The Curse of the Grand Guignol (6 page)

“Four murders in the space of
one month,” said the doctor as he stood up to stoke the fire.
“Let’s hope it is the last. The Ripper stopped suddenly. It happens
sometimes.”

No one said anything while a
Faberge cigarette box was passed around. The inspector opted to
sample an aromatic Egyptian cigarette rather than his usual cheap
brand.

“I’m afraid the murderer will
not stop at four. There has already been a fifth.”

“Oh, yes,” reasoned the
Countess as Dr Watson passed her a lighted gasper and the penny
dropped. “It has just gone one week.”

“Yes,” confirmed the inspector,
inhaling the pungent Egyptian cigarette.

“What did the tag for number
five say?” asked the doctor, re-taking his seat.

“Didi.”

“A Slavic endearment for
grandfather,” supplied the Countess when her companion looked to
her to elaborate. “The killer seems to be saying the murders are
connected to members of a family, not necessarily
his
family, but something to do with family nonetheless: mama, papa,
baba, tato, didi. Did the fifth corpse have red lipstick smeared on
the lips and cheeks, inspector?”

“Yes.”

“Five murders in five weeks,”
mused the doctor grimly.

“Yes,” intoned the inspector.
“The fifth victim was discovered just last night. The first murder
occurred on the third day of November, the second murder on the
tenth, the third was on the seventeenth, the fourth on the
twenty-fourth and now, one week later exactly, we have the fifth
murder. It occurred last night; the first day of December. It
appears the killer is following a methodical pattern. I fear that
he is also becoming accustomed to killing, perhaps even enjoying
himself.”

“Mmm,” agreed the doctor
dourly, “you could say he is finding his stride.”

“Tell us more about the fourth
victim,” pressed the Countess, backtracking.

“Dr Eugene Mueller, born in
Lichtenstein, was like the others – elderly, prosperous,
respectable, a doctor of philosophy, not medicine. He had written
several books on the history of the Crusades and was recognized as
a scholar among those who understood such things. We have no idea
why he might have been visiting the little cemetery in the middle
of the night or even what he might have been doing in Montmartre on
that particular night. He lived in an affluent quarter near the
Jardin du Luxembourg
. He appeared to have no family or
friends in Montmartre. He was not working on a new book and none of
the graves in the Cimetiere du Calvaire have anything to do with
the Crusades. It just makes no sense that he would be found there,
dead, mutilated, his eyes gouged out.”

“He was a father?”

“You make reference to the word
‘tato’. As it happens, yes, he was, but his only child lives in
Boston with her husband. The deceased was estranged from his
daughter, and she will not be returning to Paris for the funeral,
such is the antipathy between father and daughter. The estrangement
was caused by the daughter’s decision to marry against her father’s
wishes. He did not approve of the American husband. But that
disapproval was nearly thirty years ago. It is not something
recent. Father and daughter have not spoken for thirty years. He
has had no contact whatsoever with his grandchildren either. We did
not delve any further into the family background because it did not
seem relevant and our time was quickly diverted to the fifth
murder.”

Dr Watson made a sympathetic
tut-tut noise. “You must be run off your feet?”

The inspector nodded with weary
resignation. “I pray the fifth may be the last but I did the same
after the fourth. I fear we are in for more. The killer, as you
observed earlier, doctor, appears to have hit his stride.”

“Tell us about the fifth,” said
the Countess. “The victim was once again a man?”

“Yes, Captain Stanislaw Lodz.
He has a distinguished military record. Upon retirement he
inherited a large and prosperous vineyard in Alsace. He did not
travel often to Paris and we do not know why he made this last trip
to the city. He married late in life and enjoyed a quiet life on
his estate with his young wife and three children. A thorough check
revealed a man of good character. The location of the corpse was of
interest.”

The Countess’s arching eyebrows
urged him to elaborate. “How so, inspector?”

