by Kim Newman
The choice picks were Count Rouboff, the Russian military attaché (which is to say, spy) and a cousin of the Tsar; Baron Maupertuis, the Belgian colossus of copper (and other base metals); and ‘Black’ Michael Elphberg, Duke of Strelsau, second son of the King of Ruritania (a mere unmarried half-brother’s death or disgrace away from succession to the crown). Any or all of these might be candidates for the Marriage Club, though only the Baron was elderly.
Count Rouboff asked the Princess to demonstrate the dancing style of far-off Kalabar, and Irene obliged with a shimmy she had learned as warm-up for a snake-oil salesman in the Wild West. As a well-developed thirteen-year-old, her tour with a medicine show had been her first attempt at escape from New Jersey. Of course, the moves that dried mouths and stirred vitals in Tombstone, Cheyenne and No Name City were still effective in Paris, though the crowds were cleaner and, on the whole, had more of their original teeth. Some women simply gave up, collected their wraps, and went home in huffs, leaving behind befuddled gentlemen who would find domestic lives difficult for the next week or so. Others took careful note of Irene’s steps, and resolved to learn them.
A five-piece orchestra provided ever more frenzied accompaniment in what they must have fondly imagined was the style of far-off Kalabar. The musicians were dressed as a strange breed of clown, with ridiculously stack-heeled boots, lightning-pattern leotards immodestly padded with rolled-up handkerchiefs and cut low to reveal thick thatches of chest hair (not entirely natural), faces painted with celestial maps so eyes and mouths opened disturbingly in purple moons or stars, and shocks of bright orange hair teased up into jagged peaks. The band made a lot of noise, and even more fuss – sticking out gargoyle tongues, making obscene advances to their sparkle-patterned instruments, capering grotesquely like dressed-up apes with their rumps on fire.
Irene began to unwind the interlocking scarves that constituted her sari, wrapping them around admirers’ necks, brushing the trail-ends across their faces to raise their colour. The Khasi of Kalabar, suspecting this might go too far, was on the point of stepping in to reprimand his ‘daughter’ when the Princess was flanked.
Two pretty girls, similar enough in face and figure to be taken for sisters, assumed positions either side of Irene, clicked fingers, and fell in step, mimicking exactly her dance moves. A ripple of applause came from those who supposed the Countess had brought in a choreographer. A frown of surprise briefly passed across Irene’s tinted forehead. She left off the Salome business, concentrating on energetic, elaborate footwork, with snake-moves in her hips and back. Out West, the crowd would have hauled out their Colt 45s and blasted the ceiling. The sisters, however, were not thrown. They perfectly matched her, not even seeming to follow a lead.
The Persian considered the bland, shiny faces of the girls. They showed no emotion, no exertion, scarcely even any interest. Irene was, in polite terms, ‘glowing’ – and thus in danger of sweating through her betelnut make-up. The caste mark on her forehead looked like an angry bullet-hole. It was harder and harder for her to keep up with the dance.
Everyone in the room was watching this trio.
The band were murdering ‘Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir’ – the ‘Jewel Song’ from Faust. Carlotta’s signature number, as it happens. One of the clowns sang like a castrato, inventing new lyrics in double Dutch. If he tried that within earshot of a certain Phantom, he’d find himself wearing a chandelier for a hat. The Gounod opera was a favourite with Erik.
Irene made a tiny misstep, and lost her lead. Now, she had to follow, to mimic, to copy – and the terpsichorean sisters began to execute a series of balletic leaps, glides and stretches which were too much for the New Jersey Apsara. Her bare foot slid, and she had to be caught by a nobody – her former admirers were now enslaved by the sisters.
For a moment, it seemed there would be a problem – three swains, two dancers – but Irene was instantly replaced by a third girl, darker haired but sharing the family resemblance. The debutante locked at once into the dance, and the three tiny, strong girls performed like prima ballerinas prevailed upon to share a leading role. Now there was a sister apiece, if sisters they were, for the Count, the Baron and the Duke.
