The Curse of the Grand Guignol

by Anna Lord

  “Yes, but…”

  “What was the name of his peniche?”

  “Bobo, but...”

  “You sound unsure. What is it?”

  “I don’t think he will surrender the name of the killer. It will be an exercise in futility. In fact, it may simply alert the killer and cause him to flee.”

  “If he flees the country at least the murders will cease. That has to be a solution worth aiming for.”

  “He may flee and then return and start all over again. Or he may go underground and resurface sooner than you think.”

  “You seem to have an idea who the killer is?”

  “The metaphorical fog is slowly lifting.”

  They were crossing the Pont Neuf; if anything the fog was thicker here than the rest of Paris combined. He could have sworn it had penetrated his brain.

  “Are you going to hazard a guess?” he said.

  “I prefer to sleep on it.”

  “Well, I sincerely hope you get some sleep. I certainly won’t. If you won’t give me a name, I will be at the Canal Saint-Martin at first light.”

  “I don’t think you will find Crespigny on his peniche. You will be wasting your time, inspector.”

  They turned the corner into rue Bonaparte to find a small crowd gathered on the pavement under a yellow gaslight, Fedir and Mahmoud among them. The Countess felt her heart leap into her throat. Her first thought was for Xenia. She had completely forgotten about Xenia and Kiki from the moment she arrived at the Trocadero and they found the mutilated body of Père Denys. She banged her fist on the back wall of the hackney cab.

  “Stop! Stop!” she called urgently.

  Inspector de Guise caught the desperation in her tone and leapt out while the wheels were still rolling. “I’m a policeman. What’s going on?”

  “There’s a dead girl here,” someone said, indicating a body under a blanket.

  “Fell straight onto the pavement,” added another importantly.

  Shaking with fear, the Countess found her manservant in the crowd. “Not Xenia?” she whispered tremulously, her voice trembling as much as her legs.

  He met her gaze and shook his head. “Kiki.” He glanced up at the roofline. It told her all she needed to know. The insane acrobat had fallen to her death.

  “And Xenia?”

  “She will be all right. Dr Watson is with her.”

  The Countess did something no lady of rank would ever do. She hugged her manservant in public. There was a terrible story here but she sensed now was not the time to elicit it. She had been holding onto her last inhalation for one long moment and finally exhaled.

  The inspector took charge. “Has someone gone to fetch a policeman?”

  Mahmoud spoke up. “Someone ran off half an hour ago. They haven’t returned. The man over there in the top hat said there’s something happening at the Trocadero. All the police have been summoned to attend to it.”

  “Wrap the body in the blanket and put it into the cab,” he commanded. “I’m on my way to the Quai des Orfevres. I’ll see to it from here.”

  As Mahmoud bent down to scoop up the body something sparkly fell out of his pocket.

  “What’s that?” said the inspector, picking up a diamond earring.

  “It’s mine,” said the Countess, holding out her hand. “I just dropped it.”

  He had no choice but to give it to her, though he noticed she was already wearing an earring on both ears – and neither of them were diamonds.

  “Come to Des Ballerines for breakfast, inspector. Shall we say ten o’clock? I dare say you will have your hands full for another hour or two tonight and even the most tireless guardians of justice need some sleep. Several matters need to be cleared up and I think I will be able to do that for you tomorrow.”

  Against all his policing instincts, he bowed to her wish.

  Chapter 20 - Rag and Bone

  With the calabash nestled warmly in the palm of his hand, Dr Watson paced the tiny attic bedroom and cocked an eye at regular intervals out of the dormer window. He saw the crowd gathered under the gaslight and knew something out of the ordinary was taking place but he dared not leave Xenia’s bedroom lest another assassin turn up out of the blue.

  When the Countess arrived to check on her maid’s recovery the doctor learnt of Kiki’s death for the first time and shuffled off to bed shaking his head at the string of senseless deaths.

  Fedir could not be dissuaded from sleeping in a chair in his sister’s room. He wanted to be present the moment she woke up. He briefly related the events of the night to his mistress, including the part the Sikh had played in saving his life. His recount explained the earring that had fallen out of Mahmoud’s pocket.

