The Curse of the Grand Guignol (27 page)

The Countess was definitely onto
something!

The inspector caught a hackney
cab to the Quai des Orfevres where he sneaked back into his old
office - thanking providence for his Sherlock Holmes costume - and
looked up Pascal Leveret’s address. He wanted to invite the young
policeman to
le Cirque du Grand Guignol
. If Pascal could
identify Crespigny they would have their murderer. A short time
later he was knocking on Leveret’s door. His wife answered.
Shabbily dressed, she was otherwise a comely young woman with
intelligent eyes, a snub nose and curly red hair.

“Pascal is asleep,” she said
guardedly. “He has the midnight patrol in Clignancourt. I was going
to let him sleep another three hours.”

“This is important,” said the
inspector, wondering how she knew he was Pascal’s superior officer
though they had never met and he was dressed like an English
detective, and then he remembered the caricatures which mocked and
distorted while depicting his physiognomy with amazing
accuracy.

There was someone loitering in
the stairwell, listening; perhaps they also recognized him from the
caricatures. He pulled the deerstalker hat lower over his brow. She
continued to block the door, determined to deny him entry.

“Pascal told me you were not
working for the Sûreté any longer.”

Her voice echoed in the
stairwell. The inspector straightened his shoulders in an attempt
to appear dignified. “I am currently on leave.”

“What does that mean?”

“I am on vacation.”

“Pascal never gets a
vacation.”

“He will get one if he gets a
promotion to captain.”

Her eyes lit up; the door
widened enough to allow him to enter. “Come in but keep your voice
down. What do you want Pascal to do?”

The inspector recounted
Pascal’s’ visit to his office. “Your husband is the only one who
can identify the killer. I believe the killer will be at the
theatre on rue Ballu tonight. I need Pascal to be at the theatre
for eight o’clock.”

“What about Clignancourt?”

“If no one is the wiser there is
no problem, and if the killer is caught with Pascal’s help then a
promotion is likely to come sooner rather than later.”

She understood. “I will wake
Pascal in half an hour. He can sometimes be timid. He does not like
to break police rules. I will make sure he is at rue Ballu for
eight.”

“Seats have been reserved in the
front row. You can both sit there. If anyone should ask, tell them
you are my sister and Pascal is my brother-in-law.”

A telegram was waiting for the
Countess in the post office. It was as she suspected but she wasn’t
sure if it helped her cause or not. A friend of her late step-aunt
who worked for the Vatican confirmed the Pope had no intention of
establishing a hospice similar to Salpetriere inside the Vatican,
and most certainly not in Rome over which he had no jurisdiction.
They had no record of a Monsignor Jorges Delgardo, not in any of
the Papal States, not in Rome and not in Colombia.

Ruminating on the significance
of this information, the Countess headed straight to rue Ballu to
observe the effect of the marionettes once the trunk arrived.

Final rehearsals were in full
swing. Crespigny and Davidov were both over-seeing proceedings
because tempers were running high. The three circus performers had
been informed about the connection between the Marionette Murders
and the theatre. They attempted to laugh it off but the strain
showed in their acting which for the first time appeared less than
naturalistic. Kiki was still upset about her sister’s death; her
eyes were red and puffy from crying. La Noire was the only one who
appeared buoyant. Her mind was fixed on la marquise’s claim that
the Marionette Murders would be good for publicity and Davidov’s
statement about going to America straight after the Paris Fair.

The Countess slipped in
unobserved after paying off the doorman. She made her way via the
back-stage stairs to Delgardo’s booth. The timing couldn’t have
been more perfect. They were just about to start the final act
depicting the dismemberment when the trunk was placed in the middle
of the stage. The two foreign workmen who put it there came and
went without ado.

Davidov was busy checking the
windmill prop with Hilaire. Lazslo and Salvador were looking on to
make sure it passed muster and did not require further
strengthening. Crespigny was perched on a chair in the wings,
chatting to La Noire about the script. Kiki was perched on the
chair next to him, absently twirling a ringlet of hair, a far-away
look on her face. Vincent and Felix were tinkering with the
limelights at the foot of the stage.

