JESTER: This time I had a glass of wine with Death, that cagey villain. He asked me to tell you that he plans to visit us all very, very soon.
SUITOR: Me as well?
JESTER: All of us.
QUEEN: Are you speaking in earnest or in jest?
JESTER catches the three balls and grins.
KING: He’s never to be taken seriously. He’s a jester, not a fortune-teller.
JESTER: But also an excellent drinking companion. So said Death. He also said not to worry, it will be swift, as if we were going to Place de la Concorde for an evening with La Dame.
QUEEN, hand going to her neck with a nervous laugh: Then we’ll station more guards. We aren’t just going to walk to the guillotine.
KING: He’s only telling a story, my queen. Do you think he’d be so cavalier if he thought his own life was in peril?
JESTER: On the contrary, I am in a state of utter despair. I’m drunk now, can’t you tell?
SUITOR, sniffing the JESTER: He smells of drink.
JESTER: It will be painless, Death assured me. We won’t know when to expect it.
QUEEN: But why, what have we done?
JESTER, pulling a flask from his belt: It’s not what we have done, but what we will do. We have a part to play on the world’s most magnificent stage.
19
Nathalie felt her jaw go slack. “A page from a play. On parchment.” She pressed her finger over the word Death. “What we found in the sewer “did mean something.”
A soggy piece of paper with neat rows and unreadable text. A hole. Block lettering at the start of nearly every line.
Never had she thought it had been nailed to a corpse.
Jules looked up, blinking in apparent disbelief.
“I owe you an apology,” Christophe said. “Looks like it wasn’t some university student’s glossary after all.”
She blushed. “I wouldn’t have taken it seriously, either.”
“The one from the sewer was unreadable. I wouldn’t have guessed it was a script,” said Jules. He ran a finger under his collar, then spoke again. “Did the killer murder them to match the script or write a script to match the murders?”
Nathalie was pleased to see him draw from his well of natural curiosity for the first time today. It felt more like him, as if he was here and not just fulfilling an obligation the way Gabrielle seemed to be.
“We’re still bending our minds around it, as you can imagine.” Christophe took the sheet back and smoothed it out. “We don’t know if this is something the killer himself wrote or if he transcribed some obscure text. Someone is running it over to scholars at the university as we speak.”
“Place de la Concorde and La Dame, obviously a nod to the Revolution of 1789,” said Nathalie. At the Louvre end of Champs-Élysées, where an obelisk now stood, there was once a guillotine. It had been the site of thousands of executions almost a hundred years ago during the Revolution. She thought the attempt to mask the history of the space puzzling; an exotic, stark monument couldn’t override its bloody history. “Consistent, too, with Jules’s vision.”
“You’ve provided us with an excellent clue, Jules. Thank you.”
Nathalie was eager to have her own vision now. Diffident Gabrielle and slow-to-sober Jules had made valuable contributions, and she wanted to do the same. She was, after all, the original Insightful in this morgue.
Jules’s fingers drummed the back of a chair. “Multiple references to a jester. Can this be taken seriously, or is the killer trying to make us the fools for believing this?”
Both Nathalie and Christophe remained silent. Anything was possible, wasn’t it?
Jules, full of nervous energy, paced the room. Several times he came across as if he were on the cusp of speaking but refrained.
“Christophe?” said Dr. Nicot from the hall. He opened the door a crack. “The victim is in the display room.”
“I want to elicit a vision.” Nathalie took a step toward the door. It was her turn; she wanted to do this before they spoke any more about it. Christophe nodded, and Jules followed her. Reluctantly or distractedly, she couldn’t tell.
Moments later, she was in the morgue viewing room. The queue had been long when she arrived; as news spread of the murder, it would only grow. Mme. Valois would certainly sell a lot of flowers today. Nathalie was glad not to have to stand outside the morgue these days, with the hot summer sun beating down on her for hours. There was no escaping the sweat stench of her fellow morgue-goers, Parisians and Exposition tourists alike, and the crowd in here today reminded her of that.
