The Assassin in the Marais Page 4

  Victor went through the apartment, careful not to touch anything. Passing in front of the bathroom and the kitchen where the barred windows forbade any intrusion, he reached the end of the corridor. The door to the landing was double-locked, so the intruders could only have come in through one of the windows. But all the shutters were closed. He went back down to the bookshop.

  Euphrosine was leaning on the counter and had recovered her poise.

  ‘We’ve been burgled,’ announced Victor. ‘But as far as I can see, there hasn’t been a break-in.’

  Joseph bounded upstairs and returned almost at once. ‘Boss, the dining-room window, it’s—’

  ‘That was me letting in light. I couldn’t see a thing.’

  ‘So how on earth did they get in?’

  ‘There’s only way they could have got in – there,’ stated Euphrosine with finality, pointing at the door of the shop. ‘Do you both have your keys?’

  Victor shook his key case, and Joseph replied, ‘Of course I have them. I’m the one who opens up.’

  ‘Well, no one could have borrowed mine, because I’m not considered good enough to have keys to the shop!’ Euphrosine said pointedly.

  ‘What should we do, Boss?’

  ‘Go and check the basement. I’ll telephone the police and then try to establish what has been taken.’

  As they went off, Euphrosine grumbled: ‘So they’re just going to abandon me, instead of giving me some credit! That’s what it’s like around here!’

  Raoul Pérot tore himself away from the mouth-watering window of Debauve & Gallais and let his gaze wander over Rue des Saints-Pères. He made an effort to project respectability, although he was very aware of his shabby suit and worn-out shoes. Under his conformist appearance, emphasised by a superb handlebar moustache, he cherished a secret passion for poetry, especially the work of the aficionados of free verse. He had devoured the works of Jules Laforgue and Marie Krysinska1 and other decadents who aimed to establish the right of each poet to use their own personal rhythm. Yet he valued his work even though it was badly paid, because it allowed him to confront the terrors of the modern world, and also offered him the opportunity to enrich his imagination.

  A squall of wind buffeted him, prompting him to push open the door of the Elzévir bookshop.

  A pudgy woman with a wide face stood in the middle of the shop. Raoul Pérot raised his hat and bowed politely.

  ‘Madame, Inspector Pérot at your service. You’ve been burgled?’

  The woman gestured with her chin towards a man who was hurrying down a spiral staircase.

  ‘Victor Legris – I’m the owner. I’m the one who rang you. We—’

  ‘Excuse me,’ the inspector interrupted him, touching two fingers to his hat. ‘I have a clandestine passenger in my pocket in need of some air.’

  To the astonishment of his audience, he produced a tortoise and set it gently down on the floor.

  ‘That’s Nanette, one of our mascots. The poor little creature fell off the back of a lorry with four of her sisters. We’re looking after them until we can find them homes. When things aren’t too busy we hold a steeplechase in the police station courtyard, urging them on with a lettuce leaf. Nanette’s a champion – I’ve already won a hundred sous in bets thanks to her!’

  ‘It’s not surprising that it took such a long time to nail that bomber,’ muttered Euphrosine.

  ‘So, you’ve had an intruder,’ continued Raoul Pérot, pretending not to have heard the allusion to Ravachol. ‘Has there been a break-in?’

  ‘No, and that’s what’s so fishy!’ cried a blond young man who had just burst through from the back of the shop.

  ‘My assistant, Joseph Pignot. We’ve checked all the shutters.’

  ‘No break-in … No borer, no jemmy,’ murmured Inspector Pérot. ‘So we’re looking at a burglary with false keys. I see, I see.’

  ‘That’s what I keep telling them.’ Euphrosine was triumphant. ‘My pet, when you’re alone in the shop with hordes of customers, which you often are, where are your keys?’

  ‘In the pocket of my jacket, hung in the back room, which has not been broken into. How much clearer do I have to be?’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky to your mother!’

  ‘Let’s not get heated,’ advised the inspector, bending down to stroke the tortoise’s shell. ‘How many people have these famous keys?’

