by Kim Newman
Kate didn’t want to know how Yuki came to have an expert’s knowledge of decapitation. No, she corrected herself mentally, she did want to know. She wanted to know everything, even if uncomfortable and upsetting. That made her a good reporter and qualified her as an Angel of Music. Still, Yuki’s history – a tale of blood and fire suitable for the Théâtre des Horreurs – was not her present concern.
She poured herself a cup of tea, and added milk and sugar – which made her a barbarian to everyone else in the room, except perhaps the dolls.
‘Can’t say I found the performance dull, myself,’ Kate admitted. ‘Though it did get a teensy wee bit monotonous after the fourth or fifth disembowelling. It was, in its own ghastly fashion, entertaining. Guignol, horrid though he is, has that quality. Whoever he might be, he’s a star. At least in his own house. Grotesque, but a star. As for everything else… well, no one goes to the Théâtre des Horreurs for the stirring drama, the lavish sets, the witty scripts or even the acting – though, under the circumstances that’s more convincing than is comfortable. The place says what it is in the name, and it’s peddling a very old act. Gladiatorial combat to the death and public executions were entertainments once…’
‘Only in Europe have those arts become lost,’ said Clara. ‘In China…’
Kate had heard quite enough from the English woman about the delightful pastimes of China.
The Persian intervened before the Angels fell to squabbling. He had his notebook open and a pencil in his hand.
‘Miss Reed, Mrs Watson… in your expert opinion, did any real crimes take place on the stage tonight?’
‘Only against art,’ said Kate.
The Persian was pensive. Kate reckoned the management of the Théâtre des Horreurs actively encouraged rumours connecting the Montmartre disappearances with their show of horrors. Everyone in the performing arts knew the expression ‘dying to please the public’.
‘It is not Max Valentin’s Canary Cage illusion,’ said Clara.
Kate didn’t know what she meant.
‘Maximilian the Great is a stage magician,’ Clara explained. ‘A very inferior one. Most of his act is old tricks, borrowed or stolen and performed indifferently. He had one illusion, though, that puzzled his rivals. Magicians are competitive and take pride in seeing through sleights of hand or mechanical devices. Prizes were offered to anyone who could duplicate Maximilian’s illusion. None could manage it. Max holds up a square-sided cage, in which a dear little canary sings, then folds the cage flat. Off comes the top. Down go the sides. Poof! The canary is gone. And yet the birdie sings again. Each night, from a different place – the back of the stalls, the cleavage of a female assistant, the pocket of a patron on the front row. Each night, a disappearance and an appearance.’
‘I think I can guess the trick,’ said Kate. ‘Canaries are cheap, right?’
‘Yes, that is it. In the end, the escape artist Janus Stark saw through it. The springs that collapse the cage are unusually powerful. Each night, a canary is crushed – killed in an instant. And another canary takes its place, only to have its moment in the cage at the next performance. Once word got out, Maximilian’s bookings dried up. Europeans profess to be foolishly sentimental. For my part, I believe many canaries would choose a moment of public transcendence – singing and dying – over living on unheard. Before this evening, I entertained the notion – indeed, I hoped it was the case – that the Théâtre des Horreurs was offering a chance to make such an ascension. That would have been, in an oriental manner, magnificent. Reality, as so often, is a disappointment.’
Kate knew Mrs Clara Watson was no canary. She was too busy being absolutely cuckoo.
The Persian pressed his point. ‘So, no harm is done in the performance?’
‘Everything we saw was faked,’ said Clara. ‘Oh, animals died to supply meat for the trickery… but no human blood was spilled. Human blood has a particular tang, and a look that can’t be mistaken. What we saw was conjuring – dollops of red paint slapped onto the face while the audience is distracted by Guignol’s patter, thin strips of flesh-toned gauze pasted over fake wounds and torn off to let the stage blood show… and a great deal of shouting and straining.’
For a while, Kate had also tried to distance herself from Guignol’s show by looking for the joins, trying to see how the illusions were accomplished. But the performance bombarded the audience with so many horrors it was impossible not to surrender, to cease caring about fakery and reality and just to react to what was there before you. She would remember Guignol, the Life of Bertrand Caillet and the Légion d’Horreur.
