The Montmartre Investigation (23 page)

‘Some men may desire another woman or just for a change a sophisticated seductress,' he murmured. ‘But I would go crazy without you. Having you near helps me live in this world, which I find so absurd at times. One thing is certain: I am the only one who really understands you, so trust me: come along, let's make love to each other and take all the time we want.'

She stood for a moment leaning against his chest and then pushed him slowly towards the alcove. Her smock slipped down, exposing her naked body. She remained silent, her head tilted back, her eyes almost closed. She let out a tiny squeal of impatience as he undressed hurriedly. He kissed her throat and her breath quickened. She stared at him through her eyelashes with an expression almost of pain. He laid her down gently. The faint tremor of the bed became a harmonious swaying. They were oblivious to the thunder and the hailstones battering the windowpanes.

Later she said: ‘Victor, be careful, it isn't a game. Have you thought about me?'

The rain drummed down on the roof. Victor didn't respond. She waited for a moment.

‘Victor, I'm talking to you.'

He sat up and looked at her gravely.

‘Has Joseph been talking?'

‘Joseph? No! Be wary of us women, my love, we have a sixth sense. In the past, when men left us to go to war we were witches.'

‘I'm in no danger, believe me, and I have no intention of going off on any crusades.'

‘I'm glad to hear it, darling.'

‘Women!' he exclaimed, laughing. ‘You'll be the death of us!'

‘Don't joke about it, I…'

She stopped and began chewing her thumbnail. He had the impression that her words were the beginning of something far more difficult to express. He nestled his head in her auburn hair and pretended to fall asleep.

 

Joseph was enduring what seemed like an interminable journey on an omnibus, sitting opposite an old lady stuffing herself with marzipan, and bitterly regretting not having partaken of Germaine's roast veal and macaroni with Iris. The apple he had eaten perched like a perfect gentleman on his ladder that morning had not been very big. He sighed, proud to be fulfilling a mission worthy of Monsieur Lecoq, and tried to stop his stomach from rumbling.

Charmansat had taken an omnibus as far as Rue Étienne-Marcel and then caught another headed for Montmartre. The nausea Joseph began to feel as he contemplated the rolls of fat on the back of the man's neck beneath his cropped hair was accentuated by the jolting of the omnibus and the old woman's incessant chewing. He decided to concentrate on the people to his left. A man was reading a newspaper beside a young girl, who sat looking out of the window, her elbows placed on the mahogany armrests. Joseph's malaise grew as he witnessed the surreptitious brushing of the man's trousered leg against the girl's stockinged one. Although both parties seemed unaware of the other's existence, everything pointed to a secret complicity between them, and when the man rose to ring the bell the young girl quickly did likewise. Her seat was immediately occupied by a woman wearing a hat with a veil who held a fidgeting child on her lap.

His head reeling from the rattle of the windowpanes, the toing and froing of the conductor and the sound of the driver's whip, Joseph dozed, groaning each time the toddler gave him a kick. He woke with a start. The back of Charmansat's neck had disappeared! He turned round in time to see him step off, and just managed to jump off the vehicle himself before it turned into Boulevard Rochechouart.

Joseph stayed close to Charmansat, threading his way along Rue de Steinkerque and into Place Saint-Pierre, where he regretted not being able to buy a bag of
frites
at a stall called The Frites Palace. His stomach rumbling, he walked beside a fence where a row of embroiderers had set up shop. His quarry had begun the ascent of the steps of Rue Foyatier.

Joseph had the impression he was following a monkey as he watched the ease with which the little man climbed the ten flights of steps overlooked by a rotunda ornamented with Florentine arches – the new reservoir on the hill. The sky turned dark and a shower of rain obliged Jojo to turn up his collar. He took no notice of the colossal scaffolding beneath which the votive church of the Sacré-Coeur was growing up like some gargantuan mushroom, but glanced now and then at the fenced off thicket on the side of the hill where a monumental staircase was planned. His only concern was not to be spotted by his prey, or by the murderous thieves he imagined were hiding behind every bush. Euphrosine had read aloud to him from the newspapers about the bloody crimes that occurred in this place after sundown. He had duly cut out the articles and kept them in his notebook for future use in his novels, but he had no desire to put their veracity to the test in person!

