The Curse of the Grand Guignol (8 page)

“Disgraceful!” mumbled the
doctor with a sad shake of his head as the second figure also
passed swiftly through the prohibited door.

“We are wasting time,” rebuked
the Countess in frustration as the door slammed back into place.
“
Allons-y
!”

The black door did indeed lead
backstage via a narrow set of unlit steps that turned sharply more
than once. It brought them to a corner jammed with musical
instruments. Flecked light leaked in through hidden skylights,
highlighting a grand piano here and a set of cymbals there. No one
questioned their right to be there and no one tried to stop them,
most likely because the place was an exercise in chaos.

Throughout the entire
performance there had been but two actresses and three actors on
the stage sharing the many roles, and yet backstage there must have
been five times that many people rushing back and forth, skirting
wooden crates, dodging ropes and pulleys, deftly navigating piles
of costumes and stacks of furniture. Voices drifted in and out, a
dull cacophony of urgent echoes.

“Sylvie, where’s the mop and
bucket!”

“Catch that bloody dog and get
him back in his cage!”

“Make sure Kiki puts the knife
back in the box before she goes out!”

“Where’s Raoul?”

“Raoul! Raoul!”

“What the hell are
you
doing here?”

An angry voice pulled them up
sharp.

Dr Watson spun round, ready to
offer grovelling apologies, while the Countess immediately adopted
an attitude of vivacious privilege. Beaming graciously, she turned
to face their interlocutor wearing the feminine equivalent of the
seigneurial mask of the benevolent aristocrat having recognized the
hint of a Russian accent that she thought she might charm. But the
cunning bit of feminine contrivance was wasted, for the Ruski was
not addressing
them
. He was addressing three Aryan
demigods.

“I told you
NOT
to come
back stage! Get the hell out of here! You can wait on the street
with all the other dirty bastards or better still go back to that
filthy cafe! Fuck off!”

For one fraught-filled moment
it looked as if there might be another lurid murder, including
encore of severed tongue, as the hulking trio of blond Atlas
lookalikes took umbrage and bunched their not insignificant fists.
Everyone held their collective breath.

“Durack – un, deux, trois! Are
you deaf?” castigated the Ruski, standing his ground unflinchingly
in the face of not one but three pulverizing Goliaths, triptych of
blond brows drawn down in a thrice-fold threatening slash. “I said:
Fuck off! Bistro! Bistro! Bistro!”

Stage-hands began inching back,
looking for some place to hide until the suicidal storm passed, but
to everyone’s surprise the Germanic trio, fists still clenched,
retreated without recourse. The relief was palpable, though the
smell of fear lingered.

“Who was that?” asked the
Countess, bailing up the first stage-hand to bustle past, mop and
bucket in hand.

‘Kasper, Klaus and Karl
Humboldt – they’re in love with Kiki.”

“I meant the Russian.”

“Oh, that’s Monsieur Davidov.
The director.”

The Countess waited for the
stage-hand to scurry away. “What did you make of that fiery
scene?”

“It was as tense a performance
as anything we witnessed on the stage tonight,” replied Dr Watson,
using a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. “The trio of
giants must be the same men Inspector de Guise alluded to earlier;
the ones who own the cafe where the fifth murder took place. It
establishes a definite link between the café and the theatre.”

“It links one of the actresses
to the cafe too.”

“Was she the one who played the
role of the old mad woman who cut out the tongue?”

The Countess checked the
theatre programme in her hand. “Yes, Mademoiselle Kiki.”

“It appears that all three
brothers are in love with the same woman,” he added portentously,
“that cannot possibly end well.”

“Let’s see if we can score an
introduction to the fatal
allumeuse
.”

“What about the Russian?”

“What about him?”

“I don’t think he takes kindly
to strangers skulking around back-stage.”

“Let me handle him.
On y
va
.”

Dr Watson developed a bad
feeling in the pit of his stomach. He cast a nervous glance over
his shoulder before following in her reckless wake. They made it as
far as the next cramped corridor before they came face to face with
the mad Russian. This time he was tearing strips off the
doorman.

