by C H Chelser
With sudden alarm, it occurred to her that maybe she didn’t have to. The cellar was full of shadows, any one of which could harbour more than it seemed.
A step ahead of the fear, she concentrated. The air around her was dark, dank and smelled of too many candles, fragrant herbs and a hint of mould. But her more delicate senses detected nothing malignant. Not trusting first glance alone, she probed deeper. Neither Jean nor the dark figure had responded when she called them earlier. Maybe they would appear after all, at their leisure? Or perhaps the one with the teeth…? She fought back her apprehension and focused all her senses on the shady corners of the cellar. Nothing. Even the darkest shadows were natural this time.
Anne came bustling back in with a cup of tea and a mug of cold water. “As fore yoor requeste, madame,” she said loudly as she handed the mug to Mercedes and then motioned for her to open the envelope and swallow its contents. “Vat would yoo laike?”
“What do you have?”
Gathering courage with a deep breath, she unfolded the paper and poured the half a thimble measure of powder into her mouth. It was terribly bitter and her tongue contorted at the taste, but she swallowed it as best she could and drank all the water to wash the rest of it down.
Anne patted her shoulder in praise. “Theere are severale options,” she said as she stretched to reach the upper shelf Mercedes had been looking at. “Theere is glasse, stone or polizhed woode.” She grabbed a black snakehead and pulled it down. “Thay come in bronze, too, but I no longer have those.” She selected two more, one as thick as her wrist.” And then theere is shape. Shape and size. Very importante, madame.” She did one more round for good measure and presented Mercedes the half dozen mock-ups of men’s genitals cradled in her arm.
Mercedes swallowed and told herself it was because of the powder’s foul taste. “Which one do you recommend?”
“Taiste is personal. Would yoo prefere a wide one, or longe? Or both?” By the smirk on her face, Anne was enjoying this a little too much.
“How much are they? My limit is one hundred francs.”
“Thay are all less than that, madame. So, vhich one doo yoo laik?”
Mercedes pointed at random.
“Ah, the obsidian! Goode choize, madame. Very, very goode. Not cheap, but goode.”
“How much?”
“I will write yoo the receipt, madame,” said ‘Esmeralda’ as she tucked the rejects back in their niche. “And I will wrap it soo no one knows, yes?”
Mercedes made a face. “Please do.”
Anne pulled out some brown packing paper and placed it on the table. She gestured for Mercedes to approach, too. The first two layers of loosely packed paper did little to hide the implement’s typical shape, but before applying another layer, Anne caught her eye with a sharp glare. Mercedes watched closely as one ringed finger tapped the edge of the note she had given Anne, which now peeked out of ‘Esmeralda’s’ gaudy brassière.
Next Anne tapped the abandoned envelope that had contained the powder and held up one finger. Then, pointing at the half-wrapped black curve, she held up two. Finally she retrieved one of her stacks of cards from the wooden box on the edge of the table, wrapped the deck up in the next sheet of brown paper along with the implement, and held up three fingers.
Eyes wide, Mercedes mouthed: “Are you sure?”
Anne nodded and continued to add several layers of brown paper, until the parcel she had created was nigh on shapeless.
“Ninety francs vor everything, madame,” ‘Esmeralda’ concluded.
Mercedes’s lip twitched. “Bill everything to the object, please.”
“Natoorally, madame.”
Anne pulled out a reasonably clean sheet of paper and a stick of writing lead. On the first she wrote a receipt in long, curling letters that were barely legible but looked impressive. At the bottom she wrote the total of ninety francs.
“Thank you,” Mercedes said, her tone formal despite the full magnitude of her gratitude seeping through. She opened her reticule and produced the five Louis d’or Eric had given her.
At the sight of them, Anne frowned. While a considerable amount of her gypsy jingle was from the coins ‘Esmeralda’ hid in her brassière, the day was still young and the brassière silent.
“I’m afraid I have no smaller change,” Mercedes apologised, but Anne had already knelt behind the table and was rummaging around. When she surfaced again, her frown was replaced by a smile.