‘I did wonder about the concierge whose head got bashed in at the beginning,’ Kate said. ‘She matches some descriptions on the list of the missing.’
‘She came back as the dog-faced woman in the freak show segment,’ said Clara.
That was one of the giveaways. Guignol’s company was quite small. Parts were doubled, tripled, quadrupled and more. If Don Bartolome and Isabella were really murdered before the audience’s very eyes, how did Phroso and Berma return as so many other doomed characters? A wild-eyed matron billed as Malita played the concierge, the dog-faced woman and the mourner attacked by Caillet. Actors were not as interchangeable as canaries.
‘But someone is snatching people in the vicinity of Impasse Chaplet,’ said the Persian. ‘Witnesses attest this Guignol is almost always about when the crimes take place.’
‘Guignol is a mask,’ Kate said. ‘Anyone can wear a mask. Especially in Paris. This city has more masks than Venice during carnival.’
‘It’s true,’ said Clara. ‘Guignol masks are everywhere.’
The English woman took a cardboard mask from her reticule and held it up in front of her face.
‘They sell these at the theatre,’ she squawked, trying to imitate Guignol’s voice. ‘For two francs.’
‘It might be that the real Guignol is not only innocent, but the true culprit or culprits are trying to throw suspicion on him,’ said Kate. ‘Any place as successful as the Théâtre des Horreurs must have enemies. Attendance at Le Chat Noir and La Gaîté Montparnasse is down. One way to scare off audiences is to put it about that they’re likely to be killed if they go near the Guignol show…’
‘You don’t understand people, Katie?’ said Clara. ‘Since the murders began, ticket sales at the Théâtre des Horreurs have soared. I’d argue that the only thing that makes paint spilled on that stage interesting is the association with blood spilled on the streets.’
‘You’re getting your personal proclivities mixed up with general principle, Clara. People are not all like you.’
‘Oh yes they are, dear. Most just don’t like to admit it.’
Kate looked at Yuki, who kept quiet for most of their discussions.
‘You know what she’s done,’ Clara said. ‘Yuki’s more like me than I am myself. I’ve mostly watched. She’s acted… That parasol of hers has put men in their graves.’
The Japanese woman sipped tea, without comment.
‘You’re the freak here, Katie.’
Kate blushed again. She held her cup tight.
‘There now, see,’ said Clara, sweetly. ‘Wouldn’t you like to slap my face silly? Perhaps take that spoon to my eyes? Break that cup and grind that china into my neck?’
The English woman simpered, as if she’d won an argument. Kate knew a lost cause – after all, she was Irish. She recognised a distraction too.
Yuki finished her tea and contemplated a pair of apache dolls, which she manipulated while humming. Daintier than the couple Kate had seen perform at the café, but still… in this affair, even children’s playthings had slit-skirts and knives in their garters. Clara would say that was just honesty.
Lord, perhaps Clara was right? She was the freak, and Guignol was normal.
Nobody important – or even noticeable – had been killed yet, so there was no general outcry. The victims were drudges, drunks, old whores, foreigners and idiots. Corpses foun
d in the river, the sewers or piles of garbage were rotten, and got at by rats, birds or fish. That parts were missing was expected. That victims were tortured before death was impossible to confirm. The police had other priorities.
‘I don’t understand the lack of press coverage,’ said Kate.
The Persian and Clara shrugged.
‘In London, a story like this would catch fire. It’s not just the murders, but their proximity to the Théâtre des Horreurs. That would be a gift to a British editor. Think of it: an opportunity to take a lofty stand against the decline of public morals exemplified by the appalling spectacle of Guignol’s show, while at the same time having an excuse to describe in lurid detail the atrocities on and off stage, with illustrations of Berma in torn clothes being prettily abused. It’d run for weeks, months. There’d be protests outside the theatre, questions in the House, bans on advertising, petitions for increased censorship. Of course, in London, the Lord Chamberlain would never allow anything like the Théâtre des Horreurs.’
