The Curse of the Grand Guignol (12 page)

“Which camp appeals to you,
Monsieur Radzival?”

He seemed momentarily bemused,
presumably unaccustomed to airing a personal opinion; as opposed to
voicing facts and figures. His explanation had been succinct,
enlightening and yet said nothing about the man who had voiced
it.

“I feel no personal affiliation
to any of the camps.”

“You sympathise with Alfred
Dreyfus?”

“Yes, of course, all but an
ardent anti-Semite would.”

“La marquise is fortunate to
have an enlightened thinker in her employ. You are her librarian
but you are not French?”

“I was born in Krakow. My
parents came here when I was a child of five. I have known only
France but as you rightly point out I am not French.”

“You are putting the library in
order?”

“Yes, la marquise has a vast
collection of books – more than five thousand – which were the
pride and joy of the late Marquis de Merimont. The library is on
the north side of the maison, away from the ravages of the sun. If
we had time I could show you. I am creating order out of chaos,
re-arranging the shelves and cataloguing the books.”

“An immense task.”

“A labour of love.”

They were interrupted by a dry
cough. It was Dr Watson.

“Monsieur Crespigny appears to
be suffering from nothing more than a combination of poor nerves,
exhaustion and lack of sleep. He has gone to bed.” He looked
meaningfully at his counterpart. “Shall I fetch your cloak? The
blue wool mantle with the ermine trim, was it?”

“Thank you,” she said, and,
“Good evening to you, Monsieur Radzival.”

Dr Watson’s reaction to the
revelation that Raoul Crespigny was not the author of his own plays
was everything the Countess expected. He moved quickly through the
emotions traditionally associated with death: disbelief, denial,
despair and then grief.

“It must be Serge Davidov,” he
said adamantly when he finally faced up to the fact of the matter.
“It cannot be anyone else.”

“Why can’t it be anyone else?”
she challenged.

“There is no one else, that’s
why.”

“Of course, there is. It could
be anyone in Paris. It could be that rag and bone man,” she said
flippantly, indicating the man pushing his rickety cart along the
gutter in search of rubbish he could turn into profit. “Monsieur
Crespigny is coming to rue Bonaparte at midday tomorrow. He claims
he doesn’t know who the author is, and I believe him, but he might
shed some light on the matter, which might then help us to track
down the anonymous auteur for ourselves.”

“We should invite Inspector de
Guise.”

“No, he will simply frighten
our playwright to death. Monsieur Crespigny is nervous enough.
That’s what makes me think he knows more than he has revealed so
far. We will go to the inspector as soon as we have something
tangible. How did Monsieur Crespigny seem when you left him?”

“Much calmer. I think he
relaxed as soon as he realized he would not have to face the mad
Russian director. That’s why I think we cannot dismiss Serge
Davidov out of hand.”

“I am not dismissing Davidov
out of hand, but I do not believe he authored the plays. Raoul
Crespigny may simply be terrified of facing the Russian because of
the director’s fierce temper. Raoul said he made the link between
the plays and the murders today. No wonder he was hiding all night
from the director. Would you want to confess you hadn’t actually
written the plays you were putting your name to, plays which are
set pieces for actual murders, plays which could force the closure
of the theatre, bankrupt the owner, put everyone out of a job, and
possibly land yourself on Devil’s Island?”

Dr Watson recalled his own
close shave with the notorious prison and squirmed. “Since you put
it that way, no, I guess not, except the director will probably
murder the playwright with his own bare hands before the poor sod
even gets to Devil’s Island.”

Two pieces of disturbing news
came to light when Xenia brought up the Countess’s breakfast tray.
The first was that Mahmoud had been out all evening. Xenia had
watched him sneak out straight after Dr Watson and the Countess had
departed for the theatre. He had returned mere moments after their
carriage dropped them home.

