In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) by Claude Izner Page A

face. That lad was becoming a nuisance, and the prospect of having him as a brother-in-law was exasperating. Although nothing seemed less sure than that union. In two minds as to whether he should bring about its definitive end or restore his sister’s happiness, Victor turned into Rue des Dunes.
    The studio and living quarters he’d helped Djina Kherson rent were situated on the first floor of a plush apartment building. When he rang the bell Tasha’s mother came to the door; she’d dispensed with a maid in order to save money. It was a point of honour with her to do her own housework, which in a cramped three-room apartment was quickly accomplished in any case. As for the studio, a functional room containing a few chairs and easels, it was accessible from the hallway.
    Victor was surprised to find not only Tasha but also Iris and Kenji sitting around a samovar in the living room. Djina, who looked scarcely older than her daughter, was wearing a gathered skirt and a blouse decorated with Russian embroidery.
    Despite his show of polite disinterest, Kenji did not fool Victor, who could see the unsettling effect their hostess had on him. For her part, Djina paid him scant attention. She filled Victor’s glass.
    ‘I only have black tea,’ she said.
    Then she resumed her conversation with Tasha and Iris.
    ‘I’m glad he’s keeping busy. He needs to be active or he loses his will to live.’
    She had a soft voice, with only a hint of an accent.
    ‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Victor.
    ‘Pinkus. He’s sent us a letter – he’s going to pay you back,’ replied Tasha.
    ‘There’s no hurry.’
    ‘It’s a matter of pride,’ said Djina.
    She picked up the letter and translated a passage:
‘… In the end life here in America is not so very different from in Vilna: the poor die of poverty and the rich get richer, but I’m not complaining. I live in a two-roomed apartment on the Lower East Side. No more sewing on a machine fourteen hours a day in a garret in the Bronx. I’ve fallen on my feet…’
    ‘He’s gone into business with an Irishman who owns a gaming parlour. Imagine!’ exclaimed Tasha.
    ‘Do you mean he takes bets?’ asked Kenji, with a sidelong glance at Djina.
    ‘He would never stoop so low,’ she replied curtly.
    ‘They’re planning to invest in a new type of camera that uses twenty-four photographic images to give the illusion of movement. It’s on display at the Chicago World’s Fair,’ Tasha explained.
    Djina consulted the letter, trying to decipher the word. ‘An electric ta-chys-cope. 30 Do you know what that is, Monsieur Legris?’
    ‘It must be a perfected version of the praxinoscope.’ 31
    Djina went on:
‘… the models we’ll be offering the public are marvellous pieces of machinery and I’m sure they’ll bring in a good revenue…
    ‘Your father, the revolutionary, managing a bar!’
    ‘That’s unfair, Mother. What’s wrong with him earning his living? It’s not as if he’s exploiting anyone. He hasn’t renounced his ideals.’
    ‘I’d love to see some of those moving pictures,’ said Iris.
    Delighted that she’d finally expressed an interest in something, Victor suggested, ‘I’ll take you to Théâtre Robert-Houdin. Are you intending to take up your watercolour classes again?’
    ‘We’ve just agreed on a day,’ said Djina. ‘Come with me, my dears. The new paints I ordered arrived this morning.’
    As they left the room, Kenji drew his chair alongside Victor’s.
    ‘An Oriental manuscript was sold at auction last week to the Bibliothèque Nationale. A friend from the Booksellers Circle told me. It almost certainly isn’t ours, but…’
    ‘You suspect Pierre Andrésy of having sold Touty Namèh before he died?’
    ‘Of course not! It never even occurred to me.’
    ‘Exactly when was it auctioned?’
    ‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’
    What’s come over these two? First Joseph, now Kenji. It must be catching! thought Victor as the