The Montmartre Investigation (12 page)

She settled down at her dressing table, and leant towards the mirror.

Look at you! The creases at the corners of your mouth, little wrinkles everywhere, bags under your eyes…At thirty-five!

How many times had she longed to hurl her fan, mantilla and wig into the dustbin, pack her trunks and give it all up! But she lacked the courage. Becoming Noémi Gerfleur had cost her too much time, too much effort. Even if she had been a fool to think she could capture happiness with money and success, she was too old to give up what was certain for a chimerical hope. She would have to be satisfied with fading glory and passing lovers. And as for love? A delusion, a cheap little ditty:

And yet she had determinedly sought this unreachable tender berth. But at the end of it all she found herself alone, without a shoulder to lean on, without a friend to confide in, except for Élisa. Thank God she had been careful to keep her apart from the mire, in the hope that one day she might find a good husband who would provide for the declining years of his mother-in-law.

Mariette came in bearing a tray. The tea was chalky, the toast burnt. Noémi sighed. Did she really deserve such injustice?

‘Put that there for me and run my bath. Don't forget the lavender salts and stop sniffing. Don't you have a handkerchief?'

Mariette produced a large linen square and blew her nose noisily.

‘Dreadful,' murmured Noémi. ‘Wait…'

Mariette stared at her with her frog eyes.

‘Do you have a suitor?'

‘Oh yes, Madame, Martial. He's training to be a baker. He gives me brioche every Sunday. When we marry, our children will always have bread.'

Noémi studied her maid's irregular features and lank hair and told herself that life truly was unfair.

Mariette had not been gone five minutes when she returned, much excited.

‘Madame, you have a gentleman caller!'

‘Not this evening!' cried Noémi, tying the belt of her negligee. ‘What does he look like? Young or old?'

‘I don't know, Madame, the hall is dark. He says he's an old friend; here's his card.'

Noémi glanced at it then sank on to a chair.

‘Are you all right, Madame?'

‘Yes, yes…take the gentleman into the drawing room.'

‘What about your bath, Madame?'

‘You go up to bed; I'll see to it. Go on, hop it!'

She was trembling with emotion, could not even tidy her hair. Dragging on a peignoir took enormous effort. Her heart was racing. She staggered as far as the drawing room. Standing in front of the fire, a man was contemplating the flames. She could only see the back of him. At the sound of the door, he spun round.

‘You…it's you,' she breathed.

‘Good evening, Madame de Saint-Meslin. I'm overjoyed that we meet again. We'll be able to recreate the past. Did you appreciate the ruby roses? I see from your expression that you did.'

He spoke calmly, in a monotone. She supported herself against the door frame. He smiled and indicated an armchair.

‘You must sit down. I have news of your daughter, Élisa. I'm very much afraid that it's bad news…'

Tuesday 17 November

His long roam through the lonely streets brought him an immense feeling of peace. He was able now to view the evening's events with the detachment of an onlooker.

When he had rung the door bell at Noémi's house he felt his resolve wavering, but as soon as she joined him in the drawing room he had regained his composure. She had immediately recognised him. As for her…How could a face and figure change so much in five years? He was in the presence of a stranger. He remembered the young woman with whom he'd been madly in love when her name was still Léontine Fourchon; her silky blonde hair, her guileless face, her voluptuous body. That image rekindled the pain he had experienced when he discovered he'd been used. The candlelit room appeared to grow darker; he had to rid himself of this thorn in his side.

He invited her to sit down, and delighted in describing Élisa's last moments to her, relishing the spectacle of her increasing despair as he furnished each fresh detail. She remained silent; not even weeping, her sorrow too great for words. Then suddenly she stood up, clutched her chest and fell to the floor. Faced with this stranger's prostrate body he felt numb. He had longed to savour the sweetness of revenge, but all he experienced was a deep sense of weariness. He knelt down beside her unconscious body and tied the thin band round her neck, to finish her off. When he rose his legs were trembling. He paused for a moment, his mind blank. Then, gradually, he felt his will to live return, like the distant echo of a half-forgotten melody. With the spontaneity of an actor at ease in his role, he pulled the petals from the roses, deposited the shoe and the notes and left.

As he wandered through the empty streets it occurred to him that life was in constant flux. Just as Paris was a bustling metropolis from dawn to dusk and at night a ghost town, he was no longer the naïve man who six years earlier had been taken in by sweet lies.

‘I promise you,' she had kept telling him, ‘everything will go according to plan. Trust me. We'll live the good life. No more money worries. We'll go away – just the two of us!'

