The Dream Killer of Paris (12 page)

After being curtly invited to leave the brasserie and never return, James and I decided to call it a night. The superintendent announced that he was returning to Rue des Saussaies to check whether the description given to the Viennese police had yielded any results and whether it was possible to obtain information from his colleagues in Amsterdam and New York on the new cases Lacroix had uncovered. A deadline for the Monday edition obliged Lacroix to return to his typewriter straight away.

Before going our separate ways, we arranged to meet the following day at eleven o’clock at the Hôtel Saint-Merri.

In the meantime James persuaded me to go with him to see Fritz Lang’s film
Liliom
at the Electric-Palace, Boulevard des Italiens. At half past eleven, pleading lack of sleep (which was just an excuse as I was in no hurry to go to bed), I returned to the hotel. Although he had hoped for a more exciting end to the evening, James, worried by my pallor, came back with me nonetheless.

Wanting to put off at all costs the moment when I would be at the mercy of my dreams again, I had planned to go to the brasserie in Rue Saint-Martin, which only lowered its shutters very late at night, and peacefully resume reading the books I had bought at Place de Clichy. After a quick wash in my room, I met James at the brasserie. He was dismayed when he saw me taking the André Breton books out of my bag.

‘Do you intend to read all night? My word, you’ll make yourself ill, Andrew!’

While my friend sipped his cocktail, looking up from the theatre pages of his newspaper from time to time to observe an example of Parisian beauty, I began avidly reading
Les Vases communicants
.

From the very first lines, I found myself in familiar territory. In a review of the current state of research into dreams, André Breton devoted several pages to the famous Hervey de Saint-Denys whose work on lucid dreams Lacroix had praised.

Then came a passage discussing other modern theorists. At the top of the list Breton chose the Viennese doctor Sigmund Freud, author of
The Interpretation of Dreams
, whose method was, in his opinion, by far the ‘most original approach’. Throughout the book, André Breton, by seeking to go beyond the eternal opposition of dream and reality, outer and inner worlds, was once more striving to attain what he had described in the Second Manifesto as that ‘mental vantage point from which life and death, the real and the imaginary, past and future, communicable and incommunicable, high and low will no longer be seen as contradictions’.

‘Fascinating!’ I exclaimed, leafing through the final pages. ‘Listen to this: “With a little ingenuity it is not impossible to create particular dreams in another person. It would be in no way utopian to claim that, in so doing, one can have a serious impact on their life from a distance.”’

‘Hmm! What makes me happy is the number of shows on in this city. Andrew, what do you say to seeing a film tomorrow at Gaumont-Palace, Place de Clichy? It has the biggest screen in Europe and seating for six thousand! Or the Parisiana, on Boulevard Poissonnière? Unless you’d prefer a music-hall revue?’

‘I thought that since the
époque des sommeils
Breton was less interested in theories of dreamtime activity but that’s not the case. The subject still fascinates him just as much.’

‘And a drive to Luna-Park from Porte Maillot? They say that the
attractions are unique. A funfair – nothing like it for forgetting the problems of an investigation.’

In the face of my indifference, James went back to his newspaper, muttering. I put
Les Vases communicants
on the table and seized
Point du jour
. The book was a collection of sixteen texts, written at different times, the most recent being from about ten months earlier. This last essay, called ‘Le Message automatique’, reafirmed the author’s interest in the unconscious and the subliminal, in psychic experiments and hallucinations of every kind.

‘Reading all this,’ I concluded, tapping the last paragraph of ‘Le Message automatique’ with my finger, ‘we must include Breton among the dream specialists. Like Professor Van Brennen, William Stanhope, Percival Crowles, the Marquis de Brindillac and Pierre Ducros, his one-time admirer …’

‘What are you getting at?’ asked my friend, frowning.

‘Nothing. I’m just saying that, like all those eminent researchers, he, too, has applied himself to solving the mysteries of sleep.’

