The Montmartre Investigation (14 page)

Victor made his way through the turmoil of the typesetting room, which was on the same floor as the editorial offices.

‘We're running late,' the typesetter groaned.

Discarded pages of newspaper were scattered all over the floor. Telegraphists hurried to and fro delivering dispatches.
Le Passe-partout
employed a staff of twenty including five journalists.

When Victor asked a buck-toothed secretary whether he might see the journalist who signed himself The Virus, she showed him in to the editor's office.

Dressed in one of the tailored English suits that had earned him the nickname Beau Brummel, patent leather ankle boots and a cravat that was a work of art in its own right, Antonin Clusel was engaged in dictating his leader article to a shapely blonde.

‘My dear chap, what a surprise!' he exclaimed, advancing towards Victor. ‘You may go, Eulalie.'

‘So, you're The Virus!'

‘I'm filling a variety of roles at the moment, out of necessity. If you want something done, it's better to do it yourself! Not that Gouvier and the others don't do an excellent job, but I've noticed that our readers particularly like The Virus's mordant style, especially when Lecacheur and his henchmen are on the receiving end of it. Care for a cigar?'

‘No thank you, I am on my way to the auction house. I just dropped by to see your new offices. When you say they are “on the receiving end” do you mean you know something they don't about Noémi Gerfleur's murder?'

Clusel broke into a broad grin. He poured out two small glasses of cognac and handed one to Victor.

‘You don't beat about the bush, do you? I'd call it your weakness. Settle back in my chair; you'll find it wonderfully comfortable,' he said, pushing back the two telephones and various papers scattered over his desk so he could perch there. ‘It's a scandal all right! La Gerfleur is still well remembered from the years she spent on the London stage between '86 and '89. And when she returned to Paris she triumphed each night at L'Eldorado. What a waste.'

‘Why have you not divulged the contents of the two messages left in the shoe?'

‘I can see what you're up to, old chap, but you're shouting into the wind. I'm not giving anything away. “Silence is golden” is my motto. Facts should be revealed gradually, as in the serialised novels the people love so much. It's the secret of success. Three magic words send the average reader to the kiosk every day to buy our paper: “
to be continued
”.'

‘Are the notes authentic?'

Clusel lit a Havana cigar. He was clearly enjoying himself.

‘Who can say? The good inspector becomes very cagey when he feels he's getting nowhere, which is often! All I know is that these texts are of interest to the police, as well as to me and my fellow journalists, and they will soon captivate my readers. Incidentally, you're a secretive fellow. You let me do all the talking, but you don't give much away…Any news of Fifi Bas-Rhin? Don't look so disapproving! Have you seen her dance? You haven't! I recommend you go down there this instant, and don't miss the
chahut
. Our darling Eudoxie is sublime! I wouldn't be surprised if she ended up marrying a grand duke!'

Victor could see he'd get nothing more out of Antonin Clusel, so he took his leave, plunging back into the commotion of the editorial office.

‘My article has to go in!'

‘No, I said. It'll take up nearly the whole of page two.'

‘Leave out the piece on equipping the army.'

‘Are you being deliberately dense? We don't need your drivel, for goodness' sake. What we need is ideas. New ideas. Brilliant ideas!'

Victor immediately recognised the slow delivery and timbre of the voice. He made his way over to the plump figure gesticulating at the far end of the room.

‘Good day, Monsieur Gouvier.'

‘Ah, Monsieur Legris! You've come at a bad time. We're running late – yet another ace reporter who goes berserk if we move a single comma. I'm fed up with it. It's good to see you again. What brings you here?'

‘I need the benefit of your wisdom.'

‘Are you still doing research for your detective novel? I thought you'd have finished that by now.'

‘I'm at the editing stage; I belong to the Flaubert school. Actually, I'm interested in the Noémi Gerfleur case.'

‘And you thought you might worm something out of me? All I can tell you is that Lecacheur is following a lead.'

‘Is he really?'

