Murder on the Eiffel Tower

by Claude Izner

  ‘Good day to you, Mademoiselle Kherson!’ shouted the woman, visibly relieved at having an excuse to allow herself a break.

  She descended from her vehicle with some difficulty and leant it against a wall. ‘Don’t you think I’m making progress?’

  ‘In leaps and bounds, Mademoiselle Becker. If you go on like this, you’ll soon be able to cycle around Pare Monceau.’

  ‘In public! You cannot be serious! Our misogynistic culture is not ready to accept such a revolution in behaviour and dress! And yet, believe me, trousers are the future for women! Such freedom of movement! By the way, congratulations on your drawings. I read the newspaper. I envy you having such a fine profession. What fun you must have with all those dead bodies!’

  ‘Excuse me, I must go up. Work, you know … I’ll give you the rent tomorrow morning, without fail.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not worried about that. I know you are dependable, unlike certain others … the Serb, for example. I’ve got my eye on him!’

  Tasha crossed the yard and opened a glass door to climb up six floors to her attic lodgings. Her door was the fourth on the right down a long, dark corridor, poorly lit by an opaque skylight. She put her shopping bag on the basin opposite her door, and searched in her pocket for the key. Just as she was about to turn the handle, the next door along opened and a bearded giant in shirtsleeves appeared, carrying a pitcher.

  ‘Good day to you, Monsieur Ducovitch.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Tasha! How delightful! Have you seen Madame Vulture pedalling in the yard? She worships only at the altar of the god of Rent and I’m stony broke.’

  ‘She’s just practising. Don’t worry, she’ll be going home soon. It’s sauerkraut time.’

  ‘Every quarter it’s the same with that harridan. I daren’t even go down to buy some tobacco for my pipe.’

  ‘You have to put yourself in her shoes, Monsieur Ducovitch. Two of her tenants have already done a moonlight flit, so of course she’s keeping watch!’

  ‘Please do call me Danilo. I can tell you that I very rarely try to put myself in others’ shoes, as I risk losing my own! But, God knows, I don’t like her!’

  ‘Are you still appearing in one of those Charles Garnier historical tableaux at the Expo entrance? I’ve forgotten which one.’

  ‘You promised to come and see me. I’m upset you haven’t. It’s an easy one to remember: I play one of those prehistoric men dressed in animal skins who live in a cave and grunt what are supposedly the beginnings of human language. And there I am dreaming of interpreting the works of Modest Mussorgsky!’

  ‘Well, why don’t you? People will be so surprised, it will make you a sensation!’

  ‘Whilst holding a club? You must be joking! Why didn’t I land a role as one of the figureheads in the medieval house or in the Renaissance home? At least there I could have given them a ritornello. Whereas in my cave I can’t even read the novel you lent me. Just imagine, Cro-Magnon man reading Tolstoy! What indignity! Jack of all trades and master of none! In the ten years since I came to this city, I’ve only ever had odd jobs with no prospects, although I have the makings of a baritone! The body of a Goliath with the soul of a midget, that’s what I am.’

  He opened his large mouth, alarming Tasha, who thought he was going to demonstrate his baritone, but he only let out a pitiful cry, lamenting his miserable fate. She consoled him vaguely and picked up her shopping bag, desperate to escape his moaning. He noticed the turnips.

  ‘You like those vegetables, do you?’ he asked, suddenly cheered.

  ‘Not really, but they are cheap and I make purees from them mixed with carrots, salt and cream.’

  Danilo Ducovitch now had a greedy look in his eye.

  ‘I’ll bring you a bowl of it,’ Tasha promised as she slipped through her door.

  ‘Thank you, Mademoiselle Tasha, you are good! What a pickle I’m in: Jack of all trades and master of none,’ he muttered as he went back into his room, pitcher in hand.

  Tasha’s garret was sparsely furnished with an iron bedstead, two trunks for her clothes, and an earthenware stove that gave out no heat in the winter and disappeared in the summer beneath the sketches that had been hung on its edge with clothes pegs. There was also a dresser, a round table with a wobbly leg wedged with a brick, two chairs that were losing their stuffing, a threadbare rug, and the supreme luxury of a recessed alcove in the wall where about twenty books were piled up. The chocolate-coloured wallpaper was peeling in some places, and in others was hidden by canvases, mostly of the rooftops of Paris at all hours of the day and night. Standing on a wooden stool, Tasha could see out of her dormer window a mass of red or grey roofs going up into the clouds, and had decided to devote herself for now entirely to this subject matter.