‘Must I remind you that the people you’ve just mentioned all died in the same way? Let’s hope that your Breton doesn’t end up like them.’

James’s words were like a blow to the chest. The mysterious stranger had met Pierre Ducros and, a few days later, the poet had been found dead in his bed. The same man had tried to contact the Marquis de Brindillac and he had been found in the morning, his body stiff and white. Now the Austrian had been seen at the Café de la Place Blanche twice in the last few days. It was probably Breton he was watching and not one of his friends. His interest in him was not in doubt, which meant that the life of the leader of the Surrealists was in danger. It was obvious. It might even be a matter of hours or … minutes.

‘James!’ I cried. ‘Do you remember what Breton’s lady friend said to him just before the start of the meeting? She was reproaching
him for spending all night writing recently.’

‘Yes, I remember perfectly.’

‘Well, if he’s still alive, it’s thanks to those nights he spent awake! However he does it, the Austrian uses his victims’ sleep.’

‘Some members of the Institut Métapsychique supported the theory of hallucinations. Do you think it’s possible to induce such visions? And can they kill?’

‘I can’t say. In the meantime, the life of André Breton is hanging by a thread. He promised his companion not to stay up tonight …’

That was all it took to galvanise my friend. James threw his newspaper on to the table and rushed out into the street. I just had time to gather my books and shove them in my bag. In less than a minute we had reached Place du Châtelet where a few taxis were waiting.

‘Forty-two Rue Fontaine!’ I cried to the driver. ‘As fast as you can!’

‘Right, hold tight!’

The taxi set off at top speed and drove towards Boulevard de Sébastopol. Shortly afterwards, we passed the Gare de l’Est. The driver turned off on to Boulevard de Magenta and put his foot down. He raced along until we reached the elevated railway. There, going through a red light, he turned hard, without slowing down, and continued along Boulevard de Rochechouart. A few moments later we drove past the Café de la Place Blanche which still had its lights on. We turned into Rue Fontaine and drove on a few yards before stopping.

‘Here you are, Messieurs! This is 42 Rue Fontaine!’ said the driver, pointing to the door of a building near a small theatre with an Art Deco façade.

We paid the fare and got out of the car.

This was a big gamble. After the disappointment of the Café de la Place Blanche earlier, I risked having a strip torn off me by the
leader of the Surrealists for disturbing his sleep at two o’clock in the morning. But what did that matter!

‘Come on!’ I said to my friend. ‘There’s not a moment to lose.’

The door was closed but James made such a racket, shouting, and kicking and banging the door, that after a few minutes it opened a crack and the sleepy face of an old concierge appeared in the gap.

‘Open the door!’ James ordered in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘Monsieur Breton’s flat, where is it? Quickly! It’s a matter of life and death!’

‘At the end of the corridor,’ mumbled the concierge. ‘In the courtyard, the building at the back. His studio is on the fourth floor …’

‘Thank you!’

We ran down a long, cold, dark corridor to a second door opening on to a small courtyard. Breton lived in the building behind, the windows of which looked out over Boulevard de Clichy.

We took the squalid stairs two at a time and stopped, out of breath, in front of a door with the number 1713 written in large stylised figures.

‘What do those numbers mean?’ asked James, putting his ear to the keyhole.

‘They’re written so that the 1 and the 7 look like a capital A and the 1 and the 3 like a B.’

‘A.B.? As in André Breton’s initials!’

‘We’ll think about it later. Can you hear anything?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘For God’s sake!’

‘So? Shall we leave it?’

‘Out of the question.’

I was preparing to raise my fist when cries could be heard coming from inside the flat.

‘André! André!’

I knocked on the door. Inside the cries got louder.

James pushed me to one side. He took a run up and threw himself with all his might against the door. It gave way immediately. The wood splintered around the lock.

‘Help! Help!’

The voice came from the back of the studio, which was illuminated by a bare bulb.

