Murder on the Eiffel Tower

by Claude Izner

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because in spite of his line of work, Monsieur Méring was tidy and polite, while that Capus stinks the place out with his chemicals, not to mention his unsavoury trade. I’m always afraid that he will get Mac-Mahon; he lures him in with meatballs. One day he’ll skin him. In fact, I haven’t seen Mac-Mahon this morning. Mac-Mahon! Mac-Mahon!’ she bellowed.

  ‘And where does he live, this Monsieur Capus?’

  ‘At the back, the ground floor, on the right. Mac-Mahon!’

  Surely ex-president Mac-Mahon would not have premises in this hovel? Of course not! thought Victor, knocking.

  ‘Come in, it’s open!’

  The smell, a mixture of alcohol and carbolic acid, took him by the throat. The bedroom was badly lit by a narrow window. It was crammed with two beds, a bench covered in strange objects, a long tinplate cylinder on the floor near some rubber boots, buckets, butterfly nets, a small charcoal stove, glass jars standing on wooden planks, and some clothes hung on nails. Sitting on a chair in front of a little wooden table, a man was absorbed in reconstructing a tiny skeleton. Without looking at Victor, he pointed to a stool.

  ‘Are you from the Faculty? What are you after?’

  Busy making a mental note of the little room’s contents, Victor did not reply. He noticed that on a bench next to some fossils there were sheets of cork with insects nailed to them. There was also a large herborisation box and books with dogeared pages, both novels and scientific works.

  ‘So you’re a collector?’ the man went on. ‘I don’t have much at the moment — a few beautiful specimens of butterfly, a praying mantis. You could place an order.’

  Victor bent down to inspect the glass jars: he could make out some green and yellow shapes floating in a cloudy liquid. He deciphered the labels: ‘Frogs from Seine-et-Marne’, ‘Lizard from Chantilly’, ‘Adder from Marly’.

  ‘Actually I’ve come about something entirely different.’

  The man put down the tweezers he was using to move the bones around, and stared at him. He could have been anything between fifty and sixty years old. He was thin, with a lined face, and the way his moustache drooped onto his salt-and-pepper beard gave him a melancholy air.

  ‘Oh, yes? And what’s that?’

  ‘I have to write a series of articles on unusual Parisian occupations for my newspaper and if you would agree to talk to me about your work, I would be happy to pay you.’

  ‘It’s a deal! What would you like to know?’

  ‘How did you come to be a laboratory supplier?’

  ‘I was trained in phar —’

  He was interrupted by a hollow meowing. A vast tabby cat had just extricated itself from under one of the beds and was rubbing up against the door.

  ‘Mac-Mahon! You were hiding again, you miscreant! He must have got in when I took out the rubbish,’ Capus grumbled.

  He pushed the animal outside and sat down again.

  ‘Where was I? Oh, yes. The pharmacy. I couldn’t face spending my whole life behind the counter of a pharmacy. So I became a purveyor of small animal species for the Museum of Natural History and for lecturers in physiology. That was much better as I had my freedom. I also supplied private individuals. I’m always going here, there and everywhere, at least I used to. Now I can’t come and go so easily because of the damned rheumatism in my pins.’

  ‘What do you hunt for?’

  ‘Larvae, insects, vipers, toads …’

  ‘And this?’ asked Victor, pointing to the skeleton.

  ‘A bat. There are bats in the walls of the fortifications around Paris. University lecturers write to me from the provinces. I have a reputation; I’m known.’

  ‘I’m sure that you know as much, if not more, than some lecturers. I’m interested in something on which I’d like your opinion. You must have heard about the brutal murders at the Exposition. It’s been claimed that the victims were stung by bees. Do you think that’s possible?’

  ‘It’s ridiculous! Just as it was with Méring, but no one believed me.’

  ‘Who is Méring?’

  ‘A friend of mine. We lived here together. Sometimes I accompanied him on his forays. He was a rag-picker. When he made a find we would share it fifty-fifty.’

  ‘What sort of find?’

  ‘Fossils. There are many amateur collectors. Once he discovered two shaped flints. They were worth quite a bit.’

  ‘Has he moved out?’

  ‘No, he’s dead. I was right next to him when it happened. The police called me in and when I told the commissioner that it was not a natural death, he laughed at me in disbelief and told me that I must have bats in the belfry. But he said that was hardly surprising considering that I work so closely with small animals. And then he added: “The other witnesses swear that your friend the rag-and-bone man was stung by a bee.”’

