Nathalie looked over her shoulder every few steps and didn’t walk the streets unaccompanied. Just in case everyone was wrong about the disappearance of the murderess. Just in case she still wanted Nathalie’s blood.
As the search languished in futility, Paris’s attention shifted to another murderer: Henri Pranzini. Before the Dark Artist and Zoe Klampert stole headlines, Pranzini slashed two women as well as the twelve-year-old girl who witnessed his brutal crime. He had been the killer everyone talked about in cafés and on steam trams and omnibuses. Now, with his execution slated for the last day of August, the ink was spilled for him once again.
Nathalie would be among those to spill it: M. Patenaude had asked her to write an account of the execution. He’d assigned several journalists to do the same, each with a different focus. Hers was to be a reflection piece through the eyes of someone witnessing their first execution.
And it was a strange thing. Initially Nathalie had been looking forward to this when the death sentence was announced in July. At the time she was merely intrigued and anticipated satisfaction in seeing a murderer beheaded. It was something to witness, to be part of, to take part in like the morgue and the wax museum.
Death meant something different these days, though. She’d been so immersed in its grim, heart-wrenching, and terrifying realities that the spectacle of it had become much less palatable. Would she go to watch Pranzini die if M. Patenaude hadn’t assigned her to it? Her answer changed every time she posed the question to herself.
The day before the execution, Nathalie was dusting her shelves and moved the bottle of sand from Agnès to the side. Bottles and jars, jars and bottles. Who knew containers could hold not only things but also significance?
The Dark Artist never had justice handed to him, she thought. He never had to account for his crimes, never had to take responsibility for killing Agnès and five other girls. She remembered wishing for his capture and execution someday. A sentiment that seemed so very long ago, and yet it wasn’t.
At least he was dead. Mme. la Tuerie was not. As she so cleverly reminded everyone in her letter with the silk.
That woman was somewhere, and her crimes would follow her. The truth would stalk her.
Nathalie slid the bottle of sand back to its normal place, leaving her hand there a moment.
Bottles and jars. Jars and bottles.
Her uncertainty about attending an execution for entertainment would never be extended to Zoe Klampert. Not now, not ever. Nathalie didn’t care if she herself was fifty years old when Mme. la Tuerie got caught. She’d be there, witnessing the guillotine drop.
* * *
The day before the execution, late in the afternoon, a gaunt, uniformed man with a skinny moustache showed up at the apartment. “I’m a courier from the pneumatic post. Are you Mademoiselle Baudin?”
Nathalie nodded. She’d never gotten a pneu before; sending a capsule through the underground system of air pressure tubes was expensive. Only urgent, important messages were sent that way.
The courier handed her a carte télégramme and stood with his hands behind his back as she read.
I need your help—your ability. I have an idea that I hope will bring us closer to catching ZK. If you’re inclined, meet me at the bank on Rue Gerbier after the execution. From there we’ll go to the morgue.
Respectfully,
C.
He needed her to have a vision? Why at that hour? She’d be going there anyway later in the day, as usual. Maybe there had been another murder, another Insightful, and Zoe Klampert was the suspect.
The courier handed her a pencil and a reply card.
Of course. I assure you it would be my honor to assist. Until tomorrow.
With warm regards, I remain,
N.
49
“I can’t believe we have cards for the inner circle,” said Simone. “Louis was disappointed you couldn’t get one for him, but he’ll be watching with his Guillotine Boys, as he calls them, in their usual spot. I told him I’d meet up with them afterward.”
It was four o’clock in the morning—by custom executions took place before sunrise—and they were heading by foot to La Roquette Prison. It was near Père Lachaise, not far from the apartment. Papa escorted them, trailing a few steps behind.
Nathalie and Simone bubbled with conversation, both about the execution and about the meeting with Christophe afterward. They were in the midst of making plans for tomorrow night—Nathalie was going to sleep over at Simone’s, and Louis would escort her there—when Papa interrupted them.
“I’m going up this way,” Papa said, pointing to a side street. “Ma bichette, you’re sure you want to go to the morgue? You can say no.”
“I want to do it. I’m certain.”
Papa kissed her on the cheek with a shrug, promising to meet her at the bank, just in case she changed her mind.
The crowd outside La Roquette Prison swelled with apprehension and grim excitement. Gaslights stood above them like watchmen. Most people were pushed to the side streets, but Nathalie and Simone showed credentials and were admitted to an area with a better view.
They merged with the mass of people seeking the best vantage point and finally settled on a spot. It wasn’t as close as they’d hoped—how early had those people arrived?—but it was near enough that they could see the guillotine well. Little flames from kerosene lamps in the crowd danced throughout the square like ill-mannered, nervous guests.
They waited for an hour that seemed like two. Then the executioner appeared. Broad and tall, just as Nathalie expected an executioner to be. She wondered who he was. Why he chose this profession. If he liked it. If he slept well.
The executioner tugged a pulley and drew up the angled metal blade, then secured it. Ominous and horrible, the guillotine rested there, waiting for release.
The crowd went silent as the gate creaked open. Some people raised their hats, others blessed themselves. One man made the sign of the cross in the direction of the guillotine blade.
The gendarmes raised their swords, then Pranzini came into view. His hands were bound behind his back and his ankles fettered.
Simone nudged Nathalie. “Is he smiling?”
“That sounds like something the Dark Artist would have done. Or Madame la Tuerie.” Nathalie squinted. “He is! How defiant.”
A priest, walking backward with a crucifix extended, led Pranzini onto the scaffold. The murderer kissed the crucifix.
Nathalie crossed her arms. “I’m surprised that crucifix didn’t burst into flame.”
“It might yet,” said Simone.
The executioner placed Pranzini into position.
“SHAME!” yelled someone from the crowd. Others chimed in, and a wave of whistles and hisses overtook the crowd.
The blade released and Pranzini’s head tumbled into a trough.
Simone clutched Nathalie’s arm.
Nathalie’s mouth went agape. She clutched Simone’s hand with her own, never taking her eyes off the scene. “I expected it to be fast, but…”
“Life. Then…” Simone took her hand off Nathalie and snapped her fingers. “Death.”
A guard retrieved Pranzini’s head and tossed it into a basket. Sawdust, if Nathalie remembered what she’d read correctly. One minute he was breathing, the next he was in a basket of sawdust beside the rest of his body.
“My goodness, we were close enough to hear it fall! Louis is going to be so jealous when I tell him.” Simone hooked her elbow around Nathalie’s. “What did you think of it all?”
Nathalie shifted her gaze from the scaffold to Simone. “I’m repulsed.”
“By him or the guillotine?”
“Both,” said Nathalie. The execution was appalling, yet somehow a relief. She felt it in the crowd. “Despite my reservations, seeing it was satisfying.”
The crowd flowed like water afterward, people slowly moving in every direction. Nathalie and Simone filed into the herd and shuffled along for a few minute
s when Nathalie’s eyes started to wander. The cusp of dawn bathed everything in shadows and orange-gray hues. She watched a squat man who walked like he was moving furniture, a bent-over beggar woman in a brown cloak, then observed a haggard man having a heated argument with himself.
“There’s Louis,” said Simone, nudging Nathalie. “If you make an incredible discovery at the morgue, consider making a special trip to the club to share it with your good friend Simone. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow night. Good luck!”
Nathalie smiled and said good-bye, waved to Louis, and turned onto Rue Gerbier. She spotted Christophe a few dozen meters ahead, leaning against a gaslight as the stream of Parisians passed. Papa wasn’t there yet.
The man arguing with himself wandered back in her direction and walked against the crowd. Someone pushed him out of the way, and Nathalie stepped back to let him pass. The beggar woman came up next to her, shaking her cup. Nathalie, taken aback by her stench, ignored her and kept going. The woman was persistent. Papa always said not to engage beggars, because he’d been robbed by them on two occasions. But sometimes a beggar would follow and follow until you gave them something.
