The Curse of the Grand Guignol

by Anna Lord

  “Very well,” she acquiesced before gliding gracefully in the opposite direction.

  Dammit! Now he was stuck. Too late to close the gate after the horse had bolted. He never felt comfortable in these sorts of social situations and it showed. As he crossed the room his legs felt as wobbly as those of a lamb to the slaughter.

  “Bon soir,” he bleated awkwardly to the rotund cleric. “Je m’appelle Dr John Watson.”

  “I speak fluent English, Dr Watson. My name is Monsignor Jorges Delgardo. I am Colombian but I have lived many years in France. You are the author of the chronicles of Sherlock Holmes, am I right?

  Relief washed over the doctor when he realized he would not be forced to speak bad French all evening. “Yes, quite right.”

  “I believe I bumped into you at the theatre, literally. Please accept my belated apology. No excuse, but I was in a hurry to congratulate Mademoiselle Kiki on her performance.”

  “Oh, yes, the old mad woman, she was rather good wasn’t she? Very realistic – the whole show.”

  “Your first visit to the Grand Guignol?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you make of our avant-garde theatrics?”

  “Oh, well, yes, avant-garde, that’s a good way to describe it. Quite new, er…”

  “Quite shocking too, no doubt?”

  “Yes, quite shocking. I have to admit I was shocked. Quite shocked.”

  “Raoul Crespigny, the playwright, is shockingly clever. But the actors and actresses must also be congratulated. To pull off such naturalistic horror night after night takes real talent. And the director, Serge Davidov, is a creative genius - not to mention a tyrannical madman - but then all geniuses are a bit tyrannical and a bit mad. Don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, yes, certainly. Do you go often to the Grand Guignol?”

  “Every week. Sometimes twice a week or even thrice. Whenever my busy schedule allows. My work at the hospital keeps me busy but I go as often as I can. I always have the same booth. I reserve it whether I am there or not. That way I am guaranteed a seat.”

  “Hospital?”

  “Salpetriere.”

  “The famous Hospice de la Salpetriere?”

  “Yes, the one and only. I have a medical degree as well as a degree in theology but I do not practice medicine as such. I prefer to devote my time to God. However, I am currently doing some clinical studies at the behest of the Vatican. The Pope is keen to establish a hospice similar to Salpetriere in Rome. Oh, there’s Davidov now.” He caught the director’s eye.

  Monsieur Davidov, who had burst into the salon like a Russian bear with a sore head, now stomped across to them like a bull in a china shop, almost knocking over a tray of drinks. “Have you seen Raoul?”

  Monsignor Delgardo ignored the interrogative demand. “Have you met Dr John Watson, Serge? He is the author of the chronicles of Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Yes, yes, we met earlier,” the other mumbled, hardly listening and caring less, avidly scanning the pastel palette dotted with ugly people like a luminous watercolour flecked with lurid blobs of oil paint. “If you spot Raoul don’t tell him I’m looking for him. I want to corner the weasel before he has a chance to make a run for it.”

  “What has he done to upset you?” enquired the Monsignor.

  “I want him to do a re-write before tomorrow’s show but do you think I can find him? No! He is holed up somewhere. But he knows full well he is expected to make an appearance here tonight and he dare not stay away! The little prick!”

  “Will Mademoiselle Kiki be coming tonight?” Monsignor Delgardo enquired in a hopeful tone.

  “What?” The Russian was momentarily distracted by the arrival of a group of noisy guests – six men wearing large pink paint-smocks, purple berets and vivid orange pussy bows. “Yes, yes, of course, she will be coming, but you don’t stand a chance with her you old lothario. How old are you fifty? Besides, she doesn’t have time for love affairs!”

  Monsignor Delgardo turned bright pink and to avoid compounding embarrassment Dr Watson directed his gaze toward the six men who had entered dressed like clowns minus grease paint. “Who are they?”

  “The Splattereurs,” replied the Monsignor, glaring violently after the director as he stomped off in search of the playwright.

  “Ah, yes, the new art group.”