“I found change vor yoo.” She placed two five franc coins on top of the receipt. Mercedes picked it up and was about to put it in her reticule when a touch on her hand made her look up.
Anne held up two more five franc coins and put those into her brassière. Then she uncurled her fingers and revealed the remaining four golden coins Mercedes had given her. With a swift motion, she pulled out a second sheet of paper, folded it along its length and placed the four Louis d’or inside the fold, one next to the other. She folded them up further, until she had a square, flat package that fitted inside her palm. She shook it. Wrapped up tightly, the coins didn’t rattle. With one finger pressed to her lips in the universal sign of secrecy, Anne tucked the package into the inner pocket of Mercedes’ manteau. “For when he won’t give you any more.” She handed Mercedes the bundled-up wares. “Be careful, my dear. Come back as soon as you can.”
Mercedes nodded solemnly, but she couldn’t maintain her painful mask when Anne kissed her own fingertips and, very gently, touched Mercedes’ cheek.
“I’m here, always,” Anne mouthed before ‘Esmeralda’ added: “Shall I vetch yoor maide, madame?”
Departing without a proper farewell was difficult. Amélie was thoroughly enthralled by the jar of Madame Esmeralda’s ointment she held, but Mercedes didn’t dare to risk more than a formal goodbye before going out the door, cradling the brown paper parcel to her chest. She tried to steal one last glance, but Anne was as ever the more sensible and had already closed her door.
The folds of her manteau hid the parcel from unwanted attention as she hurried down the alley with Amélie trailing behind her. Older gamins whistled and shouted something as they passed, but Mercedes ignored them.
Arriving at rue de Constantine, she found the fiacre waiting by the nearest curb. Spotting their return, the driver took down the fodder bag from the horse’s nose and patted the animal’s broad neck.
“Sorry, old friend. The ladies were faster than I thought.” To Mercedes he said: “Need a hand up, madame?”
“Non, merci,” she replied, handing her parcel to Amélie and gathering her skirts so the crinoline folded up enough to fit through the carriage’s narrow doorway. “However, I shall appreciate your help getting out again.”
Once she had settled, Amélie followed and squeezed herself into a corner of the bench, lost in her own world. The girl tentatively flexed her fingers with a wondrous expression of amazement.
“If it gives you that much relief, you may get more.”
The girl glanced up, stricken. “Oh, madame, but it must be very expensive. I could never—”
“Consider it a gift. You are a hard worker and a diligent lady-in-waiting, Amélie. It would be unfair to let you suffer for your dedication.”
The girl beamed. Mercedes responded with kindness, but underneath, a pang of guilt stung. She had meant her words of praise, but even so it went towards buying her maid’s loyalty. A habit she knew Carmen entertained and which she had believed herself to be above. But then she had long considered herself above dipping into the shop’s register, too. Another reason to be grateful to Anne, because those eighty francs hidden in her manteau were more than she would ever be able to extract from the till without Eric noticing. Especially now that sales were so slow.
A wave of nausea struck her. At first it felt like her nerves had got to her, or perhaps the wobbly carriage ride. Yet the feeling didn’t abate even after they crossed the Pont-au-Change and turned into the smooth rue de Rivoli. Registering its true cause, Merced
es pressed the parcel to her belly and prayed that her ample make-up would hide the pallor of her face. It would be a while longer before the real cramps started, but at least this first onset assured her that Anne’s powder was taking effect. She would be in for a miserable night, no doubt. Still, that was a small price to pay compared to the agony of another miscarriage.
When the fiacre halted in front of the store, Amélie and the driver helped her down the metal steps.
“Shall I take your parcel upstairs, madame?” the girl offered.
“No. Monsieur Fabron will want to see it first,” Mercedes said, already expecting him. Then she remembered that the brown paper contained more than was suited for her husband’s eyes. “On second thoughts—”
“Madame Fabron!”
Mercedes turned at the call and saw a man in a beige overcoat waving at her. When he jogged across the street to meet her, sporting a lopsided grin, she recognised him.
