Murder on the Eiffel Tower

by Claude Izner

  He closed his eyes in concentration. Ostrovski, the little terracotta pots on the sideboard — was it curare? The Russian had signed the Golden Book just like Patinot, Cavendish, Kenji and Tasha. Of these five people, two were dead. Perhaps Kenji and Tasha knew each other. After all, Kenji had bought perfume whose name seemed similar to Tasha’s — Benjoin. Kenji had apparently had a meeting with Cavendish and sold some prints to Ostrovski. Ostrovski had received Tasha at his house. Tasha … What was it that linked these facts and people to some deaths that only intuition suggested might not be from natural causes? The threads were becoming tangled and his migraine was taking hold. He groaned.

  ‘Tasha …’

  He found the strength to get up and fetch the little canvas he had bought by Laumier, which he unwrapped and looked at for some time. Why was he attracted to this woman? What did she have that others did not? Was it her pretty face? Or breasts as round as peaches? Perhaps it was her personality? He remembered her turning Bill Cody’s portrait into a caricature with two lines of her pencil, and his thoroughbred into a ridiculous old nag. The word struck him so forcefully that he had to sit down. That was it! 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 … Capus’s words resounded in his head, illuminating a halfforgotten image: a drawing he had glimpsed two days before in Tasha’s notebook. A train, some Redskins, a man lying on the ground, baskets, a chair with three legs, a rocking horse. She had also been there when the rag-picker died! It couldn’t be a coincidence. The Indians … Buffalo Bill! Méring wanted to see the arrival of Buffalo Bill, Capus had said. So had Tasha. Did she go of her own accord or was she sent by Le Passe-partout? In the latter case her drawing would certainly have been published. He would have to go back to the newspaper and look at the issues of 13 and 14 May.

  He dressed in a hurry. As he was leaving, he caught sight of Laumier’s picture on the bed. He leant it against a clock on the chest of drawers and considered it again with a wry smile. Tasha had been present at all three murders. Was that why he found her so disquieting?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Afternoon, Wednesday 29 June

  As he did every day, a nondescript man, dressed in nondescript clothes, was limping up and down the corridors of police headquarters. Some years earlier, when he had been a secret police agent, a violent thief had broken his tibia and his days of tailing and interrogating were brought to an end. Isidore Gouvier was then transferred to the office researching family interest cases, where he remained dejectedly for almost five years. Following his resignation he became a private investigator before offering his services to Le Temps. Marius Bonnet had persuaded him to join him in the Le Passe-partout adventure.

  Isidore Gouvier did not spend much time with the other journalists, whom he found too blase, too cynical, too full of themselves. There was nothing exceptional about him, and it might seem surprising to some that he was always better informed than anyone else. The explanation was a simple one: always unhurried, unflappable and clear-sighted, he was invariably in the right place at the right time.

  On that 29 June, he went from one office to the next, sneezing into a check handkerchief. He had been struck down once again with his annual hay fever. Hobbling and sniffling, Isidore Gouvier waited patiently for a hansom cab driver called Anselme Donadieu to come through the next-to-last door at the end of the corridor on the second floor of police headquarters.

  Le Passe-partout was closed. On the door was scrawled in pencil: ‘Isidore, meet us at Le Jean Nicot.’

  Disappointed to be denied access to the newspapers, Victor easily found the café, which was right next to Galerie Véro-Dodat. Marius, Eudoxie, Antonin Clusel and Tasha sat at the pavement tables with their aperitifs, along with two typesetters, who were slightly separate from the group.

  ‘Victor!’ shouted Marius when he saw him. ‘Come and raise a glass with us!’

  ‘What are you drinking to now?’ he asked, with a quick wave to the team and a long look in Tasha’s direction.

  ‘To the success of our articles on “A Day at the Expo with Brazza”, and our next guest, Charles Garnier, the architect of the History of Human Habitation, who’s just confirmed that he will do it. For an epigraph, we’ll use one of his many plays on words which apply so perfectly to our newspaper: “The dirty rag had mopped up more than the clean one.” Le Figaro will scoff. Antonin is beginning the interviews tomorrow. Tasha will go with him. By the way, your column was a great success. When can I have another?’

  Victor finished ordering a vermouth and cassis, and frowned. ‘I haven’t had time to think about it. I have a vague idea about novels that have crimes and murders as their subjects. What do you think?’

  Marius gave him a surprised look. ‘I didn’t know you were interested in that sort of literature.’

  ‘That genre has existed since the dawn of time. Just remember the Atridae,’ Victor replied. He stared at Tasha, who looked down.

  ‘Don’t you think there’s already enough violence in life? Think of wars, or simply the terrible crimes in the news, like the stiff ‘uns at the Expo,’ Antonin Clusel remarked.

  ‘These deaths are shocking, but they also spice up everyday life by forcing you to ask yourself certain questions,’ Eudoxie said with a half-smile in Marius’s direction.

