Fata Morgana (15 page)

* * *

Picard walked the pale yellow hall toward the Prefect’s office, and removed his storm-soaked cloak at the door. The snow had turned to rain, and it beat upon the windows now, as he knocked on the Prefect’s door and entered.

“Inspector,” said the Prefect’s assistant, rising from his desk and extending his hand. “Good to see you back. Nice work with Mantes. The Chief was very pleased.”

“Is he in?”

“He won’t be back until five.”

“Did you receive papers of extradition from the Hungarian police?”

“The Lazare case, yes,” said the assistant, returning to his desk. “The Prefect wants to speak with you about that.”

“Lazare hasn’t left Paris, has he?”

“He seems in no hurry to leave. I understand his wife has inaugurated the practice of bathing in champagne.”

* * *

Picard sat on a favorite bench on the Champs-Elysée, rubbing his hands nervously, staring at the little birds beyond him, who pecked in the pebbles for pieces of bread. The storm had passed, and the sun was attempting to break through. The four o’clock bells chimed. An hour to go. But the Prefect is always punctual. We’ll have Lazare under arrest by six.

He rose and walked on through the park, to a large round pool surrounded by rusty metal chairs. Now the clouds were completely vanquished by the sun; he sat and stared at its reflection in the filthy water. Imprisoned carp circled beneath the surface, and the sun played on their muddy scales, their sores, their gaping mouths, as they nosed at bits of trash that floated above them. Those men who hated him most were all in prison—Alexandre Syrette, Gaston Perese, Maurice de Merchant—making their afternoon rounds at this moment, biting at old cigar butts in the prison yard. And you’ll soon join them, Lazare. You can teach them wood carving.

He rose again, unable to remain in one spot, the final nervousness of the hunt upon him now. The next long pathway took him through the trees once more, toward the next glittering pool in the distance. The snow of the morning had melted everywhere, the trees and lawns were bare, but the wind continued and as he neared the pool he saw the tiny sailboats moving there.

It was a favorite spot, and he often rented one of the crude little sailboats which a peddler provided for idle enthusiasts of the sport. The peddler was there today and Picard walked toward his cart.

“Yes, monsieur, here’s a fine red one... she’ll take the wind for you...”

Picard launched the red boat, and it joined the many others which were going amongst the carp, who circled like whales beneath the little ships. Most of the boats were like his—a roughly hewn hull, a single sail. But occasionally he’d seen exceptional craft on these waters, built by old sailors with time on their hands and loving memories to guide them. One such ship was sailing today—a Spanish galleon, its many sails filling with the wind. His own boat had been driven back against the wall of the pool, and he let it float there, going with the crowd toward the galleon that was now sailing obediently toward its owner. They gathered around him, Picard amongst them. A slender polished cane was extended toward the Spanish vessel, and the owner’s arm came forward.

Picard moved his hand toward his revolver.

“Inspector,” said Ric Lazare, touching the boat with his cane and thrusting the little craft back into the wind. Beside him knelt Renée, in an old-rose gown. Both she and Lazare were calmly watching the water, as unruffled as a pair of Parisian pigeons, while Picard stood embarrassed, slowly lowering his hand from within his jacket.

“And how is your investigation proceeding, Inspector?” Lazare got to his feet and examined the tip of his cane. “I understand you’ve been traveling—on the trail of a rogue.”

Picard turned to Renée Lazare. “I trust you continue to enjoy our city, madame.”

Renée smiled at Picard. “Oh yes, so many fascinating people. You must come to our salon again, Inspector.”

“But of course,” said Picard, glancing back toward Lazare, who seemed lost in contemplation, his eyes having once again taken on their strange and metallic lustre, as if he had learned to command the very edge of a seizure, a fine and fearful edge.

“If you have left anything unfinished in your life,” said Lazare, “I suggest you attend to it. Because tomorrow you die.”

I could kill him now, break his arrogant neck. But there’s no need of that. Control yourself, Picard. In an hour, he’s yours. “My only unfinished business is you, monsieur. I shall do my best to swiftly complete it.”

“You think you’ll take me so easily?” Lazare extended his cane once more toward the galleon, which was again approaching in the wind.

“I’ll take you,” said Picard softly.

Lazare touched the beautiful ship, this time bringing it to the edge of the pool and removing it from the water. “How deeply you deceive yourself, Inspector. Have you no understanding?” Lazare wiped the brightly polished decks with his handkerchief, and the jeweled silver ring on his index finger caught Picard’s eye. Within the perfect gem a figure seemed to move, no bigger than a hair, but there, unmistakably so—a tiny man walking through a crystalline garden. The ring flashed as Lazare turned his hand, and the scene was gone, but Picard was left with the distinct feeling of himself being trapped in an icy and transparent wasteland. His heart shuddered violently and he forced his gaze toward the water, where a lazy carp broke the surface with his tail, then slipped out of sight.

“Good day, Inspector,” said Lazare cheerfully, putting the little galleon under one arm and his ravishing wife on the other, as he turned and walked away.

The
five o’clock bells chimed. The Prefect stared at Picard for a moment, then resumed his shuffling of dossiers. “There’s no way we can touch the man. I’ve already telegrammed to the Hungarian police, explaining it was a case of mistaken identity.”

Picard looked at the floor; his head felt like marble, and his fine hunting edge was gone. “How did he...?”

“He got to the Emperor, and made himself untouchable. You’re aware, I’m sure, that Louis Napoleon is highly superstitious.”

“I’ve heard it.”

“Well, Lazare has favorably impressed him, with predictions and such. Louis now fancies Lazare as some sort of court magician. Thus it is impossible for us to arrest him.”

“A murderer.”

