The Expiration of Elise

by Annette Moncheri

  Melodie tried again. “Is anyone there who knows Dorothée?”

  The planchette twitched and shifted uneasily, never more than a few millimeters one way, then another. Then, all at once, it picked up speed and shot toward the “Oui.” We all shrieked in surprise—some of us in terror. “Who is doing that?” Mireille cried. “One of you is pushing it! I can feel it!”

  We all loudly protested our innocence until Melodie shushed us. “Keep your fingertips on the planchette or the connection will be broken,” she admonished us. “Who is it?” she said to the air. “Can you spell out your name?”

  Slowly at first, then faster, the planchette lurched to one letter after another: “O – S – Q – U – S.” Then it hesitated over the S, shifting slightly in different directions.

  Dorothée sounded disappointed. “That doesn’t spell anything. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Melodie shushed her. “Sometimes it takes a while for the spirit to get oriented.” She turned her attention to the empty air again. “Tell us your name. Please. We need to know who you are.”

  The planchette hesitated, then set out with new confidence, and it spelled out: “R – E – G – I - S.”

  “Régis?” I asked. “Who is Régis?”

  Everyone shook their heads, looking baffled. “I don’t know a Régis,” Dorothée said.

  “Régis, who are you to Dorothée?” I asked.

  One at a time, so slowly as to drive us mad, but keeping us on the very edges of our seats in anticipation, came the letters, “C – O – U – S – I – “

  “’Cousin,’” I said. “Clearly it’s that.”

  The planchette swooped to “Oui” so quickly we all gasped.

  “But I don’t have a cousin named Régis,” Dorothée protested.

  The planchette shuddered, shifting in a way that felt aimless and uncertain. Near to the T, then near the N. Then, with greater confidence, it went to S, E, P, A—

  “R,” Dorothée read.

  “E,” Melodie read off.

  “’Séparé’?” Hélène said.

  The planchette hurried again to “Oui.”

  “Someone who is estranged?” I asked Dorothée.

  “Well…” she paused, looking embarrassed. “Well, all right, I should have thought of that. Yes, there is a side of my family that has been estranged. My father would have nothing to do with his birth family. Thought them to be awful people. And so, well—yes, I could have cousins I know nothing of. I never met any of them. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

  Melodie turned to the board. “Are you part of Dorothée’s father’s family?”

  The planchette shifted uncertainly in no particular direction, but kept its general position over the “Oui.”

  “I think that’s a yes,” Mireille said.

  “This is amazing,” Hélène declared.

  “Régis,” Melodie said, “do you know who attempted to kill Dorothée?”

  Again it shifted a bit, turning its point one way, then another, but not going far.

  “What if that’s also a yes?” Mireille asked eagerly.

  “Who tried to kill Dorothée?” I asked.

  The planchette seemingly launched itself across the board.

  “P – E – C – O – E – L – I – S – E,” the board spelled, and then it shut down over the E.

  We stared at each other.

  “Well, that’s gibberish,” Mireille said in disappointment.

  “No, listen,” Hélène said urgently. “The final five letters spell ‘Elise.’”

  “But that makes no sense,” Melodie said. “Elise was the other victim. And she wasn’t her own murderer, that much is certain. Not with a knife in her back.”

  “And what does the ‘PECO’ mean?” I asked.

  “But why would it spell ‘Elise’?” Hélène said again, more passionately.

  “It must have gotten confused,” Mirielle said, shaking her head.

  “No!” Melodie exclaimed with sudden excitement. “Elise has come to speak with us!”

  We all froze, horrified, staring at her.

  “Are you Elise?” Melodie asked the board.

  We all held our breath.

  Slowly, in fits and starts, it spelled out “P – K – W – O – R – L” and then stopped between letters.

  “That means nothing,” Mireille said, frustrated.

  The planchette slowly slipped to “Au Revoir,” and stopped moving.

  We all exhaled at the same moment and took our fingers off the planchette.

  “Mon Dieu,” Dorothée said. “This is so amazing and bizarre.”

  Melodie got up and rang for the butler. “I need a stiff drink,” she said.

  “So do I,” Hélène echoed, standing up and stretching.

  “Do you really think Elise showed up?” Dorothée asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s all very strange to me. But, Dorothée, I would very much like to know if you can discover whether you have a departed cousin named Régis!”

  I left Dorothée’s room abuzz with strange sensations. I would never have admitted it to the others, but I felt spooked. I thought I saw ghosts in every corner.

  “Get a hold of yourself, Madame,” I told myself sternly. “We’ve no ghosts here… That we know of.”

  That didn’t help much.

  I was relieved to go downstairs and find a good-sized crowd singing drunkenly along with the Christmas carols being played on the piano. After all, it was Christmas Eve! With hors-d’ouvre and glasses of golden champagne going around the room on silver platters, with faces flushed with happiness and spirits, with the esprit de corps, it would have been hard not to get swept up in it—and I didn’t fight it. What, after all, was the point in running a brothel if I couldn’t join in the party from time to time? I found Hélène among the crowd and linked arms with her, laughing happily, and we all raised our voices in joy.

