by David Haynes
“I do not think so, Monsieur.” Victor’s tall figure loomed over the shoulder of the assailant.
Victor took the man by his collar and dragged him off Bishop. The man rolled backward but as he did he was already preparing himself to launch his own attack.
“Ivan!” the thief called to his comrade who was still attempting to throttle Metier. He immediately loosened his hold and rushed toward Victor. Victor steadied himself and waited for the other man to come to him. As the man drew close, Victor stepped to the side; his fist moved with lightning speed. The first blow sent a crescent of scarlet blood arcing into the air from the would-be thief’s smashed nose. The second blow struck him under his unshaven chin and knocked his head back revealing a grubby yet soft and vulnerable throat. Victor’s gloved fist destroyed the exposed trachea turning the cartilage to a pulp in one savage blow. The man fell back; his hands clutched at his throat as he tried to grasp a breath of the cool, spring blossom air. Metier waited for him with a snarling grimace and took the man by his shoulders, forcing him down to the floor.
“Run away! Flee you filthy coward!” Victor shouted to the other man who had thought better of a solitary foray.
Bishop watched, still dazed from his fall, as Victor crouched beside the fallen figure. His arms moved with mechanised fluidity as he pummelled his fists into the face of the man beneath him. The appalling sound of splintering bone resounded along the elegant boulevard and for a moment the birds were silent as if it were too much to bear. Finally Victor paused, and with blood dripping from his black leather gloves, he removed a silver stiletto from his coat pocked. He held it the ruffian’s throat. “I have met cowards like you before on the plain of Isandlwana. Only then, you fled from my side like the snivelling poltroon you are. I should cut your throat.”
The man could not respond. Bishop thought him dead.
“Victor?” Eve touched his shoulder and whispered softly, “The police will be here soon.”
Bishop hauled his own body up from the pavement and walked over to the others, “Is he dead?”
“We should leave now, before the police arrive.” Metier ushered them all away.
As they hurried along the boulevard, Bishop glanced over his shoulder. The man was unmoving but the growing pool of blood crept closer and closer to the base of the tree. Instead of the cheerful dawn chorus of the blackbirds, the terrible caw of a crow filled the waking air of Pigalle.
Paris Morgue
Bishop lay in his bed and stared at the wall. He could hear the pounding rhythm of his heart sending blood surging throughout his body. His lips were swollen and sore but he barely noticed the fresh burst of stinging pain each beat of his heart created. He would loosen one of the floorboards later and hide the money in there. There was no purpose in carrying such a large sum about with him, especially if thugs like those met tonight were as common as he suspected.
Victor’s agility and speed in dispatching the thief were admirable and perhaps this was to be expected given his past. Yet the barbaric way he continued to assault the man was not quite so understandable. It was clearly not a case of defending himself or the others; it was retribution, bloody and absolute.
Was the man dead? He had been unable to see, but the loss of blood was catastrophic and would surely lead to death. It would also bring the attention of the police to bear. He hoped it would not lead to another visit from Inspector Devaux.
He turned over and gazed at the dirty ceiling. A square of sunlight moved across the plaster as the sun finally broke free from the wretched night. His eyes stung each time he blinked but he knew there would be no sleep now.
*
Pont Notre-Dame had stood since before anyone could remember; from antiquity. Long ago houses were built on the bridge and they were considered the most handsome in all of France. In total there were sixty houses, and when the bridge collapsed in 1499, and the residents drowned, the bridge was simply re-built without the houses. It was considered one of the two oldest bridges in Paris, the other being Pont Neuf. Nobody knew for sure which had been there longest but it scarce mattered for they were both ancient and decrepit. Upon each arch was the stone carved face of Dionysus - the god of fertility, of wine and of rage. Parisians had long called it Pont Du Diable or Devil’s Bridge since so many merchants and sailors had perished in the Seine, beneath the murky shadow of the span.
Under one of those arches, where hundreds had perished over the years, another body was finding its way into the murky depths. Closest to the grand old cathedral, a man crouched beside the body. The gas lamps could not reach him there but the daylight had crept silently upon him and now made him anxious to complete his task. He rolled the body into the water. It broke through the layer of scum floating on the surface and wobbled carelessly away. He had not weighted it; there was no need, the current would take her through the city quickly enough. The body may be found by a sailor and taken to the morgue just behind him on Île de la Cité or more likely rot away in the filthy depths. Either way, it was of little consequence, for he had his prize. The water lapped idly on the bank and filled the gaping hole at her throat with foetid water.