The second piece of disturbing
news was that the coachman who had been employed by the
notaire
, along with several housemaids, a cook, etcetera,
had mentioned to the other staff in passing conversation during
breakfast that he was sure that a hansom cab with no passenger had
followed him from clos de Millefleurs all the way to rue Bonaparte
and that it had then disappeared into one of the mews. Xenia had
overheard the conversation and recognized enough French to
comprehend the implications.

The Countess had warned herself
against jumping to conclusions ever since her first foray into
conclusion-jumping had almost brought her undone during the
Baskerville case, but there was something worrying about both
pieces of information.

The first was not necessarily
anything to cause panic. Mahmoud had possibly never been bound by
the same rules that govern normal household staff. Although the
Countess viewed him as a
maître de maison
, her step-aunt may
have considered him more as a paid companion, perhaps even an
exotic travelling companion who had finally settled down in one
spot, leaving her to roam on her own, or more to the point, to
travel with her step-child. Her aunt’s outlook had always been
rebellious and unconventional.

The second was more worrying.
Was someone shadowing them?

The Countess shared none of her
concerns with her own travelling companion, but for the time being,
kept them to herself.

Fedir had had a promising
evening at Café Bistro. He had hit it off with the surly brothers.
He had railed vociferously against the republic, the tsar, the
church and everyone else the brothers happened to despise. The
Paris Fair was a Patyomkin village and he should know since he was
Odessan, the Dreyfus affair was a Jewish conspiracy and he should
know because the storms of the negev had given him a taste for wily
Jews. He stopped short of inviting himself down to the cellar to
view the printing press but he felt an invitation would be
forthcoming before the week was out.

Mademoiselle Kiki had stayed
all evening at the café, entertaining the red-necks with
handstands, backflips and cart wheels, often finishing with a
demonstration of the splits on top of the zinc bar. Klaus promised
to build her a trapeze inside the café. This novel idea drew
thunderous applause. Her decision not to attend the salonniere at
the Hotel de Merimont, but to stay with her comrades, won her
endless praise. She was crowned Queen of the Café, Princess of the
Pigalle and Mistress of Montmartre. Someone made her a blue sash
from a cravat. Someone else created a crown from a lamp shade.
Someone found some lace curtains in a nearby shop and made a regal
cloak that trailed the greasy floor. She played the part of the
Empress of France as if she had been born to it.

Midday came and went. The
Countess began to grow increasingly worried. She paced the window
that overlooked rue Bonaparte and checked every passer-by. When she
sat down, Dr Watson took over. He had worried all night about how
much the playwright had overheard of their conversation in the
cloakroom the moment he learned of the eavesdropping. Uncannily, he
could have sworn someone was in there with them but put his
suspicions down to all those disembodied cloaks.

“He’s thirty minutes late.”

“I can tell the time,” she
returned tetchily.

“Something’s happened.”

“Clearly.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about
this.”

“I had a bad feeling about it
last night.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“I wanted him to come home with
us in the carriage,” she reminded.

“Why didn’t you insist on
it?”

“La marquise intervened.”

“Since when have you been swayed
by the wishes of others?”

“Another five minutes and then
we go to Hotel de Merimont.”

“I’ll tell the coachman to get
the landau ready.”

He was half way to the door
when the front door knocker gave a resounding bang.

Feeling suddenly foolish, they
both drew a calming breath, but the arrival of the librarian
instead of the playwright had them both looking ill at ease.

“I apologise for arriving
unannounced,” said Monsieur Radzival, noting the pair of strained
smiles, wondering if he had walked in at an awkward moment or even
interrupted a lover’s quarrel.

Dr Watson, naturally courteous,
might have successfully pulled off some social sleight-of-hand
despite the tension but the Countess was not one for prevarication
unless the situation demanded it in accord with her new career in
sleuthing.

“We were expecting Monsieur
Crespigny,” she said. “Is he still asleep?”

“Oh, no, he disappeared some
time during the night.”

“Disappeared!” The word burst
forth in a double echo.

Unsure who to address first, Mr
Radzival addressed both simultaneously. “He was gone by the time I
got up. That was at nine o’clock. He must have returned to his
peniche.”