  ‘My assistant, me and two people who have been away for ten days,’ replied Victor.

  ‘Perhaps the burglar took an impression by pressing some wax or putty into the lock,’ suggested Joseph.

  ‘Monsieur, don’t be taken in by such oft-repeated nonsense. In this type of burglary you can be sure that the burglar had access to the keys. Are you sure that no one could have got hold of them, even for a few minutes?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely, aren’t you, Joseph?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure,’ muttered Joseph.

  He had suddenly remembered the incident of the night before. The woman who had taken a tumble on the pavement had not seemed hurt by her fall. It was possible that … He pushed the thought away and played dumb.

  ‘Why do you ask, Inspector?’

  ‘Because it couldn’t be easier or quicker to press a key, first one side, then the other, into some modelling clay without anyone noticing. A skilful locksmith would then be well able, equipped with those impressions, to make a useable copy. If I were you, I would change the locks, Monsieur Legris. Have you drawn up a list of what was stolen?’

  ‘The bookshop has so much stock that it’s hard to know if anything of value is missing. At first glance, nothing has been disturbed, unlike in the rooms of my associate and his daughter. They’re coming home this evening.’

  ‘So you don’t suspect anything’s been taken from the bookshop?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Perfect, perfect. We’ll be able to see when you give us the list of valuable items that have disappeared. After all, cat burglars are rarely bibliophiles and if you say there aren’t any books missing …’

  ‘I would have noticed, Inspector. I’m very observant,’ declared Joseph, relieved that his paper kingdom had been spared.

  ‘How I envy you,’ murmured Inspector Pérot.

  ‘What? You’d like to be burgled?’ barked Euphrosine.

  ‘These books, hundreds of them … You see, I myself have modest literary ambitions. I write poetry under a pseudonym, some of which I am delighted to say is published in the literary magazines.’

  ‘You’re also a writer!’ exclaimed Joseph.

  Victor looked resigned and sighed discreetly.

  ‘I cherish the hope that one day I might leave the police force and live by my pen. Alas, I can’t rely on the Lord Almighty. As an anonymous writer once observed: “To the little birds He gives pasture, but His bounty doesn’t stretch as far as literature …” Come on then, Mademoiselle Nanette, back into your shelter, you lucky devil.’

  ‘You’re right. The life of a writer is hard,’ agreed Joseph.

  ‘The main entrance to the flat is in the adjoining building, is that correct? And that building is under the eye of a concierge?’

  ‘Yes, a widow, Madame Ballu.’

  ‘Let’s go and talk to her. Concierges are a mine of information.’

  ‘How very true,’ attested Euphrosine, ‘and this one, she could write for the newspapers.’

  Having finished washing the steps, Madame Ballu was devoting her energy to the handrail, which she was plastering with polish.

  She was reflecting on how little time people spent on the stairs, but how much effort they cost her, when she noticed the strange little group coming through the porch.

  ‘There’s been a break-in at Monsieur Legris’s!’ bellowed Euphrosine. ‘The inspector here wants to ask you a few questions.’

  Delighted at this unexpected diversion, Madame Ballu began by declaring that she had not seen or heard a thing. Then, with an eye on the effect she was creating, she went on, prop
ping herself on her broom:

  ‘Unless … That woman with the “Kremlin” look …’

  ‘With the what?’ asked Raoul Pérot.

  ‘Well, that’s what you call it, fashion Russian-style. It’s very chic what’s more, those Muscovite blouses pulled in with Neva belts, Turkish fabric, striped seersucker … Every time I flick through The World of Fashion I think I’m in a Persian market …’

  ‘You can say that again. Those outfits should only be allowed at Carnival; it’s not right,’ said Euphrosine.

  ‘So, this woman with the Kremlin look?’

