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

was showing off an apparatus resting on the desk.

      ‘It’s child’s play, Madame la Comtesse. I’ll show you how it works. And you too, Mademoiselle Valentine. Imagine that you want to talk to your aunt. First you press the bell hard, two or three times, then you lift the receiver and bring it to your ear. You say “allô” – that’s an English word, you don’t say bonjour. The telephonist replies “allô” and you give her the name and address of the person you want to speak to. I’ll demonstrate.’

      He put the receiver to his ear, pausing to observe the effect on his audience.

      ‘Allô … Yes, Mademoiselle, I would like to speak to Madame la Comtesse de Salignac, 22 Rue du Bac, Paris.’

      He smiled at Valentine.

      ‘Here you are, Mademoiselle. You keep the receiver next to your ear until you hear your aunt. Never fiddle with the bell while you’re in the middle of a conversation, because you’ll cut the connection. Speak clearly, without raising your voice, holding the mouthpiece an inch or two from your mouth.’

      He turned to the Comtesse.

      ‘When the conversation is finished, you hang up and press the bell to let the telephonist know that the line is free.’

      The Comtesses de Salignac sniffed disdainfully.

      ‘I don’t see the advantage of owning such an instrument. If you want conversation, there’s nothing better than a tearoom! I’m sure that no sensible person will want to be encumbered with such a device. Tell me, young man, have you received my Georges Ohnet?’

      ‘Which one?’

      ‘Spirit of Stone and this time I have the name of the publisher: it’s Ollendorff.’

      ‘No, Madame, not yet, it’s only just come out, although we do expect to receive it soon. In the meantime I can recommend the latest Zola.’

      ‘You can’t mean Beast in Man! You must have taken leave of your senses, young man! I counted the deaths: six, you hear me, six! President Grandmorin, assassinated, that makes one. Madame Misard, slowly poisoned, that makes two. Flore, committed suicide, three. Séverine: assassinated. And finally, Jacques and Pecqueux, run over by a locomotive. That Monsieur Zola soaks his pen in blood. He’s not a writer, he’s a butcher!’

      Joseph caught Valentine’s eye. She was trying to stifle a laugh. The Comtesse tapped her on the shoulder with her lorgnette.

      ‘Valentine, we’ll come back when Monsieur Legris does us the honour of being here.’

      As they were leaving, a schoolboy stood aside to let them pass. From outside the shop window, Valentine risked an amorous glance at Joseph, who was then in seventh heaven.

      Meanwhile, the schoolboy, a slender lad whose voice was breaking, was asking for the poetry section. Joseph distractedly pointed out a shelf at right angles to the counter, behind which Denise was still patiently waiting.

      Victor looked in cautiously.

      ‘Has the battleaxe gone?’

      Three heads turned in unison and Joseph exclaimed, ‘You might warn me when you’re about to appear like that from the apartment, I almost jumped out of my skin! You can come in, the coast is clear.’

      Tasha appeared behind Victor.

      ‘Mademoiselle Tasha! How lovely to see you!’

      ‘I’m happy to see you too, Jojo. I’ve been missing your moujik features.’

      She went up to Denise, who got to her feet, blushing.

      ‘Hello, Mademoiselle, you must be Denise? Monsieur Legris told me about your troubles. I can help out for a few days if that would suit you. I have a little room in Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. It’s not luxurious, but you no one will disturb you there and you will have a superb view of the rooftops of Paris.’

      ‘Thank you, Madame, it’s too good of you!’

      ‘Call me Tasha. And it’s a pleasure – I know what it’s like to be homeless. Here’s the key. Joseph will take you; he knows where it is. I hope you don’t mind, Joseph?’

      ‘You can take a cab,’ put in Victor.

      ‘A cab? No, I don’t mind at all! Shall we go straight away?’

      ‘If you like,’ replied Tasha. ‘I’ve left some provisions; don’t hesitate to help yourself. And … please excuse the mess. Oh, one other thing. The roof leaks, and the owner keeps putting off calling the tiler, so don’t move the buckets.’

      Not knowing how to show her gratitude, Denise nervously crumpled her dress between her fingers. She looked anxiously from Victor to Tasha. ‘Monsieur Legris, would it be too much to ask you to get me a reference if you see Madame de Valois, because it will be very difficult for me to find a position if I don’t have a reference and …’

      ‘Don’t worry, I’ll write you one since your mistress is not here.’

      The schoolboy made his way towards the door, murmuring, ‘I’ll think about it.’

      No one paid much attention to him. Uneasy, Victor tried to appear nonchalant by tapping the bust of Molière. Tasha gave him a stern look and murmured in his ear: ‘Well, what a coincidence – the girl just happens to be employed by Madame de Valois? Suppose we discuss your dear friend Madame Froufrou?’

      ‘Women, they’re all devils, they would lead a saint astray! That Josephine, for example … Hey, are you listening to me?’

      Père Moscou’s neighbour nodded, slowly pouring some water on to a slotted spoon with sugar in it. The liquid dripped into a glass half full of clear alcohol that bubbled and thickened like a magic potion and turned a yellowish colour, verging on emerald green.

      ‘Ferdinand, you shouldn’t touch the green fairy; it eats you from the inside and you’ll become addicted to it – it’ll drive you crazy. Do as I do: stick to the juice of the grape, or beer, even though all they serve in this dive is cat’s piss!’

      While the other man mumbled and groaned, Old Moscou looked around in disgust at the tavern, where he had wasted the last hour. It was next to the undertaker’s at 104 Rue d’Aubervilliers and the room, with its black wall hangings, was full of undertakers’ men, who had come to relax after a trip to one of the many Parisian cemeteries. Whether they had been to officiate at Charonne, Montparnasse or Vaugirard or whether they had gone as far as Ivry or Bagneux, the coffin bearers only wanted one thing: to cheer themselves up with a glass of rough red wine whilst exchanging bawdy anecdotes. That is, if they didn’t prefer to abuse themselves with absinthe.

‘I buried her, that treacherous Josephine Bonaparte. She sold the secrets Napoleon told her in bed to Fouché3 and I swear, Ferdinand, that no one will ever discover her body!’

      There were guffaws and a man with three chins shouted: ‘Hey, Moscou! You’re pickled, you’re seeing bodies everywhere! If I were you, Féfé, I’d change tables – he might mistake you for a stiff and dig you a hole!’

      Père Moscou swung round furiously in his chair. ‘You’d better belt up! That’s just like you, Grouchy!’

      ‘Grouchy? Who on earth’s that?’ asked the fat man, guffawing.

      ‘Someone who didn’t dare face the cannons!’ thundered Père Moscou.

      ‘You and your cannons! You’ve been knocking them back, haven’t you, old man?’

      The undertakers laughed even louder. The old man rose in a dignified manner and, hand on heart, launched into a tirade.

      ‘I’ve also had my time with the dead. The rich ones we called salmon, the poor ones herrings. I dug