He was relieved, then, to leave behind the tangle of dried shrubs on his right and pursue Charmansat up Rue Gabrielle and into Place du Tertre. At that time of the evening and in such weather, the restaurants offering food, music and dance attracted only a handful of inveterate drinkers. The sky had cleared by the time they reached Rue Mont-Clenis, and Charmansat took advantage of the break in the weather to stand under a washerwoman's awning, push up the brim of his bowler and wipe his brow with his handkerchief. Joseph was obliged to hide behind a section of wall. He felt as though he had been transported to a foreign land, where everything seemed unfamiliar, as though in an oriental fairy story. In the damp gloom, the winding streets with their jagged paving stones looked like stairways cut into the hillsides of a trompe l'œil stage set; six-storey buildings stood next to small shacks with thatched or tin roofs; painters carrying their materials, their easels slung over their shoulders, walked past him, and ragged urchins ran around the courtyards shrieking. His reverie was interrupted as Charmansat moved off again, like a puppet operated by invisible strings. He left Rue du Mont-Cenis, which wound on down towards the flats of Saint-Ouen and Saint-Denis, disappearing into the dusk that echoed with the sound of train whistles, and took a left into Rue Saint-Vincent. Joseph hurried past the corner of Rue des Saules, where the previously named Cabaret des Assassins was now called A Ma Campagne. The last rays of sunlight chased out by the encroaching darkness gave the neighbourhood a surreal atmosphere.

‘Where is that rascal taking me? Has he seen me? We seem to be going round in circles!' Joseph muttered as Charmansat turned left again into Rue Girardon. He just managed to glimpse the intersection where Rue Lepic climbed steeply to the windmill at the top of the hill, before plunging into the undergrowth. He found himself in the middle of a village full of lean-tos made from planks of wood filched from the building sites and separated from one another by shrubs and tiny patches of grass. The place was swarming with animals: hens clucking, flea-bitten dogs scratching, rutting toms proclaiming their desire for scrawny she-cats. Virginia creeper grew up the broken, lopsided windowpanes of the shacks, which were clad in cardboard painted with tar, and bristling with makeshift chimney pots – artists' studios, labourers' cottages and brigands' dens.

Charmansat slipped down an alleyway covered in graffiti. Joseph hesitated to follow him, fearing he might be noticed. All of a sudden, he felt a hand on his shoulder and he stifled a scream. It was only an old man in rags with a mop of yellow hair asking for money, who received five coins from a reluctant Joseph.

‘Thank you, kind gentleman, you're a good sort. Two sous for bread and three for liquor and the world can continue on its merry way. What are you standing here for? Have you come to see Yellow Melanie?'

‘Yellow Melanie?'

‘The trollop with the ague who lives down that alleyway. The one your friend went to see.'

To the old man's astonishment Joseph suddenly dived back into the undergrowth. Charmansat was coming back, apparently satisfied at having been given an audience. With a blank look on his face, he continued walking until he reached the winding Rue Caulaincourt where, to the immense relief of his pursuer, normal life resumed its course.

