The Curse of the Grand Guignol (22 page)

Davidov’s booming voice could be
heard coming down the corridor. The trio looked askance at each
other.

“You better go now,” said
Vincent, ushering her quickly to the door.

She bumped into Dr Watson coming
out of the dressing-room of La Noire.

“The Negress said something
about you and a sheik and a red mill. I had no idea what she was
talking about.”

The Countess recalled the third
act featuring the windmill and kicked herself. “Go back and tell
her we will meet her at the Moulin Rouge tonight after the show. I
will go and invite Davidov. It will be my treat. Hurry, for we must
reserve a table at once!”

The Moulin Rouge on the
Boulevard de Clichy in the Pigalle was at the height of its
popularity. It opened its doors in 1889 and never closed them. The
second most popular attraction was the dance known as the can-can,
a risqué version of the quadrille. It featured frilly petticoats
and lots of legs. The most popular was the eye-popping chahut, a
bawdier version of the can-can with
splits-
sans
-culottes.

Courtesans, who had worked the
Garden of Montmartre for as long as anyone could remember, felt at
home at the red mill, and among their number was the shiny Negress
known as La Noire. At age thirty she was too old to turn tricks and
had taken to belting out Mississippi tunes between comedy acts like
Footit and Chocolat, and between dances, for which she was built
all wrong, having big bones instead of none at all, like Kiki who
was a petite rag-doll of boneless grace. But Davidov had snapped
her up for his horror show regardless and she was eternally
grateful.

Acting came easy to La Noire,
she got to sleep in of a morning, and she didn’t have to entertain
the men in the crowd if she didn’t feel like it, which generally
she didn’t since she’d entertained enough of them to last her a
lifetime. But the sheik was different. She’d never met anyone like
him before and it caused a queer flutter in her big black
belly.

His name was Mahmoud and he
spoke French but he didn’t talk much and she didn’t mind. She could
talk the legs off a table and since the Countess was paying for the
champagne, and champagne made her extra-talkative, there was not
much chance for him to get a word in.

Serge Davidov was in a good mood
too. Someone else was paying for the champagne for a change. He
used to come to the Moulin Rouge a lot when he was younger but
after that night with Lulu-en-l’air he’d lost interest. Besides, he
was busy these days raking in the money. If Lulu could see him now
she would drop to her knees and beg him to take her back. He
sometimes wondered where she was and who she was with. But only
when he was drunk. He felt like getting drunk tonight.

Mahmoud never drank alcohol. He
didn’t like to lose control of himself. Not since that time in
Kabul. The mullahs and the dancing boys. It made him feel sick just
thinking about it. How old was he then? Ten. That’s right. Zoya had
been twenty. Travelling with a group of mujahedeen. She had a gun
and shot the bastard. He’d vowed to be her slave from that day on.
When he was eighteen they became lovers. But her brother threatened
to shoot him. So she brought him to Paris. To the house on rue
Bonaparte. You will be safe here, she laughed. You can be my
maître de maison
. That was forty years ago.

Dr Watson was enjoying himself.
He’d heard of the can-can, of course. Every red-blooded Englishman
had heard of it ever since the Prince of Wales paid a visit to the
Moulin Rouge in 1890. The entertainment was light-hearted good fun.
It made him forget the murders and the Grand Guignol and the fact
his chest felt tight nearly all the time.

Countess Volodymyrova ordered
another bottle of French champagne…

Suffering from the
after-effects of too much bubbly, the Countess did not notice when
Mahmoud served her breakfast in bed instead of Xenia. It wasn’t
until he started preparing her bath in the adjoining dressing-room
that she knew something was amiss.

“Where’s Xenia?”

Mahmoud told her the maid had
gone out yesterday with her brother prior to breakfast and had not
yet returned.

The feeling that something was
amiss grew exponentially. “Where’s Fedir?”

“I believe your manservant is
still sleeping. He came in late last night, later than we did, and
has not yet risen.”

Mahmoud, who hadn’t touched a
drop of champagne, was looking a picture of hardiness. He had not
run to fat as most men his age had. He had to be sixty and yet he
was not in the least back-bent or brittle-boned. He picked up on
her alarm. “Is something the matter?”

