She made no attempt to handle it but looked at it carefully and turned a co-operative face to Joe. ‘I’m sorry, Commander. I’ve never seen it before.’
‘Did Sir Stanley keep a collection of knives at home?’
‘Ah. Where was his home? We had no such objects in the house in Kent. But you should be aware, Commander, that my husband lived for many years in India. He had a passion for the country that I could not share. I joined him there for the first year of our marriage but the climate did not agree with me and I returned. He could have amassed a collection of such artefacts and I would be unaware of their existence. This is, I take it, the very blade that did the deed?’
Joe and Moulin murmured in unison.
She peered at it more closely, then shook her head. On the whole, a good witness, Joe thought. When the doctor moved to the head of the sheeted figure she moved with him and stood waiting on the other side. Joe watched her carefully as the cover rolled downwards to the waist. There was at first no reaction. Finally, she drew in a deep breath and whispered: ‘That’s Somerton. My late husband.’ And, as Joe had predicted, there came at last the inevitable question: ‘Tell me, doctor, did he suffer?’
The doctor also was prepared for this. But he was a scientist, not a diplomat, and he gave an honest reply. ‘His death must have come very quickly, madame. He did not linger in pain. But the wound – you may see for yourself – is a savage one, almost severing the head. The initial assault would have caused a degree of pain, yes.’
‘Good!’ said the widow, suddenly bright. ‘But however painful it was, it could never have been painful enough!’
In the stunned silence, she rounded on the corpse and for a moment Joe felt his muscles tense. Fearing what? That she was about to inflict a truly painful blow of her own? Incredibly – yes. The doctor had put out a restraining hand. She gestured it away impatiently and went to stand close by the head. She bent and spoke directly to the corpse, her lips inches from his ear: ‘I hope you’re in hell, you rotter! I hope that Lucifer in person is turning your spit. Look at you! Oozing your stinking essence on to a slab in a foreign dungeon. Dyed hair! Pomaded moustache! You lived – a disgrace; you died – a disgrace.’
She took a step back and gave her last, formal farewell: ‘Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither.’
Joe was uneasy. The vehemence was spontaneous but the quotation from Henry VI had been, he calculated, prepared with some forethought. The whole outpouring appeared the distillation of years of resentment. He looked again at the dead face, softening in decay, and speculated on the qualities that could provoke such hatred.
The widow collected herself and struggled for a more level tone, addressing the two men: ‘You may have his remains burned or whatever you do. I don’t want to take them away with me or have them posted on. Send the bill to the Embassy. And now, if you’re ready, Commander . . .? We must be on our way.’
She threaded her arm through Joe’s and turned for the last time to her husband, unwilling even now to let him go in peace, her parting words meant for him: ‘I have an engagement on the Champs-Élysées. At Fouquet’s.’
She began to drag Joe towards the door, calling out still over her shoulder her taunts: ‘Champagne . . . foie gras . . . asparagus . . . the first of the wild strawberries . . .’
Joe paused in the doorway and looked back at the startled doctor, mouthing silently: ‘Not with me, she hasn’t!’
Chapter Thirteen
She swept out ahead of him and stood by the car door until he opened it. When they were settled inside she gave him his instructions. ‘Tell the driver I’ll drop you off before he goes on to Fouquet’s. Where would you like to be set down, Commander?’
Without waiting for his answer, she took a velvet bag from the deep pocket of her cape and fished about until she found a small flacon of perfume. ‘Do you mind if I apply something a little fresh? I’m quite sure I must smell of – what was that fluid? Ugh! Formaldehyde, would it be? That stink?’
‘Death and bleach, Lady Somerton,’ said Joe tersely.
He addressed the driver, who was sitting patiently waiting for instructions. ‘Driver – would you take me across the river on to the Left Bank, please? I’m bound for the place de la Contrescarpe. Do you know it? And then, the lady requires to be set down in the Champs-Élysées. She will direct you.’
