by Claude Izner
Touty Namèh or The Parrot’s Stories: a collection of fifty-two short stories by Zya Eddin Nachcehehy. An octavo volume with a red vellum cover embossed with a bouquet of gilt flowers. The book contains 298 pages illustrated with 229 miniatures and was previously in the possession of Mohammed Hassan Chah Djihan and Omra Itimad Khan respectively.
‘I’m afraid you may have to kiss it goodbye,’ said Victor.
‘I’m finding that hard to accept. It’s such a rare volume and I’d all but sold it to Colonel de Réauville for one thousand five hundred francs. I’ll have to give him back his deposit.’
Hunched over the order book, Joseph made a face, and muttered under his breath, ‘Isn’t that just typical of the boss, always counting out his grains of rice? If one went missing he’d probably commit hara-kiri.’
‘Keep your malicious thoughts to yourself, Joseph, or go and join the ranks of Blanche de Cambrésis and her band of detractors,’ Victor warned.
Unperturbed, Kenji had begun sorting out the index cards for his next catalogue. The door bell tinkled and a man in a dark frock coat stood staring at them quizzically.
‘Is this the Mori–Legris bookshop? My name’s Inspector Lefranc. I’ve come to take Monsieur Mori and Monsieur Legris down to police headquarters to identify certain items recovered from the body of a bookbinder by the name of Andrésy, first name Pierre,’ he said, without pausing for breath.
Victor and Kenji donned their hats and followed the man, leaving Joseph behind.
‘I see, so I count for nothing! Even though Monsieur Andrésy and I discussed everything. He wasn’t prejudiced. We confided in one another, I liked him. But I’m just a lowly employee. Good for watching the shop while they strut about like a couple of peacocks! Well, the bosses had better watch out or the worker will down tools!’
Inspector Aristide Lecacheur’s office was stark. He detested the beige patterned wallpaper with its drab brown rectangles repeated ad infinitum. The only decoration was a portrait of Abbé Prévost hanging next to a mottled mirror.
Victor and Kenji sat down on a pair of cane chairs. Their host, a tall man, towered over them. Despite the hot weather he was sporting a flannel waistcoat.
‘I hoped I’d seen the back of you, Monsieur Legris,’ he grumbled. ‘You’re like the cursed hand my nanny used to tell me about: you throw it in the gutter and it comes back in the night to pull your toes.’
‘It’s your destiny,’ declared Kenji.
‘I’m no less tired of you, Monsieur Mori. However, enough of my misgivings! I shall see it through to the bitter end.’
‘I assume this speech is only a polite preamble?’
‘Quite right, Monsieur Legris, let’s get on with it,’ boomed the inspector, pointing to an assortment of fragments.
Kenji seemed relatively composed as he examined the objects spread out on the inspector’s desk, but Victor noticed one of his eyelids twitching slightly.
Inspector Lecacheur watched him.
‘Well?’
‘I can’t say with certainty.’
‘How about you, Monsieur Legris?’
‘I, too, am at a loss. I very rarely went to his shop. As for his clothes…’
‘Where is the body?’ Kenji asked.
‘At the morgue.’
‘Who is taking care of the funeral?’
‘His family, I suppose. We’re placing a notice in the newspapers.’
‘If nobody comes forward, may I see to the arrangements?’
‘Yes, once the investigation is over.’
‘What investigation?’
‘We’ve yet to determine the cause of the fire. We’ll know more in a few days.’
‘Were any of the books saved?’
‘The firemen arrived too late on account of those blasted students who had the nerve to try and attack police headquarters!’
‘It’s rumoured we’re to have a new chief of police,’ said Victor.
‘That’s right. Monsieur Lepine.25 He’ll soon restore order.’
As Victor turned a half-melted fob watch over and over in his hands, the inspector stared at him so intently that it was all Kenji could do to stop himself from saying: ‘Beware the cobra that fixes you with its gaze.’
‘Yes, to the bitter end…Whenever a murder or serious accident occurs in Paris, who turns up like a bad penny? You, Monsieur Legris. It’s becoming tiresome. How do you explain that so many of the people you associate with come to a bad end? Is it simply bad luck on your part or can you see into the future?’
