I see! And I’m supposed to get down on my knees and thank you because you let me share your bed? The arrangement seems to suit you, as far as I can tell!’ she cried, gesturing at the portraits of her that filled the studio.
‘Yes, my poppet, you took your clothes off too, like any self-respecting artist’s model.’
‘You don’t love me. You’re a brute!’ she wailed, her voice choked with a sob.
Then she rushed out of the apartment.
‘Damn it! What about the soup? What’s wrong with people? The trials of love … Where are you going, you little idiot?’
‘Idiot yourself! To the morgue.’
He jammed his beret onto his head, pulled on his coat and rushed after Mimi, who had made off towards Rue Girardon.
‘Off to the morgue, off to the morgue, what a lovely little stroll!’ he grumbled, hurrying to catch up with her.
The weather was getting steadily worse and snowflakes now fluttered in the cold wind, covering the streetlamps. Victor had stayed later than usual at the Elzévir bookshop, and was now trudging home, cursing himself for being so stupid. Why hadn’t he thought up some lie that would have saved him from tearing himself away from the cosy warmth of his apartment? He carried out his duties as a partner in the business more and more unwillingly, even though he tended to offload many of them onto Joseph, who was more than happy to oblige.
He almost collided with a couple who had emerged from a porchway. One of them grasped his arm.
‘Monsieur Legris, I’m begging you, please help!’ cried the woman.
‘Loulou is dead – murdered. We’ve just been at the morgue. It was a horrible sight,’ the man gabbled. ‘Mimi is terribly upset, and I’m not much better … Do us a favour, Legris, buy us a drink. My shoes are letting the rain in – I’ll catch my death of cold.’
In the yellow gaslight, Maurice Laumier’s face wore an unusually serious expression. Victor could tell that he was really shaken and, under a fresh flurry of snow, he led them to a bar on Rue de Douai.
They settled themselves at a table near the fire, and waited until the waiter had finished pouring three glasses of red wine before they began to talk. Victor recognised the famous Mimi by her statuesque figure, principal source of so much of Laumier’s artistic inspiration. She sat twisting a handkerchief between her fingers and every so often used it to wipe her eyes. She managed to pull herself together and, between two sobs, said, ‘I’ve got a silver brooch that my old grandma left me. I’ll pawn it, and give you as much money as you want.’
‘Mimi, you’re embarrassing Monsieur Legris,’ whispered Laumier.
‘I don’t care if it’ll make him say yes! You will say yes, won’t you, Monsieur Legris?’
Victor stared down at his glass uncomfortably.
‘It’s completely incomprehensible,’ said Laumier. ‘She was more or less broke, was our Loulou, and yet they told us that she was wearing a dress that would have cost a fortune. And there’s another thing – her hair’s dyed black.’
Victor looked up, admitting defeat. It was impossible to resist Mimi’s red eyes, her trembling lips, her stricken face. If Tasha had been there, she might have felt a stab of jealousy.
‘What colour was it before?’ he asked.
‘Pure Venetian blonde, a real Botticelli! They found a velvet mask near her body. The whole thing has an air of mystery about it that you should find impossible to resist, Legris.’
‘Do you take me for some kind of sadist? There’s nothing irresistible about a woman’s murder,’ Victor retorted sharply.
‘You’re right there, Monsieur Legris, it’s atrocious. This brute is completely oblivious to other people’s feelings!’
‘That’s a bit much, my poppet. I felt very nauseous just now.’
‘You certainly did, but not because of all the dead bodies. It was the smell of the formaldehyde that gave you a nasty turn, but as for me, as soon as I saw poor Loulou stretched out on the cold stone, with her neck all purple … My God!’
She burst into tears again and buried her contorted face in her shawl. Victor stretched out a sympathetic hand to her and she grasped it feverishly.
‘Thank you, thank you! At least you have a heart, Monsieur Legris!’
‘I’ve got one too!’ muttered Laumier.
He kissed Mimi’s forehead and she snuggled up to him.
‘Have you told the police about this?’
‘The police! Are you mad, Legris?’ cried Laumier. ‘We took great care not to let on at the morgue that we recognised her. The police! That would get us into all sorts of trouble. I’m as clean as you like, nothing to hide, but Mimi … Before we got together, she used to trade on her charms, and the police have a file on her. Well then, is it yes or no?’
‘Very well, Mademoiselle, I’ll look into it,’ replied Victor, disengaging his hand. ‘I’ll need your friend’s address, wherever she used to … ply her trade.’
He coughed discreetly and rummaged in his pocket for a pencil.
‘Oh, she earned an honest living working for a clothing manufacturer at 68, Rue d’Aboukir. She rented a room in Rue des Chaufourniers, number 8, two minutes away from the coach station.’
‘Where was her body found?’
‘In front of the La Villette rotunda. It says so here.’
She handed him the page torn from the newspaper, an issue of L’Intransigeant dated 10 February. Victor quickly read the paragraph outlined in red.
‘I’ll hold on to this.’
‘Will you help us then?’
‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘How much will it cost?’
‘Keep your grandmother’s brooch, Mademoiselle Mireille. Laumier is an old acquaintance. We met in ’89, at the exhibition at Café Volpini, and after all, if you can’t help out a friend, what can you do, eh, Maurice?’ replied Victor, as he paid the bill.
‘You’re a true gentleman, you really are!’ gushed Mimi, her eyes shining.
Laumier pushed back his chair and offered her his arm.
‘It’s jolly good of you, Legris. If I can do anything in return …’
‘You can, actually. Tasha must hear nothing about this business, so keep your trap shut.’
‘I shall be as silent as the grave, dear Victor.’
They were now back on Rue de Douai, where a ragged-looking man was struggling to shovel away the snow that had piled up on the pavement.
