it right past Kenji.’

  The Winter Circus … That would be a great setting for a scene in my novel, thought Joseph, feeling frustrated that he could not devote more time to his literary endeavours. And, anyway, who is this Velpeau? An explorer? Some kind of intellectual?

  He was about to look up the name in an encyclopedia when Kenji called for his help with a customer.

  * * *

  Despite the leaden sky and a biting wind, there was an air of celebration in ‘the Monjol’. Its narrow streets, heavy with the odour of grilled herring, alcohol, cigarette smoke and rubbish, were tinged with gold from the light of the paraffin lamps filtering through the windows. The crossroads where Rue Monjol met Rue Asselin was brighter and more sheltered from the wind, and here a crowd of brats had gathered, and were amusing themselves by balancing corks on the necks of empty wine bottles and using catapults to try to knock them off again, smashing a good number of the bottles as they did so. Behind them stood a long line of prostitutes, snaking along in front of the decrepit houses and hotels, waiting for the Saturday regulars who would come from all over La Villette and Belleville. The women chattered amongst themselves or with their pimps. One of them waved to Victor and he recognised Marion, the woman with the baby whom he had met in Father Boniface’s dispensary.

  ‘What are you doing around here again?’

  Before he could reply, a voice squealed, ‘Hands off, you! He’s mine!’

  Victor spun round. It was La Môminette, her eyes heavily made up and her lips bright red, her frail figure wrapped in a woollen dress that was too low-cut. Marion walked menacingly towards her.

  ‘If you lay a finger on me, I’ll scream for help!’ La Môminette hissed.

  Victor stood between them before they could come to blows.

  ‘I’m not here for … that. I’m looking for Father Boniface.’

  The two women eyed one another, looking suddenly shamefaced, silhouetted against the deep-red wall of the Hôtel du Bel Air like bacchantes on a Greek amphora.

  Marion pointed to the Hôtel des 56 Marches, at the top of the flight of steps at the end of Rue Asselin.

  ‘He’s gone to see the Giraffe.’

  Nonplussed, Victor wondered what such an animal could possibly be doing in this melting pot of crime and poverty.

  Seeing his puzzled expression, La Môminette explained, ‘That’s what we call Joséphine Pégrais, because she’s as tall as anything, and skinny as a rake!’

  ‘Ever since her pimp dropped her for another girl, Ravignolle, who’s much younger and has got a better figure, the Giraffe’s been sleeping rough most of the time and not eating anything. Soon we’ll be able to see right through her,’ added Marion.

  Victor took his leave of the women rather awkwardly and hurried away before one of the pimps spotted him. Out of breath, he climbed to the top of the road and then went up the steps of the hotel, which were swarming with pimps, beggars pretending to be crippled and a few unemployed workers.

  When a deep voice called, ‘Come in!’ Victor pushed open the door of a garret room whose only furnishing was a large basin and a rough mattress laid out on the floor. A woman with an emaciated figure was lying there, covered in a dirty sheet. A sour smell reached Victor’s nostrils and he began to sneeze violently.

  ‘I do apologise, Monsieur … I’m sorry, your name escapes me. I must have been rather too liberal with the vinegar. I’ve been using it to try to get rid of the bedbugs. They’re taking over the whole neighbourhood at the moment,’ Father Boniface explained, getting up from where he had been crouching next to the sick woman.

  ‘That’s all right,’ replied Victor, holding his handkerchief to his nose. ‘My name is Victor Legris.’

  ‘Yes, I remember now. It was you who told me about Loulou’s death.’

  ‘That’s right; in fact, I’ve got another question about her. During my investigations, I discovered that she had been living with an old friend and workmate on Rue Albouy.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of that.’

  ‘I also discovered that Loulou and this friend of hers, Sophie Clairsange, were both caught up in an abortion trial, and that you were cited in the list of witnesses for the defence.’

  Father Boniface didn’t bat an eyelid. He bent down to wipe away the saliva that was dribbling from the woman’s mouth, and straightened up with a grimace of pain.

  ‘My back’s in a terrible state, what with all this crouching. Yes, that’s right, I was involved in Madame Thomas’s trial. I did what I could to help those poor women, especially Loulou. I’d managed to find a place for her in a sewing workshop.’

  ‘I’m surprised that a religious man should condone such practices.’ />
  ‘Protesting against social injustice and condoning the crime are not the same thing. I was taught to be compassionate. I lived in Africa for a long time. There, life is hard; here, it’s sordid.’

  ‘Loulou? Is that what you call Louise?’

