Free The Montmartre Investigation by Claude Izner Page A

the discovery of a woman in red, found strangled on the Boulevards, her face disfigured by acid. However, no sooner had he outlined the atmosphere of the story than his inspiration dried up – no matter how much he wet his pencil lead.
    Kenji looked up from his papers when he heard the doorbell, muttering, ‘About time!’ as Victor walked in.
    â€˜Forgive the delay, I had lunch out.’
    â€˜Did you get it?’
    Victor handed him the package. Kenji opened it and took out The Essays of Michel, Seigneur de Montaigne , a 1588 in-quarto fifth edition, bound in yellow morocco-leather.
    â€˜How much?’
    â€˜Four thousand, nine hundred francs.’
    â€˜A little pricey, although the Duc de Frioul is not known for his thriftiness. What about the Clément Marot?’
    â€˜It’s coming up this afternoon. With any luck I might get it for three thousand francs. Is that all right?’
    â€˜You have a free hand.’
    Kenji’s relaxed face and the hint of a smile on his lips conveyed a cheerfulness that had been markedly absent in the past few weeks.
    â€˜Are you pleased with your associate?’ enquired Victor.
    â€˜Quite pleased.’
    â€˜Only quite!’
    â€˜A single nod of approval is better than a thousand words of flattery. Joseph, serve us some sake.’
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    The sky was like a liquid veil shrouding the city. The room was like a cave, its barely perceptible shadows obscuring the furniture and blurring the lined wallpaper. The man lay on the bed listening to the murmur of voices half-drowned out by the rattle of omnibuses and carriages. He lit the petrol lamp. Prompted by a baby’s cry coming through the partition wall, he went into the bathroom and emerged carrying a bottle of rum and a tumbler. This was what he needed to steady his nerves, to enable him to separate the real from the imagined. The first slug burnt in his throat; the second warmed his insides and invigorated him. The alcohol calmed his rage, allowing him to see exactly what must happen next. He found it so hard to control himself, to rein in his hatred, his impatience! But he had finally succeeded, and soon he would reap the rewards. He was nearing his goal and he would not stop before he attained it. He emptied the glass and stared for a long time at the bottle. No, he must keep a clear head.
    He went to rinse his mouth out with a menthol solution, trimmed his moustache and smoothed down his greying sideburns. He felt as if he were about to emerge from a long sleep. To the devil with inertia! He sat down at the table. Soon it would all be over; she would have paid for the five years of pain and loneliness she had inflicted on him. He had taken great care not to incriminate himself; no one would ever suspect him. The sole witness was pickling in a vat of cheap wine, the alcoholic content of which he would never know.
    â€˜My life is beginning anew,’ he murmured.
    He looked at the box of cards and the envelopes and smiled.
    â€˜I must follow my plan to the letter. I’m a lucky devil; everything has gone smoothly. If the police have an ounce of intuition and common sense, they’ll follow the clues I’ve left for them.’
    Spurred on by these words, he opened a map of Paris, smoothing out the fifth, ninth and thirteenth arrondissements, all marked with crosses denoting the various florists’ shops from which he had ordered eight roses to be sent each day for the last eight days. 16 November 1886 was the day she had betrayed, dismissed and humiliated him – the bitch! The day after tomorrow, he would wish her a happy anniversary. He had placed each order with a different florist before losing himself in the crowd of a thousand nameless faces. Who would remember him? Today he would send the flowers from Rue Auber. She would receive them as she made her exit from the stage and, flattered, would lift them to her nose to smell their scent. Then she would see the note.
    He