M. Cadoret stood beside the black velvet curtain in the display room, to the left of the viewing pane. Nathalie made her way to the far right of the glass for added privacy, Jules beside her. She gazed at the corpse she’d just seen in the Autopsy room and placed her hand on the glass.
The dead body that was once a man knelt before her, hands behind his back. His face was a mess of mucus and tears. She could see him sobbing but couldn’t hear it.
A piece of paper with writing on it lay on the floor in front of him. Round, wet circles dotted it. Tears. Sweat. Maybe both.
A guillotine blade was poised for release, several meters above his head.
“Please. Please!” the man mouthed.
The killer crouched down. He slid the paper closer to the man and tapped it with a single finger. “Lines,” he hissed.
The man picked up his head, sobbing, and choked his way through lines Nathalie could not hear. When he was done, the killer stuffed a rag in his mouth and kissed him on the cheek.
Nathalie stood in the morgue once again. As always, she felt here but not here. She drew a deep breath, relieved she didn’t see the guillotine blade release.
“The victim appeared to cry ‘please.’ In French. Did I say anything?”
“Yes,” Jules whispered, “but I couldn’t make it out.”
“‘Lines.’ That was all I heard. He wanted the victim to read from the script.”
Disgust brushed across Jules’s face. He shook his head. “My skin feels like it wants to raise up off me and walk away. Controlling others is obviously part of what drives him.”
As Nathalie recounted it all a short while later, Christophe asked her if it was the same room as in the previous visions.
She frowned. “From what I wrote, I believe the answer is yes. I have no direct recollection of them, however.”
Christophe looked as if she’d thrown water in his face. “I’m—I’m sorry, Nathalie. I’m reading through the details I’d noted and I wasn’t thinking.”
Nathalie pressed her back against the chair. She studied the autopsy print, then the Switzerland one. Everything was off today. Gabrielle had been here, intruding on her realm. Jules had some lingering effects of vin de coca that had him out of sorts. And Christophe, ever mindful, had overlooked her memory loss. She wouldn’t be so irritable about it if he hadn’t had an oversight the other day as well. When she had a vision and gave a piece of her memory, for nothing. Not to mention he’d be disappearing to the Alps soon (Had he said when? Her notes on this were frustratingly vague) for a holiday with his betrothed.
“Did you see a chessboard this time?” Jules asked. “Or any chess pieces? Last time, the victim, Camille, used one to poke the killer in the eye.”
“Nothing of that sort.”
Christophe dipped his pen in the inkwell. “So this poor soul was the Jester in the ‘play,’ and Enzo and Camille were the King and Queen. Maybe it has nothing to do with chess.”
Jules picked at a hole in a threadbare section of his sleeve. “My thought reading suggested otherwise,” he said, not looking up. After a pause, he spoke again. “And the script. We found a piece of the first, no doubt the rest is long gone. What of the second?”
“Perhaps he changed his mind about attaching the second one. It was not in the valise holding the body,” Christophe said, returning the pen to the inkwell. He shook his head. “That’s not a phrase I have
ever said.”
Nathalie couldn’t imagine opening up a valise and seeing a headless corpse. Who discovered it and how many nightmares had they had since? Her eyes fell on the parchment paper that had been nailed to the Jester.
“Four characters in the script, but three victims…” Nathalie didn’t finish the thought out loud. It was obvious, and, given the expressions of Jules and Christophe, they all appeared to reach the same conclusion at once.
The next victim would be the Suitor.
If he hadn’t already been killed.
* * *
Nathalie and Jules parted ways upon leaving the morgue, she for the newspaper and he for the chocolatier. They didn’t have the opportunity to talk, both because his hearing was already starting to slip, even sooner than usual, and because he wanted to get there in time to assist with the first batch.
Or so he said.
