by Claude Izner
Kenji pretended to be indifferent, but Victor recognised the rare fifth edition from 1588 of The Essays of Michel, Seigneur de Montaigne he’d bought at auction two years before.
‘One thousand nine hundred francs,’ said Kenji.
The Comtesse’s jaw dropped in indignation, her cheeks flushed a darker red.
‘What!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is that a joke? The Duc de Frioul paid you six thousand francs for it! It was a wedding present for my niece Valentine!’
Joseph heard the name as he reached the landing and it brought back disagreeable memories.
‘You’re mistaken, Madame, he only paid five thousand two hundred francs. You should be thankful, generally speaking we only reimburse a third of the price. I’m making an exception because it is you.’
The Comtesse’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile.
‘Come, Monsieur Mori, I’m one of your best customers – surely I deserve better treatment than this.’
‘Alas, Madame la Comtesse, shares have plummeted,’ parried Kenji, ‘and the book market is subject to the same fluctuations as the antiques market. Is Monsieur de Pont-Joubert experiencing financial difficulties?’
The Comtesse sniffed and tossed her fan into her reticule.
‘He has suffered a reversal of fortune, his capital has been tragically reduced and he is obliged to rein in his expenditure. The nincompoop has been ruined by the Duc de Frioul’s idiocy. What is the world coming to when we can no longer even trust our own relatives!’
Hiding behind a pile of books, Joseph had been hanging on every word and was inwardly rejoicing: there was such a thing as justice!
‘Do you see how far I must stoop in order to save the family reputation, Monsieur Mori? Not content to fritter away his own fortune at baccarat, that gambler Frioul had the brilliant idea of buying up a lot of worthless shares! When I think that he’s my niece Valentine’s uncle by marriage! And do you know what the old skinflint had the nerve to give the twins on their first birthday? Amber cigar holders – one for Hector and one for Achille. It’s a disgrace!’
Victor, choking back his mirth, turned aside in case the Comtesse saw him with her eagle eye. Kenji maintained an expression of polite concern.
What a brilliant actor! Victor thought, watching him. How does he manage to keep a straight face?
The Comtesse rummaged in her reticule and pulled out a piece of crumpled paper, which she waved under Kenji’s nose.
‘Here’s the proof!’
Victor came over to help Kenji out.
‘Why not tell us the whole sorry story?’ he suggested, pulling up a chair for the Comtesse.
She collapsed into it, explaining in a tremulous voice that the Duc de Frioul had been swindled by a second-rate actor, a ham, a scoundrel by the name of Leglantier – the so-called manager of Théâtre de l’Échiquier.
‘The Duc wanted to use his shares as security for a loan since he was in need of ready cash. He went to his bank, Crédit Lyonnais, and what did they tell him? The Ambrex securities were fake. Naturally, he immediately contacted Colonel de Réauville, who was also in a panic. He’d just come back from his own bank. Théâtre de l’Échiquier indeed! As if anyone had ever heard of it! It was all a fraud!’
She handed the share certificate to Victor and pulled herself up out of the chair.
‘I have enough of them to paper my bedroom. Frame it and hang it above your counter! Well, Monsieur Mori, what about the Montaigne?’
Victor decided to make himself scarce. Joseph beckoned to him from the back of the shop.
‘The boss isn’t being very charitable, is he, Boss?’
‘Charity begins at home. What did you want to say?’
‘I found your Sacrovir. I made notes. I’ll read them to you then I’ll have to dash. He was a Gallic chieftain, who occupied Autun at the beginning of the first century AD. He was defeated by the Roman legion of Upper Germania, which ransacked and pillaged his village. It would make a great subject for a play. Why all the interest? Are you thinking of writing an essay on Gaul?’
‘It’s something to do with Pierre Andrésy’s death. Can I come over to your house tonight? I’ll tell you all about it then.’
‘Perfect, Maman’s going to play cards at Madame Ballu’s. I’ll see you later.’
The Comtesse was leaving just as Victor went back to the main shop. She gave him a murderous look before she closed the door. Kenji was looking greedily at the copy of Montaigne.
‘How much?’