Day in day out, week after week, she did not let up until he had agreed. He would play a very small part. She had a brilliant imagination and a formidable talent for acting. A talent so great, she had taken him in too. He knew her farewell letter by heart:

He knew what it was to be heartbroken. The hardest part had not been her running off with the money, but that she had played with his feelings, that she did not love him, she had never loved him. The poison of humiliation, despair, anger and hatred had taken him over, dulling his mind. One night in a drunken rage he had attacked a police officer. During his detention he had elaborated his plan for revenge. And yet this dish best eaten cold had lost all flavour now.

He wandered until he came to a halt, surprised to find himself at the end of his street. The air in his unheated bedroom was chilly and damp. He sat beside the only window, watching the mist swirl among the branches of the chestnut trees. He liked to sit up until dawn giving free rein to his thoughts, one or two of which would linger in his mind. The next stage of his plan would require complete self-control. The die was cast. He decided not to sleep.

 

The wild life Victor was leading did not agree with him. He was tired and his sole wish was to laze in bed.

‘On my own or with Tasha?' He put the question to himself as he crossed the boulevard. What were all those people doing beside the entrance to Passage des Panoramas?

A little baker's boy, his dish of pies balanced on his head, was trying to push his way through to the front of the crowd.

‘Has there been an accident?' enquired Victor.

‘A murder,' whispered the boy.

Victor made a beeline for the nearest officer, a police sergeant, and pretended to be a reporter.

‘A woman's been strangled. The maid found her this morning. Some of your colleagues are already there. How do you lot manage to sniff these things out? Like a pack of dogs trailing a meat cart you are!' said the officer, twirling the ends of his moustache.

‘Where did the murder take place?'

‘At number 1. Move along now, please.'

‘What times we live in!' cried a stooped old woman. ‘When you think that only last week another one was bumped off just round the corner!'

A man joined in:

‘In any event, burglary clearly wasn't the motive. It appears the lock was intact which means she knew her killer – she must have if she allowed him in.'

‘And you were there, I suppose?' remarked the police sergeant.

‘You ought to read the newspapers. The statistics are all in there. I'm an accountant and I can assure you figures don't lie. In sixty percent of cases, the killers are known to their victims.'

‘That's true!' exclaimed the old woman. ‘Those hussies attract a type of man that brings nothing but trouble; if I were you…'

‘Mariette alerted my mistress; she was white as a sheet,' interrupted a chambermaid. ‘She said a fellow called after midnight, but she never saw his face. La Gerfleur was covered in rose petals, and she had a red shoe stuffed down her front.'

His legs feeling like jelly, Victor moved away from the crowd and found the nearest cab rank. He was only half aware of murmuring an address to the cabman. The name Iris kept running through his mind.

*

Victor had never seen Kenji in such a state; a single well-thought-out sentence had been sufficient to cause him to drop the pile of index cards he had been filling in at his desk.

‘Iris is in great danger at Mademoiselle Bontemps'.'

‘W-what did you say?' Kenji stammered, turning the shade of scarlet he went when he had drunk too much sake.

‘Her best friend, Élisa Fourchon, has been…'

‘Who told you that Iris was in France?'

Victor had to think on his feet again. Luckily, Joseph was out delivering some novels to Mathilde de Flavignol and the shop was empty.

‘Joseph overheard the address you gave the cabman the day that shoe was brought here. You were upset and he thought you were having a relapse, so he told me about it. I was worried and decided to go to Saint-Mandé.'

‘So it was you who brought back my cane…Did you speak to Iris?' Kenji asked in a stern voice.

‘I did indeed meet your goddaughter. She told me she had lent a pair of red shoes to Élisa Fourchon. And I am afraid that this young woman might have met with a fatal accident, particularly since I discovered that her mother, the singer Noémi Gerfleur, has been murdered.'

‘How did you know about this?'

‘I read it in the newspaper.'

Kenji stood up. Victor could not help noticing how white his hair was growing, and the shadows under his eyes. He suppressed a surge of affection.

‘We must go at once to fetch your goddaughter. She can stay in my apartment and I'll stay with Tasha. It's high time I fended for myself, and there's no reason why it should affect our partnership.'

Kenji paced back and forth, tapping together the two index cards he was still holding, and then stopped in front of Victor.

‘You are forcing me to disclose something I would have preferred to keep secret. I suppose in a way it's a relief. Iris is my daughter.'

‘I suspected as much. Does she know this?'

‘No…Yes, but I only told her recently. Her mother died when she was four years old; she was a married woman. Iris has no memory of her. I wanted to spare her from a scandal.'

‘Why did you keep her hidden from me?'

‘The frog that resides in the well knows nothing of the big wide ocean and is better off in ignorance.'

‘Spare me the oriental wisdom and give me a simple explanation, will you please, Kenji?'

‘You were a withdrawn, nervous and possessive young man at the time. Your mother had put you in my charge and I felt a responsibility towards you; why should I burden you with my worries?'

