Oscar Wilde and the Dead Man's Smile

by Gyles Brandreth

  ‘That man has killed my son,’ cried Liselotte La Grange. ‘He has killed my grandchildren. He killed my dog, my darling Marie Antoinette. He murdered the blackamoor, too. I know it.’

  ‘You know it?’ asked Brigadier Malthus, returning Maman’s wine glass to her.

  ‘I know it!’ she repeated, holding the glass out towards Dr Ferrand to be refilled. ‘A mother knows.’

  ‘We have only charged him with the murder of Edmond La Grange,’ said Malthus softly.

  ‘He is guilty of them all,’ cried the dead man’s mother.

  ‘But one charge is sufficient,’ said Malthus. ‘One murder is enough. He can only face the guillotine once. A life for a life. That will do.’

  ‘It is certain that it was him?’ asked Eddie Garstrang. ‘There is no doubt?’

  ‘He must have done it,’ I said. ‘We saw him enter the room. No one else was here.’

  ‘He did it,’ screeched the old woman. ‘He was jealous of Edmond all his life. He was envious of us all.’ She drank greedily from her glass and held it out towards Dr Ferrand once more. ‘I never trusted Branco. He’s Spanish.’

  ‘Portuguese,’ Gabrielle de la Tourbillon corrected her.

  ‘He killed them all,’ barked Liselotte La Grange. She looked around the room defiantly. She was more than eighty years of age, but her eyes blazed with rage and drink.

  ‘Is it possible?’ asked Eddie Garstrang. ‘Even the dog?’

  ‘It’s certainly possible,’ said Oscar from the corner of the room. ‘Carlos Branco might have killed the dog as an act of spite, for no other reason than to hurt Maman. He might have murdered Traquair because, for forty years, the great La Grange had the luxury of a personal dresser and he had never had one. Perhaps he also murdered La Grange’s former dresser, the one who died in America. It’s possible …’

  ‘You are right, monsieur,’ said Liselotte La Grange, turning towards Oscar and raising her glass in his direction. ‘Branco hated us because without us he was nothing — just another actor who told funny stories.’

  ‘He was a fine actor,’ murmured Dr Ferrand.

  ‘There are plenty of those,’ snapped Maman. She looked up at the white-haired doctor and her eyes softened. ‘He was a good actor, Pierre. I grant you that. He was more than adequate in the right part.’ She accepted more of the proffered champagne and looked about the room again. She was now holding court exactly as her son was wont to do. ‘Let us agree that this man Branco was a good actor; perfect as Polonius. He was not a great actor. There is a difference. He was not a La Grange —and he knew it. All his life he resented us.’

  ‘He was jealous of the glory of La Grange,’ said Gabrielle softly.

  ‘So he put a stop to it?’ asked Eddie Garstrang. ‘Is that the idea? Sick and tired after a lifetime hearing about the great and glorious family that had dominated French theatre for a century and a half, he murdered them: the father, the son, the daughter. He put an end “to the glory of La Grange” once and for all. Is that it?’

  ‘I believe so,’ answered Brigadier Malthus, narrowing his eyes. ‘Perhaps Monsieur Marais can tell us more. ‘The policeman looked down at the mottled, bald head of the La Grange company’s man of business. ‘When we arrested Branco, he said that you had “heard it all”, Monsieur Marais. What did you hear?’

  ‘I heard nothing,’ answered Marais, looking up at the policeman with watery eyes. ‘I hear nothing.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Oscar, leaning around the cheval mirror to look Marais in the eye, ‘but earlier this evening, in this very room, as I recall, you heard Branco speak.’

  ‘I heard nothing,’ said Marais, looking at Oscar contemptuously. ‘I read his lips — in that looking-glass, as I told you.’

  ‘But in a looking-glass,’ said Oscar quietly, ‘the image is reversed. Can you read moving lips when they are the wrong way round?’

  Marais snorted with derision and turned to Brigadier Malthus. ‘So be it. I can hear a little — when voices are raised. This afternoon I heard Branco and Monsieur La Grange arguing.’

  ‘In here?’ enquired Malthus. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you were with them?’

  ‘I was outside, in the wings.’

  ‘But Branco knew that you were there?’

  ‘He saw me when he came out of the room. ‘‘And Branco knows that you can hear?’

  ‘I can only hear a little, but Branco knows. Yes. He knows my secret. And I know his.’

  ‘And what is his secret?’ asked Brigadier Malthus.