‘No doubt I have a sixth sense.’
Inspector Lecacheur walked over to him, scarcely able to contain his exasperation.
‘Another of your evasive remarks! I won’t let you wriggle out of this one – I demand an explanation!’
Kenji intervened politely.
‘Pierre Andrésy was my friend, Inspector. Monsieur Legris knew him on a strictly professional basis. Their paths crossed purely by chance.’
‘A timely coincidence, eh? And just now you were talking to me about destiny!’
Aristide Lechacheur rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a cigar and a box of matches. He drew lustily on the cigar, exhaling a puff of bluish smoke.
‘All right, I’ve been a little blunt, but you must confess,’ he conceded gruffly, ‘that if something’s bothering me I speak my mind, especially with a fellow like him. Strange sort of bookseller who can’t even manage to find me a limited edition of Manon Lescaut! Did your friend use flammable substances in his work?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Did he have gas or oil lamps?’
‘I think I saw oil lamps in his shop.’
The inspector leafed through a file and continued his questioning without looking up.
‘Are you aware of any enemies he might have had?’
‘Good heavens, no! He was liked by everyone…Do you suppose it might have been arson?’
‘I’m not here to suppose, but to investigate. And I don’t need any help from you, so I suggest you let me get on with my job and you two get on with yours, which is selling books. You’re free to go now. If I need you again I’ll let you know. Have I made myself quite clear, Monsieur Legris?’
‘Clear as day, Inspector. Incidentally, am I right in thinking that you’ve given up cachous?’
‘When I heard you two were coming, I decided I needed a smoke to calm my nerves.’
Kenji walked slowly across Pont Neuf with a stooping gait. Victor’s heart went out to him. He fell into step beside him.
‘You were fond of Pierre Andrésy, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. How absurd and pathetic,’ he murmured.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Ashes. They’re all that remain of a man, of his dreams and aspirations.’
Victor resisted the urge to place his hand on Kenji’s arm; displays of affection played no part in their relationship. He leant over the parapet and watched a steamboat ferrying its passengers along the river Seine, from Charenton to Point du Jour. Inspector Lecacheur’s insinuations had aroused his curiosity. What if it hadn’t been an accident? What if…? Another case? It wouldn’t be easy. His thoughts returned to Tasha. He’d curbed his fondness for mysteries out of love for her, and it frustrated him. He lit a cigarette and remained pensive, mechanically clicking his lighter on and off. No! No more cases; a promise was a promise.
‘Inspector Lecacheur asked me if I knew of any enemies he might have had. That’s absurd! It can’t have been arson. Everybody held him in the highest esteem!’ said Kenji.
‘I suppose he’s just doing his job. He has to explore every avenue. But you’re right. In Monsieur Andrésy’s case it does seem absurd. Did he have any relatives?’
‘A distant cousin in the country.’
‘Would you care for a cordial, Kenji?’
‘No. I’m concerned about Iris; she’s taken to going out in the afternoons – I’ve no idea where. And she’s not eating properly. She’s going to m
ake herself ill. I knew it: lovers in disarray will a wedding delay. I don’t feel I’m being a very good father, but what can I do? She won’t listen to me. Couldn’t you…?’
‘I’ve given Joseph a talking to, but he won’t budge. I think he feels as if he’s an ugly duckling. If Iris agreed to make the first move, it would restore his injured lover’s pride.’
Sunday 9 July
‘Eat up, little ones, eat up! Gobble it all down and grow nice and plump then we can eat you!’
Mother Chickweed raised her voice above the cackle in the poultry yard.
‘Monsieur Frédéric, your coffee’s ready. I’m leaving now.’
Frédéric Daglan woke with a start. For a split second he imagined that he was back in Batignolles at 108, Rue des Dames, where he rented a bedsitting room. The sight of his light-coloured suit hanging from a dismantled sideboard brought him back to reality. He threw off the coverlet, pulled on his trousers, shirt and shoes and left the shed. On a makeshift table beneath a shady arbour he found a pot of coffee, a bowl and a round loaf. He sat down and cut himself a slice of bread. He’d waited long enough, now it was time to act. First he’d call at Anchise’s place and borrow his case of liquor samples. Then he’d be ready to find the witness.
