Tales of the Shadowmen 3: Danse Macabre

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  “Yes, his name is Arsène, although his mother calls him Raoul.”

  “Arsène’s mother claims that a valuable brooch was stolen from one of her friends, the Duchess of Dreux-Soubise. This brooch was later discovered in your room. Do you admit your crime?”

  “No. Arsène stole the brooch. He hid it in my room.”

  “Irene, don’t make an 11-year-old boy a scapegoat for your own inept actions. If you tell any more lies, I will see to it that you are punished again.”

  “...”

  “To protect your mother’s reputation, you were even registered at the school under the alias of Tupin. Admit it. You stole that brooch.”

  “I stole the brooch.”

  “You are lucky that thieves are no longer branded with a fleur-de-lys on the shoulders as they were in the old days. In Arabia, they remove the hands of the offenders. Fortunately for you, punishments of such a cruel nature are no longer used in this enlightened age. The College received a letter asking about your well-being. It came from a gymnastics professor named Théophraste Lupin. Who is he?”

  “He is Arsène’s father.”

  “Is he just Arsène’s father? The surname Tupin is very similar to that of Lupin...”

  “That’s just a coincidence.”

  “Is it? It seems strange that Arsène’s mother left her husband and abandoned his surname. She now uses her maiden name of d’Andresy. I can only conclude that Théophraste and his wife argued over some important matter. Perhaps it was your very existence?”

  “I don’t know. I told you earlier that I don’t know who my father is.”

  “My dear Irene, isn’t it logical to assume that Théophraste Lupin is also your father?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Good. Now that we have come to an understanding, I have an assignment for you. I have seen your work in art class. You really are quite talented with those firm hands. I want you to draw my portrait.”

  Provence, 1889

  Now approaching her 21st birthday, Josephine Balsamo was scheduled to graduate in the spring. But a new development caused her to leave the College for Young Women sooner than anticipated. Madame Fourneau had received a letter from the wife of Noel Moriarty, the British railway expert, currently residing in Naples. Because she had a three-year-old boy, she wished to engage a governess fluent in both Italian and English. Josephine spoke both languages.

  “You will be pleasantly surprised,” said Madame Fourneau, “to learn that Mrs. Moriarty is the former Mademoiselle Catarina Koluchy, your predecessor as my prefect. I have reviewed the terms of her offer and they are very generous. There is only one issue that remains to be settled.”

  “What issue would that be, Madame?”

  “That of your successor.”

  “There is no question, Madame. Only one candidate exists. She has proven her reliability, although her first few months were difficult.”

  “As yours were too,” chuckled Madame Fourneau.

  “I have not forgotten.” Josephine remembered all too vividly her own flogging. “Do you concur with my recommendation, Madame?”

  “I do. In fact, she is already waiting outside.” Opening the door, Madame Fourneau said: “Irene, will you please join us?”

  After the meeting, Josephine made her farewells to Irene.

  “You have been a loyal friend, dear Irene,” she professed. “I have a little gift for you.”

  Josephine handed the girl a small box. When she opened it, she saw a silver brooch in the shape of a five-pointed star.

  “A pentagram,” indicated Josephine, “a sort of good luck charm. You may need it in your new role.”

  Naples, 1889

  At the Villa Corbucci in Naples, Josephine Balsamo met with Mrs. Moriarty. She was a regal woman with dusky hair, rosy lips and extremely dark blue eyes.

  “Josephine,” she began, “I’ve been guilty of a slight deception. Although I was truthful about my marriage and my child, I do not really need your services as a governess. I have a different position in mind for you. I have been managing a philanthropic organization, a Brotherhood, since I left the College. It is a branch of the Black Coats. I would like you to become one of my assistants.”

  “I know the Black Coats, Catarina. My late mother was one of their members.”

  “Indeed. I have to say, however, that some of my associates fear that you may bear a grudge because of the disciplinary actions I took against you at the College.”

  “Not in the least. Any unpleasantness between us was entirely Madame Fourneau’s fault. You only followed her directives. If I recall, by the time you left the College, we had become friends.”