  Capus leant forward and grabbed a bottle of red wine, and two glasses, which he filled. ‘Your health. Méring, poor chap, also thought it was a bee. But I know what I’m talking about, and by God, that was no bee.’

  Victor drank barely a mouthful.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, it’s what I work in! I tell you, Monsieur, I prefer the company of animals to that of imbeciles. Yes, even that tomcat belonging to that loud-mouth of a concierge, and too bad if she does think I’m going to flog it to a laboratory for vivisection! I have respect for animals and I only sacrifice a small number so that I can afford to live. He was an idiot, that commissioner. He didn’t want to hear my opinion, case closed. No point writing about it in your newspaper.’

  ‘What did happen then?’

  ‘Maybe I know, maybe I don’t. It’s too late for an autopsy. Poor Méring has been pushing up daisies for a while now. If he’d been from the right side of the tracks, a pen-pusher, a merchant, a soldier, I’ll bet you anything that old fool of a policeman would have bent over backwards to open an investigation,’ Capus finished with a disdainful pursing of his lips.

  Victor put a banknote on the table.

  ‘Tell me about Méring.’

  ‘He was a good sort, not very talkative, a loner. He put up with me, I suppose. But ten years of hard labour in New Caledonia, that changes a man. Before the Commune he was a cabinet-maker. He set himself up in the room next door about three years ago. I think that he had been married but he preferred not to talk about it. We kept each other company and now … What a rotten old life!’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘That day, I had gone with him. I needed some crickets and they are often found on the railway tracks, especially in the sidings where it is warm. Méring had filled his basket and he had gone on ahead because he wanted to see Buffalo Bill arrive. When I joined him, he was lying on his back and there were people almost trampling on him, making it hard for him to breathe.’

  Capus poured himself another glass. ‘Aren’t you drinking?’ he asked, looking at the liquid. ‘It’s funny, the strangest thoughts occur to you at moments like that. My friend was suffocating in the middle of a wild crowd and I was noticing insignificant details: the gravel on the track, the moth-eaten mane of a rocking horse, the ankle boots of the person who thought they were being helpful by offering advice. I could hear someone’s voice but all I could see was what they had on their feet, those yellow kid-leather boots. And then the world seemed to restart and Jean murmured: “A bee.” Naturally my first reaction was to try to remove the sting: but there wasn’t one. So I looked for the bee itself or for some similar insect: nothing. The poor fellow could no longer move. He was breathing very slowly with his mouth open, he was dribbling and his trousers were wet. I spoke to him and from his eyes I could tell that he understood, but he couldn’t answer. I examined his neck. He had certainly been stung, but I can assure you that it was not by a bee, definitely not. He had a red mark about the size of a hundred-sou piece. Very quickly the edges of the sting swelled up and soon the whole thing was bluish and puffy and about two centimetres
in diameter. I touched it with my fingertips. Jean didn’t react, he couldn’t feel anything. A bee-sting is quite different. All you see is a little white lump about two or three millimetres across with a grey point, which is the sting. The swelling increases, the skin stretches and you feel a sharp pain, which itches and hurts.’

  ‘You’re certain there was no trace of a sting?’

  ‘Yes. Instead there was a hole, as if someone had pushed a large hollow needle into the flesh. His eyes had become glassy and he was suffocating. His heart stopped. By the time the police arrived, he was dead. I told them that it was very strange to die just from a bee-sting, but they replied that it was not the first time that a drunkard had kicked the bucket all of a sudden.’

  He guzzled the rest of his drink, then put the glass down abruptly. ‘So there you are! Ever since I’ve had nightmares. Because … what can I say? It was no accident.’ He banged his fist on the table. ‘Good God! What kind of swine would do that? And why?’

  ‘Did he have any enemies?’

  ‘I have no idea. Take your money — I don’t want it. Which newspaper do you work for?’

  ‘Le Passe-partout.’

  ‘I hope to read your article soon, Monsieur … ?’

  ‘Victor Legris,’ he replied, not having the presence of mind to give a false name.

  ‘I’ll make a note of that,’ said Capus, snatching up a pencil and a school notebook. ‘That way, I can always complain to the paper if you twist my words.’

