The Usual Santas

by Peter Lovesey

  I sat down with my back against the warm brick, a glass of wine in one hand, the audition announcement in the other. It was then I noticed the bottle on the window ledge. It was flipped around, the label facing me. This was supposed to be my signal to him, but he’d entered my garret and undertaken the signal himself. My stomach knotted in unease. What little I’d discovered thus far made me an unworthy informant, and the idea of trudging back out in the bitter cold filled me with dread.

  I drained my glass, found my still-damp clothing and the small stone I kept warmed by the brick. For night journeys, I kept the stone in my muff, and its warmth kept my fingers nimble.

  Meslay might have arranged this meeting, but I would use it to discover the purpose of my inquiries—or wash my hands of our arrangement, I decided. I was so determined to make sense of this mess that the joy at my upcoming audition had withered.

  I noticed Meslay, who had replaced his dashing uniform with a drab overcoat, spooning soup at a long table at the Bouillon de Pères. The windows, nearly opaque with steam, gave off a faint glow and fairylike appearance to the seedy Place Pigalle outside. Père Angelo greeted me with a warm handshake and an empty bowl. I stood in line with the clochards, fatigued ladies of the night, and assorted hungry of Montmartre. Fragrant and hot, the onion soup with a layer of thick melted cheese promised to fully coat my insides. This time I dropped a few bills in the donation can, relieved to finally be able to thank the fathers for their help.

  “Why did you go into my room?” I asked, taking the seat across from Meslay.

  “And a good evening to you, too, Irene,” he said, sipping his table wine laced with water.

  “No more secrets. I need to know why you’ve hired me,” I said. “Or count me out.”

  He frowned. “And what have you done to earn your pay thus far?”

  “I’ve learned some, but I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

  He glanced at our table companions: an old woman who’d nodded off and a clochard attacking his onion soup with vigor. “Just tell me everything you’ve learned. My superiors and I will rate what is essential.”

  I hesitated. Meslay wouldn’t be a good contact to alienate. And had already paid me for this job. I recounted what I had learned about the gambling ring at the Cabaret aux Assassins, and Esterhazy’s appearance. I neglected to mention Bijou, whom I felt the odd instinct to protect, or my own invitation to the baccarat den.

  Meslay’s expression changed to one of anger, and his knuckles whitened as his grip strangled his spoon. “I believe you’re leaving something out, Irene.”

  Fear rose in my throat as I remembered the man tailing me. Had Meslay had me followed . . . watched?

  “This contortionist in your revue,” he said, “You’ve spent some time with her. And it fits with rumors that Esterhazy’s found himself a new lover in the dance halls.”

  My panicked expression was all the proof he needed.

  “I need you to make contact with Esterhazy through the girl,” he said, his voice lowered.

  My annoyance at being tailed by my own employer bubbled into fury. “Her name is Bijou. And I’m sorry, Meslay, but I’ve given you plenty of answers for what you’ve paid me. Unless I know what I’m working toward, please consider my services at an end.”

  “Irene, the less you know—”

  “The less I can find out for you,” I finished for him. “My word and discretion are to be trusted. Norton should have told you that.”

  From Meslay’s downward gaze, I believed my late husband had. “Very well. We suspect Esterhazy of selling secrets.”

  “Who do you mean by ‘we’? And to whom would he have sold them?”

  “A contingent of the French ministry believes that Dreyfus is innocent, and that Esterhazy is the one who sold military secrets to Germany. What we don’t know is whether the Balkan plan is already in the hands of Kaiser Wilhelm.”

  “What’s the importance of this Balkan plan?”

  “If the Germans have the Balkan plan, they’ll know all of our defense strategies. We can still change the plan and implement new strategies, though they will be much weaker, before the upcoming peace negotiations in Vienna. But we must know.”

  “And how am I supposed to learn Esterhazy’s greatest secret?”

  “We know that he keeps a tally of his winnings, his losses, and his betrayals—though those are in code. He’s joked to his colleagues about his ‘bank of secrets.’”

