In the Shadows of Paris (25 page)

In the background of the painting, the yellow vehicle belonging to the General Transport Company stood at the foot of a hill while an old man hitched a spare horse to a team of two bays. Perched on his seat in a coachman's uniform and a silver-ribboned stovepipe hat made of boiled leather, the driver surveyed the same scene as the viewer of the painting. Still in sketch form, a family of acrobats stood in a line waiting to perform a series of daredevil feats. The couple and their six children were all in tights, side by side with their hands on their hips, poised for Tasha to bring them to life.

Kochka mewed and rubbed a paw behind her ear.

‘Bad cat, you'll make it rain! That's an idea, what if I make it rain on my acrobats? No, too depressing.'

She began whistling the third movement of Vincent d'Indy's
Symphonie Cévenole
,
⁶⁸
which she'd heard at a concert Victor had taken her to recently. She reflected which colours to use. Black was forbidden except for the coachman's hat. She recalled what Odilon Redon had said: ‘You must respect black; use it sparingly.' Others' words came back to her, above all those of Degas: ‘Light has an orange tint; the shadows of flesh are red; half-tones are green, and beware of white!' She chewed her thumbnail while Kochka rubbed against her ankles, then suddenly she decided to follow her intuition, to be her own mistress as Victor had always advocated. She set down her palette, prey to one of those fits of restlessness that frequently upset her concentration.

Flitting from one end of the studio to the other, she replaced the top on a flask of oil she used to dilute her colours and put it next to a bottle of siccative oil and a tube of cadmium lemon.

‘When I paint I am like Poussin, who fled chaos, except I'm stuck with a cat that keeps chasing after a piece of string,' she reflected as she tickled Kochka's whiskers with a piece of frayed cord. As the animal leapt about excitedly, it knocked over a boot and a pile of books lying on the floor, and began chewing a slipper. Tasha grabbed an apple in passing, and paused at the table where she'd spread out a few sketches for a chapter of the
Odyssey
. Circe was watching with glee as Ulysses' crew was transformed before her eyes into a herd of pigs. Tasha still hadn't resolved the problems posed by the composition and she felt guilty. She was behind, and the publisher was getting impatient. Even so, she turned away from the sorceress, tossed the uneaten apple onto the bed and returned to her painting, her thoughts refreshed.

Just then, Kochka miaowed to be let out.

‘Do you need to do your business, darling? Follow me.'

They crossed the courtyard to the locked apartment. Kochka had her little ways and ran straight over to her box filled with old newspapers in the kitchen where she began scrabbling furiously. Tasha went back to the studio, leaving the door ajar. After reflecting for a moment, she thinned a mixture of cobalt and Indian yellow on her palette as she hummed Vincent d'Indy's air. She was about to add a drop of oil when Kochka reappeared, tail puffed out, hackles up, ears flattened.

‘What is it, little one? A nasty old tom? The butcher's moggy or the Marquis de Carabas?'

Kochka hissed and scurried to the back of the alcove. Curious, Tasha went outside. All she saw were some flies performing their aerial ballet above the fountain. She narrowed her eyes and watched them dart back and forth in the sun's last rays, caressing the acacia leaves as she entered the apartment. Since the theft of one of his cameras, Victor had been scrupulous about closing the shutters in order to avoid another break-in. Without bothering to light the lamp, Tasha walked around the room, cursing Euphrosine's mania for leaving the bedside table next to the water-closet door after she'd finished dusting.

The pale refection of her face rippled in the mirror. A strange mysterious girl with flowing red hair, like the creatures in Gustave Moreau's paintings. She moistened her forefinger and tamed an unruly lock. Mysterious, her? Nonsense. She was a woman who aspired to independence, creativity and love; she was neither the sphinx nor the succubus so dear to male artists, whether symbolists or realists.

A muffled sound like the rustle of fabric drew her towards the darkened bedroom. A dancing candle flame traced eerie shapes in the gloom.