‘It's no use turning on the charm with me, Monsieur Legris; I'm not giving anything away. You might get caught up in more trouble.'

‘Come on, Gouvier, you know I have a passion for solving mysteries.'

‘“To be continued…” Tomorrow,
Le Passe-partout
will reveal all.'

‘And what am I supposed to do between now and then? I'm not Sherlock Holmes, you know.'

‘Who?'

‘He's the hero of a novel.'

‘Oh! You and your detective stories! No, I mean it. I'm not giving anything away.'

‘Come on, Isidore, as a special favour to me, your old friend. What has your friend at headquarters been telling you?'

‘Oh, all right then, I give in, but only if you promise to keep mum until after tomorrow's edition is out. And not a word to Beau Brummel either!' he added, pointing towards Clusel's office. ‘It seems the singer was strangled with a piece of gauze, and that's the trail Aristide Lecacheur is following.'

‘But what does it mean?'

‘Don't play the innocent with me, I wasn't born yesterday. It's obvious what it means. Gauze suggests the murderer might be a doctor or a chemist.'

‘But why leave behind such an obvious clue?'

‘Not all criminals are infallible.'

‘Is that all?'

‘You are the most obstinate man I have ever met. No, that isn't all. A shoe manufactured in England was found near La Gerfleur's body, but it didn't fit her foot. However, because the poor woman spent time in London, Lecacheur has wasted no time in dispatching two of his henchmen over to investigate her past in Albion. And…'

‘And what?'

‘There were two love letters.'

Isidore fished a couple of crumpled leaflets out of his pocket.

‘I jotted them down. This is the first:

And this is the second:

It's signed
A. Prévost
. I'll wager that oaf of an inspector is going to question every Anatole, Alphonse, Auguste and Anselm Prévost he can find in every hospital between here and Navarre! A complete waste of time, of course, as A. Prévost is almost certainly a pseudonym. Do you know what I think, Monsieur Legris? The murderer is testing us by leaving clues in the form of riddles. He's playing with us! We're dealing with a criminal who is well-versed in the art of poetry – unless of course he copied them from somewhere. You're the scholar. Do you recognise them?'

‘No,' Victor sighed, careful not to reveal that he knew the name A. Prévost.

He felt exhilarated. Once again, he was a step ahead of both the police and the press. For the wily Gouvier appeared not to know that Noémi Gerfleur had a daughter.

 

Jojo was nodding off, his notebook open on the counter. Victor's arrival nearly caused him to fall off his stool.

‘Oh! It's only you,' he mumbled.

‘You look worn out.'

‘It's not surprising, two deliveries in one day, and to top it all one of the battleaxes, Raphaëlle de Gouveline, kept me talking for hours because of an accident at Bullier.'

‘What sort of an accident?'

‘A crash. Madame de Flavignol and Helga Becker collided when they were each astride their infernal machines. The outcome: a twisted ankle for the Fräulein and two sprained ones for the battleaxe. They asked whether you might take them some detective stories to keep them amused during their convalescence.'

‘I'll see to it. Where's Kenji?'

‘Upstairs. He doesn't come down any more. A certain person requires his complete attention.'

Joseph's demeanour was so funereal that Victor felt quite sorry for him.

‘Do you think Helga Becker might appreciate
Tales of the River Rhine
by Erckmann-Chatrian? And would
Voyage Round My Bedroom
by Xavier de Maistre, or
No Tomorrow
by Vivant Denon suit Madame de Flavignol? I hesitate in case she makes a connection between the titles and her future career as a cyclist. Speaking of which,' Victor said nonchalantly, ‘it turns out there is a connection between Noémi Gerfleur and the murdered girl at the crossroads.'

Joseph's eyes lit up.

‘Are you feeding me a line in the hope of buying my silence regarding your little excursion to Le Moulin-Rouge?'

‘Absolutely not! I am telling you the truth because I know you will end up wearing me down anyway.'

‘And so you should – only the day before yesterday you gave me your word that I could assist you.'

‘You must keep absolutely quiet about it. Iris's safety is at stake.'

