The Dream Killer of Paris (11 page)

‘Nothing at all.'

‘I'm sorry, Monsieur. It's gone. The images have disappeared.

For good.'

The medium bowed to me politely and moved away with the director of the Institut towards other members of the audience, but I was not paying attention any more. I sat dumbfounded on my seat, lost in interminable arguments and objections.

Pfizer had been spot on in describing the magical valley from the mirage and referring to a young blonde woman in my immediate psychic environment. Did he really have a gift for clairvoyance? What about his other allusions (the east, the train and so on) and what connection did it have with the Deadly Sleep case? Was there a hidden meaning? And if so, why didn't I understand it?

On the other hand, his reference to a blonde woman was very vague. I was probably attributing it to my stranger from the steamer without grounds. My dreams from the last few nights kept following me. Sham mediums, although they were fakes, were always excellent
observers. Had Pfizer been able to pick up certain clues from my behaviour?

As I succumbed to a combination of shock and fatigue, my face must have turned alarmingly pale because James took me by the arm and forced me to stand up. Barely aware of what was happening around me, I obediently followed him out of the Institut's great assembly room to the deserted pavement of Avenue Niel.

The fresh air revived me.

‘He's a pain in the neck, that Monsieur Breton!' the superintendent fulminated as he and Lacroix sat down at our table at the Cyrano.

For the last three-quarters of an hour we had been sitting in the sunshine outside the brasserie and the area's lively atmosphere had quite restored me. The mood was carefree and light-hearted. Everything around us seemed to suggest frivolous dreams, the pleasure of the senses and a complete disregard for time passing.

Just to our right was the city's most flamboyant music hall, the Moulin Rouge, where the whole world came to dance to the rhythm of quadrilles, waltzes and polkas. It was almost aperitif time. On the other side of the square, on the corner of Rue Blanche and Rue Fontaine, the tables outside the café which served as the Surrealists' headquarters were beginning to fill up with students and artists. Behind us, a constant stream of apprentice seamstresses and dressmakers were leaving the workshops of Montmartre. To our left, further away on Boulevard de Clichy, behind the Art Nouveau métro station, if you craned your neck you could just see the heavy sculpted doors of the cabarets of Le Ciel and L'Enfer. There, for less than a couple of francs, visitors could choose between heavenly bliss and the torments of hell; either way, it came with smiling girls and strong liquor. Further away still, beyond Pigalle, was the Medrano circus with its jugglers and female fakirs.

On Place Blanche the chaotic procession of cars, bicycles and omnibuses was never-ending, accompanied by the sound of horns,
hooters and klaxons. We were in the very heart of gay Paree. In a few hours, when the sun went down, it would be in full swing.

After leaving the Institut, James and I had gone for a gentle amble along Avenue de Villiers and Boulevard des Batignolles up to Place de Clichy. To kill time, I had bought a second copy of
Nadja
and a copy of
Les Vases communicants
published by Éditions des Cahiers Libres in 1932. After enquiring at the bookshop about Monsieur Breton's latest work, I had also bought the
Point du jour
collection which had been published at the beginning of summer in
La Nouvelle Revue française
.

When Fourier and Lacroix arrived, I was absorbed in the opening pages of
Nadja
. As for James, he had not yet wearied of the city's spectacle.

‘Yes, indeed! An utter pain in the neck!' the superintendent repeated, ordering a glass of wine. ‘He kept us hanging about for ages before throwing us out on our ear, you might say!'

‘What do you mean, Superintendent?' asked my friend, trying not to laugh. ‘Were you not able to question him?'

‘Oh yes! But it wasn't much help. He was very uncooperative and gave us a whole lot of rubbish about the philosophical inanity of sleuths like Sherlock Holmes and Dupin. Finally, Monsieur deigned to reply that he had not noticed anything unusual. No
so-called
Austrians fitting the description we had given him have tried to contact him.'

‘So not much use then.'

‘No, and worse still, after letting slip that my men and I would be present this evening at the Café de la Place Blanche, he became furious and threatened to kick up a fuss if he saw any of our “henchmen” at his next meeting.'

‘It doesn't really matter since we decided that Lacroix would take care of it.'