Something had been vaguely unsatisfying about it though. There was something about the pitch of her voice which did not sit well with him. It was true, since he had murdered his mother, all others had been somewhat lessened but they satisfied him still. Now was the time to move on; now was the time to hear what the three had to say. Now was the time for a man’s voice.
*
Bishop found Metier already at his desk when he arrived. As usual, he scribbled frantically at the growing mound of paper.
“Are you well, Alexander?” he asked
Metier looked over his glasses; his eyes looked tired, “Quite well, thank you.”
“Is Victor here?”
“Yes, he is in the office.” Metier stopped writing and placed his pen on the desk. “He has given the cast an afternoon off and asked not to be disturbed. Do you need to speak with him?”
“No, but I wish to know how he is. How the incident has affected him? It has been on my mind all night, or what was left of the night.”
“I cannot say. I scarce know him better than you. Mademoiselle Bissette was leaving as I arrived and she passed his instruction to myself and the cast.” He paused, “I would not feel comfortable enquiring into his state of mind.”
“Nor I,” Bishop added. “Do you suppose the thief was killed?”
“I suspect so.”
Bishop sighed, “Have you seen a cadaver before?”
Metier shook his head, “No but I have written of them many times. And you?”
Bishop recalled the image of the murdered girl in Cabaret du Néant, “Yes, only this week in Paris, my associate Blair and I were in the Cabaret du Néant and a girl was murdered. It was not the welcome to the city I had imagined.” Bishop had no intention of revealing that he had fallen under suspicion for the crime. “Well you may have seen your first this morning, although we shall never know for sure.”
“Perhaps we shall,” Metier rose from behind the desk and took his coat and hat from the stand. “Would you care to join me in a visit to one of the lesser known attractions of Paris?”
Bishop followed Metier out of the office. It sounded an intriguing proposition.
The bus ride was a little less exhilarating than one taken with Blair for they sat inside the carriage. Climbing on board did not require a dangerous leap and a perilous climb onto the top-deck.
Soon they crossed a small bridge over the Seine and were presented with the remarkable façade of Notre Dame cathedral.
“Have you brought me here to stare at the sarcophagi of dead saints?” Bishop asked, disappointed with the destination.
Metier looked at him as if he were a fool, “Of course not. We have come to see the recently deceased. I have been informed it is quite the morbid spectacle but if our thief is here, we shall know his fate for sure. The dead are kept on display for all to see.”
“My God,” whispered Metier.
The sight of such forlorn figures, stripped bare, save for tired, grey linen bound to their waists was truly hideous. For a moment Bishop was unsure whether he was back in the galleries on Drury Lane. He was sure of one thing though – their ashen and lifeless corpses did not excite him the way the murdered girl had.
Parisians passed by, dressed in gowns and suits fit for the opera, and glanced in the window. They gave it no more attention than they would the latest fashion. Some laughed, some gasped but none could hide the glint in their eyes as they looked upon the dead.
“We should go,” Bishop looked away but as he did, a group of giggling ladies, dressed in fine clothes tumbled out of the door.
“I disagree! We must go inside,” Metier walked past him and started up the steps, “are you coming?”
Bishop nodded. Even outside, a faint odour could be traced in the air. It was a mixture of chemicals and rotting flesh.
Once inside, what was left of the fresh spring afternoon departed immediately. The air was chill and damp as if they had stepped onto the streets of deep winter London. Metier wasted no time and proceeded to the viewing gallery. The cadavers were presented behind oak framed glass, as much to conceal the stench of death as to prevent those present from seeking to touch their flesh. A chemical agent had stained the glass in places and frosted it in others, but it did not prevent those present from obtaining their pleasure.
Bishop approached the glass and took his place beside Metier. A further six corpses had been put on display; some in better condition than others.
“Look at this one,” Metier whispered in reverence and pointed to a bloated blue corpse. Both arms had gone and the man bore rancid, dark blooms of decay upon his swollen face. “How could anyone expect to identify him now?”
“Perhaps from his clothes?” Bishop indicated a pile of rags which hung lamentably from a stool beside his granite bed.
“Some have been in the water days, some just hours.” A heavily accented voice sounded behind them. They both turned to see who had addressed them.
“You have come morgueing, gentlemen?” He wore a top hat and held himself with the authority of a man of some import.
“Morgueing, sir?” Bishop asked.
“Yes, you have come to look at the Macchabées! Are you familiar with any of them?”
“No, of course not! Why should we be?” Metier’s prickly spirit was at the fore again.