‘I’ve been hoodwinked, but it’s not too late – I can still fight back.’
He went to wash his face at the pump.
On Sundays, those who were able to leave the city streets would go up to the ramparts with their families. From there, they liked to think they could see green fields and misty forests. In the distance they could just make out the river Seine with its barges sailing towards the sea. There were merry-go-rounds, sweet sellers, and open-air cafés serving mussels and cheap wine. In springtime when the grass was still green there was even a sprinkling of daisies. Shop girls and maidservants enjoyed a few hours’ rest from their drudgery. All they saw of the city was the backs of shops and stifling kitchens, but up here they could cherish their shallow dreams of marrying a butcher’s boy or a grocer’s assistant, of escaping from under the thumb of their employers, of being free at last!
Frédéric Daglan enjoyed roaming over that man-made hill and mingling with society’s outcasts, whom he saw as his brothers in humanity. A little girl wearing a folded newspaper as a sun hat was leading a procession of goats. A donkey, its spine bent out of shape, its coat marked from the harness, basked in the sun. A man hurtled down the slope to the delight of a little boy on his back. Below, mounds of refuse spewed out by the city lay piled up in the ditches.
It was muggy. Frédéric took off his jacket. When he looked closely at what was going on around him, it seemed as unreal as the memory of a dream. And yet while you were still dreaming the most illogical situations seemed perfectly normal.
His jacket slung over his shoulder, he reached the outlying boulevards. The city’s early-morning symphony had begun: horses yoked to dustcarts hammered on the cobbles with their hooves, the din of carts and lorries drowned out the harsh voices of the hawkers. A woman wearing an old coat and a grubby night cap came out of a tin-roofed hovel and emptied a slop pail into the gutter, the handle of her bucket falling back with a clang as a cockerel’s shrill crows rang out.
‘Spare a coin for a miserable beggar, Monsieur. My insides are crying out for food. I’m on my uppers and supper’s a stranger to me now. For the last two years one meal a day is all I get.’
Frédéric Daglan slipped a ragged man with a bright-red nose a coin. He skirted round the blackish puddles and reached Porte de Clignancourt. The streets were dirty and the breeze brought with it a dusty smell. He felt a sudden thud of panic. What would he do when he found the witness?
The demon drink will kill you
But without it you’ll die just the same
was written above the bar.
Frédéric Daglan stood in the doorway of Chez Kiki on the corner of Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine and Rue Chevreul. Outside, a few spindle trees shielded a row of tables. Inside, a small area was separated from the main room by a glass partition. In the middle of the larger room stood a stove and, at the back, the bar. On weekday evenings, at about five o’clock, local shopkeepers would arrive and take over the tables, benches and chairs. They jealously saved places for their partners who would turn up like clockwork to play manille, black jack, dominoes and backgammon. The smaller room was reserved for casual customers. On the left of the main room sat the card players and on the right those wishing to talk or read the newspaper. Everybody had their appointed place on a bench or a chair and no one ever changed seats. The waiter was conversant with every customer’s needs and it made his job easier.
The owner of the establishment, a stout woman of about thirty-five who wore her blonde hair in a bun with a fringe, was sitting by the till knitting. At that time of the morning, apart from a young soldier composing a letter, the café was empty.
‘Are you the owner?’
The plump woman stopped her knitting, calmly looked Frédéric Daglan up and down and, liking what she saw, replied with a half-smile, ‘Yes, I’m Madame Mathias. What can I do for you?’
Frédéric Daglan smiled back. She had a friendly, straightforward manner that boded well. Daglan was a smooth talker. He could put on a refined, even aristocratic air or pass himself off as a man of the people.
‘An amusing motto,’ he commented, pointing to the sign.
‘That came from my grandfather. He fought in the Crimean War. It’s a Russian proverb, which says what it means.’
‘I know, drink kills us slowly but who cares since we’re not in a hurry.’
‘You don’t say! Are you from around here?’
‘Not really, I’m just passing through. I’m a travelling salesman – I sell spirits. I can offer you very competitive prices.’
‘I’m all stocked up.’
