‘“The Swedish Nightingale”,’ muttered Maman contemptuously. ‘She married a Jew.’
‘May I hold the gun?’ I asked.
La Grange released the hammer carefully and passed the revolver to me. It was heavier than I expected and rough to the touch. I turned it over in my hands and then lifted it up and pointed it towards the ceiling. I put my finger on the trigger and, as I did so, from the corner of the room came a sudden piercing scream. It was Liselotte La Grange, bent forward, clinging to the sideboard with one hand, and with the other gesticulating wildly towards the floor.
‘What is it?’ demanded La Grange, turning to her.
The old woman did not reply. She simply screamed more loudly and pointed at the poodle at her feet. The creature lay, motionless, on her side.
‘Is the dog dead?’ cried Oscar, staring aghast at the animal on the floor. ‘Has another dog died?’
Together, La Grange, Richard Marais and Eddie Garstrang got to their feet and moved as one towards the corner of the room. La Grange took his hysterical mother in his arms and held her tight. ‘Sshh, Maman. Du calme,’ he commanded.
Marais and Garstrang bent down to attend to the dog. ‘She’s breathing,’ said Marais, resting his head against the animal’s flank. ‘There’s a pulse. She’s alive.’
Maman was no longer shrieking or wailing. She was sobbing and struggling for breath, while, at the same time, with small, angry, clenched fists, beating her son’s back. I did not warm to her, but I sensed her distress.
‘The poor wretch can’t move,’ hissed Marais. ‘She’s very weak. It must have been a heart attack — or a stroke.’
‘No!’
‘No!’
Oscar and Eddie Garstrang spoke at once. Oscar was on his feet now, hovering by the dog. Garstrang was on his knees, with his head bent low to the ground. He was sniffing along the edge of the door that led to the dresser’s bedroom. ‘It’s gas,’ Garstrang murmured. ‘It’s a gas leak.’
‘Pull her away.’ With both hands, he pulled the animal away from the door and pushed her body towards Richard Marais. The dog remained inert. She made no sound. Her eyes were open and looked up towards Richard Marais pathetically. The bald, deaf man looked down at the dog and, with an effort, he scooped her into his arms.
‘There’s gas escaping beneath the door,’ said Garstrang. He jumped to his feet and fumbled with the door handle. He turned it this way and that. The door would not yield. ‘It’s locked,’ he cried. ‘Is there a key?’
Maman began to sob uncontrollably. ‘I don’t know, ‘called La Grange. ‘There must be.’
Eddie Garstrang turned to me. ‘Give me the gun,’ he ordered. He spoke the command with an authority that brooked no argument. I handed him the revolver and, in a single movement, he swept it from my hand, turned towards the door and fired a shot into the door-lock. Instantly, the door to the dresser’s cubicle swung open and, at once, we saw the horror within.
Lying on the divan, propped up on a bolster so that his head was exactly below the unlighted gas jet fixed halfway up the bedroom wall, was Washington Traquair.
‘He’s dead!’ whispered Oscar. ‘I know it.’ As he spoke, the black valet’s left arm jerked into the air and fell across his face.
9
The Smell of Death
‘He’s been dead some while,’ said Dr Ferrand.
‘Certainly for two hours, more probably for three.’
‘But I saw his hand move as we came into the room, I protested.
‘It was as if he were waving farewell,’ said Oscar, almost to himself. ‘Waving farewell — or calling for help.’
The doctor smiled. He had a kindly demeanour and warm, brown eyes. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said gently.
‘But I saw his hand move,’ I repeated.
‘The arm may have twitched as rigor mortis was setting in,’ said the doctor. ‘It happens.’ He chuckled softly and scratched his chin through his thick, bushy beard. He was dressed in a physician’s frock-coat, with black trousers, black waistcoat, black shoes and black bag, but his cheeks were pink and his eyebrows snow-white. He had the face of Santa Claus. ‘That’s why the Paris morgue has so many visitors,’ he added. ‘People are fascinated to see the dead move.’ He gazed down on the still cadaver of Washington Traquair. ‘The dead move quite a bit, you know. At first, as rigor mortis arrives, it’s just a twitch or a tremor, but then, as much as three days later, as the rigor evaporates and the muscles relax, you can see arms and legs moving in all directions. I’ve seen dead men suddenly sit bolt upright on the mortician’s slab. Quite disconcerting if you’re not expecting it.’
