The Montmartre Investigation (8 page)

Victor managed to slip in behind them and saw that he had no hope of reaching La Gerfleur, who was now laid out on the settee and completely surrounded. He glanced around the dressing room, taking in pots of cold cream, clothes draped over a screen, the floor strewn with pieces of cotton wool caked in grease paint, a fan, a black silk stocking and a card, which he retrieved.

He read the note without understanding its meaning and slipped it in his pocket. Suddenly the dresser lost her temper and began pushing everybody out, shouting:

‘You'll be the death of her!'

 

Back outside, amid the hubbub of the boulevard, Victor felt as though he had woken from a strange dream. He ambled past cafés, where artists and revellers celebrated their common victory over ennui with vast quantities of beer and absinthe. He strolled for a long while, unaware that he was exhausted and soaked to the skin, the copy of Marot in one hard, and La Gerfleur's card in the other.

Sunday 15 November

A rat, disturbed by the noise of footsteps, scurried between the casks piled up on the pier of the wine port at Quai Saint-Bernard. It hesitated, worried, at the edge of the dark water, and then scurried as far as a row of trees. Its long tail, illuminated in the trembling flame of a street lamp, narrowly missed the trajectory of a stone. The rat fled.

‘Dirty rodent,' muttered Basile Popêche, continuing on his way towards a clock tower, ‘any minute now, Paris will be overrun with rats!'

A lion in the Botanical Gardens roared as if in agreement.

‘Ah, that must be Tiberius; he's sleeping badly at the moment. I think his teeth are bothering him.'

Basile Popêche turned off into one of the five roads leading down to the river, all bearing the names of wine-growing regions – Burgundy, Champagne, Bordeaux, Languedoc, Touraine – whose low buildings divided into wine cellars marked the edge of the wine market. Gripped by fear and cold at the sight of the deserted market, shrouded in darkness, he stamped his feet as he passed a warehouse where a storm lantern burned, giving off a light that was almost friendly.

‘What time must it be? Five o'clock? Five thirty? This is where we usually meet…Polyte is late!'

He started at the sound of muffled footsteps, and made out the shadow of a cart crossing one of the alleys on its way to a wine cellar. The noise of the horses' shoes on the road was equally muffled and ghostly. Head thrown back and eyes closed, Basile savoured the heady bouquet of alcohol. He cried out when someone tapped him briskly on the shoulder.

‘Only me, don't panic!'

He recognised the figure of his friend Polyte Gorgerin, hat pulled down low, his breath in a steaming cloud before him.

‘Sorry I'm late, had to deliver some Beaujolais. Come on, let's go. Be careful where you put your trotters – there's red wine spilled everywhere and it's as slippery as glass!'

As he did each Sunday at dawn, Basile Popêche advanced cautiously over the scantily lit avenues bordering what looked like a military camp, where casks emitting a sour odour stood. He came to collect his weekly ration of cheap wine courtesy of Polyte, an old regiment mate, and he returned the favour each week with a side of meat diverted from the rations of the wild animals. His doctor had forbidden him to drink, given the poor state of his kidneys, but he paid no heed to that, convinced that wine was not only necessary for his happiness, but would also dissolve his kidney stones.

Barrels of wine, shaken up in transport and gone mouldy, stood to one side in an enclosure surrounded by bushes. Polyte had set up a little trade that permitted him to pad out his monthly takings. He sold this mediocre plonk cheaply to the owners of the drinking dens of the Latin Quarter who, for a modest price, would dole it out to their loyal customers when they came to drink a jar at the counter.

This Sunday morning several bar owners, cans in hand, were waiting to profit from the windfall. Polyte was greeted with exclamations:

‘So, are we going to get it or not, this grape juice?'

Polyte pushed his way impatiently through the group to reach a yellow cask with iron bands sitting beneath a street lamp.

‘Don't fret, it's good stuff. You'll be able to wet your whistle, and tell me what it's like!'

He put a quart jug under the copper spout and opened the tap. Red liquid started to flow, tinkling against the metal, then faltered, diminished to a dribble and gurgled to a halt.

‘For God's sake!' he complained, fiddling with the spout.

‘Looks like the frogs have got into your barrel,' bawled a crone with flaxen hair.

The bar owners laughed amongst themselves as they watched Polyte trying to extract a few drops from the tap.

‘Confound it! What's going on here! It can't have emptied itself all on its own. Unless some joker siphoned it out in the night!'

He struck the side of the barrel violently.

‘It sounds full. We'll have to find out what it's got in its belly!'