  “And Captain Dreyfus?” I asked. “Will the military exonerate him then?”

  Meslay’s eyes flashed. “I can only speak for my section. Esterhazy would suffer a court martial,” he said. “But I need your help in furnishing proof of whether the plan was compromised. I’ve even heard that the Crown is looking into this—unofficially, of course—with their own spy, Sherlock Holmes.”

  So Holmes worked for England, then, and I for France.

  “Does that mean he’s adversarial to your ministry?”

  “Tiens.” Meslay crumbled up the soft inside of his baguette, rolling the pieces into small white beads. “It means England’s for England and France for France in keeping the Kaiser at bay. Napoléon was right about our neighbors across the river . . . Selfish!”

  But wasn’t France selfish, as well? Perhaps it was considered self-preservation, since our home and hearth bordered Germany.

  Meslay and I arranged another meeting in two days. As he left, my heart weighed heavy with conflict. Holmes and I were competing once again. I resented that he had attempted to use our history to manipulate me into assisting his own King and Country, the very same monarchy that had used my late husband.

  Fortified by the soup and ready for action, I headed toward Le Chat Noir to find Bijou. Time for me to sharpen my acting skills.

  “Haven’t seen or heard from Bijou in days,” said Vartan, our wire-thin backstage manager. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s no need for her to come back. She’s always getting luxury tickets and crawling back for her job when they expire. Know what I mean?”

  I doubted this harsh characterization of Bijou, but nodded nonetheless.

  “She borrowed one of my costumes. Know where she lives?”

  “Doubt she’s there. Probably off with her louse of a grand mec.”

  Vartan certainly had an axe to grind. I guessed he was jealous of Esterhazy.

  “Still,” I said, “I could at least ask whoever’s there where she’s gone. Making a living is hard enough without buying new costumes.”

  He shrugged. “Fine. Rue Androuet. Her mother’s the concierge of the corner building. Can’t miss it.”

  I set off straight to the corner he mentioned and knocked on the loge door. No answer. Down a passageway was the building’s dim courtyard, where a woman was hunched over the communal water spigot. She saw me and straightened up, then took halting steps toward me with a bucket in one arm. In the darkness, she appeared old and racked by slight shakes of palsy. “Oui?” she said, squinting at me and wiping her other reddened hand on her none-too-clean apron.

  “Bonsoir, Madame. You must be Bijou’s mother—”

  “Older sister,” she interrupted.

  “Ah, of course, please forgive me. The light here is nonexistent, and I was told Bijou’s mother was the concierge.”

  But Bijou’s sister could have been her mother, she looked so haggard and worn. Aged before her time, perhaps, by too many children? Too much work at the wash house, I could tell from her painfully chapped hands.

  “Neither’s here. My mother’s gone to Lille, and Bijou hasn’t lived here in years.”

  I suspected she was lying—about Bijou, anyway. She must have been used to the wrong sort of person asking after her sister, a popular figure in the cabarets. Before I could press her further, I noticed the portly man in the bowler hat who’d been following me the other night. He was pau
sed in front of the boulangerie window opposite, checking his gold pocket watch, which glinted in the gaslight.

  A baby’s cries floated from inside the loge, and Bijou’s sister hurried ahead. I tried to keep pace with her, but gave up as she the trundled inside loge’s heavy door without so much as a good-bye.

  The bowler-hatted man was approaching the door, though he hadn’t recognized me yet.

  I only had a few seconds . . . Where could I go?

  I slipped back into the courtyard, where the door to the downstairs cellar lay ajar. I stepped inside and pulled it shut, figuring I’d wait until he left, then come out. But as I reached the bottom of the steep damp limestone steps, I noticed a faint glow up ahead. This was no dead-end cellar, but a tunnel.

  Montmartre was full of limestone quarries, webbed by tunnels and large empty pockets like a cut of Swiss cheese.

  On the damp wall, crude lettering indicated the street names and gas main locations. The smell of damp mold and refuse grew stronger as I walked.