“What’s that!” bellowed the
director, iron borrows drawing down darkly .

Everyone stopped what they were
doing and turned to look at the offending object.

“Who put that there?” rephrased
the despot.

The question drew a blank. No
one owned up.

“I think I saw two men carry it
in,” offered Kiki after a length.

“What two men?” demanded
Davidov. “When?”

“Just now, I think.”

“You think!” he mocked. “You
think!”

Kiki hid her face behind her
hands and began to cry.

“Oh for God’s sake, Davidov,”
rebuked the playwright, “just remove it!”

La Noire stepped forward to take
a closer look. “Maybe we should leave it. I could sit on the trunk
and have a cigarette after I slice off the member. That way
everyone gets to see Hilaire’s muscles and agony a bit longer.”

Davidov seemed to like that
idea. “Check what’s inside, Salvador. It might be full of
snakes.”

It was a joke but Kiki cried
louder.

Salvador flung back the lid and
laughed with relief. “It’s full of dolls!”

“Marionettes,” corrected
Crespigny, peering inside. “They’re marionettes.”

“What is this!” blasted Davidov,
glaring at the mystified ensemble standing around as dumb as
doorposts. “Some sort of sick joke? Who the fuck brought this trunk
in?”

“It must have been the
murderer,” said Crespigny, feeling suddenly reckless.

Kiki sobbed louder, leapt off
her chair and ran to her dressing room.

“It couldn’t have been the
murderer,” said La Noire. “Kiki said she saw two men.”

“Who knows what Kiki saw or
didn’t see?” said Vincent sympathetically. “She’s half mad since
the death of Coco.”

“I don’t think she will be able
to do the show tonight,” added Felix, the concerned violator. “How
will she balance on the swing without falling off while swapping
the fake dove for the real one? Her hands are shaking. I think
she’s been at Crespigny’s
la fee verte
.”

Crespigny frowned and shrugged.
“She had a couple of glasses of the green fairy this morning before
I got up.”

“You’re supposed to be looking
after her!” Davidov screamed. This was his big chance, his moment
of glory, the night when the audience would be hanging on every
word, every action, not just guffawing and spewing, but memorizing
every gesture so they could boast about it tomorrow when the next
Marionette Murder was discovered and everyone made the connection
for themselves.

“I’m not her nursemaid,”
responded the playwright indignantly. “Kiki can live with you if
you’re so concerned about her mental state. I’ve had enough of
rehearsals. I’m going to my sitting room and I don’t want to be
disturbed until the curtain rises.”

The others shuffled off after
him.

Alone, Davidov stared long and
hard at the marionettes. He could have murdered whoever brought
them in. Though
who
brought them in was not as important as
who was
behind
who brought them in. Was it the murderer? Or
was it someone who wanted to ruin him? He had plenty of enemies.
All creative geniuses had enemies. La Noire’s idea about sitting on
the trunk and having a cigarette was good. He liked that. It turned
what could have been a disaster into a memorable moment. That’s
what theatre was all about.

Hang on! He could do better than
that! What if La Noire opened the trunk at the end of the act and
took out the marionettes and tossed them to the audience. The crowd
would go berserk! What a
coup de theatre
! Everyone would
make the connection to the Marionette Murders on the spot. And the
next day when the sixth murder was discovered it would be his
crowning glory. He laughed out loud, deliriously, madly,
triumphantly.

Strutting from the stage with
chest puffed out and head held high, he felt like Napoleon on the
cusp of fame and glory.

The Countess had taken heed of
the comments about Kiki’s mental and physical state and knew at
once what she had to do. She didn’t bother knocking on the dressing
room door.

Kiki had ceased weeping and was
draped lethargically on a daybed, one hand on her forehead, the
other hanging limply over the side in the manner of fey Ophelia or
star-crossed Juliet contemplating the ever-after.

“Don’t be alarmed,” whispered
the Countess when Kiki caught back a gasp. “I have come to put a
proposition to you. Listen carefully. You are in no fit state to go
on stage tonight. Let me take your place.”

“You!”

