The Curse of the Grand Guignol (33 page)

“He killed the priest to silence
him?”

She nodded. “It confirms the
link to the rag and bone man too.”

“He was killed with the same
sharp spike as the others and the body hidden, perhaps under the
rags on the hand-cart, and then transported by wagonette to the
construction site and left there until tonight. No one would have
checked the wagonette, and if they did, well, they would have found
the body earlier, that’s all.”

“Yes, I think that makes
sense.”

“How does Crespigny fit in?”

“You were right in that regard,
inspector, he is not the murderer. He didn’t have time to stage the
corpse.”

“But he must have known in
advance about the windmill?”

“He guessed it would be act
three, the dismemberment, the same as we did, but he correctly
guessed the Trocadero before us. Nevertheless, his behaviour
tonight indicates something very significant.”

“It does?”

“Yes,” she said, “it tells me he
knows who the murderer is.”

“You don’t think he is working
in tandem with the killer?”

“No, I think he is trying to
protect the killer.”

“In that case, I had better go
and arrest him tonight. If he knows the name of the killer it is
time to put a stop to this madness. Did you say he lived on a
peniche on Canal Saint-Martin near the Hospital Saint-Louis?”

“Yes, but…”

“What was the name of his
peniche?”

“Bobo, but...”

“You sound unsure. What is
it?”

“I don’t think he will surrender
the name of the killer. It will be an exercise in futility. In
fact, it may simply alert the killer and cause him to flee.”

“If he flees the country at
least the murders will cease. That has to be a solution worth
aiming for.”

“He may flee and then return and
start all over again. Or he may go underground and resurface sooner
than you think.”

“You seem to have an idea who
the killer is?”

“The metaphorical fog is slowly
lifting.”

They were crossing the Pont
Neuf; if anything the fog was thicker here than the rest of Paris
combined. He could have sworn it had penetrated his brain.

“Are you going to hazard a
guess?” he said.

“I prefer to sleep on it.”

“Well, I sincerely hope you get
some sleep. I certainly won’t. If you won’t give me a name, I will
be at the Canal Saint-Martin at first light.”

“I don’t think you will find
Crespigny on his peniche. You will be wasting your time,
inspector.”

They turned the corner into rue
Bonaparte to find a small crowd gathered on the pavement under a
yellow gaslight, Fedir and Mahmoud among them. The Countess felt
her heart leap into her throat. Her first thought was for Xenia.
She had completely forgotten about Xenia and Kiki from the moment
she arrived at the Trocadero and they found the mutilated body of
Père Denys. She banged her fist on the back wall of the hackney
cab.

“Stop! Stop!” she called
urgently.

Inspector de Guise caught the
desperation in her tone and leapt out while the wheels were still
rolling. “I’m a policeman. What’s going on?”

“There’s a dead girl here,”
someone said, indicating a body under a blanket.

“Fell straight onto the
pavement,” added another importantly.

Shaking with fear, the Countess
found her manservant in the crowd. “Not Xenia?” she whispered
tremulously, her voice trembling as much as her legs.

He met her gaze and shook his
head. “Kiki.” He glanced up at the roofline. It told her all she
needed to know. The insane acrobat had fallen to her death.

“And Xenia?”

“She will be all right. Dr
Watson is with her.”

The Countess did something no
lady of rank would ever do. She hugged her manservant in public.
There was a terrible story here but she sensed now was not the time
to elicit it. She had been holding onto her last inhalation for one
long moment and finally exhaled.

The inspector took charge. “Has
someone gone to fetch a policeman?”

Mahmoud spoke up. “Someone ran
off half an hour ago. They haven’t returned. The man over there in
the top hat said there’s something happening at the Trocadero. All
the police have been summoned to attend to it.”

“Wrap the body in the blanket
and put it into the cab,” he commanded. “I’m on my way to the Quai
des Orfevres. I’ll see to it from here.”

As Mahmoud bent down to scoop up
the body something sparkly fell out of his pocket.

“What’s that?” said the
inspector, picking up a diamond earring.

“It’s mine,” said the Countess,
holding out her hand. “I just dropped it.”

