Sensational

by Jodie Lynn Zdrok

  The exterior of the Galerie des Machines was a towering mass of mosaics and colored glass, and the overwhelming iron-and-glass expansiveness of the interior had the four of them gaping for half a minute before proceeding. With many diversions and a not-very-logical path, they explored the technological exhibits. The building covered over eighty thousand square meters, according to Jules. (He was a repository of such facts, although Nathalie wondered if the vin de coca had him spouting the wrong number.) In any event, it was enormous with lots of iron and whirring machines and engineering devices she didn’t understand—even without the vin de coca—but appreciated nevertheless. Her favorite were the phonographs, a name she thought most amusing, which spouted “Vive la France!” and some patriotic music. This Thomas Edison inventor the newspapers lauded was most clever.

  They tried several doors for personnel only; all were locked. They did come across one unattended door slightly ajar and, alas, there was nothing of interest there but storage.

  Louis shut the door with a disappointed sigh. “You would think, with sixteen thousand machines, there’d be something of interest in an open door.”

  “It’s all out on the floor,” said Jules.

  “These machines are making me dizzy,” said Simone, rubbing her temples. “Can we go see something else?”

  For a short time between the Galerie des Machines and the Galerie de la Bijouterie et la Joaillerie, where Simone told Louis to get her a necklace like the one with a hand-sized gem she saw on display, Jules lingered too long at the all-chocolate Venus de Milo exhibit and lost them. When he caught up with them, he said he’d run into someone he knew. Nathalie forgot who almost as soon as he said it; she and Simone were much more interested in discussing the Imperial Diamond (thirty carats was too big, they decided).

  From there, they went to the Galerie de la Chasse, Pêche, and Cueillette, where each of them did impersonations of the animals attacking hunters, instead of the other way around. Afterward, they went outside and sat on the steps to take in the fireworks, with Louis receiving no shortage of Simone elbows for asking “What cracker is this same that deafs our ears?” too many times. Louis insisted that it was a Shakespeare quote, and Simone insisted that she didn’t care.

  By the time they made it past the illuminated Fontaine de Coutan—which was more magical than Nathalie had envisioned—to the base of the Tour Eiffel, the effects of the wine had begun to wear off. Riding the elevator to the second platform proved to be a moderately terrifying experience that had Simone squealing not once but twice (to the dismay of her fellow passengers, including Nathalie), though once Nathalie got off, she realized it wasn’t so scary. As they took another elevator to the top, the lights of the tower came on, dotting the outline of the structure.

  “How far do you think we’ll be able to see?” asked Nathalie as they stepped off.

  Before Jules could answer, she saw for herself.

  The moonlit city gleamed in every direction, speckled with gaslamps. The Seine made a dark, swirling path through it all, overseen by silhouetted trees and stately buildings. Simone and Louis took in the sight, shoulders touching. Nathalie got closer to Jules, and he put his arm around her waist, hugging her close. A cocoon of wind surrounded them, somehow comforting.

  “My goodness,” she said, turning to him, “it’s—”

  “Beautiful?” he said, ending the sentiment with a tender kiss. It wasn’t their first, but it warmed her heart in a new way. Here, above Paris, how could it not?

  When they left the Exposition, reluctantly conceding defeat to fatigue, they took the ferry across the Seine.

  “Look at that,” said Simone, leaning against the rail. She pointed to the right of the Tour Eiffel. “A lot of commotion over there, off in the distance.”

  Louis rested his chin on her shoulder. “Hmmm. People are shouting something. Can you make it out?”

  The ferry was too far away, though, for anything except the faintest of cries to be heard.

  “Should we go back,” suggested Jules, “and see what’s going on?”

  Nathalie yawned. “I’d like to, but I am exhausted. As it is, we stayed out too late.”

  The others regretfully agreed with the sentiment. They watched the activity around the Exposition grounds until it was time to disembark. “Whatever it is,” said Simone, “we probably can’t get close enough to see, anyway.”

