by Sophie Davis
Refastening the chain around my neck, I smiled pleasantly. “Thank you, Mr. Bonheur. I understand completely. And you have been more help than you know, honestly.”
I offered my hand for a departing shake. Just as I’d anticipated, the jeweler’s hand was damp with perspiration. What was that guy hiding? More importantly, why was he hiding it?
I was halfway to the door when he called after me.
“Mademoiselle?”
“Yes?” I called over my shoulder.
“I, too, know loss. My own mother died when I was just a few years younger than you are now. She was a beautiful woman, bursting with joie de vivre, as I am sure that your mother was, as well.”
Bursting with the joy of living. What a peculiar thing to say.
STEPPING THROUGH THE front door of Shakespeare and Company, I did my best to wipe all traces of the odd exchange at Bonheur’s from my mind.
Lock it up, Stassi.
Forcing a bright smile, I joined Gaige where he stood in a narrow walkway between two book stacks. My partner was feigning interest in the titles, but dropped the act as soon as he saw me.
“So?” he asked hesitantly.
“We’ll talk about it later,” I mumbled under my breath. “Let’s do this.”
“So sorry!” a cheery voice called to us. “I’m afraid I was in the back tending to some jumbled words. Welcome, welcome.”
None other than Sylvia Beach herself emerged from the rear of the store. Both her appearance and demeanor were the personification of gentle. Beach was small and prim, something that seemed so out of line with her radical ideas about literature and writers.
Gaige looked at me and raised his eyebrows, then sauntered over to the cash register table where the owner had taken up perch. The hours listed on a small sign posted behind her suggested that our arrival coincided closely with closing time. Nonetheless, the American-born bookseller did not give any indication that our presence was an imposition.
“Now, is there something I can help you with? Perhaps we can find your next adventure,” she said warmly.
“My sister could certainly use some adventure,” Gaige replied with an easy smile.
“Oh, are you American?” Beach asked delightedly.
“We are,” my partner answered. “This is my sister, Anastasia Prince, and my name is Gaige Prince. It is so lovely to meet you. We are in Paris for a spell, visiting from Baltimore, Maryland. Have you been?”
“Sylvia Beach.” Beach offered Gaige her hand, and then turned to me and did the same. “Baltimore, you say? What an extraordinary coincidence. I was born and raised there.”
Though Gaige feigned surprise at her answer, this fact had been highlighted in Beach’s dossier. Still talkative from the scotch, my partner took the opening and ran with it. I hovered nearby, pretending to scan the titles on a shelf. Gaige and Beach swapped names of people and places we supposedly had in common. He easily rattled off details from memory. If I hadn’t known better, even I would have bought his story.
“Is this your place?” he asked.
Nice. You sound like you’re trying to pick her up, I thought, still lingering close by.
Gaige’s comment about my unusually high-strung nature that day came back to me. I was more on edge than normal, he was right about that.
He’s a pro. Let him do his thing.
I moved farther away, still close enough to hear them, but deliberately separating myself from the pair. With one ear, I half-listened to Gaige and Sylvia making small talk. Like so many women in so many different eras, Sylvia Beach found my partner charming. She became all the more excited when he told her that he was interested in sponsoring a writer—a common practice where a wealthy benefactor paid for living expenses, so the author could focus on his craft.
For the next forty minutes, the two discussed prospective talent, life in Paris, and great bookstores they’d both visited. Allegedly. Beach appeared oblivious to the fact that Gaige wasn’t actually contributing much to the conversation. Instead, my partner was practicing the art of casual evasion—simply agreeing with her, only expounding upon stories when it was a detail we’d studied at length.
“—isn’t that right, Stass?” he asked, his voice rising slightly.
“Hmmm?” I’d pulled out a book called The Weary Blues, flipped open to a random page, and found myself utterly lost in the lyrical poetry. It was amazing to see how people in this time related to and were influenced by music just the same as we still were in my home time.