He had no choice but to give it
to her, though he noticed she was already wearing an earring on
both ears – and neither of them were diamonds.

“Come to Des Ballerines for
breakfast, inspector. Shall we say ten o’clock? I dare say you will
have your hands full for another hour or two tonight and even the
most tireless guardians of justice need some sleep. Several matters
need to be cleared up and I think I will be able to do that for you
tomorrow.”

Against all his policing
instincts, he bowed to her wish.

With the calabash nestled
warmly in the palm of his hand, Dr Watson paced the tiny attic
bedroom and cocked an eye at regular intervals out of the dormer
window. He saw the crowd gathered under the gaslight and knew
something out of the ordinary was taking place but he dared not
leave Xenia’s bedroom lest another assassin turn up out of the
blue.

When the Countess arrived to
check on her maid’s recovery the doctor learnt of Kiki’s death for
the first time and shuffled off to bed shaking his head at the
string of senseless deaths.

Fedir could not be dissuaded
from sleeping in a chair in his sister’s room. He wanted to be
present the moment she woke up. He briefly related the events of
the night to his mistress, including the part the Sikh had played
in saving his life. His recount explained the earring that had
fallen out of Mahmoud’s pocket.

Utterly exhausted, the Countess
removed herself to her own bedchamber where the young housemaid,
Claudette, was waiting to help her prepare for bed.

“I’m too tired to have my hair
brushed tonight,” sighed the Countess, roughly combing some fingers
through her tussled chestnut mane. “Leave the clothes and jewels
where they are. You can put them away tomorrow. What’s that thing
sticking out from under the bed?”

Claudette retrieved a piece of
paper. “I cannot read, la comtesse, but it has drawings on it about
the police and the puppets. Cook had the same paper in the kitchen
yesterday. She said the drawings were not even new. She remembered
one from the year everyone in France lost their money. Shall I put
it on the fire?”

Vaguely, the Countess recalled
the latest creative handiwork of the Brotherhood which Fedir had
brought in to show her the morning she discovered Xenia was
missing. So much had happened since that time her head was still
spinning. “Yes, throw it on the fire and then go to bed. You can
tidy up tomorrow.”

She blew out the candle and was
about to place her head on the pillow when she suddenly launched
herself across the room, snatched up the fire poker and rescued the
leaflet from the embers. It was singed on the edges but otherwise
intact.

Vindicated, her hand was
shaking as she beheld the caricatures in the faint glow of the
fire. One was a reprint of the Panama Affair. It portrayed rich men
– financiers, government ministers - like automatons. The caption
read: “Few new toys this year: we’re liquidating everything that
remains of the stock of marionettes that say: Papa, Nana, Mama,
Panama.”

Punctuality was a virtue in the
eyes of Inspector de Guise who arrived promptly for ten o’clock. He
had slept soundly if not long, and woke feeling refreshed. Just
after first light he was boarding the peniche on the Canal
Saint-Martin. Crespigny was nowhere to be seen and his bed was
cold. According to the three circassiens on the neighbouring
peniche, Crespigny had mysteriously disappeared from the theatre
along with Kiki. Word was they had eloped. The Humboldts had
already paid a visit to Bobo ahead of the inspector and threatened
to break every bone in Crespigny’s body when they caught up with
him.

Always fashionable, never
fussy, the Countess was wearing an elegant morning dress that
showed to perfection her
jolie ligne de taille
. It was of
lightweight blue-grey wool that draped well and brought out the
colour of her eyes. He imagined a matching casaque in striped serge
if a stroll out of doors was called for. The latest fashion of
feminizing men’s frock-coats seemed to both suit her figure and her
character.

“Did I not advise you not to
waste your time, inspector?” she essayed emphatically. “Here, look
at this.”

If it was one thing a man hated
it was being told something by a woman which later proved to be
right. He barely glanced at the leaflet, thinking it might be more
of the same in the line of merciless caricatures, and tossed it
contemptuously back on the breakfast table. He was starving and the
table was groaning with all his culinary favourites – lardon,
jambon, pork sausages, potato rosti, herb omelettes, galettes,
crepes, croissants, brioches, plenty of yellow butter and good
strong coffee. He did not plan to stint.