‘Victor? Is that you?'

She bumped into someone. She choked back a scream. An icy cold spread through her stomach, gripping her heart, a hand closed over her mouth.

‘Be quiet,' a man's voice ordered.

He had one arm round her shoulders and with his full weight was trying to force her to the ground. She felt herself fall, and fought back, lashing out with her fists. She managed to escape his clutches and almost reached the door, but he caught her, twisted her wrist and, despite her resistance, dragged her back to the bedroom. A sharp pain ripped through her skull; the blow to her temple sent her plummeting to the bottom of a black pit.

 

Just as he entered the courtyard, Victor heard what sounded like a woman's scream coming from the apartment. Imagining Tasha in distress, he broke into a run.

‘Tasha! Tasha, where are you?'

A click. Followed by a command: ‘Don't move, Legris. Walk over here slowly, your hands above your head.'

Victor moved forward. The stranger tripped him up and he fell onto the bed, where Tasha lay motionless. Her torn blouse revealed the silky roundness of her breast. His head was spinning, his limbs felt heavy.

‘Damn you!'

‘Calm down, Monsieur Legris, you're not in any danger. Get up slowly.'

Victor could see the gun pointing at him. The man was enveloped in a greatcoat. A top hat and dark glasses made it impossible to identify him.

‘She only has a small bump, Legris. I didn't come here looking for a fight. I need that watch. Do you know why?'

Victor shook his head.

‘We're wasting time, Legris, I know you've got it.'

That voice, those clothes…

‘You had me fooled, Daglan.'

‘Give me the watch, quickly! Don't try anything, my gun is pointing at her.'

Victor walked over to the wardrobe.

‘No tricks, Legris, put your left hand behind your back.'

‘I need both hands to open the lid.'

‘The box of photographs! I should have known. Turn round. One false move and I'll shoot her.'

‘Put your gun down on the pillow or I'll shoot you,' said a deep voice.

The stranger moved towards Victor, urged on by the pistol Kenji was pressing between his shoulder blades. Suddenly he swung round.

‘Kenji! You?…Perhaps it's just as well. I've done what I had to do, I leave in peace.'

Everything happened with the strange unreality of a dream. The man placed the barrel of his gun against his chest and pulled the trigger. Victor had the impression of being suspended in mid-air for what seemed like an unbelievably long time, and then the man fell to the floor.

Kenji dropped his gun; he was shaking.

‘I didn't mean that to happen,' he said to Victor. ‘Go and see to Tasha.'

He went to open the shutters then knelt down beside the dying man, gently removing his top hat and glasses.

‘Why, Pierre, why?'

Pierre Andrésy smiled feebly. He managed to speak with great difficulty.

‘Fourastié…He knows why…Fourastié, Rue Baillet…Kenji…Is every man's fate predetermined?'

‘I believe that we are the authors of our own lives. We write the play, and the performance goes on until the end.'

‘Y
OU
have to be philosophical in life and not worry about things; one day you come within an inch of disaster, the next everything is fine. You're right, Papa, you're right,' Joseph said to himself, crossing Pont Neuf at a brisk pace.

Admittedly, nothing had come of his second visit to Mariette Trinquet, since she hadn't identified Paul Theneuil as the famous Sacrovir, and so he'd missed his big chance to crack the case. But when, in the early evening, Monsieur Legris had telephoned to inform him of the tragedy, and had gone on to say that both he and Monsieur Mori were counting on the unfailing collaboration of their assistant, he'd felt reassured.

It had been getting on for midnight when Victor, after finally being released by the police, had turned up at Rue Visconti, much to Euphrosine's annoyance, looking peaky, his eyes hollow. Joseph had taken him off to his study.

‘Monsieur Mori and I have had a most unpleasant time, Joseph. Inspector Lecacheur grilled us for hours. We pretended we knew nothing and were simply looking for the missing Persian manuscript. We didn't mention the watch.'