  She went into the tiny room that served both as kitchen and bathroom — the water closets were at the end of the corridor and were shared by all the lodgers on the sixth floor.

  She piled up carrots and turnips by a small coal stove, plunged her hands into the basin, which she had taken care to fill up before she had gone out, and wet her face and neck, trying to ignore Danilo’s singing exercises in the next-door room. She returned to the main room, unlaced the ankle boots that she hoped would last her until the end of the summer, undressed quickly, throwing onto the bed her hat, gloves, jacket, skirt, underskirt, knickers, stockings, and bodice. Then she unravelled the cotton band that she wore around her chest as she could not stand the constraints of a corset. Naked, with her hair loose, she sat on the bed with a sigh of pleasure. She touched her breasts. She wanted to rediscover the feeling of Hans’s caresses; she had so enjoyed making love with him. Well, forget about that, my dear. She grabbed a big grey paint-spattered smock, slipped it on and went over to her easel and the canvas she was currently working on: two slate roofs where pigeons were pecking about in the dying rays of the sun. She picked up a paintbrush and, after a moment’s hesitation, began to retouch a gutter. A preposterous idea was going through her mind. She imagined a swarm of vengeful bees flying out of the left comer of the chimney, intent on ridding the city of those stupid individuals who understood nothing about art and were only interested in money. She could not resist the temptation and, with the tip of her paintbrush, she added some tiny yellow and black marks above the gutter. Her thoughts turned suddenly to her father. Was Pinkus still in Berlin? She had heard nothing from him for a year. As long as he hasn’t got involved in some murky political business again. She shrugged. She was wrong to worry: he always managed to extricate himself from any trouble.

  With a single glance through the shop window Victor established that the bookshop was empty. The sole occupant was Joseph, sitting on his stool, lost in a novel, as he was every day at this hour. From time to time he stopped to bite into an apple. He looked up at the sound of the door chime.

  ‘Monsieur Victor! Monsieur Mori waited to have lunch with you, because Mademoiselle Germaine had made escalopes à la milanaise, but as you didn’t come, he’s gone.’

  ‘I warned him yesterday that I would not be back until three. Did he say where he was going?’ asked Victor, frowning.

  ‘He said he had a meeting with a colleague.’

  Victor thought the colleague in question probably wore a skirt and ankle boots, and would now be delightedly opening parcels from La Reine des Abeilles.

  ‘Have you made any sales?’

  ‘Everything went really well yesterday. It’s a pity you weren’t here. I managed to unload that incomplete Diderot Encyclopédie — you know, the one that was really damp from being in that cellar on Rue Le Regrattier — onto a provincial dealer, and then I —’

  ‘Good, good. What are you reading?’

  ‘Monsieur Lecoq — you recommended it and it’s gripping.’

  Victor smiled. ‘You can’t survive on popular novels. You need to eat, Joseph, and something more than just apples. What if you tucked into my escalope à la milanaise?’

  ‘I’d rather feed my grey matter than have an overloa
ded stomach, which would give me heartburn. Mama always says that three-quarters of all illnesses are as a result of pyrotechnics and I —’

  ‘Surely you mean pyrosis?’

  ‘And anyway, this police investigation is just too thrilling. He’s really good that Lecoq, the things he can deduce from very tiny clues … What would he say if he had my notebook?’

  Joseph took a black cloth-bound notebook out of his pocket and threw it down on the counter.

  ‘What do you write in here? The names of customers or your amorous conquests?’

  ‘Something much better than that! I’m interested in unusual events, unexplained mysteries. I cut out articles from newspapers and stick them in. Have a look!’

  Victor leafed through the notebook and read some pages at random:

  Frogs rain down at Montauban … Crime in a carriage … the headless woman of Bondy … a grouper washed up on the Ourcq canal … Merovingian jewels found in a bag of firelighters … murderous bees in Paris.

  He looked closely at the article dated 13 May.

