Angels of Music (35 page)

Now, the man was in evening dress, squeezed between girls wearing little more than feathers. Gilberte recognised the upstairs rooms at Maxim’s. Several of her contemporaries could recount adventures at this locale.

Kane posed with a group of sharp-eyed, ferociously moustached men outside the offices of a newspaper.

‘Shortly before the turn of the century,’ said Erik, ‘a correspondent of the
New York Inquirer
cabled Kane, claiming he could write prose poems about the scenery in Cuba but “there was no war”. Kane responded: “You provide the prose poems, I’ll provide the war.”’

Kane watched troops in Boy Scout uniforms board a ship. Then, he was laughing with Theodore Roosevelt on a podium draped with flags. They made a matched pair of ferocious little boys.

‘Mr Kane did indeed provide the Spanish-American War. In this new century, his tactics have moderated. At least, he spurred his own country to fight over Cuba. Now he intends to foment an Anglo-French War.’

Gilberte exchanged looks with Mrs Eynsford Hill.

‘Why would he wish such a thing?’ Gilberte asked.

‘Mr Kane is a patriot,’ said Erik. ‘With Europe in flames, America would become the pre-eminent world power. The upstart nation, scarcely more than a century old, would dictate its whims from Nanking to Nantes. A continental war would, not incidentally, sell a great many newspapers.’

On the screen, the American was at a zoo alongside a pinch-faced lady Gilberte took for Mrs Kane. He pointed out a cockatoo, which was dragged by a keeper – silently screaming and flapping – from a branch. It was shoved into a canary cage and presented to the magnate.

‘Bad man,’ said Riolama. ‘Mean to bird.’

Gilberte was surprised the girl could speak.

The cinematograph presentation concluded.

I
N THE LAST
century, Royale-les-Eaux had enjoyed a vogue as a watering place for the wealthy and listless. Mama had sung a season at the Petit Opéra, attached to the Grand Hôtel and the Casino. The burglar Théophraste Lupin had lifted jewels and broken hearts among the ladies who flocked from Paris and further afield to summer balls, concerts and gaming tourneys. Their excuse was the local springs, reputedly a tonic for intimate diseases. In 1890, the waters ran dry and nothing could be done to make them flow again. The Société des Bains de Mers de Royale, who governed far more than the baths, suffered a decline reversed only by the miracle of a Yankee deliverer.

Charles Foster Kane had lighted upon the town and made it his European compound. What could not be bought was leased. A motion was before the Société to change the resort’s name to Europa-Xanadu, to further the connection with the magnate’s Florida fiefdom. Royale-les-Eaux was an outpost of Kane’s empire, an American colony in the old world. Having relocated castles from Spain, Hungary and Scotland to serve as guest-houses, he was filling the halls with works of art purchased or looted from the great collections of the continent. A reserve was stocked with wild boar (a hardy local breed crossed with Australian razorback) suitable for stalking, shooting, scoffing and stuffing. An army of cronies, hangers-on and minions easily filled the place. However, showing the democratic impulse of his peculiar country, Kane decreed his private realm be open to the general public.

As soon as the Angels alighted from the train at the Gare de Royale-les-Eaux, it became apparent that apparent madness was founded on solid business practice. Scrubbed and smiling youths of both sexes, with a stylised ‘K’ on their tunic breasts, besieged new arrivals. They offered to carry baggage (for fifty centimes), sell post-cards (for fifty centimes), provide ginger beer or gelati (for fifty centimes), serve as guides to the town (for fifty centimes an hour), secure seats at ‘exclusive’ high-stakes gaming tables (for fifty centimes!), or effect introduction to suitable temporary companions (for considerably more than fifty centimes). It was impossible to take three steps in this town without spending money, as if every franc in every pocket were magnetically drawn to the millionaire’s already-overflowing coffers.

Such a shame the fellow was inconveniently married. No, that was beyond consideration. Money was beside the point. One did not marry an American, any more than an orangutan. There were standards.

The Persian had wisely left all gold accoutrements behind save his teeth (and kept his mouth firmly shut to hide them). He swept licensed, uniformed pick-pockets out of their way and located an elderly railway porter. The fellow wore the K-brand, but had plainly been at his post long before the new regime descended. The Persian extended a handsome bribe to make sure their trunks arrived inviolate at the Grand Hôtel. He whispered something terrifying in the porter’s ear – presumably invoking their phantom patron – to persuade the man it would be best to follow instructions to the letter.

