The Curse of the Grand Guignol (10 page)

She was in the company of three
men. Dr Watson recognized them from the evening’s performance. On
stage they had appeared thuggish and vicious. In reality, they were
typical Frenchmen. He checked their names against the theatre
programme in his pocket after they had passed him by without a
sideways glance: Felix Frey, Vincent Merx and Hilaire Dupont. He
wondered which was which.

“How are you enjoying my
impromptu salonniere, Dr Watson?”

He turned to find himself being
addressed by his aristocratic hostess; a mature composition in
grace and elegance.

“It’s very interesting.”

He declined from adding:
enlightening, fascinating and entertaining; he was not one to gush.
He was actually starting to enjoy himself.

“The secret is in bringing
together an interesting group of guests. Take La Noire. She was
poached from the Moulin Rouge by Monsieur Davidov. Later, she will
sing a scandalous cabaret song that is madly popular with the dance
hall crowd. Be sure not to miss it. And the three men following in
her wake you would have seen at tonight’s performance. Monsieur
Davidov discovered them at a circus in Sarlat. Monsieur Dupont was
the strongman. You can probably tell that by his muscular physique.
Monsieur Merx, with the sharp eyes and pomaded hair, was a juggler
and knife-thrower. He still practices every day. Monsieur Frey with
the bulbous nose and bushy brows was a clown.”

“The fifth member of the cast
is not among the guests?”

“You refer to Mademoiselle
Kiki. She will be here shortly. She probably dropped by Cafe Bistro
en route. She was also part of the circus troupe - a trapeze artist
and a tight-rope walker. I never saw her with my own eyes but I
believe her high-wire performance was breath-taking. She can
suspend disbelief better than any actress I have ever seen. Take
that final piece during tonight’s performance. Here is a petite
demoiselle, not yet eighteen, and yet she can play the part of an
old mad woman with stupendous conviction.”

“Yes, she was totally
convincing. Someone in the audience was physically sick. I felt
slightly nauseas myself. What is it, may I ask, that draws her to
Café Bistro?”

“Three handsome and virile men,
of course. Why else would a pretty little thing bother? The three
brothers who own the café have all asked for her hand in marriage.
She cannot decide which one to choose. Ah, to be young and pretty
again,” sighed la marquise before floating off on a silver-lined
cloud of wistfulness.

While he was standing alone at
the top of the stairwell, contemplating the connection between the
theatre and the macabre murders, the Countess materialized.

She put her finger to her lips,
indicating for him not to speak as she steered him into a nearby
room. Thankfully, it was not part of the enfilade of salons but a
cloak room for female guests. The cloak room for men was
downstairs. Fur lined coats and fashionable winter mantles were
hanging two or three to a hook. Dr Watson tried not to sneeze as
she closed the door behind them and he found himself enveloped in
dusty darkness.

“I have had a fruitful
evening,” she said in a lowered tone that did little to disguise
the note of self-congratulation.

He wasn’t surprised. “I think
your initial impression about a link between the theatre and the
murders is looking more and more likely. It’s not just that last
play. I discovered our three male actors used to work in a circus.
The one called Felix Frey was a clown. I cannot stop thinking there
is a touch of the clownish in the five murders. There’s the red
lipstick for a start.”

“Yes, yes,” she said excitedly.
“Well done! What about the other two men? Were they part of the
clown act?”

“The one called Hilaire Dupont
was a strongman.”

“Oh, yes, I know the one you
mean. He’s amazingly muscly. And the third?”

“Vincent Merx was a juggler and
knife-thrower. He still practices every day.”

“Good work,” she said.

The praise spurred him on.
“Kiki used to work in the same circus. She was a trapeze artist and
tight-rope walker. I cannot see how that is relevant but I thought
I should mention it.”

“Hmm, a
cascadeuse
,
that’s interesting. What about the Negress?”

“Monsieur Davidov poached her
from the Moulin Rouge.”

“She’s the odd one out.”

“Not from the circus, you
mean?”