“I did not mean offence, sir,” the man touched the rim of his hat. “As educated men, would you care to see the rest of the morgue?”
“That would be interesting, don’t you agree, Robert? It is all part of our research.”
Bishop nodded but eyed the man’s open palm. “And how much will it cost us to see the rest?”
"Just a franc each. It is nothing.”
They paid and followed him into an adjoining room.
It was a surprising sight to see the room open up before them. It presented an amphitheatre such as those Bishop had seen before in his ill-fated studies.
The guide pointed at the table below, “This is where the doctor conducts the examination; the post mortem. You may purchase a ticket to watch him work tomorrow if you wish. It is a mere two francs. You would not find such entertainment elsewhere.”
Pictures of the short-lived training flashed through his mind; the amputations and operations, the blood and the stench.
“Entertainment? No sir, we do not wish to see that.” Bishop did not attempt to conceal the disgust from his voice.
Metier pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it beneath his nose. “Can you not smell that?”
“It is the smell of a man's guts. The doctor finished a post mortem not an hour ago. The smell lingers on but I am afraid I am quite used to it.” Their guide smiled revealing his blackened teeth.
They left the amphitheatre and proceeded along a light corridor. All along the corridor were alabaster busts atop granite plinths. Narrow windows, high on the walls dropped envelopes of sunshine onto their timeless features.
The faces were not those of the great philosophers as was usually the case and they all appeared female. “Who do these represent?” Bishop paused before the final bust.
“They are beautiful, are they not? They are the beautiful ladies of the Seine. The one before you is L'Inconnue de la Seine or as you would say, the unknown woman of the Seine. She is the most exquisite of all,” he touched her lips and lingered with his finger. “It is merely a plaster mask. They all are.”
Bishop gazed at the mask. Her eyes were closed tightly but a playful smile danced upon her thin lips as if she were merely resting. She was utterly beautiful in death as she no doubt was in life.
“Robert, come on,” Metier pulled his sleeve, “he has already gone through the door.
The temperature dropped as soon as they stepped over the threshold.
“This is where we freeze the bodies.” A cloud of freezing vapour drifted from the guide’s mouth. “This is the refrigerator.” He placed his hand on the huge white box he was standing beside, “and it is supplied by these pipes which carry ammonia gas.”
He had clearly given his speech many times before and was well versed in his lines. “It can take ten hours for a man’s intestines to become fully frozen and eight hours for a woman.” Although he knew his lines well, they were delivered with a metronomic blandness which was as morbid as the morgue itself.
He opened the refrigerator and pulled one of the five drawers. “This man was found yesterday. His flesh is already like wax.” The guide rapped on the chest of the man with his cane. The body may well have been a stone block for the sound it made. “We will be displaying him later today.” He pushed the slab back inside the compartment before either Metier or Bishop had the opportunity to look closer.
He withdrew the next one, “This female was found at noon today. See how her colour and the touch of her skin are still that of the living.” He touched her cheek and smiled.
Bishop looked down at the woman and felt the colour drain from his face. “Her throat, what has happened to her?”
“Ah yes, the mutilations are always well received by the public. She will be an excellent attraction. The murders always are.”
There was no doubt the wound was the same as he had witnessed in the Cabaret du Neant. Her throat had been cut and the insides ripped out. “Have the police been informed?”
Behind him, the door swung open. “Monsieur Bishop, how very peculiar to see you here. Or maybe it is not?”
Bishop turned, although he had no need to see who was speaking, “Inspector Devaux, you are aware of this?”
Devaux’s stare was as cold as the room and Bishop felt compelled to shiver, “Of course,” Devaux removed his hat and leaned over the girl, pushing her head to one side, “some similarities, yes?” he looked from the girl to Bishop. “In more ways than one.”
“I am not sure what you mean, Inspector.”
“Where there is murder, there is invariably, Monsieur Bishop,” he turned his attention to Metier, “and you Monsieur, who may you be?”
Although Bishop estimated he and Metier to be a similar in age, Metier’s manner was akin to someone of greater years.
“I am Alexander Metier.”
The Inspector straightened. His creased and weary expression smoot
hing for a moment, “Metier? You are the writer, Metier from Le Grand Guignol?”
“You know of me, sir?” Metier flushed with pride.
“I have visited the theatre on a number of occasions. Why, I was there to witness the surgeon remove the wrong leg only last week. I am not a man of delicate disposition yet I found that quite disturbing.”
Metier beamed, “Then you must come and see my new show. You shall be my guest, and of course your wife!”
