by Kim Newman
‘You buy a hat,’ said Katie. ‘I’ll get a revolver.’
‘Very sensible. No dramatic critic should be without one. A lead corset might also be a wise investment.’
VII
KATE HAD NOT been joking. She needed a gun.
Yuki could walk into a lion’s den – taking those tiny steps because she was hobbled by her traditional dress – with nothing but her parasol and come out with a large rug. Clara’s stylishly tailored topcoat had neat pockets in the lining, filled with a range of cutting, slicing, throwing, sawing and gouging implements. Kate was the least dangerous of the Agency’s current roster. The little apple-peeling knife she’d been keeping up her sleeve would be little use against Guignol and the whole Légion d’Horreur.
The Persian gave her a chit to present to Monsieur Quelou, Chief Armourer of the Paris Opéra. He had his own subterranean domain, with sandbags against the walls and the smell of gunpowder in the air. Besides the swords, spears and axes required by Wagner’s warriors and Valkyries, the House maintained enough functional rifles, pistols and small cannon to defend the building against the Mob… which Kate suspected was most likely the plan. It didn’t take a Gatling gun to execute Tosca’s boyfriend and few productions in the classic repertoire required field artillery, but Quelou kept those too. Erik had lived through the Siege and the Commune. He also had cause to be wary of angry, torch-bearing crowds. There was little about the building and its protocols he hadn’t had a skeletal hand in designing.
Quelou first offered her a pair of pearl-handled custom pistols, suitable for Annie Oakley – scarcely a subject for musical drama, Kate thought. The guns felt light to her, more for show than showdown. After consideration, she settled for a plain, battered ‘British Bull Dog’ Webley. She knew the model – issued first to the Royal Irish Constabulary – and it fit nicely into her reticule. The gun gave her bag enough weight to use as a club if she wasn’t in a position to haul out the iron and fire it.
The armourer gave her a lecture on the gun’s use. She put on ear-baffles and fired at a straw target with a photograph pinned to it. It was an autographed picture of Emma Calvé, reigning diva of the Opéra Comique – the Paris Opéra’s great rival. Kate put a bullet in La Calvé’s throat. Her eye was good and the gun was sighted properly.
Before she left, Quelou cautioned her, ‘Mademoiselle, take care… don’t feel invincible.’
She thought she took that on board. Within a quarter of an hour, his words haunted her.
Outside, in the Place de Opéra, she relaxed slightly. After so much time spent in Montmartre, it was a relief to be in a more civilised district, without apaches in every alley. Looking up at the imposing façade of the Palais Garnier, she even had a comforting sense that Erik was nearby, watching over his Angels. Strange that such a creature should be her patron, but she was used to strangeness.
She sat at a pavement café table and drank bitter coffee while nibbling a crescent-shaped pastry. Pretty girls – from the company’s chorus and corps de ballet – chirruped and chattered all around. Likely fellows tried to talk with them, getting mostly short shrift.
She opened a copy of L’Intransigeant, a virulently anti-Dreyfusard paper left at her table. She scanned for items of interest, catching on paragraphs and translating them in her head – she was a long way from fluency, but could now read complicated passages with something like ease. She found a piece by Henri Rochefort, a supporter of Du Roy, about the civilian judges who ruled that Dreyfus was allowed to appeal against his military conviction. ‘They should have their eyelids cut off by a duly trained torturer,’ wrote Rochefort, ‘and large spiders of the most poisonous variety placed on their eyes to gnaw away at the pupils and crystalline lenses until there is nothing left in the cavities now devoid of sight. Then, all the hideous blind men would be brought to a pillory erected before the Palais de Justice in which the crime was committed and a sign would be placed on their chests: “This is how France punishes traitors who try to sell her to the enemy!”’ With public discourse on this level, the stage blood and trilling screams of the Théâtre des Horreurs were almost quaint.
The girls at the next table laughed at something.
Kate folded L’Intransigeant, resolved to put it in a public waste-paper bin and spare other idlers its venom.
What was all the amusement about?
A familiar barrel-organ ground.