  “Movement.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It is generally referred to as an art movement. Excuse me, won’t you. I have just spotted Monsieur Radzival, the private librarian of the Marquise de Merimont. He promised to locate a book for me. I must follow it up while I have the chance. We must chat again later. I am interested in your colleague, Mr Holmes. He appears to have a mental illness. It is my field of study, you see. I’m interested in megalomania. A pleasure to meet you, Dr Watson.”

  As Monsignor Delgardo sailed away, a perambulating servant in livery sailed into view and the doctor swapped his fizzy flute of champagne for a glass of rich red burgundy. Through an archway he spotted the Countess chatting to a couple of Dreyfus debaters, simmering rather than boiling now that the other hotheads had gone to cool their heels elsewhere.

  To avoid the agony of mingling, he decided to slip out to the balcony. The night air was fearfully cold and he wished he’d worn his woollen singlet. He was about to light up a cigarette when he realized he was not alone. A young man was hanging back furtively in the shadow of the wall. At first he thought the man might be up to no good, perhaps a burglar, but that made no sense. How did he manage to climb up to the balcony and why rob a house full of people?

  “Oh, I say, I didn’t see you there.” He offered the young man a cigarette and a lucifer but it was damned tricky to keep the match alight. He tried to shield the man from the wind until the cigarette glowed red. “I’m Dr Watson.”

  “Is anyone else coming?” The voice sounded fragile and jittery.

  “What?”

  “Is anyone else coming out to the balcony with you?”

  Dr Watson looked back over his shoulder to check. “No, I don’t believe so. I stepped out to get away from everyone. I’m no good at mingling. My travelling companion is wonderful at soirees, but I’m afraid it’s not for me. Are you trying to avoid someone?”

  “The Slavic lunatic.”

  The young man puffed on the gasper as if each inhalation was going to be his last.

  “Monsieur Davidov?”

  “That’s the one!”

  “You must be Raoul.”

  “Raoul Crespigny. Guilty as charged but don’t tell anyone you saw me.”

  “Congratulations on your naturalistic plays. They are very, er, very naturalistic.”

  The playwright laughed, but it was a jerky, convulsive, strained laugh. “You are a terrible liar, Dr Watson. No wonder you’re useless at soirees. Not for you the glittering stage set for liars, hypocrites, sycophants and idiots.”

  Fortunately, there was no need to pussy-foot around the nervy young man. “If that is your belief, why did you bother accepting an invitation?”

  “La marquise bestows largesse on le Cirque du Grand Guignol. When she issues an invitation there is no playing the refusnik. Besides, it’s not her I’m trying to avoid.”

  “I understand Monsieur Davidov wants you to do a re-write?”

  Surprised, Raoul looked up quickly and a shaft of moonlight caught him full on the face. His eyes were darting left and right, jumping at shadows. “It’s not as simple as it sounds.”

  “I am a writer too. I write short stories for magazines and editors are forever lecturing me about what readers like and don’t like. I imagine it is the same with directors and plays.”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “There is nothing to fear with re-working some dialogue or changing a scene.”

  “There’s more to it than you could possibly know.”

  “How so?”

  Raoul inhaled deeply and ran a shaky hand through his unkempt hair. “Le Cirque d
u Grand Guignol opened on the third of November and, and, well, I didn’t know it at first but something terrible happened on that night as the play was being performed on the stage. I didn’t know it until much later, you see, and it’s, it’s, unnerved me.” His voice began to quiver. “I cannot explain it. You’ll think me mad.”

  “Indeed, I won’t. I think I understand.”

  “No, no, you cannot possibly understand,” he argued. “You see, it’s totally insane.” His body twisted round sharply when they heard a click. “What was that? Someone’s coming!” He leapt back into the shadows as soon as two people, a man and a lady, stepped through the French window onto the balcony for what appeared to be a clandestine tryst.

  By the time Dr Watson looked back to see where the nervous young man was cowering, he had disappeared altogether and all that was left was the glowing stub of a discarded cigarette. The doctor checked behind some pots of clipped topiary but the terrified playwright had vanished as effectively as a will-o-the-wisp. He looked over the balcony railing to make sure Raoul Crespigny had not leapt to his death and was relieved to find that no blood and guts splattered the slate-paved terrace below.

