Fata Morgana (17 page)

“I’ve kissed such amulets before.”

“Mine is like no other.”

“I see no great difference.”

“That is your great folly. Please me and I’ll save your life.”

“I can protect myself.”

“Ric is a High Priest of Heliopolis, and you’re undergoing Grand Bewitchment. You haven’t a chance unless I help you.” She sat up, reaching her hand out to him.

“I’ll give you the counter-magic. I like you, you have an interesting nature.”

“Forgive me, Madame Lazare, for beginning something I can’t finish.” He backed toward the door.

She stretched out on the couch again, stroking her thighs. “I might have saved you.”

“I shall send the bald-headed senator to your chamber, madame. You can save him.” He reached behind him to the doorknob, not wishing to turn his back on her.

“Send him and twenty more. I want them all in my bed tonight.” She reached for her mask, and her blood-red fingernails flickered in the eyeholes, causing the moon-mask to live for a moment, a ruby-eyed monster which said,
Yes, I’m the enchantress, and you are already enchanted, fool.

He walked down the long carpeted hallway toward the main staircase. A Florentined door opened beside him, as a servant backed out carrying an empty water bucket.

“Come in!” called Duval. “The Count’s bath is big enough for all! Won’t you join us?”

Madame Allega, the cabaret star, stood beside the golden tub, dressed as a cabman. The Humble Priest was assisting her out of her costume, and gestured again toward the door. “You aren’t coming in? Then you must forgive me...” Madame Allega’s derriere appeared and Duval gave the door a tap with his foot. “I must baptize this good woman.”

Picard continued toward the large staircase. Below, the main room was slowly turning into a shambles, feathers floating in the air, sequins scattering to the floor, other bits of costume coming off. Several of the guests were now sprawled before the great mirror, but there were many still dancing, to music which had grown more sensual, more suggestive, and some of the women had begun interpreting it more boldly. Miss Carter of America was dancing with her two black escorts and her hammock had been taken over by the mad rooster, who swung there supported by his dutiful servants.

Turcotte and Lescadre had absented themselves from the main room. Their principal job, the guarding of the jewels of La Païva, was over. Picard saw her leaving the ballroom with Count von Donnersmarck and the green lizard. He followed them to the front door and watched as they entered their carriage, the most splendid one in the courtyard. When it had glided out between the front gates, he returned to the depths of the house, asked a servant to take him to the cellar, the only avenue of entrance he hadn’t secured, and though the rare jewels of La Païva were gone, there was still wealth enough in the ballroom to tempt a thief.

Bearing a lamp, the servant led him down into the large subterranean chambers, and together they examined the small high windows in each room.

“Leave the lamp. I’ll remain here awhile.”

“Very good, Inspector. There is one more room of furniture and paintings through that doorway. I’ll be at the head of the stairs if you require further assistance.”

He sat in the gloomy foundation of the mansion, weariness upon him, and a troubling image going round in his brain, of a shadowy figure carrying a knife which gleamed in the darkness of his mind and was gone.

A familiar tiding. When last this shadow appeared to me...

Picard entered the final musty room of the cellar, walking slowly through aisles of sheet-covered furniture, piled-up oddities of the Cherubini family, grotesque vases, bizarre washstands and basins.

...when last the knife flashed in my brain, it was but one day until Alcide Marusic appeared.

Ten years in prison produces a powerful venom in the veins. Marusic’s mouth was practically watering as he came at me. The rue... Gabrielle.

And now you’ve come again, shadow. Is it Lazare you embody, as once before you embodied Marusic, whose blood has long been washed down the gutters of the rue Gabrielle?

The darkness answered with a faint whispering, the sensation of impending danger, of something vicious and cunning advancing against him, advancing slowly across the city, as once Alcide Marusic had advanced with death in his heart. But whereas Marusic had been clumsy, a simple cutthroat mad for revenge, this advancing danger was more clever and more deadly. Picard closed his eyes, trying to feel exactly how he was endangered, and again he heard Lazare’s voice in his mind, repeating softly,
It is only a toy, monsieur.