It was the ape-suited street performer of Rue Saint-Vincent, l’homme-affiche of the Théâtre des Horreurs. He had recaptured his abused partner or procured a replacement. Did the animals come from the same disgusting business which supplied Maximilian the Great with canaries?
The monkey’s get-up had changed. Now, it wore a miniature Guignol mask and costume.
‘Dance, Sultan, dance,’ said Petit Guignol. The shaggy gorilla shook his legs.
The mountebank must be a ventriloquist too, and particularly skilled. The shrill little voice, so like Guignol’s swazzle, not only seemed to issue from the mask, but wasn’t muffled by the stiff, snarling false face of the gorilla.
She couldn’t bring herself to shout bravo, though. She remembered the sewn-together arms.
‘Eh, Sultan, what have we here… the pretty ladies of the Opéra…’
Mass giggling.
‘And a… well, a not-so-pretty lady, associated with the Opéra.’
The monkey jumped up on her table and snatched the last of her croissant, shredding it with little fingers. It couldn’t eat through the mask.
Furious, pained eyes stared out from Guignol’s face. She recalled the real Guignol’s wild gaze.
The gorilla shambled closer to her table.
Her hand went to her reticule. No… this was someone she’d done mischief to getting their own back. That didn’t mean she could shoot him. Quelou would warn her to save her shots for when they counted.
She tried to smile at the beast, who was disinclined to show gratitude to his former liberator. She imagined Sultan had punished him for his bolt for freedom.
Her face burned. She was blushing again.
The chorus girls laughed with good humour. Malign chuckles came out of the puppet-faced monkey. That must be Sultan throwing his voice.
Suddenly, Petit Guignol tugged at her hair and pulled her out of her seat.
‘Dance with me, Brick-top, dance,’ shrilled the voice.
Applause. She nearly stumbled, but stayed upright, whirled round and round by the trained beast.
The music stopped, but the dance went on. Petit Guignol passed her to Sultan, who gripped her with powerful, hairy-gloved hands. She was face to mask with the mock gorilla. Another set of eyes glared at her, burnt-cork make-up on the lids to blend with the black mask – mirthless, purposeful.
Sultan waltzed with her, further away from her table.
She saw a waiter holding up her surprisingly heavy reticule, miming ‘Eh, mademoiselle, you have left your bag…’
So much for being armed.
She struggled now, but the capering thug in the stiff-furred, reeking gorilla suit had a firm grip and deft feet. She was borne away, across the Place de l’Opéra. Petit Guignol dropped to all fours, assuming the role of a monkey rather than a little man, and scampered after them.
‘Au secours, au secours!’ shrilled a voice – an imitation of hers! – that earned more laughter. ‘I am borne away by this base creature! Who will come to the aid of a poor, defenceless woman stolen by a dreadful beast of the jungles?’
The café patrons clapped, assuming this the finish of an act. Some threw coins, which were collected by a rough who also picked up the abandoned organ. Sultan had not come for her alone. But he had come for her.
This was – she realised – an abduction.
She was turned round and around. She was being waltzed towards a black carriage, its door open. Where a family crest or an official seal might be displayed was a simple red circle.
‘What hideous lusts will this naughty creature slake upon my
helpless form! What depraved desires does he ache to fulfil!’
She tried to compete with the fake cries of distress but couldn’t get breath to shout.
‘I must admit, though, that it is quite exciting!’ continued the high-pitched voice. ‘One comes to Paris for experiences… and this promises to be a very great… experience. Oh, if he wasn’t so handsome… if I weren’t so homely! I shall elope with Monsieur Sultan! We shall pledge our primitive troth and experience natural love in the trees!’
The knife edged out of her sleeve, but Sultan knew all about that. He squeezed her wrist painfully. The implement fell to the ground and was kicked away.
Finally, close to the carriage, the ape let go of one of her hands.
She tensed, prepared to administer a kick to the groin.
The huge, rubber-palmed hand pressed something sweet-smelling over her face… and she went into the darkness of a swoon.
VIII
KATE WOKE UP in the dark, with a fuzzy headache. She knew she’d been chloroformed, but not how long she’d been unconscious.
