“Any fingerprints this time?”
“No. Neither Farnese nor his men found anything. And those boys know their job. He’s convinced—and me too—that the first time—the Lemoulin murder—the fingerprint was left on purpose. But since Edwige was obviously out of commission…”
“No twin sister?” asked Gerard, thoughtful.
“Why not a Siamese twin? Of course not! Besides, that wouldn’t explain the fingerprint. There are no two alike, you know that.”
“I would really like to know what they’re thinking down at the Quai des Orfèvres.”5
“Farnese is in a rage. They’ve got nothing on the death of Lemoulin.”
“And Daniel?”
“You’ve already forgotten?”
“The receptionist’s testimony? Of course not. She thought she saw Edwige leaving the studio with a package under her arm.”
“What did the package contain?”
“I’m not an idiot, Teddy. The film reel. The first part of the film that you were watching. When they’d put on the second reel… when Daniel was killed… the projector kept running until the end. But didn’t the receptionist find it odd?”
“The star leaving alone during the screening? Yes, it seems she was a little surprised. But she was busy, you know, with the switchboard. With all the calls, she didn’t pay too much attention. Stars in this building are coming and going all day long. The girl’s kind of blasé.”
“And yet, there’s no mistake. A second Edwige.”
Teddy Verano stood up and suddenly dropped his usually relaxed and often smiling attitude.
“Yes, Edwige Hossegor number two. Mephista. The one who kills.” His voice became softer. “Who kills when the real Edwige is sleeping. Sunk in catalepsy. Just after she got scared, after she sensed that something horrible was going to happen… after she called me and…”
He made a fist and struck at an invisible enemy in the air.
“And I was powerless to protect her and to prevent the murders. I couldn’t do anything!”
Gerard was troubled.
“But, Teddy, mother told you yesterday: nobody, not even Chief Farnese and all the police could prevent such crimes… unless they watched everyone who got near a woman like Edwige Hossegor. In her profession, with her fame, they are legion...”
Teddy Verano sighed. Gerard offered his pack of cigarettes. They smoked together in silence in the detective’s small office at 77 Rue d’Enghien.
“So, where are we with the flowers?” asked Teddy Verano. “Any progress?”
“Now I’ve made some progress. Three florists—I followed up on the deliverymen and women—got a visit from a young man. Around my age. Not bad looking. A big guy, tall, and polite.”
“Shy. I see. And sweet… or dangerous, depending.”
“I took a map of Paris and located the flower shops. I’m sure that he lives around the Place de la République. He likes to change florists every time, so he won’t get caught. He loves in secret.”
“Yes, my boy. Lover or not, he’s complicated.”
“He intrigues you. He’s important to you.”
“Yes.”
“Do you suspect him of being involved in the crimes?”
Teddy Verano stared hard at Gerard.
“Yes. He plays… or he will play a role. But not necessarily that of a criminal.”
“A victim?”
“Why not? The guy’s escaped the murderer so far... This murderer who appears to be a woman who lashes out at Edwige’s more of less openly declared admirers... Because he’s anonymous, that discretion that has saved his life… so far…”
“What? You think he’s in danger?”
“Like the others.”
“Luckily,” Gerard laughed, “I’m not in love with Edwige… I’ve got a crush on Gina Lollobrigida.”
“You’ve got good taste. But an actress on the television screen is more accessible.”
Gerard started looking nervous.
“Say, Teddy, this guy with the red roses… it’s like he’s acting almost as if he understood all this. He shows his love while staying behind a veil of mystery… Maybe he’s waiting for them to catch the criminal so he can come out?”
“Possible.”
“Teddy, there’s something else. A minute ago, you said something that really struck me…”
“I’m very flattered that I can have such an effect on you.”