‘Two thousand five hundred. She drove a hard bargain. Incidentally, I’ve looked into the matter of the Stories of the Parrot. I went to see Esquirol, the dealer who sold that lot of Oriental books at auction at Rue Drouot. He described the seller as a short, plump man approaching fifty.’
‘Is that all?’
‘I went to Rue de Richelieu, but alas I couldn’t confirm whether our work was among the Bibliothèque Nationale’s recent acquisitions or not. I do have a theory, though, and I’m going to get to the bottom of this.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘I’m going now. Will you tell Iris that I may be back a little late?’
Alone in the shop, Victor ran his finger over the Montaigne. Something important must have distracted Kenji for him to leave it lying on his desk.
It was a calm afternoon. The washed-out sky was the delicate blue of a watercolour, without a trace of cloud. A row of sparrows on the guttering twittered gaily. The cries of a chair-rusher took on an operatic quality. Anglers were snoozing along the cool banks of the Seine.
Kenji, clean-shaven and smelling faintly of lavender, walked past the Théâtre Français. He liked to cut through the gardens of the Palais-Royal where he communed with the departed souls of Restif de la Bretonne, André Chénier, Musset, Stendhal and Cagliostro. Could any of them tell him whether the mysterious manuscript at the Bibliothèque Nationale was his? Lucien de Rubempré38 whispered to him to stop chasing after illusions and enjoy the moment.
He dallied under the elm trees near the fountain. The shadows of the leaves dancing over the water were soothing. He felt light-hearted. What had Eudoxie said on the telephone? ‘You improve with age, my dear man. You look positively dashing with white hair.’ Curiously she was always quite formal on the phone although she addressed him much more intimately in the bedroom – more intimately than he could ever bring himself to address her.
He approached the arcades and studied his reflection in the window of a print shop. Eudoxie was exaggerating: his thick black hair had only a few silvery strands in it. He’d decided not to dye them because greying temples seemed to excite the female imagination. He grinned at himself and plumped up his cravat. It was six months since he’d been to Rue Alger!
As he climbed the stairs, he pictured a less youthful, less lissom body than Eudoxie’s, a quizzical face with a sensual mouth. He quickly cast the image of Djina Kherson from his mind and rang the bell.
Eudoxie opened the door. Her eyes, beneath their long lashes, softened, and her slim body draped in a flesh-coloured lace negligee stirred in him the physical desire he’d been repressing for what seemed like a decade.
‘Why, it’s you, my dear Mikado,’ she breathed. ‘Come in.’
Struck dumb, he followed her into the living room, then composed himself and sat on the sofa, back straight, hands resting on the pommel of his cane. He glanced discreetly around the room that had witnessed their erotic games, and noticed a thick volume lying on the pedestal table: a work in Russian the Cyrillic title of which he was unable to decipher.
‘It’s for you,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d appreciate a deluxe edition.’
‘What is it?’
‘Anna Karenina.’
‘Tolstoy? Goodness!’
‘I’m not completely illiterate! True, my Russian is limited, but I’ve read the French translation. It’s tragic. I’m outraged by the condemnation of passionate love.’
‘When did you get back?’
‘
This morning. I asked the cab driver to go via Rue des Saints-Pères. I saw you. I didn’t want to disturb you and, since you were kind enough to equip me with a telephone, I rang.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Fédor is in St Petersburg. I told him I was homesick and that the doctor had prescribed a trip to Paris. I missed you dreadfully! Fédor is a sweet man, kind, thoughtful, rich, loyal; only between the sheets…he simply doesn’t measure up, you see.’
Kenji felt a familiar demonic sensation. The symptoms were unmistakable: a dry throat, butterflies in his stomach; he recognised the face of lust. His common sense cried out, ‘Say no, leave! This woman is a bird of passage.’ But a second voice immediately told him, ‘Go on! It’s high time you put an end to your dry season!’
‘It’s really quite simple,’ Eudoxie went on in a tremulous voice, ‘every time he took me I closed my eyes and imagined it was you, prayed that it would be you. So you see, I was condemned to live in perpetual darkness.’