‘Did he believe you?'

‘No. And I'm sure he isn't finished with us yet.'

‘Does he know about the leopard?'

‘The leopard? What leopard? Do you know anything about a leopard?'

‘No, Boss, I avoid all contact with felines. Is Mademoiselle Tasha feeling any better?'

‘It's severely tried her nerves, but she's recovering from the ordeal. I'm afraid there'll be a backlash when I go home.'

‘Who are you more afraid of, Mademoiselle Tasha or Inspector Lecacheur? Only joking, Boss, only joking. What was that you said on the telephone about my unfailing collaboration?'

‘Before he died, Pierre Andrésy whispered: “Fourastié…he knows why…Fourastié, Rue Baillet…” He's a cobbler, he…'

‘Has a shop in Rue Baillet, near the Louvre,' Joseph cut in, polishing his nails on his jacket lapel.

‘How the devil…?'

‘Mariette Trinquet told us his name, Boss. You've got a memory like a sieve.'

‘Stop showing off, Joseph, and listen. Kenji has been doing his own investigating. Fourastié is the one who sold the Persian manuscript to the bookseller, Adolphe Esquirol. Tomorrow morning…'

Victor looked at his watch then corrected himself.

‘This morning, open the shop and ask Iris to stand in for you…'

‘She won't like it.'

‘She's the future wife of a bookseller, isn't she?'

Joseph turned pink with pleasure.

‘Go straight to Rue Baillet. I don't need to draw you a map, do I?'

‘No, Boss. I leave the Elzévir bookshop with a package under my arm, a delivery. l shake off Lecacheur's henchmen and head for Rue Baillet. Then what?'

‘Fourastié holds the key to this affair. I'm counting on you to get it out of him. You're good at that.'

‘What about you?'

‘I'm going home to get some sleep. Monsieur Mori and I have been summoned back to the police station.'

 

Joseph turned off Rue de l'Arbre-Sec into Rue Baillet. He was sweating. The leather notebook Iris had given him the year before was sticking to the lining of his jacket pocket. He reached the cobbler's. There was a notice nailed to the shop front:

We repair every type of shoe and boot

A sign hanging on the doorknob said:

Temporarily closed

Joseph knocked several times. When there was no reply, he stepped back, looked up at the building and, at the risk of rousing the whole neighbourhood, yelled, ‘Fourastié!…Fourastié!…Fourastié!…Come down. Fourastié! Pierre sent me. I'm his cousin from Autun!'

The sun was dazzling and he lifted his hand to shield his eyes. On the second floor a curtain twitched.

Joseph flashed his most charming smile at the beautiful brunette who was standing in the doorway to her tobacconist's kiosk, drawn by his cries.

‘Well,' she exclaimed, ‘what a way to behave! I thought he'd gone to Belval-sous-Châtillon to see his daughter. Although it seemed a bit strange him leaving his birds…'

A face appeared behind the glass in the door. Joseph pressed his mouth to the keyhole.

‘Monsieur Fourastié, my name's Joseph Pignot, I'm an associate of Kenji Mori, the bookseller. He came here himself, but the shop was closed. Monsieur Mori is a friend of Pierre Andrésy's.'

‘What do you want from me?' asked a steely voice.

‘I've come to tell you that he killed himself…I must speak to you. Please, it's important!'

‘Important for whom?'

‘For both of us.'

Fourastié unlocked the door and opened it a crack.

‘Come in, quickly.'

Fourastié was a plump man with a drooping moustache, grey hair and broken veins on his cheeks. Joseph avoided looking into his cross-eyes. The cobbler led him through the shop into a workshop crammed with shoes. He moved slowly, without a sound. Joseph noticed a rush of warm air, the pungent smell of the place and the awful din. Birdseed was flying everywhere. Along the partition wall was an aviary divided into tiny cages where pale-yellow canaries, sparrows, hummingbirds, a parrot, Japanese warblers and whistling blackbirds were hopping around and flapping their wings. Fourastié pointed to a stool.