“I was just telling Ms. Beach how we met Andre Rosenthal over at that café today. What was it called again?”
“Closerie des Lilas,” I supplied automatically.
“Oh, of course. Quaint little place, isn’t it?” Beach replied. “Andre enjoys writing there. Here, as well. He stops in one or twice a week and works right over there.” She pointed to a wooden table with a matching chair on the other side of the store.
This effectively pulled my mind away from the words of Langston Hughes. I closed the book and joined them at the sales counter.
“So you know him well?” Gaige asked.
“I suppose one could say so,” Sylvia said without a trace of pretentiousness.
We knew better than to accept her modesty. The two were great friends, known for contributing to one another’s work. In fact, Beach would later publish Sparrows on his behalf.
“May I ask you a question about his process?” Gaige asked, only partially feigning the reverence in his voice.
“Of course,” she replied.
“We saw him writing in a portfolio with a leather cover. Is that how he writes all of his books?”
“It is.”
“Why does he not use a typewriter?” Gaige asked. “It seems a bit dated to be hand writing novels.”
“I know, I know,” Beach said with a smile. “I am always telling him precisely the same thing. But Andre likes to move about while he works, he says being out among the people inspires the writing. I believe that is one reason he writes in longhand—it is cumbersome to carry a typewriter from place to place.”
I didn’t need to see Gaige’s expression to know we were thinking the same thing: Sylvia Beach had just given us a new clue. Blue’s Canyon was going to be in a leatherbound notebook.
“What’s the other reason?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“I believe it has something to do with Archy,” Beach replied with a conspiratorial grin.
“Archy?” Gaige asked.
“Don Marquis? The column he wrote for the New York Evening Sun?” she prompted.
“You mean the cockroach who wrote books by jumping around on a typewriter?” I filled in.
“Ah, you’ve heard of him,” the bookseller said with obvious delight. “I do so love that little bug, but I believe Andre finds it insulting to consider that a cockroach might work in the same manner.”
“Quite the eccentricity,” I said smiling.
“Speaking of eccentricities, I read somewhere that Mr. Rosenthal hides his works-in-progress in various places. Is that true?” Gaige asked, steering the conversation back on track.
Sylvia laughed. “Oh, yes. Andre is a superstitious one. That very well may be the case.”
Beach knew it to be true; I could tell.
“I don’t suppose he has any hidden around here, does he?” Gaige asked, his tone light and teasing, just right for not incurring suspicion. “It is like a hunt for his great words, what fun.”
The alcohol was doing wonders for his game. Maybe I should get him liquored up for work more often.
Sylvia Beach smiled and her bright eyes twinkled. “What kind of friend would I be if I told you that?”
And that’s a yes, I thought triumphantly. Now if only the manuscript he has hidden here is Blue’s Canyon.
“Now I must apologize, I have an evening engagement and need to close up the shop,” Beach announced. “I do hope you’ll both come visit again soon, I have greatly enjoyed our tête-à-tête.”
I held up the copy of The Weary Blues. “May I purchase this?”
“Mr. Hughes is a fine poet,” Beach declared as she wrote up a sales slip. “The universality of this collection is quite extraordinary.”
“That is precisely what I thought,” I said, surprised two people from such vastly different worlds could share the same opinion on poetry.
I still had the Fantômas novel tucked under my arm, and set it on the counter as I began counting out francs. Sylvia looked down at it, clucking her tongue.
“Terrible about these murders. What kind of man imitates a literary villain? And one as crass as Fantômas? The whole city is aflutter, people are worried sick.”
“Is that why so many businesses are closed today?” I asked her.
“It is. Of this entire block, only Monsieur Bonheur and I opened our doors today.”
My ears perked up at the mention of the jeweler. I was torn between asking what she knew about her fellow shop owner and continuing with the Night Gentleman line of questioning. Gaige made the decision for me.