‘I very much doubt whether such an immoral prayer has a hope of being answered,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘All you had to do was stay in Paris.’
‘Don’t mock me, you wicked man. It was a prayer that came from the depths of my soul, and I’m sure it’ll be answered. I’m here now, aren’t I?’
‘For how long?’
‘That depends on a certain Monsieur Mori, a book dealer in Rue des Saints-Pères,’ Eudoxie whispered, wriggling closer and closer to him.
He stood up without touching her.
‘Well,’ he murmured, ‘I’ll be sure to mention it to him. Are you planning to take up dancing again?’
‘Fédor wants to marry me. I’m tempted. I’d be the Archduchess Maximova. Only St Petersburg is freezing in winter and I can’t live without heat.’
Kenji sighed.
‘I’m free this evening,’ he said.
‘So am I! Come at six o’clock. You’ll see, I won’t let you down.’
Fifteen minutes later, Kenji was walking up Rue de Rivoli.
‘Pleasure controlled increases tenfold,’ he sang softly to himself.
He felt like skipping along the street, blowing kisses to the shop girls in Magasins du Louvre. Fifi Bas-Rhin was waiting for him. He would go home and smarten up then do some shopping and be back at Rue Alger at the appointed hour. His first thought was to take her to Drouant’s. But he decided they should dine alone together in her apartment – a gourmet meal accompanied by fine wine – no, by champagne. He mustn’t forget to buy flowers. He would show her the difference between her vulgar Kulak and a red-blooded gentleman like himself.
Joseph was rereading with delectation his Rip-roaring Tales from Rue Visconti. There was a knock at his study door. He went to open it and stood there, stunned. The man facing him bore a distinct resemblance to Monsieur Legris, but with one important difference.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me in, Joseph?’
‘Boss, is it really you?’
‘Who else could it be? The Negus?’
‘But…your moustache!’
‘I shaved it off. Any objections?’
‘I’m sorry, it’s just that…you look like a butler!’
‘Have you something against domestic staff? Tasha says when it doesn’t prickle it tickles. Don’t you like me like this?’
‘Well, if it’s what Mademoiselle Tasha wants…no wonder you obeyed. It’s the women who wear the trousers! But if you want my opinion? I preferred the old look, it was more…More dignified. And what about the customers? Have you thought about that?’
‘Why should they care? Why should you for that matter?’
Victor caught sight of his reflection in a cracked mirror propped up against a volume of the civil code. The respectable gentleman had vanished, wiped out by a pair of scissors and a razor. He’d grown attached to his moustache; it had been part of his personality – without it he felt naked, younger-looking.
You’re thirty-three but you don’t look it – even with those crow’s feet, he thought to himself.
‘Well, I think I look rather debonair, Joseph! And, since you’re having a go at me, can I remind you that you never thought to ask my permission before foisting that cat on me!’
‘Touché, Boss! Let’s change the subject. We’ll talk about Sacrovir. What’s he got to do with the price of tea in China?’
‘I went to Rue Monsieur-le-Prince and found Pierre Andrésy’s watch.’
He handed the box to Joseph, whose face suddenly darkened.
‘You promised we’d investigate this case together,’ he grumbled, keeping quiet about his meeting with Francine at Café Napolitain.
‘Isn’t that what we’re doing? What does Sherlock Pignot think?’
‘He thinks that Monsieur Andrésy had a strange nickname. Maybe that’s what they called him in the army. Long live the C— Long live the corps or the camp?’
‘Or long live chiropody, chicanery or comedy if the inscription refers to a doctor, a lawyer or an actor. How can we be sure?’
‘You disappoint me, Boss. The C could stand for itself. Don’t you know about Elliptical Style?’
‘What’s the connection?’
Joseph moistened his forefinger and flicked through his notebook.
‘In my serialised novel Thule’s Golden Chalice I drew inspiration from Dumas père. I will read to you from The Lady of Montsoreau.39
‘“I have another idea,” said Saint-Luc.
“Let’s hear it!”
“What if…”
“What if…?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Yes!”
“Explain!”
“What if it was Monsieur le duc d’Anjou?”’
