The Curse of the Grand Guignol

by Anna Lord

  She was fairly certain that’s what the victims had been killed with and the inspector had probably reached the same conclusion by now as well. She wondered if the inspector had learned that a new rag and bone man had recently joined the ranks of the old die-hards. She recalled the newspaper article recounting the drowning of a rag and bone man before they even arrived in Paris. Had the killer eliminated him and then taken over his patch?

  If it was Crespigny, he could then dress himself up as a rag-grubber and transport the body to a place he had selected in advance. He could easily mutilate the body and dress it up. He had all the props on hand – knife, hatchet, string, crossbars, lipstick and tag.

  He could then clean himself up at his rag and bone premises, store his cart and weapon, and either return to the theatre or go to the peniche or arrive late at the salonniere, no one the wiser. Clever, calculating and creative – was that the real Raoul Crespigny?

  Kiki tipped the absinthe and laudanum into an empty vial of perfume and opened her door a crack. Cautiously, she peeped out. Loud guffaws told her that the first comedy act was up and running. The usual charivari was happening back-stage. Wrapping her black cloak tighter, she fled out the door leading to the back alley. She had unfinished business to take care of.

  Felix knocked and put his head around the door.

  “Davidov told me you’re taking Kiki’s place tonight. We’re on next. Let’s go. If you forget your lines I’ll cover for you, but it will be fine if you just make it up as you go along. Try not to worry too much. It’s not Shakespeare. The audience will enjoy the rape no matter what words you use. I won’t actually hit you but you have to make it look like I do. Plenty of screaming is what they like. Grunting and pain. On the swing, try to look sad at the dove. You can hum a lullaby if you forget your lines. Don’t forget to swap the real dove for the fake one. The box is under the seat of the swing. Did Kiki tell you that? Good. Otherwise I’ll have to wring the neck of the real dove and crush it under my boot and it will leave a mess for the next act.”

  “Speaking of the swing,” she said, “did someone check the rope?”

  “Laszlo did. Why?”

  She swallowed dry. “No reason.”

  The act went even more smoothly than she imagined. When his back was to the audience, Felix winked at her several times to let her know he was pleased with how she was doing. Davidov was clearly amazed. She caught glimpses of him standing in the wing triumphantly punching the air, especially after the violent rape scene, which drew whoops of delight and vociferous boos in equal measure from the crowd. She accepted both as accolades.

  But the best indication of the naturalistic horror of her performance came from Dr Watson when he stood up and walked out. Shock and disgust were still writ large when he confronted her in Davidov’s sitting room enjoying a glass of French champagne, compliments of the director.

  “Have you gone mad? Where on earth did you get that ridiculous costume? And what is that frightful hat? What the blazes were you thinking? What in tarnation was that act in aid of? Was that really necessary? And don’t try and tell me it had anything to do with our investigation!”

  Davidov, recognising puritanical disapproval when he heard it, scooped up the bottle of champagne and waved it aloft. “Let me pour you a glass of bubbly, Doctor, to toast the success of the Countess’s acting debut.”

  Dr Watson turned sharply; he hadn’t registered the presence of the other man. “Get the hell out of here, you trumped-up little idiot!”

  Davidov did not appreciate being directed at the best of times, and especially not inside his own theatre. “This is actually my sitting room.”

  “Get out! Get out before I am forced to punch you on the nose!”

  Davidov bumped into Mahmoud on his way out. The Sikh, sensing that privacy might be the order of the day, stood sentry outside the door. La Noire offered him a cigarette. He declined but she lit one up for herself and decided to linger. The doctor ranted for another fifteen minutes. The Countess let him blow off steam while she got changed behind a folding screen.

  “Are you done?” she said calmly, emerging dressed as herself. “Kiki was unable to perform tonight. She is sleeping in her dressing room. And what better way to keep an eye on everyone. You front of theatre, me back-stage.”

