The Curse of the Grand Guignol (29 page)

Which brought her to the
inspector’s poem. Tu quoque. It had been a while since she’d heard
that Latin phrase. Philosophically, two wrongs
did
make a
right. Was he thinking about the notion of revenge in relation to
the killings?

Radzival was a clear winner.
His library angel was lovely. It touched on the serendipitous
notion that one can pick up a library book and find something that
one has been searching for all along. There was tragic simplicity
in the imagery too.

As for Crespigny, the muse
really had deserted him. His poem had been entirely plagiarized.
Was he really as bad as all that? When he told her about Anonymous,
she had believed him, but what if none of it was true? He had
eavesdropped on their conversation in the cloak room. He knew they
were looking into the murders. He’d had several minutes to invent
something. And who better to invent a story than a writer? They
invented things for a living. Anonymous might be a fabrication to
deflect from the fact he scripted all the murders himself. He
supposedly destroyed all the evidence so there was only his word to
go by. In reality, he was quite articulate. He always seemed to
know the right thing to say. He was never lost for words.

If Crespigny was the killer
they were hunting, he might even manage the killings on his own
without the help of the troupe. He could easily pretend to be holed
up in his sitting room and then slip out of the theatre unnoticed
when everyone is distracted, perhaps already in disguise.
Respectable and articulate, he could lure the victims to some spot
in advance of the act and then kill them using the tool of the rag
and bone men.

She was fairly certain that’s
what the victims had been killed with and the inspector had
probably reached the same conclusion by now as well. She wondered
if the inspector had learned that a new rag and bone man had
recently joined the ranks of the old die-hards. She recalled the
newspaper article recounting the drowning of a rag and bone man
before they even arrived in Paris. Had the killer eliminated him
and then taken over his patch?

If it was Crespigny, he could
then dress himself up as a rag-grubber and transport the body to a
place he had selected in advance. He could easily mutilate the body
and dress it up. He had all the props on hand – knife, hatchet,
string, crossbars, lipstick and tag.

He could then clean himself up
at his rag and bone premises, store his cart and weapon, and either
return to the theatre or go to the peniche or arrive late at the
salonniere, no one the wiser. Clever, calculating and creative –
was that the real Raoul Crespigny?

Kiki tipped the absinthe and
laudanum into an empty vial of perfume and opened her door a crack.
Cautiously, she peeped out. Loud guffaws told her that the first
comedy act was up and running. The usual charivari was happening
back-stage. Wrapping her black cloak tighter, she fled out the door
leading to the back alley. She had unfinished business to take care
of.

Felix knocked and put his head
around the door.

“Davidov told me you’re taking
Kiki’s place tonight. We’re on next. Let’s go. If you forget your
lines I’ll cover for you, but it will be fine if you just make it
up as you go along. Try not to worry too much. It’s not
Shakespeare. The audience will enjoy the rape no matter what words
you use. I won’t actually hit you but you have to make it look like
I do. Plenty of screaming is what they like. Grunting and pain. On
the swing, try to look sad at the dove. You can hum a lullaby if
you forget your lines. Don’t forget to swap the real dove for the
fake one. The box is under the seat of the swing. Did Kiki tell you
that? Good. Otherwise I’ll have to wring the neck of the real dove
and crush it under my boot and it will leave a mess for the next
act.”

“Speaking of the swing,” she
said, “did someone check the rope?”

“Laszlo did. Why?”

She swallowed dry. “No
reason.”

The act went even more smoothly
than she imagined. When his back was to the audience, Felix winked
at her several times to let her know he was pleased with how she
was doing. Davidov was clearly amazed. She caught glimpses of him
standing in the wing triumphantly punching the air, especially
after the violent rape scene, which drew whoops of delight and
vociferous boos in equal measure from the crowd. She accepted both
as accolades.

But the best indication of the
naturalistic horror of her performance came from Dr Watson when he
stood up and walked out. Shock and disgust were still writ large
when he confronted her in Davidov’s sitting room enjoying a glass
of French champagne, compliments of the director.