The Princess was helped, limping, out of the circle by her rescuer, Basil – a homosexual English painter with only academic interest in the female form. Even he deserted her as soon as she was dumped on a couch, and was drawn back to the circle around the dancing girls.
‘They ain’t human,’ the Princess said – through angry tears – to the Khasi.
The performance concluded with a tableau as the darker girl was held high, pose perfect. Thunderous applause resounded. The girls’ pleasant smiles did not broaden.
‘It must be mesmerism,’ said Irene. ‘Trilby’s old tutor is probably behind it. Svengali. He put her to sleep with a swinging bauble and fixed her croak so she came out with the purest voice in Europe. Those witches have had the same treatment, only for dancing.’
Irene stood up, putting weight on her foot. Her ankle was not turned or sprained. Only her dignity was really damaged.
‘The patsies are lost,’ she told the Persian. ‘While no one’s watching, let’s sneak out. There must be something on this tub to give the game away.’
He nodded concurrence.
V
‘ZUT ALORS, TRILBEE,’ said Christine. ‘We have wasted our time. This is not a dancing school…’
‘This is a mannequin factory,’ concluded Trilby.
‘That fool of a Persian must have made the mistake. And we have come all this way by fiacre. Erik should not put his trust in such a person. So the trip is not a complete wash-out, we should go to a café and have some pastries.’
‘The Persian’s not a fool,’ said Trilby, concentrating.
‘He has sent us to the wrong address.’
‘But the name is correct, look. It may not be École de Danse Coppélius, but – see – here on the board. Fabricants des Mannequins – M. Coppélius et Sig. Spallanzani. Perhaps the dance school failed, and the Countess’s partners found a new use for the building.’
They had hoped to enrol in evening classes.
‘Chrissy, now it’s time for subtle fuge.’
‘Subtle what?’
‘Fuge. You know, sneakin’ about.’
‘Ha! But you are ill-suited for such, with your hopping-of-the-clod Irish feet and so forth.’
‘Never you mind my feet. It’s your own slippered tootsies you should be thinking on.’
Christine arched her leg, displaying her fine calf boot and its row of buttons.
‘Lovely,’ said Trilby. ‘Very suited for sneakin’. Now, if you’ll climb up over this fence – mind the spikes on the tops of the rail, looks as if they’ve been sharpened – I’m certain you’ll be able to get that chain loosened so I can follow. This is a task much more suited to your delicacy.’
For a moment, Christine wondered whether she had not been manipulated into taking an uncomfortable risk. But she knew the Irish girl was too simple-minded for such duplicity.
‘Careful,’ called up Trilby. ‘You’ll tear your…’
There was a rip, as Christine’s skirts caught on a spike.
‘Never mind. It’ll set a new fashion.’
Trilby looked both ways, up and down the alley. They had sought out a side entrance to the factory, away from passersby.
Christine dropped from the top of the fence and landed like a cat, with a hiss. She had a fetching smear of grime on her forehead and her hair had come loose. From her reticule, she found a hand mirror and – angling to get moonlight to work by – effected meticulous repairs to her appearance, while Trilby waited for the chain to be seen to.
As it happened, the chain was draped incorrectly around the wrong railings. The gate had been left unfastened. It swung open with a creak.
‘I suppose we should have tried that first.’
Christine frowned, a touch pettishly.
‘Now is not
the time to bring up this matter, Trilbee.’
‘Perhaps not. Now, the fastenings of that little window, eight or ten feet up the wall, look to me to be similarly neglected. Let me make a cradle with my rough Irish peasant hands and hoist your dainty delicate Swedish footsie like so…’
With a strength born in hours of holding awkward poses while undressed in draughty artists’ garrets, Trilby lifted her fellow angel up off the ground. Christine pushed the window, which fell in with a crash.
‘Perhaps we should announce our arrival with twenty-four cannons, hein?’
Trilby shrugged, and Christine slipped through the window. She reached down, and pulled Trilby up after her.
They both stood in a small, dark room. Trilby struck a lucifer. All around were racks of unattached, shapely arms and legs.