Nathalie reached in her pocket for a few centimes. She tossed them in the cup and the woman clasped her hand in gratitude. Nathalie pulled her hand away and for the first time, looked the beggar in the eye. Her face was coated in soot and dirt but her eyes—
She’d seen those eyes before.
Eyes she saw peeping over a fan at Père Lachaise, and eyes that glared at her every day this week from the pages of Le Petit Journal.
And then you did the strangest thing. Aunt Brigitte, extending her hand to show Nathalie what happened in the dream.
Time became solid and ceased to be. Or turned into water and disappeared into the earth. It was no longer time in that moment.
Zoe Klampert narrowed her eyes with a sneer.
A challenge.
Nathalie grabbed her wrist. The woman writhed out of her grip with surprising force. She’s strong.
Zoe shoved her off balance and raced away.
Nathalie gave chase to her; an elderly woman blocked her way. “Shame on you. What kind of person goes after a beggar?”
“That’s Zoe Klampert!” She wriggled herself free and ran into the dim light. Everything was shadows and half-lit faces and tricks of the light. Then she saw Zoe pass under a gaslamp. Nathalie weaved in and out of the crowd, gaining on her.
Several people turned their heads in confusion as Nathalie sprinted by. Zoe crossed a street and Nathalie stepped off the curb, just meters away. “Help! Zoe Klampert the killer!”
A dozen or so young men cut off her path, laughing and yelling and smelling of alcohol. One of the men hooked his elbow around hers. “Pranzini is dead! Come celebrate with us!”
Nathalie unhooked herself and stumbled away as they laughed. She searched the street and saw the swish of a robe disappear into an alley. Nathalie dashed in after her.
Zoe halted, back turned. She hesitated for a moment then faced Nathalie again, thrusting a vial of colorless liquid between them. “Hydrochloric acid. It’ll burn a hole through anything it touches. Including skin.”
Nathalie took a step back.
“You want to scream now.” She tilted the vial from side to side. “I do know what you’re thinking. One touch of the hand, and I can read a mind. Thanks to that invalid whose misery I ended the other day and a refreshing injection of his blood.”
Nathalie’s voice died in her throat. Think.
“No, don’t think. I’m in your head, remember?” Zoe pulled the cloak off her head. “I spent the last few days in Monsieur Gagnon’s mind—he’s quite fond of you, by the way—and what an advantage that has been. That and the fact that beggars are invisible to most people. Otherwise I never would have known about Christophe’s plan.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“I’m not,” Zoe said, putting her hand over her heart. “The invalid hasn’t been buried yet. Body is still in refrigeration. Christophe had it put on a slab to give you a private showing this morning. To see if you’d have one of your visions. I don’t know what exactly you see, but I couldn’t have you learning anything about me.”
Nathalie’s brow furrowed. I hate you.
“Well, I don’t much care for you, either. Useful gift, isn’t it? I think I might have managed to replicate it in the lab, too.” She pointed to Nathalie’s head. “And I plan to stay there a few days before killing you. I need context for the blood experiments I need to run on the rare species Natural Insightful.”
“Nathalie?” Simone’s voice behind her. Nathalie turned to see Simone and Louis gathered at the entrance to the alley, little more than silhouettes in the emerging light.
“One step toward her,” Zoe hissed, “and I shatter this at her feet.”
Nathalie cleared her throat. “Do—do as she says. It’s acid.”
Louis ran away.
Coward.
“He is a coward,” said Zoe. “Most men are, when you look closely.”
Nathalie faced Zoe again. “You could have killed me in Notre-Dame.”
“And collect your blood in the middle of a church?” She shook her head. “No, that was just a warning. I was upset about the apartment—fleeing was inconvenient. But you told me you were going. Well, you told your friend over there.”
Nathalie was still formulating the question in her mind when Zoe answered it.
“Extraordinary hearing,” she said, tugging at an earlobe. “A gift from Damien. Or as you call him, the Dark Artist.”
“Here.” Nathalie pulled back her sleeve and exposed her wrist. “Take my blood now. You—you don’t have to kill me.”
Zoe held up the vial. “I’d need to fill about thirty of these to do what I want to do.”
