The Green Muse (24 page)

 

W
HEN
V
ASKED
me to take a girl from one of the Big Numbers, I was surprised. The prostitutes who work at the Big Numbers are afforded a protection denied street girls and those that work the small houses. Taking a girl from one of the small establishments would not be difficult; but V insisted, precisely because of this difficulty.

I was familiar with the house V chose, although I did not tell her that. But I was grateful for it; I already knew the layout and the madam, which could make my job less difficult.

The night we were to kill again, V dressed with special care, as though she were not going to get blood all over her lovely clothes. She dressed entirely in white, from the froth of her petticoats to the satin choker around her slender neck, which featured a perfect white pearl. Her dress flaunted an abundance of delicate, expensive lace that cascaded down her sleeves, her breast, and her skirts. Her slippers were satin, and white, and unsuited to rough cobblestone. But we had our carriage, which that night I drove myself, so she would not have to walk far. The only variance in color came from her blood-­red scarf, the one she so often chose to wear. It made her look bloodied; it made her look more fair.

We left the carriage around the corner from the establishment; of course I knew that V would refuse to sit in it and wait, but she certainly could not walk up to the door with me; nor could she simply loiter about in front of the house. But V had a graceful solution to any problem and proposed to wait across the street, where the door recesses were deep and dark. She parted from me at the corner, and I did not worry for her welfare, for all that she was a small, beautiful woman alone. I could not think of anything on earth that could get the better of V.

I was grateful that she did not hear me greet the madam with warmth, nor ask about various of the girls I had visited. I wasted no time in requesting the ser­vices of the girl who had always been my favorite, Monique. And I was surprised at how honestly happy I was to see her. She had always been sweet, and feigned innocence, and allowed me to do whatever I pleased without complaint. She was attired only in a violet silk dressing gown, low-­cut and adorned with purple lace on the neck, sleeves, and hem. She was small, like V, but with a more rounded figure, curly red hair, and bee-­stung lips. She greeted me with a smile and stood on tiptoe to plant two light kisses on my cheeks, and the madam motioned toward the stairs. But, “No,” I said. “I would like to take Monique out with me.”

The madam frowned. She was a well-­fed creature of habit who had been a great beauty in her youth, which no doubt accounted for the fact that she would brook no opposition to any of her decisions. I leaned in close. “I would like to share Monique with my wife,” I said quietly. “Well, you understand that I cannot have her simply walk up the door to your establishment!”

“If you want two girls, you know I have the best.” Her frown had not shifted in the slightest.

I smiled, deprecatingly, I hoped. “This is my wife's own request, and I make it my practice to deny her nothing. She particularly asked for Monique.” As I spoke I took my wallet from my pocket and started to sort through bills almost absentmindedly.

“Perhaps something can be worked out,” said the madam. “There is a back door very few know about.”

“Outside the bedroom,” I said, “my wife is shy, and I know I could not bring her to mount your steps. No, we must have Monique, in our home, in our bed. I insist.” I took several large bills out of my wallet as I spoke.

The madam eyed my money. She looked enquiringly at Monique, who smiled and nodded, as I'd known she would. And when she did not return, the madam would likely not even try to contact me. I knew that Monique was unhappy here. I knew she was a spitfire and had almost certainly made plain her dissatisfaction with her portion of the profits. So when she failed to return, the unpleasant business of contacting the police would be dispensed with, and Monique would become nothing but a memory. Even if she were identified at the Morgue, I need not be suspected. The ways of prostitutes are flighty and unpredictable, and even though I would claim to have offered her my carriage, she had simply refused it, having, as she said, a better offer. An easy story to stick to and difficult to disprove. Our apartments were set well back from the sidewalk and hidden by a profusion of roses; no one would notice whether, when my carriage alighted, one woman or two had gotten out.

If Monique got out at all.

I waited, as a gentleman should, and the madam, after the appropriate hesitation, turned back to me and smiled her assent. When I filled her palm with bills she waited, hand held out and still smiling, so I filled it more, smiling myself. And I held my arm out to Monique, who put a delicate hand upon it, and then laughed, saying, “Charles, I am not even dressed!” The madam arranged for a wrap to be brought. I was adamant that we not dress Monique and I placed it gently around her shoulders and took her out into the night.

“Pretend you do not know me,” I told her as we crossed the darkened street. Monique smiled and nodded, and so met V smiling. V's own smile was deep and genuine; Monique's wrap did little to disguise her voluptuousness, and I could tell that V was well pleased.