“Teddy, no kidding. When talking about the murderer, you said that it seemed to be a woman. Now, Lemoulin accused Mephista with his dying words, and you saw a woman at the baron’s house, and only because you were hit (Teddy Verano rubbed his chin remembering) you couldn’t stop her… Finally, Daniel was clearly killed by this twin of Edwige who was seen by the receptionist at the studio on the Champs-Elysées...”
Teddy Verano did not respond, so Gerard continued:
“...A woman who looked like Edwige… You’ve seen so many things in the field of the Occult. Me too, since you married mother, since we’ve all been together... You’ve taught me that there’s more to the world than what we think we see. What are you thinking really, Teddy?”
Teddy Verano lit another cigarette.
“In the field of the Occult, my boy, we need more than this to assume something. We’ve got no clues…”
“The fingerprint?”
“Even Farnese thinks it’s a hoax.”
“What about you?”
“Me… I don’t know… Not yet…”
“But you’ve got an idea?”
“Yes. And you’re going to figure it out. Follow me on this. When Lemoulin was murdered, who was accused? Edwige?”
“Yes. I mean, no. Mephista.”
“The fictional character. The role. Not the real woman, the woman of flesh and blood, who uses all her talent, all her spirit, and, above all, who is a friend. OK, that night Tragny and I saw who? Edwige?”
“Ah, I see. No, you saw a woman who looked like her—Mephista again. And who was dressed like Edwige when she became cataleptic.” Gerard’s imagination was in full swing. “But… I see… at the studio… the woman who left with the package, who stole the reel... She was dressed exactly like Edwige on that day, clearly.”
“You’re making progress, my boy. So, your conclusion?”
Gerard looked at Teddy Verano, not wanting to go all the way.
“OK, you’re forcing me to say it. It’s as if the murderer, this diabolical Mephista, jumped out of the screen… that she’s the character Edwige is playing, her double, her ghost. A ghost murderer. I don’t know… Edwige’s ectoplasm, a materialization of her subconscious. I’m totally with you, but you’re going to have a lot of trouble getting your friend Farnese to swallow that!”
“Also, going along with Tragny, I haven’t kept the Chief up-to-date on our little drama—the least possible anyway. Edwige’s anxiety still has no part in the investigation. Neither does Mephista’s apparition—let’s call it that—at the baron’s on the night of the first crime.”
“And the stolen reel, how does that fit in?”
“In this whole affair, there’s certainly some kind of connection with Edwige’s work. Her roles. Her image as an actress playing these astonishing characters. Lemoulin knew what she was filming and had seen her in costume. Therefore, he didn’t see Edwige but Mephista—the woman who killed him. I’m sure it was the same for Daniel the projectionist. Now…” His face clouded over. “I wonder who’s next?”
He thought for a moment before adding:
“Don’t waste any more time on this. Keep searching for the kid with the red roses.”
“I’m on it, Teddy. I think… well, since I’m not there yet, I’d rather not tell you.”
They left each other. Teddy Verano went to Tragny’s house, while Gerard went back to the long, monotonous, often nerve-wracking legwork to find the stranger in the city who as sending roses to Edwige. This involved making more visits and having more conversation with florists and delivery
men. He bought flowers, as cheap as possible, and often got loaded down with them so he brought them back to Yvonne, his mother, in the evening, or gave them to pretty girls in the streets, who were surprised, but not altogether very excited by the gift, their generation seeing them more as hippie symbols than tokens of genuine sentiment.
Once again, when Teddy Verano arrived at Tragny’s house, he was welcomed with: “Any news?”
He had to admit that there was nothing new, except that his best sleuth (he did not confess the family ties) thought he would soon discover who the charming stranger of the red roses was. It turned out that said stranger had, in fact, struck again, to the baron’s great annoyance.
But Edwige, who was already sad enough, kept saying that his discreet passion was like a kind of fetish, and that Robert Tragny had no reason to worry about a gentleman from whom they undoubtedly had nothing to fear.