‘But then I grew up. You really are a terribly complicated fellow. Did you not envisage the consequences of your little secret? I was convinced Iris was your mistress.'

Kenji moistened his lips.

‘A child her age…You're mad! Have you been spying on me?'

‘Of course not! You are simply very bad at hiding things. Remember the saying: truth will out.'

‘Please do not inflict your crude sayings on me and promise me you will tell no one about this, not even Tasha.'

‘I promise.'

Kenji slipped on his frock coat and bowler, picked up his cane and went out of the shop, still holding the two index cards. Victor addressed himself to Molière's bust in a jaunty voice:

‘Indeed, Tasha, the young girl is his mistress and I must make way for her. I have little choice in the matter…'

 

‘A sixteen-year-old girl!' Tasha exclaimed indignantly. ‘Men! Young or old, you're all obsessed with the same thing: proving your virility!'

‘Not all of us. You should be grateful that you've found the exception to the rule.'

Victor took her in his arms and she resisted a little, as a matter of form.

‘I expect you're just like him,' she murmured, ‘one official relationship and ten unofficial ones.'

‘Referring to our relationship as official is a little optimistic, my darling. So far we only snatch occasional glimpses of one another. Aren't you worried we'll end up forgetting each other's faces?'

‘If you want us to see more of each other, then stop running off to Rue des Saints-Pères every five minutes.'

‘Are you saying you want us to live together?'

She gestured at the untidy studio.

‘I feel comfortable with my mess, but you're an orderly person. Do you really see yourself living here? We would end up quarrelling over nothing. I loathe cooking, and housework bores me to tears. Painting is my only joy!'

‘And how do you feel about me?'

‘I adore you! But you're possessive and I need to go out and meet other painters, to compare my work with theirs.'

‘The easiest solution would be for me to live across the courtyard. We'd each have our own space – me to develop my photographs and you to paint in peace. Then we could meet more regularly. Would Saturday afternoons between five and seven be convenient?'

‘What on earth are you talking about?'

‘I've rented the hairdressing salon and the adjacent apartment.'

‘You've…'

‘Close your mouth, darling, you look like a carp.'

 

The man in the grey alpaca coat took a swig, dried his mouth on his sleeve and put the flask back in his pocket. The appearance of the sun had made him thirsty. He walked alongside the rusty railings, into the Botanical Gardens, past the chrysanthemum beds and up the gravel path towards the maze. From the top of the hillock he took in the view of the dome of the Panthéon, then sat down on a bench circling the cedar of Lebanon. Buffon
²⁴
had planted the tree over a hundred and fifty years earlier; it had seen the Monarchy swept away by the French Revolution, the First Empire and the Restoration of the Monarchy, and the Second Republic succeeded by the Second Empire that had finally ushered in the Third Republic. Millions of people had killed each other in the name of ideas that had since run their course, but this tree was still standing.

‘I am still standing too, and I'm free as a bird, which is how I intend to remain.'

In spite of the murders he had committed his thirst for life was insatiable, and he would do anything in his power to escape retribution. He watched a crow cleverly taking pieces of rubbish one by one from a bin and pecking at them tenaciously. He smiled at the thought that the litter would be attributed to some negligent passer-by. ‘People break the rules and others get the blame. That's life!' He looked at his fob watch: three thirty. It was time for him to make sure the old man he had been stalking all week was keeping to his routine.

He spotted him in the deer enclosure, stroking one of the does after changing her straw. He had become accustomed to the man's wrinkled face and walrus moustache. The old fellow had spent so long caring for animals that he had become like them, docile, timid and withdrawn; and each afternoon without fail he made the same rounds. The old man walked past the bison and antelope and down a path leading to the aviary. There he stopped for a moment to look at the Sunday painters attempting to reproduce the beaks and talons of the vultures and the priest-like silhouette of the marabou storks.

The old fellow exchanged a few words with a skinny little woman who was struggling to make a lump of clay look like a bearded vulture. He shook his head doubtfully and carried on, past the crocodile pit and the bear enclosure, before finishing his rounds at the lion house, where the wild beasts languished behind double bars in twenty cages.

Satisfied, the man in the grey alpaca coat sat down on an iron bench near a nursemaid who was reading an illustrated fashion newspaper and rocking a perambulator with the tip of her boot. He brushed off his coat sleeves with a brisk gesture, and reviewed his plan. At first he had considered getting locked in after the place closed, but that was foolish – he might be seen climbing over the railings. Then he'd had another idea. The Botanical Gardens, like all other public places, were cleaned each night by municipal workers.

‘All I have to do is mingle with them. Two days is more than enough time to find a straw hat and smock and pass myself off as a road sweeper.'

The occupant of the perambulator, feeling it was being rocked too vigorously, began to wail. The man jumped up, his nerves on edge, and snapped at the nursemaid: