Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  Champagne was flowing in the performers’ rooms. Laughter, ribaldry and other slightly-coarse comments were also flowing. I had once discovered that the artistic community tends to flout accepted behavior, sometimes quite scandalously. Diaghilev himself, the manager of the corps, made very little secret of his own passion for his leading man, and Nijinsky made little secret of his passions for almost anyone. It must be difficult for a young man, not yet out of his teens, who is the toast of Paris, to restrain his impulses, so I do not judge him–I merely observe.

  The composer, it turned out, was a smallish man, with nervous habits and a penetrating glare. He responded readily to my companion’s request for a few words about the successful performance.

  “This is merely the start of a revolution,” he declared. “I envision more and greater ballets that will take Paris–nay, the world–by storm. I will overthrow the old, and bring in a new era.” He went on in such a vein for quite some time before Rouletabille and I could make our excuses and go in search of Diaghilev for his opinions.

  “What do you make of our young composer?” Rouletabille asked me, a twinkle in his eyes, as we elbowed through a crowd of stage hands. “Is he capable of such a revolution?”

  “It seems to me that far too many Russians are trying to foment revolutions in too many spheres,” I replied. “That young man may succeed in starting something, but whether it will ever catch on is another matter.” After a moment’s consideration, I added: “He is a shortish man, and I have noted that many such people like to make up for their lack of stature by seeking to make a large impact in the world.”

  “The Napoleon of music, eh?” Rouletabille laughed again. “I suspect he will be one of the voices of the future, my friend. Whether for good or ill–who can say?”

  The crowds seemed to be thinning out, finally, as the house was getting packed back into trunks and boxes ready for the following day’s performance. Dancers, now without makeup and in their normal attire, had started to filter out into the Paris streets. No doubt the crowds were also on their way for nightcaps, or a late-night meal. Things were winding down–or so I imagined. One’s imagination can be so often very wrong.

  Movement in the corridor ahead of us caught my eye. An elderly gentleman, quite distinguished-looking and dressed with modest but excellent taste, stopped walking when he caught sight of us. It was clear from his manner that he was expecting us to come to him, and we did not disappoint him.

  “Monsieur Rouletabille, I believe?” the gentleman asked. “I have been looking for you.”

  “It appears that you have found me, Monsieur...”

  “Strogoff,” the man replied, with a formal bow that my companion returned. “I have two favors to ask of you–though it may seem presumptuous of me to ask any, since we have not been formally introduced.”

  Rouletabille laughed. “It is hardly necessary for Michel Strogoff to introduce himself,” he commented. “Knowing your name, I also know that you are the Tsar’s man, and that, if you seek me out, it is so that I may perform another service for Tsar Nicholas. I should be more than happy to offer such services.”

  Strogoff smiled back. “It would appear that your reputation is deserved, Monsieur.” He glanced at me, clearly weighing me up. “I think I will be able to find something to occupy your companion in the meanwhile,” he offered. “Some of the ballerinas have not yet departed...” It was a wonderfully polite way of saying that he could not be sure that he could trust me to hear whatever he wished to tell my friend.

  Rouletabille shook his head. “It will not be necessary to trouble the young ladies–though I am sure they would be, as you say, his glass of tea. Monsieur Sainclair is a longtime friend and companion of mine, and can be relied upon utterly–as I have often done.”

  The Russian nodded. “If you vouch for him, then I, too, shall trust his discretion. If you gentlemen would be so kind as to follow me...”

  He led us through the corridors with their thinning crowds, and into the backstage area of the theater. Here, I noticed, there were more people concentrated, and one man standing outside a closed door was clearly performing guard duty. He moved aside as we approached, and allowed Monsieur Strogoff to open the door and usher us inside.

  Diaghilev himself was there, tall, distinguished and resplendent in his tails. We were in some sort of scenery storage room, and there were several of the stage hands about. There was also one corpse laid out on a long table. Rouletabille, knowing now why he had been summoned, rushed forward to examine the body. I was a trifle more reluctant, but went to do my duty as my friend’s observer.

  The victim was in his late twenties and dressed as a stage hand. He had been shot, once, in the chest, the bullet puncturing a lung, but narrowly missing the heart. I observed blood on the table, but there was a pool of it on the floor, closer to the door, clearly where he had been shot. There were drag marks made in the blood from the original spot behind the door, to the table, which was in the center of the room. I could tell nothing else from the body, but the smile that flickered on my friend’s face told me that, as ever, it educated him far more.

  He turned to Strogoff. “What can you tell me of this event?” he asked.

  “Little enough, I am afraid,” the Russian replied. “He was shot and killed perhaps 20 minutes ago. He lingered a short while, being found on the verge of death by the other stage hands. One of them was dispatched to find me, and the others, intelligently, barred further entry to this room. He died shortly after I arrived.”

  “This is a disaster,” Diaghilev wailed. “When news of this reaches the newspapers, this production will become a scandal.”

  “It is my desire that such an event will not happen,” Strogoff said, firmly. He looked at Rouletabille. “For the first of those favors I mentioned, can I ask that this even be treated as if it had never happened? The Ballets Russes represents the Tsar and our country, and a scandal such as murder would not help our diplomatic mission here in Paris.”

  Rouletabille smiled slightly. “I am not certain that I agree with you there,” he said. “I suspect that if all of Paris knew of this killing, it would induce many more people to flock here for the ballet. Parisiennes can be drawn by the ghoulish. Nevertheless, I understand your request, and I am willing to abide by it. The killing will need to be reported to the Police, of course, but I can suggest a few names of those who will be willing to be most discrete.”

  “That would be acceptable,” Strogoff agreed. He turned to the impresario. “Your reputation will be unharmed, and your performances will continue unhindered–at least, by any breath of this scandal.”

  “Thank you!” Diaghilev exclaimed, delightedly shaking my friend’s hand. “Now, I must be off–if Diaghilev does not party this night, some tragedy will be suspected. I shall force myself to be witty and gay.” He rushed from the room.

  Rouletabille smiled at me. “I suspect he will not need to force himself too strenuously,” he observed. Then he turned to Strogoff. “And the second favor you wish of me?”

  The Russian gestured at the table. “To uncover who did this deed–and why. I have always been more of a man of action than a man of deliberation, I must confess, and I can see nothing here to help me understand this tragedy.”

  “Each to his own métier,” my companion said. “I shall see what effects my own small skills may have.” He turned to the stage hands. “This man was one of your company?” he asked. “But it is clear that he has been with you only a short while.”

  “Barely two months,” one of the others agreed. “His name is Zhadikov. But how could you know that?”

  “His hands,” Rouletabille said, casually. “I see that the four of you have calluses from your work; this man is barely starting to form them. Hence, he joined you recently. Also, he clearly did little manual work before this, which would be odd in a man as old as this.”

  “He spoke little of his background,” a second man offered. “Nor did he socialize with us.”

 
; “That is understandable, since he did not come here to find work.”

  Strogoff looked curiously at my companion. “How can you be so certain of that?”

  “His hands, once again, Monsieur,” Rouletabille said. “Always examine the extremities, for they will tell you much about a man. In this instance, if you look at the hands of these good workers, you will see that their fingernails are broken, due to the work they perform.” He held up the left hand of the dead man. “Zhadikov, by contrast, has hands that were clearly manicured recently, as his nails are unbroken and filed. Hence, he is a man with his own income, and therefore he did not come here because he needed work. Rather, he came here because there was something here for him.” He looked at the workers again. “Did he speak at all before he died?”

  “A little,” the first stage hand said. “But he was delirious, and his words made no sense. I asked him who had done this to him, and he replied, simply, More...” The man shrugged. “He was having great difficulty breathing, and spoke no further.”

  “That is understandable.” My companion considered for a moment, and then looked at Strogoff. “I take it that these four good men may be relied upon to say nothing of what they have witnessed?”

  “They may be French and not Russian, but they are reliable,” Strogoff replied.

  “Good. Then all that needs be done now, I think, is to summon an ambulance.”

  Strogoff looked astonished, as well he might–he did not have the advantage I had of knowing my friend often made suggestions that at first might appear more than a trifle odd, but that, eventually, would make perfect sense. “An ambulance?” he repeated. “But this man is dead.”

  “Perhaps he is,” Rouletabille agreed, examining the body once again. “But he may not necessarily remain that way–at least, not to the murderer. He is a young, well-built man. If you can aid me with a little of the stage makeup here and a wig, I imagine that I might be mistaken for him, especially at this time of night.”

  Strogoff’s eyes sparkled. “Ah! You are laying a trap?”

  “Indeed I am.” Rouletabille smiled. “I must confess that I am, from time to time, a lazy man. I don’t see why I should race all over Paris searching for the man when I can force him to come to me.” He turned to the four workmen and myself. “Now, I require of you all to be consistent in this story. When the ambulance arrives, it will cause some curiosity in passersby outside the theater. If anyone should ask you, tell them merely that a stage hand has been injured, and is being taken for emergency medical aid. If asked for further details, say only that the man is expected to recover fully. Then say no more.”

  I nodded. “You expect, of course, that we shall be asked.”

  “I rely upon it. And if I understand the murderer correctly, it is inevitable.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Stay at the theater here no more than a quarter-hour after the ambulance leaves. Then hurry at once to the hospital. Dr. Génessier is on duty tonight, and I believe I can rely on his skills to ensure that I–as the injured stage hand–will make a surprisingly wonderful recovery.”

  Most of the audience and the performers had left the theater by the time that the ambulance arrived. It departed a few moments later, with my friend on a stretcher in the back. A small crowd only had gathered, mostly of the well-dressed in no hurry to return to their homes after an evening out. As Rouletabille had predicted, several of them wondered aloud what was happening. As per my instructions, I said only that a stage hand had been somewhat injured.

  A well-dressed young man asked casually how this could have happened.

  I shrugged. “I know few details,” I said. “Only that his wound is apparently not severe, and that the medical attendants believe he will recover after surgery at the local hospital.” I tipped my hat. “Now, really, I must be off. A glass of cognac will steady my nerves.” I hurried away, and three blocks later I hailed a cab.

  It deposited me at the hospital a few minutes later. I hurried to the admitting station, and discovered that a M. Zhadikov had been rushed into surgery, and that Dr. Génessier was operating. After this, he should be taken to room 301. I would be allowed to wait there, as Dr. Génessier had already approved this.

  Hurrying to the room, I found that there was already a patient in the bed–my friend Rouletabille, naturally. The room was dimly-lit, and with a wig and a little applied makeup, he did bear a passing resemblance to the murdered man. There was with him an elderly attendant, arranging water and flowers beside the bed.

  “Sainclair, excellent,” my friend said, happily. “Everything went as expected?” he asked me.

  “Indeed,” I agreed. “I was questioned after I left the theater by a group of onlookers, and then left to come here and join you.” I knew his methods well by this time, and yet I could not help but wonder how he could be so certain that the murderer would follow along. But there was little point in questioning him–Rouletabille explained what he wished only when he wanted.

  “Good. Then come, sit by my bedside as if you were some concerned relative, and we shall await events.” He glanced at the attendant. “I think that will be all.”

  “As you wish,” the old man said, and he left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Turn down the light a trifle, if you would,” Rouletabille suggested. “Shadows are our friends when we are in such a rough disguise as this.”

  We sat quietly together, and listened, whilst pretending to do nothing of the sort. It was by now past midnight, and the hospital was fairly quiet. From time to time footsteps approached the room, and we both tensed. But on each occasion, they passed on by. We had sat there almost an hour when we heard further footsteps–only these stopped outside the door instead of moving on.

  I glanced around as the door opened. It was difficult to make out details, as we were in such gloom, but I could see our visitor was the well-dressed young man I had spoken to outside the theater.

  “So,” he said, harshly, “despite my efforts, you still thwart me, Zhadikov. But no more!” He raised his right hand, which held a pistol. “This time, farewell!”

  The events of the next few seconds were quite confused. I launched myself from my chair, hoping to intercept the man before he could fire, despite the distance between us. Rouletabille, with his customary agility, threw himself from the bed toward the floor. And the elderly attendant sprang onto the assassin from behind.

  The bullet passed over my head, and impacted in the now-vacant bed. With surprising skill and strength, the old attendant wrestled the pistol from the young man’s grip, and then Rouletabille and I helped to subdue the now crazed and screaming man. A few moments later, several strong policemen joined in the struggle, and the howling assassin was dragged off to a cell. Rouletabille promised to be along shortly to explain the charges against him, and the corridor was soon almost empty again.

  “Dr. Génessier has, as I instructed, kept the hospital staff from this area,” Rouletabille explained to me.

  “Except this attendant,” I said, “who proved to be of such valuable assistance.”

  The attendant laughed, and drew off his own wig, and wiped his face. I saw with surprise that under the makeup it was none other than Michel Strogoff. “It has been a long time since my duties have been quite so physical,” he admitted. “And I am sure I shall pay for it by waking aching in the morning. But it has been worth it.” He reached out a hand to my friend. “Monsieur Rouletabille, your aid has been invaluable. But perhaps you would now explain how you knew that this would happen?”

  “By all means,” he agreed. “But it was all quite obvious from the scene of the murder–if only you knew how to interpret the facts.”

  Strogoff looked at me in astonishment. “You are his colleague–do you know what he means?”

  “Rarely ever,” I confessed, with a smile. “Until he expounds, and then you wonder how you could have missed it all along.”

  Rouletabille laughed. “Come, Sainclair, you are an intelligent man–was all of this
truly baffling to you?”

  “It was, as you know it always is,” I responded. “I cannot see the link between the theater and here–save for the obvious. You made the killer believe that his murder had not be accomplished, and so forced him to try a second time. But how could you know that he would do so? After all, it might have been a crime of the moment–that Zhadikov had stumbled over the killer committing some crime and been killed for it.”

  “No, the facts did not admit to that as a possibility,” my friend replied. “Though the murder was, indeed, a crime of sudden intent. The first clue was the dying man’s last word.”

  “He said only More,” I protested. “That means very little.”

  “It means everything. Zhadikov was Russian, and the stage hands who found him were French. What he wished to say had to be translated for them to understand. As you know, there are a number of revolutionary groups involved in Russia politics at the moment. Many feel that their country needs a change in rulership, often through violence. Zhadikov, a wealthy man, joined this company here in Paris as a stage hand? Why? Clearly because here he had contacts with people allowed to travel freely to and from Russia. I am certain that it will be found that Zhadikov–under another name–was on a list of know activists, and would not be allowed there himself. Here, at the Ballets Russes, he could work unknown and meet his contacts for intelligences.

  “Our assassin, attending the Ballets himself, must have seen and recognized Zhadikov. How and why? Just seven years ago, the Russian Social Democratic Labor Party split on matters of policy. One branch became known as the Bolsheviks, the other as the Menshehviks. No love has been lost between the two factions. Bolshehvik, of course, means more, because they demanded more; Menshevik means less because they are less extreme.”