Mademoiselle Mellion was keeping the journalists away. No one was admitted inside the baron’s, except the doctor and the private detective. It was cocktail time, so Eva diligently and silently offered Teddy Verano a bourbon.
Sorbier arrived a few minutes later. Edwige approached him right away.
“You’ve given me too many tranquilizers, doctor. Today, I’d like to ask you for the opposite.”
“Really?”
“Yes. There are drugs that keep you from sleeping, aren’t there?”
“Of course. So, you don’t want to sleep anymore?”
“Mademoiselle Hossegor,” Teddy Verano interjected, “is obviously afraid of another crisis. Since the crimes happen during her fits…”
“But that has nothing to do with normal sleep.”
“Doctor,” Edwige pleaded, “I’m begging you…”
Teddy Verano and the baron made discreet signs to Sorbier.
“OK,” the doctor said. “I’ll write a prescription. But allow me, my dear, to be worried. Not to sleep… it’s dangerous. How long do you think you can keep it up?”
“You don’t understand. I want to be able to drug myself… when I feel a crisis coming on.”
“That’s right,” Teddy Verano agreed. “In the screening room, just before she fell unconscious, she whispered, ‘Don’t sleep’.”
Joseph the butler entered.
“Telephone, Joseph?”
“Yes, baron. It’s for Monsieur Verano.”
“You can take it in my office.”
The detective complied. Gerard’s voice echoed on the other end of the line.
“I think I’ve got him, Teddy.”
“Our boy?”
“Yes. Boulevard Voltaire. Near the town hall of the 11th arrondissement.”
“Give me the exact address. I’m on my way.”
Gerard gave the address of a Patrick Florent.
“Great. Are you following him?”
“He’s got a beautiful studio apartment. I’ll work up the nerve to approach him.”
“OK. I’ll be staying here for another minute or so, then I’ll see you soon.”
He hung up and headed back to the salon, smiling. But, upon hearing a crash, he rushed in and saw Sorbier, Eva and Tragny holding onto Edwige.
Feebly but firmly, she was struggling against them and had just knocked over her glass of Old Crow. On purpose. To break it.
She grabbed a piece of glass and slashed her arm in a terrifying fit.
“I don’t want to! No! I don’t want to! He’s going to die! The roses… I can’t fall asleep… Torture me! Kill me! Stick needles in my flesh… Burn me with a branding iron! Robert, Eva, help me! Doctor… doctor…”
They fought a frenzied battle against her horrifying state.
“An injection… quickly… get her on the bed…”
“No!” Edwige screamed as they snatched away the dangerous shard of bloody glass that had, luckily, made only superficial wounds, although quite dramatic ones. “I don’t want to! No sleep! Mephista is coming back! If I sleep… I…”
They carried her away still struggling.
Teddy Verano made a snap decision.
“Boulevard Voltaire. Right away. Patrick Florent is in mortal danger!”
CHAPTER IX
A scene from a film that was repeated again and again, right now in Paris, but perhaps, some day, all over the world...
A little like what happened that one night, that horrible, final night with Jacques Lemoulin.
A young man sat alone at home, in a comfortable studio apartment. It was already evening. He was relaxing in shirtsleeves, without a tie. The television was droning on, but he barely watched the screen. He sipped his Americano, all alone, while casting meaningful glances at a framed photograph. Near it stood a vase with red roses.
Red roses that Patrick Florent—for it was him—replaced every day.
Every time he sent a dozen of these same roses to his idol, Edwige Hossegor, he kept three or four for himself. For his photo. For his dreams.
He savored their scent, thinking that, at that very same time, maybe at that very minute, the incomparable Edwige Hossegor was smiling as she inhaled the perfume of her flowers. Her flowers from him.
And maybe she was reading his letters, whose naiveté he was fully aware of.