  He caught his red-faced reflection in a gilt-framed mirror and drew breath. “So what did you observe?”

  “Nothing,” she admitted flatly.

  “Dandy! Just dandy! You realize the sixth murder will be taking place right about now and we are no closer to finding the killer than when we first arrived. That frightful hat was for nothing!”

  “I happen to like this frightful hat.”

  “Don’t you dare tell me you liked taking part in that frightful performance as well or I really will catch the next train to Calais,” he threatened.

  A sharp rap of knuckles was followed by the appearance of Mahmoud. “I thought you might want to know the playwright just left the theatre using the back door. I asked La Noire where the door went. She told me it led to a walled yard. There’s a gate that leads to an alley. It comes out on rue Ballu a few doors down from here. ”

  The Countess’s brain whirred like the gears of a finely tuned engine. “Well done, Mahmoud. Go to rue Ballu at once. Don’t try and stop him but watch which direction he takes. Wait for us at the front of the theatre.” She scooped up the costume, including the frightful hat, and dumped them into the arms of Dr Watson. “Put this back in Kiki’s dressing room. It belongs to Coco. I don’t want to be responsible for its loss. Try not to wake her. I’m going to catch the eye of Inspector de Guise. He needs to be in on this chase. I’ll meet you out front.”

  The second horror act was in full swing. Vincent was gearing himself up to be beheaded. Hilaire was prancing around menacingly with the fake saw prior to the gory butchering. The Countess peered out from the side of the curtain but Inspector de Guise was nowhere to be seen. His two companions were also missing. The front row was vacant.

  The quickest route now was via the back stairs that led to the first tier and then straight down into the foyer which opened onto rue Ballu. She hurried past Laszlo and Salvador who were checking the strength of the fake windmill for horror act number three. Hilaire was heavier than most men and they wanted to be sure it would hold his weight when La Noire strung him up. If it toppled over during the dismembering the horror would turn into a farce and Davidov would string them up.

  She bumped into the inspector in the foyer. He was rushing for the exit, his two companions in tow. He almost knocked her over.

  “You’ve heard about Crespigny?” she said breathlessly.

  “No? What about him?”

  “He left the theatre a few moments ago. We’re going after him. Hurry!”

  The inspector caught her by the arm before she could rush off. He pointed to the mousy man standing behind him. “This is Pascal Leveret. He is the policeman who found victim number five. He was having a cigarette in the foyer when he recognized the killer. He summoned me at once. He says it was someone who came out of one of the private booths. The killer must have recognized him. He bolted down the stairs just ahead of you. I didn’t get a good look but it wasn’t Crespigny.”

  Those finely tuned gears in her brain came to a clunking standstill. She tried frantically to apply some grease to the rusty cogs as she raced out to meet the others on rue Ballu, knowing only that she was woefully baffled. If not Crespigny, then who? It was bitterly cold but at least it wasn’t raining. The street was deserted except for a long line of hackney cabs waiting for the show to end so they could earn a fee. Horses were stamping their feet in anticipation of some brisk exercise.

  Mahmoud spoke first. “Crespigny took a cab. He headed that way.” He pointed west.

  She tried to think but the inside of her head was like a bottomless grease pit. “Question the other cab drivers. See if they overheard where he was going.”

  Everyone ran off in different direc
tions, leaving only her and Dr Watson standing at the front of the theatre under the ghostly glare of a gaslight.

  “Are you feeling all right? You look frightfully pale.”

  “It’s the face powder,” she said. “Kiki’s powder is whiter than mine.”

  “By the way, she wasn’t in her dressing room.”

  The Countess felt the first dull crank in the stalled cogs. “Say that again.”

  “Kiki wasn’t asleep. Someone said they saw her leave before the show even started.”

  The cogs kicked into action. “Merde! I am a prize fool! The little cascadeuse is heading to rue Bonaparte!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The pretty little actress is insane. She asked me if my maid was recovering. She is going to kill Xenia. You must stop her. You must hurry. Take the landau. Take Mahmoud!”