“Have you gone mad? Where on
earth did you get that ridiculous costume? And what is that
frightful hat? What the blazes were you thinking? What in tarnation
was that act in aid of? Was that really necessary? And don’t try
and tell me it had anything to do with our investigation!”

Davidov, recognising
puritanical disapproval when he heard it, scooped up the bottle of
champagne and waved it aloft. “Let me pour you a glass of bubbly,
Doctor, to toast the success of the Countess’s acting debut.”

Dr Watson turned sharply; he
hadn’t registered the presence of the other man. “Get the hell out
of here, you trumped-up little idiot!”

Davidov did not appreciate
being directed at the best of times, and especially not inside his
own theatre. “This is actually my sitting room.”

“Get out! Get out before I am
forced to punch you on the nose!”

Davidov bumped into Mahmoud on
his way out. The Sikh, sensing that privacy might be the order of
the day, stood sentry outside the door. La Noire offered him a
cigarette. He declined but she lit one up for herself and decided
to linger. The doctor ranted for another fifteen minutes. The
Countess let him blow off steam while she got changed behind a
folding screen.

“Are you done?” she said
calmly, emerging dressed as herself. “Kiki was unable to perform
tonight. She is sleeping in her dressing room. And what better way
to keep an eye on everyone. You front of theatre, me
back-stage.”

He caught his red-faced
reflection in a gilt-framed mirror and drew breath. “So what did
you observe?”

“Nothing,” she admitted
flatly.

“Dandy! Just dandy! You realize
the sixth murder will be taking place right about now and we are no
closer to finding the killer than when we first arrived. That
frightful hat was for nothing!”

“I happen to like this
frightful hat.”

“Don’t you dare tell me you
liked taking part in that frightful performance as well or I really
will catch the next train to Calais,” he threatened.

A sharp rap of knuckles was
followed by the appearance of Mahmoud. “I thought you might want to
know the playwright just left the theatre using the back door. I
asked La Noire where the door went. She told me it led to a walled
yard. There’s a gate that leads to an alley. It comes out on rue
Ballu a few doors down from here. ”

The Countess’s brain whirred
like the gears of a finely tuned engine. “Well done, Mahmoud. Go to
rue Ballu at once. Don’t try and stop him but watch which direction
he takes. Wait for us at the front of the theatre.” She scooped up
the costume, including the frightful hat, and dumped them into the
arms of Dr Watson. “Put this back in Kiki’s dressing room. It
belongs to Coco. I don’t want to be responsible for its loss. Try
not to wake her. I’m going to catch the eye of Inspector de Guise.
He needs to be in on this chase. I’ll meet you out front.”

The second horror act was in
full swing. Vincent was gearing himself up to be beheaded. Hilaire
was prancing around menacingly with the fake saw prior to the gory
butchering. The Countess peered out from the side of the curtain
but Inspector de Guise was nowhere to be seen. His two companions
were also missing. The front row was vacant.

The quickest route now was via
the back stairs that led to the first tier and then straight down
into the foyer which opened onto rue Ballu. She hurried past Laszlo
and Salvador who were checking the strength of the fake windmill
for horror act number three. Hilaire was heavier than most men and
they wanted to be sure it would hold his weight when La Noire
strung him up. If it toppled over during the dismembering the
horror would turn into a farce and Davidov would string
them
up.

She bumped into the inspector
in the foyer. He was rushing for the exit, his two companions in
tow. He almost knocked her over.

“You’ve heard about Crespigny?”
she said breathlessly.

“No? What about him?”

“He left the theatre a few
moments ago. We’re going after him. Hurry!”

The inspector caught her by the
arm before she could rush off. He pointed to the mousy man standing
behind him. “This is Pascal Leveret. He is the policeman who found
victim number five. He was having a cigarette in the foyer when he
recognized the killer. He summoned me at once. He says it was
someone who came out of one of the private booths. The killer must
have recognized him. He bolted down the stairs just ahead of you. I
didn’t get a good look but it wasn’t Crespigny.”

