by Anna Lord
Monsieur Radzival studied the young man slumped in the chair. There was no denying he looked ill. “But, but,” he remembered, sounding unconvinced, “the door was locked.”
“It was probably just jammed. I brushed past it in my desperation to get Monsieur Crespigny into a chair and the whoosh of my skirts may have caused it to close. But locked? No, you are mistaken.” She turned back to the playwright and spoke with urgency. “Put your head between your legs until the blood rushes back to your brain, Monsieur Crespigny.”
“What’s going on?” It was Dr Watson.
“Oh, there you are,” she said, sounding immensely relieved. “I was just coming to fetch you. Help Monsieur Crespigny into our landau. He was feeling faint. We can give him a lift home.”
“Nonsense,” intervened the mature voice of their hostess. “He can spend the night here. I will have the guest room made ready at once. What sort of hostess allows a guest to go home feeling unwell?” She turned to the librarian. “Casimir, help Monsieur Crespigny upstairs.”
The Countess glanced surreptitiously at her counterpart in crime-solving. He’d seen the look before and knew what was expected.
“Let me help him upstairs. I’m a doctor. I can give him a quick examination when I get him into bed.”
As soon as the Countess was alone with the librarian she put a question to him in the hope of shedding light on a point that had been bothering her for several hours. The murders involved respectable, elderly men and one elderly, respectable lady. These were not random acts of violence staged by a madman with a hatred of families or a dangerous lunatic with a lipstick fetish entertaining theatrical fantasies. The killer was choosing his victims with care. He was preparing name tags in advance. He was thinking ahead. He was planning ahead. He was rational. And hand-in-hand with pre-meditation and method came motive. It had something to do with the theatre, of that she was in no doubt, but it was more than theatrical rivalry, more than success and failure on stage, more than the thwarting of the marriage of a talented saltimbanque.
What topic, the Countess asked herself, had dominated French hearts and minds for the last few years? What topic had polarized public opinion, setting neighbour against neighbour, father against son, copain against comrade, intellectuals against each other, turning friend into foe and everyone into an enemy of the State? And the answer came suddenly.
Nothing had fomented French passion more than the Dreyfus affair.
“Can you explain to me the difference between Dreyfusards, Dreyfusiens and Dreyfusists, s’il vous plait?”
The librarian, healthy colour restored, regarded her oddly from beneath neatly arched brown brows before bowing to her request just as he would were she his patroness.
“Certainly, la comtesse. Dreyfusards are the original and staunchest defenders of Alfred Dreyfus, the most famous being Emile Zola who wrote J’accuse to bring world attention to the affair and to rally others to his way of thinking. Dreyfusiens, on the other hand, also have sympathy for Alfred Dreyfus but they wish to preserve the status quo of the republic, ergo to preserve the peace of the city. They would like the affair to go away as quickly as possible. National stability is more important to them than individual justice. Dreyfusists, however, are more philosophical in their outlook. They view the affair in broader social and political terms. They also have sympathy for Alfred Dreyfus but are more concerned with a wider world view. Intellectual implications interest them the most.”
“Which camp appeals to you, Monsieur Radzival?”
He seemed momentarily bemused, presumably unaccustomed to airing a personal opinion; as opposed to voicing facts and figures. His explanation had been succinct, enlightening and yet said nothing about the man who had voiced it.
“I feel no personal affiliation to any of the camps.”
“You sympathise with Alfred Dreyfus?”
“Yes, of course, all but an ardent anti-Semite would.”
“La marquise is fortunate to have an enlightened thinker in her employ. You are her librarian but you are not French?”
“I was born in Krakow. My parents came here when I was a child of five. I have known only France but as you rightly point out I am not French.”
“You are putting the library in order?”
“Yes, la marquise has a vast collection of books – more than five thousand – which were the pride and joy of the late Marquis de Merimont. The library is on the north side of the maison, away from the ravages of the sun. If we had time I could show you. I am creating order out of chaos, re-arranging the shelves and cataloguing the books.”
“An immense task.”
“A labour of love.”
They were interrupted by a dry cough. It was Dr Watson.
“Monsieur Crespigny appears to be suffering from nothing more than a combination of poor nerves, exhaustion and lack of sleep. He has gone to bed.” He looked meaningfully at his counterpart. “Shall I fetch your cloak? The blue wool mantle with the ermine trim, was it?”
“Thank you,” she said, and, “Good evening to you, Monsieur Radzival.”
Dr Watson’s reaction to the revelation that Raoul Crespigny was not the author of his own plays was everything the Countess expected. He moved quickly through the emotions traditionally associated with death: disbelief, denial, despair and then grief.
“It must be Serge Davidov,” he said adamantly when he finally faced up to the fact of the matter. “It cannot be anyone else.”
“Why can’t it be anyone else?” she challenged.
“There is no one else, that’s why.”
“Of course, there is. It could be anyone in Paris. It could be that rag and bone man,” she said flippantly, indicating the man pushing his rickety cart along the gutter in search of rubbish he could turn into profit. “Monsieur Crespigny is coming to rue Bonaparte at midday tomorrow. He claims he doesn’t know who the author is, and I believe him, but he might shed some light on the matter, which might then help us to track down the anonymous auteur for ourselves.”