Outside the station, the tiny town was a Babel. Purple-liveried cowboys cracked whips and held up signs to direct crowds this way and that. Royale-les-Eaux was a combination of Wild West ‘wide open town’, Tartar war camp and storybook enchanted kingdom. Bath-houses and hotels had sprouted towers and castellations, some of stone and some merely wooden stage flats, to become every possible variety of gaming-hall, bordello or museum of curiosities. A bandstand in the Venetian style stood outside the concourse. An orchestra in harlequin costumes played while dancing girls hopped around behind a singer in a striped jacket and jaunty hat. Over and over, they performed the town’s new anthem, alternately in French (‘C’est Monsieur Kane’) and English (‘Oh, Mister Kane’).

When the song came round for the third time, Elizabeth said, ‘I will find out who wrote that tune, and have Rima drop him in a South American river for the piranhas to devour. Then I shall have his polished bones set in a xylophone which I will sell to a ragtime band.’

Every fourth or fifth building was a peculiar type of café, surmounted by a wrought-iron K inside a circle – the Mark of Kane. Here, patrons queued for thin meat patties and salad leftovers served inside limp circles of bread, along with deep-fried potato peelings unworthy of the name
pommes frites
. This fare was handed over in boxes made of folded newspaper (
New York Inquirer
overruns, Gilberte supposed). No plates or cutlery were involved. Customers fetched their own food and found their own tables, if they could – so waiters need not apply for employment. Cheap trinkets were given as prizes to those who gobbled their Fatty Feast within the shortest time. It would take a diamond pendant to make Gilberte
start
a Burgher Kane meal, let alone finish it.

She dreaded to imagine what went on in the kitchens. Rumour was that the cowboys herded animals into giant mechanical pens where many whirling blades rendered them – bones, skin, hooves, eyes, bowel contents and all – into a thick liquid which was splashed onto grills to create the circular patties. The Burgher Kane slogan was ‘over twenty-two thousand sold’. Such cafés were supposedly popular in New York, Chicago and San Francisco. From Royale-les-Eaux, Kane intended to expand across Europe. A conquering army could do no more harm.

With dignity, Elizabeth walked down the street, flanked by Gilberte and Riolama. The Englishwoman ignored everyone who tried to importune her, Gilberte kept an eye out for potential assassins, and the bird girl was nervous in this crowded, cacophonous jungle. Impertinent comments were addressed to the ladies by idlers. The Persian saw to it that every insult was punished with a withering glance or, if appropriate, a cuff.

Gilberte herself had to thump a masher with her parasol before they reached the Grand HÔtel.

T
HE LOBBY WAS
dominated by a twice life-size painting – a poor copy of Hals’ ‘The Laughing Cavalier’ with Kane’s face replacing the original sitter’s. The curlicued K was everywhere, on doorknobs and antimacassars and wood-panels and the carpet. Gilberte wondered whether the American insisted employees have his mark tattooed on their shoulders like slaves or branded into their thighs like cattle.

At the front desk, Elizabeth announced herself as ‘Miss Kathleen Ruston’, an English lady whose charitable foundation provided improving literature for bereft children in uncivilised quarters of the world. The little flutter Elizabeth allowed into her voice suggested Miss Ruston found Royale-les-Eaux backward enough to be in need of a tract or two.

A sharp-eyed female receptionist saw through the imposture at once. The real Miss Ruston was detained in Huddersfield by a mystery ailment not unconnected with doctored gin. From her reticule, Elizabeth produced a lacquered oblong, embossed with a gold K – a 1,000 francs board from the Casino. A gilt design on the reverse, resembling an octopus, distinguished it from the ordinary run. The receptionist noted this, and signalled for a superior – a sleek-haired, hollow-eyed young man with a sharp-pointed false beard.

‘I am Haghi,’ he said. He might have been German or Arab or any nationality. ‘Mr Kane trusts you will enjoy your stay, and extends the invitation to join his other “special guests” in the private salon this evening.
Okee geluk, dama
.’

‘
Dankzegging, mens
,’ Elizabeth responded, sotto voce.

Their host had arranged that Miss Ruston be indisposed, so her identity could be usurped by a Dutch lady who bore a passing resemblance to the philanthropist but was quite a different character. Edda Van Heemstra – dancer, courtesan, thief, blackmailer and trafficker in government secrets – was not a person to be entrusted with a charitable foundation. Her notion of ‘improving literature’ ran to illustrated editions of
Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure
or
My Nine Nights in a Harem
. Detained during a stopover in Paris, Mevrouw Van Heemstra currently enjoyed the hospitality of locked apartments in the sub-basement of the Opéra. Erik provided choice wines from his private cellar and an extensive collection of phonograph recordings for her entertainment.