The big car moved off and Joe reeled at an overenthusiastic application of perfume. Rose and sandalwood? Chanel’s Number 5 was easily recognized. And what had Mademoiselle Chanel saucily said about her creation? ‘Perfume should be applied in the places where a woman expects to be kissed.’ Joe watched in fascination as Catherine Somerton dabbed the contents of her tiny flacon behind her ears, at the base of her throat – and, when she thought he’d turned to look out of the window, he saw, in the reflection in the glass, her forefinger steal down into the hollow between her breasts to lay a seductive trail.
For whose nose? For whose lips? Joe smiled to himself. He hoped Fouquet’s had got the champagne on ice.
The car rolled to a halt, held up by the press of early evening traffic fighting its way across the Pont Neuf on to the island. On an impulse, Joe spoke to the driver again. ‘Look – I’ll get out here. With the traffic as it is, Lady Somerton will find herself late for her assignation in the Champs-Élysées if she makes a detour to drop me off. I’m happy to take a taxi.’
She made no demur, not even noticing his slight reproof, even thanking him for his consideration. Mind elsewhere. Impatient to be off. In the advancing headlights her eyes flashed, her pearls gleamed, and although nothing about her appearance had substantially changed, Joe suddenly saw, where had been the downcast widow in her weeds, a sophisticated woman, elegantly dressed and eagerly looking forward to an adventure.
‘Give my regards to the Duke,’ he called to her before he slammed the door shut. ‘I trust his olfactory powers will be in fine fettle this evening.’ He enjoyed her puzzled expression.
Joe watched the car crawl away again and turned on his heel, trotting back across the bridge to the morgue. Hoping he wasn’t too late.
The lights were still switched on. Moulin was there, putting away instruments and equipment, when Joe burst in. He seemed pleased to see him.
His cheerful voice echoed the length of the room, dispelling the shadows. ‘Oh, hello there! You managed to escape? I’m glad of that! Wouldn’t want to find you on one of my slabs with a mysterious mark on your throat. It can be pretty poisonous, the bite of Latrodectus mactans, I’ve heard. The black widow spider. Its venom is thought to be sixteen times more virulent than the rattlesnake’s.’
‘I leapt out of the car! If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d have been tempted to go along to Fouquet’s, bribe someone to give me a table in a corner, and lurk to see who she’s got caught up in her web.’
Moulin eyed Joe with concern. ‘You do look all in, Commander. Come and have a mug of coffee in my lair. I’ve just put a pot on. Take the weight off your feet. Get your breath back and ask me the question you’ve passed up an evening at Fouquet’s to come back and ask.’
They sat clutching mugs of strong coffee in the small and calculatedly bright study across the corridor from the morgue building. Not so much a study as a retreat, an affirmation of his humanity, Joe thought, looking around with pleasure. And wouldn’t you need one! He’d sunk gratefully into the depths of one of a pair of old-fashioned armchairs piled with cushions and topped off with lace antimacassars. Thoughtfully, Moulin kicked up a footstool for him. The room had probably, in its first use, been some sort of torture chamber, Joe calculated, but no signs of a lugubrious past lingered after the determined application of rich lengths of drapery to the walls, Tiffany shades to the lamps, rows of books, and a gently puttering gas fire warming the room. On a desk and smiling out into the room, the silver-framed photograph of a very pretty dark-haired woman. The ticking of a deep-throated clock soothed Joe to a point where he had to shake himself awake and take a sip or
two of his coffee.
Under the influence of the strong brew, the good company and fatigue, Joe recounted his day to a pair of willing ears. But the warm smile, the understanding comments and the ready humour dried up at the mention of Francine Raissac’s flight of fancy. Joe caught the sudden stillness.
‘Yes, that’s what I’ve come to ask. I try not to leave any accusation unchecked however ridiculous it sounds on first hearing. The girl’s theories began to sound less crazy when I heard – from another source – that her brother is a customer of yours. Filed away in a steel drawer, I should think? Fished out of the Canal St Martin.’