She was slumped in an upholstered chair. She had a sense she was underground. A weight dragged at her ankle. She was shackled to the chair-leg. The chair was fixed to the floor. Her hands were free, but she was too weak to lift them.
The room was cold and slightly damp. She smelled mothballs.
She realised she’d been stripped. She wore some sort of shift or nightdress.
Was this the lair of Sultan the Gorilla-Man?
Someone turned up a gas-lamp. Kate saw herself in a large mirror. Her hair was a mess, her skin was unhealthy white and her freckles stood out like pinpricks of blood. Her nightie was immodest, but surprisingly good quality. She had at least been abducted by a better class of ape.
Over her shoulder, she saw her captor, hairy hand up to the gas-jet. His gorilla head was off, but he wore a skin-tight black hood with holes for his eyes and mouth.
‘She’s awake,’ called Sultan.
A row of chairs faced the mirror, as in an expensive dentist’s office or a hairdresser’s. On the walls were theatre posters and photographs of famous actors. Stuck to and around the mirror were pictures: faces with hideous deformities, gouged eyes, flattened noses or terrible scars. If real, they were models for make-up artists trying to achieve shocking effects. If fake, they were records of previous triumphs to be recreated. On a shelf under the mirror were pots of powder and paint and trays of glass eyes. Faceless wooden heads supported a variety of wigs, including a scabby bald cap and Bertrand Caillet’s wolfish shock of hair. Racks of costumes hung nearby, explaining the mothballs.
She was backstage at the Théâtre des Horreurs.
Sultan walked over to her, not bothering with the rolling ape-gait, and took hold of her chin. He examined her face.
She would have spat but her mouth was dry.
As if reading her mind, he poured water from a jug into a glass and raised it to her lips, tipping liquid gently into her mouth.
She should have squirted it in his face. Instead, she said, ‘Thank you.’
Others entered the dressing room. She recognised Morpho. His scars weren’t stuck on. Dr Orloff, the theatre physician, and Malita, the versatile actress. And someone else.
‘I told you it cost blood to get a Red Circle invitation,’ said Clara Watson. ‘I never said it would be mine.’
Kate choked on her water. She rattled her leg-chain.
‘Temper, temper,’ said the English woman.
So Clara was a Fallen Angel? A turncoat. Kate should have guessed as much. The scarlet widow was too twisted to stay the course. Why hadn’t Erik expected this?
Kate made an impractical anatomical suggestion.
‘You know, in China, I saw a slave girl actually do that,’ said Clara, smiling sweetly.
Dr Orloff stuck the cold end of his stethoscope against her chest. Kate supposed her heart rate was up.
Orloff professionally pinched her bare arms. She winced.
‘Good reflexes,’ he commented. ‘Open wide.’
He touched her under the jaw-hinge and sprung her mouth open, then peered in.
‘And good teeth. A pleasure to see good teeth. So many ladies neglect dental care. They just think that if they smile with their lips closed no one will notice the gaps and the green fur.’
‘We should keep her scalp,’ said Malita. ‘We don’t get enough red hair… for the wigs.’
That wasn’t encouraging.
‘Why am I here?’ she demanded.
‘Katie, you are to be a shining star of the stage,’ said Clara. ‘The toast of the après-minuit of the Théâtre des Horreurs – now, what’s the expression? – For One Night Only.’
If – no, when – she got out of this, she’d even things. A connoisseur of torture, was she? Well, Clara Watson hadn’t gone to school in Ireland…
Clara bent down to kiss close to Kate’s ears.
‘Courage,’ she whispered. ‘And trust. Angels always.’
Then, with a fluttery wave, she left the room.
‘See you in the cheap seats,’ Kate shouted after her.
‘Break a leg,’ Clara responded. ‘At least.’
Had she misunderstood Clara? If this was a stratagem to discover the secrets of the Red Circle, it would have been nice if she’d been in on it. Or was the Fallen Angel torturing her with the hope of a rescue that would never come?
Malita approached, with a pair of brushes. She began to groom Kate, putting her hair up in a way she hadn’t tried before.
Objectively, Kate quite liked the effect.
