Murder on the Eiffel Tower

by Claude Izner

  ‘Samba,’ murmured Victor.

  ‘I have very important news for you. I asked my friend Biram to come with me. He knows this town well, he fought for you during the 1870 war and he lives at the military school barracks.’

  Biram nodded vigorously in agreement.

  ‘Why don’t we go upstairs — it’s more private up there?’ said Victor.

  Samba indicated to Biram to stay downstairs, whereupon the spahi was immediately cornered by Euphrosine, who insisted on knowing if he had ever had to use his sabre.

  Victor took Samba into the dining room and invited him to sit down. The old man looked furtively around him and put his hand in front of his mouth as if he was afraid of talking too loudly.

  ‘It’s about your friend, the opera singer.’

  ‘Danilo Ducovitch?’

  ‘Yesterday evening, I went with him as far as his cave and was waiting for him while he changed, but he didn’t come back, so I went in and found him … dead.‘

  ‘Dead? Are you sure?’

  Samba lowered his voice even further. ‘I think someone killed him. I think the murderer saw me. I haven’t slept all night. I hid in one of the stations of the little train, and I waited for the dawn. Then I walked to the Colonial Exhibition and went looking for Biram. You’re the only one who can help me in this barbaric country.’

  Incredulous, Victor stared at the old man, whose strained features attested to a real fear. ‘Let’s see, perhaps Monsieur Ducovitch was taken ill …’

  ‘No, I’ve seen dead people before … His eyes, they were staring at something that we cannot comprehend!’ shouted Samba, who had suddenly got to his feet.

  ‘Please calm yourself. I’m going to check the newspapers. If your story is true, it will have made the front page.’

  ‘You don’t believe me,’ said Samba bitterly.

  ‘Yes, yes, I do believe you. I simply need confirmation.’

  The couple seeking books by the metre had set their sights on the complete works of Monseigneur Félix Dupanloup, which Joseph was jubilantly piling up.

  ‘This is going to free up space in the stockroom,’ he murmured to Victor, out of the side of his mouth. ‘Today’s newspapers? They’re on the counter. Not much this morning. I haven’t come up with anything very interesting, except for the birth of a calf with two heads in the Allier.’

  ‘What were you hoping for?’ asked Victor drily. ‘Another murder?’

  He unfolded the dailies, and looked through them. There was no mention of a death. He went back up to his apartment. Samba had not moved.

  ‘There’s nothing,’ said Victor.

  ‘Perhaps the body hasn’t been found yet.’

  Without replying, Victor went into his study. He wanted to give Samba the snapshots that he had taken of him at the Colonial Palace. On the roll-top desk the Dictionary of Drugs and Poisons lay open at the entry on curare. He couldn’t remember if he had closed it or not. He took the envelope containing the prints, removed the pictures, counted them, then counted them again. There were three missing: the photos of Tasha at the Colonial Exhibition. His heart stopped. Had she stolen them the day before, when he had gone down to compare the needles? Why would she do that? To destroy evidence of her presence at the crime scenes? That would be stupid of her as he had the negatives!

  He came slowly back into the dining room and gave the photos to Samba, who took them without a word.

  As they went downstairs, the old man murmured: ‘Thank you, Monsieur Victor. Farewell.’

  ‘Farewell?’

  ‘I’m not staying in this country any longer. I don’t want to be the next victim.’

  ‘You won’t be. Even if Monsieur Ducovitch is dead, it must have been an accident. I am certain that you are in no danger. Joseph!’

  Joseph, enthralled by Biram, who was displaying his sabre, which he had just used to chop an apple on a plate into quarters, was now calming his mother. She had got rather overexcited at the sight of the spahi chopping up the contents of her basket.

  ‘Joseph! Accompany these gentlemen to Les Invalides. Here’s the money for a carriage.’

  ‘A carriage! A trip in a four-wheeler! Straight away, Boss. Gentlemen, follow me. Are you coming too, Mama?’

  ‘Heavens,’ said Euphrosine Pignot, simpering, ‘if Monsieur Legris allows it …’

  ‘It won’t cost any more!’ cried Joseph. ‘See you very soon, Boss!’

