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

on her canvas, covering it with nervous brush strokes. She was wearing an oversized stained smock that came down to her ankle boots. A large man with long hair and a beard was leaning towards her, proffering advice. With flushed cheeks, Victor observed them for a while before making up his mind. ‘Hello Tasha,’ he said, ignoring the bearded fellow.

      Surprised, the petite redhead jumped.

      ‘Can I talk to you in private?’ he added.

      ‘What happy event brings our friend the bookseller-cum-photographer here?’ asked the bearded man in an aggressive tone.

      Victor greeted him stiffly.

      ‘Maurice, make yourself scarce for a moment, would you?’ said Tasha, giving him a friendly pat.

      ‘Right away, my beauty, for you, anything … anything at all. In fact, I could frame your pictures for you.’

      ‘Why are you always so rude to him?’ asked Tasha, putting down her brush. Victor immediately adopted a penitent air.

      ‘I think I should apologise,’ he said.

      ‘I don’t expect you to do that; nothing will change his personality. I did warn you though that I will not be treated like an object.’

      At that moment enthusiastic cries greeted Firmin who was carrying a tray of glasses. Maurice gave Victor a mocking glance and joined the others crowding round the large fellow, calling him the Bacchus of modern times and the saviour of oppressed artists.

      Adjusting her chignon, Tasha took off her smock to reveal a white bodice and mauve skirt, then put on a coat that tied at the waist. ‘Did you want something?’

      ‘Just a little favour. Would you be able to lend your room to a girl who has nowhere else to go?’

      She looked at him in amazement, one glove still in her hand, the other half on.

      ‘And where will I sleep?’

      ‘Rue des Saints-Pères. Number 18. The Elzévir bookshop.’

      She slowly finished putting on her gloves.

      ‘You could have thought of a better excuse.’

      ‘It’s the truth. The girl’s name is Denise and I don’t know what else to do with her. But, even if that weren’t the case, I would have come anyway with some sort of proposition. Two weeks without you; it’s an eternity.’

      She hid a smile, pleased to have scored some kind of victory. Several times during the past two weeks she had been on the point of rushing round to see him, risking bumping into his Japanese business associate, who behaved coldly towards her, for some unknown reason. But she had held back, not wanting to be the first to make the move, out of pride, but also out of caution. Victor was too possessive. If she allowed herself, even once, to seek his forgiveness, he would think he had the right to decide upon whom she saw and what she did, and to smother her with love. And that would be the end of the affair …

      ‘You seem to have forgotten Monsieur Mori.’

      ‘Kenji is in London until the end of the week.’

      ‘You’ve thought of everything! How organised you are! Am I supposed to fall into your arms sighing, “When do we leave for your house?”?’

      ‘You’re supposed to do what you like, knowing that nothing would make me happier than a yes.’

      ‘I would be able to come and go as I liked?’

      ‘How could I stop you? I haven’t the strength,’ he said, laughing.

      ‘Well, in that case … a truce may be possible. Does this poor little homeless girl want to move into my palace this evening?’

      He almost kissed her, but already she was moving away to put her hat on in front of the mirror at the end of the studio. Maurice Laumier approached him.

      ‘What do you think of this canvas? Our friend is getting better all the time, don’t you agree? Exhibiting her work at the Soleil d’Or will be a real opportunity for her. Gauguin has decorated the basement, and two Saturdays a month he gets all the artists who contribute to the magazine La Plume to gather there. You’re always going on about literature; you should come along to listen to the poets – they’re the real thing.’

      Victor had no desire to get into an argument with Maurice Laumier. He studied Tasha’s composition, in the centre of which the carnations flared like a flame, throwing the languid silhouette of the woman into shadow.

      ‘I’m surprised that you encourage the study of such conventional subjects,’ he murmured.

      ‘My dear chap, you pretend to know about photography, so surely I don’t have to explain to you that the subject is unimportant, it’s the style that distinguishes the artist.’

      ‘You’re absolutely right. And I like Tasha’s style enormously. I hope you don’t object to that?’

      ‘Don’t start that again! See you tomorrow, Maurice, we’ve got to go.’

      They went out, leaving Maurice fuming. Enraged, he knocked over Tasha’s stool as he sat back down on his own.

      ‘To hear them, you’d think I was a rum baba, and they were silly schoolboys fighting over me in a pâtisserie,’ she murmured, walking quickly up Rue Durantin.

      ‘What did you say?’ asked Victor, who was struggling to keep up with her.

      ‘Nothing, I was talking to myself!’

      Worried, he hurried to catch up with her. What if she changed her mind? She had calmed down by the time they reached Rue Berthe and he was able to walk next to her.

      ‘I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to be unpleasant to Laumier.’

      ‘When will you stop being jealous?’ she cried, turning to face him.

      ‘Me? Jealous?’

      ‘Listen to me, Victor Legris, we have to sort this out now, once and for all! I had a life before I met you and I will not put up with you interfering in my friendships. You’re suspicious, vindictive and you have no self-control!’

      ‘I’m sorry, I swear that—’

      ‘No vows!’ she exclaimed, laughing, in spite of herself. ‘You won’t be able to keep them.’

      They reached Rue des Martyrs. Above them towered the scaffolding of the Sacré-Coeur construction site whilst, lower down, the sails of the Moulin de la Galette hung over the tiered houses that sat cheek by jowl.

      ‘What about your exhibition? Are you ready for it?’ he asked sheepishly.

      ‘I’m only exhibiting two or three canvases. Framing is so expensive …’

      She slowed down. Now he would think she was asking him for money. Of course, he reacted immediately.

      ‘Tasha, I can pay for it.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Don’t be stubborn! I can afford it and it would give me pleasure …’

      ‘Liar. You told me you disapproved of the venue, too vulgar for your taste.’

      ‘I was being stupid, yet again. I take it all back. I believe in you, in your talent. It would be ridiculous to give up now! Let me do this for you. It’s not as if it’s jewels I want to buy for you, just some bits of wood, for heaven’s sake!’

      She walked along in silence nibbling her thumbnail through her glove. He edged closer to her and pulled her to him. She let herself be drawn into his embrace, indifferent to the clatter of the hansom cabs passing each other on the road.

      ‘That ringing noise is deafening! Oh no, young man, you’ll never convince me!’

      An