Very well, Lazare, but you may encounter me sooner than you expected.

Tucked among the Cherubini bric-a-brac and sheeted chairs was an antique bed, a thin muslin canopy surrounding it. Picard parted the veil and entered, crawling onto the bed and closing his eyes. Good wine makes one as sleepy as bad.

The shadowy figure again thrust his knife, parting the way into dreams of blood and glistening steel, where men long dead danced and gnashed their teeth, flames of hatred in their eyes.

* * *

He woke in darkness; the lamp had burned its oil completely. He groped through the black cellar toward the stairs. From overhead there came the sound of a few tireless masqueraders, but the music had ceased. He climbed the stairs and walked to the main ballroom.

Count Cherubini, the great rooster, sat in the middle of the floor, wrapped in a small throw rug, staring into the deep distances of the mirror. Unconscious beside him on the floor was Spring, daffodils mostly gone, crocuses drooping, her bottom bare except for the Count’s wine goblet, which was balanced there. Along the mirror, half-naked couples were lying on pillows and sofa cushions, bottles and glasses all around them.

Count Cherubini turned his neck toward Picard. “Has the sun come up yet?”

“No.”

“Would you please alert me the moment the sun starts to rise? I intend to give a bit of a cock-a-doodle-do.”

Picard looked out the window. The sky was still dark, but he could feel the lateness of the hour in his body. The Count will not have long to wait.

Inspector Turcotte emerged from the kitchen, guiding a bird of paradise, who had lost the bottom half of her costume. As they passed, Turcotte winked at Picard and tossed him a blue and white feather from his pocket, out of which numerous other feathers peeked.

The rooster had begun snoring on the floor, his bill rattling with each exhalation. Between snores, faint clucking noises were heard from within his mask, as if he were rehearsing for the dawn.

Of the whores left in the ballroom, none were so great any longer. The great ones had retired earlier, as befitting their stature. Those left at the ball now were perhaps the real whores. Their jewelry was fake; they were covered with little mirrors of glass, which did not sparkle with the intensity of La Païva’s gems, and they were not ones to depart a party before dawn; consequently all they were left with were three tired policemen and an unconscious rooster. Lescadre had donned a musketeer’s hat and was attending to Spring, who had awakened with a terrible thirst. Lescadre poured champagne into her extended glass. Beside her the rooster continued to snore and squawk softly.

Picard walked through the debris, stopping at the refreshment table to clean up a few dainty sandwiches, swallowing a half-dozen of them quickly. He lifted his mask, placing it on top of his head. A movement at the top of the grand staircase caught his eye. Duval the Humble Priest appeared, two servants behind him, carrying Miss Carter in her hammock. Her hair was dripping wet and her Southern gown was askew. “Please see that Miss Carter is put into a carriage directly,” called Duval, coming down the stairs behind them. “She’s had a profound religious experience.”

Duval spied Picard and came toward him. “My dear Inspector... how are you making out with your investigation?”

Picard turned toward the champagne table, not wishing to speak of his work, but Duval babbled on: “You’re undoubtedly aware of the latest rumor going around Paris about Lazare.”

“His wife bathes in champagne.”

“Goat’s milk, my dear fellow, I have it on unassailable authority. Will you allow me to give you a lift? I have a carriage waiting.”

“I must wake the Count.” The courtyard was clearly visible now in the first grey light before dawn. Picard shook the snoring rooster.

“Yes, yes, I’m ready.” The rooster rose slowly and stretched his wings, as Picard and Duval helped him to his feet. “Thank you so much. Might I beg your assistance but a few more steps, to the courtyard, please.”

They walked down the hall and out, into the courtyard. The rooster shook his comb, bending his head shyly. “I don’t feel in the mood for a proper cock-a-doodle.”