  They walked together for a while, then parted ways on weary feet.

  Nathalie went to bed that night, full of affection for Jules, for her friends, for Paris, for France.

  The effect did not last.

  She woke up the next morning with a maddening headache and no appetite, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure she was awake.

  Because it couldn’t be real, or at least she didn’t want to believe it. The edition of Le Petit Journal in Papa’s hand could have been a dream, or it could have been the delayed effects of the vin de coca.

  But no, she was awake and sober, and this was the truth. The commotion they’d seen from the ferry, the activity they were too tired to return to and too far away to see.

  Man’s Body, Severed Head Found at Exposition:

  Grisly Nighttime Discoveries at Uruguay, Guatemala Pavilions; Bloodied White Scarf Returns

  18

  Snippets of the article repeated themselves to Nathalie as she made her way to the morgue just over an hour later.

  The man’s head donned a jester’s cap. With hair cropped à la Titus like Enzo Farini of the Palais des Beaux-Arts, it was surrounded by a deck of cards.

  We received a tip that a female victim was discovered the same day as Farini, at the Fontaine de Coutain, depicted as a “queen.” Several trustworthy sources have confirmed this, but the victim’s identity is unknown.

  A king, a queen, and now a jester?

  Three balls, of the sort used for juggling, lay near the victim’s hand.

  To make sure everyone knew the head in the Guatemala Pavilion went with the body in the Uruguay Pavilion. As if there’d be any mistake along those lines.

  She hadn’t seen these pavilions yet, but the newspaper suggested they were an “ideal location for such diabolical stealth,” being situated behind the vast Palais des Arts Libéraux with numerous trees surrounding each.

  Yet for all that spectacle, the victim wasn’t on display at the morgue. Had the decision from last time been repealed, despite the public nature of the discovery? Was it not there yet? Or was the man’s body still in Autopsy?

  She had her answers shortly after M. Cadoret opened the Medusa door for her. Before she could ask a single question, Gabrielle walked out of Autopsy, followed by Christophe.

  I see she changed her mind about getting involved.

  Christophe caught Nathalie’s eye and motioned for her to follow them into his office. Gabrielle waved, a sheepish smile on her face. Nathalie walked down the hall, tempted to peek at what was behind the Autopsy door Christophe had just shut. She took a seat next to Gabrielle in the office—which now had, she was disappointed to note, three chairs instead of two—and told them she’d already read the newspaper.

  “I sent for all three of you this morning. Jules is on his way. The courier left for you not long ago, so he’s on an empty errand.” Christophe rarely sent for Nathalie, given that she was at the morgue daily anyway for her column. Only if it was urgent and she had the day off or had otherwise communicated plans to be there late in the day, like the day Camille Bertrand’s head was discovered in the Fontaine de Coutan. “Once again we’ll be putting the body on display. Prefect of Police Lozé was adamant about that and doesn’t want a controversy on his hands. As it is, news of Camille Bertrand got out, and we have all we can do to keep the details and her identity obscured.”

  Gabrielle stroked her amethyst ring. “Would there really be public outcry?”

  “The police and some of the newspapers have one set of interests. The government and the organizers of the Exposition Universelle have another,” Chris
tophe said, opening an envelope and sorting through the contents. He took a pen and prepared to write on one of the documents. “To hide what was already on display, so to speak, is asking for trouble.”

  Before Christophe could proceed any further, Jules arrived. Nathalie had already told him about her initial encounter with Gabrielle, and she could see that it colored his impression of her. His greeting was stiff, more formal than usual. Even to Nathalie. He stood behind her chair and rested his hands on it as Christophe described, for the benefit of Jules and Gabrielle, each of their abilities and how they could help.

  “Three Insightfuls working on the case,” remarked Christophe, smiling. “This is a police liaison’s dream.”

  Nathalie glanced at Jules, who was fidgety, and at Gabrielle, who seemed both ill at ease and disinterested. Where Christophe saw a team, she saw herself alongside two people who did not want to be there.

