The Montmartre Investigation (15 page)

‘Off to bed with you, quick; it's freezing in here. You'll catch your death, then you won't be able to go to work tomorrow. I'm confiscating all these books or you'll wear your eyes out!'

‘You forget that I work in a bookshop…'

‘And what of it? Nobody says you have to read every book you sell.'

‘How am I supposed to recommend them to my customers if I don't read them?'

‘Your customers can do what I do and go by the titles. For example
The Loves of Olivier
is very enticing while
Roger the Rogue
²⁶
sounds awful!'

‘Maman, you don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Don't be rude, my pet, and go to bed. I've given you a foot warmer.'

Joseph reluctantly did as he was told. While he was undressing he repeated to himself out loud the beginning of the message Victor had relayed to him.

‘The dear one was naked…the dear one was naked…'

Euphrosine, leaning back against her bolster, was listening. She sat bolt upright and groaned: ‘And what's more he's reading smutty novels! Oh, the cross I have to bear!'

 

Berlaud was bored. He sat between Mélie Pecfin and Nini Moricaude, watching the six goats pawing the ground, impatient to get home and not understanding the reason for the prolonged stop. He stood up, stretched and growled at an insolent pigeon, then decided to abandon his post just long enough to go and mark his territory on an area of Place Valhubert.

‘Holy Mother of God, what is Basile up to?' said Grégoire Mercier crossly, shaking the bowl he had brought to fill with Pulchérie's milk. ‘Hoy! Berlaud, stop messing around, you mutt! That coxcomb is past it. He cuts and runs at the slightest provocation instead of staying at his post; he forgets everything when he feels the need to raise his leg. Monsieur! Monsieur!' he shouted, running towards the gate of the Botanical Gardens through which he could see a park keeper. ‘I've come to see Monsieur Popêche. Have you seen him by any chance?'

‘Popêche? The wild animal keeper? A lion mauled him yesterday evening. He had terrible injuries and they've taken him to the emergency section of the Hôpital Pitié. Do you want to come in a minute?'

‘No, no…Poor Basile, that's terrible! Do you think he'll pull through?'

‘I couldn't tell you,' said the keeper over his shoulder as he left the dismayed goatherd.

‘My God, what am I going to do? I'm his only relation…'

Grégoire Mercier thrust the bowl into his satchel and whistled at length for Berlaud, who lolloped excitedly over, his tongue hanging out.

‘Calm down now, you great oaf! You want to play games like little Pervenche, but at your age you should be like Mémère; at least she behaves with dignity! Go and stand beside her. There, that's good – birds of a feather stick together. Now let's go, no dawdling!'

They hurried up Rue Buffon – never had a herd of goats passed so rapidly along that street – turned off at Rue Geoffroy-Saint-Hilaire and walked along the side of the Pitié as far as Rue Lacépède, where the monumental gates of the hospital loomed.

‘Berlaud, you're going to have to behave like a leader. I'm entrusting our flock to you. Protect them as if they were your own puppies and when I come back, if you've been a good guardian, I promise you a feast you'll never forget!'

Overcome with anxiety, Grégoire Mercier paced up and down a few times before entering the building. Inside, he spotted a young doctor and asked where he might find Basile Popêche in one of the six hundred beds of the hospital. After wandering from wing to wing, holding his nose against the stench of carbolic acid, the goatherd finally succeeded in finding a man swathed in bandages stranded at the back of a room whose windows looked out on the Botanical Gardens. A doctor had just checked on the wounded man and was about to leave.

‘Don't tire him; his life is hanging by a thread,' he whispered.

Grégoire Mercier removed his hat and, kneading it with his fingers, timidly approached the mummy, whose breathing was barely perceptible.

‘Basile? Is that you?'

 

‘Who's it by? Who's it by, for heaven's sake? I've read it somewhere, damn it, but every time I think I've remembered the poet, it slips out of my mind! “The dear one was naked and knowing my desire…”'

Victor paced about the bookshop, now empty of the few customers who had ventured in since opening time. He was so absorbed that he forgot Joseph was there. Those two mysterious verses had cost him a sleepless night. The previous evening he had thought that they had given him a trump card, but this would disappear as soon as
Le Passe-partout
hit the news kiosks. He was enraged at not having been able to use his knowledge to his advantage, and exasperation pushed him to soliloquy.

‘“The dear one was naked…”'

Joseph, who was engaged in collating the ten volumes of Casanova's
Memoirs
, blew his nose noisily and regarded Victor as he marched about.