‘Sainte Vierge Marie!’ exclaimed Christine, in a stage whisper. ‘We have stumbled into the larder of a clan of cannibals!’
Trilby held the match-flame near a rack. Porcelain shone in the light, and a row of arms swayed, tinkling against each other.
‘No, Chrissy, as advertised, this is a mannequin factory.’
Against the wall sat a range of womanly torsos, with or without heads. Some were wigged and painted, almost complete. Others were bald as eggs, with hollow eye-sockets waiting for glass.
‘What would doll-makers have to do with these mystery brides?’
‘I’ve a nasty feeling we’re about to find out.’
A light appeared under the crack of the door, and there was some clattering as a lock was turned. Then bolts were thrown, and several other locks fussed with.
‘What are we to do, Trilbee?’
‘Take off our clothes. Quickly.’
Christine looked aghast. Trilby, more used to getting undressed at speed, had already started. The clattering continued. Christine unfastened the first buttons of her bodice. Trilby – already down to stockings, drawers, corset and chemise – helped with a tug, ripping out the other ninety-eight buttons, getting Christine free of her dress as if unshelling a pod of peas. The door, so much more secure than the gate or the window, was nearly unlocked.
Trilby picked up Christine, and hooked the back of her corset on a hanger.
‘Go limp,’ she whispered.
Christine flopped, letting her head loll.
Trilby sat against the wall, making a place among a row of mannequins similarly clad in undergarments. She opened her eyes wide in a stare, sucked in her cheeks, and arranged her arms stiffly, fingers stretched.
The door finally opened. Gaslight was turned up.
A gnome-like little man, with red circles on his cheeks and a creak in his walk, peered into the room.
‘Cochenille, what is it?’ boomed someone from outside.
‘Nothing, Master Spallanzani,’ responded Cochenille, the gnome, in a high-pitched voice. ‘Some birds got in through the window, and made a mess among the demoiselles.’
‘Clear it up, you buffoon. There will be an inspection later, and the Countess does not take kindly to being displeased. As you well know.’
Cochenille flinched at the mention of the Countess. Christine and Trilby worked hard at keeping faces frozen. Slyly, the little man shut the door behind him, listened for a moment to make sure his master was not coming to supervise, then relaxed.
‘My pretties,’ he said, picking up a bewigged head and kissing its painted smile. ‘Lovelier cold than you’ll ever be warm.’
Cochenille tenderly placed the head on the neck of a limbless torso and arranged its hair around its cold white shoulders. He passed on, paying attention to each partial mannequin.
‘Alouette, not yet,’ he cooed to a mannequin complete but for one arm. ‘Clair-de-lune, very soon,’ to another finished but for the eyes and wig. ‘And… but who is this? A fresh face. And finished.’
He stopped before Christine, struck by her.
‘You are so perfect,’ said Cochenille. ‘From here, you will go to the arms of a rich man, a powerful man who will be in your power. You will sway the fates of fortunes, armies, countries. But you will have no happiness for yourself. These men who receive you, they appreciate you not. Only Cochenille truly sees your beauty.’
Christine concentrated very hard on being frozen. As an artists’ model, Trilby was used to holding a pose, but Christine’s nerves were a-twitch. She worried that the pulse in her throat or a flicker in her eyes would give her away. And the urge to fidget was strong in her.
‘What these men know not is that they take my cast-offs,’ said the gnome, rather unpleasantly. ‘Before you wake, before you are sent to them, you are – for this brief tender moment – the Brides of Cochenille.’
With horror, Christine realised this shrunken thing, with his withered face and roué’s face paint, was unbuttoning his one-piece garment, working down from his neck, shrugging free of his sleeves.
She would do only so much for Erik!
Cochenille leaned close, wet tongue out. Suddenly, he was puzzled, affronted.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, shocked, ‘you are too… warm!’
Christine gripped the rack from which she was hung, taking the weight off her corset, and scissored her legs around Cochenille’s middle. Trilby leaped up, tearing an arm from the nearest doll, wielding it like a polo mallet. She fetched the gnome a ferocious blow on the side of his head as Christine tried to squeeze life out of the loathsome little degenerate.
