The Curse of the Grand Guignol

by Anna Lord

  Neither Dr Watson nor the Countess replied to his entreaty. The details of the five murders were still swimming in a sea of endless possibility. The inspector noted the time on an Ormolu clock and pushed to his feet.

  “If there is another murder next week I will let you know at once. I hope I have not taken you out of your way for no reason. By the way, I would appreciate it if you do not reveal the details of the murders to anyone outside this room. I refer particularly to the name tags and the puppet-like staging. Myself, my men, my superior officer and the police surgeon are the only ones who are aware of the specifics and that is how I would like to keep it. Bonne journee.”

  Dr Watson showed the inspector to the door where he commiserated once again with his hefty workload and assured him they understood the need for discretion. When he returned to the salon he found the Countess instructing her Ukrainian manservant, Fedir, to hurry along and secure two tickets for the next performance of Le Grand Guignol.

  “You didn’t mention about the puppets already?” he said flatly when Fedir left the room. “And by the way, I refuse to go to the theatre. I refuse to attend a performance of amoral horror. It will only encourage more of the same. Before we know it theatres promoting lechery will start springing up in every city and it will become the norm.”

  “Very well,” she relented with surprising biddableness, noting the self-righteous and censorious tone. “I will go with Mahmoud. He looks like he could use a night out at the theatre. I imagine he rarely goes out of an evening.”

  “Do you think that is wise?”

  “Wise?”

  “Degeneracy, lechery, violence – have you seen the size of his dagger?”

  “It is a religious accoutrement.”

  “A dagger is a dagger.”

  “Your fears are exaggerated.”

  “Nonetheless, I will rest easier if you take Fedir instead.”

  “Fedir will be paying a visit to Café Bistro tonight. He will be busy ingratiating himself with his Slavic comrades. I have already instructed him to play the part of a disgruntled Don Cossack, angry with the tsar after the humiliating defeat of the Crimean War which supposedly killed off his grandfather and impoverished his family, etc, etc.”

  The doctor didn’t say anything for a moment or two. But there was no way he could allow her to venture into the Pigalle after dark in the company of a man they had met for the first time not more than a few hours ago – a man who wielded a dagger as naturally as Mrs Hudson wielded a teapot - not when there was a lunatic with a link to Slavs on the loose in the city. Hell! Five murders so far! The lunatic might even make the Ripper look like a rank beginner! Oh, well, he would just have to bite the bullet.

  “In that case, I will go with you after all. If you think the Grand Guignol is somehow linked to the murders then I suppose we might as well put your theory to the test.”

  “I don’t know if the Grand Guignol is linked to the murders, but I’m certain the murderer is linked to the Grand Guignol.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing in reverse?”

  “Not at all - if the victims are not connected to the theatre, and we have no reason to doubt the inspector when he asserts that there is no such connection, then it must be the killer who has the theatrical connection. A crime scene usually says something about the killer and these crime scenes say more than most, in fact, they appear entertainingly scripted.”

  “Patyomkin!”

  “Are you referring to Prince Potemkin, comrade?”

  “Durack! Are you deaf! That’s what I said! The Paris Fair is a Patyomkin village!”

  “Yes! Yes! I see your point, comrade. The whole thing is a theatrical ruse to amuse the idle rich – Turkish minaret, Indian temple, Chinese pagoda, Dutch windmill, American log cabin, English Tudor mansion…a side-show to take attention away from the poverty and misery afflicting the masses!”

  “Don’t forget the human zoo!”

  “The entire exposition is a zoo!”

  “What about that monstrosity of a gate?”

  “La Salamanda!”

  Everyone fell about laughing.

  “Don’t forget La Parisienne!”

  “A triumph of prostitution!”

  The infamous quote always had the same effect – grown men wept with laughter and almost wet their pants.

  The raucous laughter reminded Fedir of kookaburras in the Australian bush. He had decided on the spur of the moment to pay a visit to Café Bistro en route to the Pigalle. He wanted to get a feel for the place before returning later in the evening. Men who frequented such establishments were naturally wary of newcomers. They would remember him and know that a second visit meant he was not merely passing through Paris. He, in turn, could pretend to be wary of them, as if he had something to hide – a dark secret coupled with a seething resentment of authority.

  He ordered vodka and slapped some coins on the greasy bar, his eyes straying casually to the dust-smeared mirror that had lost its silver polish some time during the last revolution. The tarnished glass reflected the broad back of the blond barman as he reached for a bottle under the zinc counter, ignoring the bottle of Russian vodka on the shelf behind him.

  Klaus sloshed out a generous measure.

  Fedir intuited he was being tested and tipped the colourless contents down his throat in one go, trying not to wince. It had been years since he’d swallowed homebrew strong enough to strip the lining from his stomach despite having had a cooked breakfast. He immediately ordered another.

  “Ruski?” guessed the barman with grudging admiration.

  “Cossack.”

  “Ukrainian?”

  Fedir made a harsh grunting sound, affecting vainglorious belligerence. In his experience, Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, and assorted revolutionaries expressed themselves in monosyllables, and only when they had to, until such time as they became comrades, in which case they talked each other’s ears off. It was one or the other. Never both. “Don Cossack.”