“Then come with us,” said the Humble Priest.

“If it’s no intrusion... how kind of you.” The rooster followed them to Duval’s carriage. Duval called to the driver. “Do you know the Hôtel St. Claude?”

The driver lowered his looped whip handle to the door latch and lifted it for the two men and the large barnyard bird.

“A delightful party, my dear Count,” said Duval, fingering his rosaries.

“I’m so glad you could come,” said the rooster, lighting a slender cigar and putting it to his beak.

Picard stared out the window; the luxurious houses of St. Honoré slipped by slowly.

“I should have brought Spring along,” said the rooster. “This is the sort of ride she likes.”

“You can find Spring on any street corner in Paris, Count.”

“Quite right, dear boy. One forgets...” The rooster turned to the window. On the rue de Rivoli, a streetwalker graced the intersection, dressed in black, wearing a high-crowned hat bound with red ribbon.

“Stop the carriage,” said the rooster to the cabman, and stepped down as the carriage came to a halt beside the young woman. The rooster stumbled clumsily but was able to regain his balance and give a bow to the lady, his tail feathers raised in the air. “Can we be of assistance, mademoiselle?”

The whore had seen many things on the rue de Rivoli before; but her startled expression indicated that this was the first time she’d seen a six-foot rooster emerge from a carriage shortly before sunrise.

“Don’t be alarmed, mademoiselle,” said the rooster. “We’re only out cock-a-doodling, or preparing to cock-a-doodle, I should say, if we find the proper location. Could you perhaps recommend a suitable site for some enthusiastic crowing?” The rooster scraped completely to the ground, affording her a view of his dangling red crown.

“I can’t take you into my room like that,” she said, pointing at his feather suit.

“I understand perfectly; perhaps we might walk then, to the riverbank?” He extended his wing and she took it. He waved the other wing at Duval and Picard. “Thank you, gentlemen. Please visit me again...”

The driver continued onto St. Antoine. Duval turned to Picard. “Your man Lazare—did you know he operated in Paris once before? At least that’s the rumor I’ve heard.” The carriage turned onto the boulevard Beaumarchais.

“How do you suddenly know so much about Lazare?”

“One hears so many stories these days—yes, here we are.” The carriage stopped and they stepped down, onto the rue St. Claude. “It was here, Inspector...” Duval pointed to the small and darkened windows of the Hôtel St. Claude. “The walls are filled with secret passageways. Do you recall the Affair of the Diamond Necklace?”

“I’m not familiar...”

“Inspector, surely you’re a historian of crime. A hundred years ago the most famous diamond necklace in the world, destined for the neck of Marie Antoinette, was pinched by the man who lived here, a man certain misty-minded Parisians claim has once again returned to Paris.”

“You mean Lazare? That’s preposterous.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Duval entered the hotel hallway and they walked along it to the staircase. At the foot of the stairs was a statue, a mock copy of an Egyptian pharaoh, holding a lighted gas lamp in his hand. “But of course, Inspector, rumor has it that we’re not dealing with an ordinary man, that in fact we’re witnessing the game of a man who’s discovered the secret of making gold, of causing diamonds to grow bigger, and—” Duval peered up the stairs. “—prolonging life. Absurd, the things people will fall for.”

Picard pointed to the plaster pharaoh’s head. “It’s all done with masks, Duval.”

“Yes, masks and mirrors, so they say. He called himself Grand Cophat of the Masonic Order and Lord of the Egyptian Rite.” They turned and walked back down the hallway, to the street, and climbed again into their carriage. “His name was Count Alessandro di Cagliostro.”

The palaces of the Right Bank were receiving the first rays of dawn. Picard stepped from Duval’s carriage, onto the Pont St. Michel. He paused for a moment on the edge of the bridge; from upriver he could hear the faint crowing of a rooster.

Duval leaned his head out the window. “The Count has welcomed the dawn.”