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

vision of escape had begun to occupy his mind at the beginning of the year. He had received a letter from the disconcerting Eudoxie Allard, alias Fifi Bas-Rhin, alias the Archduchess Maximova, who assured him that she had not forgotten him in icy St Petersburg, and that soon she would be coming to Paris to embrace him. Kenji’s thoughts, however, had turned away from Eudoxie Allard. Instead, he was building castles in the air for Tasha’s mother, Djina Kherson, whom he imagined crossing the threshold of the room he could not quite resolve to rent.

      That’s all very well, but how will I persuade her to come and see me, he wondered. How should I play it with a woman as intelligent, cultivated and slightly puritanical as she is? A woman who has passed the first flush of youth but still seems so youthful. A woman who would accept me as I am?

      First of all, he would ask her advice about trifling details to do with the decoration or the colour of the curtains in his bachelor flat. Then he would try to get closer to her, tell her more about himself, make her laugh … In his mind, he began to construct an intimate relationship, rich in shared pleasures, emotions and promises.

      When the time came for the family to gather for the midday meal, a minor incident confirmed his decision. Victor had stayed to eat and Euphrosine, annoyed by this unforeseen eventuality, had grumbled that she had made enough for four, not five, and that the portions would all be too small. She had prepared a celery salad followed by broad beans in a béchamel sauce, a feast of vegetables that suited Iris but left the three men feeling rather disappointed. Nevertheless, they ate heartily, careful not to offend their chef, who served them with such authority and refused to sit down herself until they had finished everything on their plates. The moment had finally come when they were about to tuck in to an eagerly anticipated orange blancmange, when Iris suddenly stopped chewing and, after a discreet exploration with her index finger, pulled a morsel of food out of her mouth and examined it suspiciously.

      ‘This looks … This looks like a piece of ham!’

      Euphrosine responded with a bellow like an enraged bull.

      ‘Anybody would think I was trying to poison you! Oh, nobody knows the efforts I go to!’

      Iris looked to Kenji and Joseph for support, but they maintained a diplomatic silence, although they had rather enjoyed the rich flavour of the ham in amongst all the vegetables.

      ‘And they call themselves men!’ cried the young woman indignantly. ‘I can’t count on anyone!’

      She jumped up and ran off to shut herself in her bedroom. Joseph plucked up the courage to brave his mother’s wrath.

      ‘You know perfectly well she can’t stand meat!’

      ‘It’s not for the meat, it’s for the fat! She’s as skinny as a rake, that girl! I’m just trying to help the poor little baby!’

      Victor chose this moment to interject.

      ‘If everybody who ate meat took the trouble to have a look at what goes on in abattoirs, they’d be permanently cured of their taste for a juicy steak. Luckily for them, they never do!’

      ‘Jesus, Mary and all the saints!’ cried Euphrosine. ‘Is that the way it is now? In that case, you can all make your own food!’

      A second door slammed. Looking pale, Kenji quietly folded his napkin. ‘Well done, Victor, nicely timed. I’m going out and I’ll be back late,’ he muttered.

      ‘I’ll look after the shop,’ said Victor.

      Joseph listened for a moment to Iris’s loud sobs and to his mother’s curses, and then he opened the door of the cupboard where the remains of a plate of roast beef and some cold potatoes still sat, looking a little forlorn by this time. As he chewed his way through it, he began to think about the second instalment of his serial, The Devil’s Bouquet, in which the unfortunate Carmella was destined to be murdered by the dastardly Zandini. Such literary concerns allowed him to rise above life’s little trials.

      The afternoon passed without mishap. Euphrosine had taken refuge at her home in Rue Visconti with the dignity of a queen who has been severely wronged, and Iris hadn’t reappeared.

      Victor was going over various theories about the murder of Louise Fontane and turning the unicorn talisman over and over in his hand, when the door opened and Horace Tenson, otherwise known as Pocket Size, also known as Abridged Edition, burst in.

      ‘I bring fresh news, Legris. I’ve got a petition here against the proliferation of velocipedes. The bicycle is killing the book trade! Devotees of this form of transport no longer have time to discover the wonders of literature! You agree, I assume?’

      ‘Of course, of course. I support your demands and will put my stamp on your petition.’

      Satisfied with this response, Horace Tenson straddled a chair and began to recount the strange tale of the manuscript of Le Neveu de Rameau, which had been bought three years earlier by Georges Monval from a colleague of his.15 Meanwhile, Joseph was distracted by having to answer the telephone twice and promise the caller, who happened to be the Comtesse de Salignac, that he would order the book by Dr Lesshaft that she wanted to give to her niece, Valentine.

      ‘Yes, Madame la Comtesse, On the Education of the Child in the Family, and its Significance. No, I haven’t forgotten. Yes, I’ve noted it down. Goodbye, Madame la Comtesse.’

      He put the phone down, muttering that the battle-axe was going soft in the head. Victor hardly raised an eyebrow, cornered as he was by Horace Tenson’s endless tirade.

      Joseph heard the sound of footsteps upstairs and, suddenly feeling a surge of desire for his beloved other half, decided to close the shop. He was pulling the first shutter to when Kenji appeared.

      ‘Already? It’s not time yet!’

      ‘It’s only five minutes to closing …’

      ‘All right, carry on,’ said Kenji, and made his way towards the back of the shop, whistling.

      There was a sudden cacophony of crashing and clanking.

      ‘Victor! How many times have I told you to keep your bicycle somewhere else?’

      Victor coughed sheepishly as Tenson froze and eyed Victor with all the haughtiness he could summon.

      ‘Traitor!’ he bellowed.

      He swept out of the bookshop under Kenji’s amused gaze.

      ‘I fear I may have committed a faux-pas,’ he remarked sardonically.

      ‘You did it on purpose.’

      ‘Of course I did it on purpose! It was the only way I could rid you of that agitator. His petition is doing the rounds of the bookshops, and I’ve had the privilege of signing it too. I bet he subjected you to the saga of Le Neveu de Rameau.’

      ‘You seem to be in a good mood,’ said Victor, who suddenly noticed that his adoptive father’s hair was turning grey.

      ‘Yes, I am feeling rather sprightly. This morning, I was down in the dumps and this evening everything looks rosy. I have no idea what the reason for this change might be.’

      He was lying shamelessly but didn’t feel any remorse. The reason was a certain widow, Madame Duverger, owner of a small apartment to rent at 6, Rue de l’Échelle. Negotiations were already well under way and a decision would probably be made the next day.

      He’s getting old, thought Victor. He’s pretending to be happy, but he can’t pull the wool over my eyes. I’ve known him for too long. He still has a childlike side. He needs us to look after him.

      Choked by a flood of emotion, he cleared his throat and, for the first time, dared to stretch out his hand and put it on Kenji’s shoulder. The gesture made Kenji jump, with its unexpected tenderness. He looked at the son of his now-dead beloved, Daphné Legris, with a strange pleasure. He had nursed him through all his childhood illnesses, and had taught him to love literature, to