  ‘For twenty years, I have reserved a small percentage of the theatre’s box office takings to myself — to supplement my income. Fifteen years ago, by chance, Monsieur Branco discovered what I was doing. He threatened to tell Monsieur La Grange, unless I agreed to share the proceeds with him.’

  ‘He blackmailed you,’ said Brigadier Malthus quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marais.

  ‘This is no secret, little man!’ snapped Liselotte La Grange. She turned and looked on the small and charm-less figure standing at her side. ‘Edmond knew about your petty larceny, knew about it almost from the start. And he knew that Branco was party to your little subterfuge — that Branco shared in the proceeds. He’s known about the pair of you for years. He knew, and he did not care.

  What you stole from him was chickenfeed. My son’s murder has nothing to do with money, little man.’

  Marais said nothing. Brigadier Malthus put out a hand and touched him on the arm. It was a kindly gesture. ‘I am grateful to you for your confession, monsieur, but I believe Madame La Grange is right,’ he said.

  ‘Of course I’m right,’ cried the old woman. ‘I know what happened. It’s clear what happened. This afternoon, when Carlos Branco wanted tonight’s performance to be cancelled, he was overruled — and humiliated. My son called him an old fool, to his face and before the whole company. It was one humiliation too many. It drove Branco over the edge. When Edmond had finished his speech, he returned to his dressing room and, shortly afterwards, Branco, already in costume, followed him there and shot him, in cold blood. That’s what happened. That’s the truth of it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Inspector Malthus, looking at Liselotte La Grange in admiration, ‘that’s the truth of it.’

  26

  The Higher Truth

  ‘But Carlos Branco did not murder Edmond La Grange.’

  ‘So you say, Mr Wilde,’ replied Brigadier Malthus. ‘Thank you for your telegram. Thank you for coming to see me. You have arrived rather earlier than I expected.’

  ‘I apologise,’ said Oscar. ‘I could not sleep. Forgive me.’

  Malthus pulled together the lapels of his dressing gown with one hand, while beckoning us forward with the other. ‘There is nothing to forgive, except my appearance; and the chaos here and the fact that I have nothing to offer you for breakfast apart from coffee and cigarettes.’

  ‘I can imagine no more civilised start to a day,’ replied Oscar, smiling.

  ‘Then, please, gentlemen, help yourselves,’ said the policeman, with an apologetic shrug, indicating a chest of drawers covered in books and papers on top of which was perched a wooden tray bearing an assortment of cups, an earthenware coffee pot and a tin of Algerian cigarettes. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just finish shaving.’

  It was not yet eight o’clock on the morning following the death of Edmond La Grange. Oscar and I had barely slept. When we had left the theatre it was gone midnight. When we reached Oscar’s hotel on the quai Voltaire, without preamble or explanation, my friend declared that ‘a terrible injustice’ was about to be done and that we must send a wire to Malthus at once. ‘And we must see him at once or it will be too late.’ I looked at him uncomprehending, but all he would say was: ‘A man may die, Robert — and on our say-so. If he does, neither of us deserves to sleep again.’

  Oscar’s telegram reached Brigadier Malthus at the Préfecture of Police on the Ile de la Cité shortly before 2 a.m., just as the officer was conclu
ding a second, brief, interview with Carlos Branco in his cell. On reading the wire, Malthus had sent an immediate reply, inviting Oscar to come to his apartment in the morning.

  It was a beautiful rooftop apartment on the rue d’Arcole, overlooking the cathedral of Notre Dame: a huge, single room, long and wide, with oak-panelled walls and a high plasterwork ceiling. It was filled with furniture and flowers and sunlight. Malthus was evidently a man of taste and learning. There were prints and pictures set up on easels around the room; every surface was covered with papers, books and manuscripts. In one corner of the room a Japanese screen half hid an unmade bed. In another a wooden hatstand carved in the shape of a Russian dancing bear and a complete human skeleton stood side by side, both decked out in assorted items from the policeman’s wardrobe. Malthus appeared to live alone.

  I poured the coffee while Oscar lit a cigarette and Malthus returned to his ablutions. His washstand was set by the open window. Frost-white morning sunshine streamed into the room: a cool breeze blew through billowing white lace curtains. With a dozen quick, clean strokes of his razor, Malthus completed his shaving and bent over the basin to rinse his face. His hair was silver, his eyebrows were grey and full, but his skin was remarkably unlined for a man of his age. He dried his smooth face on a white linen towel and slipped off his dressing gown. He had long, pale, muscular arms, and powerful thighs. His chest and belly were covered in a blanket of soft, white hair. As he pulled on his shirt and trousers, he called out to us to clear the chairs of paperwork and make ourselves at home.

