Charles and I stood to let Gaige pass.
On stage, cabaret dancers were performing to the tune of a jazz band playing from the orchestra pit. Carmen critiqued their moves, declaring the simple dance steps to be “pedestrian” and “amateur”.
“Not everyone has your skill, Carmen, dear,” Rosenthal said, patting her exposed thigh.
Andre Rosenthal may be a shy recluse, but he likes his women bold, I thought.
“She’s bitter because she auditioned for this show and was turned down,” Charles whispered in my ear.
I laughed. “Explains a lot,” I whispered back.
“In her defense, Carmen is quite talented,” Charles continued. “I truly would be honored to escort you to her show. Once it reopens, that is.”
“I’m sure the police will catch the Night Gentleman soon,” I said absently.
They had to. Otherwise, Historian Eisenhower would have warned us about him, just like Gaige said.
Then it hit me: Charles DuPree had just asked me on a date. The fact pleased me way more than it should have, since improving my social life was not the reason I’d come to Paris. I could hear Gaige now: Stassi and Charles sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.
Thankfully, my partner was still gone and not eavesdropping on my conversation.
“Your brother would be welcome to join us, of course,” Charles was saying. “I understand if you would like to have a chaperone. I would not want to besmirch your honor.”
He followed up the comment with a sly grin and wink. I had a feeling that, given the opportunity, Charles DuPree would jump at the chance to besmirch my honor.
Heat rushed to my cheeks. Thankfully, at that moment, Ines chose to include me in her conversation.
“Carmen was just saying that her show will be playing on Broadway next year. I told her that she simply had to talk to you, since you have spent time up in New York City.”
Yes, 2087 New York City, which is very different from 1926 New York City, I thought.
“I said she needs to visit Hollywood,” Rosenthal interjected. “I do believe film will be very popular in the future, and Carmen is made for the pictures.”
Thanks to Molly’s love of old movies, I actually knew quite a bit about the rise of the film industry and felt a lot more comfortable talking about that than underground clubs and “it” restaurants in prohibition-era New York City. Charles, too, seemed to have an interest in movies. He apparently had a fondness for both Charlie Chaplin and the relatively unknown Greta Garbo.
Charles and I became caught up in conversation with the rest of the group, and I was spared the embarrassment of more alone time with him.
Gaige rushed back to his seat just as the house lights dimmed once more, signaling the start of the second act. When the spotlight reappeared center stage, Vlad was nowhere to be seen. In his place was a woman with fire engine red hair and milky white skin. She wore a bandeau top made of gold coins and baggy, translucent pants held in place by a belt made of the same.
Slow, sensual music started playing. I wondered uncomfortably what turn the night was about to take. Exotique was known to be risqué and allegedly pushed the envelope, according to my Parisian companions. Being wedged in between Gaige and a handsome stranger for a salacious show was not ideal. Ignoring the awkwardness, I pasted a pleasant smile on my face and watched candidly.
Sparkly gold eye shadow was painted across the woman’s closed lids. Long, dark lashes fanned across her cheeks like spider’s legs. Being so close to the stage, I saw them twitch in time to the music as if they had a life of their own. Painted golden flames covered her bare arms and stomach. When she began to move, they appeared to dance across her skin. Wrapping her arms around her midsection, she swayed back and forth, her eyes still closed. Then, from behind her back, she produced two batons, which she twirled and flipped as she floated across the stage. Her movements were fluid, one flowing into the next as easily as water flows over the falls.
The dancer was truly hypnotic to watch. I found myself unable to look away, despite my misgivings about this being a strip show. A man, whose resemblance to the woman was so close they had to be twins, soon joined the redheaded dancer. They were two halves of a whole, moving together as one graceful being to tell a story with their bodies. Behind me, the audience oohed and awed as the couple performed.
My twin theory fizzled when the man dipped the woman low. He brought her back up slowly, his eyes locked with hers, then kissed her deeply. The tempo of the music increased as the couple broke apart, the drumbeat and rhythm giving off a tribal feel.