  A brief examination of his surrounds revealed a smaller balcony hidden behind some trailers of ivy, possibly opening from a bedroom. The little balcony was less than four feet away from where he stood. The French window was ajar and lace curtains were billowing in the breeze. The young man must have leapt across the divide, a not impossible feat for a nervy young man with long legs. He must have disappeared inside the bedroom. There was no other explanation.

  Dr Watson finished his cigarette before returning to the salonniere to find the Countess engaged in conversation with Monsignor Delgardo and the man whom he had referred to as the librarian of la marquise, Monsieur Radzival. The latter was tall and lean, not unhandsome, possibly in his late thirties, with tidy brown hair, a neat moustache and a well-trimmed triangular beard. He wore no spectacles and did not appear at all bookish.

  Their conversation appeared quite animated and though he was keen to inform his counterpart that he had just had an encounter with the elusive playwright, he decided not to interrupt. He drifted into the music salon instead where a harpist was entertaining a rapt crowd. He tried to lose himself in the back of the room.

  “There was another murder last night?”

  The voice came from somewhere near his left shoulder, barely a whisper.

  He willed himself not to turn around.

  “Are you sure?” someone else said in a lowered tone.

  “Yes, my sister’s husband works at the Quai des Orfevres.”

  “Where was it this time?”

  “Café Bistro.”

  There was a disbelieving grunt followed by a note of eager relish. “Mutilated?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Tongue cut out.”

  This time there was a definite clutching of the breath. “Let’s pay a visit to Café Bistro. There’s nothing happening here. Kiki hasn’t even showed up. She’s probably at Café Bistro right now entertaining the Bolsheviks.”

  As the two whisperers slipped out of the salon, Dr Watson followed. From the top of the stairs he could see at once that the duo belonged to the group known as the Splattereurs. One was a heavy set man with red hair and a fiery red beard. The other was rake thin with the most absurd moustache the doctor had ever witnessed. It was in two parts, each part as thin as a blade of grass, curved like bicycle handle bars that stuck out sideways, and waxed to within an inch of its gravity-defying absurdity. He consigned the physical features to memory and prepared to return to the music salon when up the stairs came sashaying the actress known as La Noire.

  Mademoiselle Maxine La Noire was an American Negress with slick black hair, mesmerising black eyes and skin that glowed like a rare black pearl, all shiny and wet. She was unnaturally tall and muscular for a woman but voluptuous and round in all the places that a woman should be, yet she moved with an economy of grace, like a sleek black jaguar. Her voice was a husky purr, more masculine than feminine. She was a versatile actress who had played several serious roles plus a number of comedic ones as well. She could dance and sing, and at one stage had dared to appear almost naked except for some strategically placed garlands of paper flowers. The audience loved her.

  She was in the company of three men. Dr Watson recognized them from the evening’s performance. On stage they had appeared thuggish and vicious. In reality, they were typical Frenchmen. He checked their names against the theatre programme in his pocket after they had passed him by without a sideways glance: Felix Frey, Vincent Merx and Hilaire Dupont. He wondered which was which.

  “How are you enjoying my impromptu salonniere, Dr Watson?”

  He turned to find himself being addressed by his aristocratic hostess; a mature composition in grace and elegance.

  “It’s very interesting.”

  He declined from adding: enlightening, fascinating and entertaining; he was not one to gush. He was actually starting to enjoy himself.

  “The secret is in bringing together an interesting group of guests. Take La Noire. She was poached from the Moulin Rouge by Monsieur Davidov. Later, she will sing a scandalous cabaret song that is madly popular with the dance hall crowd. Be sure not to miss it. And the three men following in her wake you would have seen at tonight’s performance. Monsieur Davidov discovered them at a circus in Sarlat. Monsieur Dupont was the strongman. You can probably tell that by his muscular physique. Monsieur Merx, with the sharp eyes and pomaded hair, was a juggler and knife-thrower. He still practices every day. Monsieur Frey with the bulbous nose and bushy brows was a clown.”

