They walked slowly, toward the Seine. Picard kept his good eye open. In the distance were other floating clouds of silk and velvet, and parasols twirling in the autumn sunlight along the river’s edge.
He sat staring at the shabby wallpaper of his room. Two weeks in bed is enough to ruin a man. He turned toward the window, saw the young men again, in the building across the way. They were standing on their balcony, looking down at the rue de Nesle, and beyond it, toward Dauphine. Young hustlers of the Quarter. Figuring how to swindle a few francs this fine evening, and how to spend it.
They turned, left the balcony windows open. The November wind blew the curtains. He watched them leave the room. They’re going lightly down the stairs now. The one with the beer belly will fart like a wild horse when he hits the street, and his pal will smile at the daughter of the concierge. I know what they’ll do; I watch from my window. Picard has turned into an old woman, keeps track of everything on the rue de Nesle. I used to break wine bottles over my head. For a joke. Now I sit here... like a turnip.
He rose from his old leather armchair; he’d worn numerous holes in it, which were carefully stitched with cobbler’s thread. The chair had many scars, like its owner, and he’d always been comfortable in it.
He reeled toward the kitchen, knocked dizzily about, his head pounding with pain.
How can I report to the Prefect in such condition?
He sliced some bread, took a dirty plate from the pile of dishes, pistols, and ammunition that covered his kitchen counter. The pistols were his favorites—a Colt .358 and the breech-loading Lefaucheux. Between them, guarded by their black barrels, was the gold snuffbox given him by Prince Vatra, a little reward for a private job. A detective can do well for himself in Paris if he’s efficient and discreet; the young woman who’d threatened the Prince with blackmail had been persuaded to desist, the six-and-a-half-inch barrel of the Lefaucheux held between her eyes on a dark night, in a narrow street. She was in Amsterdam now, repairing her jangled nerves.
He picked up the Colt; his hand trembled uncontrollably, and the far wall at which he aimed was made of rubber, swaying and bending in a sickening dance.
A sudden knock on the door spun him around like a thief in hiding.
“Who is it?”
“Bissonette.”
Picard uncocked his pistol, unlocked the door. Inspector Bissonette touched the edge of his hat in a drunken little salute, as Picard’s heart sank.
The ruined old detective smiled at Picard in his pajamas, and emitted an absinthe-soaked cloud toward him as he spoke. “How are you feeling?”
“All right,” said Picard. “Come in.”
Bissonette stepped through the doorway into the gloomy apartment. Picard understood the message before it was spoken. That Bissonette should call on him was proof that his stature at the Prefecture had taken a serious drop—Bissonette, swaying where he stood, kept on the force only because of his long years of service, reduced now to being the Prefect’s errand boy, and unimportant errands at that, for it was well known he would stop at every bistro along the way.
“Having a little target practice?” Bissonette nodded toward the Colt, which Picard still held in his hand.
“I was about to shoot myself.”
“Forgive me for interrupting. I can come back later, after you’ve finished.”
Picard walked to the kitchen cupboard, returned with a bottle of cognac and a glass. Bissonette removed his hat, looking at the bottle with a misty glaze across his eyes. His suit was wrinkled, his nose swollen, and he smiled cheerfully as he watched Picard pour the drink.
“You don’t look well, Picard,” he said, lifting the glass. “Here’s to your health.” He drained the glass in one gulp. “Yes, I’ll have another.”
“The Prefect sent you?”
“The Prefect sent me, of course.” Bissonette poured the second drink and drained it more slowly. “Do you mind if I smoke my pipe? I’m trying to develop new and better habits.” He fumbled in his pocket, came out with matches, studied them for a moment, continued his search for the pipe.
“What message does the Prefect have for me?”
“He wishes you the best, my friend, all the best in the world.” The pipe was stuffed clumsily, Bissonette sprinkling tobacco over the table, his suit, and the floor. “He understands you were badly smoked. We all understand, and naturally we’re completely sympathetic.”