  Victor had waited until everyone had left the bookshop to sit back down at his desk. Mechanically he turned the pages of the ledger in which the amounts and dates of purchases were recorded. Following a sudden hunch, he looked up 12 May, the day Méring had died. What was Kenji doing that day? He discovered that they had been together at the Hotel Drouot to attend two sales. The one in the morning had been a sale of rare and curious books on fencing, duelling and the history of swords, at which they had bought a work by Villamont for four hundred and fifty francs. The other, in the afternoon, had been a sale of newspapers and caricatures of events between 1848 and 1880. They had not been apart, even during lunch. Victor was relieved. Kenji was definitely innocent of the murders, at least of the rag-picker and of Cavendish. He thought again of the arrival of Buffalo Bill. What had Eudoxie said about it? She had not been definite: it was possible that Marius had decided at the last minute to replace the account of that event with an article on the birth of the baby on the Tower. In that case, Tasha would have spoken the truth: Marius really had sent her to do some sketches at Les Batignolles. He closed the ledger. He would have to find out from Gouvier: hadn’t he said he had spoken to the doctor in charge of certifying Méring’s death? That meant that he would have been there with Tasha.

  All these hypotheses were now jumbled up in his head and he was unable to think clearly. He felt almost drunk. The door chime put an end to his reverie. He spun around in his chair and was amazed to find himself face to face with Samba, followed by a very excited Joseph, brandishing L’Éclair. ‘Boss, it’s an incredible story. Poor Monsieur Thiam is scared out of his skin. Look!’

  The headline went right across the top of the page.

  CRO-MAGNON MAN IS DEAD! CRO-MAGNON MAN VICTIM OF THE BEES?

  This morning, at 7.30, Madame Philomène Lacarelle, the lady in charge of cleaning the prehistoric section in Human Habitation, discovered the body of Monsieur Danilo Ducovitch of Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. The police are investigating with …

  ‘So do you believe me now?’ gasped Samba.

  Stunned, Victor read and reread the article.

  ‘Blimey, it’s the fourth one!’ exclaimed Joseph. ‘If this continues we’ll beat the English!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘You’d think it was a competition,’ said Victor crossly.

  A customer entered and Joseph went off to serve him.

  ‘Apart from me, have you told anyone else about this?’

  ‘No. All I told Biram was that I had a problem. I asked your assistant to read me the newspaper. He saw how frightened I was and I explained that it’s because I work at the Expo.’

  ‘Good. If I were you, I would go back to work as normal, without breathing a word of this to anyone, and wait for things to settle down.’

  ‘But supposing the murderer saw me?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have taken this long to track you down. Go home. Here’s some money to take a cab, and if you need anything at all, just let me know.’

  Having seen to his customer, Joseph pricked up his ears hopefully. ‘Shall I go with him, Boss?’

  ‘No need, our friend is becoming a real Parisian. And besides, I need you here.’

  Disappointed, Joseph climbed his ladder and pretended to tidy the hardback books. Samba took both Victor’s hands in his and praised him for being a true humanitarian, just like his namesake, the illustrious writer.

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot, maybe it’s not important, but … the man who went into the cave j
ust before Monsieur Danilo, dropped this. I kept it, it’s pretty. I said to myself that I would be able to use it as a model because I do silver filigree work, which I stick onto canes, boxes or cigar boxes.’

  Victor started. He saw a flash of gold on the open palm of the old man, the band from a cigar. His heart was thumping.

  ‘At precisely what time did you discover the body? Think carefully, it’s very important.’

  ‘I don’t need to think carefully. It was seven o’clock — we were meant to have dinner as soon as he had changed.’

  At seven o’clock yesterday, Tasha was here with me, thought Victor.

  ‘See you soon,’ were his parting words to Samba, as he hurried upstairs.

  Cigar, Ducovitch, Tasha …

  I should have known! I’m a hopeless detective! Every time I’ve suspected someone, they’ve been murdered. Ostrovski, then Ducovitch, whose turn is it now?