“We should invite Inspector de Guise.”
“No, he will simply frighten our playwright to death. Monsieur Crespigny is nervous enough. That’s what makes me think he knows more than he has revealed so far. We will go to the inspector as soon as we have something tangible. How did Monsieur Crespigny seem when you left him?”
“Much calmer. I think he relaxed as soon as he realized he would not have to face the mad Russian director. That’s why I think we cannot dismiss Serge Davidov out of hand.”
“I am not dismissing Davidov out of hand, but I do not believe he authored the plays. Raoul Crespigny may simply be terrified of facing the Russian because of the director’s fierce temper. Raoul said he made the link between the plays and the murders today. No wonder he was hiding all night from the director. Would you want to confess you hadn’t actually written the plays you were putting your name to, plays which are set pieces for actual murders, plays which could force the closure of the theatre, bankrupt the owner, put everyone out of a job, and possibly land yourself on Devil’s Island?”
Dr Watson recalled his own close shave with the notorious prison and squirmed. “Since you put it that way, no, I guess not, except the director will probably murder the playwright with his own bare hands before the poor sod even gets to Devil’s Island.”
Two pieces of disturbing news came to light when Xenia brought up the Countess’s breakfast tray. The first was that Mahmoud had been out all evening. Xenia had watched him sneak out straight after Dr Watson and the Countess had departed for the theatre. He had returned mere moments after their carriage dropped them home.
The second piece of disturbing news was that the coachman who had been employed by the notaire, along with several housemaids, a cook, etcetera, had mentioned to the other staff in passing conversation during breakfast that he was sure that a hansom cab with no passenger had followed him from clos de Millefleurs all the way to rue Bonaparte and that it had then disappeared into one of t
he mews. Xenia had overheard the conversation and recognized enough French to comprehend the implications.
The Countess had warned herself against jumping to conclusions ever since her first foray into conclusion-jumping had almost brought her undone during the Baskerville case, but there was something worrying about both pieces of information.
The first was not necessarily anything to cause panic. Mahmoud had possibly never been bound by the same rules that govern normal household staff. Although the Countess viewed him as a maître de maison, her step-aunt may have considered him more as a paid companion, perhaps even an exotic travelling companion who had finally settled down in one spot, leaving her to roam on her own, or more to the point, to travel with her step-child. Her aunt’s outlook had always been rebellious and unconventional.
The second was more worrying. Was someone shadowing them?
The Countess shared none of her concerns with her own travelling companion, but for the time being, kept them to herself.
Fedir had had a promising evening at Café Bistro. He had hit it off with the surly brothers. He had railed vociferously against the republic, the tsar, the church and everyone else the brothers happened to despise. The Paris Fair was a Patyomkin village and he should know since he was Odessan, the Dreyfus affair was a Jewish conspiracy and he should know because the storms of the negev had given him a taste for wily Jews. He stopped short of inviting himself down to the cellar to view the printing press but he felt an invitation would be forthcoming before the week was out.
Mademoiselle Kiki had stayed all evening at the café, entertaining the red-necks with handstands, backflips and cart wheels, often finishing with a demonstration of the splits on top of the zinc bar. Klaus promised to build her a trapeze inside the café. This novel idea drew thunderous applause. Her decision not to attend the salonniere at the Hotel de Merimont, but to stay with her comrades, won her endless praise. She was crowned Queen of the Café, Princess of the Pigalle and Mistress of Montmartre. Someone made her a blue sash from a cravat. Someone else created a crown from a lamp shade. Someone found some lace curtains in a nearby shop and made a regal cloak that trailed the greasy floor. She played the part of the Empress of France as if she had been born to it.
Chapter 7 - The Peniche
Midday came and went. The Countess began to grow increasingly worried. She paced the window that overlooked rue Bonaparte and checked every passer-by. When she sat down, Dr Watson took over. He had worried all night about how much the playwright had overheard of their conversation in the cloakroom the moment he learned of the eavesdropping. Uncannily, he could have sworn someone was in there with them but put his suspicions down to all those disembodied cloaks.
“He’s thirty minutes late.”
“I can tell the time,” she returned tetchily.
“Something’s happened.”
“Clearly.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“I had a bad feeling about it last night.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I wanted him to come home with us in the carriage,” she reminded.
“Why didn’t you insist on it?”
“La marquise intervened.”
“Since when have you been swayed by the wishes of others?”
“Another five minutes and then we go to Hotel de Merimont.”
“I’ll tell the coachman to get the landau ready.”
He was half way to the door when the front door knocker gave a resounding bang.
Feeling suddenly foolish, they both drew a calming breath, but the arrival of the librarian instead of the playwright had them both looking ill at ease.
“I apologise for arriving unannounced,” said Monsieur Radzival, noting the pair of strained smiles, wondering if he had walked in at an awkward moment or even interrupted a lover’s quarrel.
Dr Watson, naturally courteous, might have successfully pulled off some social sleight-of-hand despite the tension but the Countess was not one for prevarication unless the situation demanded it in accord with her new career in sleuthing.