“Yes, yes it is,” she said
tensely. “Wake my manservant
tout de suite
and send him to
me at once. Tell him it is urgent.”

Fedir arrived looking the worse
for wear. Days and nights of heavy vodka drinking were taking their
toll. He had the latest seditious pamphlet in his hand. “I thought
you might want to see this. The French inspector is being drawn
with a hare’s tail on his hat. It is a sign of –”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted
impatiently, hardly glancing at the scathing caricature before
tossing it aside, “a sign of cowardice. I know. Xenia is
missing.”

Fedir blinked and straightened
up. “Xenia.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Yesterday morning. I leave her
at Salpetriere and go to Café Bistro. She say she make own way home
when she finish.”

“She never returned. No one has
seen her since yesterday morning.”

Fear threatened to paralyse him
if he didn’t do something physical. He began pacing the foot of the
bed. “I must go to Salpetriere now!”

“Yes, yes, of course, but first,
tell me what you did there. Who did you see? Who did you speak to?
Where did you go?”

Xenia and Fedir were more than
servants, they had been childhood companions, playmates; they had
been by her side for as long as she could remember. They had
travelled everywhere with her. They were brother and sister - and
the closest thing to a brother and sister she was ever likely to
have. They knew all her secrets except for those she kept to
herself. She could not bear the thought of life without them. And
to be responsible for placing one of them in mortal danger was a
thought she could not bear either.

“We arrive early to Salpetriere
and stop for breakfast in garden after we buy bread from boulangère
on corner near to gate.”

“Did you notice anyone following
you?”

“No,” he said and then again
after a short pause, “no.”

“I think I am being followed,”
she explained quickly, “by a tall man in a black cloak. He may have
followed you too.”

“We go by hansom cab.”

“He may have followed in his own
hansom. He may have dressed differently.”

Fedir gnawed on his fist. “I
must go. I must find her.”

“Yes, but wait a moment. Answer
me. Who did you speak to while you were there?”

“Just man who gave me tour. I
pay him and he take me round the hospital and asylum. First, I walk
with Xenia in garden and – Wait! Now I remember. Old woman she come
up to us in garden. She want cigarette.”

“Did she scuttle like a crab and
hang her head?”

“Yes.”

“Little Marianne.”

“I see her watching Xenia when I
go on my tour. Xenia go on different tour so no one know we
together.”

“But someone may have seen you
together in the garden, perhaps from a window.”

“I must go,” he repeated
anxiously. “I must find Xenia. I must go at once.”

He was growing increasingly
agitated and his head, shaking from side to side in disbelief,
began to wobble as though he couldn’t accept what was happening; it
was as if all his fears were destabilizing him.

“You cannot go alone. Dr Watson
is still sleeping. The inspector lives too far away to get here in
time. Take Mahmoud!”

Fedir reacted violently to the
suggestion, though he had never yet questioned his mistress in all
the years he had known her. “No! I not trust him. He will get in my
way. He will make things worse.”

“There is no time to argue. Do
as I say. Take Mahmoud. Check the lower level of the asylum. There
are cells down there. The doors have no locks. Check the wing with
the prostitutes. It is behind the hospital. Tell people you are
searching for my maid. Explain to Mahmoud that I sent Xenia there
to look for someone I thought I recognised. Go!”

The dressing-room door opened
and Mahmoud entered looking squarely at Fedir. “I heard everything.
You can trust me. I can help you.”

The Countess checked the time on
the Ormolu clock while the two men stood face to face, staring
wordlessly at each other. It was ten minutes before ten. Time was
ticking.

“I planned to go to Salpetriere
today to give Monsignor Delgardo his invitation. I will meet you by
the statue in the forecourt at midday. That gives you two hours.
Hurry!”

Dr Watson woke for the first
time in weeks without any tightness in his chest but it didn’t last
long. News that Xenia was missing sent him into a straight-jacketed
panic. Things got worse when the Countess garbled on about what she
had witnessed in the lower level of the asylum, and worse still
when, during breakfast which consisted of a slice of unbuttered
toast washed down with a cup of lukewarm tea, a package arrived
wrapped in brown paper tied with string.