“Yes and no. There’s something
about her. I think she might have an interesting past. What about
Monsignor Delgardo? I saw you managed to engage him in
conversation. What did you learn?”

“He is besotted with
Mademoiselle Kiki. Davidov called him a lothario. He has a private
booth on permanent reserve and attends as many shows as he
can.”

“I actually cornered him later
and asked him point blank if he knew who his mysterious neighbour
in the next booth might be.”

“Did he say?”

“He claimed not to know.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Yes, I did. It is ridiculously
easy to slip in and out of a booth incognito. Monsignor Delgardo
did not seem as bothered to disguise himself as much as the first
man we encountered. We both recognized Delgardo later without any
difficulty. What else did you learn about him?”

“He is doing some sort of
clinical work at the
Hospice de la Salpetriere
.”

“Really?”

“He is on a mission from the
Vatican, looking at the viability of setting up a similar hospice
in Rome. He has a medical degree. He is interested in
megalomania.”

“Oh, yes, Salpetriere is a
lunatic asylum as well as a hospital.”

“It houses prostitutes as
well.”

“On the presumption that a
prostitute must be insane?”

He did not wish to become
embroiled in a debate about female madness and ignored her clipped
rejoinder. “The Marquise de Merimont informed me that the three men
from the café have all proposed marriage to the young trapeze
artist, Mademoiselle Kiki. She is having difficulty choosing
between them.”

“Not if Monsieur Davidov has
anything to do with it.”

“You think he is in love with
her too?”

“I think he will not like
losing his star performer.”

“In light of that it would be
just the trick to pose a dead body outside Café Bistro to frame the
brothers as the inspector suggested earlier? I suspect Davidov
harbours a violent streak that erupts when his wishes go
unmet.”

“That’s an interesting theory,
mon ami
. And although he’s not strong enough to have hoisted
a dead body up to a lamp-post or a tree or over a balcony railing
or heaved one onto a grave or dragged one from an alleyway onto a
café stool, if he had help...”

He was nodding in the dark.
“Yes, yes, I see what you’re getting at. If he had a strong man to
help him...”

“And perhaps another who was
adept with a knife…”

“Plus a clown to add some
grotesque theatricality to the scene.”

She tried to picture the
temperamental director and the three circassiens in the act of
mutilating corpses. “No, no, all that brutality just to stop
Mademoiselle Kiki marrying? It is too far-fetched. There have been
five murders not just one. We cannot ignore the first four. Why
commit such vicious crimes against four elderly and respectable men
and a helpless old lady? And the tags have to mean something. Fact
must fit theory.”

“What if the three circus men
don’t want the Grand Guignol to fold either,” he persisted,
unwilling to let go of his pet theory now that he had hit on a
likely set of murderers so early in the piece. “The show has only
been running for a month and it is wildly popular and Mademoiselle
Kiki seems to be the draw-card. And with the Paris Fair next year
the sky is the limit as far as world-wide fame is concerned, not to
mention financial success. Davidov would be furious if it folded
now. He would probably lose a fortune. We should mention his name
to Inspector de Guise at the first opportunity.”

“You’re right,” she conceded
reluctantly. “If we could link him to something tangible it would
be better, but at least he’s Slavic. Your mingling paid off,
mon
ami
. You have done well.”

He was grateful she could not
see his modest cheeks immodestly glowing in the dark. “There’s one
more thing but it no longer seems important. I met the elusive
playwright on the balcony when I stepped out for a cigarette.”

“Raoul?”

“Yes, Raoul Crespigny. He was
hiding from Davidov.”

“Because the director wants him
to do a re-write? What’s so bad about that?”

“Nothing that I can see. Every
writer worth his salt does re-writes. And since he is churning out
three horror plays and five comedy sketches every week there is
every possibility of needing to revise first drafts. I cannot
understand his reluctance and yet he seemed terrified. Although,”
he paused and checked himself, “although, I got the distinct
impression he has noticed the link between the murder that happened
on the third of November and the fact his first play was staged on
the same date.”