We ran towards the light, trying with every step not to tread on the collector’s items and South Sea masks which were lying around everywhere. Through the half-open door we could see André Breton lying on the bed in his pyjamas. There was a look of pure terror on his face, as if, beneath his closed lids, the writer’s mind was imprisoned in a nightmare from which it was impossible for him to escape. Leaning over him, her cheeks damp with tears, Jacqueline was shaking him violently, saying his name over and over again to make him wake up.

It was not too late; he was still breathing, although with difficulty. His chest jerked nervously. After a few seconds of confusion, we hurried over to him. Seizing him under the arms, we eventually managed to sit him up and lean him against the headboard. We slapped his face and vigorously urged him back to consciousness.

At last Breton opened his eyes. He was completely lost and didn’t understand what had happened to him or why there were two strangers in his bedroom. He feverishly sought the face of his companion and, seeing her by his side, his anxiety seemed to fade. Finally, as he became aware of the situation and what he had escaped, he turned to us and gripped our wrists.

‘Messieurs! Thanks to you, Surrealism is safe!’

I am in my room at the Hôtel Saint-Merri and I am dreaming while being fully aware that I am dreaming.

I am waiting for the arrival of my stranger from the steamer, as a bashful lover might wait for his beloved. She won’t be much longer. I can feel it, sense it.

Finally, the door opens. Her face is still hidden in the darkness but I know that it’s her. She comes into the room. She is even more beautiful than before. Her heart pounds under her dress.

‘Who are you?’ I ask as she sits down next to me.

Smiling at me, she laces her fingers through mine. Her skin is soft, even softer than I remembered.

‘I can’t tell you. I do not have the right. But, Andrew, do you really not know?’

I look into her eyes.

‘One of those elemental spirits you alluded to on the boat?’

By way of reply, she kisses me with incredible sensuality. I recoil and stare at her again.

‘What are these dark forces that are preparing to turn the world upside down? And the train for the east? And the clock showing seven minutes to eight? What do these riddles mean? Tell me, please!’

‘Do you believe in me, Andrew?’

‘Yes, more than anything.’

‘So, prove it to me! Prove it to me tonight! Once our souls have been united, I will be able to answer your questions.’

Immediately, I delicately undo the straps of her dress, which slips to the floor. Her opalescent bosom with its wonderful curves fills me with desire. I take her by the shoulders, gently as if I fear she might break, and she lies down on top of me, her head pressed against mine, her long hair covering my face. At that moment, I have a vision of a torrent of blood boiling in my veins. I feel almost as though I’m suffocating.

Our two bodies are as close as possible to one another. They rise together, in the same rhythm, and cannot stop.

I wake up in a sweat at the peak of pleasure.

1. I no longer feel that overwhelming sense of guilt which has come over me every time I’ve woken up in the last couple of nights. At the same time, my body remembers (is it proper to admit it?) an extremely intense pleasure.

2. I would like to return immediately to my dreams and find my beautiful stranger. She promised to answer my questions. Will she? But I fear that, in my current state of agitation, sleep will elude me for the rest of the night.

‘Here began what I will call the spilling over of the dream into real life,’ wrote Nerval in
Aurélia
.

I too felt that the thin barrier between dreams and reality, between
daytime and nocturnal life, was breaking down. I was prey to an obsession, about a woman I had only glimpsed and who was taking possession of my nights.

Did the stranger from the steamer exist in real life or had I invented her entirely? If she had only been created by a mirage, how had the medium at the Institut been able to see her? Was she, in fact, one of those legendary succubi from the Middle Ages? These questions continued to go round and round in my head from the time I awoke until the sun rose. They were still clamouring for attention as I sat at the reading table in the hotel lobby and tried to fortify myself with a cup of French coffee and the works of Nerval.

‘It has occurred to me many times that, during some important moments in life, a Spirit from another world is suddenly incarnated in the form of an ordinary person and acts or tries to act on us without that ordinary person knowing or remembering.’