Charmansat stopped and leant against a lamp post. What are you doing now, you rogue? Joseph thought as he hid behind a cart parked next to the pavement. A man wearing a check jacket and a sombrero walked out of number 32 and into a wine bar. He swigged back a glass at the counter while Charmansat, who had hidden in a doorway, waited. In no apparent hurry, the drinker re-emerged and strolled down Rue Caulaincourt. At the corner of Rue Lepic, Charmansat, who was halfway across the road, collided with a passer-by. Joseph, pressed flat against a wall, recognised the man he had followed to the Roman arenas, whom Charmansat had met with in the Église Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. The two men exchanged a few words and went their separate ways. The same dilemma presented itself. Which one should he follow? He decided to stay with Charmansat. He hurtled down Rue de l'Orient, where he caught sight of the bowler and the sombrero again. But his luck soon ran out. Two drunken women burst out of a cheap eating-house next to which a man selling chestnuts had set up his stall. The women hurled insults and struggled, and in their bellicose rage knocked over the brazier. The hot coals, perforated pan and sizzling chestnuts went crashing to the pavement, and the poor stall owner went down on his hands and knees to retrieve his property from underneath the feet of the people attempting to separate the two furies. Caught up in the commotion, Joseph lost sight of his two targets.

‘That's done it! Back to square one. Never mind, I've more than enough to report back to the Boss. He'll be happy with me.'

He retraced his steps, deciding to collect some more information on the way. He entered the bar where the man in the check jacket and sombrero had gone to slake his thirst, and ordered a glass of Mariani wine. The photograph of a young drummer boy in uniform pinned behind the counter gave him an idea of how to broach his subject.

‘Is that you?' he asked the landlord whose face was lined with wrinkles and who was busy dusting off a row of bottles on a shelf.

‘Yes, that's me all right. June 1870 – a proud, eager recruit. That didn't last long. Two months later I was in the battle of Reichstoffen. There are experiences in life we'd prefer not to have had, eh? I kept the drum, in memory of my comrades who never came back.'

‘What a strange coincidence. I'm looking for the bugler in my regiment. We met by chance last month. You see I play the trumpet, and he promised to try to get me a job at a local dancehall. I know he lives around here, but I can't for the life of me remember his address.'

‘What's his name?'

‘Well, in the barracks we called him Pignouf.'

‘Describe him. You never know.'

‘He wears a sombrero – an eccentric-looking chap.'

‘There's no lack of them up here in Montmartre. Anyone would think all the lunatics in the world had decided to congregate here. If that's all you can tell me about him you won't get very far,' said the landlord, a deep furrow creasing his brow.

‘Hold on a minute, I've remembered something else: he wears a jacket with a grey and beige check!'

‘Oh, I know him! He's a poet, apparently. I find poets…Well, they're all penniless. But this fellow is an exception. He pays and I respect a customer who pays. So you want me to tell you here he lives do you?
Nicht Möglich
³⁰
as the Germans say. I'm not in the business of telling; I just listen to what people tell me, and believe you me I've heard a lot of drunken confessions in my time. However, you're in luck because I happen to know where your poet works. Go to Le Chat-Noir – a little bird tells me you'll catch him there.'

Joseph was thankful to catch a yellow omnibus with a red interior from Rue Damrémont via Rue Caulaincourt all the way to Rue des Saints-Pères. His legs were especially grateful for the rest and he told himself that the three mile journey would give him ample time to prepare the report he would give the Boss the next day. He did his best to concentrate, but within a few minutes a wave of tiredness had swept over him, his eyes closed and the other passengers became a blur. Victor's face was replaced by that of Iris, and before long he had joined the young girl in the land of dreams.

Tuesday 24 November

The lights were blazing in the Temps Perdu, which shone like a beacon through the rain that had cast a gloom over the early morning. The waves of bargemen and mattress makers from Quai Malaquais arriving at the bar took no notice of the fellow in the frock coat and sodden felt hat who sat dripping next to the stove. Victor had leapt out of bed at six o'clock after a fitful sleep plagued by bad dreams, and slipped quietly out of the studio on Rue Fontaine to meet Joseph at the bistro. Two coffees drunk in quick succession had failed to help him clarify his thoughts. The different elements of the case had become entwined in his imagination with Iris's revelations, like two jigsaw puzzles hopelessly jumbled together. The figures of Prosper Charmansat, Doctor Aubertot, Grégoire Mercier and Noémi Gerfleur reached out to other ghostly shadows. He felt a migraine coming on, and had visions of his last dream: a mass of snakes spilling through a crack in a wall writhed over his body and transformed into the thick, ebony and copper coils of Iris and Tasha's hair.