“The corpse had been propped as
if sitting at a table outside the Café Bistro. It is a dubious
establishment near the Moulin Rouge, owned by a trio of German
brothers well-known to police as political agitators. They publish
pamphlets urging the overthrow of the government, the judiciary,
the police and so forth. The café is frequented by others of their
ilk: disgruntled rabble rousers, anarchists, social misfits,
penniless artists and scribblers that no one reads.

The patrolman who discovered
the corpse reported that the body was still quite warm. He had
possibly just missed the killer by the briefest margin. The victim
had once again been spiked through the heart by something sharp and
lethal. The police surgeon discovered that the tongue had been cut
out post mortem. There was red lipstick on the mouth and cheeks.
The tag was around the neck.

I returned to the café this
morning to interview the three German brothers but they have an
intense dislike of authority and were defensive and uncooperative.
They claim to have been in the cellar of the café for most of the
night and thus did not hear anything unusual. I am reluctant to
believe anything they say but I have to admit I do not think they
would murder an elderly man and pose his body outside their own
café. It is quite likely someone is either trying to frame them for
the murder, or more likely, it was simply a convenient place to
prop the corpse.

Most café owners take their
furniture in before they close up for the night. The Humboldts, for
that is their surname, do not bother. The killer may have been
aware of this and made use of it. What an elderly respectable man
would be doing in the Pigalle at that time of night is the
question. Was he lured to the spot by someone he knew? Was he
merely passing by? I am open to any theories. If you have any ideas
please feel free to air them.”

Neither Dr Watson nor the
Countess replied to his entreaty. The details of the five murders
were still swimming in a sea of endless possibility. The inspector
noted the time on an Ormolu clock and pushed to his feet.

“If there is another murder
next week I will let you know at once. I hope I have not taken you
out of your way for no reason. By the way, I would appreciate it if
you do not reveal the details of the murders to anyone outside this
room. I refer particularly to the name tags and the puppet-like
staging. Myself, my men, my superior officer and the police surgeon
are the only ones who are aware of the specifics and that is how I
would like to keep it.
Bonne journee
.”

Dr Watson showed the inspector
to the door where he commiserated once again with his hefty
workload and assured him they understood the need for discretion.
When he returned to the salon he found the Countess instructing her
Ukrainian manservant, Fedir, to hurry along and secure two tickets
for the next performance of Le Grand Guignol.

“You didn’t mention about the
puppets already?” he said flatly when Fedir left the room. “And by
the way, I refuse to go to the theatre. I refuse to attend a
performance of amoral horror. It will only encourage more of the
same. Before we know it theatres promoting lechery will start
springing up in every city and it will become the norm.”

“Very well,” she relented with
surprising biddableness, noting the self-righteous and censorious
tone. “I will go with Mahmoud. He looks like he could use a night
out at the theatre. I imagine he rarely goes out of an
evening.”

“Do you think that is
wise?”

“Wise?”

“Degeneracy, lechery, violence
– have you seen the size of his dagger?”

“It is a religious
accoutrement.”

“A dagger is a dagger.”

“Your fears are
exaggerated.”

“Nonetheless, I will rest
easier if you take Fedir instead.”

“Fedir will be paying a visit
to Café Bistro tonight. He will be busy ingratiating himself with
his Slavic comrades. I have already instructed him to play the part
of a disgruntled Don Cossack, angry with the tsar after the
humiliating defeat of the Crimean War which supposedly killed off
his grandfather and impoverished his family, etc, etc.”

The doctor didn’t say anything
for a moment or two. But there was no way he could allow her to
venture into the Pigalle after dark in the company of a man they
had met for the first time not more than a few hours ago – a man
who wielded a dagger as naturally as Mrs Hudson wielded a teapot -
not when there was a lunatic with a link to Slavs on the loose in
the city. Hell! Five murders so far! The lunatic might even make
the Ripper look like a rank beginner! Oh, well, he would just have
to bite the bullet.

“In that case, I will go with
you after all. If you think the Grand Guignol is somehow linked to
the murders then I suppose we might as well put your theory to the
test.”

“I don’t know if the Grand
Guignol is linked to the murders, but I’m certain the murderer is
linked to the Grand Guignol.”