The doctor jumped in first.
“Peniche?”

“Houseboat.”

“Did you actually see him go?”
he queried.

“No, he must have gone quietly
in the early hours.”

“Do you know the name of his
peniche and where it can be found?” quizzed the Countess.

“Yes, it’s called Bobo. You
will find it on Canal Saint-Martin on the Quai de Jemmapes, not far
from the Hospital Saint-Louis.”

The Countess suddenly realized
that because she had not taken a seat, her visitor had not sat down
either. She immediately remedied the situation by planting herself
in the nearest chair. Things felt less strained and the librarian
opened the leather satchel he had been clutching.

“You expressed an interest in
the Dreyfus affair yesterday evening,” he said conversationally. “I
thought you might appreciate reading a copy of Emile Zola’s letter.
La marquise has several copies in her possession and is happy for
you to have this one. You may keep it.” He also pulled out some
papers bound in string. “I thought you might also be interested in
some essays on the subject. They will provide a broad over-view of
the Dreyfus case. You may return them at your leisure.”

The Countess was clearly
delighted that he had come expressly to offer some interesting
reading material, and since the small round table by the Chinese
screen was already set for three, she invited the librarian to
lunch.

Their visitor did wonder at the
prescience of the three places and even wondered if the Countess
might be one of those psychics who were all the fashion with the
demi-mondain.

Dr Watson waited until the
French onion soup had been served. “My recollection of the Dreyfus
affair is sketchy. Would you mind recalling the main facts for
me?”

“Certainly, in 1894 Captain
Alfred Dreyfus, an Alsacien Jew, was accused of passing secret
information to the Germans in Paris. He was tried and convicted and
sent to Devil’s Island. In 1896 a counter-espionage officer by the
name of Colonel Picquart discovered that certain incriminating
papers at the heart of the case against Dreyfus had been forged by
Major Esterhazy who was in fact the real culprit. However, this new
evidence was suppressed and Major Esterhazy, though forced to
answer charges, was acquitted by a military court. In 1898 Emile
Zola published a letter outlining the fantastic miscarriage of
justice. It caused public outrage. A new trial was held this year.
Dreyfus returned from Devil’s Island to France on the Sfax. He was,
however, found guilty of additional trumped up charges yet again
and sentenced to another ten years, but then, astonishingly,
pardoned and set free.”

“An extraordinary affair from
start to finish,” mused the doctor with a sad shake of his head.
“Confidence in the Army and the Judiciary will be undermined for
years. What happened to Esterhazy?”

“He changed his appearance by
shaving off his moustache and fled to parts unknown.”

“And Picquart?”

“He was transferred to North
Africa for his trouble. I do not know his current whereabouts.”

Monsieur Radzival finished up
by reading Zola’s famous letter:
J’accuse
.

Dr Watson, still concerned
about the playwright, glanced at the Ormolu clock on the mantel as
they enjoyed some
après-dejeuner
cigarettes. It had just
gone half past one o’clock.

“I am a trifle concerned for
Monsieur Crespigny’s health,” said Dr Watson casually, looking
earnestly at the Countess. “I think I might follow up with a visit
to his peniche to make certain he is not suffering any ill effects
from his exhaustion. I saw a case once where it led to brain fever.
One can never be too careful.”

“I can come with you and direct
your coachman if you like,” offered Monsieur Radzival. “It can be
tricky to find your way around that quarter of Paris. Construction
work around the canal is never-ending, what with iron bridges and
locks needing constant repairs and so forth.”

Hospital Saint-Louis in the
north-east of Paris, originally a hospital for plague victims, was
set in beautiful park-like grounds reminiscent of the salubrious
Place des Vosges, but the rest of the area was a grim poverty park.
The canal had been built at the beginning of the century in order
to bring clean drinking water to Paris but it didn’t take long for
the canal to turn oily. It was lined with overcrowded peniches,
fishing lines dangling from boat decks, laundry flapping in the
breeze, and dogs and children scouring the muddy banks for anything
that might earn a sous or two.