“He will not be the first murderer to advise a king.” The Prefect swiveled in his chair, turning toward the river. Evening had settled on the city; a few raindrops again touched the windows. “There’s a costume ball tonight, given by Count Cherubini for the Great Whores of our city. He’s requested police protection. Would you care to attend?”

“Very well.”

“It might prove amusing. Nonetheless, keep a close watch. La Païva will be there, wearing her jewels.”
 

“I shall do my best.”

“Yes, and keep an eye on the Count too. After his last affair we found him on the embankment, riding a perfumed donkey. He was accompanied by a woman clad only in lilacs.”

“I’ll watch him until sunrise.”

“Good. The assistant has your invitation. Pick it up from him on the way out.”

Picard turned to go, was stopped by the Prefect’s low musing voice: “Whores and magicians, Picard, that is Paris now. Do you believe in fortunes?”

Picard remained silent, and the Prefect looked up at him. “Yes, it’s all nonsense, isn’t it. Do you know that a horoscope was cast at Louis’s birth? It indicated he would become Emperor of France.”

Picard left the Prefect, walked the halls of the great complex like one in a dream. Lazare has succeeded, he’ll be a Prince of Paris now.

...Because tomorrow you die.

I wonder, Lazare, are you one of those who play the game for the highest stakes? For if you are—if you’re like David Orleans, who resented the least little salt on his tail—then perhaps you do mean to murder me.

In which case I must make certain arrangements of my own. For there is another law, Lazare, a law higher even than the Emperor’s law.

The law of the jungle, monsieur. Perhaps you’ve heard of it in your vast travels.

Picard entered the laboratory wing of the Prefecture, and walked down the windowless corridor. Of course, it could all be bluff, for Lazare is filled with that too. Difficult to know what is true and what is false with one so pompous. There is, however, the ice pick in the head. That was decidedly real for the man who dared to suggest that Lazare’s dice were not quite correct.

“Hello, Renan, do you have anything for me?”

The head of the laboratory looked up from his test tubes and microscopes. “I’ve analyzed it,” he said, pointing to the stinking black lump which sat at the far edge of his bench, in a metal box. “A rather peculiar concoction.”

“It smelled like hell when it was burning.”

“That was the sulphur and iron filings. It also contains gum ammoniac, and parts of a plant from the spurge family.” The lab chief pushed his glasses back on his head and drew the black lump toward him. “However, the principal components are the blood of a man and the brain of an animal. Know any witches, Picard?”

“I’ll take it off your hands,” said Picard, wrapping the black lump in his handkerchief again. “Thanks, Renan.”

“Anytime, Picard. I’m always interested in new combinations.”

Picard closed the lab door behind him and went along the corridor toward the exit; he was already in the courtyard when he remembered the invitation to the whores’ ball and turned, back toward the Prefect’s office.

“The Chief said there was an invitation needed for the ball tonight.”

“I sent it down to your desk.”

He entered the adjacent office, from which he and the other inspectors operated. It was empty now, as it almost always was, for he and Veniot and Bazin rarely used the small oak desks appointed them. He went to his own, and picked up the invitation.

The side drawers were a jumble, filled with old papers and scraps of information on cases that were finished, as was the Lazare case now—a case for the scrap bin. He opened the center drawer, and noticed a crudely wrapped package he could not identify. He severed the black twine which bound it and laid open the paper around a bloody calf’s heart, pierced through with thorns.

* * *

The Seine murmured beneath the bridge. He stared at the water and followed the murmuring, trying to follow it to the sea, but the carriages and voices of the early evening obscured the dark passage; he could not slip away.

His pocket was heavy; he lightened it, dropping the bloody heart and the stinking black lump into the river. They made a small splash and were gone, to feed the eels.

He walked on, into the Quarter. The streets were already crowded with evening couples, and the little cafés and restaurants had begun to fill. Over it all was the vague sense of distortion which had troubled him for weeks, as if all these good solid Parisians were in danger of slipping away, of being devoured in the vast jaws of night, never to be seen again. Their lives, their laughter, their wines and meals were tenuous, fragile, like wisps of smoke upon a haunted street. The smiling girl in the window—a spectre, moving through a lost land.

How morbid Lazare has made me. But this is precisely what he does to those who visit his parlor—distorts their life, twists their imagination, makes them doubt everything but his word. But you cannot control all of us, Lazare. Some of us, the dullest perhaps, refuse to be deceived.

The broken door of his building admitted him, and the concierge waved from his room, knocking things about as he prepared for the night’s card game. Picard smiled, returning the wave, glad for low life, rotten smells, twisted stairs. Your crystal ball, Monsieur Lazare, would mean nothing to the tenants here, for their reputations are without value, their fortunes already lost, their fate irreversible.

He climbed to his landing, walked down the creaking hall to his door. It would be pleasant to catch Lazare in my room and cut his throat directly.

But the apartment was empty, had not been entered again. The old leather armchair greeted him with its many smiling scars, and he sat down in it, opening his jacket and removing the tiny acrobat from his pocket.

The red thread of the Holy Ghost amulet had caught around the acrobat’s neck. Picard looped the thread over the gas lamp, and the acrobat dangled there, casting a hanged man’s shadow on the wall.

Count Cherubini’s courtyard was already filled with other carriages, from which men and women in extravagant costume were descending. Picard’s costume was a black evening suit with the addition of a black satin mask, sewn with bits of sequin.

The entranceway was blazing with light, and butlers framed the doorway, admitting the gods and goddesses of fantasy. Picard climbed the staircase toward the door. The butler on the left accepted his invitation and the one on the right escorted him into the luxurious dwelling, taking him to the cloakroom, where his hat and cape were received.