The Grand Dark

by Richard Kadrey

“That reminds me. Should we have a drink for Enki?” Largo asked.

  Hanna raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you even liked Enki.”

  “I don’t particularly, but I never wished the Drops on him.”

  “Maybe the doctors have discovered a treatment for it,” said Remy.

  Hanna swirled her drink. “If they had, we would know about it at the lab.”

  “I should have asked Dr. Venohr,” said Largo.

  “Was he here?” said Remy. “Why didn’t he stay for the party?”

  “The decapitation, I suspect. He left right after the second play. But he said hello and that you should keep taking your pills.”

  “The two of you. You’re both mother hens.”

  Hanna said, “Maybe Largo is right. Maybe we should have a drink for Enki.”

  “And hope for the best for him and Lucie too,” Largo said.

  “To Enki, then,” said Remy, and they all drank.

  Later in the evening, Remy found a stagehand with cocaine and she and Largo made love in the puppet room—this time with the door locked.

  No one heard anything from Lucie the next day. Baumann checked with both the hospital and the police, but neither could help. By now, Largo was certain that she’d been abducted. Remy burst into tears when he told her his theory. She made him promise not to mention it to anybody else. Before he left for work, he made sure that Remy took her pill.

  At work, after the other couriers had left the office for their morning deliveries, Largo remained behind.

  He went to Branca’s desk. “Excuse me, sir,” he said.

  “Yes? Is there a problem with one of your packages?”

  “No. They’re fine. I was wondering if you might have heard anything from Margit?”

  “Margit,” said Branca. “She has graced us with neither her presence nor a message.”

  “I’m worried about her.”

  “Are you now? Well, I have good news for you. If she is absent without a word for one more day, she will no longer be employed here. That means she will be nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Is that fair?” said Largo. “Andrzej was gone for several days too.”

  “But we knew where Andrzej was, and his infirmities were well-documented by a doctor. Margit’s absence, on the other hand, is more spectral,” said Branca. He half smiled. “Perhaps she was a ghost all along and has simply returned to the grave.”

  Largo didn’t like the easy way Branca talked about Margit being dead. “Maybe I should call the hospital.”

  Branca shuffled paperwork on his desk. “Don’t bother. The company has already done it and there are no records of her admission.”

  That was a surprise, although the more Largo thought about it, the less sure he was that he believed Branca. He decided to call the hospital himself on his lunch break, but it occurred to him then that he didn’t even know Margit’s last name. There was no way to ask Branca for it without letting on that he didn’t believe him. Maybe Parvulesco knows, he thought, and decided to ask him after work.

  Largo said, “Thank you,” and checked the address of his first package.

  Before he left, Branca said, “Don’t be so glum. This works out well for you too, Largo.”

  “How is that?”

  Branca set down his pen and stacked the papers he’d been working on. “With Margit gone, you no longer have to pay back the favor you owe her.”

  Largo left the office without saying another word.

  At lunch, he bought Ihre Skandale to see if Enki or the Drops were mentioned. Neither was. However, another story caught his eye. It was about the murder of a young woman by what the paper called an “anarchist mastermind.” He’d evaded the police for most of the night and was killed by a police Mara in the Midden. The young woman had been popular in the district and when the police found the killer’s body, it had been mutilated by the residents. Largo recognized the story immediately as the play from the previous night, but there was something wrong. According to Ihre Skandale, the young woman’s murder had occurred around midnight and the killer didn’t encounter the police Maras until almost dawn.

  The party at the Grand Dark began at about ten.

  So how did Una know about a murder that hadn’t happened yet?

  It was another dull day running letters and packages from one end of Lower Proszawa to the other. The skies remained gray and threatened rain, but it never came.