  Yesterday morning, at Batignolles station, amongst the spectators who had come to welcome Buffalo Bill and his troupe was Jean Méring, rag-and-bone man by trade, of Rue de la Parcheminerie, who died as a result of a bee-sting.

  ‘That paragraph’s from last month’s L’Éclair. You think that is odd too, eh? Nobody’s made the connection between the death of this rag-and-bone man and those that occurred at the Expo. Yet it’s worthy of a Gaboriau novel. If only I could write!’

  Victor smiled. Buffalo Bill’s name reminded him of his encounter with Tasha.

  ‘You think that’s funny, Monsieur Victor? Oh, I realise I’m not an educated man, but I know all about books!’

  ‘Oh, I’m not laughing at you, Joseph. It’s Buffalo Bill, he made me think of someone who —’

  ‘Monsieur Legris! You’re here at last! I came by twice yesterday but you were nowhere to be seen!’ roared the Comtesse de Salignac, slamming the door shut.

  Victor started, then winked at Joseph as he squeezed past him and stuffed the notebook in his frock coat pocket. ‘Don’t forget to ask me for it back,’ he whispered as he hurried to the rear of the shop.

  ‘What’s got into him?’ cried the Comtesse.

  ‘Nothing we need worry about — unless it’s one of those bees!’ said Joseph, gobbling up his apple core.

  ‘Well, young man, can you tell me where Monsieur Legris has gone?’

  ‘I think he’s gone down to his studio in the basement, next to the stockroom. That’s where he develops his photographs. Can you see the little red lamp on the chimney behind the bust of Molière? It’s electric. When it’s on it means that Monsieur Legris has shut himself away in his secret room and will certainly not be disturbed.’

  ‘Disturbed — that’s what he is,’ grumbled the Comtesse. ‘I wanted to know if he had finally laid his hands on a copy of Eagle and Dove.’

  ‘Is that a book about birds?’ Joseph teased, rolling the apple stalk between his thumb and index finger.

  ‘Of course not! It’s a novel by Zénaïde Fleuriot!’

  Having shut himself away in his laboratory, Victor took down the prints he had developed the previous day, carefully noting down the time and place of the shot on the back of each one, then lined them up in front of him. There was no question about it, the precision of this portable Acme camera surpassed anything he had previously come across: how extraordinary to be able to take photographs in a fraction of a second without the subject even knowing! Granted, the negatives of Samba the Senegalese, which did have true artistic value, could have benefited from a little more light, but the ones of Tasha had come out extremely well. Once they’d been retouched, they would be perfect. He prepared his tools — a small paintbrush and a bottle of China ink — then sat down at the table. When he dipped it in the bottle, the paintbrush came out completely clean: he had run out of ink. He put the set of photographs in an envelope and, with his frock coat on, passed through the stockroom, almost stopping to look at a pile of books. But he had to do something about the envelope. He went back upstairs and ventured carefully into the bookshop. There were no customers. Joseph was busy cleaning the bookcases with a feather duster. Victor gave a little whistle, and Joseph was soon at his side.

  ‘Has the battle-axe gone?’

  ‘Do you call her that too? I was the one who suggested the name to Monsieur Mori,’ Joseph said proudly. ‘But watch out because she’ll be coming back. She’s warned me she won’t go home without her books.’

  ‘If she asks for me, tell her I’m at the top of the Tower!’

  Victor dashed towards the staircase leading to the first floor but suddenly stopped and retraced his steps to tap Molière on the head. This had been his good-luck charm since he had first owned the bookshop.

  Victor crept into Kenji’s apartment, with an excuse at the ready. It was empty. He looked in vain for Los Caprichos in the dresser. Some other volumes were missing too. He shut it again. Would Kenji have sold the Goya? But it meant so much to him! As he stood up he noticed that two framed Utamaros were missing from the wall. He recalled Kenji’s visit to the bookseller on Rue Auber and his rendezvous on the terrace of Café de la Paix. He had then spent all the money from these sales at La Reine des Abeilles. The name made him feel uneasy. Of course, one had to realise it was just a coincidence, but bees had been impinging on his life a little too much recently.