  “The fifth member of the cast is not among the guests?”

  “You refer to Mademoiselle Kiki. She will be here shortly. She probably dropped by Cafe Bistro en route. She was also part of the circus troupe - a trapeze artist and a tight-rope walker. I never saw her with my own eyes but I believe her high-wire performance was breath-taking. She can suspend disbelief better than any actress I have ever seen. Take that final piece during tonight’s performance. Here is a petite demoiselle, not yet eighteen, and yet she can play the part of an old mad woman with stupendous conviction.”

  “Yes, she was totally convincing. Someone in the audience was physically sick. I felt slightly nauseas myself. What is it, may I ask, that draws her to Café Bistro?”

  “Three handsome and virile men, of course. Why else would a pretty little thing bother? The three brothers who own the café have all asked for her hand in marriage. She cannot decide which one to choose. Ah, to be young and pretty again,” sighed la marquise before floating off on a silver-lined cloud of wistfulness.

  While he was standing alone at the top of the stairwell, contemplating the connection between the theatre and the macabre murders, the Countess materialized.

  She put her finger to her lips, indicating for him not to speak as she steered him into a nearby room. Thankfully, it was not part of the enfilade of salons but a cloak room for female guests. The cloak room for men was downstairs. Fur lined coats and fashionable winter mantles were hanging two or three to a hook. Dr Watson tried not to sneeze as she closed the door behind them and he found himself enveloped in dusty darkness.

  “I have had a fruitful evening,” she said in a lowered tone that did little to disguise the note of self-congratulation.

  He wasn’t surprised. “I think your initial impression about a link between the theatre and the murders is looking more and more likely. It’s not just that last play. I discovered our three male actors used to work in a circus. The one called Felix Frey was a clown. I cannot stop thinking there is a touch of the clownish in the five murders. There’s the red lipstick for a start.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said excitedly. “Well done! What about the other two men? Were they part of the clown act?”

  “The one called Hilaire Dupont was a strongman.”

  “Oh, yes, I know the one you mean. He’s
amazingly muscly. And the third?”

  “Vincent Merx was a juggler and knife-thrower. He still practices every day.”

  “Good work,” she said.

  The praise spurred him on. “Kiki used to work in the same circus. She was a trapeze artist and tight-rope walker. I cannot see how that is relevant but I thought I should mention it.”

  “Hmm, a cascadeuse, that’s interesting. What about the Negress?”

  “Monsieur Davidov poached her from the Moulin Rouge.”

  “She’s the odd one out.”

  “Not from the circus, you mean?”

  “Yes and no. There’s something about her. I think she might have an interesting past. What about Monsignor Delgardo? I saw you managed to engage him in conversation. What did you learn?”

  “He is besotted with Mademoiselle Kiki. Davidov called him a lothario. He has a private booth on permanent reserve and attends as many shows as he can.”

  “I actually cornered him later and asked him point blank if he knew who his mysterious neighbour in the next booth might be.”

  “Did he say?”

  “He claimed not to know.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Yes, I did. It is ridiculously easy to slip in and out of a booth incognito. Monsignor Delgardo did not seem as bothered to disguise himself as much as the first man we encountered. We both recognized Delgardo later without any difficulty. What else did you learn about him?”

  “He is doing some sort of clinical work at the Hospice de la Salpetriere.”

  “Really?”

  “He is on a mission from the Vatican, looking at the viability of setting up a similar hospice in Rome. He has a medical degree. He is interested in megalomania.”

  “Oh, yes, Salpetriere is a lunatic asylum as well as a hospital.”

  “It houses prostitutes as well.”

  “On the presumption that a prostitute must be insane?”

  He did not wish to become embroiled in a debate about female madness and ignored her clipped rejoinder. “The Marquise de Merimont informed me that the three men from the café have all proposed marriage to the young trapeze artist, Mademoiselle Kiki. She is having difficulty choosing between them.”