“That brings us back to
Davidov. I wonder if the director forced Raoul to do a re-write
that then played into his own murderous Russian hands? I wonder if
that has been the pattern all along? I must speak to Raoul to
confirm Davidov’s part in this. What does Raoul look like?”

“It was dark on the balcony so
it was hard to tell but put it this way – if Davidov is a Russian
bear then Raoul is a raffish kitten. He is lean and wiry and as
nervy as a cat. He wears glasses with round metal frames.”

“Is he still on the
balcony?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I
turned my back and he disappeared. I think he might have leapt onto
a parapet when he heard someone coming out to join us. I think he
might be hiding in one of the bedrooms.” He turned his face to the
door. “What’s that noise?”

“La Noire has started singing.
You go out first. I will follow in few moments. I want a moment to
order my thoughts.”

Alone with her thoughts in the
quiet dark, trying to make sense of senseless death, the Countess
suddenly sensed she was not alone. The sensation came gradually.
Perhaps a barely-there breath, perhaps a gentle rustle, perhaps a
subtle shift, but she was certain there was someone else in the
cloak room. They had been there all along. Listening to every word.
She struck a lucifer and lit two cigarettes from the same
match.

“Would you care for a
cigarette, Monsieur Crespigny?”

Two kittenish eyes glowed red
as a raffish wraith emerged from the back of the closet and
reluctantly accepted the cigarette. Confusion echoed in the shaky
voice. “Who are you?”

“Countess Volodymyrovna.”

“Russian? Are you related to
Davidov?”

“Ukrainian. I’m not related to
anyone you know.”

The nervy young man continued
to shake his head. “I don’t understand. What are you doing here?
Why are you discussing the murders, the theatre…What has it got to
do with you?”

“I’m helping Inspector de Guise
of the Sûreté Nationale.”

“And your friend – Dr
Watson?”

“He is helping too. Let’s go
someplace else to talk. Guests might start collecting their mantles
shortly and we don’t want to be interrupted. Do you know what the
next room along is?”

“It’s Casimir’s private
study.”

“Casimir?”

“The librarian – Monsieur
Radzival.”

“
Suivez-moi
.”

The private study of Monsieur
Casimir Radzival was an irregular shaped room dominated by a large
secretaire built like a bookcase with plentiful drawers for storage
and an overhead cupboard fronted by two mirror-glass doors. A small
window reflected in the mirrored panels would have provided a view
over the tops of some trees in the daytime. Numerous armoires of
varying sizes ranged around the perimeter but there was only one
chair for sitting. Visitors were not invited into this private
study. It was a busy room but not untidy, a place for reading,
writing, cataloguing information, and doing research. Books were
stacked up straight like sentries on duty. A novel by Zola lay on
the turned-down lid of the secretaire. On it stood a heavy glass
paperweight of the Eiffel Tower.

The Countess waited until the
door was fully closed before instructing the playwright to adjust
the gasolier so that she could better observe the young man who
held the key to the macabre murders that had convinced them to
detour to Paris.

Confirmation that Davidov
forced the playwright to alter his scripts would be all the
evidence they needed. A charge accusing Davidov of personally
changing the scripts each month would be enough to incarcerate the
Russian. Monsieur Crespigny was clearly nervous, his hands were
trembling. He adjusted the little flame on the gasolier up and down
several times until he steadied and felt satisfied it was neither
too bright nor too gloomy. Did he already comprehend the
seriousness of events or was his fear indicative of his involvement
in the nefarious business?

She indicated for him to sit
down on the chair lest his legs give way while she perched herself
lightly on a corner of the secretaire.

“Your first three plays for
le Cirque du Grand Guignol
were staged on the third of
November?”

Agitated and helpless, he
looked around the room for an ashtray, as if stalling for time. She
located one nestling in a boxy compartment of the secretaire. It
was as clean as a whistle and so was the paper bin.

“Why should I answer your
question?”

She intuited the worm had grown
a backbone and got her back up too. “Because if you choose not to I
will summon Inspector de Guise and you can answer my question plus
several others at the Quai des Orfevres.”