He turned to Edmond La Grange. He knew the old actor well. The two men were of an age. Pierre Ferrand had been playing cards with Edmond La Grange since their schooldays. They were boyhood friends. The doctor had a house — and a wife and children and grandchildren — in the elegant suburbs, at Passy, to the west of the city, but he had a pied-à-terre above the Théâtre La Grange. It was just one small room within the vast apartment, but it was his second home. Ferrand spent as much time chez La Grange as he did chez lui. It took less than two minutes from the instant when Eddie Garstrang’s bullet burst open the door to Traquair’s death-cell for the good doctor to be on the scene. He came at once, at La Grange’s command, summoned by the bell that connected the actor’s dressing room with the doctor’s bedroom. And so steady and reassuring did he seem — so like Father Christmas with the healing touch! — that, the moment he appeared among us, his simple presence brought order to chaos, calm to pandemonium. Even Maman fell silent.
‘Edmond,’ he said to La Grange quietly, ‘do you have a shawl or a coverlet I could use?’
La Grange went to his dressing table and picked up a folded linen towel. He passed it to his friend. The doctor took the towel, unfurled it and, with care, laid it over the dead man’s head and shoulders. That was the last I saw of Washington Traquair.
‘Come, gentlemen,’ said Dr Ferrand, ‘let us leave this unhappy soul. He is beyond our help.’ We had all crowded into the dresser’s tiny room and clustered around his death-bed. Now Ferrand ushered us back into La Grange’s dressing room. Oscar was the last to move. ‘Come, Monsieur Wilde. Close the door. No further harm can come to the poor wretch now.’
I watched as Oscar came out of the dresser’s cubicle and pulled the door to behind him. Because the lock had been broken by Garstrang’s bullet, the door would not close. It stood ajar, and over the next half-hour, as we discussed the awful death of the unhappy young valet, I saw Oscar’s eyes — perturbed as well as full of sorrow —turn again and again to stare at the half-opened door.
Liselotte La Grange was now seated on the chaise longue. She appeared to have recovered her composure, and her pet poodle, lying next to her on Richard Marais’s lap, appeared to be recovering her strength. The dog sniffed and yawned and stretched, and when Maman gently stroked the underside of the animal’s jaw, the Princesse de Lamballe’s long wet tongue emerged, gratefully and energetically, to lick her mistress’s spindly fingers.
La Grange resumed his place at his dressing table, turning his back to the room and speaking, when he spoke, to our reflections in his looking-glass. Oscar and Eddie Garstrang stood side by side, leaning against the dressing-room door that led to the stage. I stood with Dr Ferrand by the sideboard. He noticed the samovar and touched it lightly with his hand. ‘Will the tea still be hot?’ he asked. ‘We could all do with a cup of hot sweet tea. This has been a shocking experience.’
‘We have no muffins,’ said Liselotte La Grange tartly, ‘but there is plenty of tea. I prepared it myself.’
‘Don’t move, Maman,’ murmured Dr Ferrand soothingly. He glanced at me and smiled. ‘This young man and I will see that everyone is served.’
‘I thought that tea was the English response to tragedy,’ said Oscar. He looked at Ferrand who was now busying himself at the samovar. ‘Doctor, should we not be calling the police?’
Eve
n as Oscar spoke, simultaneously, La Grange and his mother cried out, ‘No!’ La Grange banged his hand on his dressing table so forcefully that the row of bottles of liquid make-up and cologne and eau de toilette ranged in front him rattled and clanked as they rocked from side to side.
‘All in good time, Monsieur Wilde,’ said the doctor. ‘There may be no need for the police.’
‘There is no need for the police,’ hissed La Grange.
Oscar looked at the old actor through the looking-glass. ‘You are not to blame, Monsieur La Grange. I am. I brought Traquair to this country. I encouraged him. I had a duty of care which I failed to exercise. I am responsible.’
‘Take some tea, Monsieur Wilde,’ said Ferrand, handing Oscar a cup. ‘Calm yourself. I have heard you say that thought is more important than action. Well, let us think carefully before we do anything that we may come to regret.’ He looked around the room to ascertain that everyone had been given a fresh cup of tea. He returned to the sideboard and opened his black leather bag. ‘Before I sign the death certificate, let us establish the facts.’ He took out a sheaf of papers and a pencil. ‘Will someone tell me what exactly happened?’