‘Alfred? Drawer number 32,’ said Moulin. ‘She hasn’t been in to identify him yet. Poor girl! It’s all deeply unpleasant, I’m afraid. I’ve taken the waxed cobbler’s twine out of the lips so it doesn’t look quite so frightful but I can’t obliterate the wound altogether. The lad was very young. But physically in rather bad shape. Emaciated. Taking drugs, I shouldn’t wonder. And are you saying you see a connection between this poor specimen of humanity and an organization run by some sort of super criminal? A Fantômas reborn?’ Dr Moulin laughed and pointed to a shelf of lurid novels over the desk. ‘I have the whole collection, you see! You’re very welcome to help yourself if you like.’
Joe shivered. ‘I gave up after the second book. Too utterly terrifying for a law enforcer like myself. Fantômas, if I remember rightly, never died,’ he explained. ‘He’s immortal – a god of Evil. Nightmare! But yes, I wouldn’t mind taking a look at the third one in your line-up. Le mort qui tue, I think it’s called.’
Moulin gave him a startled look and counted along the shelf, extracting the book he’d mentioned. ‘Here you are. I shall leave the gap there! I’m going to insist on having it back, then I can be sure you’ll come again and entertain me with a further episode in your horror story. Will you have a little brandy in your coffee? It can strike chill in here in spite of my efforts to dispel the gloom.’ He reached behind a row of leather-backed novels and found a bottle of cognac.
‘I think you can guess what I’m going to ask,’ said Joe seriously. ‘Inspectors each have their own case loads. Three corpses is what Bonnefoye’s got on his books at the moment. They may not have the time to exchange theories with each other, or see anything but their own narrow picture of crime in the city . . . You would see it. You examine all – very well, most – of the bodies. They pass through your morgue and under your scalpel for an hour or two – a day possibly – and you move on. But you see the wider landscape of murder . . .’
‘I know where you’re going with this. And I know you don’t want to wait while I dig out screeds of notes, sheets of records – all of which are available, by the way – so I’ll ask – will memory be a good enough guide? It will? Let me think then . . .’ He got up and wandered to his stove, pouring out more of the liquid inspiration.
‘Over the last four or five years? Is that enough? That’s as far back as my current appointment goes.’
Joe nodded, thankful that his notion hadn’t been dismissed out of hand with a pitying shake of the head.
And then he waited, unwilling to press Moulin, understanding that this was the doctor’s first and alarming overview of the crime pattern.
‘Like your Jack the Ripper – a killer in series – but yet quite unlike him. The victims in his case were all of the same profession, sex and situation. They – and the killer most probably – were living within a few doors of each other. The Paris corpses I have in mind are male and from varied backgrounds, they’re of different nationalities, killed over a period of years and in vastly different scenarios. No one would dream of linking them together as a group because apart from their being male – which the victims of violent death predominantly are – they have only one thing in common – a totally fanciful notion. In Francine Raissac’s head, in yours and now – in mine! Curse you! No, it won’t do, Sandilands.’ He shook his head in an attempt to dismiss ideas too shocking to entertain.
‘And there’s the question of motive,’ he persisted into Joe’s silence. ‘Motive could be guessed at in most of the cases. Or should I say motives? They were varied but run-of-the-mill.’
‘Financial gain, provocation, revenge, hatred . . .’ Joe started to list them.
‘Yes, yes . . . a bit of everything. And I’m not sure it tells us much in these cases.’
‘Would you like to bring some of them into the daylight again – just as a matter of speculation, of course,’ Joe encouraged.
‘No, I try rather to forget them.’ Moulin stirred uneasily and turned up the fire a notch. ‘Working here, you’d think I’d become – if I wasn’t already – some sort of automaton. I haven’t. I don’t think I could do the job adequately if I had. I feel something for each “customer”, as you call them. And bury a little bit of myself with each one.’ He smiled to see Joe’s eyes flare with concern. ‘Don’t worry! I shall know when to stop.’
Moulin pointed to the row of thrillers. ‘You’re not to think, on the cold winter evenings between post-mortems, I allow my imagination to be fired by these things! Lots of people you might admire enjoy them. Jean Cocteau, René Magritte, Guillaume Apollinaire, Salvador Dali . . . Blaise Cendrars called them “the Aeneid of Modern Times”!’
‘And you can add to your list of playwrights, poets and artists: Sandilands of the Yard,’ said Joe comfortably, sensing that the learned doctor was slightly embarrassed to be caught out in his enthusiasm.