With one last hungry look at each another, the dancers turned to face the audience, grinning and glowing like twin suns. At some point during the performance, the woman had transferred one of her batons to the man. They each held up the prop in front of them and inhaled dramatically as one, as if to suck in all of the air in the theater. When they blew out their collective breaths, flames erupted from between their lips. The ends of the batons caught fire.
“Shite!” Gaige exclaimed.
“Fascinating,” Charles declared, true awe evident in his voice.
This time, when the crowd went wild, I joined them. I had a sneaking suspicion that I knew how the trick was performed—a spark at the end of the baton must have been lit by an accelerant he transferred to her mouth—but that didn’t lessen the wow-factor of it all.
Launching into a tap number that was more appropriate with the background music, the couple began dancing with their fiery batons. The audience continued to cheer, clapping in time with the beat.
But, somehow, the performance seemed off. The woman’s movements became slower. Her feet barely left the stage. Her arms seemed too heavy, like a windup toy that was losing steam. Someone needed to turn her key. The dancer’s cheeks, flushed from the vigorous exercise, went from a pretty pale pink to an alarming shade of purple in the literal blink of an eye.
Immediately, I knew something was wrong.
Twisting an ankle, the dancer fell to her hands and knees with her head bowed down. The fiery baton flew from her hand and skittered across the stage, the flame extinguishing before it came to a stop.
I grabbed Charles’s arm. “She’s hurt,” I cried over the cheers of a crowd who seemed to believe this was all part of the act.
He patted my hand and whispered in my ear, his words confirming my suspicions. “This is part of the show, do not worry,” Charles assured me.
Hands clutching her throat, the woman threw her head back violently. The audience gasped. Her eyes, bloodshot and terrified, were bugging out of her face. Veins in her forehead and cheeks protruded from beneath her skin like a grotesque roadmap to hell. Beside her, the man face-planted onto the stage. His baton landed with a thud beside him, continued to burn for several agonizing seconds, and then mercifully went out.
“Don’t look,” Charles barked in my ear. He placed a hand on my cheek and turned me to face him. His gold-flecked eyes were alight with fear, though his voice was calm and cool. “Do not look,” he repeated in a gentler tone.
Staring into his eyes, the sound of men shouting and women crying all seemed far away. I forced myself to hold Charles’s gaze, scared to close my eyes for fear I’d see the dancer’s disfigured face. His lips moved, but the words never reached my ears. His thumb stroked my cheek soothingly. I clung to his arm with a white-knuckled grip.
Crackles of static were followed by a shrieking reverberation of the microphones. A rhythmic tapping noise came next. The air in the theater stilled, as if time was frozen.
“Hello! Bonjour! Hola! Konnichiwa! Hallo!” a male voice roared. The theater’s superior acoustics amplified the words, making them ring in my head over and over again. “I hope tonight’s performance was as eye-popping for you as it was for me.” The voice cackled manically, like every super-villain from every campy comic book movie that had yet to be filmed. “Let us give our fire dancers a hand, folks. They truly brought the house down.”
The Ni
ght Gentleman? I wondered. Because there was no way that anyone officially linked with the show could make light of the tragedy on the stage.
After a long pause, when no applause came, the voice called one final line.
“Are you not amused? I know I am.”
DURING MY TIME as a runner, I’d encountered numerous difficult situations: Napoleon’s henchmen, angry wives, irate husbands, suspicious referees, accusatory townsfolk, and even one sadistic inquisitor who accused me of being a heretic. But never had I matched wits with a homicide investigator. I could say with absolute certainty that I hoped this would be the one and only time.
“We arrived in Paris yesterday,” I said for the umpteenth time.
Inspector Dog Poo for Brains stared at me across the metal interrogation table.