“I’ll unwrap it,” he said
firmly, picturing mutilated body parts belonging to Xenia.

“It’s addressed to me,” she
argued wilfully, bracing herself. “I’ll unwrap it.”

Trembling fingers tore away the
wrapping and she stared speechlessly at a queer looking puppet that
seemed familiar in all the worst ways.

“It’s Little Mary!” she laughed,
relief flooding her when recognition hit home.

“The antique marionette
belonging to Monsieur Grimaldi?”

“Yes, I left it with him. It was
the only one I didn’t buy.” Suddenly her blood ran cold. “But how
did he know where to send it?”

Dr Watson checked the address on
the brown paper and frowned. “No time for vague conjecture now.
It’s getting on for half past eleven. Let’s get our coats on.”

Neither spoke as they rattled
toward the thirteenth arrondissement. She was wondering how
Monsieur Grimaldi knew she lived on rue Bonaparte and Dr Watson was
wondering if the string was the same sort that was used to tie the
five victims.

They arrived at Salpetriere
fifteen minutes late. Not having a maid or manservant to navigate
the intricacies of the morning toilette had set them back. The
housemaid did her best with the corsetry and lacing, the stockings
and button boots, the hair pins and hat pins, but she was only
fourteen years of age and not accustomed to the accoutrements of a
lady.

“You said midday,” muttered Dr
Watson grimly, checking his pocket watch for the third time in ten
minutes as he circled the statue in the forecourt.

“Here they are now!”

The sight of two men sprinting
toward them minus Xenia sent hope plummeting. They had searched
everywhere and thoroughly scoured the lower level of the asylum,
poking their heads into all the cells. Likewise for the hospital
and the wing that housed the prostitutes. They had even checked the
latrines and cold-bath rooms. The only places they had not checked
were the locked medicine cupboards, storerooms and attics. There
was no sign of Xenia anywhere in this labyrinthine place which was
actually larger and more populated than most French villages.

“There is no reason to suspect
she is still here,” suggested Dr Watson pragmatically, trying to
sound like the voice of reason. “She may have met foul play on her
way home.”

“Mock me all you like,” said the
Countess, glancing across the grassy sward to the window that she
knew belonged to the office of Monsignor Delgardo, “but my
intuition tells me she is still here.”

“If I cannot convince you
otherwise then there is nothing for it but to search and search
again until we find her. But these two men need some breakfast.” He
handed them some money. “Get some bread from the boulangère. We
will wait here until you return.”

In that moment the Countess
could have hugged her dear friend, and almost did, but the shadowy
outline of a figure in the window watching them held her back. She
fingered the Gobolinks invitation in the pocket of her wool
coat.

“I’ll be back shortly.”

Dr Watson guessed where she was
going. “Don’t say something that will make it worse,” he warned.
“Don’t accuse Monsignor Delgardo of a heinous crime without
proof.”

“Do not presume to lecture me!”
she snapped, whirling back to stare him down, friendship taking
second place to a flare of anger fuelled by fear.

There is nothing more
intimidating than a woman who thinks she is in the right and when
that woman is fiercely intelligent it can be damned frightening,
but he refused to buckle. “From what you told me this morning I’m
guessing you think the girls in the cells are being violated. Am I
right?”

“Yes! For God’s sake, they were
tied to their beds!”

“And they were all emaciated and
glassy eyed?”

“Yes!”

“All of even size and weight and
similar in age?”

“Yes! And don’t you dare say
Delgardo is studying megalomania!”

“I think he might be conducting
tests, perhaps trying new medicines on the girls, possibly from the
opioid family. Scientists and doctors test new medicines on
like-subjects to get the doses right. The differing weight and size
and age of a patient can interfere with the efficacy of the dose.
If the subjects are kept still, unable to exercise, not fed much
food; it is easier to measure heart-rate, etcetera. The results
don’t suffer from variables.”