“Isn’t that the same thing in
reverse?”

“Not at all - if the victims
are not connected to the theatre, and we have no reason to doubt
the inspector when he asserts that there is no such connection,
then it must be the killer who has the theatrical connection. A
crime scene usually says something about the killer and these crime
scenes say more than most, in fact, they appear entertainingly
scripted.”

“Patyomkin!”

“Are you referring to Prince
Potemkin, comrade?”

“Durack! Are you deaf! That’s
what I said! The Paris Fair is a Patyomkin village!”

“Yes! Yes! I see your point,
comrade. The whole thing is a theatrical ruse to amuse the idle
rich – Turkish minaret, Indian temple, Chinese pagoda, Dutch
windmill, American log cabin, English Tudor mansion…a side-show to
take attention away from the poverty and misery afflicting the
masses!”

“Don’t forget the human
zoo!”

“The entire exposition is a
zoo!”

“What about that monstrosity of
a gate?”

“La Salamanda!”

Everyone fell about
laughing.

“Don’t forget La
Parisienne!”

“A triumph of
prostitution!”

The infamous quote always had
the same effect – grown men wept with laughter and almost wet their
pants.

The raucous laughter reminded
Fedir of kookaburras in the Australian bush. He had decided on the
spur of the moment to pay a visit to Café Bistro en route to the
Pigalle. He wanted to get a feel for the place before returning
later in the evening. Men who frequented such establishments were
naturally wary of newcomers. They would remember him and know that
a second visit meant he was not merely passing through Paris. He,
in turn, could pretend to be wary of them, as if he had something
to hide – a dark secret coupled with a seething resentment of
authority.

He ordered vodka and slapped
some coins on the greasy bar, his eyes straying casually to the
dust-smeared mirror that had lost its silver polish some time
during the last revolution. The tarnished glass reflected the broad
back of the blond barman as he reached for a bottle under the zinc
counter, ignoring the bottle of Russian vodka on the shelf behind
him.

Klaus sloshed out a generous
measure.

Fedir intuited he was being
tested and tipped the colourless contents down his throat in one
go, trying not to wince. It had been years since he’d swallowed
homebrew strong enough to strip the lining from his stomach despite
having had a cooked breakfast. He immediately ordered another.

“Ruski?” guessed the barman
with grudging admiration.

“Cossack.”

“Ukrainian?”

Fedir made a harsh grunting
sound, affecting vainglorious belligerence. In his experience,
Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, and assorted revolutionaries expressed
themselves in monosyllables, and only when they had to, until such
time as they became comrades, in which case they talked each
other’s ears off. It was one or the other. Never both. “Don
Cossack.”

Someone laughed a high-pitched
laugh.

Via the tarnished mirror, Fedir
saw that it was an attractive young woman sitting at a table with
several men. She was wearing striped stockings under several layers
of frilly skirts. One of the men was wearing a purple beret and had
splotches of paint on his pink smock. Another man was wearing a
striped jacket and straw boater more suited to the summer months.
The third man was heavily bearded and wore round frameless
spectacles. He had on a black wool coat with an up-turned collar
that swallowed his neck. His military boots that could have done
with a good brush.

Fedir heard the word ‘Crimea’
as he drained his glass. The sound of kookaburras followed him out
the door.

En route to the Pigalle, Fedir
concluded that Paris was full of coffee houses and bread shops,
just as London was full of ale taverns and gentlemen’s clubs and
Odessa was full of military schools and brothels. Come the next
violent revolution, the suburbs of Paris would be spared according
to the number of cafes to be had there.

The young policeman who had
discovered victim number five outside Café Bistro was waiting for
Inspector de Guise outside his office in the Quai des Orfevres.

“I remembered something from
the night of the murder,” he said importantly, watching as the
inspector removed his coat and scarf and hung them on a rack in the
corner. He dreamed of having an office such as this one day with
his own desk and chair and coat rack. “I don’t know if it is useful
but I thought, well…” He paused and swallowed dry, nervous and
unsure now that the moment had come.