“Charles!” she said with girlish simplicity. “Introduce me to your friend,” and I knew that I had been a fool to think I had kept anything at all from her. I made introductions, and we made for the carriage; V took Monique's arm shyly and whispered, “I have not—­I do not know how . . . you will help me, will you not? You are so very lovely.” And Monique assured her that there was nothing to fear. And yet V feigned a very pretty trepidation even after they had gotten into the carriage. I lingered for a moment, eager to see how far V would carry the charade. But V said, “Do not worry about me, Charles. I am sure Monique does not bite!” I had to take my place high up on the driver's seat. But it was a fairly long ride, and it gave me ample opportunity to imagine what might be taking place below me.

When I stopped the carriage and opened its door, I experienced the utmost pleasure at the picture presented by the women: V was in a charming state of dishabille, and quite pink with embarrassment. How does a woman who blushes at nothing in the world blush at will?

When I stepped into the carriage instead of handing them out, Monique merely thought, and rightly, that I wished to take some pleasure even before we got into the house. And she obliged, kissing and caressing V gently and with what seemed real pleasure. It did not matter that I knew it was not; rather, it stoked my fire. I let the play continue for quite a long time, until V looked pleadingly at me and said, “Charles! We are getting cold. Be a gentleman!” And I slipped the knife from my pocket without Monique's seeing and leaned as if to kiss her: I did not kiss her. At some point V said urgently, “Give me the knife,” but Monique did not utter a sound the entire time, and died with horror in her pretty eyes.

V said, “I know you wanted to bring her into our apartments,” and I said, “I know you did.”

“It would not have been prudent,” she said, her white silk soaked with blood. “Did you notice,” she continued, smoothing my cravat with bloody hands, “that she put up no fight at all?”

I had. Monique knew me. She knew there was no point.

“You chose well,” was all V said, then, “Your clothing is dark, and so does not show the blood. I will retire and clean myself up while I await your return.”

“Do not clean up,” I said. “I want you just as you are.” Already the corpse on the seat next to V had ceased to exist for us.

“Then I will not even wash my hands,” she assured me, and leaned to kiss my bloody cheek. She licked her lips. I climbed back up onto the driver's seat, watched her float like a bloodied wraith into our home, satisfied that no one saw , and drove away, knowing that an almost immediate pleasure awaited me: I would undress the body and leave it by the Seine—­and that an even greater pleasure awaited me at home.

 

“
I
T IS TRUE
that it is unlikely the killer is a woman acting alone, Edouard. I believe she must have an accomplice. But the young man found in the alley beyond the home of the Gaudets' . . . well, that is a long way from the slum where the previous bodies have been found. What makes you think his case is connected to the others? That was a very messy murder, clearly the work of an amateur. I see no reason not to assume that murder was committed by common thieves.”

I was kneeling on the ground in that slum in which the other bodies had been found, photographing another beautiful young woman, another found without clothing or identification, soldier-­straight, and still.

“Because of the lack of identification,” I said as I took pictures. That this was becoming so ordinary was the perhaps the most disturbing thing about it.

“Theo's murder was sloppy, and it would seem to me . . .” Oh, how carefully I had to word my opinions! “ . . . that there was more equality in strength between the victim and the murderer. Theo fought hard, and he almost escaped. Note that the wound that proved fatal was to the back.”

“Yes, Edouard, you are proving my theory!”

“But all of his identification was taken. A young man of his station would surely have carried calling cards. Did your men find any such cards at his home?”

“Well, their primary interest was in finding out the young man's contacts.”

“Have them go back. There will be calling cards, probably scented.”

“Scented?”

“His handkerchief had been dipped in lavender water. Such a man might well have scented cards.”

“Is that what you were doing, then, sniffing at his pockets? I thought you had gone quite mad!”

As we spoke I moved around the young woman's body, noting, to my astonishment, the quality of the surrounding light and the angles best suited to capture her injuries, which were many and brutal.

“Yes, Captain Bezier, that is what I was doing. And I smelled the scent of roses. At his home I am certain you will find his calling cards beneath a rose sachet.

“But the point is, anything that could identify Theo was removed from his body. Why would a common thief do that?” I was talking about the other cases for two reasons: They had to be talked about, and I could not bear to talk about this one. Not just yet, when I had seen this before and before and before and had been in all this time unable to help any of them at all.

Capt. Bezier pondered.

“The identity of the victim tells you the identity of the criminal that is still true more often than not, Edouard.”

He used to say always,
I thought tiredly.

“If it was in fact someone who knew him, would it not behoove that person to eliminate all identifying papers?”

“I thought you said it was a common thief.”

“Your theory has shed new light on the subject.”

“Oh, Captain Bezier, let us go on to the next case. Madame Odette Alexandrovna.”