Nathalie began writing her article on the omnibus (but stopped when a nosy passenger to her left continuously read over her shoulder) and finished at an unoccupied desk on the first floor of Le Petit Journal. When she ran it up to M. Patenaude, she shared the morning’s news at the morgue. Including her opinion of Gabrielle.
“I don’t know the family,” he said, taking a seat behind his desk, “although I did hear that her father facilitated this, giving her little choice. If she’s misanthropic, try to understand it through that lens. I’ve known self-loathing Insightfuls, and it’s disconcerting to watch. Much like jealousy.”
“I feel rather sorry for her, despite having an aversion toward her.” Then she realized what M. Patenaude had just said. “Jealousy? You don’t think I’m—”
He held up his ink-stained hands. “I’m not going to judge whether you are or aren’t.”
“In any event,” she said, smoothing out a dress that didn’t need smoothing, “Jules’s vision was promising. It shouldn’t take long to identify the descendants of executioners.”
“If he wasn’t lying.”
“Who, Jules?”
“No.” M. Patenaude dumped some ashes into a canister. “The killer. Could have been bravado or wishful thinking. After all, he’s playing a part himself, isn’t he?”
Nathalie considered that, then agreed. “Speaking of which, what if it is Jack the Ripper? I mean, what better ruse than to come to Paris and continue killing under a completely different guise? Going after men, too.”
“It would be just like an Englishman to ruin the Exposition.”
Nathalie laughed, and M. Patenaude shook his head.
“I wasn’t joking,” he said. “I doubt it’s the Ripper, because the style is different—too different. With that in mind, they shouldn’t rule out someone who has a grudge against France. It could be a French citizen.”
“Which means, once more, that it could be almost anyone.”
M. Patenaude took a cigarette out of his case and lit it. “It isn’t hard to blend into the crowd in a city of two million with thousands more pouring in for the fair daily. And with all the exhibit and equipment transport, there’s plenty of opportunity for moving a body around.”
Nathalie hadn’t thought of that. In the off-hours, men were always bringing things in and out, making deliveries, and so on.
M. Patenaude’s gaze fell on his paperweight, a glass salamander, as he took a puff. “Le Rasoir,” he said, exhaling a smoke plume. “That’s what I’m going to call him in my editorial today.”
The Razor. After Le Rasoir National, the nickname for the guillotine.
“It’s frightful and completely disquieting.”
M. Patenaude smirked. “Good.”
* * *
Although Nathalie hadn’t planned on going to the Exposition in the afternoon, she decided to after leaving Le Petit Journal. M. Patenaude told her he was going to publish her piece on the horological exhibit at some point, and they’d talked some about the fair. When he referenced the intriguing beauty of the Aztec palace at the Mexican Pavilion, she decided she had to see it sooner rather than later.
High and steep, it was a structure unlike any of the other pavilions, with broad-faced statues along the exterior and geometric patterns in relief. Over the entrance was a round disc with symbols representing a calendar, if Nathalie remembered correctly. As she walked up the steps, she examined the figures more closely. They weren’t all the same. Who did they represent?
She went inside and, having learned a few words of Spanish (which had many similarities to French, at least in spelling), approached one of the men talking to visitors. When he was free, she used a combination of hand gestures and “Quién?” to inquire about the statues.
The man responded with several sentences, most of which she did not understand. There were two words that were enough like French to convey what she aimed to learn: emperadores and deidades. Emperors and deities.
Nathalie thanked the man and walked around the interior, full of books, maps, and figures. Upon leaving, she contemplated visiting the nearby pavilions, but the crowd was thick in that section of the fair. Instead, she took the Decauville train to the Esplanade des Invalides, circling Mexico on her map and adding some notes on the short ride over.
She visited the pavilions of Tunisia and Algeria, both of which enticed her through scent above all else. At Tunisia she had some excellent, rich coffee that her palate welcomed like arms sliding through a favorite coat. In the Algeria Pavilion, a blend of deep, spicy perfumes beckoned to her; she found a musky oil with a touch of amber that appealed to her and bought a jar.