  ‘It was yesterday, the day I had my cabbage with bacon. Anyway, she wanted to know if Monsieur Mori’s flat was for rent, as the shutters were closed. She was going to deliver a hat to the Primolins; they’re on the fourth floor. She was back down in a blink. I saw her from behind my curtain. And then it struck me – the Primolins are staying with their cousins in Ville-d’Avray. It had gone clean out of my mind otherwise, I can assure you, I would have sent her packing. We concierges have our instructions from the police. Those folk with their dynamite, they don’t carry a sign announcing their intentions, so we have to be on our guard; we have to ask questions.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘You think I can remember anything about her apart from her Russki coat? Wait … she was wearing a veil.’

  Joseph turned beetroot. That woman who had fallen over on Saturday evening, though he could not have said if her coat had been Russian or Austro-Hungarian, had definitely been wearing a veil.

  Inspector Pérot thanked Madame Ballu.

  ‘Make a detailed inventory of anything that’s missing, with a description, and bring it to the police station. If you could draw sketches, that would help … Um, would any of you like to take in an orphaned tortoise?’

  Victor told Joseph distractedly that he was closing the bookshop until the next day.

  ‘You can have time off.’

  ‘Don’t you need me to check that nothing has been taken from the bookshop?’

  Jojo had been filled with joy at seeing Iris again, and was desolate to see the prospect slipping away as a result of the disaster that had befallen them.

  ‘You know, Boss, although I said I’m very observant, anyone can make a mistake. It would be best to check.’

  Victor suppressed a smile – he was not taken in. ‘Go on then, I’ll be upstairs.’

  Joseph pulled the large ladder in front of the shelves. The patron saint of shop assistants was watching over him and he would soon have the bliss of a glimpse of his sweetheart.

  ‘And what about their dinner?’

  ‘It would be better to kill the fatted calf another time, Madame Pignot. They’ll make do with a snack.’

  ‘What am I going to do with all this grub? It’s deplorable – during the siege of Paris we were desperate for food, now we’re squandering it!’

  Victor and Kenji were on all fours collecting the books that had been scattered across the study when Iris popped her head round the door.

  ‘This is my first break-in. It’s exciting!’ she exclaimed looking around at her father’s devastated flat.

  Kenji was rather less enthusiastic. He started to gather up the sabre hilts, lacquer-work and tea bowls that had been swept from the shelves. An overturned inkwell had saturated the carpet with blue.

  ‘My wardrobe has been emptied, every piece of furniture gone through, the bed pulled out and the mattress turned over. I think the burglar was after something specific,’ went on Iris.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘They didn’t bother about my jewellery box, and it was just sitting there. A child looking for sweets would have acted in the same way.’

  ‘Do you think anything of yours is missing?’ Victor asked Kenji. ‘What about your engravings?’

  ‘I’ll have to make sure; it will take me some time,’ murmured Kenji, engaged in smoothing the crumpled pages of his books.

  Joseph slipped down the ladder to the floor and scratched one ear. He could not understand it. Even if he were not interested in literature, a burglar who took the trouble to make the keys for a bookshop would surely allow himself to be tempted by the three superb octavos of Roses by Pierre-Joseph Redouté, displayed in the window, if only for their resale value. And the back room devoted to travel writing and Monsieur Mori’s hallowed collection of exotic treasures had been left untouched.

  He tried to resolve the conundrum, but the crashes above his head muddled his thoughts. It had been more than an hour since Monsieur Mori and his daughter had gone upstairs, yet Iris had not found a way to escape for five minutes, and he was burning to see her again. So she did not love him. His heart contracted with sadness. But the letter, her letter.

  ‘They’re keeping an eye on her. That must be it, especially Monsieur Legris. Ever since he’s known that she’s his sister, he’s acted like her chaperone.’

  He was about to put the ladder back in place, but stopped dead. That perfume …

  ‘My poor Joseph, always doing chores. But you can stop now. I’ve brought you some souvenirs from London.’

  ‘Iris! Finally!’ he cried huskily.

  ‘I’m perplexed,’ said Kenji. ‘They’ve only stolen two volumes, one very rare one – The French Pâtissier, a 1655 Elzévir, valued at between four and five thousand francs, and another of no value at all, which I bought for twenty centimes on the embankment. It’s bizarre.’