  With her cat on her lap, the concierge was keeping watch. Victor saw that the passage led to another courtyard, which opened onto Rue de la Harpe, opposite the restaurant Le Père Chocolat.

  Surprised by the brightness of the light, he joined Boulevard Saint-Michel, shaken by what he had just learnt. Jean Méring had died in exactly the same way as Patinot and Cavendish. Capus seemed convinced that someone had poisoned his friend with a needle. What sort of poison would produce such a rapid effect?

  The boulevard gradually coming to life made Victor feel slightly better. He felt as if he was emerging from a bad dream and he could still taste the sourness of Capus’s wine. At the corner of Boulevard Saint-Germain, he jumped into a cab to get back to the bookshop as soon as possible.

  Alone with his apple and his book, Joseph rose to greet him.

  ‘Monsieur Legris, your article has appeared in the paper. I read it, it’s spot on! You’ve really outdone all those other puffed-up scribes! Do you know what? You should write about mystery novels in your next column.’

  ‘Is Monsieur Mori here?’

  ‘He’s gone to have lunch at Rue Drouot with his colleagues. Germaine has left you some cassoulet.’

  ‘In this heat? I’ll see, maybe later. If there are any customers, you look after them. I’m going down to the stockroom.’

  ‘Oh, Monsieur Legris, you forgot to give me back my notebook, please …’

  ‘Your notebook? Yes, yes, here it is,’ said Victor, putting it on the counter. He hurried off without even tapping Molière’s head.

  ‘Everything’s changing … and those two are abandoning me. If this goes on, I’ll be in charge of everything,’ grumbled Joseph, reimmersing himself in The Chamber of Crime by Eugène Chavette.

  Victor had not found what he was looking for. Yet somewhere on those shelves there had to be a book on the subject. Sometimes he would buy lots at auction that no one wanted, in the hope of finding a hidden gem. Most of the time he drew a blank and the unsaleable stock would gather dust in the dark recesses of the stockroom. Joseph had suggested opening an annexe called Books by the Kilometre.

  Crouching down, he manoeuvred his way under the staircase where hundreds of paperback and hardback books were haphazardly piled. The odour — of leather, dust, and wax – made him feel dizzy. He had almost reached the bottom layers when he felt the spine of a large book: Dictionary of Drugs and Poisons. He’d found the damned book at last!

  He turned off the gas-lamp, climbed the few steps leading to the shop and pushed the door open just enough to see what was going on. No customers. He swept past Joseph, perched on his ladder, and rushed up to the first floor.

  Anselme Donadieu was snoozing in the seat of his cab, having arrived much too late at the station on Place Maubert. His black oilcloth hat had slipped over one ear. Hiding behind a lamppost, a little boy aimed a stone at Anselme’s headgear, tipping it into the coachman’s lap. He awoke with a start.

  ‘Little devil,’ he muttered, covering his head again.

  He looked at the cigarette-butt sellers filling their haversacks with the butts of partly smoked cigars and cigarettes, and cast a hopeful look at a hesitant couple who chose to get into the cab in front. He cursed into his beard. He was old and tired, and afflicted with persistent sciatica. His horse, an emaciated ten-year-old mare, was scarcely any better. Everyone chose the younger coach drivers and their horses with glossier coats. Anselme Donadieu could see the anxious day coming when no one would want to hire him any more. Then he would be good for nothing but the workhouse and Polka would be destined for the knacker’s yard.

  He had been idle for two hours when a man wearing a widebrimmed hat and an Inverness cape approached his vehicle, holding a piece of paper. Blinded by the sun, Anselme could not make out his features but he thought he was dealing with a foreigner who spoke no French, probably British, So he looked at the note. Having read it, he nodded his assent. Before getting onto the running board, the man slipped him the fare for the journey with a generous tip on top. As their hands touched, Anselme noticed that the foreigner was wearing gloves of a slightly coarse texture. He cracked his whip and shouted, ‘Gee up, Polka!’ loud enough to make the poor beast’s ears tremble.

  As soon as he began reading the Dictionary of Drugs and Poisons, Victor realised he was heading into dangerous territory. He couldn’t explain his determination to get involved in this business. Did he just want to prove he was wrong to suspect his nearest and dearest? Was he trying to establish Kenji’s innocence? Or wasn’t it more a simple desire to impress everyone? As a child he had so often dreamt of shattering his father’s total indifference with some great achievement.