“Word of his presence has not yet reached the States. In fact, we didn’t learn about the murders until we arrived. Our friend who lives here said they’ve been going on for a few weeks. Is that true? I’m concerned for my sister’s safety.”
I worried that Gaige’s first statement was not accurate, that the murders were world news by this point. Unfortunately, we were swimming in uncharted waters.
“I would not fret about it,” Beach said kindly. “The Night Gentleman seems to seek out women of a particular sort, and your dear sister does not fall into such a category. As to your question about how long he has been active, you are correct. The first killing was about three weeks ago. News does not find significance across an ocean quite so quickly.”
Serial killers might not be immediately considered world news, but they usually do make the history books, I thought. Then and there, I made a decision. As soon as I returned to the townhouse, I would send a query through customs to Historian Eisenhower. Gaige and I needed to know what was going on.
“Thank you for your time,” I said aloud to Beach, handing her the currency as she gave me the marbled paper bag with my new book.
“I look forward to seeing you both soon,” Sylvia replied. She rounded the counter and escorted us to the door. Gaige thanked her as well, and we promised to return soon.
The sun was still shining when we emerged, with nightfall an hour or so away. My partner hailed a passing taxi, and the two of us climbed in while Sylvia watched from the doorway. I waved to her from the open window as Gaige recited our address to the driver.
At least today wasn’t a total bust, I thought, striving for optimism. Just twenty-four hours out of customs, we’d already met and mingled with several of Rosenthal’s friends, encountered the target himself at one of his regular writing haunts, and managed to weasel a clue out of Sylvia Beach. All in all, we were off to a very decent start. If we could keep up this pace, we’d be back home in no time.
WHEN WE ARRIVED back at the townhouse, there was a letter from Ines on our kitchen counter scrawled in her elegant handwriting. Gaige quickly skimmed the contents.
“Ines wants us ready by nine for an ‘evening out and about’,” he informed me.
“Exactly what does that entail?” I wondered aloud.
Gaige handed me Ines’s note. “You can read the details. She says to wear something chic.”
“Don’t even say it,” I warned.
“What? That chic isn’t in your repertoire? That you should’ve started getting ready last night to have even a chance of pulling off chic?” Gaige teased, his eyes wide and innocent.
“Exactly that. Don’t say any of that,” I replied, scanning the letter and noting that it made no mention of food. Ines must have been too consumed by her comprehensive directives regarding my appearance to think of something as silly as eating. “What time is it?” I asked Gaige.
He checked his pocket watch. “Six.”
“Ugh. I guess I am off to see Felipe,” I told Gaige. “Want to come?”
He stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “Nah. Naptime. Wake me when you get back.”
“Lucky,” I grumbled.
“Bring me something delicious!” Gaige called after me.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I answered, one foot already out the door.
“Love you!” Gaige sing-songed.
“Love you, too,” I said, keeping my back turned so he wasn’t able to see the warm smile on my face.
I asked the young girl behind the counter at the hat shop for directions to the transporter’s office.
“Through that door there.” The salesgirl pointed to a blue door at the back of the store with the word “Privé” above it. “Down one flight of stairs. There you will find a secretary named Ava. She will give you the appropriate form.”
“Thank you,” I told the salesgirl and set off towards the blue door.
Ava was exactly where I’d been told she would be. After brief introductions, she handed me a communications form and a pen. I gave the message a moment’s thought before scribbling down our current dilemma: Serial killer active in Paris. Name = Night Gentleman. Need intel ASAP.
Since we weren’t allowed to ask a transporter to jump for any old reason, Ava next had me sign a series of forms. Only requests for immediate assistance, a cleanup crew, or vital information needed to complete the mission warranted dispatching a transporter. Hoping that a murderer fell into the latter category, I signed my name to the last form.
“Your request will be processed immediately,” Ava told me.
“Thank you,” I called over my shoulder and went to find Felipe.