On her way out of the Exposition grounds, Nathalie stopped to survey her surroundings, deciding which route to take home. She took a step back to leave and bumped into someone. Turning to apologize, she found a white-haired woman who smelled of incense staring at her.
“Repent,” the woman said. “Save yourself from the eternal flames.”
“Sorry, I—”
The woman held a single finger up to her lips, indicating silence. Without a blink, she handed Nathalie a broadside, then turned on her heel and departed.
Nathalie looked at the broadside.
Matthew 24: 24-28
Should anyone say to you, ‘Look, here is the Messiah!’ or, ‘There he is!’ do not believe it. False messiahs and false prophets will arise; they will perform signs and wonders so great as to deceive, if that were possible, even the elect.
Behold, I have told it to you beforehand.
If they say to you, ‘He is in the desert,’ do not go out there; if they say, ‘He is in the inner rooms,’ believe it not. Just as lightning comes from the east and is seen as far as the west, so will the coming of the Son of Man be.
Wherever the corpse is, there the vultures will gather.
She didn’t believe in omens or fate or divination of any sort.
Nevertheless, the broadside unsettled her.
And ever so much more so when she turned it over.
The other side had a crudely drawn map of the Exposition grounds with some of the attractions marked, and crosses in three spots.
The Fontaine de Coutan.
The Palais des Beaux-Arts.
The Guatemala Pavilion.
A map, plotted with murders instead of wishes, being handed out like a souvenir.
* * *
The memory gap surfaced the next morning, as she was reviewing her journal entries from the past few days. She’d lost some time from the night at the Exposition, when she had ascended to the top platform of the Tour Eiffel with Jules, Simone, and Louis. Sadness washed over her that this memory of something so visual had been taken away. Her mind held on to a mere glimpse of the view, just enough to know she’d had it, just enough to lament that it was pushed into the chasm of wherever it was her memories went. Sometimes, she indulged in a daydream that one day she’d find all those stolen memories, almost like a magical land in an enchanted forest. Almost. A portal to truths she’d lived rather than longings she’d fancied.
She remembered the moment when they reached the
summit, then time disappeared again until she was home with her night clothes on and Stanley on the bed (as she was telling him about Max and Lucy).
Her descriptions of Paris from that height, being that high above the city she adored, were as evocative and detailed and immersive as could be. Still, it wasn’t the same as experiencing it.
Nonetheless, she knew she could go again—would go again. The Tour Eiffel wasn’t going anywhere. It was magnificent and captivating and the epitome of tangible. There would be other visits.
What she was grateful for, however, was what hadn’t been taken from her. Her map had been marked and her notes had been made, but it wasn’t the same as retaining the feeling of being at the fair. Her most recent memories of it were intact. Her perspective had expanded some, enough to show her that there was so, so much more to learn, see, and do in the world. No wonder Papa loved the sea.
20
Beheaded Victim Was Parisian Actor
The third victim of Le Rasoir was Parisian actor Timothy St. Martin, age 34. St. Martin had been on hiatus from acting after recovering from an illness but most recently appeared as the Fool in King Lear. Police, for reasons they cannot yet reveal, believe St. Martin may have been chosen because of that role.
Le Petit Journal didn’t elaborate, because the script was to be kept confidential. For now. The newspaper noted how the crowds hadn’t deviated, despite three gruesome murders in the city:
… one might even surmise that the Exposition Universelle has flourished because of this series of events, a grim rival to the Whitechapel murders in London last fall. France has put on such an admirable display of innovation and progress that not only are crowds undeterred in their quest to see it, they may even be enjoying the macabre excitement.
Several international visitors spoke to us with the aid of an interpreter.
“I came with a group and we travel together at all times. I feel safe,” said a visitor from India. “We have even gone to the morgue.”
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