‘Now who’s the cynic, Katie?’
‘Paris can’t be that much more blasé, Clara. Montmartre may be toujours gai, but France has no shortage of bluestockings, hypocrites and moralists.’
‘What are you suggesting, Miss Reed?’ asked the Persian.
‘A fix is in. I know how it works in Dublin and London. I doubt Paris is different. Newspaper proprietors are in competition with each other but belong to the same clubs. If they agree a story should be buried, it sort of goes away. No matter what reporters think or feel. Sit in the Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street and any scribbler will give you a long list of startling stories he’s had spiked. The owners horse-trade, of course. You don’t cover my brother’s arrest at a boy-brothel in Bayswater and I’ll drop the investigation of the fraudulent stock company which lists you among the directors. We’ll not mention the peaceful natives your old regiment massacred in the Hindu Kush… providing you spike the exposé of the gambling ring which paid my school’s old boys’ cricket side to drop easy catches three times in a row. A discussion between gentlemen. It’s in the interests of gentlemen, which is to say the powerful, that things stay this way. I’ve read the French papers since I got here, and – though the battles between Dreyfusard and Anti-Dreyfusard factions are more bitter than any London press feud – I sense the same system running smoothly. If the “Guignol Murders” isn’t a story – and that’s the headline it’d get in Britain – then it’s in the interests of well-placed individuals that it not be.’
The Persian looked at her closely. He had been quietly sceptical of her value to the Agency. The more usual Angel of Music, Kate understood, had Yuki’s experience with head-severing or Clara’s taste for blood. The rolls included adventuresses, amazons, girl wonders, savages and divas of diverse deviltry. She must seem an ink-stained step down from such formidable women.
But she had just demonstrated why Erik took her on.
‘Do you have any theories as to who these “well-placed individuals” might be?’
‘Funny you should ask… and funnier no one else has thought to, eh? As I said, I’ve been looking at the Paris press. I can’t believe there’s really a serious publication called The Anti-Jew, by the way. I’ve read society pages and the sensation papers, the heavy journals and the frothy dailies, the échos and the classifieds. The Théâtre des Horreurs gets surprisingly good press… it’s an amusement, looked down on but talked about. A sight of Paris, like the Folies Bergère or that hideous ironwork erection on Champ de Mars. It gets poor notices from drama critics, of course – with some enthusiastic, if demented exceptions. I expect the management courts bad reviews. Who’d want to attend an inoffensive Theatre of Horrors? The matters that interest us – the murders – are never mentioned on the same pages as Guignol’s gaggery. The connection which is so obvious to us, and to the people who have engaged the Agency, is ignored by the press and, as a consequence of what I referred to as “a fix”, also by the police. Everyone knows of the crimes around the theatre, but it’s down to us to look into them… that in itself tells you how well-placed our phantom – excuse me, our other phantom – might be.’
‘Not just a newspaper proprietor, then?’
‘No. We are looking at someone with political connections. Probably, this being as priest-ridden a country as my own, the Catholic Church too. Oh, and “pull” in the army. I imagine you can name someone who fits that bill.’
‘She means Georges Du Roy…’ said Clara.
Kate shrugged, not confirming or denying.
‘…and his circle,’ continued Clara. ‘Mortain, Assolant, Pradier, de Kern?’
Prosper-Georges Du Roy de Cantel, once humble Georges Duroy, had risen from the ranks. This was literally the case – he had soldiered in the Franco-Prussian War, the action against the Commune and Algeria. Mustered out, he worked as a reporter, then became editor and – through advantageous marriage – proprietor of La Vie Française, an upper-middle class newspaper. He added publications to his empire, including the vicious L’Antijuif. Everyone made the effort to forget his late father-in-law, from whom he inherited La Vie, was one of the Jewish financiers now cast as Satan in the Modern Testament of France. Kate had some respect for the earlier part of his career, when he was a fiery exponent of causes as well as a ferociously ambitious social climber. He had campaigned righteously against Panama Canal feather-bedding and unconscionably in support of the Dreyfus conviction, bringing down several governments. Moving from publishing into politics, he represented Averoigne in the Chamber of Deputies – though he had more influence through his papers than speeches made in the National Assembly. Presidents took suggestions from him as orders. Founder of one of several competing Anti-Semitic Societies, his editorials suggested he saw Jews under the bed… or behind every imaginable ill besetting the Third Republic. When it deigned to cover ‘the Montmartre Disappearances’ at all, La Vie pointed the finger at mad rabbis.