Cochenille’s head spun around on his neck, rotating in a complete circle several times. He ended up looking behind him, at the astonished Trilby.
‘He’s a doll,’ she gasped.
Something in his neck had broken and he couldn’t speak. His glass eyes glinted furiously. Christine still had him trapped.
‘And he is a disgusting swine,’ she said.
Trilby lifted Cochenille’s head from his neck and his body went limp in Christine’s grip. She let go and the body collapsed like a puppet unstrung.
His eyes still moved angrily. Trilby yanked coils and springs from his neck, detaching a long velvety tongue with a slither as if she were pulling a snake out of a bag. She threw the tongue away.
Christine got down from her rack and uncricked her aching back.
Trilby tossed the head to her, as if it were a child’s ball. She saw lechery in those marble eyes, and threw the nasty thing out of the window, hoping it wound up stuck on one of the fence spikes.
Outside, dogs barked.
Christine, conscious of her déshabillé, looked around for her ruined dress.
Then the door opened again.
They looked at the guns aimed at them. Christine slowly put her hands up. Trilby did likewise.
‘Who have we here?’ said the tall old man with the pistols. ‘Uninvited guests?’
‘Snoopers,’ said his smaller partner. ‘Drop ’em in the vat.’
The tall man smiled, showing sharp yellow teeth.
VI
IRENE AND THE Persian had doffed their Khasi and Princess disguises. Now, they wore close-fitting black bodystockings with tight hoods like those popularised by the English soldiers at Balaclava. The lower parts of their faces were covered with black silk scarves; only their eyes showed.
They crept along the deck of the barge, conscious of the music and chatter below. The clowns were performing some interminable rhapsody from Bohemia, which made Irene vow to avoid that region in the future. The full moon and the lights of the city were not their friend, but they knew how to slip from shadow to shadow.
On the Pont du Carrousel, a solitary man stood, looking down at the dark waters and the barge. Irene saw the shape and laid a hand on the Persian’s arm to stop him stepping into moonlight. They pressed against the side of a lifeboat, still in the shadow. Irene first assumed the man on the bridge was a stroller who had paused to have a cigar, though no red glow-worm showed. She hoped it was not some inconvenient fool intent on suicide – they did not want attention drawn to their night-work, with lanterns playe
d across the water’s surface or the decks where they were hiding. The figure did not move, was not apparently looking at the barge, and might as easily have been a scarecrow.
Irene slipped away from the lifeboat, did a gymnast’s roll, and found herself next to the housing of some sort of marine winch. Heart beating fast, she looked up at the bridge. The possible spy was gone. There had been something familiar about him.
The Persian joined her.
The Countess Cagliostro’s barge was armoured like a dreadnought. That was why it sat so low in the water. Aft of the ballroom were powerful engines, worked by humming dynamos. The barge was fully illuminated by electrical Edison lamps, and mysterious galvanic energies coursed through rubber-clad veins, nurturing vast sleeping mechanical beasts whose purposes neither of Erik’s operatives could guess.
‘She could invade a country with this thing,’ said Irene.
‘Several,’ commented the Persian.
‘Do you think it’s a submersible?’
The Persian shrugged. ‘I should not be surprised if it inflates balloons from those fittings, and lifts into the skies.’
‘You’ve an inventive turn of mind, pardner.’
‘That is true. It is part of the tale of how Erik and I became associates, back in my own country… but this is not the time for that history.’
‘Too true. Let’s try and find the lady’s lair.’
Beyond the engines, the deck was a featureless plate but for several inset panes of thick black glass. Irene reckoned this was Erik’s trick again – transparent for the sitting spider, opaque for the unwary fly.
From the pouch slung on her hip, she drew a cracksman’s tool: a suction cup with an arm, attached to a brutal chunk of diamond. The tool was worth more than most of the swag Irene had used it to lift – the cutting gem had been prised from a tiara and shaped to order by a jeweller who nearly baulked at the sacrilege of turning beauty into deadly practicality.
Irene cut a circle out of the glass, and placed it quietly on the deck.