  He started to rush off then thought better of it and turned back. “What about Crespigny?”

  “Inspector de Guise says the killer is not Crespigny.”

  “What about you? I cannot leave you here.”

  “Go! I need time to think! There’s more happening tonight than we bargained for. I must think!”

  He was accustomed to obeying orders and a natural born man of action. He hated standing around thinking. He left her to pace the pavement of rue Ballu on her own but she wasn’t alone for long. Madame Leveret came running up.

  “The man who came out of the alley jumped into a hackney cab and directed the driver to the Trocadero.”

  The Countess felt truly vexed. “But the Trocadero is nothing more than a construction site. It’s going to be part of the Paris Fair.”

  “Yes,” said Madame Leveret. “It’s across the river from the Champ de Mars. It’s where the fake village is going up – the pagoda, the temple, the log cabin...”

  “The fake windmill!”

  Of course! The killer would not choose the famous Moulin Rouge where he would be observed in the act, nor would he choose an obscure miniature windmill of no consequence. He was artistic. Theatrics mattered to him. The fake windmill would make a perfect backdrop. What’s more, a construction site was closed off at night. There would be no one about except for a night-watchman or two. And tomorrow when the workers arrived for work – well, what a sight would greet them but victim number six, dismembered and strung up like a marionette!

  Inspector de Guise ordered the Leverets to remain at the theatre in case something transpired in their absence. He and the Countess took a hackney cab to the Trocadero.

  There was no time to lose.

  Chapter 18 - The Trocadero

  The hill of the Trocadero was once a village called Chaillot. It overlooked Paris the same as Montmartre. Today it had a beautiful view that at dawn would have been an Elysian dream, looking east across the Seine and down the stretch of the Champ de Mars to the Eiffel Tower.

  It was crowned by the Palais du Trocadero built for the last Paris Fair or perhaps the one before that – the French adored their expositions. It was a building not much loved by Parisians, a bit Moorish, a bit Byzantine, a bit odd, with two towers reaching skyward from a round squat meeting hall, or two minarets rising from a dumpy mosque, or two zombie arms thrusting up from a mausoleum, depending on your point of view.

  At its feet unfolded the Jardin du Trocadero which featured, bizarrely, a large statue of a rhinoceros and an elephant. Why? Asked the citizens of Paris. Why not? Came the reply.

  During the carriage ride the inspector confirmed what the Countess suspected about rag and bone men. The murder weapon was most likely the spiked stick used by the rag-grubbers. The hand-cart would have been ideal for transporting the bodies. The locked warehouse on rue de Brouillard was most likely his storehouse. He would have killed the original owner and taken it over. It told them the murders had been planned long in advance of their execution.

  The warehouse provided the perfect cover. It was close to the rue des Abbesses where the first victim was found, and again the fourth victim in the Cimetiere du Calvaire, and again the fifth outside Café Bistro. The murderer was familiar with the area around Montmartre and would have known the furniture would be left outside on the pavement.

  The murderer did not use his hand-cart for victim number three, Madame Hertzinger. It would have been too far to go from Montmartre to the Marais pushing a cart. But he didn’t need to. He did not need to transport her body. He killed her on the spot and strung her up from her own balcony. Whether he intended her to fall is a matter for conjecture. He probably arrived at her door dressed as someone respectable, perhaps even himself.

  No hand-cart would have been used for murder number two either. It was in the Bois de Vincennes. The murderer would have killed his victim in the park and then dragged it to where he wanted to string it up.

  On that logic, the Trocadero was likewise too far from Montmartre. But how else would the murderer get his victim across the construction site to the windmill?

  “I hope you’re right about this?” said Inspector de Guise. “We’re on the trail of Crespigny but I don’t think he’s our murderer.”

  She was beginning to doubt herself. “Tell me again what Pascal saw at the theatre.”