The French police had arrived not long after the macabre announcement over the loudspeakers and quickly rounded up all of the remaining theatergoers for questioning. Once they’d given witness statements, most attendees were released with the caveat that they be available for further questioning should the need arise.
Unfortunately, we were not included within that group. Something in my statement had apparently sparked suspicion, because the lead inspector requested my presence at the Préfecture de police de Paris for a more thorough interview. And not just me. Gaige was in the adjacent interrogation room, probably answering the same redundant questions.
Though not suspects, Charles and Ines had readily accompanied us to the station. Carmen was so distraught over witnessing the dancers’ deaths that Rosenthal had insisted on taking her home. Nevertheless, he promised to wait by his phone if we needed help of the legal variety. Evidently he kept someone on retainer.
“Mademoiselle Prince,” the inspector began again, his English heavy with a French accent. “You say that you arrived yesterday—”
“Because I did,” I insisted.
“But you have no documentation to back up your claims,” he finished as if I hadn’t spoken. “You must understand how that appears, no?”
“Of course I don’t have it with me. Who carries their travel papers along to the theater?” I sighed. “I told you—if you let me go to the townhome I’m staying in, I can show you my tickets for both the ship from Baltimore and the train we took from London.”
Of course this wasn’t exactly true, since Gaige and I had traveled to Paris from the future. But that wasn’t going to fly. I’d be carted off to some looney bin before I could say vortex. Thankfully, Pierre could create false documents capable of passing even the toughest scrutiny, given some time.
“Ah, yes,” the inspector picked up. “Let us revisit your mode of transportation. You say you sailed to London, then trained over to the continent?”
I was on shaky ground here. The cover story we’d concocted hadn’t included travel details, since police interrogation was not something we had anticipated. Gaige and I had been separated immediately upon arriving at the station, and there hadn’t been time to get our stories straight. Saying we arrived in Paris by way of London seemed like the best course of action, since it would take the inspector a lot of time to check that fact. Time that Gaige and I could use to leave Paris. If ever there was a reason to abandon an assignment, this was it.
“Yes, that is what I said,” I snapped. “Because that is what happened.”
Pen poised over a small notepad, the inspector smiled indulgently.
“Mademoiselle Prince, let us try the truth this time, shall we? I care not whether you arrived illegally, only whether you and your brother are involved in the murders.”
The truth? The truth was we came to Paris via a vortex, arrived in an underground customs station, and spent the last two days stalking a writer whose manuscript we intended to steal. Yeah, the truth was going to go over so well.
“Do I need a lawyer? I believe I want a lawyer,” I said instead. “Or better yet, I believe I would like to leave now. You have no evidence of any wrongdoing, because I committed no such act. I am here only as a courtesy, and I have answered your questions to the best of my ability. Now I wish to go home.”
The inspector gritted his teeth. He made a notation on his pad, pressing the fountain pen so firmly against the paper that it was wonder the tip didn’t crack off.
“Fine, Mademoiselle, you may go. For now. However, I would appreciate it if you remained in Paris while we verify your passage. Perhaps you and I will speak again.”
“I look forward to it,” I said, smiling triumphantly. “By which, I mean that I look forward to your department’s formal apology for this egregious error.”
Head held high, I stood and strode to the door without a backward glance at the inspector.
In the lobby, Ines was sitting in an uncomfortable looking chair, smoking and tapping her foot impatiently. Charles stood in the corner at the telephone stand, with his back to the room and the receiver to his ear.
“Stassi, love, there you are!” Ines exclaimed when she saw me. She crushed her cigarette into a nearby ashtray and jumped to her feet, arms spread wide for a hug.
Numb from the long night and still in shock over having had a front row seat to a double homicide, I walked into her arms and let her hold me. Ines patted my back and murmured soothing words into my ear in French. Over her shoulder, I saw Charles slam down the phone receiver and spin to face me. The relief and concern in his eyes was touching. Suddenly, the full impact of the night’s events hit me. I felt an overwhelming urge to burst into tears. How had things become so messed up?
