By Claude Izner
The fast moving and gripping 3rd identify within the bestselling Victor Legris secret seriesParis, November 1891: The physique of a barefoot younger girl wearing pink is stumbled on on side road Montmartre. She has been strangled and her face horribly disfigured. that very same day a unmarried purple shoe is dropped at Victor Legris’s Parisian book place through a goatherd. Suspecting greater than simply accident, the fascinating bookseller sleuth and his assistant Jojo are quickly looking for the id of either sufferer and assassin. Then, a physique is chanced on in a wine barrel whilst a recognized performer from the mythical Moulin Rouge is strangled in her condo. Victor’s research takes him and Jojo into the darkish alleyways and bustling cafes of the hills of Montmartre, on a path of facts that turns out to indicate to a case that stunned the inhabitants of Lyons years in the past.
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Additional info for The Montmartre Investigation: A Victor Legris Mystery
First, at dawn I had to take the she-kids to graze on the grass on some wasteland at the Maison-Blanche. Then I had to visit a customer on Quai de la Tournelle with a liver complaint; she has to have milk from Nini Moricaude – I feed her carrots. ’ ‘Don’t be silly, Monsieur Noël! ’ Grégoire Mercier knelt down beside a white goat and milked it, then held out a bowl of creamy milk to the horse dealer, who sniffed it suspiciously. ‘It smells sour. ’ ‘Of course! ’ ‘Depleted, depleted, my wife is not depleted!
Grégoire Mercier’s sciatica was troubling him. How long had he been sheltering under the porch of this building under the suspicious eye of the concierge? Twenty, thirty minutes? And when would those two chatterboxes finally clear off? He clutched his iron-tipped staff, anxious about his flock, left at home in the care of Berlaud. Angry that his find had been confiscated, the dog had registered his disgust by lying down and growling in Rocambole’s cubby hole. That was a bad sign, a very bad sign.
A chubby face topped with a chignon appeared round the door connecting the study to the rest of the apartment. ‘So, you are there, my pet? I thought I heard singing. You might have let me know you were here! ’ ‘You’ve got to eat! You’re as white as a sheet and your arms are like lollipop sticks! You’re wearing yourself out; I might have something to say to your bosses. And for heaven’s sake, how many times over could Monsieur Mori have given you scarlet fever? That would have taken the biscuit!
The Montmartre Investigation: A Victor Legris Mystery by Claude Izner