‘Breton was certainly livid,' replied the journalist. ‘After seeing me with a superintendent from the Sûreté, I'm not sure that my presence will be acceptable to him either. And it would appear that he has still not got over one of my criticisms of the Second Manifesto published in
Paris-Soir
nearly … oh, four years ago. If Breton threatens to make a scene, take my word for it that he will not hesitate to do so in spectacular style. We can't take that risk.'

‘No, we mustn't take any risks,' added Fourier. ‘If Monsieur Breton doesn't want us in the Café de la Place Blanche, very well then, we won't be there!'

‘What?' I exclaimed. ‘You can't just give up!'

‘Of course not! But I thought that you and James could go instead. I'll stay outside with my men. All we need is for our suspect to turn up this evening. He leaves the brasserie and gotcha! We pounce. Lacroix can identify him once we've nabbed him.'

‘Couldn't we arrest him before he goes into the café?' suggested James.

‘Too risky. I want us to have time to watch him. We mustn't make any mistakes. Let me remind you that this is our only chance to grab him.'

‘Very well. So how do we proceed?'

‘Once you've spotted him, study his behaviour. When it looks as if he's about to leave, one of you – let's say you, Singleton – will go out ahead of him and light a cigarette on the pavement. That will be the signal. I will be nearby with my men. They are already in place around the café as we speak – praying that our suspect comes back!'

‘Ah!' cried James, draining his glass of Dubonnet. ‘That's better. What time is it?'

‘Twenty past six,' replied Lacroix. ‘I think you'd better be off. Breton will be there soon, if he hasn't arrived already. He lives nearby at 42 Rue Fontaine.'

‘What does this Breton fellow look like?'

‘I think,' I said, flicking through my copy of
Nadja
, ‘that there is a photo of him at the back of the book. Yes, look!'

‘He hasn't changed,' added Lacroix. ‘You'll recognise him immediately.'

James and I paid for our drinks and crossed the square, heading for the Surrealists' brasserie. It had been agreed that Lacroix and Fourier would take up their positions in a few minutes, Lacroix by the métro station and Fourier at the corner of Rue Fontaine and Boulevard de Clichy.

According to Lacroix, the meeting was always held indoors whatever the weather, next to the wooden staircase.

As soon as we entered the café we recognised Breton. He was sitting in the left-hand corner of the room, at the centre of a large table surrounded by empty seats, dressed in a green velvet jacket – as green as the drink in front of him – and a tie with red spots. He was reading a newspaper and making disparaging comments about the author of the article. Next to him on the imitation-leather bench was a pretty young woman with a sweet, expressive face. A pale blonde, she was sipping a glass of favoured milk and her eyes were lovingly fixed on the leader of the Surrealists. This was Jacqueline Lamba (as I discovered later), a 24-year-old painter with whom Breton was madly in love. They had married a few weeks earlier.

We took a table near the window looking on to Rue Blanche from where we could see Dupuytren's heavy frame leaning against a lamppost. There was no sign of Fourier though; he was taking care to stay out of sight.

From our position we could observe the meeting at leisure when it began, as well as the other tables in the room. For a change, we ordered two glasses of an aniseed aperitif from the waiter.

Our corner was relatively quiet. By straining our ears we could
make out what the newlyweds were saying. In response to an acid remark from Breton on an aspect of the Doumergue cabinet, I heard his companion advise him, with a tender smile, not to spend his nights writing until dawn any more.

‘Really, my darling, lack of sleep doesn't agree with you,' she said, stroking his hand.

André and Jacqueline were not alone for long. A few minutes later two men and a woman appeared. One of the newcomers was tall and thin with short blond hair and an asymmetrical face (his photograph was in my copy of
Nadja
; his name was Paul Éluard). The other one was just as thin, had brown hair and very pale skin, and looked like a Sicilian shepherd. The young woman had long black hair worn in a bun. She appeared to be with Éluard.

Before long there were half a dozen people around the table. The waiter immediately brought the new arrivals drinks, generally spirits – lemon Picon, Mandarin-curaçao, Ricard – and the conversation flowed easily. Breton, his long hair pulled back, his blue eyes ringed with dark shadows, dominated this inner circle with an air of natural authority, his head wreathed in thick cigarette smoke. As the others talked, he would throw in the occasional comment, which was rarely challenged.