  Largo’s last delivery of the day was in the Granate district. He walked his bicycle along the street because it was paved with rough cobblestones that hadn’t been maintained in a decade or more. The tall, narrow houses were close together. People grew vegetables in small patches of soil on the sidewalk where gardens had once stood. The district used to be home to the servants who worked for the wealthy families in Händler and Kromium. Now it was occupied by their descendants, many of whom had lost their positions to Maras and lived on minuscule government stipends and veteran pensions.

  At a house whose front steps had collapsed and been replaced with an improvised stairway of wooden boxes, Largo knocked on the door. A frowning woman in curlers answered. She wore a housecoat and the skin on her face and hands was blotched red, as if she were fighting a fever.

  “Frau Heckert?” Largo said. “I have a delivery for you.”

  Her frown turned into a broad smile. “Really? I’ve never had a delivery before. Who’s it from?”

  Largo checked the package. “I’m sorry, but the return address is smudged.”

  Frau Heckert put out her hands. “Never mind. Give it here.”

  “Would you mind signing for it first?”

  She scrawled something spiky and illegible in Largo’s receipt book and snatched the package away from him as if afraid he would run off with it. Chuckling excitedly, Frau Heckert tore the box open immediately. Her smile vanished and she stared at what was inside. With a rough red hand, she reached into the package and removed a small revolver. She turned it over in her hand.

  “I haven’t seen one of these since the war,” she said. Frau Heckert held the gun out to Largo. “It doesn’t bring back good memories. Do you want it?”

  He took a step back. “Thank you, but we’re not permitted to do that.”

  She frowned at the pistol and shrugged. “I suppose I could use it. Granate isn’t what it used to be. Thieves. People being snatched off the street. It’s madness.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Frau Heckert opened the revolver’s cylinder. “My, it’s loaded and everything.” She slapped the cylinder back into place and pointed the gun at Largo. Beaming at him, she said, “Ever seen the devil dance a jig?”

  He froze and looked at her. “What?”

  “Ever kissed a raven in the bright moonlight?”

  “No, madam.”

  Frau Heckert laughed with a blotched hand over her mouth. “I’m just playing with you. It’s something we used to say to enemy prisoners during the war, right before we executed them. It kept their minds busy while we did our business.”

  Largo walked down the box stairway to his bicycle. “Have a good day, madam.”

  “You too,” said Frau Heckert. She stood in her doorway with a puzzled expression on her face. “Funny kind of gift.”

  Largo walked his bicycle quickly out of Granate and stopped for a whiskey and a drop of morphia before going back to the company.

  That evening, Remy again played the wronged soldier in The Trench Demon. When the second play was over, Largo realized what he’d just seen because he’d been so preoccupied thinking about Frau Heckert and the yellowsheet story about the previous night’s murder. When he ran into Una backstage, he asked her how she knew about a murder that hadn’t taken place.

  She said, “Don’t be silly, Largo. I don’t steal everything from Ihre Skandale. I do have a lively imagination, if I do say so myself.”

  “But the stories were so similar,” said Largo.

  “Just a coincidence,” Una said. She winked at him.
“Or maybe I’m clairvoyant.”

  He wasn’t convinced, but he couldn’t figure his way past her casual dismissal. “Has anyone heard from Lucie yet?”

  Una walked away. “I don’t know. You should ask Baumann. I hear he was out all night looking.”

  Largo stared as she left, startled by the callousness of her answer. After a minute, he went into Remy’s dressing room. She kissed him and had him towel off the sweat that had accumulated on her back while in the galvanic suit. He mechanically began wiping her down.

  “You seem distracted, darling.”

  “I’m worried,” said Largo.

  “About what?”

  “The second play last night. It was about a murder that didn’t happen until two hours later.”

  Remy took the towel and wiped her face. “That doesn’t make sense. I’m sure you’re getting your stories mixed up.”

  “I’m not. I can show you the story in Ihre Skandale. They match almost exactly.”

  “‘Almost,’” she said. “That means they’re not the same story.”

  “They’re close enough for me to be worried.”