“Did you notice the caricature
in the corner?” she prompted, pouring herself a cup of tea after
first filling his coffee cup.

With jaw in over-drive, he
shook his head, wondering if she was trying to compound his
inadequacy.

“It is interesting,” she said
meaningfully, turning the paper right way up and passing it back to
him.

Obligingly, he cast a rueful
eye and instantly stopped shovelling food. “The tags,” he said,
making the connection at once. “Did the Humboldt’s draw this or
Laszlo?”

“Neither, it is a reprint from
the time of the Panama Affair. The cook remembers it. I think it is
the thing which gave our murderer the idea to stage the crimes and
pose the victims as puppets. Ideas generally take time to germinate
and they need to be nourished. Please help yourself to another herb
omelette, inspector. Dr Watson will not be joining us. He has been
battling bronchitis for some time and I have instructed the
servants to let him sleep.”

“So you have totally discounted
Crespingy?’

“Yes.”

“You have formed a conclusion
as to who the murderer is?”

“Yes I have, and as soon we
settle matters here we must make haste to the Hotel de
Merimont.”

Matters
referred to the
death of Kiki. The inspector listened to the Countess’s version of
events then insisted on hearing the versions given by Fedir and
Mahmoud. By then Dr Watson had surfaced to corroborate their
stories. Xenia had also recovered sufficiently and was able to add
to everyone’s understanding, recounting what she had witnessed at
the asylum when she walked in on Kiki trying to hasten her sister’s
journey to the next world. Dr Watson breakfasted on whatever the
inspector had not consumed and accompanied them to the clos des
Millefleurs.

The Marquise de Merimont had
already breakfasted from a tray in her palatial lit-a-la-polonaise
as was her custom and was sitting at the writing desk in her
boudoir, positioned away from the window, out of the glare of Sol
Invictus, so as not to ruin the exquisite marquetry and the
splendid brass mouldings depicting a rich rococo harvest of fruit
and flowers.

It was touching on midday when
her trio of visitors arrived unannounced. But these were strange
times and la marquise instructed they be shown upstairs to join her
in her private salon with its eau de nil panels of
watermarked-silk, cachepots of pink tulips and fine Aubusson rug. A
fire had been burning all morning and the room was pleasantly warm.
Pale Parisian light picked up the delicate design in the Sevres
porcelain on the twin demilune tables and highlighted the silvery
glamour of her noble countenance.

They settled in silk fauteuils
by the carved marble fireside while the Countess made polite
conversation, commenting on the harmonious colours in the Aubusson
and the superb craftsmanship of the roll top bureau.

“It once graced the drawing
room of Madame de Polignac,” said their hostess, “a gift from Marie
Antoinette.”

When the Countess moved to
admire the desk more closely, la marquise visibly stiffened. And
when she suddenly rolled back the cylinder top, la marquise fairly
jumped.

“It glides smoothly,” noted the
Countess, testing the lid by rolling it back and forth. “My Louis
quatorze cylinder desk has started to jam. It is a common problem
with the veneer and inlay of cylinder desks,
n’est-ce
pas
?”

“Yes, quite,” said la marquise
tensely, sitting on the edge of her seat. “To what do I owe the
pleasure of your impromptu visit?” She looked imploringly from to
another of her guests but the inspector’s face was frozen and Dr
Watson’s was disapproving.

The Countess had declined all
overtures to reveal the name of the killer, or who she believed was
the killer, and yet neither man could accept it was la marquise –
yet why else were they here in the feminine salon and the Countess
behaving with such appalling gaucheness?

“There was another Marionette
Murder last night,” said the Countess matter-of-factly, re-taking
her seat.

“Is that why you rushed away
from the theatre last night?” asked la marquise, ringing a little
silver bell on the mantle. “I saw you when I stepped out to have a
cigarette. Private booths are frightfully airless. One may as well
light up inside an armoire.” She handed around a silver cigarette
box and a box of lucifers.