  ‘You are a scholar,’ said Oscar, picking up a pile of papers from an elegant Louis XV parlour chair and placing them carefully on one of the several occasional tables that were spread around the room.

  ‘I am a policeman — with enthusiasms,’ answered Malthus, coming over to join us and clearing a chaise longue of assorted books and bric-à-brac. He sat down on the chaise and leant forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together under his chin. His smile was most beguiling.

  ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ I asked.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he replied.

  ‘You do not seem like a policeman,’ said Oscar, waving away a small cloud of cigarette smoke the better to observe our host.

  Malthus laughed. ‘And you do not seem like a detective, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘I’m not one, alas,’ said Oscar with a mock-heroic sigh. His eyes darted about the room. ‘If I were I would be able to detect your particular field of interest. I’m surrounded by clues, but I can’t tell whether it’s Napoleonic France or Ancient Athens or the Spanish Inquisition that holds you in its thrall.’

  Malthus sat up, amused, and looked around at the volumes piled high on every surface. ‘You are keen-eyed, Mr Wilde. You have scored two bull’s-eyes. I have no interest in the Spanish Inquisition, but France under Bonaparte and Greece in the third century BC are certainly the places where I spend what leisure the Préfecture allows me. Napoleon is my particular hero.’ He turned and nodded towards a framed silhouette of the great Corsican. ‘He founded the Préfecture, you know. When I was a boy I wanted to be a priest. Then I discovered Napoleon and decided to become a policeman.’

  ‘Ne pas oser, c’est ne rien faire qui vaille,’[2] said Oscar lightly.

  Malthus smiled. ‘I am compiling an anthology of Napoleon’s aphorisms, as it happens. He rivalled even you when it came to conjuring up a telling turn of phrase, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘And Epicurus?’ asked Oscar, looking towards the crowded mantelpiece that dominated the room and indicating a small marble bust that stood at one end, its head turned in profile to the room. I had not noticed it until then: it was the head of the Greek philosopher, the identical sculpture to the one that Edmond La Grange kept in his loft on rue de la Pierre Levée.

  ‘Edmond La Grange gave me that,’ said Brigadier Malthus. ‘He gave one to Pierre Ferrand as well. Edmond used to say that Dr Ferrand must have been a descendant of Epicurus, they looked so alike. Encouraged by Edmond, I have been trying to write a life of Epicurus. It’s not been done before — in French, at least. If ever I complete the book, I shall dedicate it to the memory of Edmond La Grange, my friend. He was a true Epicurean — and a great man.’

  ‘He was a great actor, certainly,’ said Oscar, extinguishing his cigarette in the small brass ashtray that Brigadier Malthus passed to him.

  ‘He was a meteor who burned bright and lit up his century.’

  ‘And it was not Carlos Branco who killed him,’ said Oscar emphatically.

  ‘Ah!’ cried Malthus. ‘Revenons à nos moutons.’[3] The police officer got to his feet and fetched his tin of Algerian cigarettes. He offered the tin first to Oscar, then to me. He lit a spill and held it for us while we lit our cigarettes. He resumed his seat and took up his former position, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingers intertwined beneath his chin, his attention focused entirely on my friend. ‘Speak, Mr Wilde. I am listening.’

  ‘Have you charged Branco with La Grange’s murder?’ asked Oscar quietly.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And when will he appear in court?’

  ‘The preliminary hearing will be tomorrow, at ten o’clock. That’s just a formality, of course. The trial proper will follow in two or three weeks, a month at most. It’s a clear-cut case, quite straightforward.’

  ‘Have the papers yet been submitted to the court?’

  Malthus laughed. ‘No, Mr Wilde. We only arrested the man last night! Napoleon had the capacity to toil till dawn, his energy undiminished, his judgement unimpaired, but I am not Napoleon — alas! I’ll be seeing to the paperwork this morning when I get to the office.’

  ‘Then it is not too late,’ murmured Oscar, puffing on his cigarette. ‘Thank God.’ He leant earnestly towards Brigadier Malthus. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I beg you: withdraw the charge.’