  “And I proved it when I recommended you for the position of prefect. I was surprised that Madame so readily agreed. You were only 16 at the time; others were older, had more experience.”

  “I had ways of endearing myself to Madame Fourneau, Catarina.”

  “She did enjoy your sketches of her.”

  “A family trait, perhaps, this obssession with artwork. Did you know that she is the sister of Gaston Morrell?”

  “The deranged artist who strangled all those women in Paris during 1878?”

  “The same. Naturally, her three children are unaware of this. Her daughter is studying in Paris. Philippe pursues his education in Geneva, but the other son, Louis, is still at the school, due to ill health.”

  “So the young whelp hasn’t gotten over his asthma. He must be about 16 now. Madame Fourneau still keeps him tied to her apron’s strings?”

  “Very much so. In fact, I have devised a scheme to manipulate him in order to repay Madame Fourneau for her mistreatments.”

  “I am happy to hear it. Like you, I had some distasteful experiences at the hands of Madame Fourneau during my tutelage. What is your scheme?”

  “I plan to seduce Louis and turn him against his mother. I have gained his affection; he is not yet ready, but he soon will be. Because Madame Fourneau forced me to draw her portrait, I intend to induce Louis to present her with an artistic effigy assembled from... very unusual materials. Her son will soon be following in his Uncle Gaston’s footsteps.”

  “A wonderful strategy, Josephine. You enlist the children of your enemies to act as your underlings. Was it difficult to arrange secret meetings with Louis?”

  “I had an accomplice. The new prefect. She made excuses for my dalliances with Louis.”

  “Is this girl smart, Josephine? Should I recruit her for my Brotherhood?”

  “Certainly not. She is merely a petty thief with delusions of intellect. She has no idea about the overall scope of my plan.”

  “Like Jeanne de La Motte, whom your ancestor manipulated into stealing the Queen’s Necklace.”

  “Her fate will be similar to Madame de La Motte’s, Catarina. She, too, will be branded as a thief!”

  Paris, 1896

  In the autumn of 1896, Paris was plagued by a series of unexplained murders. Five women had been found, strangled, their bodies floating on the Seine. The crimes bore a strong resemblance to those of Gaston Morrell, the notorious strangler who had terrorized Paris 18 years before under the sobriquet of Bluebeard. Gaston had drowned fleeing the authorities, but now he seemed to have awakened from his grave. L’Echo de France dubbed this imitator the “second” Bluebeard.

  (Pedants observed that he should really be the “third” Bluebeard since the original Bluebeard was unarguably Gilles de Laval, Baron de Rais, the slaughterer of children from the 15th century.)

  The hysteria gripping Paris was compounded by the reception of letters sent to the newspapers and accurately predicting each murder. All contained the same identical phrases: “History will repeat itself tonight. Bluebeard will strike again.” They bore the signature of a woman: Clio Gosart.

  La Maison de Repos de Ville-d’Avray was an insane asylum situated in that small community just outside Paris. It consisted of several buildings spread over a large area, enclosed by an extremely steep wall. One large edif
ice housed the administrative staff.

  Its director, Doctor Maubeuge, was a man of indeterminable age with piercing eyes and a walrus mustache. Seated at his desk, he had been reviewing the file of a 23-year-old patient who had committed suicide that evening. His perusal, however, was interrupted by a visitor.

  Doctor Maubeuge critically eyed the young woman seated opposite him. He judged her age to be in the mid-twenties. Tall and slender with black hair, she wore an orange dress with a brooch in the shape of a pentagram on the right side. A short black scarf was tied around her collar. Black silk gloves adorned her hands. Silver bracelets were on her wrists. She had presented a business card that identified her as Irina Putine of the Chupin Detective Agency.

  “Are you Russian, Mademoiselle?”

  “Yes. I immigrated to this country three years ago.”

  “I must commend you on your French. You speak it like a Parisian.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. You have an unusual name. Are you from Flanders?”

  “I’m not from the city of Maubeuge, if that’s what you mean. I’m from Switzerland. Five years ago, I came to France to become director of this sanatorium. Sometimes, names can be misleading. This recently deceased young man was such an example. Despite being christened Louis Fourneau, he was generally known in Provence by the Spanish variant of his first name, Luis.”