  9

  I awoke with the sunset the next night, as was my nature, but lay about in my negligee in my dressing room for a while, sipping champagne and feeling lazy. After all, it was Christmas Day—one of our least busy days. About half my mesdames were normally off on Christmas Day, gone to visit their own families. Most of our clients, too, had someone to spend the day with, and even those who had no compunction any other day of the year would feel a pang of guilt for leaving their families to visit a fille de joie on this night.

  That left, of course, those who had no one else to visit—and those men were grateful to have someone to lighten the burden of their solitude. Those without families, the newly bereaved, and disabled veterans—those were the ones I was most pleased to serve, although I considered a brothel to be a vital public service to all.

  As I relaxed, I thought for a while, of course, on the mystery of Dorothée’s attack and Elise’s murder. A greedy redhead whom many hated, slain with a knife… and a kind, old woman whom everyone loved, shoved into a safe. I could find no sensible point of connection.

  When I took my petit dejeuner from Monsieur Georges, he also handed me the written briefing from the day butler, Monsieur Herbert: “1. Business has been slow, as per the season. 2. Inspector Baudet reports that Monsieur Martin is still out of town, but that Madame Martin suddenly recalls that Monsieur Martin’s knife, the murder weapon, was stolen from him some while ago.”

  “Oh! Really!” I said to myself. Did she think anyone would believe this “sudden” recollection? Martin Martin conveniently out of town, Madame Martin offering him an alibi, and now this story that his knife was stolen from him… they could not possibly have looked more suspicious.

  I am embarrassed to report that it took me a full two hours to think of our pickpocket, Monsieur Léo LeBlanc, in connection with this bit of news. When I did think of it, I jumped out of my seat with a startled “Oh!”

  I had been in the midst of a thoroughly boring conversation with a middle-aged customer about the outrageousness of the involvement of weapons
dealers in the Great War when I jumped to my feet, causing his mouth to drop open.

  “My dear sir, I am so very sorry,” I said, patting him vigorously on the shoulder. “I have just realized that I have an urgent matter to attend to.”

  I hurried off without even giving him a chance to reply.

  The question was, how could I get in touch with Léo Leblanc? I could call Inspector Baudet and instruct him to bring the young man in to the commissariat central. But no, that would never do – it was across the Seine.

  Oh, why did the commissariat central have to be across the river? It was proving to be most inconvenient.

  There was nothing for it but for me to confront Léo personally.

  Of course that presented difficulties of its own, seeing as how I had banished him from my home not two days ago. It would have to be a neutral meeting place.

  I had been heading out the front door by default, but reversed course, nearly upsetting the tray of a passing server, and went to the back hall where the telephone was.

  I spoke to the operator and asked for the home of Monsieur Léo LeBlanc, and listened to it ring anxiously, but unfortunately his butler answered and reported that Monsieur was not at home. I asked whether he was likely to be home to take his messages in the next hour or two. The butler thought so, and so I left the message that he was to meet me at a pastry shop on the Íle at ten o’clock—or else charges might be pressed—a threat to ensure he would show up.

  I was just hanging up the phone when the foursome of Dorothée, Helen, Melody, and Mireille swept up to me in an excited state. Dorothée clasped my shoulders and declared, her eyes wide, “I have a cousin named Régis who died five years ago of a heart attack.”

  “Truly remarkable!” I said only a few minutes later, as Dorothée pointed out the ancient, hand-inscribed family tree on the inside cover of her family Bible.

  “This was my father’s,” she said, patting it reverently. “It was first created by his grandfather, and then his mother had kept it up to date for a long time, before he broke all ties with his family. So there it is—Régis’s name and city. And then I had only to call the local magistrate to find his death certificate in the civil register. Of course, it’s Christmas, but I found his home number and made him go and look it up and tell me everything.” She beamed.

  “Wow. You are quite the sleuth, Dorothée!” I said. “And to do all of that so quickly.”

  “But tell her the rest!” Helen said.

  “Elise Escoffier—the woman who died here—I discovered that she was my first cousin twice removed,” Dorothy said. Her legs seemed to weaken, and she lowered herself to an overstuffed chair there in the hallway. I sat next to her and took her wrinkled hands in mine.

  “We can scarcely believe it,” Mireille said.

  Indeed, all of us were flustered and wide-eyed.

  “I knew there had to be a connection,” I said. “But I never imagined that you would be related. And so closely! She was your first cousin’s grandchild?”

  “Yes, my father had a brother of whom he never spoke, and his first son was Régis. Régis’s grandchild is Elise.”

  We all shook our head in wonderment.

  “But what reason would anyone have to want to kill both of you?” Melody asked.

  “I just don’t know,” Dorothée said. “I feel as if I’m going to faint.”

  “Lie down, my dear. I’ll have Monsieur Georges bring you some tea. Do you need your insulin?”

  “No, I don’t think so. It’s just… all this talk of murder…”

  “I completely understand,” I assured her. “We will speak no more of it. Not unless we must.” I patted her hand.

  After I had Monsieur Georges take Dorothée upstairs to her room to lie down, I called the commissariat central and left a message for Inspector Baudet with the news.