  ‘Children, don’t forget that for the moment there isn’t the least proof that they are murders, apart from that anonymous letter, which could be the work of a lunatic. In the last few years there have been several complaints to police headquarters. There are a great number of wild beehives in Paris, particularly in the sugar refining area. Workshops, lodgings and gardens are all infested by bees, so much so that the chief of police has just banned beekeeping in the capital. A lot of people have been stung, and not just once. There are reports of epilepsy in young children, adults having convulsions, and bites sometimes causing eyesight problems and —’

  ‘But you’re contradicting yourself,’ Antonin Clusel objected. ‘You said —’

  ‘Oh, I know what I said. You have to say something to increase circ —’ Marius stopped, his eyes fixed on the facing pavement. A breathless Gouvier was crossing the road and hurrying towards Le Jean Nicot. ‘Have I got a story for you! Pens at the ready: there’s another dead body!’

  This news was received with cries of astonishment. Satisfied, Gouvier continued: ‘It was discovered in the early afternoon, in a hansom cab, stiff as a board. I gave the driver the third degree when he came out of police headquarters. I was the only journalist there at the time. So we’ve got an exclusive, until proved to the contrary, and we need to get a move on!’

  ‘Eudoxie, get your pen and pad and write everything down. Who was it?’ Marius asked.

  Gouvier blew his nose and looked down at his scattered notes. Antonin watched him impatiently, drumming his fingers on the table.

  ‘Constantin Ostrovski, Russian, with a large fortune, a very large fortune …’

  Victor choked on his vermouth and cassis. Murdered. He was stunned at this incredible revelation. Dead, Ostrovski made a pretty poor suspect. His hypothesis was falling apart. Back to square one. He glanced at Tasha, who was holding her portfolio. Her knuckles had turned white. Gouvier went on unhurriedly deciphering his scraps of paper.

  ‘Known to art dealers. On first inspection, it looks like a heart attack. That has a certain similarity to the preceding deaths, except that this time there’s a suspect. The driver, who was waiting around at Place Maubert, took a fare to Parc Monceau. Once there, a second fellow — Ostrovski — joined him, heading towards the Magasins du Louvre. The first passenger got off and the driver went on to the Champ-de-Mars, to the Expo entrance at Quai de Passy. The fare had been settled in advance. The driver is called Anselme Donadieu, a fateful name as it turned out. Sixty-five years old. Lives in Ivry.’

  Victor could not stop looking at Tasha. She kept tying and untying the strings of h
er portfolio nervously.

  ‘Ostrovski, how’s that spelled?’ asked Eudoxie, leaning over her pad.

  ‘As it’s pronounced, with an i.’

  ‘What are the police saying?’

  ‘They’re keeping to their “bee” story. My contact knows what’s going on: he tipped me off. For the moment nothing is being leaked, no statements to the press, there’s just a lot going on behind the scenes. Everyone is under great pressure. But according to my contact, they’ve got no real leads, they’re playing for time.’ Gouvier finished his account with a resounding sneeze.

  ‘I stand by what I said: these are murders,’ Antonin asserted. ‘Lecacheur knows it. Don’t forget he’s a follower of the Goron method.’

  Victor paused as he raised his glass to his mouth. ‘Goron?’

  ‘The head of the secret service. When Paris wakes up to the announcement of a death in suspicious circumstances, he immediately needs to find a culprit. In five days, on the Fourth of July, on the Grenelle Pier, a scaled-down Statue of Liberty is going to be unveiled, a gift to Paris in friendship from our American community. It would be a shame to spoil this historic moment with some sordid business, because, don’t forget, John Cavendish was a United States citizen. So not a word to anybody. The police are investigating on the quiet and feeding false information to the press. Once again honest Lecacheur is pointing the finger at the bees — bees, I ask you! But, I repeat, these are murders.’

  ‘Without any obvious injuries?’ asked Victor in surprise.

  ‘Oh, you can easily poison somebody with a syringe or needle if you set about it the right way!’ muttered Gouvier. ‘Antonin, remember the story you told us last year?’

  ‘Which story?’

  ‘You know, the one about the Spanish woman.’

  ‘What’s Spain got to do with anything? Your hay fever’s affecting your brain.’

  Gouvier blew his nose again and gulped down some beer.

  ‘It happened in Seville about fifty years ago. The woman was called Catalina, and she’d fallen for a handsome hidalgo who rejected her advances. She was hot-blooded, and stabbed him in the arm with her hatpin, which was tipped with a poisonous substance — extract of white hellebore, I think.’

  ‘Did he die?’

  ‘The pin had gone through a sleeve, so the material soaked up some of the poison and he narrowly escaped death after several days in a coma.’

  Marius cackled. ‘A Sleeping Beauty for our times.’

  ‘If you like. But our victims at the Expo were not so lucky. They won’t be seeing in the new year.’

  ‘We’ll do a special edition!’ Marius exclaimed. ‘It will cause a sensation amongst the post-theatre crowds! Come on then, everyone back to workl’

  The two typesetters got up and went off. Marius took the pad from Eudoxie and began to compose his article. Slowly Gouvier unfolded another piece of paper.

  ‘As to the driver’s testimony, it’s all written down here. He didn’t see his first customer’s face because the sun was in his eyes. He looked like some kind of English type: big hat, Inverness cape, gloves. Clothes that surprised him, as it was so hot.’