  Remy dropped down into a chair and began putting on her clothes. “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “I’m not sure. Nothing. I don’t know. But I have a terrible feeling that something is wrong at the Grand Dark. When I picked up my work clothes the other day, I ran into Una at five thirty in the morning. There was a bullock car nearby and she said she had a meeting with someone.”

  Remy held up her hands in a gesture of frustration. “Una sleeps in the theater sometimes when she’s working late. And she meets with people when they can meet. Theater people don’t keep the kind of rigid hours couriers do.”

  Largo frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. Please,” said Remy. She put her head in her hands. “I’m exhausted. What are you telling me?”

  Largo went and knelt by her chair. “That something strange happened the other night. Lucie is gone and no one cares. If it weren’t for Baumann no one would even be out looking. I have a bad feeling,” he said. “What if you go missing? I don’t know what I’d do.”

  Remy sat back in her chair and looked at him in a way he’d never seen before. It was hard and cold. “Is this about our conversation at Anita’s show? I want to hone my skills and become a better performer. That means I’ll be working more and have less time to spend with you,” she said. “Are you jealous? Are you that selfish? I’m trying to change my life.”

  “So am I,” said Largo. “And I’m not jealous.”

  Remy got up and put on her coat. “You’re not changing your life. Uncle Rudy is. Without him, you’ll be riding that bicycle through the streets like a schoolboy when you’re a hundred.”

  Largo was caught off guard by her anger. Where is it coming from? This isn’t like her. It made him think of Enki and Andrzej and how they’d suddenly changed, but with Remy the shift was in the opposite direction. With her there was a new distance in her eyes, her whole manner.

  “That’s not true,” he said. “I really want to learn and improve myself.”

  “Then stop being jealous of me doing the same thing!” Remy shouted.

  “I promise I’m not. I’m afraid for you. Don’t you understand? I think Una might be connected to a murder. Maybe even working with the bullocks.”

  Remy threw open her dressing room door and walked into the backstage area. “Get out! Get out of here!” she shouted. “I don’t want to see you. Don’t call me or come to the theater. If I ever want to see you again, I’ll get in touch with you.”

  Una, Ilsa, and the other performers gathered around.

  “Remy, please listen—” said Largo.

  “Get out!” she screamed, and the words caught in her throat. She made a choking sound and collapsed onto the floor as her limbs went rigid and convulsed into grotesque positions. Largo and Una ran to her.

  “Someone call a doctor!” Una shouted.

  Largo grabbed Remy’s arms and tried to keep them from twisting. Una shoved him away. “You’ve done enough damage for one night. Didn’t you hear her? Get out and don’t come back.”

  Largo got up and looked around. Everyone stared at him angrily. When he took a step back toward Remy, Ilsa and a couple of brawny stagehands got in his way.

  “Has someone called the doctor?” shouted Una.

  Something trailed from Remy’s mouth. It was dark and smelled like scorched oil. He remembered the man in the butchers’ quarter.

  Is this why Remy was so different tonight?

  When Largo tried to get back to her, one of the stagehands shoved him. Largo reached under his jacket for the knife and the stagehand backed away.

  “Don’t make things any worse!” shouted Una. “Just get out.”

  Largo closed his jacket and rode home to Little Shambles. On the way, he stopped at a shop and bought a bottle of their cheapest whiskey. He didn’t wake up until the next day, when someone was pounding on the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  HE WAS STILL DRESSED IN HIS CLOTHES FROM THE THEATER. LARGO OPENED the flat door an inch and five men burst in. Four were in police uniforms, but the fifth was a thin man in a gray coat. He said, “How are you this fine morning, Herr Moorden?”

  Groggily, Largo said, “Tanz?”

  “Special Operative Tanz,” he said, poking Largo in the chest with each word. “Thought your friend the Baron could get rid of me, did you? Guess again.”

  Largo’s cheap whiskey hangover made his eyes hurt and his head throb. “What do you want? I have to get to work.”