He bent down, seized an iron lever and prepared to prise open the lid, expecting to have to use considerable force. But the lid came off easily, and Polyte toppled backwards against the ample bosom of the crone.

‘Watch out there, love! Are you trying to have your wicked way with me? Cos I warn you, I'm spoken for.'

Sniggering, Polyte leant into the barrel then hastily turned away, nauseated. The others looked in.

‘Good God Almighty,' exclaimed a large fellow in a grey smock.

He made way for Basile Popêche, who had forgotten his glasses, and had to squint in an effort to see exactly what was in the barrel. An icy terror gripped him by the throat as he made out the horrifying sight. It was like something floating in a specimen jar at a museum: hair undulating on the surface of the vermilion liquid, mottled yellow in the light of the street lamp, staring eyes with dilated pupils, mouth twisted in a mute cry. Transfixed, he leant further over. He recognised the drowned man. Although he had only passed him twice, he was sure it was the ground floor tenant from his building.

‘We'll have to tell the coppers,' murmured the giant.

Everyone recoiled. No one wanted to get involved in this sordid affair. Embarrassed, they avoided looking at each other. As if with one mind, they scattered to the four corners of the market.

‘Oy! Wait for me!' yelped Polyte. ‘Basile, where are you going?'

Basile Popêche, sweating profusely, was walking fast up Rue de Champagne towards the Seine. That man from his building, he had seen him the other evening, when he was taking a breath of fresh air at his window; it must have been about midnight. And there had been another man, a strapping fellow in a grey overcoat who had appeared from Rue Geoffroy-Saint-Hilaire. He had glimpsed Monsieur Grey Overcoat for long enough to remember his face, and to notice that he seemed to be following the fellow from the ground floor.

‘But it's nothing to do with me. I've got enough of my own worries; best to leave them to sort it out without me. I know nothing; I saw nothing!'

 

A ray of sunlight pierced the milky daylight that filtered through the window and found its way into the alcove, dragging Victor from sleep. He was astonished to find himself lying on his stomach. He sat up so quickly he felt slightly dizzy. Tasha was painting. Apart from her bare feet and her tousled chignon, she was entirely hidden behind her easel. The stove was purring like a contented cat. Victor leaned back against the pillows, yawning, and flattened his rumpled hair.

‘Can't you stop doing that?' he complained. ‘It's Sunday – come back to bed!'

‘No, I'm determined to finish this sketch while it's fresh in my memory. You go back to sleep.'

Annoyed, he threw back the eiderdown. Go back to sleep! What he wanted was to laze in bed with her, nibbling the lobes of her ears and her breasts, caressing her body tenderly and yielding slowly to his desire.

But she wants to finish her drawing! Why did I have to fall in love with an artist?

Just for a moment, he wished she was one of those women obsessed with nothing but her appearance and attire.

‘Are you sulking?' she teased him. ‘Victor, this picture is important to me, and you know how obsessive I am.'

He knew it well. He watched her as he dressed. What he saw was familiar, soothing. She seemed to him extremely vulnerable, and yet he knew she was possessed of a stronger character than his.

‘I understand,' he said. ‘I'll leave you to concentrate.'

His words were totally insincere; he felt ashamed.

‘Shall we have dinner together? Oh bother, I have to go and see someone. I'll be home late.'

‘I have to see someone too,' he replied, quick as a flash.

She tossed a cotton sheet over her canvas, and ran over to him, putting her arms round his neck.

‘A woman?'

‘And you, a man?'

‘Of course not, idiot!'

They kissed lingeringly. By the time she pulled away he felt reassured. Those beautiful green eyes – surely they would not lie to him? But then even if she were lying he would still be besotted with her.

‘What are you hiding under there?' he asked, indicating the easel.

‘I'll show you when it's finished,'

‘One of your rooftops? A nude? A still life?'

‘It's a secret.'

As soon as he was outside, his obsessive jealousy came flooding back. He imagined lifting the cotton cover to discover a drawing of another man, of having his suspicions confirmed with his own eyes. To take his mind off his anguish, he forced himself to think about Élisa Fourchon. Had she left the Bontemps Boarding School dressed in red, like the girl found murdered at Killer's Crossing? He would have to find out. He reflected, not without bitterness, that he would rather frolic in the woods with Tasha; they could have picnicked on the banks of the Saint-Mandé lake.

‘In this weather, you imbecile? That would be a sure way to contract pneumonia. You'll see her this evening, and then you will hold her in your arms and tell her that it can't go on like this. Until then, concentrate on this new mystery. Go to Chaussée de l'Étang and see what you can discover. Take your photographic equipment; Mademoiselle Corymbe Bontemps will surely be delighted to have her photograph taken…'

 

‘Monsieur Legris, what a wonderful surprise! The young ladies and I were about to set off on our walk. Oh, you're a photographer!'