Joseph's arrival interrupted his reverie.

‘Well, Boss, talk about a soaking! The only part of me that's dry is my throat. You don't mind moving your things so I can warm myself?'

The landlady, a plump busybody of a woman with a crumpled dish cloth tucked into her waist, served him a bowl of milky coffee and three slices of bread and butter.

‘Why, I know your mother! There's a woman who's worth her salt, bringing up a glutton like you all on her own! Let me know if you need any extra!'

When she had moved away, Joseph muttered between his teeth as he tucked in with gusto, ‘I wonder what Maman has been saying about me? What is it, Boss? You've got a sad mug this morning.'

‘A little more respect, please, Joseph.'

‘What I meant to say is you look tired and peaky this morning. I'm showing concern!'

‘I had a bad night. Did you tail him?'

‘Did I! Talk about an expedition! My legs are killing me. I'm dead beat. That Charmansat dragged me all the way to Montmartre! We went up the hill and through a maze of streets with hovels worse than the ones at Cours de Miracles. I arrived home at Rue Visconti so late I went to bed without any dinner so as not to wake up Maman and…'

‘Spare me the details.'

‘The Boss
is
in a mood this morning,' Joseph muttered under his breath before continuing.

‘…and finally my man posted himself outside number 32, Rue Caulaincourt where he waited for…'

‘Did you say 32 Rue Caulaincourt?' Victor interrupted, perking up.

‘Yes.'

‘That's the address I was given yesterday! The man who lives there is Louis Dolbreuse.'

‘I was unable to discover his identity, but I know he works at Le Chat-Noir.'

‘Dolbreuse,' repeated Victor, stirring his teaspoon in his empty cup. ‘What part could he play in all this? He knows Aubertot.'

‘Is that the Aubertot from Cour Manon? The doctor you traced to the Salpêtrière?
'

‘He has another name. Dolbreuse used it when he introduced him to me at Le Chat-Noir. Joseph, we're nearly there. Our murderer has connections to the medical world. He threw acid in Élisa's face and strangled Noémi with a piece of gauze.'

‘Do you fancy Aubertot as the killer? I'd put my money on Charmansat. He's a shady character.'

‘We can only allay our doubts by cornering our suspects and forcing them to give themselves away before there are any more victims. Here's what I think we should do…'

 

By the time Victor arrived at the bookshop, Joseph had had time to open up and sell a limited edition of
Money –
volume eighteen in the
Rougon-Macquart
series – to an admirer of Zola. Kenji looked up from where he was working at his desk and said good morning to Victor, who was frantically leafing through his notebook, his hat still on. He clapped his hand to his forehead.

‘Jojo, I've just remembered! You must go and deliver a copy of Ronsard's
Loves
to Salomé de Flavignol straight away, it's urgent.'

‘Shall I take a cab?'

Kenji peered over his glasses.

‘That boy will ruin us.'

Victor slipped his assistant a banknote and whispered: ‘Buy a rose for Tasha too.'

Victor leant on Molière's bust, taking advantage of the empty shop to look at his adoptive father sitting there hunched over his desk.

‘Why are you staring at me like that? Are you testing out your powers as a fakir?' murmured Kenji, who disliked being the object of such intense scrutiny.

‘Do you believe in life after death?'

‘Is this the moment for such a discussion?'

‘“My love. I have found him. You'll understand. You must…follow your instinct.”'

‘What has come over you? Are you feverish, perhaps?'

Kenji had put down his pen and swivelled round in his chair.

‘You haven't forgotten Madame de Brix's English medium, Numa Winner, have you? I came across him when I was investigating the disappearance of Odette de Valois. Those were his words to me, or rather the words of my deceased mother, relayed to me through him.'