He was armed and ready when I arrived. As I settled into the swivel chair, my eyes met my reflection in the mirror. I saw a girl who looked harried and anxious, the opposite of a picture-perfect socialite.
Luckily, Felipe was nothing short of a miracle worker. He easily transformed my disheveled mane into sleek, photo-op-worthy locks. After just one hour in the chair, my long, auburn tresses were pinned and arranged in a fashionable bob.
“And now for the fun part,” the stylist said with a grin. “No peeking!”
He turned my chair around so I was facing him instead of the mirror, then he wheeled over a cart with dozens of brushes on the top in various sizes and shapes. The trolley had five long drawers, and I knew from experience that they were bursting with eye shadows, foundations, blushes, lipsticks, and eye and lip liners in every color imaginable. Most of the products were time and location specific and would have been purchased at a local department store. Not all, though. Many of the makeup artists favored products from the future, which the syndicate supplied them with.
Another half-hour passed as Felipe dabbed, blended, and brushed his way through the various cosmetics. When he stepped back and clasped his hands together, the guise stylist wore a look of smug satisfaction.
“You, my dear, are a knockout,” Felipe proclaimed, spinning my chair to face the mirror with a large flourish. “Voila!”
“Whoa,” I said, admiring his handiwork. “I barely recognize myself.”
It was true. The auburn hair I still wasn’t quite used to was pinned up with elegant finger waves framing my face. My blue eyes were highlighted with dark, smoky shadows, and my lips were traced in a deep red with a pronounced cupid’s bow. I looked every bit the part of a fun-loving flapper, ready for mischief and mayhem.
“Do not insult me,” Felipe pouted, frowning at me in the mirror. “You are a natural beauty, I simply wish to draw attention to your best features.”
I blushed at the compliment.
“Thanks,” I muttered. Standing, I smoothed the wrinkles from my dress.
“I am green with envy, love. I hear Ines is taking you to the most fabulous show in all of Montparnasse,” Felipe declared. “Even she has yet to pay a visit.”
“What sort of show?” I asked. “Ines left a note telling us
to be ready by nine, but she was vague about where we’re going.”
“Exotique is all anyone can talk about.” Felipe began sweeping the floor around his workstation.
“Is it a cabaret show?” I guessed.
He paused and met my gaze, eyes wide with surprise.
“You have not heard of Exotique? It is much more than a simple cabaret show,” said Felipe, aghast at my naivety. A look of wonder came over his features. “Yes, there is singing and dancing, but it is so much more than that. It is supposed to be magical, with illusions the world has never seen before.”
I stifled a giggle.
“You forget who you are talking to. I have seen quite a bit,” I told him.
“Not like this, love. Monsieur Houdini himself is said to have commended the performers after seeing the show in Rome. These men and women can make themselves disappear from the stage, only to reappear next to you in the audience. They pull elephants from hats. The women float on air, and the men walk on water.” He wiggled a finger in front of my face. “You doubt, I can see. Just wait, you will understand.”
Disappearing and reappearing? A stunt like that during a stage show was merely an illusion. The same could be said for pulling animals from hats, even elephants. Nevertheless, I had neither the time nor the inclination to argue with Felipe. If he still believed that Exotique was mesmerizing after watching people materialize in a spinning vortex from the future, then nothing I said was going to persuade Felipe otherwise.
“I’ll let you know,” I promised the stylist.
To my surprise, Gaige was dressed when I returned to the townhouse. Sitting on the couch with a cocktail in one hand, my partner was flipping through the Fantômas novel. He was dashing in the tuxedo, complete with coattails and bowtie. Though he’d been a little heavy-handed with the styling product, Gaige’s hair gleamed in the light.
“Hey,” he called, not bothering to look up.
“You look nice. Catch.” I tossed a paper-wrapped tomato and mozzarella sandwich from customs at him.
Hands cupped as if to catch a football, Gaige tore his eyes from the graphic novel just in time.