“We were expecting Monsieur Crespigny,” she said. “Is he still asleep?”
“Oh, no, he disappeared some time during the night.”
“Disappeared!” The word burst forth in a double echo.
Unsure who to address first, Mr Radzival addressed both simultaneously. “He was gone by the time I got up. That was at nine o’clock. He must have returned to his peniche.”
The doctor jumped in first. “Peniche?”
“Houseboat.”
“Did you actually see him go?” he queried.
“No, he must have gone quietly in the early hours.”
“Do you know the name of his peniche and where it can be found?” quizzed the Countess.
“Yes, it’s called Bobo. You will find it on Canal Saint-Martin on the Quai de Jemmapes, not far from the Hospital Saint-Louis.”
The Countess suddenly realized that because she had not taken a seat, her visitor had not sat down either. She immediately remedied the situation by planting herself in the nearest chair. Things felt less strained and the librarian opened the leather satchel he had been clutching.
“You expressed an interest in the Dreyfus affair yesterday evening,” he said conversationally. “I thought you might appreciate reading a copy of Emile Zola’s letter. La marquise has several copies in her possession and is happy for you to have this one. You may keep it.” He also pulled out some papers bound in string. “I thought you might also be interested in some essays on the subject. They will provide a broad over-view of the Dreyfus case. You may return them at your leisure.”
The Countess was clearly delighted that he had come expressly to offer some interesting reading material, and since the small round table by the Chinese screen was already set for three, she invited the librarian to lunch.
Their visitor did wonder at the prescience of the three places and even wondered if the Countess might be one of those psychics who were all the fashion with the demi-mondain.
Dr Watson waited until the French onion soup had been served. “My recollection of the Dreyfus affair is sketchy. Would you mind recalling the main facts for me?”
“Certainly, in 1894 Captain Alfred Dreyfus, an Alsacien Jew, was accused of passing secret information to the Germans in Paris. He was tried and convicted and sent to Devil’s Island. In 1896 a counter-espionage officer by the name of Colonel Picquart discovered that certain incriminating papers at the heart of the case against Dreyfus had been forged by Major Esterhazy who was in fact the real culprit. However, this new evidence was suppressed and Major Esterhazy, though forced to answer charges, was acquitted by a military court. In 1898 Emile Zola published a letter outlining the fantastic miscarriage of justice. It caused public outrage. A new trial was held this year. Dreyfus returned from Devil’s Island to France on the Sfax. He was, however, found guilty of additional trumped up charges yet again and sentenced to another ten years, but then, astonishingly, pardoned and set free.”
“An extraordinary affair from start to finish,” mused the doctor with a sad shake of his head. “Confidence in the Army and the Judiciary will be undermined for years. What happened to Esterhazy?”
“He changed his appearance by shaving off his moustache and fled to parts unknown.”
“And Picquart?”
“He was transferred to North Africa for his trouble. I do not know his current whereabouts.”
Monsieur Radzival finished up by reading Zola’s famous letter: J’accuse.
Dr Watson, still concerned about the playwright, glanced at the Ormolu clock on the mantel as they enjoyed some après-dejeuner cigarettes. It had just gone half past one o’clock.
“I am a trifle concerned for Monsieur Crespigny’s health,” said Dr Watson casually, looking earnestly at the Countess. “I think I might follow up with a visit to his peniche to make certain he is not suffering any ill effects from his exhaustion. I saw a case once where
it led to brain fever. One can never be too careful.”
“I can come with you and direct your coachman if you like,” offered Monsieur Radzival. “It can be tricky to find your way around that quarter of Paris. Construction work around the canal is never-ending, what with iron bridges and locks needing constant repairs and so forth.”
Hospital Saint-Louis in the north-east of Paris, originally a hospital for plague victims, was set in beautiful park-like grounds reminiscent of the salubrious Place des Vosges, but the rest of the area was a grim poverty park. The canal had been built at the beginning of the century in order to bring clean drinking water to Paris but it didn’t take long for the canal to turn oily. It was lined with overcrowded peniches, fishing lines dangling from boat decks, laundry flapping in the breeze, and dogs and children scouring the muddy banks for anything that might earn a sous or two.
“Suicides are common,” explained Monsieur Radzival as the landau came to a halt and they looked down a weedy embankment where some fishermen were dragging a body out of the water. Then almost in the same breath he said, “You didn’t meet Mademoiselle Kiki last night. You will most likely meet her today. Mademoiselle Kiki calls Bobo home too.”
“That must drive the three Humboldts insanely jealous,” reasoned Dr Watson.
“Oh, not at all, according to la marquise Monsieur Crespigny regards Mademoiselle Kiki like a sister. He regards all women thus. Mademoiselle Kiki used to live on Le Cirque, the peniche moored next one along where the three circassiens live.”
It was with trepidation that our two sleuths crossed the gangway. Neither said so directly, but they expected to find the playwright lying in a pool of blood. In fact, it would not have surprised them to discover the dead body currently being fished out of the river to be that of the man they had come in search of. Had they arrived too late?
