glass
paperweight of the Eiffel Tower.
The Countess waited until the
door was fully closed before instructing the playwright to adjust
the gasolier so that she could better observe the young man who
held the key to the macabre murders that had convinced them to
detour to Paris.
Confirmation that Davidov
forced the playwright to alter his scripts would be all the
evidence they needed. A charge accusing Davidov of personally
changing the scripts each month would be enough to incarcerate the
Russian. Monsieur Crespigny was clearly nervous, his hands were
trembling. He adjusted the little flame on the gasolier up and down
several times until he steadied and felt satisfied it was neither
too bright nor too gloomy. Did he already comprehend the
seriousness of events or was his fear indicative of his involvement
in the nefarious business?
She indicated for him to sit
down on the chair lest his legs give way while she perched herself
lightly on a corner of the secretaire.
“Your first three plays for le Cirque du Grand Guignol were staged on the third of
November?”
Agitated and helpless, he
looked around the room for an ashtray, as if stalling for time. She
located one nestling in a boxy compartment of the secretaire. It
was as clean as a whistle and so was the paper bin.
“Why should I answer your
question?”
She intuited the worm had grown
a backbone and got her back up too. “Because if you choose not to I
will summon Inspector de Guise and you can answer my question plus
several others at the Quai des Orfevres.”
“Since when did the Sûreté
employ women?”
“I am a consulting
detective.”
“Like Vidocq?”
“More like Sherlock Holmes but
prettier.”
Despite his anxiety, he burst
out laughing and it lightened the tension. “Very well, in answer to
your question – yes.”
“You wrote all three
plays?”
Not entirely sure if he should
answer or not, he nodded as he inhaled and continued nodding until
he exhaled; he looked like an automaton; his head attached to a
spring.
“And the comedy sketches?”
Again like an automaton, he
shook his head. “They are done by Felix, Hilaire and Vincent. I
don’t have anything to do with those.”
“On your opening night there
was a murder in Montmartre. Are you aware of that?”
“I wasn’t aware at the time but
I have since learned of it.”
“Who told you?”
“I read it in Le Libre
Parole. ”
“Did the murder strike you as
unusual in any way?”
“If you mean by that did I
notice it was similar to my play the answer is yes. In my play an
abbess who is a nymphomaniac is gloriously violated by a group of
bishops and then strung up on a lamp-post with a tag around her
neck saying ‘rape me’. A rag and bone man obliges and then chops
off her hands as she clasps them in prayer. The real murder took
place on rue des Abbesses and though it was man who was strung up
the matching details made me wonder.”
“Wonder?”
“I thought someone had been to
the show and then committed the crime but that particular play was
the last one for the night. It finished around midnight. The murder
was committed earlier, sometime during the early part of the
show.”
“How do you know?”
“I read it in Le Temps. They were asking for witnesses and listed the approximate time of
the murder.”
“Are you anti-Semite?”
“What?”
“You read Le Libre
Parole .”
He gave a careless dismissive
shrug as he flicked ash into the ashtray. “Everyone reads that rag.
It doesn’t mean anything. The caricatures are cruel but funny,
though not as cruel or funny as the ones drawn by the Brotherhood
of the Boldt.”
“They publish a newspaper?”
“Pamphlet - weekly.”
“Have you ever been to Café
Bistro?”
“Of course I have been! The
coffee is shit and the homemade vodka is like piss-on-fire but the
conversation is grist to the mill for an avant-garde auteur.”
“Tell me about your second show
on the tenth of November.”
“If you mean did I
paperweight of the Eiffel Tower.
The Countess waited until the
door was fully closed before instructing the playwright to adjust
the gasolier so that she could better observe the young man who
held the key to the macabre murders that had convinced them to
detour to Paris.
Confirmation that Davidov
forced the playwright to alter his scripts would be all the
evidence they needed. A charge accusing Davidov of personally
changing the scripts each month would be enough to incarcerate the
Russian. Monsieur Crespigny was clearly nervous, his hands were
trembling. He adjusted the little flame on the gasolier up and down
several times until he steadied and felt satisfied it was neither
too bright nor too gloomy. Did he already comprehend the
seriousness of events or was his fear indicative of his involvement
in the nefarious business?
She indicated for him to sit
down on the chair lest his legs give way while she perched herself
lightly on a corner of the secretaire.
“Your first three plays for le Cirque du Grand Guignol were staged on the third of
November?”
Agitated and helpless, he
looked around the room for an ashtray, as if stalling for time. She
located one nestling in a boxy compartment of the secretaire. It
was as clean as a whistle and so was the paper bin.
“Why should I answer your
question?”
She intuited the worm had grown
a backbone and got her back up too. “Because if you choose not to I
will summon Inspector de Guise and you can answer my question plus
several others at the Quai des Orfevres.”
“Since when did the Sûreté
employ women?”
“I am a consulting
detective.”
“Like Vidocq?”
“More like Sherlock Holmes but
prettier.”
Despite his anxiety, he burst
out laughing and it lightened the tension. “Very well, in answer to
your question – yes.”
“You wrote all three
plays?”
Not entirely sure if he should
answer or not, he nodded as he inhaled and continued nodding until
he exhaled; he looked like an automaton; his head attached to a
spring.
“And the comedy sketches?”
Again like an automaton, he
shook his head. “They are done by Felix, Hilaire and Vincent. I
don’t have anything to do with those.”
“On your opening night there
was a murder in Montmartre. Are you aware of that?”
“I wasn’t aware at the time but
I have since learned of it.”
“Who told you?”
“I read it in Le Libre
Parole. ”
“Did the murder strike you as
unusual in any way?”
“If you mean by that did I
notice it was similar to my play the answer is yes. In my play an
abbess who is a nymphomaniac is gloriously violated by a group of
bishops and then strung up on a lamp-post with a tag around her
neck saying ‘rape me’. A rag and bone man obliges and then chops
off her hands as she clasps them in prayer. The real murder took
place on rue des Abbesses and though it was man who was strung up
the matching details made me wonder.”
“Wonder?”
“I thought someone had been to
the show and then committed the crime but that particular play was
the last one for the night. It finished around midnight. The murder
was committed earlier, sometime during the early part of the
show.”
“How do you know?”
“I read it in Le Temps. They were asking for witnesses and listed the approximate time of
the murder.”
“Are you anti-Semite?”
“What?”
“You read Le Libre
Parole .”
He gave a careless dismissive
shrug as he flicked ash into the ashtray. “Everyone reads that rag.
It doesn’t mean anything. The caricatures are cruel but funny,
though not as cruel or funny as the ones drawn by the Brotherhood
of the Boldt.”
“They publish a newspaper?”
“Pamphlet - weekly.”
“Have you ever been to Café
Bistro?”
“Of course I have been! The
coffee is shit and the homemade vodka is like piss-on-fire but the
conversation is grist to the mill for an avant-garde auteur.”
“Tell me about your second show
on the tenth of November.”
“If you mean did I
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