  The four men with Tanz fanned out behind him, their hands on their truncheons. “It seems that the Baron isn’t your friend anymore. In fact, he’s howling for your blood.”

  “What are you talking about? Why?”

  “Show me your hands,” said Tanz.

  Largo held out his hands, palms up. Tanz flipped them over and inspected the skin. “What happened to your knuckles?”

  “I fell a few days ago.”

  “You weren’t fighting? Maybe you and your colleague Andrzej? You remember. The one who ended up in the hospital.”

  “No. I fell off my bicycle. What’s this all about?” said Largo.

  Tanz picked up the whiskey bottle from a nearby table. “Your taste in liquor is shit.”

  Largo gestured toward the door. “If you’d like to leave a list of better ones, please do it on your way out.”

  Tanz ignored him. He picked up something else from the table. “What’s this?” It was a small bottle with a clear liquid inside. He shook it and looked at Largo. “This isn’t morphia, is it?”

  Largo froze, not knowing what to say.

  Tanz handed the bottle to one of his officers. “Don’t answer. You’ll just lie. We’ll add it to the other charges.”

  “What charges?”

  Tanz walked around the living room, occasionally moving a yellowsheet or inspecting another bottle. “Where’s your knife?” he said. “The one you threatened the stagehand with at the Grand Dark?”

  Largo shook his head and immediately regretted it. “I thought he was going to attack me. I only reached for it in self-defense.”

  Tanz looked at him. “Then you admit that you carry a concealed knife?”

  “You obviously know I do. Why are you playing these games? I don’t feel well.”

  “Where’s the knife now?”

  “On the desk in the bedroom.”

  Tanz gestured and two of the officers went into the next room. They came back with the knife a moment later. Tanz looked impressed when he saw it. He handed it to one of the uniformed officers.

  He said, “That was quite a row you had last night with your girlfriend. From what I hear, she threw you out on your ear. Humiliated you in front of all her friends.”

  Largo replayed the fight in his mind. It hurt more than his hangover. “It was just an argument. She was upset with something I said. I’m sure things will be fi
ne in a few days.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” said Tanz cheerfully. Then his tone changed abruptly. “So, where is she?”

  “Remy?”

  “No, the fucking Archbishop. Where is she?”

  Largo’s heart beat faster. Remy was missing? His brain wouldn’t accept the possibility. “I haven’t seen her since the theater.” He felt cold and his mind raced, fighting back panic.

  “How are you going to work things out with her if she’s gone?”

  Largo tried to remember. “Have you talked to Una? She was calling a doctor after Remy got sick. Maybe he knows.”

  Tanz said, “I don’t think a doctor will help. You see, it’s not so much that she’s missing as she was forcibly removed from her flat. Murdered too, I suspect.”

  “Murdered,” Largo whispered. He tried to take a step, but his head swam and he staggered. “What do you mean Remy’s murdered?”

  “Her uncle—your friend the Baron—went to check up on her last night and her flat was, to say the least, in disarray.”

  The other officers chuckled at that.

  “She was nowhere to be found. And here you are, brokenhearted, a knife on your desk, and enough whiskey and morphia in you to kill a black bear.”

  Largo tried to think. Tanz must be wrong, or it was a trick. Remy couldn’t be gone.

  “I love her. I wouldn’t do anything to her.”

  Tanz turned his ear toward him. “To who?”

  “Remy,” said Largo.

  “The missing girl?”

  Largo felt a chill, but in a different way. His hands trembled ever so slightly. He glanced at the table, but the morphia was gone. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Tanz pushed Largo down into a chair. “Where were you last night after you left the theater?”

  “Here.”

  “All night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then where’s your bicycle?”

  Largo tried to remember. “I don’t know.”

  “I do,” said Tanz. “It was found less than a block from your missing lady friend’s flat. The flat that had been torn apart in a jealous rage.”

  That was it, then. Something really had happened to Remy. Largo put his head in his hands. “No. It wasn’t me. You have to believe me.”