‘It’s very simple.’ Eddie Garstrang spoke. ‘We gathered here for tea just after five o’clock.’
‘There were to be muffins,’ muttered Liselotte La Grange.
‘Traquair had gone for muffins,’ said Edmond La Grange.
‘We took tea,’ Eddie Garstrang continued. ‘We made conversation. Then Madame La Grange noticed that her dog was ill. The animal had fallen into a sort of coma on the floor, over there, by the door to the dresser’s room. I went over, I put my nose to the ground, I sensed the fumes. Monsieur Marais took care of the dog and I opened the door—’
‘With the gun?’ interjected the doctor, looking at the Colt revolver that now lay on La Grange’s dressing table.
‘The door was locked,’ explained Garstrang.
‘From the inside?’ asked Ferrand.
‘I presume so,’ said Garstrang.
‘It would seem so,’ said Oscar, holding up a small iron key. ‘I found this in Traquair’s room, on the floor by the divan.’
The doctor stepped forward and took the key from Oscar. He placed it inside his bag and turned to Eddie Garstrang. ‘How was the body when you found it?’
‘Exactly as it is now. Nothing’s been moved.’
‘The head was propped up against the bolster, so that his mouth and nose pointed towards the jet of gas?’
‘Yes.’
‘And when you entered the room, the gas was still escaping?’
‘Yes,’ said Garstrang.
‘Yes,’ echoed Oscar. ‘In the room you could hear its hiss.’
‘Who turned off the gas?’ asked the doctor.
‘I did,’ answered Garstrang. ‘At once. The moment I stepped into the room.’
‘Was the tap stiff? Was it easy to turn off?’
‘One twist — that’s all it took.’
Dr Ferrand dug his fingers into his beard, scratched his chin, and sighed. ‘So the poor man went into his room, locked the door, lay down on the divan, turned on the gas and waited to die …’
A silence fell.
‘Why did we not smell the gas?’ I asked. ‘Why were we not overwhelmed by it?’
‘Carbon monoxide has no odour, no colour, no taste,’ said the doctor. He smiled. ‘It makes a perfect poison.’
‘But in England the town gas has an odour,’ I said putting down my teacup and looking the doctor in the eye. ‘I’m sure that it does.’
‘In England, I believe,’ said the doctor, returning my gaze, ‘a foul-smelling substance is added to the gas — for safety’s sake. We don’t do that here.’
‘In England, I believe,’ said Richard Marais from his place on the chaise longue, ‘suicide is still illegal. In France, suicide is not a crime. It hasn’t been since the revolution. The unfortunate Traquair has not offended in the eyes of the law.’
‘You see,’ said Maman, beaming beatifically, ‘there is no need to call the police.’
‘But why weren’t we poisoned by the gas as well?’ I persisted.
‘You would have been in time,’ said the doctor, with a little laugh.
‘But even as the door was blown open and we entered the room, I didn’t feel any ill-effects.’
‘Carbon monoxide is odourless, colourless, tasteless, mon ami — and its initial effect is one of exhilaration.’
‘The dog chased her tail before she fell to the floor,’ said Richard Marais. He tugged affectionately at the Princesse de Lamballe’s ears. The dog yawned appreciatively and then snapped her teeth.
Oscar dropped the end of his lighted cigarette into his teacup and placed the cup carefully on top of a wooden trunk that stood alongside La Grange’s dressing table. ‘Doctor,’ he asked, ‘you say that Traquair died two to three hours ago? Are you certain of that?’
‘The poor fellow was a blackamoor. It’s not so easy to read all the signs because of the colour of his skin, but the onset of rigor suggests that it cannot have been less than two hours ago and I think it more likely to have been three.’
Oscar leant towards Edmond La Grange. ‘When did you send Traquair to find the muffins?’
The actor sighed and rested his eye sockets on his clenched fists. ‘Three hours ago.’ He looked up at Oscar through the looking-glass and corrected himself. ‘No, four — at least. I told him to fetch the muffins at two o’clock. Once he’d dressed me for the performance, I let him go.’
‘And did you see him again?’
