Murder on the Eiffel Tower

by Claude Izner

  ‘No, Tasha, I just want to know where … I saw a copy of one of the illustrations at your lodgings and —’

  She cut across him loudly, ‘At Ostrovski’s. In exchange for my watercolours of the Redskins, he let me copy some plates from his copy of the book. And now are you going to —’

  ‘That’s not possible. Only twenty-seven volumes of those etchings were sold. They were banned by the Inquisition after February 1799.’

  ‘And … ? You’re not the only person to own one! Is it really yours anyway? What’s got into you? This icy coldness, these statistics, all this interrogation … You’re doubting me again, despite what we’ve shared!’

  She sounded both indignant and sorrowful. Victor’s self-control vanished.

  ‘Tasha, I’m going to go mad. Tell me the truth: who are you?’

  ‘Who am I? The same as ever, the very same person who slept next to you last night. And what about you? Who are you? You come knocking at my door when all the time you have a mistress decked out in plumes and jewels!’

  He frowned. She had scored a point against him.

  ‘Yesterday, after hearing of Ostrovski’s death, I wandered around in a dream. There was no way I could go back home. I was too distraught, thinking about all those dead bodies … I thought of you, and wanted to see you and speak to you. I walked all the way here. I saw you with that woman: you got in a cab with her. Your business associate saw me too, ask him. He doesn’t like me — I don’t know why, maybe he’s worried I’m going to trap you. Tell him he can rest easy, that’s not my intention at all.’ And with that she put her hat back on.

  ‘You didn’t rebuff me last night.’

  ‘Why would I have done? You are free, I am free. Why not enjoy ourselves?’

  ‘Exactly. Why not?’

  Very taken by the lock of hair that was poking out from under her hat, he moved closer to her and pressed his lips brutally against hers. She in turn pushed him away.

  ‘Not like that!’ she protested.

  She straightened her hat. With jerky movements she managed to tidy her hair up, put her gloves on and then stood there indecisively, arms dangling at her side.

  ‘Let’s not ruin everything,’ she murmured.

  Maybe she did feel some affection for him after all? This thought made him feel somewhat more relaxed, and he found the energy calmly to offer her a glass of something before she left.

  The bitter smell of cabbage filled the kitchen. He noticed something white: a note from Germaine, saying his black frock coat was being cleaned but that she had first emptied the pockets. On the table he was relieved to find the keys to the apartment, which he thought he had left at Capus’s lodgings, a handkerchief, an entry ticket for the Expo, a button and a metal rod set in a tapering ivory handle with deeply etched grooves and broken right down the middle: it was the object that Marie-Amélie de Nanteuil had given him!

  His hand trembling, he filled a glass with Málaga wine, returned to give it to Tasha, and mumbled an excuse about having forgotten to warn his assistant about something to do with an order.

  Joseph was putting some books away.

  ‘I’ll be closing up soon, Boss. It’s quieter than the Gobi Desert here today. Would you mind if I left fifteen minutes early?’

  Without replying, Victor went into the back room and opened the display cabinet where Kenji kept his precious collections. He picked up one of the tattooing needles he had brought back from Siam, and compared it to Marie-Amélie’s find. They were identical. The same sharply pointed metal rods, the same handle. With racing heart he was about to close the cabinet quickly when he noticed a piece of paper sticking out from Voyage into the African Interior. A bookmark? He pulled it out and instantly recognised the flier announcing Buffalo Bill’s parade, which Tasha had turned into a caricature in the cab, the day they first met. He kept hearing in his head a phrase he had learnt as a child: The heart is a hollow muscle, the heart is a … He was no longer in control of his mind or his actions. He slowly crumpled the leaflet and then tried to smooth it out. He abruptly accosted Joseph.

  ‘The woman who’s just gone upstairs, has she been to the bookshop recently?’

  ‘Well, yes, she was looking for you. You’d promised her a book by Goya, but Monsieur Mori told her we didn’t have it. I rummaged about in the stockroom, but he was right, we didn’t. What’s wrong? Shouldn’t have let her in?’

  ‘What day was this?’ Victor barked.

  ‘Wait a minute … the same day that Monsieur France came in!’