“If you let those three
anarchists in again you can find another job! I don’t want to see
those fucking revolutionaries back-stage again! Is that clear!” He
turned abruptly and crashed straight into the Countess. “Who the
hell are you!”

“Countess Varvara
Volodymyrovna.” Without fail, her name stopped people in their
tracks, even mad Russians

With flirtatious elegance, she
held out a silk-gloved hand and to Dr Watson’s eternal surprise the
demented director did not chop it off or tear her limb from limb.
Totally tamed, he took her silk-wrapped fingers and brought them to
his spittled lips.

“Enchante,” he frothed with
husky restraint.

“A thrilling performance
tonight,” she praised flirtatiously, “but not half as thrilling as
the one we witnessed a few moments ago back-stage. Bravo, Monsieur
Davidov.”

The proud and fearless despot
burst out laughing and everyone stopped to look, stunned and not a
little frightened of the Russian tyrant who sometimes flayed them
alive just for the fun of it. Things were always tense after a show
as their temperamental director let off steam by venting his
spleen, and when the Brothers Boldt showed up there were always
sure to be an explosion of fireworks.

Monsieur Davidov was the
epitome of the passionate Russian artiste. He possessed a
blistering gaze and a pugnacious chin. His zealous hair was wild
and woolly. Startling black eyebrows looked like they’d been forged
from pig-iron; they framed the windows to his dark Slavic soul and
could have held up the Eiffel Tower in the event of collapse.
Despite being minus his frock-coat he was well-groomed with a fine
silk cravat and diamond pin, matching waistcoat and gold pocket
watch.

“I am thrilled you found it
thrilling. Be sure to tell all your rich friends. The play runs all
week. Next week we do another thrilling piece. Bring all your rich
friends to that one too.” He waved his hand in the air as he spoke
as if painting with broad brushstrokes on a large canvas. The
effect was expressive, impressive and outrageous.

“The current play started
when?”

He was in the process of
rushing away when the Countess’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Last night was opening night.”

“Each play runs for one
week?”

“Da.”

“You are the director?”

“Da – producer, director,
owner, everything!”

“You own the theatre?”

“Da, da, da! Questions,
questions, questions! What is this – a Tsarist interrogation!”

“Do you write the plays
too?”

“More questions!” He threw back
his head and guffawed riotously. “That is the one thing I do not
do. Raoul writes the plays.” The name seemed to trigger something
in the dim recesses of his long lost memory as he swept the wild
shaggy mane out of his darkly shining eyes. “Raoul? Where is Raoul?
I want to speak to Raoul now! That opening scene was a stinker!
Where is Raoul? You little weasel you cannot hide from me! I will
sniff you out!” He lifted his face to the blackened rafters, cupped
his mouth and bellowed, “Raoooul!”

“You sound like a
castrati.”

A gently chiding voice forced
the trio to wheel round, but it was not the voice of a man, not the
hapless, elusive Raoul who spoke. It was a lady of
un certain
age
.

“What is the matter Serge? You
bellow like a castrated bull. The play was a huge success and still
you are not satisfied.”

“Ah, la marquise,” said
Monsieur Davidov, bowing reverently, “my most devoted critic, my
most ardent patroness. I am a perfectionist, as you know. That
opening scene was rubbish. Stilted. Awkward. Flat. Dead. It needs a
subtle change of direction here and there.”

“Nonsense. It worked just fine.
But do as you will. You always do. Introduce me.”

Smiling indulgently, the lady
shifted her soft sea-green gaze to the Countess.

“La marquise,” said the Russian
proudly, intuiting perhaps a new patroness, younger and wealthier
whose name he had memorized already, “let me introduce la comtesse
Volodymyrovna. La comtesse may I present the Marquise de
Merimont.”

Recognition lit up the limpid
sea-green eyes. “The step-child of Countess Zoya, non?”

“Oui,” replied the
Countess.

“Your aunt was a remarkable
woman. Remarkable,” the voice repeated softly, a curious intonation
winnowing the first from the last.