“I do not think her case is associated in any way with that of the others. You cannot convince me. She was killed by strangulation, by one thing!”

“But she knew Theo! I saw them together the night he died.”

“Society parties bring together the most peculiar cross-­section of classes, Edouard. This is not something you would know. Madame Alexandrovna was a countess. She was also a known habitué of a certain opium den well-­known in police circles, did you know that?”

“No,” I said. “But I am not surprised.” Her smoky eyes appeared to me, I heard her throaty laugh.

“Clearly Madame Alexandrovna was invited to this party as a kind of curiosity. It is often done. I am told she was exotic.”

The kohl that flowed too thickly beneath her fevered eyes, her tapered fingers with her Chinese nails. Suddenly I felt her hand upon my arm as I had on the patio, and it was all I could do not to cry out.

“Edouard, are you all right? Forgive me. I had forgotten that you knew the lady. I did not mean to disturb you.”

For a moment I had felt her breath in my ear. “It is always disturbing when a human being is murdered,” I said shortly. I had photographed Odette; I cannot write of it.

Capt. Bezier took a few moments to perform the ritual of packing and lighting his pipe, which was kind of him. After he was finished he took a long, satisfied drag of the tobacco and said, “Now, tell me what makes you think Madame Alexandrovna's murder is connected to the rest, other than the fact that she was acquainted with Monsieur Theo Moreau.” The young woman in front of me had beautiful, luxuriant red hair. My photographer's eyes were noticing every detail of every shot, even as I spoke of other deaths than hers.

My mind was again clear, although I could still see Odette's eyes as if they were in fact in front of me. I imagined I might always see them, at least from time to time.

“Follow me here, Captain Bezier. The first two murders were executed with an almost professional precision. The murder of Monsieur Moreau, on the other hand, was executed by someone quite unaccustomed to killing, someone whose strength was not greater than that of the victim, someone who might in fact have been intoxicated by, say, opium.”

“Did you smell that on Monsieur Moreau's body as well?”

What could I say? That yes, I had smelled opium, and that Odette would have had to get quite close to Theo, and stay close for some time, for the smell to have lingered, and that that could not have happened on the patio? If the smell had not lingered on me on short exposure, it certainly would not have lingered on Theo.

“Yes,” I said to Capt. Bezier. “I am such a fool that I actually thought it was her perfume!”

He laughed heartily at that. “You really are an innocent, Edouard. But I did not notice such a thing. When you met Madame Alexandrovna, did you think perhaps that she had been smoking opium? That you thought you smelled it again because she had made a strong impression on you?”

I swear I blushed, and I a grown man!

“Edouard,” Capt. Bezier said gently. “Madame Alexandrovna was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. But you must tell me. It is important to me. It is important to the investigation. Were you at any point intimate with Madame Alexandrovna? Not inappropriately, Edouard!” he cried, seeing my face. “If you were to tell me that you and she had had inappropriate contact, I would not even believe you! Certainly I know you, of all ­people, better than that!”

I thought of the prostitute I had kissed, and was obscurely proud. I must have smiled, because he said, “Edouard!” in a shocked tone.

“No, Captain Bezier, I assure you that Madame Alexandrovna and I had no inappropriate contact. You do know me better than that. But she did address me by my Chris­tian name, and asked that I address her by hers. You see, I already knew Odette—­I had met her at the Amphitheatre at La Salpêtriêre.”

“You did not tell me that,” Capt. Bezier scolded. And I realized that Odette had been a delicious secret to me.

“I did not think it pertinent,” I said stiffly.

“Edouard, I am not a fool. If anything, you think a great many more things pertinent to an investigation than actually are pertinent. So do not be impertinent.”

He could not conceal smiling over his own cleverness; he made me smile, too.

“Beautiful as Madame Alexandrovna was, she was not the sort of woman that a man like I would feel comfortable boasting of knowing. I do her no injustice here,” I added hastily. “I doubt she boasted of knowing someone like me.”

“You mean that no one would believe that you had actually made the woman's acquaintance.”

“Exactly.” It was such a lie. Hadn't I boasted, over and over, to myself? I knelt again; the pavement was warm from the sun. The young woman's hair was lit as if on fire, spread out across the dirty cement.

“We spoke of nothing confidential,” I went on, anxious to get away from myself. “Neither at the Amphitheatre nor at the party. She did not tell me where she lived, or what her habits were, although she evinced a keen interest in photography.”

At this Capt. Bezier laughed aloud and slapped his knee. “Oh, Edouard, you really are hopeless. Madame Alexandrovna interested in photography?”

“She seemed quite well educated,” I said lamely.