  ‘Yesterday?’

  ‘No, last Thursday. I remember because the battle-axe had demanded The Ironmaster and Monsieur Mori asked me to deliver it to her Boulevard Saint-Germain apartment. It’s in the order book. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Did you open the display cabinet for the young woman?’

  ‘Yes, she wanted to look at a book on Africa.’

  ‘Did you stay with her?’

  ‘I think I left her on her own for a couple of minutes because Monsieur Mori called me.’

  ‘Had she come by before?’

  ‘No, it was the first time I’d seen her.’

  Victor raced back up to the first floor.

  ‘A moment ago I didn’t want to believe him … you bitch!’ he thundered, grabbing her by the arm so violently that the glass fell on the carpet.

  He was staring straight at her, unable to control himself. She tried to struggle, but he pulled her towards the stairs and made her go down and into the back room.

  ‘Admit it! Admit it! It was you! You stole a tattooing needle from here, and curare from Ostrovski, you killed them, all of them, and this morning you almost got me too at Capus’s. Why? Why on earth?’

  He released her abruptly and she rubbed her arm.

  ‘You’re mad … I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying,’ she pleaded.

  Then, recovering, she slapped him hard.

  ‘Goodbye!’ she sobbed.

  She ran out, bumping into Joseph, who was holding a shutter.

  Devoid of all emotion, Victor stood stock-still in front of the display cabinet. He wanted just one thing: not to have to think any more. He uttered one barely audible word, which Joseph managed to make out: ‘Kenji.’

  ‘My word, you look fit to drop. Lean on me.’

  He put down the shutter and took Victor into the main shop to sit him down.

  ‘You know, Boss, it’s none of my business, but it’s not good for you to get into this sort of state. You could end up with cerebral congestion. And what on earth made you strike out like that at that nice little redhead? She’s no thief! If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I shouldn’t have opened Monsieur Mori’s display cabinet, but I’m sure she didn’t take any books.’

  ‘It wasn’t a book, Joseph, but one of the objects in there,’ Victor replied hoarsely. He was beginning to feel a little better.

  ‘Well, in that case, any number of people could have taken it. Your friends from the newspaper — Monsieur Bonnet and the other one who dresses like an English lord — they also spent time in there on their own not long ago. And why not the battle-axe, or her niece, or even me, if you’re thinking along those lines?’

  Joseph touched Victor’s forehead. ‘You’re burning hot, you’ve got a temperature, and Monsieur Mori’s away, to boot! Can you stand up? I’ll help you upstairs. You’re best off going to bed.’

  Victor let himself be led like a child: his willpower had deserted him. Joseph made him take two pills, undress, lie down and then tucked him into the cool bed.

  Through all this, he kept on muttering, ‘No more work for you, I’m telling you, and also who was that chap who pestered me for hours this morning, a lunatic who rolls his rs, and kept talking about opera and claimed you had work for him? You’re not looking for a second assistant, are you? Because if you are, I’m handing in my notice! Well, you have a good sleep. I’ll tell Mama I’m staying here to watch over you. I’ll come back, put the shutters up and … where sh
all I sleep then? At Monsieur Mori’s, I suppose, though his bed is rock hard!’

  In the middle of the night, Victor awoke with a thick head. His scene with Tasha seemed just like a bad dream now. If it really was all over with her, there was still the question of the murders to resolve. Joseph had left him a carafe of water and a glass by his bed. He drank deeply, sat down at his desk, took his notebook and made himself write down some thoughts. Danilo could not have attacked him on Rue de la Parcheminerie, because, according to Joseph, he had spent the morning in the bookshop. However, nothing would have prevented him from killing Capus the night before. So … everything seemed to point to Kenji. But there was no tangible evidence. The same could not be said about Tasha: the Buffalo Bill flier condemned her. And yet something did not quite add up. Tasha had come to the bookshop the day after Eugénie Patinot had died, and a good month after Méring’s death. The tattooing needle must already have been stolen by then. What if this had been a totally flawed train of thought? If it was, Tasha would not forgive him, and would never want to see him again.