  “I’m well aware of the College Girl Murderer’s background, Doctor.”

  “The College Girl Murders was a foolish name given to my patient’s crimes by sensationalistic newspapers six years ago. I’m rather surprised you heard of his suicide. We only sent a message to the police within the last two hours.”

  “I didn’t know of Fourneau’s death until my arrival. How did he die?”

  “He cut his throat with a razor. We have concluded that an orderly dropped it in his cell after shaving him. Needless to say, his employment has been terminated. If you didn’t come because of Fourneau’s death, then why are you here?”

  “A simple request from a client who wished to rule out the possibility that Fourneau may have escaped to become the new Bluebeard.”

  “A ridiculous assertion,” stated Doctor Maubeuge. “Like Gaston Morrell, the new Bluebeard strangles his victims. Fourneau, on the other hand, slew them with a knife and mutilated their bodies. I see no parallels. Why would your client espouse such an absurd theory?”

  “My client learned of a family connection between the two killers. My client was Fourneau’s sixth victim.”

  “Your client must be lying about her identity then, Mademoiselle. The account of Fourneau’s crimes contradicts that claim. The murders were committed in a boarding school for young women between September 1889 and January 1890. Louis Fourneau was the headmistress’ son. Detaching the flesh of his victims, he took grisly trophies to a locked storeroom in the school’s attic. He was trying to construct a woman in his mother’s image. He was confronted in the attic by a student who indeed became his sixth victim. Immediately after this murder, Madame Fourneau found the girl’s mutilated corpse in the attic. Louis then locked his mother in the storeroom with the grotesque caricature fashioned in her likeness. Her screams were heard by a janitor. He ran into the attic, overpowered Louis and ultimately discovered that the headmistress had died from heart failure.”

  “Certain facts are missing from your file, Doctor. First, my client was merely knocked unconscious by Louis Fourneau, rather than slain.”

  “That makes no sense. Why didn’t he kill her outright? It goes against the pattern of his other crimes.”

  “Perhaps he was acting on special instructions from his Muse?”

  “His Muse?

  “Louis told the police that he had performed his atrocities at the bequest of a woman whom he described only as his Muse.”

  “Perhaps it was Mary Shelley? Louis’ crimes were obviously inspired by her famous novel, Frankenstein... But before we continue any further, I’d like to know your client’s name.”

  “Is it not in your file already?”

  “My file does not mention the names of Fourneau’s victims.”

  “Yes, the victimizers are often remembered better than the victims... In any event, my client wishes to remain anonymous, Doctor. But I can tell you that her first name was Irene.”

  “Very well then. I can’t imagine how this Irene survived. Even if she’d been merely unconscious, she’d have died from loss of blood. Fourneau had severed both her hands.”

  “As I said earlier, certain facts are missing from your file. A doctor treated the girl’s wounds and rushed her to a hospital. Some months later, her health improved, but she had been mentally traumatized by her ordeal. Her guardian dispatched her to a private nursing home in England. She spent three years there before returning to France.” 3

  “I see. That must have been awful for the poor girl. Do you have any further questions, Mademoiselle?”

  “Did Louis Fourneau write anything during his confinement?”

  “Only meaningless scribbles,” said the voice of a man who just entered the office. “My name is Doctor Biron.” As Irina Putine introduced herself, he kissed her gloved hand.

  “The good doctor is a fellow colleague from Passy,” explained Maubeuge. “He was visiting here when this unfortunate suicide transpired. Doctor Biron asked to examine the writings of the deceased.”

  Biron handed Irina a sheet of paper. It had the heading: “Je m’abuse” (French for “I abuse myself”). Under it were the words “Louis – Louis,” repeated for seven rows.

  “I would also like to see the body, Doctor Maubeuge,” asked Irina.

  “I see no harm in granting your request.”

  Maubeuge escorted Irina to a morgue. He lifted the sheet that covered the cadaver. The body was that of a thin, handsome man with brown hair.