  Someone laughed a high-pitched laugh.

  Via the tarnished mirror, Fedir saw that it was an attractive young woman sitting at a table with several men. She was wearing striped stockings under several layers of frilly skirts. One of the men was wearing a purple beret and had splotches of paint on his pink smock. Another man was wearing a striped jacket and straw boater more suited to the summer months. The third man was heavily bearded and wore round frameless spectacles. He had on a black wool coat with an up-turned collar that swallowed his neck. His military boots that could have done with a good brush.

  Fedir heard the word ‘Crimea’ as he drained his glass. The sound of kookaburras followed him out the door.

  En route to the Pigalle, Fedir concluded that Paris was full of coffee houses and bread shops, just as London was full of ale taverns and gentlemen’s clubs and Odessa was full of military schools and brothels. Come the next violent revolution, the suburbs of Paris would be spared according to the number of cafes to be had there.

  The young policeman who had discovered victim number five outside Café Bistro was waiting for Inspector de Guise outside his office in the Quai des Orfevres.

  “I remembered something from the night of the murder,” he said importantly, watching as the inspector removed his coat and scarf and hung them on a rack in the corner. He dreamed of having an office such as this one day with his own desk and chair and coat rack. “I don’t know if it is useful but I thought, well…” He paused and swallowed dry, nervous and unsure now that the moment had come.

  “Yes?” encouraged the inspector as he took his seat and glanced ruefully at the mountain of papers piling up on his desk. He wished the young man would get on with it. He was probably after a bit of praise – If you could put in a good for me, inspector…He forced himself to focus on the young patrolman. “Pascal, isn’t it?”

  “Pascal Leveret, sir.”

  The inspector nodded meaningfully. “I recall we met briefly at the murder scene last night? Good work spotting the body, Pa
scal.” His eyes drifted to the report from the police surgeon; it was sitting on top of the tallest pile. “The body was still warm when you found it, no?” A word or two of praise and he would send the policeman on his way with the promise to mention him by name in his report.

  “Yes, sir, and that’s what made me think about the man I bumped into.”

  The inspector looked up. “What man?”

  “I bumped into a man on the corner of rue de Brouillard shortly before I discovered the body, sir. I did not think anything of it at the time, and not afterwards either, but, well, my wife said I should mention it. I don’t know if it is important, sir, and I do not wish to waste the time of...”

  “Pascal,” interjected the inspector stridently, “every happenstance is important in a murder investigation. We do not know what is vital and what is not until the end. Now, take a seat and think back. What man? Do not omit any detail.”

  The young policeman pulled up a chair. “I was making my patrol and was approaching rue de Brouillard, more of an alley than a rue really, lined with small warehouses used by rag-grubbers because they can dry their rags and sort their rubbish, anyway, there is always thick fog in the Street of Fog because of the charcoal burners for drying out the rags, you see, so I didn’t see him at first, but he tripped on the cobblestones. They were wet. That’s how I noticed him. And so were his cuffs.”

  “The man you bumped into had wet cuffs?”

  “Yes, but I did not think anything of it at the time, only later when I was telling my wife.”

  The inspector gave an encouraging smile. “Go on.”

  “Well, the man was well-dressed, not a rag and bone man, and it surprised me to see him there. He had been drinking champagne with his mistress, that’s why he tripped on the wet cobbles, but he wasn’t wearing gloves.”

  “The man was with his mistress?”

  “No, he was on his own. I think he might have been taking a short-cut. He was going home to his wife after being with his mistress, but he wasn’t wearing gloves.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway, there is a horse trough around the corner and this morning when my wife was going to the boulangère she stopped to have a look – and the water was reddish.”

  “The water in the horse trough?”

  “Yes – like blood had been washed through it. Women have an appreciation for such things because of, well -” The young man broke eye contact and blushed.

  The inspector sat forward, leaning on his elbows. “Your wife thinks the man may have washed his hands in the horse trough, is that it?”

  “Yes, that’s it, inspector. His cuffs were wet and he had no gloves on and the water was reddish. I checked on my way here and she was right, my wife, that is, and there’s more.”

  “Please go on.”

  “There was a bloody hand print on a lamp-post.”

  “Where?”

  “Next to the horse trough.”

  “You spotted it while you were checking the horse trough?”

  The patrolman shook his head. “My wife spotted it when she was coming back from the boulangère.”

  “You took a measurement of it?”

  “No, it rained heavily as she hurried home so there was nothing for me to measure by the time I got there, but my wife is good at guessing the size of things because she takes in extra work as a seamstress between doing laundry and ironing for the Moulin Rouge. She can tell a six centimetre handkerchief from an eight centimetre and so on.”

  The inspector hid his disappointment and smiled indulgently. “I see – was it a six centimetre or an eight centimetre hand print?”

  “Hard to tell – the bloody fingers were wrapped around half the post but not all the way round, but my wife says it was bigger than mine.” He lifted up his hand to show the inspector.