‘Do you realise, James, that those are some of the most brilliant writers of our dreary age? Monsieur Breton, for example, has one of the most penetrating minds I have ever read. Only in Paris can you come across such dazzling brilliance.'

‘Astonishing!' said my friend, his eyes scanning the room. ‘You should be looking to see if our fellow is here, rather than going into literary raptures.'

‘He doesn't appear to be so far.'

The surrounding tables were now occupied by infatuated young couples, men in tweed suits quietly reading the paper and boisterous
young people trying to get the Surrealists to notice them. At the other end of the room a man with his hair cut in a bob, a very long goatee and small blue glasses was examining some sheet music.

No trace of our quarry and, except for the table of students, none of the customers appeared to be paying any attention to the Surrealist meeting.

Among the Surrealists, a second and then a third round of drinks had raised spirits and a glorious cacophony could now be heard. The booming voices of the most voluble were punctuated by the clinking of glasses, the scraping of chairs and bursts of laughter.

‘Listen to them,' said my friend, indicating the group where Breton had just caused hilarity. ‘I get the feeling he's telling them about the misfortunes of Fourier and Lacroix this afternoon.'

At the same time Breton half rose from his chair, his chest puffed out like a hussar's, and cast a blazing eye around the room, ready to run through with his imaginary lance any superintendent, Surrealist dissenter or hypothetical officer from the Sûreté who dared to show his face.

The group was quiet while the inspection took place. Suddenly, general wild laughter broke out. Breton sat down again and the conversation resumed with even greater intensity.

‘Phew!' said James, taking a gulp of his drink. ‘For a moment I thought he was going to pounce on us.'

Outside, night had fallen. Dupuytren had swapped his lamppost for another one, a little further down the street.

The meeting continued in the same friendly mood until the end. As the time for dancing and cabarets approached, the newspaper readers were replaced by pretty girls and elegant tourists, fussed over by the multilingual waiters. The students, fed up with being ignored by their elders, had packed up and gone. Only the musician continued to read his notes.

‘What if it's him?' I murmured, in case the man was watching us from behind his coloured lenses. ‘His hair and his beard might be false. And why does he always keep his glasses on?'

‘Because otherwise he wouldn't be able to see anything. For goodness' sake! We've been languishing here for over an hour, Andrew. Our Austrian friend clearly didn't feel like going out this evening.'

At around half past seven, the first to leave the Surrealists' table was a man with large ears and a moon face. He was soon followed by a shiny-haired young dandy clinging on to a redhead in a fur-lined cape as though afraid he might lose her.

One after the other the guests departed, warmly bidding farewell to Breton and his muse until they were left alone. That didn't seem to trouble the young woman who put her head lovingly on the poet's shoulder.

They sat in silence for a while, lost in thought, without concerning themselves in the least about the diners who were taking their seats around them.

Finally, they, too, decided to leave. Breton threw a few coins down in front of him and made towards the door. In the middle of the room, halfway between our table and the musician's, he promised his companion in a loud, theatrical voice, as if he wanted the entire brasserie to be his witness, that he would not write that evening and that the night would be hers. She replied with a simple kiss on the hand and led him outside.

‘How charming they are, those lovebirds!' said James ironically as we watched them walk off along the pavement.

It was now or never. I leapt from my chair, keeping my eyes on the musician.

‘Andrew! What's the matter with you?'

‘André Breton wrote in the Second Manifesto that the simplest
Surrealist act was to go into the street, revolver in hand, and start shooting at will,' I recited from memory.

‘So what? Do you want to shoot this fellow?' he asked pityingly, glancing at the man. ‘You don't even have a gun!'

‘No need for a gun. There's a simpler way!'

I strode the short distance over to his table and stopped in front of it.

The man lifted his eyes from his libretto, looking thoroughly perplexed. My tired face, reflected in the blue lenses of his glasses, regained some colour. Suddenly, I tugged sharply on his beard with all my strength.

The loud chatter around me instantly ceased. The waiters' trays froze in midair. The flower seller dropped her bouquets.

A long cry of pain had just rung out around the Café de la Place Blanche.

The beard was real.