  ‘I always knew her as Loulou. When I began to help her, she didn’t have a birth certificate.’

  Father Boniface stopped for a moment to open a skylight and let some air into the attic room.

  ‘I am quite sure that our Lord would not condemn these girls, victims of men’s lust and violence.’

  ‘Excuse my indiscretion, but could I ask where it was that you studied medicine? Which university?’

  ‘University?’ Father Boniface repeated. He burst out laughing. ‘The university of books and practice, dear Monsieur. I have no official diploma.’

  ‘Is it not illegal to—’

  ‘Begging, vagrancy, prostitution, infanticide, abortion and suicide: the law is most efficient in prohibiting them. I do my humble best to make up for its negligence. When a man is dying in poverty, we lend him a hand, do we not?’

  Father Boniface looked at him, and his eyes seemed to challenge Victor to disagree.

  ‘Tenacity, skill and experience are all that matters,’ he continued. ‘I wanted to help my neighbour. I dreamt of becoming a surgeon – I was especially fascinated by trepanation. I used to read specialist works on the subject … My parents were poor, though, and I had to go out to work when I was still very young. In the end, I went off to make my own way in the world and landed up on the other side of the Mediterranean.’

  ‘Was that after you fought in the 1870 war?’

  ‘No, long before. I was lucky enough not to take part in that butchery.’

  ‘But Sylvain Bricart told me that he knew you then.’

  ‘Sylvain Bricart?’ Father Boniface closed the skylight and scratched his cheek. ‘Really, I must be losing my memory. That name doesn’t ring any bells at all.’

  ‘He was also a witness at the trial. Try to remember: he was Hermance Guérin’s lover, and she seems to be the mother of Sophie Clairsange.’

  Father Boniface shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Legris, but I really don’t remember any of those people. That doesn’t mean that I never met them. It’s a terrible handicap, growing old. I might remember in the end, though, so don’t hesitate to come and talk to me again. Now I need to try to give Joséphine something to eat. She’s had nothing since yesterday.’

  Victor realised that he was no longer welcome there. He took his leave and, getting away from ‘the Monjol’ as quickly as he could, made his way back to Rue Bolivar. His only thought now was to go and find Tasha at the Revue Blanche offices and take her out for lunch, as they had arranged. He would have to telephone the bookshop later and give Joseph a summary of the fairly paltry information he had managed to extract from Father Boniface. What a strange man … He seemed to be sincere, and to be skilled in looking after the women in his care. But carrying out operations without being properly qualified? Who was to be believed, Father Boniface or Sylvain Bricart? A cab finally deigned to pull up alongside him and he slumped down on the seat, wishing he could accompany Joseph on his mission. Just as long as Joseph managed to speak to the Great Absalon …

  * * *

  Joseph’s stomach was protesting loudly against the bream with chickpeas that Euphrosine had made for lunch, but he ignored its complaints. He admired the rotunda of the Winter Circus with its two low-relief friezes depicting the art of horse riding. The dastardly Zandini also craned his neck to look at the bronze statue of an Amazon that stood to the left of the main door. Taking her chance while Zandini’s back was turned, Carmella slipped into the crowd on Rue du Temple. A gurgle alerted Joseph to his stomach’s continuing distress. He assumed a more authoritative attitude, dismissed his characters and went round to Rue de Crussol where he walked up to the door labelled ‘Circus Manager’. A servant with the impassive visage of a Roman statue indicated that he should sit down in a small waiting room, and a few minutes later, Joseph was shown into Monsieur Franconi’s office. The manager was ensconced behind an enormous table covered with green baize that was almost invisible underneath a jumble of posters, some old and yellowing, some still garish. He gestured to the unwelcome visitor to take a seat in a mahogany armchair and rested his chin in his hands with a resigned expression, ready to answer whatever absurd questions might be about to come his way. His expression brightened immediately when Joseph said, ‘I’m not going to take up too much of your time, Monsieur. I’ve simply come to request an interview with Absalon Thomassin.’

  ‘He’s due back in Paris today, having spent some time away from the capital rehearsing his act. I expect to see him here tomorrow morning, when he’ll be working on the finer details of the show. He’s performing in the afternoon. The best thing would be for you to go and see him at his home at 2, Rue des Martyrs.’

  If Victor Franconi was hoping that this advice would rid him of his visitor, he was about to be proved wrong. Joseph remained firmly settled in his chair, unconscious of the disappointment he was causing. It wasn’t every day that Joseph had a circus manager at his disposal and he was eager to glean some professional secrets that could feed his literary creation.