I interrupted my reading of
Aurélia
again. Nerval’s words so echoed my own experience that images from my dream leapt from the page, bringing with them a new rush of questions. If I had not woken up in the night (or if I had gone back to sleep and managed to continue the dream) would the stranger have shed some light on the situation as she had promised? Above all, were these dreams connected to the Deadly Sleep case?

The previous evening, after James and I had managed to wake Breton from his lethal dream and placed him in the hands of his wife, a doctor and Superintendent Fourier, I had had the unpleasant feeling as we stepped on to the pavement outside 42 Rue Fontaine, utterly exhausted, that I was being watched by an unseen eye. At that time of night the street was almost deserted and the windows of the houses opposite were empty. And yet I could have sworn that
his
gaze, the Austrian’s, was on me. There was no need to look behind one of those windows or into the shadow of a carriage entrance, I
could feel that he was there, present and absent at the same time. Man or ghost? I didn’t know but he was cursing me for foiling his attack.

Like Nerval, I was going mad. My reason was slipping away as his had done.

At that moment James appeared in front of me, freshly shaved. It was almost eleven o’clock. I had not noticed time passing.

‘Did you sleep well, my friend?’ he asked, clapping me on the back.

‘Not really. For the last few nights sleep has become a rare commodity for me.’

‘Given current events, that may be a good thing! I slept like a log. Are Fourier and Lacroix here yet?’

I was wondering if it was the right moment to tell my faithful friend about my night-time experiences, since there seemed to be a connection, although still unexplained, with our case, when I noticed the tweed suit and bowler hat of the superintendent, flanked by the svelte figure of the
Paris-Soir
journalist. Not wanting an audience, I decided to put the conversation off for the time being.

As he entered the lobby Lacroix, who was dressed as if he was on his way to a dance, exuded the healthy glow of one who had enjoyed a refreshing night’s sleep. Fourier’s night had obviously been much shorter.

‘I say, your face is even paler than the superintendent’s!’ said Lacroix, joining us at the table. ‘Your night-time exploits must have exhausted you.’

‘What … what exploits?’ I stammered, troubled by the idea that my lustful dream was written all over my face.

‘Why, at Rue Fontaine of course! Fourier has just told me all about it. You saved Breton from certain death, didn’t you?’

‘It was a close call.’

‘By the way, Superintendent, do you know how he is?’ asked James.

‘The doctor says his condition is satisfactory. As a precaution, he has been transferred to Hôpital Lariboisière for a day or two so that they can carry out some tests.’

‘I must congratulate you, gentlemen,’ continued the journalist. ‘Thanks to you, Breton is safe and sound and he can continue to write his strange little books, at which he so excels, for many years to come.’

‘My word!’ cried Fourier. ‘What does this Austrian do to kill his victims? It really defies comprehension!’

‘One explanation might be that he can induce hallucinations while they sleep. That at least is the theory of some of the scientists at the Institut Métapsychique.’

‘Hallucinations? From a distance?’

‘Why not? Although hypnotism has been recognised by the Faculty for decades, no one has yet managed to understand it fully.’

The superintendent sighed, sitting back heavily in his seat.

‘The Doumergue cabinet is in turmoil. It’s not yet official but Sarraut has just resigned following the attacks in Marseille. The government is foundering. To keep his head above water, the Justice Minister wants results in the Deadly Sleep case.’

Fourier paused while he compulsively rearranged the single lock of hair on his head.

‘We may have managed to save Breton from death but the Austrian is still as elusive as ever. We haven’t got the slightest lead.’

‘And of course he could always just leave Paris,’ I added.

‘What do your overseas colleagues have to say, Superintendent?’ asked James.

‘I haven’t had an answer from New York yet. But yesterday I received a cable from the Amsterdam police. An unnamed man, who
more or less fits the description of Andreas Eberlin, tried to contact Professor Van Brennen shortly before his death. Unfortunately, the Dutch detectives have no further information about the man. But it does confirm your feeling, Lacroix, that all these cases are connected.’