“I did some acting at finishing
school in Switzerland - a Greek tragedy, Moliere, some Shakespeare
- and I know what to do because I watched your rehearsal the other
day. I’m very good at memorizing lines. The only thing I need is a
costume.”

Kiki didn’t bother trying to
talk the Countess out of her plan. She knew full well she was not
up to it. Her hands were shaking, her legs felt weak, and she was
apt to burst into tears any moment. Plus her heart wasn’t in it.
Fame suddenly looked like a poisoned chalice.

“There’s a trunk of clothes
behind the screen. They belonged to Coco. She was bigger than me. I
think one of her costumes may just fit you.”

Kiki pushed open the trunk and
pulled out a faded, white, full-bodied corsette, heavily boned; a
flame-red skirt flared at the back. There was a red silk heart
stitched on the spot where a heart should be. It might have been
erotically risqué, but it came with an undergarment similar to a
pair of men’s long-johns. The undergarment was skin-tight and
skin-coloured and decorated in such a way as to make it look as if
she were a doll with jointed limbs. She was actually covered from
neck to toe. A pair of brightly sequined ankle boots matched the
flame-red skirt.

“It comes with a queer little
hat,” said Kiki, rummaging through the trunk. “Here it is! You put
a lighted cigarette in this holder on the side and it makes it look
like a steam-train hat. Coco loved this costume. When she whirled
on the trapeze the smoke wafted back and forth. Everyone ooh-end
and aah-ed. I was always so jealous. Try it on.”

The Countess disappeared behind
the screen and emerged a short time later thrilled with the
burlesque doll costume. “I am Countess Colombina!” she declared,
swishing the fiery skirt.

“Turn around again,” Kiki
directed, checking the Countess’s derriere. “You will have to hide
the fake dove here at the back, under the flared skirt. When you
shove the real dove into a box under the seat of the swing you can
pull the fake dove out. Make sure you do it at the exact moment
when Felix falls out of bed. The signal will be the cymbals.
Everyone will be looking at him when the cymbals clash and he rubs
himself the way men do when they wake up. You can do a quick swap
then. Let’s do some make-up. Stage make-up needs to be much
brighter than normal maquillage.”

Kiki got out some khol to
emphasize the eyes. “How is your maid doing?” she asked as she drew
some lines with an expert hand.

The Countess answered without
thinking. “She showed signs of recovery today. She’s sitting up and
taking food. But, but, how do you know about my maid?”

“I was there that day. At the
asylum. That’s the day Coco died.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry.
I forgot. But, but, how did you know – that she was
my
maid?”

“Little Marianne told me. She
sees everything that goes on there. She probably overheard your
maid talking to someone. She was the one who told me Coco was dead.
She took me to the morgue to show me. That’s when she showed me
your maid. I ran to Coco’s bed to check I wasn’t dreaming it.
Little Marianne told me your maid woke up and you took her home in
a carriage. Later, I wasn’t sure whether it was true or whether I
dreamed it. That’s why I asked just now how your maid was doing.”
She reached for a powder pot. “Try this one. I think it is the
right colour for your complexion.”

“I see, yes, well, Dr Watson
expects her to make a full recovery.”

“I wish…I wish Coco could have
made a full recovery.”

The Countess applied powder to
her face without speaking; not that there was anything to say to
such a wistful statement.

Kiki picked up several
lipsticks. “Red or pink?”

“Red.”

“Coco was wearing that costume
with the funny little hat when she fell. The rope on her trapeze
came loose from the bar.”

“Whose job was it to check the
rope?”

“Laszlo.”

The Countess turned her gaze to
the millinery reflected in the mirror. “Who designed the hat?”

“Coco did. She was very clever.
She could put her mind to anything. She made up all our trapeze
routines in her head before we even tried them out. Coco et Kiki.
That’s what we were called. The red suits you.
Ca vous
va
!”

There was no time to return to
rue Bonaparte. The Countess sent a stage-hand to let Dr Watson know
she was busy with something and would meet him inside the theatre
in time for the show. She was sitting in front of the
dressing-table mirror staring at the queer little hat when a knock
sounded at the door. It was Davidov. He was looking extremely
pleased with himself but the happy look died in an instant.