‘You're talking nonsense. The man hoodwinked you.'

‘I thought so too, at the time. Now I'm not so sure. Answer me truthfully. Did my mother find love with you?'

Had Victor not known Kenji for so long, he would probably have taken his apparent impassiveness at face value. But his sudden pallor and the half-gesture of loosening his tie spoke louder than if he had visibly winced.

‘And what if it were so?' Kenji replied defiantly.

‘I would be overjoyed.'

‘Really?'

‘No less than if I were to learn that your daughter is…my half-sister.'

This time Kenji was unable to contain his emotion. He pushed back his chair and began pacing up and down between the fireplace and the shop counter.

‘She knows and she couldn't stop herself from telling you,' he concluded, gesturing with his chin to the floor above.

‘Well!' Victor exclaimed, his expression neutral, ‘supposing my mother really did send me a message from the hereafter, you must admit it was rather cryptic. And yet I often think of it. When you confessed to me that you were Iris's father, naturally I noticed a certain resemblance, and…'

He stopped mid-sentence at the sound of footsteps on the stair. It was Germaine looking furious, her bun half-undone.

‘I'm a slave to no man!' she screeched, waving a packet of meat at them. ‘This is a republic and if the food I make isn't good enough for Your Highnesses, I shan't hesitate to go elsewhere and you can go and poison yourselves in some cheap eating-house like Duval's!'

‘Come now, Germaine, calm yourself,' breathed Victor, glancing anxiously towards the street.

‘I've had enough, Monsieur Legris! You're too fussy!'

‘Fussy? Me? Germaine!'

‘Don't play the innocent with me. You dine out at the first opportunity! But it's not about you this time. What I'm trying to say is…It's your guest, Monsieur Mori.'

‘How has Mademoiselle Iris offended you?' Kenji enquired, articulating each syllable.

‘Little Miss Fusspot! The defender of lambs! She won't eat them, she says, on account of their being killed too young. Why, she all but called me a cannibal! And yesterday it was the veal she took issue with, and before that the chicken! I was up at the crack of dawn to buy carrots, turnips and onions at the market like a good slave and what do I get in return? A grilling!'

‘You're right. It is unacceptable behaviour. I shall plead your case to Iris. In the meantime I suggest you punish her by giving her boiled eggs, and I promise I shall have second helpings of your…'

‘Of my lamb
Navarin
,' Germaine finished his sentence for him, her voice distinctly mellowed. ‘Oh, Monsieur Mori! If it weren't for you, I'd have long since given in my no–'

‘Navarre! That's the name I was trying to remember!' exclaimed Victor, dashing through the door.

‘You see! It's just like I said, he dines out at the first opportunity!' cried Germaine.

‘Where is he off to now, the blighter,' Kenji groaned, furious at being deserted again. ‘Just when we were finally going to have a serious conversation.'

‘About what?'

He turned round. Germaine was stomping past Iris, who stood at the bottom of the stairs, an enigmatic smile on her face.

 

Joseph flattened himself against the wall of Le Chat-Noir in an attempt to shelter from the rainstorm. He was relieved to see Victor arrive with an umbrella.

‘Sorry I'm so late. Was Tasha at home?'

‘Yes, Boss, she was very pleased with the rose.'

Finally their knocking paid off and Bel-Ami, the guard, dressed in a grey smock and holding a feather duster inched open the door warily.

‘What do you want?'

‘I am a journalist. I've been commissioned to write an article about some of the artists who perform here.'

‘We're cleaning; you'll have to come back this evening,' the man muttered, and began to close the door.

‘But surely this evening you'll be much too busy for interviews.'

The door swung open.

‘Do you want to interview me?'

‘Naturally,' Victor assured him.