  Utterly exhausted, the Countess removed herself to her own bedchamber where the young housemaid, Claudette, was waiting to help her prepare for bed.

  “I’m too tired to have my hair brushed tonight,” sighed the Countess, roughly combing some fingers through her tussled chestnut mane. “Leave the clothes and jewels where they are. You can put them away tomorrow. What’s that thing sticking out from under the bed?”

  Claudette retrieved a piece of paper. “I cannot read, la comtesse, but it has drawings on it about the police and the puppets. Cook had the same paper in the kitchen yesterday. She said the drawings were not even new. She remembered one from the year everyone in France lost their money. Shall I put it on the fire?”

  Vaguely, the Countess recalled the latest creative handiwork of the Brotherhood which Fedir had brought in to show her the morning she discovered Xenia was missing. So much had happened since that time her head was still spinning. “Yes, throw it on the fire and then go to bed. You can tidy up tomorrow.”

  She blew out the candle and was about to place her head on the pillow when she suddenly launched herself across the room, snatched up the fire poker and rescued the leaflet from the embers. It was singed on the edges but otherwise intact.

  Vindicated, her hand was shaking as she beheld the caricatures in the faint glow of the fire. One was a reprint of the Panama Affair. It portrayed rich men – financiers, government ministers - like automatons. The caption read: “Few new toys this year: we’re liquidating everything that remains of the stock of marionettes that say: Papa, Nana, Mama, Panama.”

  Punctuality was a virtue in the eyes of Inspector de Guise who arrived promptly for ten o’clock. He had slept soundly if not long, and woke feeling refreshed. Just after first light he was boarding the peniche on the Canal Saint-Martin. Crespigny was nowhere to be seen and his bed was cold. According to the three circassiens on the neighbouring peniche, Crespigny had mysteriously disappeared from the theatre along with Kiki. Word was they had eloped. The Humboldts had already paid a visit to Bobo ahead of the inspector and threatened to break every bone in Crespigny’s body when they caught up with him.

  Always fashionable, never fussy, the Countess was wearing an elegant morning dress that showed to perfection her jolie ligne de taille. It was of lightweight blue-grey wool that draped well and brought out the colour of her eyes. He imagined a matching casaque in striped serge if a stroll out of doors was called for. The latest fashion of feminizing men’s frock-coats seemed to both suit her figure and her character.

  “Did I not advise you not to waste your time, inspector?” she essayed emphatically. “Here, look at this.”

  If it was one thing a man hated it was being told something by a woman which later proved to be right. He barely glanced at the leaflet, thinking it might be more of the same in the line of merciless caricatures, and tossed it contemptuously back on the breakfast table. He was starving and the table was groaning with all his culinary favourites – lardon, jambon, pork sausages, potato rosti, herb omelettes, galettes, crepes, croissants, brioches, plenty of yellow butter and good strong coffee. He did not plan to stint.

  “Did you notice the caricature in the corner?” she prompted, pouring herself a cup of tea after first filling his coffee cup.

  With jaw
in over-drive, he shook his head, wondering if she was trying to compound his inadequacy.

  “It is interesting,” she said meaningfully, turning the paper right way up and passing it back to him.

  Obligingly, he cast a rueful eye and instantly stopped shovelling food. “The tags,” he said, making the connection at once. “Did the Humboldt’s draw this or Laszlo?”

  “Neither, it is a reprint from the time of the Panama Affair. The cook remembers it. I think it is the thing which gave our murderer the idea to stage the crimes and pose the victims as puppets. Ideas generally take time to germinate and they need to be nourished. Please help yourself to another herb omelette, inspector. Dr Watson will not be joining us. He has been battling bronchitis for some time and I have instructed the servants to let him sleep.”

  “So you have totally discounted Crespingy?’

  “Yes.”

  “You have formed a conclusion as to who the murderer is?”