Edmond La Grange swivelled slowly round on his stool and gazed up at Oscar Wilde. ‘Young man, you are a fine poet and an amusing companion. You have a feeling for Shakespeare that is rare and that I value greatly. But it is clear to me — transparently clear — that you know nothing — nothing — of the life and responsibilities of a leading actor. I have spent this afternoon playing Pierre Corneille’s masterpiece, Le Cid, to a full house. The comings and goings of my dresser at the time were not of paramount concern to me.’
‘Of course,’ said Oscar apologetically, bowing his head towards the actor and stepping back to his position by the door. ‘I understand.’
‘Thank you.’ La Grange smiled and breathed deeply and threw back his shoulders. ‘Tonight, thank God, we have a comedy: Molière’s L’Avare. I must ready myself— if you’ll excuse me.’ He swung back towards the mirror and looked down at his dressing table. He picked up the revolver, wrapped it in a handkerchief and placed it in the top drawer to his right, alongside a pair of silver hairbrushes. He glanced up at the mirror. He caught my eye. ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘will you help dress me tonight? I’d be obliged.’ His eyes moved around the rest of the room. ‘Maman, gentlemen,’ he said, dismissing the party, ‘there’s work to be done.’
‘And the body?’ asked Dr Ferrand. ‘What shall we do with the body?’
‘Dispose of it. Once I’m on stage. Do what you like.’
The doctor nodded and, shrugging his shoulders, dropped his pencil and sheaf of papers back into his bag. With a yelp, the Princesse de Lamballe scrambled onto the floor and shook herself as Richard Marais and Eddie Garstrang helped Maman to her feet.
‘Once you are on stage,’ asked Oscar quietly, ‘may we call the police then?’
‘No! No! No!’
In his rage, Edmond La Grange banged his fists upon his dressing table and with a sweep of his right arm propelled everything before him — cups, saucers, bottles, brushes — onto the floor. He turned to Oscar and roared:
‘Do you know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you understand nothing? This is a theatre, my friend — it’s a house of cards. One puff of scandal and it comes tumbling down.’ He placed one hand upon his heart and threw out the other towards his mother. ‘We are actors, Oscar, we are pariahs. We are the fallen — we are excommunicate. We are the damned. In England, it may be different. There your actors hobnob with royalty, I know. Here, the
President of the Republic would not be seen to break bread with the leading player of the Comédie-Française. We wretched theatricals are like Jews and blackamoors: we cannot mix with respectable society. In our place, in our playhouses, we are useful enough, we serve our purpose; but we are not to be trusted. Bring the police in here and what little reputation we have goes by the board.’
‘The police have never had any business with the Théâtre La Grange,’ said Maman, looking at Oscar with gimlet eyes.
Oscar blanched and stepped back towards the door. ‘I feel a responsibility towards Traquair,’ he murmured, ‘that is all.’
‘Enough,’ said Dr Ferrand, snapping shut his black bag and taking command of the room. ‘Let us leave Monsieur in peace. He must prepare for his performance.’ He spread out his arms and, like a farmer’s wife shooing geese across a barnyard, ushered Maman and Marais and the Princesse de Lamballe, and Eddie Garstrang and Oscar out of the dressing room and into the wings. As he pulled the door to behind him, he looked back and smiled at the old actor still seated at his dressing table. ‘I will arrange everything, Edmond — as always. Have no fear.’
I spent the next several hours alone with Edmond La Grange. It was a curious experience. I do not believe that he even knew my name, but he treated me as an intimate, as though I had been his personal dresser for years. He called me ‘mon petit’. As soon as the others had left the room, he got up from his stool and stood before me with arms outstretched and legs astride. The anger of a moment before was all gone. ‘You may undress me, mon petit,’ he announced, speaking of the task as if it were a privilege. I did as I was told. My fumbling with his buttons appeared to amuse him. ‘Frédéric Lemaître had a pirate for a dresser,’ he told me as I unbuckled him. ‘The wretch only had three fingers on one hand and a hook for the other. Did you ever see Lemaitre on stage? He always looked immaculate!’ When he stepped out of his drawers, he stood stark naked in front of his cheval mirror and preened himself. His belly was low slung and slack. He slapped it with pride. He turned his profile to the looking-glass and glanced across his shoulder towards his grey and mottled buttocks. He placed his left hand on his hip and with his right complacently caressed his private parts. He held his member out towards me. ‘We have done the state some service,’ he chuckled, winking at me. ‘Do you have a sweetheart, young man?’ he asked.
Oscar Wilde and the Dead Man's Smile Page 10