Under the circumstances, she couldn’t bring herself to thank her dresser.
IX
APRÈS-MINUIT DIDN’T MEAN the curtain went up at the tolling of the twelve o’clock bell. While Kate was unconscious, Guignol’s company gave a regular evening show. Then, the audience and most of the company left the building and preparations for the Red Circle performance began.
Malita powdered over her freckles (which took several pots) and gave her red, red lips and rouge cheek-blushes. With a pencil that drew blood, the crone added a final touch – a beauty spot by her nose.
Kate was unshackled and wrestled into a cheap tart costume: low-cut bodice, gypsy skirt, beret, tattered red shawl, patent leather boots. Now, Kate thought she looked ridiculous. If she were a doll, she would sit unbought in Madame Mandelip’s window.
Malita dragged her – it was hard to walk in the thick-soled, high-heeled boots – out of the dressing room. She was taken along a corridor, up through the wings and onto the stage. The heavy curtain was down. A stock backdrop showed sylvan fields and marble statuary. A stained oilskin was laid over the boards. Stage-hands stood ready with buckets and mops.
Sultan had his head back on but his hairy gloves off. His hands were blacked with coal and he held a hunting rifle.
Want to see something really frightening? A gorilla with a gun.
Other oddly dressed and made-up people were gathered.
A young man in white tie and tails was protesting to a hard-faced Morpho. Kate recognised the Stage Door Jeannot she’d spotted on her first visit to the theatre. His bunch of black flowers was wilting. She gathered he’d slipped backstage in the hope of paying tribute to la belle Berma. Others – more obvious wretches – were sober enough to be terrified. A beldame, dressed as a duchess but smelling like a down-and-out washerwoman. Two thin children, got up in animal costumes – Henriette and Louise, the orphans who’d run away to join the circus. A noseless, one-armed soldier in uniform proudly announced that he was making his third appearance in an après-minuit. Kate guessed such return performances were rare.
Dr Orloff supervised the co-opted, addled or desperate cast.
‘Feel free to scream at the top of your lungs,’ he said. ‘It’s a small house, but it takes a lot to fill the auditorium. Our patrons like a good scream. Remember to stay in the limelight. No point bleeding in the dark, is there? You want your moment. If you must b
eg and plead for mercy, address yourselves to the audience. Our orchestra are blindfolded and callous. Your fellow performers are professionals and will stick to the script.’
‘There’s a chance for mercy?’ asked a young woman in an Aztec headdress.
‘Of course not,’ said the doctor. ‘But the begging, whining and tearing of hair amuses some of the Red Circle. It irritates others, who just want to get on with the procedures. But many are happy to delay their pleasure. Who knows, maybe largesse will be extended to your loved ones if you plead prettily enough. You are here to honour a family obligation, are you not, Nini?’
The sacrificial princess nodded.
‘Follow your instincts. I’m sure you’ll triumph. And Papa will be saved from disgrace.’
It hadn’t occurred to Kate that anyone would deliberately give themselves over to Guignol. Evidently, everything could be bought. This business got more horrible the more she found out.
The beldame sank to her knees, dress pooling around her, and began keening and drooling. Morpho hauled her upright and slapped her silent. Malita stepped in with a cloth and some powder to repair her make-up.
Sultan slung his rifle on his back and climbed a rope into the flyspace above the stage. He was as agile as a natural-born ape.
Could she escape by following him up there? Not in these blasted boots.
Looking up, she saw Sultan crouch on a gangway amid ropes and pulleys. He trained his rifle on the stage and bared his teeth – the big fake choppers in his articulated mask – at her in a grin. An ape-man of many talents – ventriloquist, abductor of women, acrobat, sharp shooter…
So long as Sultan was at his post, there was no point in making a dash for freedom.
Rallying the performers to rebel was not much of a possibility. She couldn’t know how many were essentially volunteers, like the Old Soldier and Nini. Most of the obviously co-opted, like Stage Door Jeannot and the Duchess, were in no state to be of any use to her or themselves. The orphans, a fish and a cat, were undernourished.
At this juncture, the best she could hope for was to die knowing the answers.