  The inspector bit his tongue and tempered his response. “Go on.”

  “Well, here’s the thing,” continued the other, gaining confidence, “my wife said the man must have been fairly tall. The print was too high for being that of a woman unless the woman was a gigantesse. My wife guessed the man who made the print to be over five feet and ten inches tall, probably closer to six feet. Taller than me.” He stood up to show the inspector.

  The inspector thought that if Pascal Leveret ever gained a promotion it would be thanks to his wife – perhaps the Sûreté should employ women instead of men. “I see. You can sit down now. Does that height fit with the man you bumped into?”

  “Yes, yes it does, inspector, now I think back, though the fog was thick and he was hunched over.”

  “A hunchback?”

  “No, no, as if he was unwell. He was clutching his stomach when I first saw him as if he had just vomited. Too much champagne, I think.”

  “Did he speak?”

  “Yes, I asked if he was all right – he’d tripped on the cobbles, you see – and he replied that he’d had too much champagne with his mistress. It made me smile.”

  “He did not appear nervous, agitated, threatening?”

  “No, no, he seemed a decent sort.”

  “How was his voice?”

  “His voice?”

  “Educated? Uneducated? Foreign? Did he have an accent?”

  The young policeman scratched his head and bit his lip. “Educated; no accent.”

  “A Frenchman?”

  “Yes, no, I cannot say.”

  “Think, Pascal. It is important.”

  A moment of heavy silence ensued. “I don’t think French was his mother-tongue.”

  “Take your time, Pascal, why do you think that?”

  The young brow puckered under the weight of pensive responsibility. “He did not have an accent, not like the Jews and Ruskis and Germans coming here ahead of the Paris Fair, but there was something about the way he rolled his R’s or maybe it was because he’d had too much champagne and was slurring his words a little or maybe he was from the countryside. My wife’s cousin is from Alsace and he has a different way with some of his sounds.”

  The inspector back-tracked. “You did not think his manner nervous or threatening?”

  The policeman shook his head firmly. “He seemed light-hearted.”

  “Not worried or defensive?”

  “Not unless you count him being worried about what his wife might say when he got home after midnight. Oh, and he may have been worried about there being another murder.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He asked me straight out?”

  “He asked you straight out if there had been another murder?”

  “Yes, that’s why I know he cannot be the killer. If he had committed the crime he would not need to ask. He was relieved when I told him no and he praised the police for keeping the city safe. He was a decent sort. My wife is over-imaginative. She may have just imagined she saw a bloody hand print. She imagines the rag and bone man is Napoleon. I humour her because she lost a babe last year - stillborn. She urged me to come here and I promised I would but I fear I have wasted your time, inspector.”

  “Not at all, Pascal. If you saw this man again would you recognize him?”

  Pascal bit his lip. “I’m not sure. It was foggy.”

  Chapter 4 - The Theatre

  Paris was the new Babylon. At the cusp of the fin de siècle it was like all European cities ushering in a New World Order, but more decadently, colourfully and outrageously than most. It was setting itself up early as the new crossroad of civilization, and thanks to the soon-to-be Paris Fair it was clearly the place where people from different walks of life rubbed shoulders for the first time in a long time, where hordes of foreign labourers toiled alongside French ouvriers, where filthy rich revolutionaries rubbed up against dirt poor French aristocrats, where classically educated men-of-letters denounced the stuffy institutions that had made them world famous, where bohemian artists challenged the old school guard and sold their paintings to a hungry public direct from the pavements, and where from inside the thousands of cafe
s that had sprung up in the city intellectuals mingled with illiterates and found them not so ignorant after all.

  Throughout Paris, theatrical entrepreneurs were turning traditional entertainment on its head and staging circuses not in hippodromes or under big-tops but inside ordinary buildings topped with extraordinary red windmills, featuring not clowns and performing dogs but dancehall belles who performed scandalous dances.

  Traditional theatres which once staged classical Greek plays and Italian operettas now accommodated peepshows and magic lantern shows. One theatre was screening the astonishing moving images or cinématographes of the Lumière brothers. The shock of the new was everywhere. Theatre-goers fainted with fear, took fright and vomited, attended in droves and applauded as never before.

  And in all this shocking newness nothing was more shocking than the theatre of naturalistic horror known as Le Grand Guignol. It took tales of human madness, added a liberal dose of rampant violence, spiced it up with lashings of uninhibited lust, and churned out mentally depraved imaginings that the public couldn’t get enough of. Rich and poor, male and female, educated and uneducated, flocked to number 20 rue Chaptal.

  It had proved so spectacularly popular that a rival theatre had recently opened up to accommodate the desperate crowds, for if Paris was the new Babylon then the foothills of Montmartre, north of the city, known as the Jardin de Paris because of the vegetable gardens, cow paddocks, and terraced wine slopes that could be found there, were the new mythical Hanging Gardens to which everyone flocked in search of amusement.

  Unable to obtain tickets for the madly popular theatre on rue Chaptal, neither for love nor money, Fedir had settled for purchasing two tickets for the rival le Cirque du Grand Guignol on nearby rue Ballu.