“Inspecteur Baudoin, what a surprise.”
“And what a stroke of luck to meet you here, madame,” he greeted her, a little short of breath as he lifted his hat. “I was just on my way to see you.”
“See me?” She leaned back. As if Eric needed any further encouragement. “You are referring to the investigation?”
“Well, as a matter of fact…” He stopped, but beamed a hopeful smile at her. “I promised to follow up on your suggestion, and I did. I talked to a few undertakers, but they say the ‘droppers’, as they’re calling them - you know, because they drop dead?”
“I understand the colloquialism, monsieur l’inspecteur,” Mercedes said quickly. “What did you discover?”
“It appears none of the, ehm, people who died of the disease had marks of violence on them, as you suggested. Then I made some inquiries about those mysterious assaults I mentioned, too, just in case. You remember I mentioned them?”
“It would seem that I do.”
Her cool response disheartened him, but not for long. “I checked with some of my mates, I mean, colleagues over at the Cité. Some new rumours about such attacks in the past month, but no word on them ending in fatalities. So they don’t seem to be connected to the droppers after all, since those show no sign of having been beaten prior to...” He trailed off, squinting at her. “Madame?” He made an awkward gesture at his cheek while his eyes asked the questions he wouldn’t let pass his lips.
Acutely aware of her minor disfiguration, Mercedes shrugged nervously. “A fall,” she replied in line with the lie Eric had construed. “Not down the stairs, though,” she added with a tone of irony. “More like a loose floorboard.”
“A floorboard?” The young inspector frowned, an expression that didn’t become his cheerful nature. He cast a quick glance at Amélie and the driver standing nearby. “We come across that a lot in our work. They’re the devil, loose floorboards. Please know that should they give you any more trouble, you can always call on me, yes? I’m with the police station at rue du Croissant. Inspecteur Baudoin, Serge Baudoin. If I’m not in, the sergent-de-ville on duty will know where to find me.”
“Thank you, monsieur l’inspecteur, but I do hope it will not come to that.” She attempted another polite smile, but the pain in her swollen cheek and the queasy feeling in her lower belly were rapidly becoming too distracting. Only by accident she remembered to ask for an answer she already knew. “So what of the dead student? Was he a ‘dropper’?”
A shrill jingle interrupted them as the shop door opened and Eric paced out. The cabdriver, still awaiting payment of his fare, approached him, but was ignored.
“What is the meaning of this?” Eric demanded with a withering glare.
Feeling worse by the second, Mercedes could no longer muster the energy to explain herself yet again. Fortunately the young inspector stepped up in her stead.
“Inspecteur Baudoin of the police. As you may recall, I am one of the agents in charge of investigating that dead body in your stairwell?”
“Mind your manners, man! There is a lady present.”
“Sorry, Monsieur Fabron,” said Baudoin without a hint of remorse. “I just came over to report that there’s nothing suspicious about the man’s death. Cracked his skull when he fell. Everything on him smelled of alcohol, so we’re closing the case as an accidental death. Just thought you’d like to know.”
Eric’s indignation quelled at once. “Oh. And this is certain?”
“As certain as man can hope to be.”
“Right. Yes. That is a relief.” Eric turned back to the driver and retrieved some coins from his pocket. “The agreed price,” he declared as he counted the coins into the man’s waiting hand, “and a little extra to repeat the policeman’s words.”
The driver shrugged and accepted the tip. More interested in his horse than in his passengers, the man didn’t strike Mercedes as the type to spread gossip even when he was paid to do so, but it was worth a try.
As the fiacre drove off, Eric returned his attention to the police inspector.
“Don’t let us keep you from your work, monsieur l’inspecteur. We will not keep ourselves from ours.”
The young man bowed slightly. His gaze lingered on Mercedes a moment, but then he took his leave with a crisp ‘au revoir’.
“Awful man,” Eric muttered. “What did he want from you that he kept you talking?”