  He pounced on Le Figaro de la Tour and carefully studied the series of names. Then he compared them with those recorded on the loose sheets of the Golden Book, which he had copied into his notebook. The names were in a different order; they should have read like this:

  1st sheet. Rosalie Bouton. Madame de Nanteuil, alias Eugénie Patinot. The three children. John Cavendish.

  2nd sheet. Constantin Ostrovski. B. Godunov. Tasha’s caricature. Guillermo de Castro …

  3rd sheet. A series of twenty names and Kenji Mori.

  The first four he had highlighted had met their maker. Which left Tasha and … Kenji.

  He hurtled down the stairs, rushing like a whirlwind past a bemused Joseph.

  On the ground floor of the Le Passe-partout offices, in the typesetting room, the Linotypist, in long black apron, was operating the machine used to cast the blocks of type. Isidore Gouvier was pacing up and down, chewing the end of a cigar and overseeing the page-setter who was finishing off the final proof. Under the ceaselessly tapping brush, the type bit into the damp pasteboard, hollowing out the blank spaces so that the headlines stood out in relief.

  Gouvier noticed Victor and nodded in greeting. The noise of the Linotype was so deafening that he did not even attempt to say hello, but instead invited him to the first floor by pointing upwards.

  ‘Is Antonin Clusel here?’ asked Victor.

  ‘No. Can I help you?’

  ‘It’s not important, but since you ask … It’s about that rag-and-bone man, you know, the one who died at Batignolles station last month. The other day in the café, you said —’

  ‘Oh, yes, cardiac arrest — at least that’s what they told me at the local police station. But now I wonder. You’ll have seen that there’s been a fourth murder at the Expo.’

  ‘But were you there, at Batignolles station?’

  ‘Yes, with the little Russian, to cover the arrival of the bison killer. She did some excellent drawings, but Marius decided at the eleventh hour to pull my article. Perhaps he was influenced by Beau Brummel.’

  ‘Brummel?’

  ‘Clusel, the king of reporters, our very own dandy. You must surely have noticed the flower in his buttonhole, his starched cravat artistically knotted on the right, his fashionable suits. He thinks a lot of himself. He must have insisted on having his article included on that unexpected birth in mid-air. Let me explain: on the twelfth of May, a woman gave birth to a little girl in one of the lifts of the Eiffel Tower. The event of the century, you would have thought! I’m of the old school, I don’t give a fig for that kind of thing. I’m interested in ferreting about, uncovering unusual or disturbing events. Births, even acrobatic ones, I find dull. Each to his own. As for Clusel, sooner or later he’ll become a naturalistic novelist, he loves those heart-warming stories.’

  ‘So Mademoiselle Kherson was there with you?’

  ‘I’ve just said so. She’s a good girl, but the boss takes advantage of her. He made advances towards her, but she wasn’t interested. You should see her pictures, she’s very talented. She’ll go far. Why are you so curious?’

  ‘I’m planning to write a serial and that story could be an interesting way to start,’ replied Victor, casually. ‘What make is your cigar?’

  ‘Cuban.’

  ‘Havana?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s not just cheap rubbish. Do you want one?’

  ‘Oh, well …’

  Gouvier opened a door and Victor followed him.

  ‘I may as well tell you that this little indulgence is beyond my means. Clusel gets them for me, he nicks them from the boss. Quite right, seeing as we’re paid a pittance.’

  They were in a spacious room, containing two desks surrounded by shelves crammed with old papers. A little nook for a bathroom — with a stand holding a shaving brush, razors, soap, and a basin — had been contrived behind a screen. A camp bed had been set up in a corner.

  Gouvier carried on talking as he held out the cigar box to Victor, who helped himself. ‘The large desk is Marius’s, the writing desk near the window is Clusel’s, but he usually prefers to write his articles in the café.’

  Victor noticed the bottom of the cupboard that Gouvier had just opened, and where he now replaced the box of cigars before closing the doors.

  ‘Where are the others?’ enquired Victor.

  ‘At the ceremony.’

  ‘What ceremony?’

