Carlos’ only reply was a sneer.
Tread lightly, Giraud, Poirot cautioned. That one can barely contain his eagerness for violence. I would be wary of him if I were you.
Well, you are me, Giraud silently responded. Or at least some noisome part of me, some demon of my subconscious...
Poirot a demon? Quelle idée!
Oh, for God’s sake, will you just shut up!
“Did you say something?” Blofeld asked.
“No,” Giraud said, with perhaps a little too much vehemence. “Tell me, where are we going?”
“Villa Soldati, one of the southwestern barrios.”
“I know where it is.”
“The murder was committed there, in a small apartment on Escalada Street. The victim was one of my employees, a fellow named Edouard Boucher.”
“A Frenchman?”
“Yes,” Blofeld affirmed, “a former collaborator, like yourself.”
Giraud snorted. “Fond of that word, aren’t you?”
“Does the term bother you?”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Giraud sensed he was being tested. What the Hell did the man want him to say? “All right then, it infuriates me,” he said defiantly. “I had a job to do and I did it. Crime in Paris didn’t just disappear when the Nazis marched in, you know. Someone still had to investigate the robberies, the rapes, the murders.”
“So your wartime activities were limited to routine police work?”
Giraud hesitated. “For the most part,” he said.
Blofeld turned to him. “And the parts that weren’t?”
Giraud turned back to the window.
“Fitz,” Blofeld said, “stop the car at the next intersection.”
“I helped them find Jews,” Giraud said.
“I beg your pardon?”
Giraud turned and looked at Blofeld. “I helped the Gestapo hunt down and arrest Jews. At first, it was only a few, then more and more. Finally, it was entire families. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“I wanted the truth. I require complete honesty from all of my subordinates.”
“Well, now you have it. Do you still intend to eject me at the next intersection?”
“Eject…?” Blofeld’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said. “I am curious to hear your opinion on this case. If you can give a suitable demonstration of your skills, I may take you further into my confidence.”
“And if I disappoint you?”
“Then I will terminate our association.”
Me, I do not like the sound of that, Poirot whispered.
Nor do I, Giraud replied.
He turned back to the window and watched the passing buildings, the bustling throngs on the sidewalks. The setting Sun cast a pulsing red radiance over it all.
The rising Sun shines through the curtains of Leo’s small apartment on the rue Vavin. It warms his face as he lies on the bed, resting in a state of pleasant languor from his exertions the night before. A shadow passes over his eyes and he turns to see Nina, her exquisite form rendered in silhouette before the window.
“There are some men on the street,” she says. “I think they might be Gestapo.”
“So? They’re everywhere in Paris these days. Come back to bed.”
“What if they’re looking for you?”
“Impossible. They don’t know about this place, and even if they did, it wouldn’t matter. They would only want me for some trivial assignment. I could put them off.”
She turns to look at him, slightly amazed. “How can you be so cavalier? You speak of them as if they were harmless children, but if they ever decided you were no longer useful to them…”
He smiles at her. “They don’t have the power to decide my fate.”
The amazement fades into skepticism. For a moment she looks just as she did at the party, all those years ago…
She had been cheerfully cynical even then, and surprisingly unimpressed by his heroic reputation. This, of course, had only made her all the more alluring and soon he was applying the full force of his personality to seducing her. The conquest was inevitable, but no less satisfying for it. What followed was something of a surprise: He was never able to completely let her go.
In the intervening years, he had been through many wives and lovers, but she had proven to be a constant. When he wanted someone with whom he could share his moments of greatest triumph—or rare moments of failure—she always seemed to be the one he reached for. Even more than her sexual prowess, which was considerable, he was drawn to her by her fierce intelligence, and by a sense that there were passages of her soul that he could never travel, never claim.
He might even have married her, if he could have ever persuaded her to leave her lout of a husband. He was always baffled, and slightly piqued, by her stubborn refusal to divorce the man. That she felt guilt over her infidelity was perhaps understandable, but why should she punish herself by staying in a tedious union with an absolute clod? He has asked her this very question, many times, and the answer is always the same:
Because I love him, you fool. If you had ever really loved anyone yourself you would understand.
But I love you, he would sometimes protest.
Ha! You love pleasure, and excitement, and obedience. I give you these things, so you think you love me.
This last always came with a smile that lessened its sting, and was almost always followed by a touch that rendered further conversation impossible.
She is not smiling now, however. “Why do you do it?” she asks. “Why do you work with them? Do you really believe in them, in their ideals?”
“Does your husband?” He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. It is a cheap evasion, and unworthy of him. He expects her to erupt with fury, but she merely sighs and sits on the bed.
“I tried to talk him out of it, you know. ‘The Milice are nothing but lackeys for the boche,’ I said to him. ‘If you join those brutes, you will have sold your soul to the Devil.’ But it was useless. ‘You always think you’re smarter than me,’ he said. ‘Even when we were children, you always thought you were smarter than me…’ ”
She trails off into silence, staring into some invisible distance. Then she slowly turns to him. “He is right,” she says. “I have always patronized him, condescended to him. He says I treat him more like a mother than a wife. Perhaps if I had shown him more respect he would not feel that he had to...”