“Stop.” Another voice from behind.
Fear sailed across Zoe’s face. A ship in a storm.
Nathalie turned and saw a policeman with his pistol raised. Christophe and Louis stood behind him.
That’s why Louis ran. To get help.
“Not a coward after all, Madame la Tuerie,” said Simone.
Zoe dashed down the alley and out the other side, smashing the glass tube somewhere along the way. They barreled after her, leaping over trash and a pile of clothes, closing the gap quickly. Zoe hooked a right into the crowd. Nathalie sprang forward and grabbed a piece of her robe to slow her down. The policeman reached them and took Zoe by the arm.
A man with a kerosene lamp stopped by and shone his light on them. “Mon Dieu! Is that Zoe Klampert?”
“What’s that?” said another man. “Zoe Klampert?”
“Stay back,” said Christophe, putting his hand up. “Albert, use the whipcords.”
Christophe pinned her wrists behind her back as Albert took out the handcuffs. The name Zoe Klampert rippled through the crowd. She flailed and kicked as Albert tried to secure her. The crowd pressed in, surrounding them.
“Excusez-nous,” said Christophe, raising his voice.
Albert spoke even louder. “Give us room.”
But the crowd drew closer.
Nathalie burned with panic, worried that the people would get in the way, that somehow Zoe would escape and outrun all of them in the darkness and go on tormenting her and Paris and—
“Murderer!” someone yelled.
A young man charged Zoe, flanked by two women, and knocked her off balance. More people joined the fray and yanked Zoe away from Christophe and the policeman.
Zoe thrashed like a fish. The gaslight nearby threw just enough light for Nathalie to see her expression.
Pure terror.
Good.
She stepped closer to get an even better look. Their eyes locked briefly as Zoe screamed for help. A plea? How dare she?
Nathalie lunged to join the attack and was jerked back by both arms.
“No,” said Simone, pulling Nathalie close.
Louis adjusted his grip. “You don’t want any part
of that.”
Someone from the mob lost his balance. He fell at their feet, bounced up, and reentered the chaos. Christophe took an elbow to the chin trying to peel someone away. Nathalie winced.
Zoe was invisible; so many people surrounded her Nathalie could only hear her cries.
“My work will change the world! Don’t kill—” The crowd swarmed over her like hungry ants. The revelers from the other block passed by, saw what was going on, and joined in.
Zoe was cowering on the ground when the frenzy of violence and anger burst. Nathalie heard garbled, futile repetition of “My work!” before the murderess was silenced.
The crowd devoured her. They stepped on her. Slapped. Spit. Kicked. Pinned. Punched. Cursed.
By the time more policemen came over and broke it up, Zoe Klampert was beaten, bloodied, and limp.
And dead.
50
Nathalie gawked at the corpse.
She’d stared at and studied dead bodies all summer. She’d had visions and nightmares about them.
Yet for a second, she wasn’t sure if the puddle of flesh and limbs and blood that used to be Zoe Klampert was a corpse at all. When is a body no longer a corpse?
Christophe placed his hand on her back and asked how she was doing. Dazed, she answered with a shrug. How was she doing? She didn’t know. She wouldn’t know until enough time passed for people to stop asking her. “I’m glad she’s dead. How—how did you find us?”
“Louis’s red hair, actually.” He touched a cut on his chin. “I saw some activity in the crowd and moved toward it. Then I saw Louis get Albert and followed. Louis told me you were with her in an alley.”
He shrugged in defeat, as if this were somehow his fault.
“I was so close I could see you when she came up to me.” Nathalie felt like she was describing a strange dream. Had this really just happened? “At first I didn’t know what was going on, then I had this horrific moment of clarity. All—all I could think of was chasing her.”
“Clarity?”
She guided him off to the side, where there were fewer people, and explained everything. Zoe had been right, she learned, about Hugo Pichon’s body in the morgue. Christophe admitted, with no small measure of embarrassment, that he didn’t recall a specific encounter with a beggar because they were everywhere.
Spectacle Page 31