The Père-Lachaise Mystery: 2nd Victor Legris Mystery. Claude Izner

Monsieur Kenji Mori, 18 Rue des Saints-Pères, Paris, France.

      As he prepared for his departure, Kenji was reflecting on how, finally, Iris was going to be living near him. In her last letter she had expressed her joy at the thought of living in France, no longer having to wait weeks for him to find time to leave his business associate and cross the Channel to be with her. Saint-Mandé was very close to Paris and he would be able to visit her every Sunday. She would enjoy living comfortably in the heart of the countryside. Mademoiselle Bontemps’s boarding house, an agreeable dwelling on Chausée de l’Étang, was opposite the Bois de Vincennes. He would, however, have to use all his wiles to keep her away from the bookshop. It was out of the question that she should meet Victor! He would find a way. His thoughts were interrupted by the noise of wheels in the street. He went over to the window: a carriage was drawing up in front of the bookshop. The blond young man got out and shouted triumphantly, ‘Your cab awaits, M’sieu Mori!’

      ‘Coming!’

      Denise watched the blond boy come out of the bookshop weighed down by a suitcase dotted with labels. He was followed by two men: the Oriental, and a good-looking man of medium height aged about thirty. He had brown hair and a moustache. She stiffened – it was Madame de Valois’s old lover! She heard him cry, ‘Have a good journey, Kenji, be good!’ as the Oriental took his seat in the cab, which set off.

      As soon as Victor Legris and the blond boy had gone back into the shop, Denise crossed the road in what she hoped was a confident manner and went in after them. The blond boy was busy dusting the books on the shelves with a feather duster. At the tinkling of the door bell, he turned his large round head, crowned with dead-straight hair, and smiled at Denise, who gazed at him, blushing, not knowing what to say.

      ‘Good morning. May I help you?’ When she didn’t reply, he went up to her, smiling more broadly. ‘Are you looking for a book? Any author in particular?’

      She noticed that he was hunchbacked. Her brother Erwan had told her once that meeting a hunchback brought luck. She was reassured, without knowing why, although now the boy was scrutinising her in a slightly condescending way. ‘I would like to speak to Monsieur Legris,’ she whispered. ‘It’s … important.’

      Intrigued, the boy took in the young girl’s attire. She was badly turned out, her shoes were in a pitiful state and her crinoline was rather skimpy. He noticed the rectangular package that she was clutching to her bosom and from this he concluded that she must be one of those provincial girls convinced they were the next George Sand, come to sell her writings to the booksellers of Saint-Germain. He sighed, and going behind the counter, disappeared up the spiral staircase that led to the first floor. Left alone, Denise stared at the bust of a man wearing a wig and a faintly mocking expression, which was positioned on a black marble mantelpiece. She tried to read the name of the figure.

      ‘So, you like my Molière?’

      The deep voice made her jump. Victor Legris was regarding her with a questioning air. The young man had taken up his duster again and was humming as he dusted.

      ‘I’m in the service of Madame de Valois, and I … I’ve …’

      ‘Madame de Valois?’ Victor frowned. The image of his former mistress came to him, her blonde hair loose, her round pink breasts revealed beneath the sheet she had thrown back. It all seemed such a long time ago … how long ago had he left her? Nine, ten months? ‘Yes, I recognise you. Remind me what your name is.’

      ‘Denise Le Louarn.’

      ‘Denise, of course. Did Madame send you?’ He suddenly felt guilty.

      ‘No, no, Monsieur, I came of my own accord. I don’t know anyone in Paris except you, and …’

      She cast an embarrassed look at the assistant who was listening to the conversation. At a sign from Victor, he made himself scarce.

      ‘I have to speak to you, please, Monsieur … It’s about Madame de Valois, I’m so worried.’

      Feeling uncomfortable, Victor noticed that the young girl looked pale and uncertain and seemed on the point of collapse. He gestured vaguely, then let his hand fall. ‘Have you had any breakfast?’ Without waiting for a reply, he took her arm and went on, ‘No, neither have I. Come on. Joseph, if anyone asks for me, I’ll be at the Temps Perdu. Leave your things here, behind the counter, Mademoiselle.’

      The door bell sounded. Joseph shook his feather duster in exasperation over a rectangular table covered with a green cloth in the middle of the bookshop. ‘Temps perdu, time wasted. How apt – he certainly knows how to waste time. And, what’s more, he leaves me to run the business on my own, poor Jojo!’

      He put down his feather duster and, settling himself on a stool, took an apple and a newspaper out of his pocket. He glanced at the front page.

      Stop press: In Germany, Paul Lafargue, the son-in-law of Karl Marx, rejoiced at the 4,500 votes received by the socialist Bebel in Strasbourg.

      He shrugged his shoulders; he wasn’t very interested in politics. He leafed through the daily until he came to the heading Miscellaneous News and read out loud:

      A strange robbery. Last night, unknown individuals broke into the stables of the Omnibus Company depot on Rue Ordener and cut off the manes and tails of twenty-five horses. An investigation is underway …

      ‘That’s not normal! What on earth are they going to do with horse hair? Make wigs?’

      As quick as a flash, he jumped down from his perch, snatched up a pair of scissors and a pot of glue, and pulled a thick black notebook out of his other pocket. He cut out the article and stuck it into the notebook with all the other unusual snippets. Then he bit into his apple and went on with his reading.

      The Temps Perdu was on the corner of Rue des Saints-Pères and Quai Malaquais. At that early hour, the café was almost empty. They sat down at a table in one of the little booths opposite the bar. Victor ordered tea. Denise didn’t want anything to drink but she ate some bread and butter and a croissant. She was ravenous.

      ‘The French are incapable of making tea correctly, even though it’s so simple! This brew is like dish water.’

      ‘Madame always tells me that I make her hot chocolate badly.’ The young girl wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth.

      Mildly irritated, Victor pushed his cup away. ‘If I understand correctly, you want to leave Madame de Valois. Is she really so unbearable?’

      Denise hesitated, lowering her eyes. ‘She was different before …’

      ‘Before what?’

      ‘Before the death of Monsieur. Yes, she was demanding and strict, like all bosses, but she also had her good points. This summer, in Houlgate, she was actually very kind; she let me go for walks by the sea while she went to her meetings with Madame de Brix.’

      She stopped suddenly, her fingers moulding some crumbs of bread, and cried: ‘She’s the one who put all these foolish thoughts in her head!’

      ‘Thoughts?’

      ‘You’ll laugh, Monsieur … Well, that the dead aren’t dead, that there’s an afterlife, not in paradise, but here on earth with us, that they come back to visit us without us being able to see them … things like that. In Houlgate, Madame de Brix took Madame to see a medium. He lived in a beautiful house where very strange things went on. Monsieur Numa, the medium, would lend his voice to the dead so that they could converse with the living. Madame de Brix talked to her son who’s been dead and buried for ages. I didn’t see it myself, it was Sidonie Taillade, her maid, who told me. It made her laugh. She said that her boss was a bit loopy.’

      Denise emphasised this statement by tapping her forehead with her index finger. She went on: ‘Madame de Valois changed overnight when the telegram announcing Monsieur’s death arrived from America. It was the end of November and …’

      Victor