“Oh, he is an idiot!” Leo says, impatient with this nonsense. “He should listen to your advice. The Milice are the most hated collabos in the country. When the war is over, they’ll be lucky if every one of them doesn’t go to the guillotine.”
“And what about you?” she asks, her voice rising. “What about the great and mighty Nyctalope? You’ve never really believed the Nazis could win, so why do you serve them?”
“I am a free agent! I don’t serve...”
“Yes, you do!” she shouts. “You dare to judge my husband? You are the biggest collabo of them all!”
“You think I could do more good by running around in the woods with the Resistance? Don’t be naïve. I despise this regime, but by working within it, I have saved hundreds of French lives!”
“Yes, and allowed yourself to become a propaganda tool for people who have slaughtered millions!”
He gawks at her stupidly. She has never spoken to him this way. No one has, in fact.
“You make me sick!” she cries, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “You boast of your battles against men like Lucifer and Belzebuth, but what are they next to Hitler? Nothing! But do you raise a hand against the Nazis or their Vichy puppets? Oh, no. You might have to give up your fine house, and your fine car, and your...”
He slaps her. Not very hard, but hard enough. There is a moment of arctic silence, then, refusing to meet his eyes, choking with sobs, she quickly throws on her clothes. At the door, she turns to face him. “I used to w
orship you,” she says in a quavering voice, the voice of a wounded child. “I pretended not to, but I did. I knew what we were doing was wrong, but I could never resist you, never turn you away…” She shakes her head. “I thought you were a hero.”
He rises from the bed, reaching for her, but she turns her back and walks away.
He stares after her for a moment, listening to her footsteps recede down the hall. Is this the last he will ever see of her? Most likely, he decides, and the thought fills him with a sudden and profound sadness. He tells himself that this is absurd. He can easily find a replacement for her, a younger, more attractive…
He shakes his head. Do not lie to yourself, he thinks. She was the only one left from the old days, the only one who hadn’t fallen away. And now she’s gone.
He goes to the door and closes it. When he turns, he notices something on the nightstand, a glint of sunlight on metal. What is that? A necklace?
It is a locket. He opens it and sees two exquisite cameos; one depicting Nina, the other an image of her husband.
He smiles slightly. This is something she will want back. It will provide a face-saving pretext for her to call him, and when she does, he will do whatever it takes to make amends. They will apologize to one another, enjoy a passionate reconciliation, and things will be as they were before.
He is certain of it.
Fitz opened the door to the apartment and was unable to stop himself from gagging. The death stench that hung in the warm, stagnant air was thick, repulsive, almost tangible.
Giraud had known what to expect, and was able to maintain a mask of indifference. He noted with satisfaction that Carlos was looking green. Blofeld, however, remained a model of iron self control. Smell something? he might have said. Why yes, now that you mention it. Is there a corpse around here, by any chance?
There was. It was lying face down in the small living area, surrounded by Spartan furnishings overturned in almost artful disarray. The lean, sinewy frame was loosely clad in a cheap bathrobe, sodden and sticky with drying blood. Giraud stepped closer and his eyes widened. The man’s hair had been cut away from his head, and none too gently. There were large, gory patches where the flesh had been hacked from the skull.
“Has anything been touched?” Giraud asked.
“Nothing,” Blofeld replied. “Carlos discovered the body at approximately 8 a.m. He reported it to me immediately.”
“Are you certain Carlos didn’t kill him?”
The little man glared at Giraud, murder blazing in his eyes.
“I am positive he did not,” Blofeld said blandly.
Giraud gave Carlos a benign smile. “Nothing personal, my friend. One has to explore every possibility, no?” He turned to Blofeld. “Has anyone spoken to the neighbors? I’m surprised they haven’t called the authorities.”
“The other tenants have been persuaded that we are the authorities,” Blofeld assured him. “They were very cooperative with our initial inquiries. We have learned that there was a brief disturbance around midnight—some shouting, perhaps a cry of pain. The noises ended almost as quickly as they began and so no one took very much note of them.”
Giraud had other questions, but he decided to delay them until after a thorough inspection of the scene. He gently turned over Boucher’s corpse.
Beaten beyond recognition, Poirot observed. The work of a hammer, perhaps?
Could be, Giraud replied. Bruising around the neck indicates strangulation. What is that between his front teeth? Gold? Damned odd place for a filling. Oh well...
The left wrist is broken.
Yes, and the right arm is severely dislocated. His fist is clenched. I wonder if…
Giraud took out a penknife and worked at the fingers. It was a gruesome task, nearly impossible due to the rigor, but he managed to open the hand. Clutched in the palm, held so tightly that it cut into the flesh, was a locket on a broken chain. He opened it and held it up to the light.
Shell cameos, Poirot said. Is the man our victim?
I think so.
The woman, she is quite the beauty.
She must be a wife or sweetheart that he left behind. He must have been thinking of her as he died. Tragic, but no help to us.
Is that what you think?