  “First,” began Christophe, “I should note that the Guatemalan and Uruguayan representatives were interrogated and released. The police have no reason to think they were involved in the murder. Whoever is behind this knows Paris very well, which rules out any Exposition representatives here for the first time, really.”

  Nathalie and the others agreed.

  Christophe continued, tugging the end of his sleeves. “Second, Gabrielle has decided that she would like to work with us in a limited, as-needed capacity for this case. She’s already done her path tracing and was about to provide details.”

  Gabrielle’s deep blue eyes landed on each of them, one at a time, like a quick drumbeat. The resentfulness she’d shown in their prior meeting had slipped away, only shy civility in its place. “This was in the same area as before, the seventh arrondissement, maybe the sixth. He exited a public place where people go in and leave at the same time—a concert hall, theater, church perhaps.” She cast her gaze down, concentration pinching her face. “Then he moved on to a restaurant or bar just down the street, but it wasn’t the same one the other victim had patronized. He left the establishment, footing unsteady, and paused to get his bearings. He went back the route he came and … and it went dark for me after that.”

  Christophe finished writing down what she said. “Thank you, Gabrielle. I recognize what an effort it was for you to make the decision to come here.” He flashed Gabrielle a smile before turning to Nathalie and Jules. “Now, who’d like to go next?”

  “I will,” said Jules in an oddly discourteous manner. He cut in before Nathalie had a chance to open her mouth. She was going to suggest Jules go first anyway, and that she wait until the corpse was put in the display room, but even so. This wasn’t the first time Christophe ever posed this question to them; however, it was the first time she could recall Jules not turning to her. What if she had somewhere to go and needed to provide her vision next?

  Gabrielle leaned forward, placing her fingertips on Christophe’s desk. “Pardonnez-moi, may I leave now? I’m due at the library soon. My feet aren’t numb yet, and I’d like to walk there before that sets in.” Gabrielle’s voice was forlorn, so much so that Nathalie comprehended, more than she had the other day, how much this drained her. She reminded Nathalie of a schoolgirl asking the teacher’s permission to get her coat because she was too cold.

  “Certainly,” said Christophe, his imperfect tooth showing with his smile. “I’ll see you out.”

  Gabrielle said farewell, and Christophe escorted her out. As soon as they left the room, Nathalie turned to Jules and dropped her voice. “I told you she was peculiar.”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t get much of an impression either way. She wasn’t rude. More like resigned. She isn’t comfortable with her power, as you said.” Jules sat in the chair beside Nathalie, pressing his palms into his eyes.

  She watched him for a moment. “How are you feeling today? You seem—distraught, nervous. Not yourself. Did something happen at home? Was Faux Papa after you?”

  “He was out gambling last night. He wasn’t even awake when I left this morning. Not that.”

  Nathalie expected him to elaborate, to say why his behavior was so out of sorts. He remained there, palms still over his eyes, without saying a word. She moved her chair closer to him. “I feel some effects from that vin de coca, I think. I haven’t eaten a thing, and I still have a headache.”

  “I’m not hungry, either. No headache. Just … extraordinarily agitated. I slept poorly. The vin de coca, I suppose. If I were inclined to bite my nails, I wouldn’t have any left by now.”

  Christophe appeared in the doorway. “Now then. Shall we?”

  Jules picked up his head and stood. His eyes looked bleary; it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere. He was prone to irritability when he didn’t get much sleep.

  They followed Christophe into Autopsy. The man’s body was on the table, covered in a sheet from feet to neck. The decapitated head was placed several centimeters above the neck, as when Enzo Farini’s body was on display. He was perhaps in his thirties, bearded with a square face and a thin, pointy nose. His clothes hung on the wall, nondescript evening clothes that were neither finely cut nor shabby. It was difficult to gauge stature when a body was in repose, but it seemed to Nathalie that he was on the shorter side. He looked like a man who should be gathering with his friends tonight after leaving the factory or who would be on a ship with Papa next month, not a decapitated murder victim.