Joseph leapt off his perch with renewed vigour and stood a couple of inches from Victor. All but clicking his heels together, he murmured: ‘You can count on me Boss – “the hunting lion never growls” – it's an African proverb. It's quite something isn't it! I'm all ears.'

*

A resounding roar dispersed a flock of sparrows perched on top of a cage. It was followed by two, then three, then four formidable snarls. Basile Popêche, his hands behind his back, contemplated with an air of contentment the cage containing his post-prandial charges, who were aiding their digestion with a deafening recital.

‘They don't seem very friendly,' squeaked the skinny woman, who had given up trying to sculpt the bearded vulture and moved on to Tiberius the lion.

‘Don't worry, my dear, lions are least dangerous after they've eaten their fill. It's only that, instead of downing a glass of something like you or I, they voice their contentment.'

‘Yes, but I can't hear myself think. And I can't see a thing in this light. I'm going home. Goodnight!'

The painters and sketchers packed away their materials and walked towards the exit, along with the few visitors to the Botanical Gardens who had braved the damp weather. The street lamps came on. Basile Popêche felt strangely euphoric as he took possession of his territory. During this interval between closing time and his departure, he was free to imagine that he was at the helm, under God's command, of a great arc floating at the heart of the city. He strolled alongside the railings, greeting the lions as he passed: massive Tiberius, beautiful Cleopatra, lithe Mercedes and her two cubs – Castor and Pollux, old Nemea and finally young Scipion.

‘Oh! Why is he walking round in circles like that, growling? If I didn't know better, I'd say he was hungry. Am I going barmy? I'm sure I gave him his piece of meat.'

He leant against the bars. The lion was certainly behaving strangely. He was twitching his tail along the ground like an angry cat and scratching himself furiously with one of his hind legs.

‘Something's aggravating him. Strange, I don't see any sign of meat.'

He entered the building and walked down the passageway that ran alongside the cages. When he reached the one marked ‘Scipion' he paused for a moment. He only needed to step inside quickly to see what was wrong, and then go for help if needed. He pulled out his keys, opened the door as slowly as he could and went in. Scipion, who was at the far end of the cage pacing up and down angrily, stopped to lick his fur in rapid circles. Basile Popêche noticed something glinting in the middle of his right haunch. Curious, he moved closer.

‘What is that? It looks like…no, it can't be…it's a dart! The work of some pesky kid.'

A sudden clanking made him swing round. The cage door had closed, and he had left his keys on the outside. Trying not to panic, he turned the handle slowly. It would not move. A growl warned him that the lion had sensed his presence. Basile turned round very slowly to face the animal. Above all he must not show his fear.

It'll be all right, it'll be all right, he reassured himself. That's it, that's it, easy does it, my friend, easy does it…

Scipion lay on the ground licking his fur more and more frantically until a noise stopped him short. He remained motionless, turning his ears to try to pinpoint the rustling sound outside the cage. Someone was walking over from the garden. Basile Popêche flattened himself against the cage door. He had heard the muffled footsteps too. If he cried out, it might alarm the lion, who was staring in the direction of the path. Risking everything, Basile slid along the inside of the cage.

‘Help,' he whispered, ‘I'm locked in. Get me out of here!'

He felt his whole body freeze as he recognised with horror the face emerging from the darkness. In the light of a street lamp a road sweeper was staring at him with a look of profound pity. The man extended his arm in a rapid movement. A second dart pierced Scipion's flesh. Crazed with pain, the ravenous lion tensed its muscles and crouched, ready to pounce. Basile Popêche curled up in a ball and began to scream.

 

A pile of books toppled over. Joseph cursed as he searched through the scattered volumes. He picked up an armful and set them down on the old packing case that served as his desk. He curled up in his rickety armchair and began leafing through an anthology. A bulky shadow clad in a night cap and holding a candle glided into the study.

‘Do you know what time it is, my pet?' Euphrosine Pignot bawled.

‘Maman! You scared the wits out of me! I thought you were asleep!'