‘Fascinating, but I don’t see how it is relevant to our inscription.’
‘What if it was created by the author of a serialised novel using the great writer’s method? Why not? It’s paid by the line. I went the whole hog. I’ll read it to you:
‘The mastiff was slavering near the Saint-André cross.
“Éleuthère, you dirty dog!”
“Woof! Woof!”
“Does this keep hold the Knight Templars’ treasure?”
The mastiff froze, paw raised, and sniffed the air.
“Grrr…Grrr…Grrr…”
“What’s that foul stench? My God, it’s…the dreaded amber!”
The mastiff fell to the ground in a heap, tongue hanging out, eyes rolled upwards.
“We’re done for,” murmured Frida von Glockenspiel.
Before losing consciousness, she was able to scratch in the dust: VAIVODE.’
‘Have you lost your mind, Joseph? You’re leading us miles away from the investigation with these circumvolutions. I certainly didn’t come here to discuss how many lines are in your serialised novel.’
‘You don’t like my writing.’
‘Too many woofs and grrrs.’
‘That’s what builds up the suspense. You always have to criticise. Do you like it or not? I’ve been slaving over it for months.’
‘Yes, well done, you’ll go far because in literature, as in cuisine, the simpler the recipe the more predictable the outcome. Why that particular word?’
‘Vaivode? I wanted to give it a Gothic feel.’
‘No, not vaivode, amber. It’s strange that you should have chosen amber.’
‘It was on account of that robbery at Bridoire’s Jeweller’s. I read you the article or have you forgotten? Of course you never listen to anything I say – I might as well be talking to myself!’
Victor smoothed out the Ambrex share certificate the Comtesse de Salignac had left at the shop, and studied it thoughtfully.
‘Oh, the famous slip of paper!’ declared Joseph. ‘That numbskull Frioul and his pompous nephew got what they deserved. It reminds me of John Law’s credit system and the French East India Company. In The Hunchback,40 a crooked man from Rue Quincampoix tells speculators they should touch his hump for luck. The Duc de Frioul sho
uld have touched mine then maybe his scheming would have amounted to more than a hill of beans!’
He snatched the share certificate and studied it carefully. Something caught his eye.
‘What’s this? Léopold Grandjean…Grandjean…Look, Boss! There, on the left, one of the director’s signatures…Hang on a minute.’
He waved his notebook in the air excitedly.
‘Grandjean, Léopold Grandjean, the enamellist who was stabbed to death in Rue Chevreul! This is more and more convoluted. That fellow was one of the Ambrex directors!’
Victor skimmed the articles glued into the notebook and mumbled, ‘Like amber, musk, benzoin and incense…Léopardus, the leopard…How is this connected to Pierre Andrésy’s death?’
‘And the other director, Frédéric Daglan, who is he?’
‘Wait a moment, let me think. Who did the Duc buy the shares from?…From a ham actor…Théâtre de l’Échec!’
‘De l’Échiquier, Boss. We must find this Daglan fellow before he goes the same way as Grandjean. Let me go to the theatre and nose around. If you ask me, something’s rotten in the state of Denmark.’
Victor nodded. In the meantime, he would go to La Chapelle to look for Pierre Andrésy’s lunch partner, even though he only had the man’s first name to go on. Gustave.
Worn out after traipsing the city streets, Josette Fatou finally glimpsed the columns of La Nation calling her like twin beacons above the tree-lined Cours de Vincennes. She breathed in the fragrant humidity before turning into Rue des Boulets. She still had to open the gate to the building, which always reeked of soup and slop buckets, and put away her cart. Then finally she would be able to rest her strained arms.
Evening had set in and there was no trace of the early-morning showers in the dappled sky. Even so, Josette quickened her pace, convinced of an invisible presence advancing through the grass on the nearby patch of wasteland. She was losing her mind. She was suspicious of every man she saw. How would she recognise the man who was following her? She thought she heard a mocking whisper.
‘You won’t recognise me, but I know who you are. I’m watching you. You can’t escape from me. Each time a man buys your flowers you’ll ask yourself: is it him? You’ll never be sure. Bad things happen to people who find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