  Marie-Amélie had told him that Eugénie had been jostled by a man just before she died. The cab driver had picked up a man prior to Ostrovski’s death in the hansom. A man had tried to kill him at Capus’s lodgings. He wrote down: ‘Kenji?’

  Then he realised that anyone who read Le Passe-partout could have got his address from the advertisement. Including Capus …

  Feeling dizzy again, he tottered back to bed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Friday 1 July

  THE Champ-de-Mars awoke to a colourless day, its party clothes in disarray following the excesses of the night before. An army of sweepers had invaded the square, dustcarts were collecting piles of rubbish, and there were gardeners raking the flowerbeds, watering the flowers and tidying up the lawns. It was barely seven o’clock. The suppliers’ carts and wagons, weighed down with provisions, dispersed to the four corners of the Expo to satisfy the insatiable appetite of the vast crowds of visitors, who were not yet there but already on their way.

  A little handcart rattled along one of the gravel paths, its bucket and brooms clinking together. A plump woman was pulling it unsteadily towards the prehistoric exhibit. She passed the Palaeolithic shelter, the bronze, stone and iron age huts, and slowed down in front of what was supposed to be an exact copy of a natural excavation.

  Philomène Lacarelle picked up her half-filled pail of soapy water and banged it down on the ground.

  ‘Hmm, now that’s not exactly what I’d call comfortable and clean! Poor Philomène, I must be soft in the head to put up with this sort of job. I’ll get those people at the employment office! I’ve been working in this circus for ten days, and I’ll never get used to it. Will you look at that! All those puffed-up tourists, just making the place filthy!’

  Philomène Lacarelle grudgingly picked up two or three greasy papers left by picnickers and paused a moment in front of a wild boar, whose moth-eaten head stared back malevolently.

  ‘What are you gawping at? You’d make a fine bedside rug! You’re just a fat pig stuffed with horsehair,’ she muttered as she got out her paraphernalia. ‘They say our ancestors lived in a place like this. I’m sure that mine would have kept it in better condition! The good thing was that rent hadn’t been invented then … Cro-Magnons they were called, what a name! What’s it mean, Cro-Magnon? Sounds like a giant bird, talking of which, this old bird needs to get on with it. Come on, Philomène, it’s time for some elbow grease and let’s try and make the best of a bad job!’

  She wrapped a coarse cloth around her broom, soaked it in the bucket, and advanced into the cave as she washed the stone vigorously, her bottom shaking. She could not see very much and now all the noise from the procession of suppliers was just a vague murmur. However, the sound of her clogs resonated gloomily in the narrow, deep cavern. A feeble light filtered through an opening in the vault. The single gaslight projected broken-up shadows on the irregular walls. What if a flesh-and-blood Cro-Magnon man, in all his nakedness, should appear in front of her? She took a deep breath and tried hard to laugh. A silly thought had just occurred to her. There weren’t any cleaning ladies in those days. I would have been a huge success!

  She carried on with her mopping and hummed:

  Ma bell-mère pouss’ des cris

  En r’luquant les spahis.

  Moi, j’faisais qu’admirer

  Not’ brav’ général Boulanger.

  ‘ … ger … ger … ger,’ came the echo.

  Philomène stopped and pointed her broom like a bayonet. A tomb-like chill descended on her. ‘Is there anybody there?’ she asked.

  ‘ … ody there? … ody there … ?’

  She lowered her broom and hit a black mass pinned against the wall. A pile of old clothes? Breathlessly, Philomène watched it collapse and froze in horror. She wanted to cry out and opened her mouth wide but all that came out was a hoarse gasp. At her feet lay the stiff body of Cro-Magnon man. His glassyeyed face was a livid colour. She heard a piercing cry. It took Philomène several seconds to realise that the cry had come from her.

  Later that morning, the only customers in the bookshop were a bourgeois couple in search of cheap bound books to decorate their sitting room.

  Victor’s pen flew over the paper, as he applied himself to his writing, stopping only occasionally to glance at the bust of Molière. Happy to see that Victor was working hard once again, Joseph became absorbed in scouring the morning papers, on the lookout for whatever unusual little snippet he could find. Had he looked over his boss’s shoulder, he would have seen that he was obviously just pretending to work, as the bottle of purple ink was closed.