‘Very well – you’re prepared, then? To explore a really outlandish idea?’
Joe nodded.
‘Before we start, I must insist – no notes! This is just a chat between two weary men whose brains are ticking over faster perhaps than they should. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ said Joe.
‘In 1924, the body of a priest was found. I remember it was the night before All Saints’ Day. Your Hallowe’en, I believe?’
Joe nodded again, saying nothing. He sensed that it would not take much of an interruption to put him off a track he was plainly uncomfortable to be following. The man was a scientist, after all. Rational. Logical. Not given to fervid speculation. Intolerant of ridicule.
‘I wondered later if that was significant. The man was dangling by a noose to the neck on a bell-rope. The rope was the one that hung from the bell tower of the curé’s own church. The tolling started in the early hours of the morning, as the body swayed – in the breeze? It was a windy night . . . Or from a push? We don’t know. The sound went unregarded for an hour or so as the good citizens of the well-to-do faubourg huddled deeper into their goose-feather eiderdowns. They might have decided he’d committed suicide – not unknown in the priesthood – had it not been for his other wounds. His robe had been slashed from neck to hem and was heavily bloodstained down the front. His male member had been cut off. Before death.’
‘Revenge for some kind of abuse committed by the priest?’
Moulin shrugged. ‘I would expect so. No one ever came forward with accusations, let alone evidence. Case closed. Unsolved. The Church, in any case, was glad enough to hush it up.
‘And then, later that same year, a rich industrialist whose name I’m certain would be familiar to you died in bed. Not his own bed, but that of a common prostitute in a picturesquely low quarter of the city. The lady was absent and never surfaced again. The corpse of our louche old money-bags was discovered naked, tied up with scarlet velvet ribbons to the bedpost – hands and feet. He’d died from an overdose of hashish. The gentlemen of the press had been alerted before the police and were instantly on the scene with their flash bulbs. Everyone was horrified. Except for the man’s five sons. They were now to inherit his fortune, clear of any fear of premature depletion by the extravagant young actress whose charms had led him, a month or so previously, to propose marriage.’
Joe gave a wry smile. ‘Next?’
‘Last year. Picture the Eiffel Tower. A favourite jumping-off point for the suicidally minded. The body of a you
ng man falls from a crowded viewing platform to splatter itself all over the concourse below. It happens every month. No one sees anything. No one is aware of any suspicious circumstances. The man’s fiancée, the spoiled daughter of one of our prominent politicians, is aghast. “But why the Eiffel Tower?” she sobs. “The very place where he declared his love and asked me to marry him!” She is distraught. She is inconsolable. But her best friend reveals – spitefully perhaps? – that the boy in question had, in fact, changed his mind since the tryst on the Tower and decided to marry her. The first fiancée was, luckily, far away in Nice on holiday with her family at the time of the death and could not possibly be involved in any dirty work.’
‘This is a mixed bunch of motives, I’m hearing,’ said Joe.
‘And here’s one for the connoisseur! I’ve saved the best for last. But, for me, it was the first in the sequence, I suppose. Though it wasn’t for some weeks that I realized I’d had a pretty strange experience. In 1923. Newly appointed to the Institut and rather overawed by the big city, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect – except that everything would be faster, more exciting than I was used to in Normandy. I got a phone call from upstairs telling me to grab my bag, jump into a police car and get over to the Louvre. To the Egyptian rooms on the ground floor. Pandemonium when I got there! And something very odd going on. An American couple alone in one of the galleries had come across a pool of blood at the foot of one of the mummy cases. You know – those great big ornate coffin things . . . weigh a ton . . .’
‘I know them.’
‘When I got there – ten minutes after receiving the call – the body hadn’t even been discovered. It didn’t strike me as strange until later, mesmerized as I was by the quality of the communications in the city: phone, telegraph, police cars standing at the ready outside . . . “So this is the modern pace!” I thought. “Must keep up!” And there was a lot of activity to distract me at the museum. A whole chorus of academics – curators, Egyptologists, students – had assembled to see what was going on. Newsmen weren’t far behind!
Folly Du Jour Page 14