‘I looked through at least fifty books, Boss! I was up till dawn. I had to wait until Maman was asleep to get up and ransack the study from top to bottom; the only thing I gained was a cold!'

‘Joseph, I can't concentrate if you talk!'

‘“The dear one was naked and knowing my desire, wore chinking gems as her sole attire…”'

‘“Her rich apparel gave her a vanquishing air,”' intoned a solemn voice from the floor above.

‘Kenji! Do you know who wrote that?'

‘Is this a new game? What does one win?' asked Kenji, coming downstairs, impassive.

He sat down at his desk and spread out his index cards and his catalogues, under Joseph's admiring eye.

‘The Boss is a mine of information!'

‘Who's the author?' Victor demanded.

‘Baudelaire, from
The Flowers of Evil
. I'm amazed you didn't know that. The poem is called “The Jewels”, but it doesn't appear in every edition, because it's one of the poems banned in 1857 by the courts, and published clandestinely with other unpublished works, in 1866 in a pamphlet called Scraps.

‘And this one, Boss, “My love reigns at the Hospital, most infamous of all creatures…”' recited Joseph. ‘Do you know where that is from?'

‘Alas, I am not omniscient, sorry,' said Kenji.

He went to greet an old dealer, who was bent over a wallet, from which he extricated various works bound in hide. Joseph dragged Victor over to the bust of Molière.

‘M'sieu Legris, do you know what it means, “My love reigns at the Hospital”?'

‘No, I don't.'

‘M'sieu Legris, why would a murderer, who's trying to escape detection, leave two lines from Baudelaire and an incomprehensible text, apparently signed with a pseudonym, at the scene of the crime?'

‘I don't know. But it means he's a cultivated man…'

‘Or woman.'

‘…And he chose those lines with a very specific aim in mind; he did not pick them at random. So first he chooses a poem entitled “The Jewels”. Next…
Wore chinking gems as her sole attire
…Wait a minute.'

He took the card he'd found at L'Eldorado and read:

‘What strikes you Joseph?'

‘The Jewel Queen; the ruby roses! This must surely be all about jewels! We're getting warm, Monsieur Victor, we're getting warm!'

‘And there's another thing. Noémi Gerfleur's death has in common with the death at the wine market, think.'

‘My brain's turned to mush; I'm at a loss.'

‘Read the note again: “
in fond memory of
…”'

‘Lyon! Noémi Gerfleur began her career in a
café-concert
in Lyon! Oh that's it, I get it! M'sieu Gouvier's article…'

Joseph flipped feverishly through his notebook.

‘Well, I'll be darned! That bloke who was topped in the wine market, that Gaston Molina, he did a spell in prison in Lyon!'

‘Bravo! Lyon is the golden thread that links the two murders.'

‘Three murders, Boss,' corrected Joseph excitedly. ‘You're forgetting Élisa, Noémi Gerfleur's daughter; you told me Gaston Molina was her lover…So, there's no doubt – the body at Killer's Crossing; it's definitely her. Her body was left near her mother's building. So we now know it's something to do with jewels…and the city of Lyon. But when? We need more facts – should we go to Lyon? But we've no leads…'

‘Let's not get carried away; it's probably much simpler than we imagine. Let's see, Noémi Gerfleur was born in 1856. So the jewels incident could have taken place between…let's say 1875, the year the
café-concerts
began, and 1886, the date she crossed the Channel.'

‘Great Scott! Eleven years, that's a long time! You'd have to wade your way through tons of newspapers to unearth a story about corruption and jewels taking place in Lyon. Perhaps it's a sordid family drama, a stolen inheritance, and no one has said a word. Do you have any other clues?'

‘No. Although…I thought no more about it, it seemed to make no sense, but who knows…'

Victor extracted the note, picked up in Gaston Molina's cloakroom, from his wallet and held it out to Joseph.

‘So my friend, what do you make of this gibberish?'

‘I did my best to decipher the jargon. Apart from the fact that whoever wrote it can't spell, I worked out that Charmansat and Aubertot must be people, that “sale pétriaire” means the Salepêtrière and that Rue L. gf 1211 is an address. Can you think how this might have a bearing on our case? Could Charmansat be someone Molina was supposed to meet at his uncle's house?'

Joseph looked at him mockingly.