I fail to see what else we can make of it. Here, let’s examine the rest of the scene…
Giraud spent the next the next two hours exploring the apartment with exacting thoroughness. He picked, he crawled, he sniffed. He asked questions about Boucher’s habits, his vices, his enemies. Blofeld gave polite, detailed, and uniformly unhelpful answers to all his queries. Boucher was dull and bellicose, but he had no real enemies. He drank, but not to excess. He liked women, but only prostitutes. He was a competent and reliable henchman who knew his role and performed it well.
“Did you consider him a friend?” Giraud asked as, lying prone, he inspected the fibers of a cheap rug.
Blofeld seemed genuinely nonplused. “Friend?” he said, as if he had never heard the word before.
Giraud rose to his knees. “Yes,” he said. “Did you like the man? It’s not such an odd question, is it?”
“He was an employee. I neither liked nor disliked him.”
“Then why are you so concerned with finding his killer? Why not simply let the police handle it?”
“I see,” Blofeld said with a nod. “Monsieur Boucher was a strong and capable fighter. Yet, in spite of this, someone came here last night and crushed him like an insect. I would like to meet that someone.”
“For revenge?”
Carlos laughed. Blofeld silenced him with a glance. He turned back to Giraud and said: “Do not concern yourself with my motives. I would like to discuss your conclusions. Have you drawn any?”
Giraud stood up and brushed off his pants. “I do not believe this crime will ever be solved,” he said.
“Why is that?” Blofeld asked, clearly displeased.
“According to you, this man had no friends, no enemies, and—outside of yourself—almost no acquaintances. There was nothing remarkable about his vices, his virtues, or even his personality. He was, in short, a dependable plodder.”
“True enough, but I’m not sure I see your point.”
“This man is a non-entity. Why would anyone want to mutilate him so?” Giraud pointed at the body. “What is the motive for this crime? Theft? Impossible. What little there is of value has not been touched. Passion? Excited by what, I may ask? Was someone jealous because he slept with their favorite whore?” Giraud made a face to show his opinion of the theory. “This leaves us with revenge.”
Yes, it certainly does, Poirot interjected.
“Revenge for what?” Giraud continued. “The only person we can ask is lying there, and even if he could speak, I doubt he would give a satisfactory answer.” Giraud shook his head. “No, my friends, this was the work of a random lunatic, a madman who, in all probability, will only be caught after he has killed many more in a similar manner.”
A brilliant deduction, Giraud! You have outdone yourself!
“It is the only explanation. What else can account for this butchery? I have never seen anything…”
Go on, Giraud. This is most edifying.
Giraud was silent. He stared at Boucher, at the shorn, bloody scalp.
You were about to say you had never seen anything like it before, no?
Giraud walked over to the corpse, knelt beside it, and looked once more into the broken ruin of the mouth. He took out his penknife and worked at the shattered teeth, removing a small piece of gold. He held it close to his eyes, studied it for a long moment, then closed his hand around it with a sigh.
“Is there something you would like to tell me?” Blofeld asked with an edge of impatience.
“I was wrong,” Giraud said.
“About what?”
“Everything.”
Bravo! Now you are using your little gray cells!
The morgue attendant is an old man, but surprisingly wiry an
d athletic. His iron-gray eyes, the same shade as his thinning hair, look up from a clipboard at the sound of Leo’s approach. They regard him first with curiosity, then suspicion.
“I know you,” he says. “Your name is…”
Leo waves it away. “Please,” he says. “I received a call. There is someone here. My address was in her things. My number.”
The old man frowns. “Name?” he says, all business now.
Leo tells him, and the old man gives him a curt nod. He turns and gestures for Leo to follow. They walk between the rows of shrouded corpses. So many, Leo thinks. Does this many die in Paris every day?
They pass a pair of nuns praying over one of the bodies. Their breath condenses in the cold, their words turning to wisps of white vapor. Was the dead man a priest? Leo wonders. Did he live long enough to celebrate the defeat of the Nazis, to offer up a prayer of thanks for the Liberation?
One of the nuns, a frail young slip of a girl, glances up and notices Leo. He sees in her haunted eyes a light of recognition, which quickly darkens into smoldering ashes. There is an accusation in that gaze that confuses and angers him. He quickly looks away.
The attendant stops so abruptly that Leo almost bumps into him. “Here,” the man says, pointing at a body wrapped in white.
“I want to see her,” Leo says.
“I don’t recommend it.”
“I don’t give a damn what you recommend.”
“Suit yourself. Do you want the shroud removed or simply pulled back?”
“Remove it.”
The man obeys and Leo feels the blood drain from his face.
Her head has been shaved. Her face—her sweet, beautiful face—is mottled and bruised. Swastikas have been tattooed on her breasts and stomach. Leo turns away, sickened by the obscenity of it.
“I warned you,” the old man says, pulling up the shroud.
“So you did,” Leo says, suppressing the urge to break the man’s jaw. “Do you know anything about it, about this…” he gestures at the body.
“The tonte—the head-shaving—it’s been happening a lot, you know. Now that the allies have driven out the boche, people want their revenge. Any woman suspected of being a collabo is in danger of losing her hair... and sometimes more.”
Enter the Nyctalope Page 15