‘Meet my family. Take a seat. Would you like a drink?'

‘No thank you.'

‘Then I'll drink alone.'

Fourastié poured himself a glass of red wine, drained it in one gulp then pulled a chair out from the other side of a greasy table.

‘So, Monsieur Mori killed himself?'

‘No. Pierre Andrésy.'

Fourastié turned pale. His hand shook as he reached into a drawer and took out a folded letter. He stared at it in silence.

‘When did it happen?' he asked.

‘Early yesterday evening.'

‘Poor Pierre!'

Joseph felt a mixture of anger and exasperation.

‘Your poor Pierre nearly killed my boss and his fiancée! He murdered four men!'

‘I know. It's a terrible business, Monsieur, a terrible business. I'd do better to keep my mouth shut.'

Joseph tried to find the right thing to say.

‘I…Believe me, Monsieur Fourastié…The last thing I want is to cause you any problems. The police will never know about this conversation…Only, my bosses insisted that I take notes.'

‘That won't be necessary,' murmured Fourastié, handing him the letter. ‘This is addressed to Monsieur Mori, it explains everything.'

‘I want to hear the story from your own lips.'

‘Can't you leave me alone? Let the dead bury the dead.'

‘Listen, Monsieur Fourastié, I was very fond of Pierre Andrésy. I want to know the truth.'

‘You're tough, aren't you? Go on, be my guest. Turn the place upside down – maybe you'll find the truth hiding under the mattress! Oh, and assuming there's a “hereafter” I'm sure Pierre would heartily approve; he didn't leave any unfinished business.'

More like he started a funeral business! Joseph thought, catching the beady eye of a red-crested cockatoo gently trying to soothe its yearning for a distant Malaysia as it swung on its perch.

Fourastié cleared his throat. ‘Take notes if you like. I first saw Pierre again two years ago, in 1891, on the banks of the Seine. I was fishing for bleak, it's my hobby. He was rifling through the booksellers' boxes for rare bindings. We hadn't seen each other for twenty years. We reminisced about our youth, about the war. He'd refused to take part in the slaughter and had escaped to England. After the surrender, I joined the Commune. I was arrested on 25 May in Rue de Tournon. A captain interrogated me, and the provost marshal, without glancing up from his papers, gave the order: “Take him to the queue.” In less than five minutes I was sentenced to be shot. I ended up in a tiny courtyard outside the Senate building. It was full of people – men, women and children – surrounded by policemen and soldiers in red uniforms…No, no, I can't go on, it's too much!'

He drained the last drops of his wine and studied Joseph's sympathetic expression.

‘The police know nothing about you, Monsieur Fourastié, you have my word of honour.'

‘If you only knew how little I care! We could hear the crackle of rifles. I knew I was going to die, that none of us would come out alive. I'd almost resigned myself when I noticed a fellow with a tricolour armband. I knew him. We lived on the same street. He was a plain-clothes policeman…'

As he spoke, Fourastié turned towards a photograph standing on a shelf next to a conch shell.

‘My daughter – she's all I've got left in the world. She's married, lives in Marne.'

‘She's lovely. Now please get to the point. I want to know about Pierre Andrésy.'

‘This is important for you to know, Monsieur. The fellow with the armband called out: “You, come with me!” I followed him. As I passed close to a queue of condemned men and women, I recognised Pierre's wife, his fourteen-year-old kid and his younger brother, Sacrovir. I turned round. I thought of my little girl, all alone at home…'

‘Sacrovir?'

‘That was Pierre's brother Mathieu's nickname. He was a member of a workers' group modelled on the Carbonari.
⁶⁹
He'd become involved through a friend. Pierre was violently opposed to it. He said that type of movement could only spell trouble, especially when you ran a printing works. He and his brother fell out and Mathieu stormed out of the house just as war was being declared and went to live in Rue Guisarde.'