  Brigadier Malthus threw out his arms: ‘But why, Mr Wilde? Carlos Branco is guilty.’ He glanced towards the window. ‘It’s as clear as daylight.’ He looked between us both and straightened his back as he asserted his authority. ‘Branco had the motive, the means, the opportunity; and with your own eyes you saw him enter La Grange’s dressing room moments before the fatal shot was fired. You told me so.’ Malthus tilted his head in my direction and smiled. ‘Mr Sherard told me so. I have your statements.’

  ‘Tear them up!’ cried Oscar. He sprang to his feet and began to pace the room. Oscar Wilde had both friends and close relations who were barristers: he was an instinctive advocate himself. Over the next several minutes he addressed Malthus as he might have done a judge and jury at London’s Old Bailey. He spoke rapidly and, as he spoke, I noticed a trace of the Irish accent of his boyhood return. ‘Carlos Branco had a motive, I grant you that. Resentment. Branco was a fine actor who spent his life in the shadow of a great one. Madame La Grange had her poodle; Edmond La Grange had his Polonius. For forty years Branco played second fiddle to the great virtuoso, humbled and humiliated by him in turn. No doubt Carlos Branco’s resentment of Edmond La Grange bubbled and festered within him for years; but you can resent a man, you can hate a man, without murdering him.’ Oscar stopped in his tracks and looked Brigadier Malthus in the eye. ‘Branco denies the murder, does he not?’

  ‘He does,’ said the brigadier, looking up at Oscar with a half-raised eyebrow. He seemed both gripped and amused by Oscar’s performance. ‘Branco denies the murder, absolutely.’

  ‘But he admits the larceny?’ asked Oscar. ‘He was certainly complicit in Marais’s fraud. We’re sure of that. And he concedes as much, does he not?’

  ‘He does,’ said Malthus. ‘He acknowledges that he has been taking money from Richard Marais, week in, week out, for fifteen years. He claims that La Grange won all the money back — and more — playing him at cards.’

  Oscar laughed. ‘I believe Carlos Branco is telling you the truth, Brigadier Malthus. Carlos Branco did not kill Edmond La Grange.’

  ‘So you keep saying, Mr Wilde. I hear
you! But if Carlos Branco did not kill Edmond La Grange, who did?’

  ‘Edmond La Grange killed himself.’

  Malthus’s brow furrowed. I held my breath. Oscar walked quietly to the window and stood gazing out over the flying buttresses of Notre Dame.

  The policeman got to his feet and helped himself to another cigarette. ‘Why, Mr Wilde? Why should Edmond La Grange kill himself?’

  Oscar turned and stood framed in the window casement. The light behind him was so bright we could no longer see his face. ‘Because the game was up,’ he said simply. ‘The long run was over. The golden age of the Théâtre La Grange was ended — and he was the man responsible. Like Samson, he brought the temple down upon himself.’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ said Malthus, shaking his head and drawing slowly on his cigarette. I was bewildered equally, but I said nothing.

  Oscar continued: ‘Edmond La Grange was a man to whom nothing mattered but the theatre — and his place in it. Do you agree?’

  Malthus hesitated. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s true.’

  ‘He was a great actor and, when he chose to be, a genial enough companion.’

  ‘He was my friend,’ protested Malthus. ‘We were at school together.’

  ‘And you are loyal to his memory, as a consequence. That does you credit, sir. But how well do we know the friends of our childhood? Because they have always been there, perhaps we cease to see them as they really are. I encountered Edmond La Grange only recently. I admired his genius; I enjoyed his company; but I recognised him for what he was.’

  ‘He was unique.’

  ‘No. As an actor, he was very special — up there with Bernhardt and with Irving. And as a man he was unusual — a phenomenon of a kind, but not unique. I did not know him as you did, as a friend from boyhood whose peculiar nature you took for granted. I observed him as an outsider given privileged access to his inner circle. I found that Edmond La Grange was a man with no morals, no scruples, no code of conduct beyond that of his own devising. People meant nothing to him. He shared his mistress with all-comers. He didn’t have friends: he had card-playing cronies who played on his territory on his terms. Money meant little to him. He allowed Marais — and Carlos Branco — to steal from him for years. All that mattered to Edmond La Grange was the pleasure of the moment and his place in the theatre: the La Grange heritage. He kept his mother beneath his roof — he tolerated her intolerable presence — not because he loved her, but because she was his father’s wife and bore his name. La Grange mocked his mother, despised her as a woman. But he’d not rid himself of her because she was part of his heritage.’