‘I knew it!’

‘And the Viennese police?’

‘There is no one on their files corresponding to the names or descriptions we gave them. For good reason.’

‘The morning papers have not had time to report the story,’ continued James. ‘If the Austrian thinks that Breton has gone
ad patres
, maybe he will go to the Café de la Place Blanche to make sure.’

‘I doubt that our man will go there again,’ retorted Fourier. ‘I asked the papers to say nothing about last night’s incident but I am under no illusions. The news that Breton nearly died is currently spreading around Paris like wildfire.’

‘What is to be done then?’

‘I have stationed an officer in his room at Lariboisière. Since the stranger wanted him dead and didn’t succeed, he’ll probably try again. We’ll watch the writer day and night while he’s there and too bad if Monsieur doesn’t like it. I’ll do the same when he returns home. I don’t think his wife will have any objections.’

‘And what if he doesn’t turn up again?’ I asked.

‘Well! Then I fear that he has escaped us for good.’

‘What? The deaths of Pierre and the Marquis will go unpunished? No! I will not allow it!’ the journalist raged.

‘If you have a suggestion, Lacroix, I’m all ears.’

There was an awkward silence. Several times since he had arrived Lacroix had surreptitiously looked at his wristwatch. This time he did so more ostentatiously.

‘Twenty-five past eleven already! I’m sorry, gentlemen, I have an appointment which forces me to leave early. Then I intend to think about all this. Yes,
think
! Because there must be a way. I will not give up.’

Lacroix gave a quick bow and left the hotel without further ado.

‘Our friend is certainly in a hurry this morning,’ said Fourier drily. ‘Given his get-up, I’d wager that the reason for his departure has light-brown hair and goes by the name of Amélie de Brindillac. I don’t know what they’re planning, those two.’

The superintendent picked up his cane and his hat.

‘Although it’s not the same thing at all, I, too, have an appointment. I am expected at midday by our sleuths at the Préfecture. Between ourselves, it would help me if they have gathered some new information about Ducros’s death. After that, I’ll get back to the New York Police Department. If necessary, I will demand the intervention of the minister.’

‘Lacroix is right,’ I speculated, not paying any attention to the superintendent’s words. ‘There must be a way.’

‘Ah, my boy, I’ll leave you to your musings! If the truth is revealed, let me know.’

When Fourier had gone, James turned to me.

‘It seems that the day has not begun all that well.’

‘On the contrary! You wanted to make the most of the City of Light, so you should be happy – we have some time off.’

‘Didn’t you just say that you wanted to think?’

‘No, I said that there must be a way.’

‘And how are you going to find it? In books?’

‘I think it’s time to apply André Breton’s theories on chance and necessity to police methods. Or, more precisely, what he calls “objective chance”.’

‘What?’

In the face of my companion’s incomprehension, I seized my copy of
Nadja
, which was still in my bag from the day before, and opened it at a page where the corner had been turned down.

‘What I do know,’ grumbled James, ‘is what it cost us yesterday when you wanted to put Monsieur Breton’s lessons into practice. We made fools of ourselves in front of an entire brasserie.’

‘It won’t be like that this time,’ I said, pointing to the sentence I had been looking for. ‘It’s just a question of letting oneself slide into that – listen to this – “almost forbidden world of sudden parallels, petrifying coincidences, and reflexes peculiar to each individual, of harmonies struck as though on the piano, flashes of light that would make you see, really see, if only they were not so much quicker than all the rest”.’

‘Sorry, I don’t understand any of that gibberish.’

‘There’s nothing to understand. It just means that we must leave it to Surrealism, be open to the unknown and welcome the mysterious signs which come our way during the day.’

‘What?’

‘We’re going for a walk, James. A walk along the boulevards.’

‘Couldn’t you have just said that?’