  ‘The presentation of the endowment to the proud parents of the baby born on the Tower, by the butchers of the Gros-Caillou district,’ growled Gouvier, passing the stump of his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. ‘They have christened their little girl Augusta-Effeline.’ He sniggered. ‘That’s a laugh. Effeline! Speeches, medals, drum rolls, all the fanfare. And large amounts of money, of course.’

  ‘Where’s this taking place? When is it?’

  ‘At four o‘clock, first platform. Afterwards everyone will go down to the garden party that’s been organised in front of the fountain. If it sounds tempting, you can have my ticket because, frankly, for me, all those crowds … Here you are.’

  As Victor pocketed the ticket, the page-maker knocked on the door. ‘M’sieur Isidore, you wanted me?’

  ‘Yes, here you are, print this for me,’ replied Gouvier, giving him a crumpled paper.

  ‘But it’s already full to bursting! We’ll never get it out if you keep adding copy right up to the last minute!’

  ‘I’ll sort it out. Excuse me, Monsieur Legris. I’ll be back.’

  Victor stood still a moment, then walked out onto the landing and listened. The Linotype had stopped rumbling and from the ground floor the echoes of an argument could be heard. He returned to the room, opened the cupboard and bent down to examine closely something that had made him wince a few moments earlier. He broke into a sweat.

  He was about to leave the room when someone called his name. He stopped and waited impatiently.

  ‘I hadn’t seen you leave,’ said Gouvier, out of breath, ‘and I forgot to tell you something that might be important. Your colleague, the Japanese man, came by just before you arrived. He asked me exactly the same thing as you.’

  ‘About Les Batignolles?’

  ‘No, he wanted to know where the rest of the team were.’

  Victor didn’t immediately register the significance of this information. When he finally understood he was already running as fast as he could to find a cab.

  A merciless sun beat down on the participants at the endowment ceremony, grouped together at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. Around them was a heaving crowd of curious onlookers who had come to witness the ‘family photo’. In the first row, decked out in ill-fitting brand-new clothes, with shiny faces, stood Monsieur and Madame Moinot with their daughter Augusta-Effeline’s perambulator. Already a celebrity at the age of a month and a half as a result of her entry into the world between the first and second platforms of the Tower, the baby had received testimonies of affection from all over France. These were heaped up in another perambulator: dolls, drinking bottles, lace bonnets, gingerbread and caramels. The curate of
the church of Gros-Caillou was jealously guarding this treasure.

  Marius Bonnet, Eudoxie Allard, Antonin Clusel and Tasha Kherson were standing a bit further on, along with other members of the press near a shiny brass ensemble.

  The official photographer, his eye glued to his viewfinder, recorded the scene for posterity. There was applause and then the guests went along the gardens towards the pillars of the Tower, where they disappeared into the lifts. The presentation of the endowment by Gustave Eiffel was due to take place on the first platform. It was 3.30.

  André Maheux had had enough. There was not an ounce of shade in front of the north pillar where he had been standing guard since midday. He was suffocating in his greatcoat, which was sticking to his back. His helmet, adorned with its red plume, was gripping his head so tightly that he felt as if it were about to explode, and the strap of his rifle was sawing into his shoulder. ‘Damned awful job,’ he murmured, watching a group of well-endowed elegant ladies, and comforted himself with the reflection that their corsets must be digging deep into their flesh. That would serve them right for having the privilege of attending the stand-up buffet by the fountain, whilst he must be on show, his throat dry and his stomach empty. He could kiss goodbye to any prospect of lunch because these kinds of festivities generally lasted hours. He thought about wiping a drop of sweat that was hanging at the end of his nose when he saw an Asian-looking man in a bowler hat. On seeing him approach with assurance, he felt sure that he was a diplomat attached to one of the various oriental delegations. So when the Chinaman held out a card covered with bizarre symbols he let him through the cordon without bothering to read the invitation.

  Kenji bowed, and put the visiting card from the Maison Hanunori Watanabe, Importer of Prints and Curios from the Far East, back in his pocket and hurried into the lift. He had slipped through with remarkable ease.