Caught in the middle of the pavement of Chaussée de l'Étang, encumbered with his concertina camera and the satchel containing his plates, Victor recoiled in the face of Mademoiselle Bontemps's ebullience.

‘Would it be taking advantage if I were to ask you to take a group picture of us?' she cried excitedly.

‘Well, I had in fact come to ask your help. You see I'm looking for models.'

Victor felt perfectly ridiculous, standing there surrounded by a knot of girls decked out in their Sunday best. As for Mademoiselle Bontemps, she resembled an enormous, belligerent parakeet under the green feathers of her huge hat.

‘I'm not sure I'm looking my best,' she cooed, fidgeting.

‘Yes, yes, you are ravishing; people will think you're one of the girls. Let's go down to the lake.'

Iris, very chic in a grey coat with a fur collar, slipped over to him and whispered, ‘That's going a bit far! She looks hideous. Did Godfather send you?'

‘Come along, girls, behave nicely. It's not every day that an artist takes an interest in us! Berthe, Aspasie, you tall girls stand behind. Iris, stand here in the front beside Henriette and Aglaé. The others…'

‘That's not fair; I'm an inch shorter than them,' muttered Aspasie.

‘It's a pity Élisa's not here!' said Berthe.

‘She's gone home to her mother,' said Mademoiselle Bontemps, who added in an aggrieved tone to Victor: ‘That mother, she has no idea how to behave. She hasn't paid me for this term; if she thinks I'm just going to overlook it…'

‘The Fourchon girl? Noémi Gerfleur's daughter?' asked Victor innocently.

‘So you solved the enigma of the flowery name; what perspicacity, Monsieur Legris! Girls, girls, calm down, stay in your places. I'll leave you to your work, Monsieur Legris.'

Victor set up his camera, adjusted the pose of the girls and disappeared under a black cloth. There were suppressed giggles, elbowing and mutterings of, ‘How long must we stand like statues?'

When he'd finished, the girls scattered, chased by a furious Mademoiselle Bontemps, clutching her plumed hat with one hand. Iris came over to Victor.

‘You didn't say anything to Godfather?'

‘Not a word…How was Élisa dressed when she went to meet her lover; what colour were her clothes?'

‘Why?…Oh, I see, my godfather has asked you to keep an eye on the people I associate with and…'

‘You're on the wrong track, Mademoiselle Iris; be kind – enlighten me.'

She looked at him quizzically.

‘You're hiding something, but I'll find out what it is eventually,' she murmured. ‘Élisa was wearing a red dress and coat, that's why I lent her my red shoes. It was a joke – her good friend Gaston was taking her dancing at Le Moulin-Rouge; it's easy for him to get in – he works there. Is it true, what they say about the naturalist quadrille?'

‘What do they say?'

‘That the dancers show their petticoats and their drawers.'

‘If the posters are to be believed, yes it's true.'

‘I would give anything to see that!'

‘I very much doubt that your…ah…godfather would agree to that.'

‘We wouldn't have to tell him if you agreed to chaperone me. You can keep a secret can't you, Monsieur Legris?' she said in an icy tone.

Victor was saved by the return of Mademoiselle Bontemps, who had gathered her lost flock. It was a struggle to extricate himself; the young ladies, egged on by their headmistress, insisted on his trying a sensational blend of tea accompanied by apple strudel. As he left, he could not help glancing at Iris anxiously. Was Kenji taking his responsibilities towards the young girl seriously?

*

Victor collapsed exhausted in a bistro on Avenue Victor-Hugo. Restored by a glass of vermouth, he laughed at his propensity to turn events into the plot of a novel. But it was impossible to deny that there were similarities between the circumstances of the murder and Iris's account. The red dress, the bare feet, the slipper found by Grégoire Mercier. Now that he was on the trail it was out of the question that he should abandon it.

‘Le Moulin-Rouge…Gaston…Is he a musician? Dancer? Stagehand? I'll go there this evening. That way I won't have provoked Tasha for nothing, and I'll get to see the ladies show off their underwear.'

He laughed to himself. The ardent eyes, shiny black hair and sensual mouth of Eudoxie appeared before him: the beautiful Eudoxie Allard, languorous succubus who had tried to seduce him in the offices of
Le Passe-partout
, where she worked as a typist. Hadn't she given up journalism to become a dancer? He vaguely recalled Isidore Gouvier saying of her: ‘She's been taken on by Zidler at Le Moulin-Rouge to kick up her pins.'