  “Yes I have, and as soon we settle matters here we must make haste to the Hotel de Merimont.”

  Matters referred to the death of Kiki. The inspector listened to the Countess’s version of events then insisted on hearing the versions given by Fedir and Mahmoud. By then Dr Watson had surfaced to corroborate their stories. Xenia had also recovered sufficiently and was able to add to everyone’s understanding, recounting what she had witnessed at the asylum when she walked in on Kiki trying to hasten her sister’s journey to the next world. Dr Watson breakfasted on whatever the inspector had not consumed and accompanied them to the clos des Millefleurs.

  The Marquise de Merimont had already breakfasted from a tray in her palatial lit-a-la-polonaise as was her custom and was sitting at the writing desk in her boudoir, positioned away from the window, out of the glare of Sol Invictus, so as not to ruin the exquisite marquetry and the splendid brass mouldings depicting a rich rococo harvest of fruit and flowers.

  It was touching on midday when her trio of visitors arrived unannounced. But these were strange times and la marquise instructed they be shown upstairs to join her in her private salon with its eau de nil panels of watermarked-silk, cachepots of pink tulips and fine Aubusson rug. A fire had been burning all morning and the room was pleasantly warm. Pale Parisian light picked up the delicate design in the Sevres porcelain on the twin demilune tables and highlighted the silvery glamour of her noble countenance.

  They settled in silk fauteuils by the carved marble fireside while the Countess made polite conversation, commenting on the harmonious colours in the Aubusson and the superb craftsmanship of the roll top bureau.

  “It once graced the drawing room of Madame de Polignac,” said their hostess, “a gift from Marie Antoinette.”

  When the Countess moved to admire the desk more closely, la marquise visibly stiffened. And when she suddenly rolled back the cylinder top, la marquise fairly jumped.

  “It glides smoothly,” noted the Countess, testing the lid by rolling it back and forth. “My Louis quatorze cylinder desk has started to jam. It is a common problem with the veneer and inlay of cylinder desks, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yes, quite,” said la marquise tensely, sitting on the edge of her seat. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your impromptu visit?” She looked imploringly from to another of her guests but the inspector’s face was frozen and Dr Watson’s was disapproving.

  The Countess had declined all overtures to reveal the name of the killer, or who she believed was the killer, and yet neither man could accept it was la marquise – yet why else were they here in the feminine salon and the Countess behaving with such appalling gaucheness?

  “There was another Marionette Murder last night,” said the Countess matter-of-factly, re-taking her seat.

  “Is that why you rushed away from the theatre last night?” asked la marquise, ringing a little silver bell on the mantle. “I saw you when I stepped out to have a cigarette. Private booths are frightfully airless. One may as well light up inside an armoire.” She handed around a silver cigarette box and a box of lucifers.

  “Yes,” said the other, accepting a cigarette and passing the etui along to the inspector. “I suspected the playwright of being behind the murders and when I discovered him sneaking out of the theatre I decided to follow.”

  “Monsieur Crespigny? Really? Where did he go?”

  “To the Trocadero.”

  “Did you catch up to him?”

  “No, he evaded capture.”

  The inspector lighted the two cigarettes for the ladies and then his own. Dr Watson declined a gasper and decided against striking up his calabash.

  “And there you found a sixth victim?”

  “Yes.”

  A parlourmaid entered and their hostess requested the best amontillado, macarons and hot chocolate – five cups. She was one of the few hostesses in Paris who served little chocolate pots prior to dinner. She waited for the maid to close the door.

  “Mutilated?”

  “Dismembered.”

  There was no gasp of surprise. “Same as act three?”

  “Yes.”

  “Strung up from a windmill?”

  “Yes.”

  They may as well have been discussing the weather. Their hostess turned to the inspector. “Do you also suspect Monsieur Crespigny?”

  “I do,” he said sparingly, taking care not to look at the Countess who suddenly looked pleased with herself. He knew she did not concur and he wondered what this queer conversation was hoping to achieve. Unless Crespigny was hiding behind a false panel he couldn’t see the point of it. “I had hoped to arrest him this morning. But he did not return to his peniche. He has gone into hiding.”