Sickened by his paranoia as much as by Anne’s powder, Mercedes sighed irritably. “He only informed me of the same he told you. He happened to see me get out of the fiacre and addressed me. We spoke of nothing but the investigation.”
Eric glanced over at Amélie, who froze at once but eventually nodded.
That was the final drop. Angry and hurting in body and mind, Mercedes shoved the brown paper parcel under Eric’s nose.
“If you want to see what is inside this and get the receipt you insisted on, you can come upstairs in a few minutes. After I have tidied myself up.” When he opened his mouth to retort, her eyes narrowed. “Or do you wish me to unpack it right here, for all the world to see?”
“Of course not!” Eric blurted, face red. “Go up, do what you need. I will be along in a moment.”
The stairs were a mountain, her crinoline a literal drag. By the time she got to the flat, she was both furious and drained, but she couldn’t sit down just yet.
“Amélie, for now the ointment is our little secret. Monsieur Fabron, Gagnon and your brother do not need to know, agreed?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Good girl. Now go and put the medicine into your room, and then tell Gagnon to make me a cup of coffee.”
Amélie curtsied and hurried up the central staircase to the next floor, where her own room was. That gave Mercedes a few precious minutes of solitude.
When she took the envelope with the coins from the pocket of her manteau, her fingers brushed the prayer stone Anne had given her previously. She considered taking it out, too, but it would be more difficult to hide than the coins. So she left it in her pocket and took only the envelope and the parcel to the bedroom.
The coins she unwrapped and hid inside her powder box. Nosey as Eric was, he didn’t go near anything to do with feminine hygiene. Her make-up drawer was one; the other was the basket of rag strips at the bottom of her closet.
She removed the brown paper of the parcel until she got to the cards Anne had slipped inside. The answer to her third question as Anne had indicated. Mercedes carefully took out the thumbed cards and examined the first few images.
“Oh, Anne!”
The ‘Mlle. LeNormand’ deck. Mercedes cherished them with both hands. Anne would not part with them lightly, but what an ingenious solution! Mercedes had set her mind on some occult book or another, never stopping to think about the most evident. She already knew how to use the cards, and use them for various things. On top of that, the deck was small enough to hide on her person pretty much without detection. If, despite her efforts, they were discovered, she could say they were simply playing cards. Most peop
le wouldn’t know any better.
She grinned through her pain. Now she had the best confirmation she was going to get that the dark spectre in the alley was not responsible for the aptly named ‘droppers’, she felt a surge of courage at the prospect of summoning the spirit and attaining his help. Tomorrow she would, she decided.
However, until then the cards needed to be kept safe. They didn’t fit in any of her make-up boxes, but the rags basket in the dressing room was a perfect spot. While Amélie was the one to replenish the cleaned strips, the only one who ever removed anything from that basket was Mercedes herself. And while she was at it, she might as well take a few strips with her. The way her belly was cramping up, she would shortly need to put them to their intended purpose.
Gagnon had already served her the coffee in the parlour when Eric showed himself. Without a word, Mercedes continued to sip at the hot beverage while he regarded the receipt, the ten francs worth of change, and the half-opened parcel she had laid out for him on the parlour table.
“Ninety francs. A small fortune.” He glared at the parcel. “That is it?”
She casually folded back the paper to reveal the gleaming black penis in its full glory. Eric blanched, then blushed.
“Yes, yes. Good. Now put it away. Please!”
Mercedes refolded the wrappers. He visibly relaxed. “At least it looks like mine,” he muttered under his breath.
“Now will you believe me?” she asked.
“You were honest about this. Amélie confirmed as much.”
She had known from the start that he would put the poor maid through a cross-examination, but that didn’t lessen the pain of being right. The coffee cup rattled on its saucer as she put it down with force.
“Whatever Doctor Hubert told you, I am not a compulsive liar. If indeed I am sick, I have every intention – genuine intention! – to get better.” If indeed she was. Eric said nothing, which made it worse. “You always believed me. You stood by me, even when they accused me of the worst possible crime. I was confused then, but you believed me. What is so different now?”