“I’m grateful for your concern,” said Picard. “Is there anything else the Prefect wishes me to know?”
“He’s eager for you to return to service. Sent me here expressly to tell you... of his eagerness...” Bissonette’s eyes cleared for a moment as he stared across the table at Picard, and Picard saw the truth there, hidden behind the drunkard’s clumsiness.
“Out with it,” said Picard. “Am I washed up?”
“The general feeling around headquarters...” Bissonette’s eyes fogged again, stupidity clouding his gaze, but something drove the cloud away and he looked straight at Picard. “... yes, I would say so. It was unfortunate that the building you were in burned to the ground. And those on either side of it.” He reached for the bottle again. “It causes embarrassment for the Prefect. Won’t you join me? I hate to drink alone. A few drinks, a quiet afternoon...”
“I’m dismissed then?”
“No, no, no, my friend, of course not. Our Prefect isn’t a barbarian. You’ll continue on as usual... when you’re able, when you’re well. I must say you’re looking poorly, Picard. You need a drink to bring the color back to you. Sit right where you are, I’ll get another glass.”
Picard sat where he was, staring at the table. Bissonette rattled around in the kitchen and returned with an empty jar, into which he poured a drink for Picard, handing it to him with a smile. “Nothing to be upset about, nothing at all. It’s the younger men in the Prefecture who’re always making trouble for us veterans. They’re a pushy bunch, you know. But the Prefect understands. He asked me to give you your next assignment, when you’re ready, of course, when you’re able...”
“I’m ready. What is it?”
“Just the sort of case I would like to be on myself, were I to go on cases these days, which I don’t, because of my unfortunate affliction. You know, don’t you, that I’ve been seeing double for some time now?”
“I didn’t know,” said Picard, sipping the cognac.
“Heredity. Double vision runs in the family.”
“What is my assignment?”
“It’s a lovely assignment, lovely. I have the address written down here... somewhere...” Bissonette searched in his pocket, withdrawing a slip of paper. “Eighty-seven, rue de Richelieu. There’s been a fellow entertaining there in luxurious style. No visible means of support. Lazare. Ric Lazare. Came to Paris from Vienna two months ago.”
“The Prefect wishes me to look into these apartments?”
“No hurry, Picard. When you’re able. It’s not a pressing case.”
“I perceive that.” Picard drained his cognac slowly, staring at the table. “Is there anything else I should know about this man Lazare?”
“There’s a hundred-franc admittance to his salon.”
“Is he running a show?”
“I’ve gathered there’s a magical game.” Bissonette’s pipe erupted, sending a burning ember onto his jacket. “A fortune-telling machine...” He casually brushed the ember onto Picard’s rug, where it smoldered and burned out. “The hundred-franc entrance fee is supposed to put the guests in the proper mood. And then your fortune is unveiled.”
Bissonette smiled, burped, and poured himself another drink.
The Prefect opened the dossier. “Lazare claims to be Austrian. His source of income is supposedly from estates he owns in Leopoldstadt. We checked with the Bank of Austria here and found Lazare’s account is healthy— apparently he’s sold portions of his estate to some of our prominent citizens—Madame Westra, Marshal Legere, Prince Thibeault. Frankly, I don’t see why they should
want to make such purchases.”
“What about this fortune-telling business of his?”
“These days every salon must have a fortune-teller. Ric Lazare has hired a Hindoo who mumbles over a crystal ball. Madame Leyette employs a woman who reads feet. I attach no importance to any of it.” The Prefect swiveled his chair toward the window. “We live in strange times, Picard, everybody playing at turning tables and such. The other day at the Place de l’Observatoire I myself witnessed a dog translating passages from the Greeks.” The Prefect swiveled back, opened a newspaper on his desk. “There’s something in here...” He turned the pages. “... something about Lazare.”