  As Irina left, she was met by Biron. He was accompanied by a lean man with grey hair and a beard. The man wore tinted spectacles. He was dressed in a black Inverness cape and a top hat.

  “Mademoiselle Putine, a police inspector has arrived to inquire into this suicide,” announced Biron. “Permit me to introduce Inspector d’Andresy.”

  “D’Andresy?”

  “My name seems familiar to you,” remarked the Inspector. “Have we met before?”

  “No, but I have heard of a Raoul d’Andresy.”

  “A distant cousin. My name is Maurice.”

  Van Klopen, Tailleur pour Dames was a prestigious dressmaking shop in the Rue de Grammont. Its original owner, Van Klopen, had sold his establishment in 1892 to a London clothing firm, the House of Crafts. The new owner, Mrs. Moriarty, was commonly addressed by her employees as Madame Koluchy.

  She was presently having tea in her office with three of her subordinates. Koluchy was dressed in an elegant black gown. Seated at her right was Josephine Balsamo in a bright green dress. The other two attendees were attired less flamboyantly. They both wore black skirts and brown blouses with black ties. They were Mary Holder, a pale looking woman with dark hair and eyes, and Helen Lipsius, a damsel with a piquant smiling face and charming hazel eyes.

  “Josephine, my husband is impressed by your usage of the Morrell motif in this current operation,” said Madame Koluchy. “He is quite an admirer of Gaston Morrell’s artistry, and has his painting of his fourth victim.”

  “I knew that your husband owned works by Jan Gosart and Jacques Saillard, Madame, but I was unaware that he also possessed a Morrell.”

  “He purchased it from the Duke of Carineaux’s collection.”

  “Please tell Mr. Moriarty that I am very pleased with the work of his protégé, Mabuse. How did they meet, if I may ask?”

  “Mabuse was recruited by my late brother-in-law before his tragic death in 1891. Poor James met him in Switzerland.”

  Mary Holder refilled her own cup of tea. She noticed that Josephine’s cup was nearly empty.

  “More tea, Mademoiselle Balsamo?”

  “The correct title is Countess,” said Jos
ephine coldly. “You are guilty of a breach of etiquette, Mademoiselle Holder. I could have you sent to the Alteration Room.”

  “I apologize, Countess,” beseeched Mary. “I meant no disrespect.”

  Being the daughter of a genuine Italian Count, Koluchy knew that Josephine’s claims were a sham. Nevertheless, she permitted her affectations since the blonde was her most valuable assistant.

  “Do not fret, Mademoiselle Holder,” interjected Koluchy. “Mistakes are allowed, provided they are not repeated. Countess Cagliostro committed a much more serious mistake two years ago, and suffered no other punishment than being temporarily banished to New Orleans. She tried to recruit Arsène Lupin as her pupil, but he outsmarted her and is now a major threat to us.”

  “Lupin will soon be eliminated, Madame,” said Josephine.

  “Josephine, I have a fondness for you that dates from our days together as students, but I warn you. Our society will not tolerate a second failure in this matter.” Then, indicating that the matter was now closed, Madame Koluchy added: “The dresses worn by our two colleagues may have a certain nostalgic flair. They are from the new clothing line inspired by those uniforms that the late Madame Fourneau gave us as gifts.”

  “Madame intends to propose a new name for our organization to the High Council,” said Helen Lipsius.

  “What name?” asked Josephine.

  “The Black Skirts.”

  Chief Inspector Lefevre of the Surete had investigated the original Bluebeard killings of 1878. He was now in his late fifties and was entrusted largely with supervisory duties. He had delegated the new Bluebeard case to Inspector d’Andresy.

  Born in Martinique in 1850, Maurice d’Andresy had become an official in the constabulary on the island. During 1895, he had achieved considerable fame for breaking up a smuggling ring active in the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico. Working closely with American authorities, d’Andresy had tracked the leader of the crime network to New Orleans. Regretfully, the detective was afflicted with pneumonia while fruitlessly pursuing the master criminal in the Louisiana bayous. After his recovery, d’Andresy was transferred to Paris in the same year.