Those finely tuned gears in her
brain came to a clunking standstill. She tried frantically to apply
some grease to the rusty cogs as she raced out to meet the others
on rue Ballu, knowing only that she was woefully baffled. If not
Crespigny, then who? It was bitterly cold but at least it wasn’t
raining. The street was deserted except for a long line of hackney
cabs waiting for the show to end so they could earn a fee. Horses
were stamping their feet in anticipation of some brisk
exercise.

Mahmoud spoke first. “Crespigny
took a cab. He headed that way.” He pointed west.

She tried to think but the
inside of her head was like a bottomless grease pit. “Question the
other cab drivers. See if they overheard where he was going.”

Everyone ran off in different
directions, leaving only her and Dr Watson standing at the front of
the theatre under the ghostly glare of a gaslight.

“Are you feeling all right? You
look frightfully pale.”

“It’s the face powder,” she
said. “Kiki’s powder is whiter than mine.”

“By the way, she wasn’t in her
dressing room.”

The Countess felt the first
dull crank in the stalled cogs. “Say that again.”

“Kiki wasn’t asleep. Someone
said they saw her leave before the show even started.”

The cogs kicked into action.
“
Merde
! I am a prize fool! The little
cascadeuse
is
heading to rue Bonaparte!”

“What are you talking
about?”

“The pretty little actress is
insane. She asked me if my maid was recovering. She is going to
kill Xenia. You must stop her. You must hurry. Take the landau.
Take Mahmoud!”

He started to rush off then
thought better of it and turned back. “What about Crespigny?”

“Inspector de Guise says the
killer is not Crespigny.”

“What about you? I cannot leave
you here.”

“Go! I need time to think!
There’s more happening tonight than we bargained for. I must
think!”

He was accustomed to obeying
orders and a natural born man of action. He hated standing around
thinking. He left her to pace the pavement of rue Ballu on her own
but she wasn’t alone for long. Madame Leveret came running up.

“The man who came out of the
alley jumped into a hackney cab and directed the driver to the
Trocadero.”

The Countess felt truly vexed.
“But the Trocadero is nothing more than a construction site. It’s
going to be part of the Paris Fair.”

“Yes,” said Madame Leveret.
“It’s across the river from the Champ de Mars. It’s where the fake
village is going up – the pagoda, the temple, the log cabin...”

“The fake windmill!”

Of course! The killer would not
choose the famous Moulin Rouge where he would be observed in the
act, nor would he choose an obscure miniature windmill of no
consequence. He was artistic. Theatrics mattered to him. The fake
windmill would make a perfect backdrop. What’s more, a construction
site was closed off at night. There would be no one about except
for a night-watchman or two. And tomorrow when the workers arrived
for work – well, what a sight would greet them but victim number
six, dismembered and strung up like a marionette!

Inspector de Guise ordered the
Leverets to remain at the theatre in case something transpired in
their absence. He and the Countess took a hackney cab to the
Trocadero.

There was no time to lose.

The hill of the Trocadero was
once a village called Chaillot. It overlooked Paris the same as
Montmartre. Today it had a beautiful view that at dawn would have
been an Elysian dream, looking east across the Seine and down the
stretch of the Champ de Mars to the Eiffel Tower.

It was crowned by the Palais du
Trocadero built for the last Paris Fair or perhaps the one before
that – the French adored their expositions. It was a building not
much loved by Parisians, a bit Moorish, a bit Byzantine, a bit odd,
with two towers reaching skyward from a round squat meeting hall,
or two minarets rising from a dumpy mosque, or two zombie arms
thrusting up from a mausoleum, depending on your point of view.

At its feet unfolded the
Jardin du Trocadero
which featured, bizarrely, a large
statue of a rhinoceros and an elephant. Why? Asked the citizens of
Paris. Why not? Came the reply.

During the carriage ride the
inspector confirmed what the Countess suspected about rag and bone
men. The murder weapon was most likely the spiked stick used by the
rag-grubbers. The hand-cart would have been ideal for transporting
the bodies. The locked warehouse on rue de Brouillard was most
likely his storehouse. He would have killed the original owner and
taken it over. It told them the murders had been planned long in
advance of their execution.