  ‘The readers of Le Passe-partout are hungry for any information about goings-on in the artistic world. Might I be so bold as to ask you for the latest news on the Great Absalon’s next show? The sheer genius of his acrobatics has earned him many admirers among our readers – especially the ladies.’

  ‘He is an outstanding acrobat, it’s true. But, at the risk of disappointing his female admirers, I must admit that I can’t help you there: he still hasn’t told me anything about his plans! He is a rather capricious man – don’t write that in your newspaper. There’s his contract, for example: it originally stipulated that his costumes would be ordered by the management, but he insisted that this particular clause be modified. He rather fancies his own skills as a tailor! And, however talented he is, the public are beginning to tire of his death-defying leaps. They want something new. Our poor old lions and tigers aren’t enough to entertain people any more. How are we supposed to compete with the music halls? Look, here’s an advertisement in Le Mirliton: “The Olympia is proud to present Beloni, Marietta and their performing parrots, alongside the famous marksman, Caballero Garcia, assisted by his dog, William Tell”!’

  ‘What you need is someone like Annie Oakley! But she has already been recruited by Buffalo Bill unfortunately.49 She’s so handy with a rifle that Sitting Bull himself calls her “Watanya Cicilia”, or “She who never misses”!’

  ‘Congratulations on your mastery of the Sioux language, young man,’ the manager replied sarcastically. ‘Nevertheless, I don’t think the time has yet come for us to dismantle our premises and transport them all the way to the banks of the Mississippi, where the floating circus is by all accounts a great success.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Joseph replied seriously. ‘I wonder – would you mind if I had a look behind the scenes to get some material for my article?’

  ‘Be my guest!’ Victor Franconi urged him, eager to draw the interview to a close.

  There was only a small courtyard separating the offices from the stage door. The manager accompanied Joseph as far as the prop room and took leave of him there.

  Joseph wandered along a narrow corridor cluttered with piles of miscellaneous objects, as trapezes and rings swung gently in the air above his head. He walked past several cages where foul-smelling animals lay dozing. A tiger suddenly hurled itself savagely at the bars of its cage and growled. Joseph hurried away towards a corridor full of children practising acrobatic routines and horsewomen dressed in sparkling costumes. Finally, he came to the ring, where a group of Chinese jugglers wearing caps and short jackets were putting the finishing touches to a routine. In the red and gold seats of the stalls, two Italian clowns were playing dominoes. One was dressed in an ornate
riding jacket and wide trousers, the other in a pistachio-green silk suit with a belt round his waist and a small pointy hat on his head. Joseph walked over to them.

  ‘Do you know the Great Absalon?’

  Wide Trousers shrugged his shoulders to show that he didn’t speak French. Pointy Hat attempted a sentence.

  ‘I have hear he very good, but we … we migliori! Better!’

  He winked at Wide Trousers and, without warning, jumped onto his partner’s shoulders before bounding over the chairs and into the ring, where he executed a series of somersaults that an agile monkey would have been proud of. Wide Trousers soon caught up with him and they threw themselves into a balletic performance of virtuoso leaps and rolls.

  ‘Ecco! This is how we do!’ gasped Pointy Hat, out of breath. ‘Il vero … true acrobats!’

  * * *

  ‘“My son, you must be as agile of mind as gymnasts are of body,”’ Joseph repeated to himself in the omnibus. The quote was from Barbey d’Aurevilly, and he was certainly right. Except, Joseph mused, if I wrote as fast as those two tumble, all I’d get would be blots!

  At 2, Rue des Martyrs, a sour-faced concierge informed him that after Monsieur Thomassin had been away he would often keep very unpredictable hours on his return, which was only to be expected from one of his artistic profession. The upshot was that Monsieur Thomassin was not at home.

  Joseph had invented an appointment to inspect a set of books at a stall on the Seine and had promised to return to the bookshop as soon as he had finished. Disappointed, he ran to catch an omnibus that had stopped to make way for a removal cart belonging to a certain Lambert.

  * * *

  Corentin Jourdan was counting the number of carriages that went past in an attempt to forget the icy wind whistling around Notre-Dame-de-Lorette church. A yellow carriage driven by a pallid coachman in a white hat brought the total to nineteen. A milk cart speeding towards Rue Saint-Lazare didn’t count. An old wreck of a thing with a postilion all in green with a black leather hat made twenty. When would that ridiculous man finally come back to the pretentious building he called home? What was it that the poster had said?