‘I thought you were never coming back. Where’s my cigar?’ asked Victor.
‘Just listen to this, Boss! The dead woman at Killer’s Crossing had no shoes on! And guess what? She was dressed in red.’
‘Joseph, when will you get over your morbid interest in murders?’ groaned Victor.
‘But, Boss, it’s astonishing, because yesterday this strange fellow came in here with a red shoe and you’ll never guess what he’d found in it: a piece of the bookshop’s headed notepaper, and when Monsieur Mori saw it he turned so crimson I thought he was ill again!’
‘When Monsieur Mori saw what?’ Victor asked, exasperated.
‘The shoe! He sent me out to hail a cab while he got dressed quick as a flash. He was in a right old panic!’
‘And you let him go! Well done!’
‘Confound it! Am I a shop assistant or a nursemaid?’
‘Just calm down and tell me exactly what happened.’
‘Very well, I shall speak clearly to avoid confusion. The chap with the shoe reeked of goats and looked like a peasant. He talked so loudly that Monsieur Mori overheard him. I had no choice but to show him the shoe. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost!’
‘Do you know where he went?’
‘Saint-Mandé; 15 Chausée de l’Étang. That’s the address he shouted to the cabby.’
‘Where is this shoe?’
Victor carefully examined the slipper Joseph took from his pocket. On the inside he noticed the name of the manufacturer printed in gold lettering:
Dickins & Jones, Regent Street, London W1
‘Blimey! Made in England,’ Jojo breathed, leaning over his shoulder. ‘Do you think Monsieur Mori …? I mean he’s often been to London.’
‘Don’t talk such rubbish. Go and serve that lady. I’ll be back shortly,’ Victor said, pocketing the shoe.
‘Morbid interest, eh! People should practice what they preach,’ Joseph muttered, making his way over to the customer.
The cab dropped Victor in Rue de la République. He walked away from the Bastille-La Varenne railway line, the recent site of an appalling accident, and past the Saint-Mandé town hall. The rhythmic tapping of his cane on the pavement punctuated his thoughts.
This really is the limit! There’s no earthly reason for poking my nose into Kenji’s affairs. Naturally, anything that affects him concerns me, and I do find his peculiar behaviour worrying, but anxiety does not justify indiscretion. Admit it, Victor, you’ve once again fallen prey to your fondness for mysteries!
As he strolled past the fine villas, whose gardens stood in a row overlooking the lake and the Bois de Vincennes, he had a sudden urge to bring Tasha to this place. He recalled a line from a poem by Victor Hugo:
Connaître un pas qu’on aime et que jaloux on suit …
Did not the remains of the poet’s great love, Juliette Drouet, lie in the Saint-Mandé graveyard?
He read the brass plate on the railings of number 15:
C. BONTEMPS BOARDING SCHOOL
Private Establishment for Young Ladies
‘This is a strange place to keep a mistress,’ he muttered.
A plump, moon-faced woman of about forty greeted him. She was dressed in the style of the Empress Eugenie and wore her hair parted in the middle and drawn into a bun.
‘My respects, Madame; I am here on behalf of Monsieur Mori, my business associate.’
‘Oh! Are you a bookseller too? What an honour. Please come in. Dear Monsieur Mori! He seemed so upset yesterday. Mademoiselle Iris realised only a few moments after her godfather’s departure that he had left his cane behind. Your visit couldn’t be better timed; you will be able to return the precious object to him.’
Victor stood in front of a mantelpiece adorned with flounces and porcelain statues, desperately trying to gather his thoughts. Iris! Was he finally to meet the mysterious woman who had aroused his curiosity these past two years; the woman Kenji visited regularly in London but kept hidden from him? It had been months since Kenji had last ventured across the Channel and Victor had assumed their romance was over. Iris was the very young girl once glimpsed in a photograph taken at the Universal Exhibition, but whose face he simply could not remember.
Her godfather my eye! So this is where he keeps her locked up! Victor thought to himself.
‘Please take a seat,’ said Mademoiselle Bontemps, pointing to an ottoman. Monsieur …’
‘Legris. I should like to speak to Mademoiselle Iris. Here is my card.’
‘Oh! Well, I did not wish to appear suspicious, but …’
‘It is only natural.’
‘I am glad to hear you say so. You see I have my instructions. Of course, our boarders are free to walk about town; they watch over one another and report on each others’ deeds and conduct, but as far as conversing with strangers is concerned … Monsieur Mori never mentioned an associate. Have you worked together for long?’
‘I was three years old when my father first employed Monsieur Mori.’
Mademoiselle Bontemps lifted a plump hand to her mouth to suppress a nervous giggle.
‘Goodness, how extraordinary that he never once mentioned your name!’
‘He is a reserved gentleman.’
‘Such reserve is comparable with deceit! That said; judge not that you be not judged. Would you care for a macaroon?’
She held out a plate to him, which he declined with a smile. She helped herself generously before going to find Iris.
Victor was astonished to see a young girl, not more than seventeen, walk towards him. Her childlike features brought back the faded image of the photograph he had glimpsed without Kenji’s knowledge. She was pretty, possessed of an exotic beauty: olive skin, almond eyes and a dainty, delicately curved nose. Her dark hair, worn in braids tied with a ribbon at her neck, made her look even younger.
Surely it’s rather lecherous of Kenji, who’s fifty-two, to have such a young girl for a lover! I’d never have guessed. And he is attracted to women of an entirely different type: mature, shapely, provocative. His last lover, Ninon Delarme,11 would have turned the head of a saint … Who is this girl? Might she really be his goddaughter? Or even his daughter? If so, then her mother must be a European. His daughter! Impossible! He would have told me!
He felt uneasy, afraid of committing an indiscretion. It seemed best to go straight to the point.
‘Good day, Mademoiselle. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Victor Legris, an associate of …’
‘What a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Legris. Godfather has often spoken of you!’ cried Iris.
‘Oh! I assumed … Mademoiselle Bontemps did not know of my existence.’
‘My godfather doesn’t tell everybody everything! He loves to shroud himself in mystery. I’m sure it’s because he reads so many novels. I rarely read them myself; I avoid filling my head with fantasies. The day I leave this boarding school, I shall start to look after him, bring him down to earth a little! Nothing bad has happened to him, I hope?’
‘He is in perfect health. He is concerned about you, that is all.’
‘Why? I explained to him about the shoes.’
Victor handed her the single slipper that had been stuffed in his pocket. Iris took it, trying to conceal the flicker of emotion that crossed her