‘Oh! M'sieu Legris. That says a lot about you! You've obviously never been hard up! When I was a lad, Maman regularly pawned our linen “with uncle” it's what you call the pawnshop. Maybe Molina had a rendezvous with Charmansat at Rue des Francs-Bourgeois…Or maybe Charmansat was a clerk at the “casino”, that's another name for “uncle”. We'll have to find out; that would be a lead worth pursuing. So that's that one! As for M'sieu Aubertot, I suspect he's a chap living at the Hospice de la Salepêtrière, on the right, in a courtyard where someone called Manon – his mistress perhaps? – also lives.'

Victor did not reply.

‘Boss?'

‘I'm thinking. What if we're barking up the wrong tree? What if the sibylline message I stumbled on by accident has nothing to do with the murders?'

‘What about “sale pétriaire” then? “My love reigns at the Hospital, most infamous of all creatures.” I know that the Salepêtrière is a home for old women, but under Louis XIV it was called “the hospital”. And today they treat mental health problems there…Perhaps Inspector Lecacheur is on to something. But you're a step ahead; you know things he doesn't.'

‘Time will tell…In view of the way this note is written, it's possible that Molina, or whoever wrote it, meant a building named Aubertot situated in the left wing of the Salepêtrière, where a certain Manon was supposed to have an appointment, probably for treatment.'

‘Steady on, Boss, you're getting muddled up. You have to think logically and calmly about this. I'll wager that Aubertot is a patient or a member of the medical staff. That's the second one. Now let's move on to that street, Rue L…That's a nuisance, because streets starting with L are ten a penny in Paris. It must be incredibly long to have a street number 1211. And gf, do you think…?'

He was unable to finish his sentence. Iris had suddenly appeared like a glorious apparition on the spiral staircase. The four men turned to look at her slim figure moulded into a fuchsia dress in vicuña wool, decorated with lace. She wore a soft, wide-brimmed hat in the same colour. Smiling at Victor and Joseph, she joined Kenji, giving him his frock coat and bowler hat. Kenji saw the old dealer out and announced: ‘We're leaving now, we have some purchases to make, have lunch without us.'

As soon as they were out of sight the door chime pealed. To Joseph's despair, a corpulent man entered the shop, removing his top hat to reveal a bald pate: the Duc de Frioul.

‘Dear friend, you can guess why I'm here; I'm persuaded that you have acquired a property that might interest me – an in-quarto in yellow morocco leather, the work of the wonderful Michel! I owe my nephew a wedding gift. Let's not beat about the bush. How much?'

While Victor was showing the Montaigne, Joseph went into the back office. There, amongst the travel books, he nursed his grievance against the Duc's nephew, Boni de Pont-Joubert, who had stolen his Valentine away.

I would rather go to uncle than see Frioul; he revolts me. At least at uncle's, when you abandon an object you love, you harbour hope of seeing it again…if only the Boss would let me go to the pawnshop, I would show them all what I'm capable of.

Enraged, he seized a feather duster and went to dust the books behind the two men sitting at the table, engaged in a lively discussion of the price of the Montaigne.

‘That man is hardly better than his nephew,' he said to himself. ‘Listen to him whining
you understand, it's a gift, blah blah blah
; we're not carpet merchants! So I'm too humble to marry Valentine, am I? Well, at least when I buy something I don't I argue about the price!'

He shook his duster under the nose of the Duc, who sneezed and gave him a murderous look. Victor frowned, indicating that Joseph should leave them in peace.

The arrival of the postman created a diversion. Victor signed a receipt for a parcel, which he placed on the counter. The Duc de Frioul wrote a cheque and left with a sullen ‘Good day'. When he'd gone, Victor rubbed his hands together with pleasure.

‘Kenji will be delighted. You'll have to deliver the Montaigne this afternoon to Auteuil, to Monsieur Boni de Pont-Joubert.'

Joseph froze, ashen-faced.

‘I won't go – you know very well why – you can't force me.'

‘All right, all right, don't worry. I'll take care of it,' Victor replied, hastily concealing a smile as he untied the parcel.

‘You're provoking me – it's not funny!' complained Joseph.

‘Stop grousing and come and look at this book that I ordered specially from London:
The Sign of Four
. The author is a Scottish doctor, an admirer of murder mysteries. He's invented a detective who solves crimes using his powers of deduction. Three or four years ago I read his first novel published in an English magazine and I think his detective, Sherlock Holmes, is even better than Monsieur Lecoq.
²⁷
I thought you would like to have a first edition of the second Sherlock Holmes novel.'