‘I know. My idea was to make an inner sole to stop her foot from slipping out. She wanted to look elegant and … If I had known it would create such trouble …’
She blushed as she handed the shoe back to Victor, who sensed that she was lying.
‘And where is your friend?’
‘At her mother’s house.’
‘Are you sure?’
He started at her so intently that she began to lose her nerve.
‘Oh! Monsieur Legris, please don’t mention it to anybody! Élisa trusts me. She begged me to help her, so I told Mademoiselle Bontemps that while she was out Élisa’s mother had telephoned to say that she was unwell and asked that her daughter go to her immediately. Mademoiselle Bontemps believed me.’
‘What is the man’s name?’
She looked at him, aghast.
‘What is her lover’s name?’ Victor repeated.
‘Gaston. He’s very nice. He came secretly to Trouville with us.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Élisa hasn’t told me his address. But she said she likes his place because she can hear the wolves howling from his bedroom.’
‘What wolves?’
‘That’s all she told me. Please, Monsieur Legris, my godfather must not find out about this. He would be terribly angry.’
‘Is this the first time you have covered for her?’
‘The second; she promised she’d be back on Saturday.’
‘Saturday – that’s tomorrow. I will be discreet, but if your friend doesn’t return tomorrow … Do your parents live abroad?’
Before Iris could reply, there was a knock at the door and Mademoiselle Bontemps bustled in carrying a tea tray.
‘It is time for your piano lesson, Iris. Mademoiselle Pluchard is waiting for you. Monsieur Legris, I thought that with this damp weather you might enjoy a cup of Earl Grey tea. Monsieur Mori orders it for us from London.’
As Iris took her leave she filled the teacups with the steaming brew and stacked a second saucer with biscuits. To his horror, Victor found himself, hands laden and mouth full, sitting next to the mistress of the house, who had planted herself demurely on the ottoman.
‘Are you acquainted with Élisa’s background? Monsieur Mori wonders whether it is appropriate for his goddaughter to keep her company,’ he managed to ask through a mouthful of biscuit.
‘The little Fourchon girl!’ exclaimed Mademoiselle Bontemps. ‘I do not see why not. She’s a charming girl, and well-liked. Yes, I grant the mother sings, but …’
Victor recalled one of Kenji’s proverbs: ‘When the monkey is ignorant he feigns understanding and soon knows everything’, and nodded knowingly as he made an effort to swallow a last mouthful.
‘Yes, the singer.’
Mademoiselle Bontemps chortled.
‘A singer? Don’t make me laugh! L’Eldorado is hardly an opera house, Monsieur Legris; you might as well compare chalk with cheese! She sings those Andalusian popular songs.’
‘What songs are they?’
‘You know, those rather soppy love songs filled with blue skies and dark-haired beauties with flashing eyes, with lovers called Pedro and heroines Paquita.’
‘Does she use the name Fourchon when she performs?’
‘Of course she doesn’t. She uses a stage name, which I have promised not to reveal. It’s a professional secret,’ whispered Mademoiselle Bontemps, who having closed the gap with a surreptitious sideways shuffle was now pressing up against Victor. ‘Would you care for an almond biscuit? Here, try these delicious mint-flavoured wafers. I do love sugar! I can’t resist sweet things. I need tying up! There I go again, giving in!’ she said, and gobbled down three wafers in quick succession. ‘I can’t tell you Madame Fourchon’s stage name, but I might let you guess at my own first name. Aren’t you curious to know what the ‘C’ on my brass plate stands for, Monsieur Legris? What is the mystery contained therein? Camille? Charlotte? Celestine? Do you give up? Corymbe! Do you like it?’
‘Oh indeed!’ said Victor, shifting imperceptibly away from her. ‘It is worthy of a tragic actor. I’ll wager Madame Fourchon’s is far more commonplace.’
‘It cannot hope to compete with mine. Though it is certainly flowery and eye-catching,’ she added, with a beguiling smile. ‘It is curious that we should be discussing this lady and her daughter! I am about to lose a boarder; Élisa is leaving us. Her mother has decided to take her away. I received a letter announcing the bad news this morning. Ah, life does not spare us women on our own, Monsieur Legris. We must struggle to make ends meet!’
She puffed up like a balloon and let out a deep sigh. This was too much for Victor, who rose to his feet. Mademoiselle Bontemps, saddened by the abrupt nature of his departure, followed him outside. He had already reached the railings around the garden when she came waddling after him.
‘Monsieur Mori’s cane! You were about to leave without it!’
Hampered by the two canes, Victor made his way in the direction of the town hall, feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment. If Élisa were at her mother’s, Joseph’s theory about the dead woman found at Killer’s Crossing didn’t hold up. He chuckled at the boy’s penchant for fiction, and paused for a moment in the middle of the road: the woman with the disfigured face had been wearing no shoes, yet the paper said nothing about her age. Élisa had lost one of her shoes. It could be a simple coincidence … Iris had mentioned this fellow Gaston. But could he trust her after she had confessed to lying? Above all else, what intrigued Victor the most was Kenji’s behaviour. Why was he keeping his supposed goddaughter locked away in Saint-Mandé?
Back at the bookshop, Victor rearranged the chairs left out by the Friends of Old Paris, who had gone with Kenji to whet their whistles at the Temps Perdu. He was obliged to wait until Joseph had concluded the sale of ten duodecimo volumes of Boccace’s Fables, published in London in 1779, before he could satisfy his curiosity.
‘What were the exact words of the man who came here yesterday to return the famous shoe?’
‘Do you mean that strange fellow? Well, you’re in luck, Boss, because after he’d gone I jotted down a few things in my notebook. Here we are: his dog had stolen a hunk of meat from some lions – in my opinion lions mean a circus. I asked where he lived and he said Ruelle des Culettes, round the corner from Rue Croule-something.’
‘Brilliant! Clear as day! Total gibberish!’
‘Well, it’s not my fault if Monsieur Mori interrupted me to get him a cab and I lost the thread! As for the man’s identity, I am certain his name is Grégoire Mercier and he was well known around Rue Croule-something.’
‘The dog had stolen a hunk of meat from some lions …’ echoed Victor, recalling Iris’s words: ‘You can hear the wolves howling from his bedroom.’ Could the two things be connected?
‘Did you discover anything about the shoe, Boss?’
‘Nothing of any importance,’ Victor called down from the stairs.
‘That’s right, don’t be grateful. Just squeeze the facts out of me so you can play the sleuth! Fine then, you asked for it, from now on my lips are sealed!’ muttered Jojo, and then broke his word the moment Victor called out to him.
‘You haven’t by any chance seen the Paris street directory?’
‘It’s upstairs on Monsieur Mori’s desk!’
Victor