“Allow me to introduce my
travelling companion, Dr Watson,” said the Countess, circumventing
the conversation veering toward the usual sympathetic platitudes.
The term ‘travelling companion’ was incredibly handy, one of those
all-encompassing terms that covered just about every eventuality,
as well as every unreality.

The Marquise de Merimont was a
lady of advanced years with a pearlescent complexion that seemed to
sparkle, as if it had been dusted with finely ground diamonds. Her
fine silver hair was elegantly fashioned into flattering ringlets
not unlike the style favoured by that doyenne of French fashion
ages past, Empress Josephine. The silver ringlets were kept in
place by an abundance of silver combs and diamond hair pins that
glittered like tiny stars.

The noble name was not known to
the Countess. The two aristocrats had never crossed paths.
Unsurprising, really, as a child the Countess had come often to
Paris, but she had stayed only once at her aunt’s pied-a-terre on
rue Bonaparte, and, naturally, due to her youth, she had not
attended the
musical soirees
and
grand bals
of the
day. Later, when she might have joined in such social occasions,
after completing a year at a Swiss finishing school, she had
immediately been whisked off to England, America, South America and
Australia…

Dr Watson bowed slightly,
sensing he was in the company not only of a lady of noble rank, but
a mature woman of immense courtesy and wisdom. The way she had
soothed the savage Russian bear was a feat to behold. She had
compromised without appearing condescending, placated without
weakening, and steered a diplomatic course without making it seem
obvious. He took his hat off to her. Literally.

“I am holding an impromptu
salonniere tonight to celebrate the success of
le Cirque du
Grand Guignol
,” said la marquise, addressing the Countess and
her travelling companion. “Consider yourselves invited. Hotel de
Merimont. Clos de Millefleurs. Come as you are. It is nothing
grand. Shall we say one hour from now?” She turned to Monsieur
Davidov. “Make sure Kiki and Maxine look their best. Tell Raoul to
steer clear of
la fee verte
before he arrives. Monsignor
Delgardo will be present,” she warned, “and you know what happened
last time. The Monsignor can throw his weight around when Raoul
let’s fly with impertinence; he has the ear of the Director General
and the censorship issue can become tiresome, as you know.”

Scowling, Monsieur Davidov
nodded knowingly before spinning on his heel and bellowing,
“Raoooul!”

On a strained smile la marquise
bid them
a bientôt
and disappeared into the theatrical
charivari. There was now no need to search for Kiki. They would
meet the actress later at the salonniere. Dr Watson waited until he
and the Countess were back on the pavement of rue Ballu.

“I was loath to look like an
ignorant Englishman but what on earth is a salonniere?” he said as
they clambered into their landau.

“A salonniere is another name
for a literary salon.”

His face fell. “You mean like a
gathering of bluestockings?”

“More like a gathering that
pleases or educates,” she corrected, paraphrasing Horace. “
Aut
delectare aut prodesse est
. The French do things in style.
There may be a brief poetry recital, a reading from a novel, a
political discussion, some music, but generally it is a meeting of
creative minds.”

“By the way,” he said, “where
are we going? We’re not due at the salonniere for another
hour.”

“We’re going home to change, of
course.”

“I distinctly remember the
marquise saying ‘come as you are’ and ‘nothing grand’.

“
Ca c’est Paris, mon
ami
…not London.”

In less than one hour our two
sleuths were rumbling through the gas-lit rues toward the Marais on
their way to clos de Millefleurs and the Hotel de Merimont where
they discovered their renowned hostess had also swapped her
tailored costume for an evening gown that might have out-shone the
Countess’s but for the fact Madame Coquelicot had dispatched a
season’s worth of the most fashionable haute couture to rue
Bonaparte in their absence and periwinkle blue satin with an
overlay of pale blue silk chiffon lavishly banded with river pearls
nicely complimented the stupendous sea pearls in the Countess’s
superlative collection.

At the top of the marble stairs,
they collected flutes of champagne from a perambulating footman
decked out in seventeenth century livery, including powdered wig,
presumably so that the guests could tell the servants from the
bohemian crowd who
never
bothered to swap their costumes for
anything
a la mode
.