behind the
round glasses. “Our rivals are famous for staging crimes taken from
police files, actual crimes that have happened. It just occurred to
me, we are staging plays that will become crimes. Don’t you see,”
he cried, horrified, “they are staging crimes; we are creating
them! Don’t you see?” he implored desperately.
Struck by his damning
summation, she began nodding in earnest. “It is the difference
between Art imitating Life and Life imitating Art.”
“Yes, yes,” he groaned
unhappily. “That’s it exactly.”
With her brain whirring, she
began to pace the little room. “If what you have told me is true
then it is unlikely to be Serge Davidov passing on the scripts. He
would not wish to destroy his own theatre company. He would not
wish to bring ruin upon himself. He has too much at stake. And I no
longer suspect you, Monsieur Crespigny.”
“Oh, thank you very much,” he
managed to croak miserably.
“That leaves the five cast
members. It must be one of them, or perhaps several of them acting
in concert.”
She caught his wretched
reflection in the mirror of the desk door as she reached the end of
the room and whirled round. He was raking his hands through his
unkempt hair and his face looked even more bloodless than before,
like a ghoul or vampire, one of the living dead. Rather than having
more sympathy for him, however, it made her think he was hiding
something.
“Is there something else you
are not telling me? Whatever you are holding back will eventually
come out and I guarantee Inspector de Guise will be merciless.
These murders are heinous and the Sûreté will not rest until the
killer is caught. If you attempt to withhold evidence things may go
badly for you.”
Nervously, he glanced toward
the door and swallowed hard. “Lock the door.”
She did as instructed and
waited patiently for him to muster the courage to speak.
“I don’t write the scripts,” he
said in a low dry voice.
She thought she might have
misheard him. “Say that again.”
“I don’t actually write the
scripts.”
“Who, then? Serge Davidov?”
The playwright shook his head,
slowly at first and then emphatically. “No, no, at least I don’t
think so. He thinks I write them because he is always on at me to
make changes here and there. If he wrote them he would not be
demanding alterations all the time. So it cannot be him. It is
someone, well, someone anonymous.”
“Anonymous!”
She almost laughed out loud at
the stunning revelation. Inspector de Guise was never going to
believe this. The killer was writing his own script and handing it
to le Cirque du Grand Guignol to be performed at exactly the
same time as the crime was being committed. This was not merely a
case of Art imitating Life or Life imitating Art. This was theatre
dictating reality; the artist as master manipulator.
“Tell me what you know,” she
said urgently, checking the small carriage clock on the desk. It
was getting on for two o’clock in the morning. Voices and footsteps
could be heard in the corridor. Guests were gathering their cloaks
and saying their goodbyes. Dr Watson would be looking for her. He
would soon grow worried.
Suddenly the door handle
rattled.
“Who’s in there? Open up!”
The Countess lowered her voice
to an imperative whisper. “We will have to continue this
conversation tomorrow. Come to Des Ballerines on rue Bonaparte.
Midday. Don’t be late.”
Fists pounded on the door. “Open
up I say!”
Raoul Crespigny stood up, swayed
lightly then fell back into the chair. He looked scared and sickly.
The Countess unlocked the door and in burst Monsieur Radzival.
“What’s going on? This is my
private study. You have no right to be in here. What are you
doing?”
The Countess, thinking on her
feet as usual, schooled her face into an image of grave concern.
She glanced worriedly from the red-faced librarian to the
white-faced playwright and back again. “I came across Monsieur
Crespigny outside
round glasses. “Our rivals are famous for staging crimes taken from
police files, actual crimes that have happened. It just occurred to
me, we are staging plays that will become crimes. Don’t you see,”
he cried, horrified, “they are staging crimes; we are creating
them! Don’t you see?” he implored desperately.
Struck by his damning
summation, she began nodding in earnest. “It is the difference
between Art imitating Life and Life imitating Art.”
“Yes, yes,” he groaned
unhappily. “That’s it exactly.”
With her brain whirring, she
began to pace the little room. “If what you have told me is true
then it is unlikely to be Serge Davidov passing on the scripts. He
would not wish to destroy his own theatre company. He would not
wish to bring ruin upon himself. He has too much at stake. And I no
longer suspect you, Monsieur Crespigny.”
“Oh, thank you very much,” he
managed to croak miserably.
“That leaves the five cast
members. It must be one of them, or perhaps several of them acting
in concert.”
She caught his wretched
reflection in the mirror of the desk door as she reached the end of
the room and whirled round. He was raking his hands through his
unkempt hair and his face looked even more bloodless than before,
like a ghoul or vampire, one of the living dead. Rather than having
more sympathy for him, however, it made her think he was hiding
something.
“Is there something else you
are not telling me? Whatever you are holding back will eventually
come out and I guarantee Inspector de Guise will be merciless.
These murders are heinous and the Sûreté will not rest until the
killer is caught. If you attempt to withhold evidence things may go
badly for you.”
Nervously, he glanced toward
the door and swallowed hard. “Lock the door.”
She did as instructed and
waited patiently for him to muster the courage to speak.
“I don’t write the scripts,” he
said in a low dry voice.
She thought she might have
misheard him. “Say that again.”
“I don’t actually write the
scripts.”
“Who, then? Serge Davidov?”
The playwright shook his head,
slowly at first and then emphatically. “No, no, at least I don’t
think so. He thinks I write them because he is always on at me to
make changes here and there. If he wrote them he would not be
demanding alterations all the time. So it cannot be him. It is
someone, well, someone anonymous.”
“Anonymous!”
She almost laughed out loud at
the stunning revelation. Inspector de Guise was never going to
believe this. The killer was writing his own script and handing it
to le Cirque du Grand Guignol to be performed at exactly the
same time as the crime was being committed. This was not merely a
case of Art imitating Life or Life imitating Art. This was theatre
dictating reality; the artist as master manipulator.
“Tell me what you know,” she
said urgently, checking the small carriage clock on the desk. It
was getting on for two o’clock in the morning. Voices and footsteps
could be heard in the corridor. Guests were gathering their cloaks
and saying their goodbyes. Dr Watson would be looking for her. He
would soon grow worried.
Suddenly the door handle
rattled.
“Who’s in there? Open up!”
The Countess lowered her voice
to an imperative whisper. “We will have to continue this
conversation tomorrow. Come to Des Ballerines on rue Bonaparte.
Midday. Don’t be late.”
Fists pounded on the door. “Open
up I say!”
Raoul Crespigny stood up, swayed
lightly then fell back into the chair. He looked scared and sickly.
The Countess unlocked the door and in burst Monsieur Radzival.
“What’s going on? This is my
private study. You have no right to be in here. What are you
doing?”
The Countess, thinking on her
feet as usual, schooled her face into an image of grave concern.
She glanced worriedly from the red-faced librarian to the
white-faced playwright and back again. “I came across Monsieur
Crespigny outside
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