The Montmartre Investigation: 3rd Victor Legris Mystery. Claude Izner

give our national hero Charles Terront a present for winning.’

      ‘Who’s Charles Terront?’ demanded Mathilde de Flavignol.

      ‘I can’t believe that you haven’t heard of him! He’s the winner of the Paris to Brest race – held last September, on the sixth. One thousand miles there and back in seventy-two hours! He pedalled day and night without stopping to sleep! What an outstanding man. And he’s going to be giving cycling lessons at Bullier.’

      ‘Perhaps that would take my mind off my misery … You see I worshipped the General, a passionate man who could not bear the death of his Dulcinea. I made the journey to Ixelles to attend his funeral. What a magnificent ceremony! He still had many friends – that was clear from the crowd of French who went to his obsequies. Oh, I’ll never get over it … Bullier … Isn’t that a dance hall of ill-repute? It’s said that La Goulue7 danced the cancan there … I’m so miserable. Do you think that bicycling would …?’

      ‘Assuredly, Madame. The sport has two advantages: it has a very calming effect but it is also wonderful for firming up the calves!’

      ‘I’m too frightened to get in the saddle …’

      ‘Do you have a good sense of balance? Can you walk in a straight line?’

      ‘Well … I rarely drink too much.’

      ‘In that case you will certainly be able to master the bicycle, take my word for it.’

      Joseph Pignot was not the only one to breathe a sigh of relief as the two women went off arm in arm, allowing him to settle down to his newspaper again. Hurrying out from his shelter and escaping the venomous eye of the concierge, Grégoire Mercier made his entrance.

      What now? Jojo thought, his nostrils assailed by a pungent odour.

      A strangely attired, snub-nosed fellow advanced towards him, pulled a woman’s shoe from his cloak and laid it on the counter.

      ‘There you are. Berlaud found it this morning; he loves to pick up whatever’s been left behind. Mind you I let him do it; nothing is more important than freedom and independence. When we got home again, I took a good look at what he’d found. Well, I said to myself, a lady’s slipper. The lass who left behind that trinket must be furious, especially since it’s beautifully made. I’m giving it to you; it just needs a bit of work from the cobbler. He’ll be able to fix the holes; my dog bit it a little too hard.’

      Stupefied, Jojo looked first at the embroidered red slipper, decorated with pearls, and then back at the strange man.

      ‘Why are you giving it to me?’

      ‘Because it has the name and address of your shop fitted inside, like an inner sole.’

      He held the folded sheet of headed notepaper out to Jojo, who opened it out and read:

      ELZÉVIR BOOKSHOP

       V. LEGRIS – K. MORI,

       Established in 1835. Antiquarian and New Books.

       First Editions. Catalogue by Request.

       18 Rue des Saints-Pères, Paris VI

      ‘Well that’s truly bizarre!’ he exclaimed. ‘Perhaps it belongs to a client.’

      ‘One who’s not short of a penny? Who could afford to have precious stones on their shoes?’

      Guessing that the visitor was fishing for a tip, Jojo opened the till and proffered two francs, but the strange fellow recoiled, offended.

      ‘Grégoire Mercier does not accept payment, other than for the produce of his goats. Naturally if the owner of the shoe wants to thank me with a little something I won’t say no.’

      He touched two fingers to his hat and turned to go.

      ‘Wait! Where did you unearth this shoe?’

      ‘In the middle of my rounds, after having delivered a bowl of milk from Nini Moricaude, who I feed on carrots, to Quai de la Tournelle …’

      ‘So your dog …?’

      ‘Berlaud scampered off. I heard lions roaring and I thought he’d pilfered a piece of their meat; he’s old but intrepid. I whistled for him, he didn’t come back, so …’

      ‘Right, well I’ll do my best to return this shoe to the correct foot,’ said Jojo nasally; he was breathing through his mouth to avoid the overpowering stench of goat. ‘Where can we find you if there’s a reward?’

      ‘Ruelle des Reculettes, in the Croulebarbe quarter. Over there everyone knows Grégoire Mercier.’

      When the man had gone Jojo examined the slipper carefully.

      ‘Yup, there’s something odd about this shoe business. I’ll have to put it in my notebook.’

      ‘Joseph! Who was that?’

      ‘Boss! Are you up? That’s not allowed! What will become of us if you give the customers scarlet fever?’

      ‘I’m recovered. My quarantine expired thirty-four minutes and eighteen seconds ago. Show me that,’ said Kenji, leaning over the banister.

      Murmuring, ‘The Boss has put himself on Paris time,’8 Jojo held out the shoe against his better judgement. Kenji studied it carefully, and his expression suddenly changed as if something terrible had happened. He let the slipper clatter to the floor. Jojo put it back on the counter.

      ‘Go and fetch me a cab, this instant!’ commanded Kenji, in a husky voice.

      ‘A cab! You’re joking! If he finds out, Monsieur Legris will slaughter me!’

      ‘It’s an order!’ shouted Kenji.

      The afternoon was dull. The only visitors to the bookshop were a Paul Bourget enthusiast, a woman in pince-nez anxious to buy the latest book by Edmond de Goncourt on the painter Outamaro and two young men seeking travel books. At each tinkle of the doorbell, Jojo looked up hopefully, but neither of his bosses deigned to appear. At seven o’clock, neglected by everyone, he closed the shutters and abandoned ship. On the way out he picked up the red slipper and, not knowing what else to do with it, stuffed it into his pocket.

      Rue Visconti, where Madame Pignot and her son lived, had been transformed by a fine and persistent autumn rain into a dark tunnel. Joseph bounded over the threshold and took refuge in the study his father, during his too-short life, had transformed into a bookseller’s treasure trove. Euphrosine Pignot had finished her costermonger’s rounds and was stirring her pots on the stone sink of their narrow lodgings. Joseph lit a match and adjusted the wick of the petrol lamp. The shelves, weighed down with books and newspapers, acted as a balm to his soul. He hung his soaking jacket on the back of a chair and hummed the disparaged couplet that had incurred Victor’s displeasure:

       Do you know her, Lohengrin,

       Lohengrin, Lohengrin,

       A woman divine

      But full of venom …

      The word ‘venom’ revived his despair, reminding him of Valentine de Salignac, his lost treasure. Last May the niece of the Comtesse had married the nephew of the Duc de Frioul, a pretentious, drunken young rake named Boni de Pont-Joubert. Ever since their marriage, celebrated in the Église Saint-Roch the day after the shooting at Fourmies,9 Jojo had been prey to those changes of mood that so annoyed Victor. The pain was gradually abating, but was reawakened by the merest trifle. Deep down he had known that his love for Valentine could never lead anywhere, and that the young girl had been forced into her alliance despite her own feelings for Joseph. But this had not stopped him from shelving his great literary project, destined to outdo the mysteries of Émile Gaboriau: Blood and Love.

      ‘Women! First they inspire you and then, because of them, the muse deserts you! So, what am I going to do this evening? Perhaps I should go back to writing The Life and Times of Rue Visconti. I was