  He slid back the wooden screen door that separated his study from his bedroom. The mat, quilt and wooden pillow kept on the raised platform of the alcove had been moved, but the hiding place that contained his personal papers, built under the slats of the mattress, had not been discovered. But to his displeasure he saw that the iron clasps of the Japanese chest opposite the bed had come out of their hinges.

  Victor remained discreetly behind him. The chest held Kenji’s most intimate secrets and he hated anyone to see what was inside.

  Kenji grimaced and pushed aside a lock of grey hair that had fallen over his forehead. ‘I could do with some green tea,’ he murmured.

  ‘I’ll go and prepare some,’ said Victor, slipping away.

  Looking over the banister of the interior staircase, he caught sight of Iris and Joseph sitting sedately side by side behind the bookshop’s counter. He cleared his throat and signalled to Iris to join him.

  ‘Your stock, Joseph?’

  ‘Untouched, Boss. Every book in its correct place. I just have to pack the deliveries for tomorrow and then I’ll close up. Does Monsieur Mori know what has been stolen from him?’

  ‘Not yet. Good evening, Joseph.’

  ‘Good evening, Boss! Good evening, Mademoiselle Iris!’

  Victor and Iris sat at the kitchen table, a steaming teapot before them. Kenji was silent, his eyes on his cup. Then he said, ‘It’s certainly a puzzle. Aside from those two volumes, they stole a goblet from my chest, which was only of sentimental value. A few years ago I received a parcel from Scotland along with a letter that I’ll read to you:

  Brougham House, 14 October 1889

  Dear Monsieur Mori

  In accordance with the wishes of my brother, who held you in great affection, I am sending you several items he wanted to leave you in memory of your explorations of south-east Asia. He particularly wanted you to have the goblet, which is possessed, according to him, of a mysterious magic power. You are familiar with his sense of humour and his scepticism towards animism, so I do hope you will take this bequest in the spirit in which it was intended. In spite of the ugliness of the chalice, my dear brother was convinced that it would bring you luck all your life. It is in the belief that this will be true that I remain,

  Your devoted friend,

  Lady Frances Stone

  ‘What a shame you never showed me the goblet. I would have loved to have seen it!’

  ‘My dear child, knowing your habit of winkling out my hiding places, I took care to lock my chest,’ said Kenji, winking
at Victor.

  ‘Are you implying that I’m nosey?’

  ‘Deaf as he is, the old fox is sharp of hearing when the weasel prowls close to his territory. Alas, in spite of the fact that I added a padlock, the tenacity of our thief thwarted my precautions. And the animal had a good nose – that goblet was swaddled in a furoshiki.’

  ‘A furoshiki?’ repeated Victor.

  ‘One of the silk wrappings used for gifts, according to Japanese custom. The one I used came to me from my uncle, Hanunori Watanabe. Fortunately I have an identical one.’

  ‘Decorated with storks with their wings outspread. It’s superb! I admired it when I …’

  Iris turned puce, aware that she had given herself away.

  ‘When you … ?’ asked her father quietly.

  As she did not answer, he continued calmly, ‘When you took out the slats of my bed … To dust under there, I suppose. Let’s not mention it again.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the goblet. Can you describe it? I’ll ask Tasha to do a sketch,’ said Victor.

  ‘It’s unique. The skullcap of a monkey – probably a gibbon – attached to a little metal tripod decorated with three jewels and the tiny face of a cat with marbled agates for eyes.’

  ‘It’s a paradox,’ remarked Victor. ‘Someone steals two books and a bizarre goblet from you, but neglects to take your etchings and ignores the bookshop.’

  ‘A real Chinese puzzle,’ said Kenji drily. ‘I would guess that it was the first outing of an apprentice cat burglar. Come along, Iris, let’s tidy up; tomorrow we’ll decide what to do.’

  Joseph was absorbed in trying to translate an article from The Times, which he was finding hard. His brow was furrowed; the words refused to yield up their meaning.

  ‘So you’re still here, Joseph?’