‘Well, in that case, come in, but you'll have to excuse the mess. Last night there was a hell of a rumpus. Some of the gentlemen took it into their heads to play bullfighting and grabbed some wretch off the street. They wrapped him in a towel and took him to the guard's room where they made him sing along…'

‘Is the uniform you wear to greet your customers genuine?'

‘An authentic Swiss Church costume: the cane has a solid silver handle and the halberd cost a fortune.'

‘You must cut a dashing figure. I'll wager you dream of treading the boards!' declared Joseph, following Victor's lead.

Bel-Ami struck a pose.

‘I am not without talent, or so I've been told. My rendering of “Wilting Flowers” by Monsieur Paul Henrion makes the ladies weep. He began to wail:

Joseph's timely fit of coughing and request for a glass of water successfully ended the recital. Bel-Ami cleared his own throat and was about to finish the couplet when Victor tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Bravo! Dolbreuse was right. What a marvellous voice you have!'

‘Did Monsieur Dolbreuse mention me to you?'

‘Yes, and he's not the only one! Oh, by the way, what time will he be here?'

‘He didn't turn up yesterday, even though Monsieur Salis made it clear at the beginning that if he wants to become known he must show his face regularly.'

‘At the beginning?'

‘Monsieur Dolbreuse has only been coming here to recite his poems since late summer. But he's unreliable, and at this rate he's going to lose his place. Poets are ten a penny up here in Montmartre.'

‘You appear to know everybody. I'd also like to interview a man called Navarre. I believe he is a writer too.'

‘Yes. He spends a lot of time at 16 Rue du Croissant, at the offices of
L'Écho de Paris
.'

‘What a mine of information! We shall come back this evening.'

‘Monsieur! You didn't tell me the name of your newspaper!'

‘
Le Passe-partout!'
cried Joseph.

 

Rue du Croissant was less busy at this time of day than at dawn. Gigantic rolls of white paper protected by oilcloths stood in the doorways waiting to be turned into printed pages. Joseph's hearty breakfast was now a distant memory, and he would gladly have gobbled up a whole plate of croissants or a couple of apples or even some
frites
, but Victor would not spare him the time. Just as they were approaching number 16, where the offices of
L'Écho de Paris
were located, a fair-haired young man with a monocle and a cigar charged past them.

‘Alceste, Alcibiade, Alcide!' Victor muttered to himself and then cried out, ‘Alcide Bonvoisin!'

The young man stopped dead in his tracks.

‘Monsieur…?'

‘Victor Legris, we exchanged a few words at Le Moulin-Rouge. Would you mind awfully if I…'

‘Yes! I remember you. Wait for me here in reception. I'll be five minutes.'

The fair-haired young man hurried to the end of a corridor that had a large window with a sign above it saying ‘Cashier' and hurried back again wearing a look of contentment.

‘Forgive me. My column nearly went by the board and with it my dinner. Now I have enough in my pocket to pay my landlady. Who dares maintain that the muse of letters does not feed a man? How might I assist you?'

‘Tell me what you know about a fellow named Navarre.'

‘Not a lot, except that he is mad keen on literature and writes articles about everything except medicine, despite lecturing at the Salpêtrière.'

‘Does
L'Écho de Paris
have an archive?'

‘Yes, I'll show you where it is.'

He led them to a room full of glass-fronted cabinets containing bulky volumes bound in green cloth that were presided over by an elderly, melancholy man in a peaked cap.

‘Tell Herbert what you want and if he can he will be only too happy to help. Goodbye!'

‘Much obliged,' replied Victor.

‘November 1886,' Joseph announced to the archivist, who scratched his chin forlornly.

Victor and Joseph exchanged disappointed looks.

‘In that case, perhaps we could take a look at the year 1887.'

The old man bounded with extraordinary agility over to one of the cabinets and climbed to the top of a rolling ladder in order to reach the volume. Joseph offered to help him, but the old fellow only relinquished the tome in order to set it down on a lectern.