On only a few moments’ acquaintance, Elizabeth had Edda off perfectly, though her Dutch vocabulary was limited to pages of common words and phrases torn from a
Baedeker’s Guide to the Netherlands
. Gilberte admired the performance. Elizabeth was successfully impersonating a Dutch harlot imperfectly posing as an English prude. No wonder she scarcely remembered who she really was.

Among Kane’s special guests, Edda was high in the magnate’s councils. She had been entrusted with procuring documents central to his plans.

The register was presented. Elizabeth signed with a flourish. Forging signatures was another of her talents. Gilberte was beginning to feel Grandmama and Aunt Alicia had neglected vital aspects of her education.

‘Eddie, you are a sight for sore eyes,’ brayed a loud, American voice.

Gilberte tensed. This would be a real test. Someone who knew Edda Van Heemstra.

Assembling a dazzling coquette’s smile, Elizabeth turned to greet the man who had addressed her. Gilberte saw in her companion’s eyes that she had no idea who the fellow was.

Well dressed but for a shapeless slouch hat which put his face permanently in shadow, the American thrust out a paw, as if expecting ‘Eddie’ to shake it like a man. His hand was several sizes too large for his body, thickly furred, with diamond-shaped horny nails. A malformation of the tendons made the fingers curve claw-like, as if he were perpetually clutching an invisible throat.

The hand was his tell. While Elizabeth was practising her Dutch, Gilberte had gone through a flip-book memorising faces, aliases and histories. Erik had excellent, up-to-date intelligence: Haghi, the deferential hotelier, was – without the goatee – also Nemo the Clown, an expert hypnotist, basket-weaver and revolver shot. Gilberte was a fast learner, too. It was her duty of the day to steer Elizabeth through a crowd of ‘known associates’.

‘This must be the famous Perry Bennett,’ Gilberte announced, extending her own languid, gloved hand to the clutcher. ‘Edd, you must introduce me.’

Elizabeth’s eyes focused. She followed Gilberte’s lead.

‘Mr Bennett, my companion represents an organisation which must be well known to you, though its name is not spoken even in this company. May I present Mademoiselle Irma Vep of Montmartre.’

‘I am especially familiar with the
rooftops
of that district,’ Gilberte claimed.

She was also appropriating an alias, but a shadowier one. Irma Vep was perpetually high in the councils of
Les Vampires
. She was a thief, or perhaps several thieves, or perhaps just a cast-aside bodystocking and mask anyone might pick up and put on. Irma sometimes represented herself as Pia Verm, Vi Marpe, Miep Vrå, Mira Pev, Vera Mip, Marie Pv, Eva Prim, Virma Ep or Ma Viper. Gilberte thought the game silly and jokingly suggested she call herself Anna Gram instead.

However, the man with the clutching hand was impressed.

Relations between the Opera Ghost Agency and
Les Vampires
were relatively cordial. Gilberte was borrowing the Irma Vep name with permission.

Riolama peeked out from behind Elizabeth. She wore a sailor suit and had been persuaded to don oversized workman’s boots painted pink. She looked no older than twelve.

‘This is Rima, an auxiliary member of the, ah…’

Gilberte crooked her forefingers and put them in front of her eye-teeth while opening her eyes wide – the universal underworld sign for
Les Vampires
.

Bennett looked at the waif as if she were an ice cream sundae with a cherry on top. Gilberte knew instantly that he was one of
those
– once a girl turned thirteen, she was of no interest to him. American rogues in his line often wheedled to be appointed as guardians to underage heiresses and were torn by contradictory impulses. Should they rope in a defrocked clergyman and force the girl into marriage at dead of night, or set the fuse to the dynamite and strand her in an abandoned mine?

‘What a gathering of like souls!’ Bennett announced, in a high-pitched voice which didn’t quite match his sinister looks. ‘I was on the boat train from London with Madame Sara, Sir Dunston Gryne and Simon Carne. Imagine: the Sorceress of the Strand, the Azrael of Anarchy and the Prince of Swindlers in one place! Dr Materialismus is here, and Abijah K. Jones, the Devil Bug. If only the crowds out on the promenade knew who was among them? What a cut-up that would be! I daresay many would expire from sheer fright to think their sleeves had been brushed by the likes of Baron Maupertuis or Dr Quartz or Wizard Whateley! Professor Fate and Sir Cuthbert Ware-Armitage have been delayed, because their motor-cars collided on the road from Dieppe and they are conducting a duel. But the Assassination Bureau, Ltd. has opened a stall disguised as a gypsy fortune-teller’s, and is advertising cut-rate offers.’