by Claude Izner
She had scarcely left when a man’s figure emerged from a corner of the chapel by the gates through which she had just hurried. A gloved hand gathered up the puce scarf, seized the flat, rectangular object lying between the candelabra, and slipped them swiftly into a shoulder bag slung over a dark frock coat.
The man walked round the funerary monument to a grove of flowering elder trees. He took off his gloves, placed them on a tombstone and crouched down. He seized the ankles of a woman dressed in full mourning who lay senseless on the ground and dragged her over to a handcart that leant against a crypt. Catching his breath, he straightened up and began to remove a tarpaulin from the cart, which contained a strange assortment of objects: chisels, a parasol, a cabman’s frock coat, two dead cats, a woman’s ankle boot, a battered top hat, a fragment of tombstone, some scattered white lilies, the hood of a perambulator and sundry other items. The man tipped out the bric-à-brac and raised the handles of the cart to make it easier to slide the body in from the front. He had to struggle to lay the woman’s inert body out on the cart, then he concealed it under the frock coat and the perambulator hood, piled the parasol, top hat, flowers and cats on top, higgledy-piggledy, and covered everything with the tarpaulin.
Only then did he look around him. And satisfied that there was nothing but bushes and statues, he picked up his cane and slipped away.
Sitting at a table cluttered with papers, Denise was dabbing at her eyes, unable to regain her composure. The gatekeeper, a small, lean man with a large moustache in cap and uniform, was doing his best to calm her by patting her on the shoulder. If he’d been more daring, he’d have put his arm round her.
‘You must have missed each other, or maybe she took the other exit, on Boulevard de Ménilmontant. A lot of people do that around closing time. They’re afraid they’ll get locked in and rush out in a panic, forgetting there’s this exit. That must be the explanation. Don’t you think I’d have seen her going past otherwise?’
‘But what if … something’s happened to her?’ Denise sniffled.
‘Now, my dear, whatever could have happened to her? Surely you don’t think the good Lord took her straight up to heaven? Or a ghost spirited her away? You’re young all right, but not young enough to swallow that nonsense!’
Denise smiled weakly.
‘That’s more like it!’ said the gatekeeper, in an approving voice, squeezing her shoulder lustily. ‘It’s a shame to spoil that pretty face of yours with tears.’
Denise blew her nose.
‘The best thing for you to do is go straight home. I’ll wager your mistress is there already making you a drink of hot milk.’
Denise felt her pocket to check she had the spare key to the apartment. Like the man said, Madame probably was at home. Even so, she persisted.
‘I told the cabman to wait for us on Rue de Repos.’
The gatekeeper frowned.
‘I went out to smoke my pipe on the pavement and I didn’t notice a carriage. He must have cleared off. Those fellows have no patience at all. Don’t you worry, there’s a cab stand not two minutes from here, on Rue de Pyrénées. I suppose you have some money?’
‘Yes, I’ve got the week’s grocery money that Madame gave me.
‘Well, off you trot, young lady!’
Denise blushed and grew a little flustered as she waited for him to let go of her shoulder. But, rather than letting go, the gatekeeper tightened his grip. She was about to make her escape when a rasping voice made the moustachioed man jump.
‘If you go to Place Vendôme, don’t forget the noble conqueror of kings!’ declaimed the white-haired old man lurching through the doorway.
Denise used this opportunity to escape. The old man addressed her, hiccupping, ‘Whoa, camp follower! All quiet here in the bivouac, soldier Barnabé?’
‘Busy actually, Père Moscou, we’re about to lock up,’ the gatekeeper replied, in a haughty voice.
‘Hold your horses, Barnabé, hold your horses. Didn’t you promise me a tot of rum a moment ago if I could catch you a dozen? Well, here they are!’ cried the old man triumphantly, brandishing a battered basket full of snails. ‘Nothing like a rainy day to bring these fellows out. We’ll run’em through, cut their little throats!’
The gatekeeper grumbled into his moustache and filled a small glass, which the old man knocked back in one go.
‘This is hardly generous of you, Barnabé. The Emperor will be most displeased!’
‘Go on and fetch your things; I’ve got to ring the bell. We’re closing in fifteen minutes!’
‘May glory and prosperity be yours!’ cried the old man, giving a military salute.
Doing his best to walk in a straight line, Père Moscou weaved between the tombs, leaning on them to the left and the right, and carrying on an indignant conversation with himself: ‘Five petit-gris and seven Bourgognes! Lovely, especially with a bit of garlic and parsley butter, and some shallots! Worth more than one for the road! Never mind, we’ll make up for it! Ah, I hear the signal!’
There was a clanging noise as the gatekeeper began to ring his bell in Avenue du Puits.
‘It’s time to launch the attack, Major …’
He leant over and read the name on a tombstone.
‘Major Brémont, assemble two companies of hussars and reconnoitre the area as far as those woods on the hill. As for you General … General …’
Another tombstone provided a second name.
‘General Sabourdin, take your regiment to the bridgehead. We must hold it at all costs! Get rid of this lot and bring on the artillery. Cannons, we need cannons! Oh! A pair of gloves … A challenge? Who dares challenge Père Moscou? Is it you, Grouchy? You’ll have to wait! Bang, bang, boom. We’ll run’em through! Prepare to die’
He thrust his arms forward, imitating a bayonet charge, and took off at a gallop through the pouring rain until he reached the grove of elder trees where he had left his cart.
‘Victory!’ he roared. ‘We’ve saved the city. We can return to camp, heads held high!’