‘That’s a shame. I must have been born under an unlucky star. I always seem to arrive too late.’
‘Well, let’s have a look. I may be able to help.’
Frédéric Daglan opened the lid of his case, which was lined with miniature bottles.
‘Top quality, Madame.’
‘I believe you, but my customers have tough insides – they go for the green fairy or cheap red wine. I won’t sell any fine cognacs or armagnacs in here, my good fellow. You’d do better to try the bars on the Boulevards.’
‘Never mind. I’ll have a coffee and then I’ll take your advice.’
‘So you called in by chance, did you?’ she asked, subtly pulling down the front of her blouse.
‘Yes, just trying my luck, I’ve been to the taverns in Faubourg Saint-Antoine pedibus cum jambis, but nothing doing. Tell me, am I mistaken or does the name of your café, Chez Kiki, sound familiar?’
‘Well, there was the incident.’
‘What incident?’
‘When that nice Monsieur Grandjean, the enamellist from Rue des Boulets, was murdered. It was in all the papers. He came here every morning for his coffee. He used to tease Fernand, he’s our waiter: “A white coffee please, Fernand. In the cup not in the saucer!”’
‘Were you there?’
Madame Mathias cracked her knuckles and poured two glasses of white wine.
‘Yes, my good fellow, I was the first to arrive on the scene. There was blood everywhere, before they cleaned it up of course. Upon my word! I still get dreadfully upset when I talk about it. Feel,’ she said, seizing his hand and placing it over her heart.
‘It is beating very fast,’ agreed Frédéric Daglan, his hand lingering on her ample bosom, which heaved like a rolling sea at his touch.
Madame Mathias gave a sigh and Frédéric Daglan took his hand away.
‘Oh, you naughty man,’ she simpered, ‘you’ve got me all flustered. I can’t remember what I was saying.’
‘Do go on, you’re an excellent storyteller,’ he murmured, leaning closer to her.
‘Oh yes, I’ll never forget those staring eyes. I screamed every bit as loud as J
osette Fatou. She’s the one who alerted the whole neighbourhood – she saw the whole thing. I went out and calmed her down; she was hysterical, and with good reason. I told Fernand: “Go and fetch the police.” Ah! We have so little – we should have some fun when we can, eh, my good fellow?’
‘Josette? Who’s Josette?’
‘A little dark-skinned flower girl who lives in Rue des Boulets.’
‘Did she see the murderer?’
‘Who knows? She swears she didn’t, but understandably she’s scared. Just imagine if he came back to shut her up. Have another glass of Sancerre – on the house.’
‘It’s very kind of you, Madame, but I really must be going,’ he said wearily.
‘Let me twist your arm. There are no customers at this time of day. Stay to lunch. I’ll make you a potato omelette. You’ll never taste better.’
Seeing that he was wavering, she added, ‘My cooking is like music; it soothes the stomach. And who knows,’ she said, lightly brushing his sample case with her fingers, ‘I may even change my mind.’
She chuckled and looked at him archly. ‘The sad truth is that I’ve been a widow a long time, and at my age a woman gets lonely…’
Wednesday 12 July
Micheline Ballu pulled on her cotton stockings.
‘It’s going to rain,’ she muttered. ‘My corns are giving me gyp – that’s a sure sign.’
She went over to the window, flopped into her armchair and surveyed the coming dawn.
‘Well, a spot of rain would save me having to wash the courtyard. Cleaning really takes it out of you in this heat! Anyway, it rains every other Bastille Day without fail.’
She would begin by emptying the dustbins then wait for the postman. After that she’d heat up some coffee and finish reading her serial. The years had flown by since her poor husband Onésime had died, and her rheumatism was so bad now that she dreaded the day she’d no longer be able to carry out the tasks required of her. The landlord had already made it plain that he was doing her an enormous favour by allowing her to manage his building all on her own. With only one living relative – her cousin Alphonse, who was in the army and always on the move – what would become of her if her services were no longer needed? Thank heavens for that nice Monsieur Legris – such a kind and considerate gentleman. He’d promised her the free use of a maid’s room he owned on the top floor of the building so that she wouldn’t be forced to leave her beloved neighbourhood.