  “He stepped out to the foyer for a cigarette. He recognized the man he bumped into on the night of the fifth murder.”

  “This is the first I have heard of Pascal,” she said with more than a trace of exasperation. “You will need to elaborate, inspector.”

  He explained about the event, including the bloody hand print on the lamp-post, the red-tinged water trough, and the conversation between the policeman and the ‘decent’ man he had met. “I believe Pascal bumped into the murderer. The man was coming out of rue de Brouillard, a short-cut no decent man would take at night, not even if her was running late. I believe he had changed out of his rag-grubber’s clothes after dumping the body of victim number five outside Café Bistro. He was on his way home. He had possibly vomited just before bumping into Pascal. Either he was sick from the stench in the alley because he is not used to it or he was physically sick from mutilating the corpse.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, recalling the rotten smell of the rag-grubber’s yard. “He is not a maniac who kills for the thrill of it.”

  “Pascal said something interesting when he finished recounting the tale. He said his wife’s opinion cannot be trusted because she imagines the rag and bone man is Napoleon. Now, Madame Leveret strikes me as an intelligent woman not prone to fantasy. I think it is possible she has seen this man in both guises – as the rag-grubber and as himself.”

  “I agree with your deduction, inspector, now tell me exactly what Pascal said to you at the theatre when he recognized this man.”

  “He stepped out to the foyer. He saw a man on the stairs. The man seemed to start at the sight of him. That’s when Pascal recognized him. He ran to summon me.”

  “And yet the man waited. Why didn’t he bolt immediately?”

  “Well, Pascal looks vacant at the best of times. The man may have felt perfectly safe. Or else he was waiting for someone to join him for a cigarette. That sort of thing. When I entered the foyer the man spotted me and bolted down the stairs. I didn’t get a good look, as I said, but I swear it wasn’t Crespigny. That’s when I bumped into you.”

  “Pascal said he saw the man come out from one of the booths?”

  “I questioned him on that point as we were speaking to the cab drivers. He didn’t actually see the man emerge from a booth but where else could the man have come from?”

  “I emerged from the top of the stairs and I did not come out of a booth,” she reminded. “There is a door that leads back-stage down some stairs.”

  “It could have been anyone from the theatre then.”

  “Not Laszlo and Salvador. I saw them as I was leaving. They could not have run ahead of me. Not Hilaire or Vincent either. They were on stage.”

  “What about the third circassien?”

  “Felix.”

&
nbsp; “Is he the one who did the show with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it could have been him. What about the director? Did you see Serge Davidov as you were leaving?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about Monsignor Delgardo? Dr Watson told me he keeps a private booth next to la marquise.”

  “Yes, I suppose it could have been him. But he’s not tall.”

  “To Pascal, anyone over five foot is tall. And black always makes a person look taller and leaner than they really are. Wasn’t the librarian, Monsieur Radzival, at the theatre tonight?”

  “Yes, he is sharing the booth of la marquise.”

  He expelled a weighty breath. “It could have been any one of them and hopefully we are about to find out. A murderer under pressure will slip up and leave a clue. We know a lot about him. We know almost everything except his name. Here we are at the Trocadero. I can see the windmill from here. I know there’s no point telling you to wait in the cab. Stay close, that’s all I can say.”

  Fedir got the fright of his life when he decided to check on Xenia to see if she was still sleeping and spotted what he thought was a burglar creeping through the French window that beamed moonlight onto the landing of the stairwell. He was even more surprised when it turned out to be Kiki.

  “What…?” was all he managed to get out, stupefied.

  She recognized the bulky blond Ukrainian from his visits to Café Bistro, of course, but the shock of meeting him in the house of the Countess came like a slap to the face.

  For a full half hour she had stood in the shadow of the opposite doorway across the road and watched Des Ballerines. All the rooms at the front of the pied-a-terre were in darkness. There was just one candle burning in a dormer window poking out of the mansard roof. She knew enough about grand houses to know that’s where the servants slept.