After stuffing a glove into each pocket, he positioned himself between the handles of the cart, strapped the leather harnesses over his shoulders and, heaving himself upright, lifted his cargo, which moved off with a jolt and bounced along behind him.
‘Damnation! Why’s this thing so heavy? It’s Grouchy’s doing. He’s loaded me down with bricks. I couldn’t care less, Emmanuel. You didn’t deserve to be a peer of France! Softly does it, cut their throats then how we’ll laugh!’
At this last roar a startled ginger cat scurried off.
Père Moscou reached Boulevard Ménilmontant as the bumps and hollows of the graveyard began to vanish in the twilight. With a little luck and a lot of effort he hoped to make it back to his bivouac by nine o’clock.
Denise could hear the clock in the sitting room chime seven times. She had rung and knocked on the door, but there had been no reply. The concierge, Monsieur Hyacinthe, was adamant that Madame hadn’t returned but she had refused to believe it.
She was seized again by panic, and her hand shook so much that she could barely put the key in the lock. What had become of her mistress? Perhaps she’d had a dizzy spell after leaving the funerary chapel and was still in Père-Lachaise cemetery? If so, she was sure to die of fright in that terrible place. She said she wasn’t scared of ghosts but she’d be singing a different tune tonight … Denise hesitated, her hand gripping the key. Should she go back there and knock at the gatekeeper’s lodge? Would anyone be there? What if it were the skinny man with the moustache and he pounced on her? Or the old drunk with the wild eyes? She thought better of it. There were other possible reasons for Madame’s absence. She might have gone to see that woman, for instance, that … Denise could feel her pulse racing.
The corridor yawned before her, pitch black. She recoiled and propped open the door with a chair so that the light from the gas lamp on the landing shone into the hallway. She reached for a small box that lay on a pedestal table next to
a petrol lamp, struck a match and lit the wick. The smell made her feel queasy. She pushed the chair away, closed and bolted the door and hurried into the sitting room where she lit all the candles in the candelabra. Too bad if Madame accused her of being wasteful and scolded her — she was never satisfied anyway. She had regained her composure enough to pick up the lamp and have a look around the apartment. It occurred to her that Madame de Valois might have had time to come back and leave again without being seen by the concierge. If so, she might have left a note — unless she felt unwell and was lying down. These possibilities jostled for position in the frightened girl’s head as she made her way tentatively towards the bedroom.
‘Madame, Madame. Are you asleep?’ she whispered.
All was quiet. She decided to go in, not really knowing what she was frightened of finding. The room was in disarray. Since her husband’s death, Madame only allowed it to be cleaned fortnightly. Otherwise it was strictly out of bounds, though Denise flouted this rule as soon as her mistress’s back was turned.
She was familiar with every inch of the room’s decor: the black veil hanging from the canopy of the four-poster bed; the ebony crucifix recently purchased at auction; the palm tree festooned with black crepe like a funereal Christmas tree; the mirror in the bathroom draped in black gauze … Even the bed was in mourning, as Madame had chosen black for her sheets and silk quilt, which she slept under every night and tucked in every morning. The thick, velvet curtains drawn across the windows were also black. Only the mauve wall hangings with their motif of violets had escaped the macabre choice of colour, but Madame was already planning to replace them with charcoal grey. Near the ottoman where Madame sat for hours reading her missal, stood a small, mahogany table she had converted into an altar, upon which she had placed a photograph of her husband flanked by candleholders and incense sticks.
But most terrible was what Madame kept locked up in the enormous rosewood wardrobe with the full-length mirror, acquired shortly before her husband’s death. Besides her mourning clothes, it contained a skull, various lithographs illustrating tortures inflicted on heretics and books. The books! How they’d horrified Denise when she’d been foolish enough to glance through them one day! Even more than the skull with its hollow eye sockets.
She shivered. Although it was draught-proof, the apartment was cold and damp. Anxious to economise, her mistress had turned off the heaters the week before, declaring that spring was round the corner and it would soon warm up.
Denise explored the room, forcing herself to open the wardrobe and peek into the bathroom.
She took a quick look in the dining room, Monsieur’s bedroom, the linen room, the galley kitchen, the tiny boudoir, the storeroom and even the water closet. The apartment was empty. She stood for a moment on the sitting-room balcony trying to calm herself. She leant on the guard rail and observed how the glare of electric street lamps had transformed Boulevard Haussmann into a glittering palace. She felt calmer, but as soon as she set foot on the parquet floor her fears came rushing back.
She snuffed out the candles, picked up the lamp and walked down the corridor — looking away as she passed Madame’s bedroom — and hurried to her room at the far end next to the kitchen, where she threw herself on to a small iron bed, hoping to sink into sleep. The light from the lamp cast ghostly shapes on the ceiling. She put it out.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
MURDER ON THE EIFFEL TOWER. Copyright © 2003 by Claude Izner.
English translation copyright © 2007 by Gallic Books. All rights reserved.
For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
First published in France as Mystère rue des Saints-Pères by Editions 10/18, Département d’Univers Poche
eISBN 9781429953115
First eBook Edition : January 2011
The Library of Congress has catalogued the hardcover edition as follows:
Izner, Claude.
[Mystère rue des Saints-Pères. English]
Murder on the Eiffel Tower / Claude Izner ; translated by Isabel Reid.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-38374-9
I. Reid, Isabel. II. Title.
PQ2709.Z64M913 2008
843’.92 — dc22
2008020343
ISBN 978-0-312-58161-9 (pbk.)