  But then, who did resemble what people envisioned when they conceived of a murder victim?

  Everyone and no one, which was what Nathalie could never reconcile.

  Dr. Nicot straightened out a pair of scissors. “We’re about to move the body into the display room, unless you need a moment.”

  “We do,” said Christophe. The medical examiner excused himself and stepped out.

  Christophe pulled the sheet down to the man’s stomach.

  Beside the rib cage was a hole the diameter of a nail.

  Nathalie made eye contact with Christophe, who gave her a knowing nod. “We know something else about this now. I’ll explain later. Are you ready, Jules?”

  He mumbled a “yes” without breaking his gaze from the corpse. Nathalie watched his Adam’s apple ripple as he swallowed. He took slow, measured steps toward the head.

  Nathalie had been discomfited when she first observed Jules using his power. It was disturbing in its weirdness, and it made her uncomfortably cognizant of how she must have appeared. People in the display room who happened to notice her—as discreet as she aimed to be—seemed bothered afterward, having seen something that was as unnatural as it was natural, whether they guessed she was endowed with magic or not.

  Jules’s hands quivered as he placed them on the man’s head, eyes shut, and exhaled. His eyelids fluttered, and he made a sound akin to stammering, trying to force out words that wouldn’t go.

  When he was done, he stepped back. The blood drained from his face and he was paler than the sheet. “His mother. The man was—was thinking about his mother.” Jules kept his eyes on the corpse. “The smell of a laundry. He was fixated on that smell. Chess, he was forced to play chess. And his killer was boasting”—he paused, making eye contact with Christophe—“about being the descendant of an executioner.”

  Christophe slapped his hands together. “That’s a tremendous lead!”

  “Well done, mon bonbon,” said Nathalie. Maybe this case would be solved sooner rather than later. Maybe it wasn’t another Dark Artist or Jack the Ripper.

  “Thank you,” he said, mopping some sweat from his brow.

  Nathalie took a step toward him. “Are you feeling worse than you’ve let on?”

  “I—I think the vin de coca is still affecting me somehow.”

  Christophe looked from Jules to Nathalie. “Vin de coca?”

  “Simone and Louis gave us some,” said Nathalie, refusing to meet Christophe’s stare of incredulity. “Something someone made at Le Chat Noir and it was, well, you know. Strong. With effects that were thrilling at the time but ultimate
ly … disagreeable.”

  “I’ve not tried any, but from what I hear, it’s not the mildest beverage to imbibe.” Christophe spoke in a faltering voice. “Are you, uh, in the habit of drinking that? Either of you?”

  Nathalie examined her fingernails. “No, we aren’t. I didn’t want to, but I’d already had a glass of wine and … yielded. This was my first and last time. And I presume Jules’s as well.”

  Jules murmured in absentminded agreement.

  Christophe shook his head, muttering something about “risks” Nathalie tried not to hear, and covered the man’s torso with the sheet once again. Tucking in the dead. “Let’s allow Dr. Nicot to finish preparing the body for display. While he’s doing that, I’ll show you what was found with the body. Gabrielle asked not to be involved any more than she had to, but I suspect the two of you will find this most interesting—and familiar.”

  With the body? The newspaper account didn’t mention anything of the sort, only that the head was found in the Guatemala Pavilion and the rest of the body in the Uruguay Pavilion.

  When they returned to Christophe’s office, he took an envelope and a pair of black gloves from a cabinet and sat in his chair. Nathalie and Jules remained standing. “This,” he said, opening the folder, “was affixed to the victim’s torso with a nail.”

  After putting on the gloves, Christophe removed a sheet of parchment paper, stained reddish-brown, from the envelope.

  Parchment paper.

  Nathalie peered at it from across the desk. “Is that blood?”

  Christophe murmured a somber yes and slid the paper across the desk for them to read. The handwriting was immaculate, the ink heavy.

  JESTER, while juggling three balls: I went to the tavern last night.

  KING: And this should surprise or entertain me? You go three nights a week.