  ‘Is that everything?’

  ‘The English fellow said nothing, the itinerary was written on a piece of paper. Full stop.’

  ‘It’s odd, but I’ve just remembered something,’ Victor said thoughtfully. ‘Last month, one of our customers reported a man being stung by a bee, a rag-and-bone man, I think, and that he’d died. But another rag-picker who was present at the time of the incident swore blind that his friend had been poisoned, and not by insect venom.’

  ‘Who was it? Where did it happen?’ asked Antonin.

  ‘I can’t remember. At the time I paid no attention. One hears so much idle chatter in a bookshop.’

  Once again Victor was watching Tasha’s reactions. But she remained huddled up with her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands.

  ‘I know,’ said Gouvier. ‘It was the day Buffalo Bill arrived.’

  Immersed in his writing, Marius slowly looked up. ‘Listen, children, I’m trying to concentrate on my article, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing, it’s not relevant,’ Gouvier went on. ‘As is my duty, I carried out a little investigation of my own. The fellow was sick, very sick, a heart problem. And there’s no cure for that. He had spent ten years in New Caledonia, as a former Communard. I spoke to the doctor who examined him.’

  ‘There we are, I’ve finished!’ Marius exclaimed. ‘“Crime in a Carriage” — not bad, eh?’

  ‘Inspired, Boss,’ Antonin approved as he looked through the article, ‘but you said it yourself, there’s no proof, so I suggest a more neutral tone. We don’t want any backlash.’

  ‘Oh, but I’ve only put down the facts. To work!’

  They got up and smoothed down their clothes. Only Tasha remained seated.

  ‘What’s wrong, my dear?’ Marius asked.

  ‘It must be the sun, I … feel a little dizzy. I’ll be with you in five minutes.’

  ‘Absolutely not. You go home and rest. We really need you at the Expo. I can manage without a picture this evening, I’ll just need one for the next edition. Oh, these flowery ladies’ bonnets,’ Marius added, indicating Tasha’s hat. ‘It’s decorative but gives no protection at all from the sunlight!’

  As Tasha tottered off, Victor took his leave of the team.

  ‘Yes, to the penny-dreadfuls, but hurry up and write me something!’ shouted Marius as he left.

  Where was she? Over there, outside the baker’s. For one moment he was tempted to follow her, but he needed to be alone to consider the new information. A walk would do him good.

  He made his leisurely way as far as Rue de Rivoli, passing by the Magasins du Louvre with signs up for summer sales and special offers. The pavement was full of people. In a window devoted exclusively to travel items, a male mannequin wearing a pith helmet stared back at the curious onlookers with expressionless eyes.

  Victor watched a group of sandwich men pass, strapped into advertising boards that covered their chests and backs. Without thinking, he read:

  LA GRANDE REVUE PARIS & SAINT-PETERSBURG

  Bi-monthly publication out on 10th and 25th of every month

  EDITORS: ARSENE HOUSSAY & ARMAND SILVESTRE

  Poli …

  Saint Petersburg. A fat self-satisfied face superimposed itself on the mannequin’s. Constantin Ostrovski was staring at him with a mocking expression. It was curious, all the same … Had Ostrovski arranged to meet his killer? Was it a friend? An accomplice? An accomplice who had eliminated him because he knew too much and was becoming a liability? One could only wonder. Those little pots on the credenza, what did they contain? Curare? I feel I’ve got something here … some proof. But have you? The police could go wild over something like this. The police! What’s that inspector called? … Lecacheur? Lecacheur is following a lead. It won’t be long before he establishes a link between the signatories of the Golden Book. That will take him back to Kenji, Tasha … and me! I left my calling card at Ostrovski’s home.

  His temples were throbbing and his forehead was on fire. He crossed the pavement and entered the Tuileries Gardens, collapsing onto a chair. He needed some respite to recover both physically and mentally. What was this all about? Who would suspect a bookseller who was a go-between for a collector?

  He rubbed his neck. His imagination was racing. Kenji was implicated. And Tasha. A woman could easily be the perpetrator of such a murder, as that scorned Spanish woman of Gouvier’s proved. A simple hatpin! It would be easy to get one’s victim in a crowd, just by starting a commotion. Suddenly my aunt cried, ‘Ow!’ … Those were the words of Eugénie Patinot’s niece. The little hypocrite had added: Someone fell on her: that made me laugh.

  Somebody? A man or woman?

  Back to Avenue des Peupliers.

  Kenji was taking a break outside the bookshop. Through the glazed door he could see Joseph doing battle wit
h three customers. He entered discreetly and gave him a little sign.

  ‘Where’s Monsieur Legris?’

  ‘No idea. I’m not clairvoyant, you know. He comes and goes, he can’t keep still in one place,’ Joseph answered sullenly.

  ‘Did he come back for lunch?’

  ‘He can’t bear cassoulet in the summer, and I can sympathise. He shut himself away in the stockroom, then he went up. Who knows if he came back down? I was out for five minutes to get some apples from Mama. You know, Monsieur Mori, you should try and reason with him, because I can’t be everywhere at once.’

  ‘And did you see him this morning when you opened up?’