Soon, surely, he might get over it. He was 20 years-old. He studied law. His parents were well off in the country, giving him enough money to live comfortably in Paris while he finished college. Later, he might pursue more tangible, less idealistic loves. Maybe at school, he might find a girl more spirited than the others…
But Patrick Florent was a dreamer. Withdrawn. He was in love with a woman out of reach. But he had no illusions. He sent her flowers and wrote to her, knowing full well that a star of her caliber received countless letters and untold bouquets.
What did it matter! The countless, relentless red roses, the unsigned but identical letters, all of this had built enough of a personality for her to know that he existed. And she did know, without a doubt.
More than one young man dreamed of Edwige Hossegor. Or Rachel Welch. Or another woman just as unreachable. Some souls felt so much need for love that they focused on a beauty that was out of reach, and all the more beautiful in that no reality will ever match it. At least, for these poor hearts.
Patrick sighed.
He had changed florists again. That way, he was sure of throwing off any suspicions…
If she tried to find out who he was…
But no. That was just an illusion. Edwige did not care about him.
It was he who was using the unknown, anonymous gift of romantic roses to play out his immature sentiments. To enrich his life.
He would eat dinner later. He had to work. A huge law book was on the table, begging for attention.
Someone rang the doorbell. Patrick had no girlfriend except for his ideal. Few friends. And his family was far away. So who might it be?
He went to open the door, naturally, and found himself face to face with a young man who could not be much older than himself, and who was smiling kindly.
Patrick Florent did not smile. He was not pleased with being bothered in his den of a shy student, of a lonely lover.
“What’s this about?”
“Are you Patrick Florent?”
“Yes. But I’ve never seen you at the Univer…”
The possible mistake was already being corrected.
“My name is Gerard Parmier. I work in Public Relations for the O.R.T.F. (All this was rather vague, but the other was unlikely to check.) I’m doing a survey about the popularity of our actors amongst the student population...”
Patrick turned slightly pale, which did not escape Gerard’s notice.
Nevertheless, he did not invite the visitor in.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Would you mind answering a few questions for me?”
“I don’t really know…”
“Listen, it’s my job. We’re the same age. We could be friends.”
But Patrick was not co
nvinced.
“You want me to say what exactly?”
“What you think of our stars. Look, for example, you watch T.V. I can see from here that you have a set. What do you think of Edwige Hossegor for example?”
Patrick was no longer white. He turned red.
“I don’t give a damn about Edwige Hossegor. Who do you think you are…?”
Gerard had got lessons from Teddy Verano. He knew that he wasn’t supposed to ever lose his cool, and had to put his pride in the closet when necessary, so not to scare away the “ punters”—as Teddy called them.
“That’s not very nice of you… I’m just doing my job.”
“Who’s stopping you?”
“Right now, you.
“I’ve got work to do, too. Leave me alone.”
Gerard kept smiling, inspired by his step-father’s mocking attitude. He looked over Patrick’s shoulder at the apartment.
“Hey, hey, you sly fox… There’s her photo… You told me you didn’t care for her.”
“Get out of here!”
Abruptly, Patrick got mad. He straightened up and confronted Gerard with the kind face that hid nothing of what was happening inside him.
The apprentice detective kept smiling—although a little forced—but did not budge an inch.
“Come on, don’t get angry…”
“Leave me alone, or I’ll punch you in the…”
Gerard hesitated. Keep talking? Go away? His hesitation was costing him the battle, he knew it.
With an apologetic look he gave in.
“OK. Sorry if I said anything…”
The door slammed in his face and he found himself alone on the landing of the building on the Boulevard Voltaire, the very building where the guy with the red roses lived, the guy he had been looking for so long.
And he was not too proud of himself.
He thought about what he should have done. Prove his authority, first of all. Enter by force, perhaps. Or find a more convincing line. It was a stupid thing to say, he told himself. The survey thing was weak. What an idiot.
He called himself all kinds of names, which did not make things better. And he just stood there, in front of the door. On the other side, he imagined Patrick was furious. He heard the television that Patrick was probably barely listening to.
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