His eyes went down the page, he stopped to read for a moment, then looked up with a smile. “Last night Countess Essena appeared at a ball as Salome, wearing an ‘unmentionable costume.’ What do you suppose that might have been?”
“A few feathers, perhaps?”
“A troubling thought.” The Prefect continued down the page. “Yes, here we are...” He handed the paper to Picard, pointing to an account of the Lazare salon.
Picard went through it quickly. The guests were all of the highest station—Due de Gramont-Caderousse, the Russian millionaire M. de Kougueleff, Prince Paskevitch, the Countess Duplessia. But the angel of Paris, wrote the infatuated reporter, is Madame Lazare, who appeared wearing a net of gold in her hair, an off-the-shoulder gown of cream-colored satin by Laferriere, with arrangements of silver cord decorating the lower part; accessories—bands of velvet, worn on the wrist, ornamented with flowers.
“Of course you’ll act with the usual discretion,” said the Prefect. “I don’t want Lazare to know we’re watching him. Have you a suitable cover?”
“Fanjoy.”
“Fanjoy... Fanjoy... something to do with—diamonds? “
“Pearls,” said Picard. “I shall go as Monsieur Fanjoy, the pearl buyer.”
* * *
The hallway of the Prefecture seemed endless, filled with strange turnings. He went slowly, leaning on his walking stick, but a touch on his sleeve nearly toppled him; he fought to regain equilibrium, to confront a familiar figure—Veniot, of the old guard, Veniot smiling, his face like a walnut, wrinkled, hard.
“You’re back to work,” said Veniot. “I knew we’d see you soon.”
“It’s a trifling case,” said Picard. “I’m washed up.”
Veniot’s expression became at once more natural, as he gave up the little show Picard had been observing all day at the Prefecture, put on by those friends of his who tried to conceal the fact they knew he’d been dumped in the turnip bin. “It’s unfortunate,” said Veniot. “Very unfortunate.”
The dizziness hit Picard again, the familiar corridor tilted on its side, and he felt the blood draining from his face. Veniot saw, lent his arm. “Keep moving... you mustn’t fall here... the Prefect’s assistant passes at five for his supper...”
Picard pretended a resolute step, marched blindly forward, Veniot close beside him, down the corridor, into the courtyard. They stood together, Picard breathing deeply, slowly, Veniot watching him closely, his hand still beneath Picard’s elbow.
“Maybe you should rest longer—at a resort.”
Picard brought himself up straight, laid the handle of his cane lightly on Veniot’s granite jaw. “And drink Vichy water.”
“While undressing the maids.”
“I’m better now. The air is what I need. A few more days...”
“We’ll have lunch tomorrow. Something fiery, to thin the blood.”
Picard nodded, moved off slowly, conscious of Veniot’s eyes upon him. He struggled to keep a straight line, made numerous resolutions about his weight, his abstention from lemon tarts. Turning toward the river, he tried to step smartly, establish a military cadence, the rhythm of his best days. There were many strengths to draw upon. The thousand devils rely on a man forgetting his own power, and force him to his knees, forgetful. Walk, Picard, walk and recall the parade ground, the gleam of sabers.
The Church of St. Germain-l’Auxerrois pealed the four o’clock bells. He came to the Seine, crossed the bridge. The water sparkled green, a stream of liquid jade. A barge passed beneath him and then was slowly gone on the water, on and away, into the twilight of the fall afternoon. He walked to St. Michel, stopped at the doorway of the notorious Grotto of Lilacs café. “Closed again, is it?”
“Once again last night,” said the gendarme guarding it, “the cancan dancers exceeded the bounds of decency.”
“To have been there.”
“I myself was present,” said the gendarme, his eyes red and swollen. “There was a conspicuous absence of underwear on the ladies...”
“And will it open again tonight?”
“I’ve been told arrangements are being made about underwear.”