  The air was stifling. He opened the window slightly.

  Bent over his desk with his collar open and his hair in disarray, he read through a number of articles that were brief but enough to give him an idea of the subject. Capus had stated that Jean Méring died rapidly with no spectacular symptoms. What kind of poison could have such a devastating effect? He read on. After half an hour he had already eliminated several toxic substances, including Spanish fly, digitalis and arsenic, all of which acted too slowly. As he skimmed through an article on strychnos, he made a discovery.

  Strychnos is a climbing plant that winds itself around the trees of South America. The Indians living in the lands between the Orinoco and the Amazon use it to coat the tips of their arrows.

  It is also found in the intertropical countries of Asia, in Cochin China and on the island of Java. The natives poison their arrows with upas antiar extracted from the bark of Strychnos tieute.

  Upas antiar. The letters danced in front of his eyes. He had already seen something about that — he had even copied it down. Taking his notebook from its pigeonhole, he leafed through it until he came to the notes taken from Le Tour du Monde.

  JOURNEY TO THE ISLAND OF JAVA BY JOHN RUSKIN CAVENDISH, 1858—1859

  I was present at the death of one of the unfortunate victims of upas antiar. At first he showed the characteristic symptoms of that poison: anxiety, agitation, shivering and vomiting. Then he arched his spine sharply, clenched his jaws and the muscles of his limbs and chest stiffened. The poor man’s face became flushed and his eyes looked as if they would burst out of their sockets. He had three choking fits and then …

  That was where he had stopped in the middle of the sentence, in a hurry to leave the Hachette bookshop.

  He wiped his face with his handkerchief and put his notebook away. That doesn’t tally with
Capus’s description. So it can’t be upas antiar. He went on reading the dictionary.

  Also extracted from strychnos is ticuna or curare, which is found in Para and in Venezuela. This preparation arrived in Europe either in little clay pots or in calabashes. It looks solid and sticky, is of a blackish brown colour like liquorice, and is soluble in distilled water and in alcohol. Like aconitine, the Calabar bean and cicutine, curare paralyses nerve function. But while the first three substances provoke physiologically violent reactions — spasms, vomiting and muscular contractions – curare acts without pain, and death occurs within half an hour following the injection.

  In ‘The Master of Curare’ Alexandre de Humboldt reports the comments of Indians who say: ‘The curare that we prepare is superior to anything that you know how to prepare. It is the essence of a plant that kills quietly.’ (Journey through Central America)

  ‘Curare,’ Victor murmured

  He was convinced that he had found the cause of the death of Méring, Patinot and Cavendish. There was no proof, of course. It was just a hunch. He reread the page out loud and suddenly, as he was saying: ‘either in little clay pots’, he pictured himself in the Hindu palace. The Battle of Sebastopol. The plants. The sideboard covered in … in pots, firmly closed little earthenware pots.

  Ostrovski, Constantin Ostrovski … I told him that I liked plants that were not dangerous and he replied: ‘It all depends … it all depends how they are used. Only man is dangerous …’ Could he be mixed up in all this? He was also up there on the Tower …

  He felt totally confused. He needed to lie down a moment to think, to decide on a course of action. He closed the dictionary.

  Though usually so meticulous, he had thrown his clothes carelessly down on the furniture and now lay on his bed, dressed only in his long johns, with a damp towel to his forehead to stop a migraine developing. The situation had become too much for him, and a feeling of listlessness was growing in him. He would doubtless have fallen asleep, had he not been looking at the Constable watercolour on the wall facing him. If only he could escape into that peaceful countryside, far from this city of stone and iron, which had cast an evil spell on him! He felt a longing for that emerald-green countryside where the cottages held the promise of pleasant dreams. He was floating towards the watercolour, entering it … He pressed the towel to his head. He must calm down. He needed to go back over everything that had happened from the beginning up to his interview with Capus. Capus … He had said something important and Victor had tried to make a mental note of it, but he could not now recall what it was. He remembered Kenji’s teaching about memory: ‘Our mind is a succession of rooms where we put our memories. Some of them are stored in full view on the shelves but others are thrown in a jumble at the back of dusty attics. When you can’t find one of them, you use your inner eye like a lamp and visit the rooms one by one, carefully following the beam of light that you’re casting on your memory. In this way you will eventually find the memory you are searching for.’