  The next couple of hours seemed to pass too slowly as I waited for my rendezvous with Léo LeBlanc at the pastry shop. But at last the allotted hour rolled around, and I put on my furs and ventured out into the cold Christmas night.

  I admired the globes of light in all the bushes and trees along the sidewalks, giving everything a magical look. The sky was clear, and the stars and moon bright. Many of the cafés and restaurants and bars were closed tonight, their doors and window shuttered, because proprietors and customers alike were at home having Christmas dinner, no doubt with chairs pulled up to the fireplaces, and the children playing with their newly opened toys. The streets were as lonely as I had ever seen them – at least since the Great War had ended.

  In fact, I had forgotten that the pastry shop would be closed – but Monsieur Léo LeBlanc stood outside of the shuttered doors, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together against the cold.

  He looked anxious about seeing me, his face unfriendly, which was no surprise.

  I did not waste time on greetings or small talk. I took the murder weapon from my pocket and handed it to him. “I don’t suppose you remember this one.”

  He gave me a cold look and shrugged dismissively, then handed it back to me. “I recognize it,” he said. “Took it off an old man in your Le Chat Rose not too long ago. What’s it to you? Obviously you got it back. Anyway, you told me not to go back there, and I haven’t, have I? I don’t see why you have to hassle me with this.”

  I held up the knife. “Because this is not merely a stolen item. This is a murder weapon.”

  “A murder weapon?” He stared at me, his face hard. “I haven’t killed anybody. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have to listen to this.”

  He started to move away and I caught his shoulder and turned him to face me. I leaned in. “You don’t get to leave until I say I’m done with you.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “A woman was killed with this blade. So unless you’d like to be accused of the murder, I’d like to know who had this knife in their possession as of two nights ago, December twenty-third. Or if it was you, then you have a lot to answer for.”

  I could read his thought process—it was painted across his face, as his eyes darted side to side. He clearly remembered what he had done with the knife and didn’t want to say. “I gave it away. I don’t know who had it on December twenty-third.”

  “Who did you give it to?”

  “I don’t remember. Some bum on the street. Figured he could sell for a few sous.” Everything in his tone and carriage revealed dishonestly.

  I grasped his arm. “You were feeling generous? I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “I gave it away, I tell you.” He shook me off.

  I’d had enough, and I stepped closer to him, ready to apply all of my charme, but just then a cheerful crowd of revelers passed too near, and one of the men called to me. “Madame! Is it you, from Le Chat Rose? Joyeux Noël!” and I had no choice but to turn and be sociable for a moment, even though I knew full well that when I turned back, Léo would be gone—and he was.

  10

  I went back to Le Chat Rose in a state of frustration. Léo was certainly lying to me. He was a known thief with a record, but did he have it in him to also be a murderer? And if so, why had he killed Elise? What was his connection to her? I saw nothing, but he had definitely lied to me, and he had admitted to stealing the murder weapon.

  Just to be certain, I asked Monsieur Georges to ask about as to when and where Léo had been seen at the maison in the preceding days. I had a suspicion it might matter.

  Then I went into the drawing room and there walked in on a lively argument between Melodie Bouvier, Hélène Bachelet, and Monsieur Carré, who was engaged enough in the argument to be leaning forward instead of having a plate of food propped up on his abundant belly.

  “But you must understand that either it’s superstitious nonsense, in which case you shouldn’t put your faith in it at all,” Carré was in the midst of saying, “or you must admit that it is real and you are in fact corresponding with the dead, in which case it is surely of the devil! It�
��s against all sense and reason to think that it’s real and yet at the same time is harmless.”

  “Bonsoir,” I said, taking a seat in their circle. “Do go on, this sounds fascinating.”

  “I’m afraid Monsieur Carré is out of touch with the times,” Melodie said. “Sir, you are more conservative in your perspective than anyone. The whole civilized world has embraced Spiritualism for decades now. Why should the dead be any more evil than they were when they were alive? Why, if you were to assert that they somehow became evil upon death, you would deny a life in death with God, and I thought you were a religious man.”

  “Oh, no, indeed, the spirits of the dead are safely with God,” Carré retorted. “Or else they are in Hell. And if they are safely with God, why would they be in communication with us?”

  “I have a suspicion that you’re Catholic. You are, aren’t you?” Hélène asked shrewdly, tapping the ash off her Gauloise.

  “Well, there’s no shame in that,” Carré said as he poured himself another cup of tea.

  “Of course there’s no shame,” Melodie said, “but it’s just silly, that’s all.”

  “Silly?” Carré asked, his tone becoming indignant. He looked up sharply from spooning sugar into his tea.

  “Not Catholicism itself,” Melodie said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “No, I mean fearing Spiritualism simply because the Pope has spoken against it.”

  “You can’t separate Catholicism from what the Pope says,” Carré said, with a touch of hostility.

  “Well, you can look at it scientifically instead,” Hélène said.

  “How’s that?” Melodie asked.

  “Well, think about it in terms of Freud’s psychoanalysis,” Hélène answered, and then took another puff from her cigarette. “He’s shown beyond a doubt that our minds have this unconscious or hidden dimension. That’s what speaks up through dreams and through the free association that Freud explores.”