  Victor had slept very little and insomnia was clouding his judgement: he could only think about Tasha. For several hours he had gone over the scene from the previous day without managing to convince himself that he had good grounds for his accusations. His fingers tightened around the inkpot. He could not bring himself to believe that she was guilty; there was surely an explanation for her attitude. He should have shown some self-control, and offered her the chance to give her version of events, but yet again he had been too impatient and angry and had spoiled everything. For God’s sake! You make a mistake, you apologise, no situation is beyond repair. No, she would not forgive him. The inkpot was moist; he let go of it and rubbed his palm on his trousers. He opened his notebook, tried to concentrate on his notes. Unable to decipher his tangled scrawl, he looked up, ready to reprimand Joseph, who was irritating him by noisily turning the pages of a daily paper. Then he pushed his chair out and went over to join him.

  ‘Do you remember if Monsieur Mori was in the bookshop on the afternoon of Friday the twenty-fourth of June? I wasn’t here, and he was supposed to give a copy of the Posthumous Works by La Fontaine to a customer. Do you remember the twelve-part volume in red morocco leather published by —’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, by Guillaume de Luyne, 1696. It came from Charles Nodier’s collection. It’s still on the shelf.’

  ‘The customer didn’t come back for it?’

  ‘Obviously not, Boss.’

  ‘And Monsieur Mori, where was he?’

  ‘Um, wait … just there, where you were sitting, at his desk. He came back after lunch accompanied by Monsieur Duvernois from the Champion bookshop and they worked on the wording of the essay on “Organising a Book Collection” until closing time. I remember it clearly because it was the day I finally sold the unfinished Encyclopédie from Rue Le Regrattier, the one that was mouldy. Why are you writing down what I’m saying?’

  ‘Oh, my memory isn’t very good these days, I’m tired,’ replied Victor, quickly putting his notebook into his pocket.

  So Kenji had not left the bookshop the afternoon John Cavendish died!

  There was a growing hubbub in the Rue des Saints-Pères. The two customers went over to the door of the shop and Joseph eventually joined them. Lost in thought, Victor went slowly to stand in front of the desk, his back
to the window.

  The indistinct murmurings turned into exclamations. An eccentric pair, the one on the left in a blue boubou, the one on the right in a red uniform, hemmed in by a bevy of gossiping women, were coming down the street.

  ‘Look at that big soldier, he’s armed to the teeth! But where’s he come from? It’s not carnival!’

  ‘He’s what’s called a spahi. Have you never seen a spahi?’ shrieked Madame Ballu, the concierge from number 18.

  Like a queen amongst her subjects, she stepped forward from amongst the chattering crowd, and once there was a respectful silence, she bowed to the two men.

  ‘But how does she know that? She never leaves her lodge,’ huffed Euphrosine Pignot.

  ‘They come from North Africa,’ declared Madame Ballu.

  ‘Rubbish, in North Africa there are Arabs, not black people!’ cried the fruit-seller.

  ‘You don’t know anything, Madame Pignot. Why don’t you stick to selling pears?’

  ‘How dare you say I don’t know anything! I’ve read books, I’m not illiterate!’

  ‘Say that again: are you calling me illiterate? You’ll see! He’s a Se-na-ga-lese spahi, do you understand? He comes from Senegal. I know about this because my cousin Alphonse went to Senegal, and Senegal, unless it’s moved, is in Africa!’

  ‘Yes, but not North Africa!’ retorted Euphrosine, who wanted to have the last word.

  The women surrounded the two men, who didn’t know how to extricate themselves. Joseph came to the rescue.

  ‘Move along now, there’s nothing to see! Go on, clear off and be quick about it!’

  He drove back the inquisitive women with his feather duster, then led his mother into the bookshop behind the strangers, whom the customers were observing warily from the safety of the counter.

  ‘Monsieur bookseller … Monsieur Victor Legris,’ ventured the older of the new arrivals.

  Victor turned round and regarded the pair with astonishment. One of them was dressed in wide trousers and a scarlet jacket. He wore boots, a chechia, and a sabre on his belt and was a good head taller than the one who had spoken.