Strangled in Paris: 6th Victor Legris Mystery. Claude Izner

out of control, not enough and it fills up with smoke,’ Kenji always said. Nevertheless, she feared that their perfectly regulated life might give rise to the pernicious boredom of a straight and narrow path.

      For goodness’ sake, have a bit of faith in your beloved, she urged herself. He hates obeying the rules and doesn’t give a damn about wagging tongues. Carpe diem!

      She dismissed these worries from her mind. Now was not the time for procrastination. Thadée Natanson, the driving force behind La Revue Blanche,9 to which she had recently begun contributing, had agreed, following a recommendation by Edouard Jean Vuillard,10 to display twenty of her paintings in Rue Laffitte at the end of the month.

      ‘Twenty, you understand? Show us your very best paintings!’

      She had to get her selection right, and to choose from among her successive periods Parisian skylines, masculine and feminine nudes, funfairs and recreations of antique scenes.

      She placed two pictures, one of a family of acrobats and another of a lion-tamer, side by side. Did the lion look a little bit like a large stuffed cat? There was a loud mewing as if to confirm her suspicions. Kochka, the tabby cat rescued by Joseph from the street the year before, waved her tail in the air, eager to go out.

      ‘You’re right, kitty, the acrobats win hands down.’

      She opened the door of the studio to let her out and, when the cat had crossed the courtyard, she picked up a lace glove and ran her fingers over its delicate material, fighting back the temptation to go and embrace Victor.

      Kochka lumbered through the cat flap with some difficulty. As soon as she got into the apartment, she made a beeline for the kitchen. Cloistered in his dark room, Victor heard a vigorous scratching sound and guessed that, having relieved herself, the cat was now noisily expressing her satisfaction. Leaning over a zinc tank, his face illuminated by a paraffin lamp with a red cover, he rinsed the prints, put them to one side to dry and emerged from his ivory tower.

      Apart from his laboratory, the apartment consisted of a kitchen, a bathroom and a huge bedroom where he had managed to find space for his roll-top desk and a large chest of drawers, after moving out of the apartment in Rue des Saints-Pères. Several Constable water-colours hung on the walls, as well as two portraits by Gainsborough and some pen sketches by Fourier, the social visionary. A red chalk drawing of his mother, set in an oval frame, hung next to a small nude of Tasha and a portrait of Kenji. Although Victor had been left with no choice but to get rid of his large dining table and six chairs, he had kept his glass-fronted bookshelves. He pulled out a slim volume, settled himself comfortably on the bed and began to leaf through Verlaine’s Fêtes Galantes, in search of his favourite poem:

       Les hauts talons luttaient avec les longues jupes,

       En sorte que, selon le terrain et le vent,

       Parfois luisaient des bas de jambes, trop souvent

      Interceptés! – et que nous aimions ce jeu de dupes.11

      A gently sensual feeling of wellbeing crept over him, and he was sinking into a pleasant daze when he was brought back to reality by Kochka. She had jumped into his lap and begun to massage his legs with her paws and outstretched claws. Victor cried out in pain.

      ‘Stop that, you horrible creature!’ he grumbled, but he had a soft spot for the cat, and didn’t try to move her.

      He inspected her stomach cautiously, wondering when she would have her kittens. Tasha thought it wouldn’t be long now. What were they going to do with a litter of kittens? Would they have to fall on the mercy of Raoul Pérot at the La Chapelle police station, guardian angel of abandoned dogs and tortoises?

      An image formed in Victor’s mind: Tasha pregnant. Iris’s stomach was looking so round now that he suspected his sister and Joseph of having disobeyed Kenji’s orders and consummated their union early, with a blithe disregard for the blessing of the curate of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Although Victor and Tasha had long since stopped taking any precautions of their own, Tasha remained as slim as ever. He was relieved: the idea of becoming a father didn’t fill him with enthusiasm.

      ‘Can we really change the way we feel?’ he asked Kochka, who was curled up and purring contentedly.

      At thirty-four, he was getting on a bit. Although he was managing to curb his possessive feelings towards Tasha, surely the arrival of a child would bring them all back? Naturally, he never said a word when she talked to him about this exhibition coming up with La Revue Blanche. On the contrary, he encouraged her, which made her happy but did not stop him worrying about it – what a hypocrite he must be! All those men flocking around her and undressing her with their eyes. The knowledge that three of his photographs would be displayed alongside her paintings did nothing to ease his qualms.

      The fact that he constantly had to lie to Kenji was another weight on Victor’s mind. He was behaving like a schoolboy inventing any old story to explain why he was missing school.

      ‘Dourak!12 Face up to him! Admit that you’re fed up with the deadly dull routine in the bookshop and that you want to spend all your time on your photography!’

      Somebody was at the door. Three loud knocks sent Kochka scuttling under the bed.

      ‘It’s open!’ shouted Victor.

      A tall bearded man in a velvet beret leant nonchalantly against the doorframe. It was a full minute before Victor could collect himself enough to say, ‘Tasha’s not here.’

      ‘That suits me – this is a confidential matter, Legris. Sorry to interrupt your siesta. I’ve been running around all morning. May I?’

      Without waiting for permission, he flopped down on the bed next to Victor. The two men considered one another coldly, and as Victor made as if to get up Maurice Laumier gave him a coarse smile.

      ‘You’re right, Legris, better get up. Tasha could come in at any minute and find us here together. What would she think, the poor innocent girl?’

      Nerves jangling, Victor leapt up, straightened his clothes and lit a cigarette, despite his promise only to smoke outside.

      ‘Calm down,’ said Laumier, pointing to an armchair.

      As Victor insisted on remaining standing, Laumier rose too, and began to inspect a series of photographs propped up on the dressing table.

      ‘Well, well, are you getting a social conscience? You surprise me! I had no idea that you were so fascinated by the seamy side of our modern Babylon. I thought you preferred more edifying subject matter.’

      ‘And you, Laumier, still churning out your pictures of dingy darkness?’

      ‘My poor Victor, when it comes to painting, you’re behind the times! Don’t you know what Renoir says to all those clever-clogs who are throwing their tubes of black paint into the Seine? “Black is one of the most important colours. Perhaps the most important.” Mind you, it’s in his name …’

      ‘I couldn’t agree with him more, hence my penchant for the darker side of Parisian life.’

      ‘Well, now I come to think of it, grey is in your name, so no surprises there! Oh, come on, you have to admire my little word play,’ said Laumier teasingly.

      ‘Spit it out, for goodness’ sake! What do you want?’ Victor barked.

      ‘So calm! So in control of the situation! I’m overcome with admiration—’

      ‘Out with it!’

      ‘Oh, now you’re really scaring me. It’s a somewhat delicate matter that I rather regret having to bring to you. If Mireille Lestocart hadn’t forced me to take these measures, I’d never—’

      ‘Mireille Lestocart?’