‘A printing works? In Rue Mazarine? Was Pierre Andrésy the owner?'

‘Yes. It was a thriving business. When he left for England, his wife took over.'

‘Was Mathieu's friend's name Frédéric Daglan?'

‘I don't know…Pierre said he was an idler, a good-for-nothing, an anarchist of sorts who believed in stealing back from society – in short a thief.'

‘The leopard!'

Fourastié looked surprised. For a few seconds he remained motionless, succumbing to the effects of the alcohol.

‘The
flic
took me aside, rubbed his finger and thumb together to mean money, and said, laughing: “As you're a neighbour we're going to make a deal. If you can pay I'll arrange for you to be sent to Versailles; hard labour is always better than the grim reaper.”

‘And the name of this
flic
?'

‘That's my business,' Fourastié cut in suddenly, his chin quivering as he bit his lip.

‘Don't upset yourself, Monsieur Fourastié, don't upset yourself like that…Come on, you can tell me!'

Choked with emotion, Fourastié remained silent, but he shook his head. Joseph persevered.

‘Was it Gustave Corcol?…He's dead. He was found murdered the day before yesterday.'

Fourastié tried to smile, but only managed a whimper.

‘Yes, Gustave Corcol, nicknamed the Spaniel, a real swine! I can't help it, when I remember…It'll pass, it'll pass.'

His voice grew calmer.

‘Corcol ruled over the Latin Quarter. When the Versailles Army besieged Paris, his zeal was second to none. He escorted the officers who carried out the raids. They'd surround a whole block of houses and search every building from top to bottom. The smallest incriminating object and everybody went before the provost marshal. After a summary ruling, suspects who weren't proven to have taken part in the Commune were sent to Versailles, while the rest were thrown into the cellars of the Senate to rot until the cellars were full. And then they made space…'

‘Made space?'

‘They shot people in batches, in the Luxembourg Gardens, by the pond…It was a miracle that I escaped with my life. I could pay. Corcol saved my skin in return for money. During the raids, he lined his pockets thanks to the denunciations. You can't imagine the number of anonymous letters, sackloads. Even the military authorities were shocked by such baseness, and they weren't exactly driven by compassion. People denounced their neighbours, their bosses, their creditors, their rivals in love. Ah, Monsieur, weakness is universal, but this!'

‘Not so fast, Monsieur Fourastié,' begged Joseph, sticking out his tongue as he scribbled.

‘Imagine what a shock it was to see Andrésy again twenty years after this tragedy. I thought he was dead. He told me he'd lost everyone he loved. Neighbours had described to him how during the siege his family had sought refuge with a cousin near the Sorbonne. The building had been reduced to a pile of rubble. Do you know, Monsieur, nearly fifteen thousand shells fell on Paris?'

‘My mother and I lived in a cellar while my father was fighting at Buzenval. I was under the impression that Pierre Andrésy returned to France before the Prussians surrounded Paris.'

‘I've no idea. In any event, the printing works had changed hands…Are you sure you're not thirsty? I am.'

Fourastié stood up, opened a second bottle, poured himself a drink and paced up and down the workshop holding his glass.

‘Pierre was convinced that his family had perished during the shelling. I thought I was doing the right thing telling him the truth, so I described what I'd seen, his family being shot, the deportations, the humiliations. I thought it would help him to get over it. What I should have done was confess my own cowardice. What a fool! If only I'd known…I gave him the name of their executioner: Gustave Corcol. He stood before me, dazed, like a man driven to distraction, without speaking, and then he put his head on his arm and sobbed. He blamed himself for having abandoned his family!'

‘Is that what sparked his desire for revenge?'

Fourastié sat down again, wearily pushing the glass and bottle to one side so that he could lean his elbows on the table. Then he hid his face in his hands. Long minutes went by during which he relived his disappointed hopes, his failed attempts at happiness. Suddenly, he looked up at Joseph, with an expression of utter despair.