  On the table, protected by a large green blotter, a set of calligraphy brushes were arranged alongside a ream of rice paper and bottles of different coloured inks. He picked up the black ink and noticed Le Figaro de la Tour dated 22 June, which had fallen out of Kenji’s pocket on his birthday. In the margin, there was a mysterious sentence written in a familiar angular hand: ‘Meet J. C. 24-6 12.30 p.m. Grand Hotel Room 312.’ J.C. like Jesus Christ? he joked to himself. But then he had a sudden thought. He took Le Passe-partout out of his pocket and reread the article with the headline ‘AND NOW THIS!’. The naturalist who had died outside the Colonial Palace had been staying at the Grand Hotel.

  That’s quite a coincidence, he thought. Though no more than me being at the scene of a crime twice in succession. He shrugged his shoulders, more concerned than he dared admit to himself. As he moved round the oak table, on the floor by the armchair he saw a half-open leather bag from which protruded a number of parcels wrapped in mauve tissue paper. He kneeled down to inspect the contents: a box of face powder, a foulard, a miniature Eiffel Tower and a bottle of Jasmin de Provence perfume. All these presents carried the seal of La Reine des Abeilles, an elegant gilded label in the shape of a shield. He whistled through his teeth. My goodness, he’s really spoiling his lady-love! I’d give anything to know who she is!

  ‘As I say, Monsieur Legris assured me that he was in a position to find both of them! Eagle and Dove and Bad Days! Valentine can confirm it; she was with me!’ shouted the Comtesse de Salignac into Kenji’s face as he wrote out record cards.

  ‘Shouting won’t help, Madame Battle-axe,’ whispered Joseph, stifling a laugh.

  The Comtesse’s niece, a thin young girl with a long nose and spotty cheeks, was fiddling self-consciously with her parasol. ‘Never mind, Aunt, we’ll come back,’ she murmured.

  ‘No! Have I nothing better to do than come here? Well, sir, what do you say?’

  ‘That this is not a station library, but a bookshop,’ Kenji declared drily.

  The Comtesse turned puce and opened her mouth, but before she could protest Victor’s voice was heard coming from behind her. ‘My dear Kenji, you have no idea! These novels are so refreshing, they are what see us through the hot weather and give us a change from the vulgar writings of Monsieur de Maupassant and Monsieur Zola!’

  Haughtily rising to her full height, whilst her niece looked at Victor with adoration, the Comtesse refused to be so easily mollified.

  ‘Vulgar is a weak word. Rotten seems more appropriate to me. Just like this rag in which some illustrator wh
o thinks he’s witty pokes fun at the authorities. This is why we are headed towards chaos and disaster,’ she concluded, throwing the latest edition of Le Passe-partout onto the desk.

  Kenji calmly picked up the newspaper, unfolded it, looked over the front page, lingering over the drawing, and the signature ‘Tasha K.’ written across a coconut. ‘It’s very educational. I had no idea that coppers were so good at climbing trees.’ He folded up the newspaper again and went back to his work.

  Victor coughed politely. ‘I’m so sorry, Madame la Comtesse, I haven’t yet found the two Zénaïde Fleuriots. I can offer you some Raoul de Naverys, equally pleasant reads, which your niece will really enjoy.’

  Valentine looked gratefully at Victor before feigning a sudden interest in the handle of her parasol.

  ‘Joseph, go down to the stockroom, the complete works of Raoul de Navery, they’re in the bilge section.’

  ‘Bilge? What does that word mean?’ asked the Comtesse.

  ‘It’s … er … it’s a way of …’

  ‘It’s how we booksellers describe our very best purchases,’ ventured Kenji, hurrying to Victor’s aid.

  ‘Really? It’s a bizarre expression,’ the Comtesse replied suspiciously.

  ‘It probably comes from the English, like the word “clown”,’ hazarded Valentine, earning herself a grateful wink from Victor and turning quite pink.

  ‘I don’t see the connection.’

  ‘I have them here, Madame Battle — la Comtesse!’ Joseph exclaimed triumphantly, emerging with a cardboard box in his arms.

  Whilst the two women examined the dusty books, Victor went up to the desk and looked closely at the newspaper. ‘What do you think? This is beginning to get worrying.’

  I’m not scared of insects. When I was young my father showed me how to squash them with the palm of my hand.’