  “He cannot hide forever,” observed Dr Watson, “although that rotten bounder, Esterhazy, did a good job of it. Shaving off his moustache and going to ground.”

  “Perhaps Kiki knows where Monsieur Crespigny is hiding,” suggested their hostess blandly. “She apparently left the theatre early too.”

  A footman arrived bearing a salver of amontillado and four glasses. Their hostess waved him away after he placed the salver on an ottoman. Dr Watson did the honours.

  The inspector explained about the death of Kiki, omitting most of it, saying only that she had been found dead after falling from a rooftop.

  “Does Davidov know?” their hostess asked, biting her bottom lip, clearly concerned about her investment now that the shining star had been expunged from the firmament.

  “Not yet,” said the inspector, who was finally starting to relax, Spanish sherry in one hand, cigarette in the other. Breakfast was hitting the spot nicely as well. “You are the first to hear the news, la marquise.”

  She smiled gratefully as the maid returned with macarons and hot chocolate. Serving the chocolate was a ritual the Marquise de Merimont especially enjoyed. She savoured pouring the rich liquid beverage from the special silver chocolate pot with the distinctive side handle and handing out the delicate, handle-less, Chantilly porcelain cups. She felt like a Mayan priestess presiding at a religious ceremony.

  “Camille, inform Monsieur Radzival we are having hot chocolate in my boudoir and tell him to join us.”

  The maid curtseyed.

  A short time later, Camille returned to say that Monsieur Radzival was nowhere to be found and that his bed had not been slept in.

  The Countess sipped her chocolate; she too adored the handle-less cups that required two hands yet felt infinitely airy and delicate. “Is it customary for your librarian to go out without informing you?” she said with more hauteur than was warranted.

  “Certainly not,” responded their hostess, sounding distressed, the first chink in her sang-froid making itself visible. “It is completely out of character. Raoul Crespigny in hiding, Mademoiselle Kiki dead, and now Casimir Radzival missing – what can it mean?”

  “How long has your librarian been with you?” asked the Countess; managing to sound merely curious.

  “Five years come Christmas. His maternal grandfather was
a close friend of my late husband who passed away almost seven years ago, just before that terrible Panama Scandal came to a close. The Radzival family was enormously wealthy but they lost everything, everything. It was a tragic story, tragic. The grandfather had a stroke as the scandal was drawing to a close. It was brought on by the fear of bankruptcy. He became paralysed and died soon after. The father committed suicide at the end of it all. He bore the brunt of the guilt of his poor investing, you see. The mother became quite dangerous, stabbing the family dog with a carving knife and then attacking a child in the street. They had to put her in an insane asylum. Three sisters descended into prostitution.

  And throughout this time Casimir was working in Panama as an engineer, trying desperately to complete the ill-fated project. His superintendent withheld his mail because he did not wish to lose Casimir’s expertise. By the time Casimir discovered the worst of it and returned to France it was too late to save his family. His plight came to my attention through mutual friends; too late to save his sisters, they died inside Salpetriere, but not too late to save him from a life of penury. I knew he would not accept charity so I offered him the position of librarian. He has been here ever since.”

  The Countess and Inspector de Guise cut a glance. In that moment he understood she had been carefully steering him to this point.

  Carefully the Countess replaced her little Chantilly chocolate cup. “Shall we inspect his private study? It may give us a clue as to what, I mean, where…?” She deliberately left the sentence portentously hanging, giving the impression Casimir Radzival may have followed in the footsteps of his guilt-ridden père.

  La marquise led the way. The door was locked. Casimir, bereft or not, was not the sort of man who left doors to inner sanctums open. The chatelaine was summoned. She brought a large ring full of keys with her. But the key to the private study was not among them. Casimir had misplaced his own key and had borrowed the key from her ring one time. He had failed to return it. The chatelaine, sensing the librarian’s special position in the household and holding him in the same high regard as her mistress, had not chased it up.