  At last, I found another stairwell leading out, depositing me on a street just a few minutes from my own home. Dejected, I hiked up narrow Montmartre stairs. My visit to Bijou’s home had been fruitless.

  As I approached my building, I noticed someone standing in the shadows. I tensed, wishing I had a weapon or anything I could use to defend myself.

  To my relief, Léonie jumped out and rushed over to greet me with a hug. She pulled me upstairs before anyone could see us, even my concierge, who was asleep with her head down on the small front desk.

  Once we were safely upstairs, Léonie handed me a bag. “I got these for you, Madame Irene.”

  I opened the bag to find a stack of papers. “What are they?”

  “Remember the concierge with the gamey leg . . . the one who’s indisposed sometimes? Well, yesterday, her leg was quite swollen up, and hurting badly, so it was my job to light the fires, clean the big reception rooms, and fetch the contents from the wastebaskets. As I was fixing to throw the waste into the furnace, she screamed, ‘Non, non!’ She said she needed it put in the back room, giving some daft excuse, and I just nodded and went along with it. That was when I found out she doesn’t throw away the papers from the wastebaskets—she saves them.”

  “So these are old letters?”

  “Yes, and memos and lists, too! I pocketed as many papers with Esterhazy’s name on it as I could before she checked on me.”

  “Marvelous work, Léonie!”

  “These are all jumbled, as I had no time to sort them, but I’m hoping they’ll help.”

  I recognized the blue bordereau of a few of the letters, exclusive to the military offices. “You’re a miracle-worker, Léonie!”

  Her grin reached her sparkling eyes, and I regretted how little my life included her. As I saw her off, I slipped a thick wad of franc notes into her hands and told her to stay home for a while with her son.

  I pored excitedly through the papers, carefully setting aside and arranging the military correspondence. One memo listed six officers who had been granted the highest level of access to classified military documents. I recognized two names on the list: Esterhazy and Dreyfus. I smoothed out the crumpled blue bordereau, struck by the angular writing. Another in the same hand had only a few words, and several scratched out. The ink had run into an indentation, which I realized had been imprinted from the pen’s pressure on a previous page. I took a charcoal sliver from the fireplace grate and rubbed it across the indentations, turning my fingers sooty. I could make out “Balkan defense line” and a name that resembled “von Schwartzkoppen,” the well-known the German military attaché. But no signature at the bottom! Merde.

  While this was proof enough for me, a court-martial would certainly dismiss it as evidence. Dreyfus was imprisoned on Devil’s Island, and the military seemed largely satisfied with that resolution.

  A knock sounded on my door, startling me.

  “J’arrive!” I yelled, quickly shuffling the papers together, prying up the floorboard by the fireplace and stuffing them in alongside my last few pieces of jewelry.

  I paused before turning the knob, remembering the man who’d been following me.

  “Who’s there?” I called.

  An envelope slid under the door.

  When I finally peeked out, there was only a deserted hallway. The messenger had gone.

  The nurse had lit a lamp and pulled the curtains closed. “Still reading, Mademoiselle Neige?”

  She’d been so immersed she hadn’t noticed the lengthening twilight. She nodded without looking up.

  sorry i missed you earlier! come to the basement of the cabaret aux assassins tonight for a game of chemin de fer. — bijou

  Finally, here was the gambling invitation I had angled for. But doubt was setting in that this risk would provide what Holmes and Meslay had anticipated: proof that Esterhazy’s gambling problem was as serious as rumored, and that he was desperate enough to threaten the very security of his country.

  But a promise is a promise, my Neige, so I locked away my misgivings, donned an outfit accentuated with black taffeta, fiddled my hair into a vague semblance of a chignon, and trudged to the Cabaret aux Assassins.

  Every seat in the cabaret was taken. Accordion strains, effusive conversation, and the tinkling of glasses filled the air. As I walked, several patrons, all a bit worse for the wear from drink, took note of my outfit and asked me to join them. Ignoring their offers, I walked past the heavy velvet curtain hung to prevent drafts from entering the door to the basement. The man behind the counter, discreetly standing guard, walked over to me.