Ines stepped back, holding me at arm’s length and searching for signs of damage.
“Was it just awful? That horrible little inspector man is such a fool. How anyone could think you had something to do with these tragic deaths is beyond me. Let’s get you home. A stiff drink and a hot bath will do wonders.”
A glass of wine and a bubble bath sounded pretty amazing, but I doubted either would erase the image of the dancer’s bloated, purple face from my mind. Maybe five or six glasses. Of scotch.
“I have called my family lawyer,” Charles said, coming to stand beside me. “He does not usually handle criminal proceedings, but is willing to stand in until we find one who does.”
“Thank you, Mr. DuPree. That is very kind. Thankfully, I do not believe it will come to that,” I said pointedly, my gaze fixed on Ines.
The alchemist’s nod was almost imperceptible.
“Of course not. We will show them your travel documents and that will clear up this nightmare,” she assured me, for Charles’s sake. In a louder voice, one that rang throughout the entire lobby and probably even back to the holding cells, Ines added, “And then we will expect a formal, public apology for your treatment of my dear friends.”
“Wait. Where’s Gaige?” I asked, realizing for the first time he was nowhere to be seen.
Ines averted her gaze, focusing now on Charles instead of me.
“They’re still questioning him. At this point, he is their prime suspect,” Charles answered after a long, painful pause.
“Excuse me?” I practically shrieked, sure I’d misheard him. “For what? They have no evidence. This is insanity.”
“He left the theater to use the facilities during intermission, and a witness is claiming that he saw your brother near the dressing rooms,” Charles explained.
“That means nothing,” I said defensively. “He was sitting right beside me when that freak gave his speech. You both saw him. Did you tell the police that you saw him?”
My voice was pleading, begging them to help clear up this unbelievable nightmare. It was the sort of thing that veteran runners warned newbies about. The sort of thing we were cautioned to avoid at all costs. The sort of thing that could irrevocably change history.
Cue more uneasy glances between Charles and Ines.
“What?” I snapped. Having reached my daily limit on social pleasantries, I didn’t care that I was being rude.
“It was an audience member,” Charles said fin
ally. “What we heard over the speaker was a man from the audience reading from a script—he thought it was part of the show. You know, a side bit where they use audience participation. He told the police that a man approached him during intermission and asked if he’d like to be part of the show.”
“So shouldn’t that man be able to clear my brother?” I reasoned. “Wouldn’t he be able to say it was not Gaige who asked him to do that?”
“I am afraid the man with the script had dark hair, and was wearing a tuxedo and a mask,” Ines said slowly. “It could have been anyone.”
“So then why all the interest in Gaige?” I demanded.
“Because…,” Ines began reluctantly.
“Because the man in the mask had an accent,” Charles finished after another awkward silence. “An American accent, to be precise.”
“And there were only a handful of men who gave statements at the theater with an American accent. Gaige, of course, being one of those few. Between that and the witness who claims to have seen your brother backstage during intermission…,” Ines again trailed off.
My head began to spin. This was bad. Very, very bad. So very, very bad. I felt lost and completely alone.
Charles wrapped an arm around my waist and led me to chair.
“That’s hardly proof,” I said weakly as he lowered me into the seat.
“Ines, would you fetch a glass of water, please?” Charles said.
The customs agent hurried over to a desk worker. “You there, fetch a glass of water,” she called loudly, as if she owned the place.
Easing into the seat beside mine, Charles put his arm around my shoulders. The other gently held my hand in the space between us, though I hardly noticed.
“They have arranged for a suspect line-up tomorrow afternoon,” Charles explained quietly. “I have spoken on your brother’s behalf, so he will be allowed to go home tonight. But only with the promise that we will indeed return tomorrow. We are also to bring your passage receipts. Once you show the inspector your travel documents, this will all be forgotten. Ancient history.”
The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) Page 17