The Persian was unreadable. Did he think even Erik might hesitate to act against Du Roy?
‘You’d like it to be him, wouldn’t you, Katie,’ said Clara. ‘A proper villain for the melodrama. You were driven out of England because you crossed someone like Georges Du Roy. How much more satisfying to bring him down than to find out the killer is… well, Bertrand Caillet? A broken wretch, as powerless and low-born as his victims.’
‘Caillet?’ said the Persian. ‘The ghoul? I don’t see…’
‘He was in the play, Daroga. One of the horreurs. Guignol threw him out as an example… a small monster in a world run by huge ones.’
The Persian looked at Kate. ‘You’re basing your theory on a play?’
‘She was prompted by the play itself,’ Clara admitted. ‘At the end, Guignol brought on Du Roy and his gang and represented them as the Legion of Horror. The priest in the next box, who muttered “whore” with wet lips whenever Berma was tortured, went bright red at this outrage. I admit I was surprised. It was out of place. The notion of the Légion d’Horreur is quite funny.’
‘The rest of the performance was random nastiness,’ Kate said. ‘But this was pointed. Almost an editorial.’
‘Yes… disappointing. I thought Guignol was supposed to be a Pan-like unfettered spirit, not some mere bomb-throwing anarchist.’
‘You’re missing the point, Clara. It’s not the offence that’s interesting and suspicious – it’s the quiet.’
‘The quiet?’
‘Why hasn’t Guignol been called out? If Du Roy is no longer up to a duel himself, plenty of his faction is.’
‘There is no honour in French duelling,’ said Yuki. ‘Pistols – tchah!’
‘For some reason, Guignol is protected. He has a license to insult the people you would think would most be capable of shutting him up.’
‘She sees Freemasons behind it all… or Jesuits,’ said Clara. ‘She’s as bad as Du Roy and his Jews.’
That stung, but she pressed on.
‘I suspect that if we find out why
the Chevaliers de la Légion d’Horreur tolerate the Théâtre des Horreurs we’ll learn what’s behind the murders. If it’s as big as it seems, I’ll tell you from experience no one will thank us for bringing it to light… if we’re even allowed to.’
The Persian smiled, very slightly – a rare thing for him.
‘Miss Reed, you misunderstand. Our Agency has not been commissioned to expose these murders, but to end them.’
V
AN ITEM OF business remained.
Kate showed the slashes in her sleeve.
‘You’ve been careless,’ said Clara.
‘In that case, so have you.’
Kate pointed, and Clara twisted her neck. Parallel cuts in her bodice opened like wounds, just above her hip.
Clara whistled. ‘I didn’t even feel a breeze.’
Yuki found the neat slashes in her kimono, like vents in her sleeve.
‘Only something sharp could do this without us noticing,’ the Japanese woman said. ‘Very fine blades. A skilled hand.’
She took three teaspoons and slipped them between her fingers, then made a fist. The spoons were spatulate claws. She scratched the air, to demonstrate.
Kate supposed Yuki could do more damage with spoons than the average apache with stilettos.
She remembered the sharp-nailed fingers of Guignol, three little daggers poking through ruptured gloves.
‘I saw… I think I saw Guignol,’ said Kate.
‘A man in a mask,’ said Clara. ‘He could have been anyone.’
‘I saw him too,’ said Yuki. ‘The real Guignol. The one from the theatre. Different costume, different mask… but the same eyes.’
The Persian did not show concern.
‘I think we can take it that we’ve been warned,’ said Kate. ‘All of us are alive only because Guignol let us live.’
Yuki put the spoons down. Despite the counted coup, she still fancied her chances in a parasol-against-claws duel.