  “I’m meeting Bijou,” I said.

  “Ah, yes, so she mentioned, Miss Adler,” he said, pulling the curtain aside. Stacked wine bottles greeted me as I moved down a narrow walkway to the basement stairwell.

  A low hum of conversation drifted from behind a water-stained wooden door at the bottom. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door.

  Amidst the thick cigar smoke, I could make out three men seated around an ornate oval table, glasses and cards in their hands. Piles of colored chips and a whisky decanter sat on the table.

  I froze when I saw the Duc de Langan on the right, glad that the smoke obscured my expression. How had Holmes secured an invitation?

  “Always ready for a new player.” Bijou, fanning herself, leaned on Esterhazy’s shoulder. Handsome and flushed, he sported a manicured red goatee and mustache. Bijou winked at me, then affected a bored look.

  “Let our lady friend join us,” said Esterhazy, smoothing the edge of his mustache.

  I put on the slight, coquettish smile I had once worn at the tables in Monaco, and took the fourth and final seat at the table.

  “Don’t be foolish, Esterhazy,” the man to my left began, slurring with drink. “Settle up, or . . .”

  Judging by the stains and dribbles of food on his waistcoat, he had already had enough liquor for the night.

  “Anything to keep you quiet, old man.” Esterhazy pulled a chit from near the chips, scribbled on it and stuck it into the man’s chest pocket.

  My gaze lingered on the promissory note poking out from the pocket. Aware that I was being watched, I looked up, accidentally locking eyes with Holmes.

  The drunk had passed out, and a side-whiskered man came to lift him out of his chair and set him on a stool in the corner. I cringed as I realized the enforcer was the stocky man in the bowler hat who’d followed me the other night. His small, beady eyes terrified me. How had he come to be here?

  “Bonsoir, Madame Norton.”

  I tilted my head toward him. “Who are you, Monsieur?”

  “Emil Cavour,” he said, doffing his hat and stroking his lambchop side-whiskers.

  “Bijou says you bring good luck,” said Esterhazy, patting the now-empty chair beside him. “Why don’t you sit by me instead?” Bijou�
�s expression fell as I complied and Cavour took my old seat.

  The game commenced among Emil Cavour, the “Duc de Langans,” Esterhazy, and myself. Bijou had wedged herself between me and her lover, leaning against him. Holmes ignored me, intent on his part-he had always relished disguise—and the game. I wondered why he had bothered to enlist my help when he’d made his own way into this gambling ring.

  Emil Cavour nodded to the waiter, who appeared at the table in seconds.

  “Bring us some more whiskey,” said Cavour.

  “Good idea,” said Esterhazy. “I’ll pay this time.”

  “How, sir?” asked the waiter suspiciously.

  “A promissory note.”

  “Another one?” said the waiter.

  Esterhazy scribbled on another napkin.

  “Take this,” he said, pressing the note into the waiter’s hand.

  I drank quickly, needing the courage. Holmes played the part of an older roué with a fondness for cards to the hilt, twisting his mustache and groaning when he’d lost a hand. Esterhazy won the first round, and his confidence bloomed. My cash depleted, I refused the next hand, but he had me tap his cards for luck, and he won again. As he poured himself drink after drink, he squeezed my arm. Eventually he held onto it. “You are quite the lucky charm.”

  He sickened me. He certainly exhibited all the signs of a compulsive gambler. Poor Bijou had become nearly as invisible as the room’s wallpaper, a hideous mauve explosion of peonies with severe water damage.

  Esterhazy pulled me close. He stank of liquor and cigars. “Don’t say a word. Just stay lucky,” he breathed into my ear.

  Bijou glared at me, her fury palpable. Holmes continued to act as if I didn’t exist.

  Every bet Esterhazy made, every shove of the chips, every card he was dealt and played was accompanied by another drink of whiskey. Cavour played cautiously, making modest bets. Within a short time, Esterhazy was losing to the Duc de Langans. His voice rose, he signed more promissory notes, and the Duc accepted them in a show of sang-froid.