“Yes, educated in the weaknesses of men! But come, she must have given you some indication of her private life. Did she arrive alone at the party, do you know?”

“No. But the first time I saw her she was in the company of a very fine ­couple, the Soulavies. They were at the party as well; I supposed she came with them.”

“Soulavie,” M. Bezier wrote in his journal. “Well! That is something, certainly. And Edouard, it is just the sort of thing I would have expected you to come out with almost immediately. Why did you not?”

“Yes, it was an unlikely thing for me to forget. I can only say that I was overwhelmed with Odette. I hardly thought about her friends, either time I met them.”

“And did she speak of them? Indicate in any way how close the relationship was? And were they Russian, or did that escape you as well?”

“Soulavie is a French name, Bezier. Do not make me out to be even more of a fool than I know myself to be, please. And yes, the wife was French as well.”

“Edouard, there is not a man alive who has not at some point fallen under the spell of a woman who is either above him or beneath him.”

“It was like a spell,” I said, speaking more to myself than him. “There was something almost repulsive about her.”

“She was a drug addict.”

Had the woman before me been a drug addict? It was curious that neither I nor Captain Bezier was speaking of her at all; but there was no need really. There was no mystery in this death, at least not to me.

“Perhaps it was that. But she seemed always to be playing at some game known only to herself. As if everything I said or did either confirmed or denied certain assumptions she had formed of me. Almost as if she had to deem me worthy because she had already formed an idea of some future use she could make of me.”

“By helping her to murder?”

“No. I spoke too quickly. I do not think so, no. I could not discern her motives, although I did try. You cannot think I did not wonder what such an exotic creature was doing wasting her time with me.”

At this Capt. Bezier slapped his knee again. He laughed and laughed until he had tears in his eyes from laughing. “Oh, my. Oh, my, my. Did it occur to you, my dear foolish Edouard, that perhaps her aim was to have you fall in love with her that she might destroy you?”

“No.” I thought for a moment. “Corrupt, perhaps, but not destroy.”

“That is because she did not know you as I do. One must corrupt in order to destroy, and you are incorruptible, no matter that you blush and look alarmed. No, Madame Odette would not have succeeded with you. But, and I want you to think about this, you felt that she was in fact grooming you for something, is that true?”

“Perhaps attempting to ascertain whether I could be groomed.” Suddenly I was as excited as I always am at a new puzzle to solve. “This woman here was a prostitute, wasn't she? Perhaps from one of the Big Numbers?”

“That is very likely, Edouard. She is far too clean for this area, too well groomed. But she is the right age, and certainly she is beautiful enough for one of the Big Numbers.”

“What if there is a gang, for want of a better world—­this has been my feeling all along, Captain, although it is you who has helped me to articulate it. You know I have never believed that the criminals were a prostitute and her protector, simply robbing, then disposing of witnesses. Were that the case, there would be no need to take all identifying papers.

“What if, Captain Bezier, this gang, or whatever you want to call it, is killing innocent ­people and stripping them of their IDs in order to have them sent to the public morgue?”

“Edouard, are you mad? Murder is one thing, but murder for . . .” He hesitated, unable to find the words.

“Art,” I said simply. “Murder to create art.” I snapped my last picture of this latest masterpiece.

“Edouard, you are mad! Doubly and triply mad. You almost had me believing that these four murders really were all connected”.

“Five,” I said, but I do not think he heard me. He had stood and started to refill his pipe; I knew it was only to calm his nerves.

“I will check out this ­couple, the Soulavies, whom you mentioned. But you have been wasting my time with nonsense, Edouard. The first two killings were simple robberies. The murder of Monsieur Theo, well, I have heard certain things about that young man's conduct and character that do not bear repeating. It is only a wonder he did not meet a bad end sooner. And Madame Odette was a drug addict, a very seductive drug addict with a fine title but nevertheless, a woman only a few steps from the streets herself.”

“She was an artist,” I said. “An artist of seduction. And I will continue to believe that her death was somehow related to the others. All the signs are here. The fact that we have not spoken of it makes it no less true. And yes, these five murders—­and perhaps Lenore DuPrey's as well, although she was not posed in precisely the same way as the intentional victims of the original Artists of Death—­are all part of a concatenation of events the object of which has been to stage a kind of performance at the Paris Morgue.”

“Edouard, ­people are murdered every week on the streets of this city. Absolutely the only thing these murders have in common is that all the victims have been found without identification.”

“Henri, aside from the way four of the victims—­the intentional victims, if you will—­I saw one of those victims leave a party with a woman who became a victim herself not three days later. Does that tell you nothing?”