Picard walked on, through the winding streets of the Quarter. On the rue de Savoie he was drawn to a window he’d passed many times before. Now he was attracted by the paper stars and moons and by the legend:
Julsca—Fortune
He stepped closer, until his face was reflected in the glass, his top hat crowned by the crescent moon. Tonight I’m going to be Monsieur Fanjoy, virtuoso in pearls. Perhaps Monsieur Fanjoy is interested in his spiritual fortune as well. Indeed, that is why he’s making a visit to the salon of Ric Lazare, because he’s fascinated by fortune-tellers.
A barefooted little girl greeted him at the doorway, took his hand, and led him without a word into a heavily curtained parlor, where no sun came and a middle-aged gypsy woman sat reading a newspaper.
“Good afternoon,” said Picard.
She laid down the newspaper and turned sleepy eyes upon him, then gestured toward a small table, where two chairs faced each other. She was heavy and coarse-featured and joined him at the table with a deck of dog-eared cards.
“Shuffle,” she said, handing him the deck.
He fancied himself a shark with cards, had been in great games on the desert, beneath canvas, for big sums of money, for homes that had been left behind, for family heirlooms, for anything a soldier might bring forward as a stake. For one hour on the sand, with an attack expected at any moment, he’d owned a major’s villa, six carriages, and a dozen horses, and lost them again on the turn of a card as bullets disintegrated the gambling tent. He shuffled now, mixing the dog-eared cards with lightning speed, but the gypsy woman was not impressed. She had lowered her head and her eyes were closed. He laid the shuffled deck before her, where it remained a moment, until she reached for it, put it to her forehead.
“What is your name?”
He hesitated.
“You have a name,” she said, rubbing her forehead with the edge of the deck.
“Paul Fanjoy.”
She laid four cards out, face up. “This is your first name,” she said, then laid out another row beneath it, again of four, then a third row of six. “This is your last name: F-A-N-J-O-Y. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
She studied the cards for a moment, then pointed to the Three of Coins. “You are a craftsman, skilled in your trade.”
“That is so,” said Picard, smiling.
“And you’re troubled by feelings of mediocrity.”
The smile left his face as quickly as if she had slapped it. She passed her fingers to the next card in the first row. On the bottom of the card was written:
The Fool
“This is your present situation. You are playing the part of the Fool.”
The card showed a jester in belled cap and frivolous costume. Thinking of Monsieur Fanjoy, he felt a distinct discomfort.
“With the Fool is the Queen of Batons. You are a man of common sense, beneath your foolish costume.”
Picard looked into the eyes of the woman. She seemed half asleep, but her words struck with amazing clarity. And yet of course it is the atmosphere of the room, and my own mind, which makes the mood and the associations. It’s good I came here. I’ll be better prepared for Ric Lazare. He w
on’t catch me off guard. I’m already-initiated into the mystery of myself!
“Here is your recent past—the Two of Batons. It’s upside down, indicating sadness. I see you forcibly restrained by someone, an enemy perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” said Picard, feeling the still-red scar on his temple, where Baron Mantes had so forcibly landed the head of a cane. Restrained, indeed.
“Your influence on others,” said the woman, pointing to the Valet of Coins. “You’re a man of deep concentration, and this is felt by all who come within your field. Nonetheless, you have a tendency to overlook obvious facts.”
“Such as?”
“That I cannot say, but beside the Valet is the Cavalier of Coins, indicating limitation because of narrow views. Does that suggest something to you?”
“I’m an enlightened man,” said Picard with a smile. “Or at least I think I am.”
“You will be going into another country soon—it’s here, in the Four of Swords.”
“It’s usual to see some sort of trip, isn’t it?”
The woman looked at him coldly, then pointed to the next card. “Beware of the Hanged Man. You must undergo a change of attitude, a serious transformation, if you are to win.”
“Win?”
“You’re going to encounter black magic, here, beneath the Hanged Man.” She pointed to a card that showed a handsome young man, standing before a table of strange objects, and holding a wand in his hand. “This is the card of the Magician, in the sphere of broad influences. You are going to be deeply moved by magic.”
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