by Jon Steele
‘Miss Taylor—’
‘No, I don’t have to be pretty at all, ugly is good. In fact, the uglier the better. I might have a few more scars done. I’m going to be the ugliest bitch on the fucking planet.’
‘Miss Taylor …’
‘What, you fucking son of a bitch!’
Pigeons bolted from the carpentry and into the sky.
Harper sat on a stool.
‘Miss Taylor, I’m not sure what the hell’s going on in this bloody town but trust me, you’re not the only one neck-deep in shite. Now, I’m going to dress the wound, you’ll eat your Swiss fast food. Then I need you to tell me what the hell happened.’
‘Does Monsieur see anything that appeals to him?’
Rochat looked around the shop, saw statues wearing lace things, pictures of girls wearing lace things. The lace things looked very small.
‘What do girls like?’
The lady patted the pile of clothes on the counter.
‘Well, Monsieur, judging by the blue jeans and tops selected from your list, I’d say Madame enjoys projecting a casual image while showing off a nice figure. The choice of lingerie says she is a woman of elegant, if somewhat naughty, taste.’
Rochat had no idea what any of that meant.
‘Oh.’
‘If I may ask, has Monsieur purchased lingerie for a lady before?’
He shook his head vigorously. The lady smiled and arranged a set of black lace undergarments on the counter.
‘Then allow me to be of assistance. Why doesn’t Monsieur imagine Madame wearing these.’
Rochat looked at the things. He imagined the angel on that first night, dropping her robe to the floor of the loge and him seeing her naked body. He snapped quickly back to the lady behind the counter.
‘Could you choose?’
‘Of course, monsieur. Would you like the items gift wrapped?’
‘I’d like the items gift wrapped.’
Rochat shuffled quickly to the windows overlooking Rue Centrale. He didn’t dare look back and see what the lady was choosing. He kept his eyes busy with cars and people and the policewoman in her grey uniform standing in the middle of the intersection, blowing her whistle and directing all the cars and people. Everyone obeyed.
Sunlight poured down the steep cobblestone lane from Place Saint-François. Skinny elongated shadows followed people walking up the lane and stretched ahead of people walking down the lane. He watched the shadows cross over each other and through each other and disappear when people stepped from the sun, only to pop out in another place and attach themselves to someone else.
‘Monsieur?’
Rochat turned to the lady. She had two big shopping bags in one hand and money in the other.
‘I was watching teasing shadows.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Down in the street. The shadows. They’re the teasing kind.’
The lady smiled politely.
‘Of course. Here are your purchases and change, monsieur.’
‘Merci, madame. I’m going to follow the teasing shadows up the hill to the chemist shop to buy more things for the angel.’
‘Who?’
‘The angel, that’s who the clothes are for. Merci, madame.’
‘Bonne … journée, monsieur.’
Rochat shuffled to the escalator machine and stepped on carefully. Just before he sank through the floor he looked to the windows and saw the sales lady standing at the window, staring outside. He jumped from the escalator just before the steel teeth caught the tips of his boots and pulled him under the floor. He shuffled out of the door and into the bright winter sun washing up the hill. A shadow jumped out from nowhere, took his shape and matched his crooked pace, step by step.
‘Going my way? Well, you must keep up. I’m very busy today.’
The shadow looked funny with shopping bags at the ends. Rochat swung his arms back and forth making them long and short and long again. He imagined he was a strongman at a circus lifting heavy bags of iron. He watched the shadows of other people coming from behind him and growing bigger, till he saw the feet where the shadows and people were sewn together. The people and their shadows all walking faster than him, their shadows laughing ‘Nahnahnah’ as they passed.
‘Don’t be rude. I’m carrying these big bags. If you had any manners you’d offer to help. But no, too busy being teasing kind of shadows.’
A tall skinny shadow moved up on his right and slowed to the pace of his shuffling steps. And on his left, a short and thick shadow did the same. Rochat slowed, the shadows slowed. He looked back over his shoulder – no people were attached to the two shadows. He looked back at his boots. The two shadows were gone. Just his own crooked shadow standing alone, holding the shopping bags.
‘I’m very sure it was only an imagination, Rochat. Mustn’t become distracted from your duties.’
He continued to shuffle up the hill. The two strange shadows caught up to him again, following at an even pace. Rochat stopped, they stopped. He moved, they moved. He turned slowly, no one was there again. He jumped to the shaded doorway of a patisserie. The shadows disappeared.
‘You didn’t imagine them, Rochat. And they didn’t feel like teasing kind of shadows.’
He waited a moment before stepping back into the sun. A teasing shadow took his shape and led him up the hill. He kept his eyes on the ground all the way to the fountain at Place de la Palud, making sure all the passing shadows had people sewn to their feet. Suddenly, the two strange shadows appeared at his side again. One tall and skinny, the other short with a little beard on his chin.
‘I know who you are. You can’t fool me. Go away.’
He swung the shopping bags at the cobblestones. The shadows jumped back, only to creep closer again.
‘No, go away!’
All the shadows across the square stopped and all the people attached to them stopped. Everyone and their shadows looking at him.
‘I’m very sorry, mesdames et messieurs! The bad shadows are chasing me!’
The shadows circled around him till they were nothing but a blackish blur spinning over the cobblestones.
‘Stop it! Leave us alone!’
He stomped his crooked foot on the ground trying to squash the shadows.
‘She’s going home so you just go away!’
He spun round till he lost his balance and fell to the ground. He hit the shadows with his fists but they dodged his blows. The shadows stretched into distorted shapes and slithered down the hill.
Rochat hobbled to his feet, collected his bags. He searched through all the shadows on the ground. They were all attached to the feet of Lausannois. Rochat gave a slight bow.
‘It’s only teasing shadows now, mesdames et messieurs. All is well.’
The crowd parted, giving him plenty of room to pass. Rochat heard their whispering voices as he shuffled into the chemist’s shop to buy more things for the angel so she could go home.
thirty-one
Harper looked back over his notes.
‘So the last thing you remember clearly is leaving LP’s with Komarovsky?’
‘That’s the third time you’ve asked me that one, why?’
‘Stephan, the bartender, says he saw you leave through the lobby corridor. He says you were alone.’
‘No way.’
‘He also said, besides him and me, no one talked to you in the bar.’
‘That’s nuts, Stephan always …’
She didn’t finish the sentence. Harper finished it for her.
‘He always watches who you talk to, who you leave with.’
‘He’s not my pimp, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I don’t. And he’s got nothing to do with this if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s your friend.’
‘Then how can he say he didn’t see me with Komarovsky? I was sitting just fifteen feet from the bar.’
‘Komarovsky and his goons are experts at getting in and out of places without being
seen. And when they leave, it’s like they were never there.’
‘But the place was packed, Harper.’
‘Did you recognize the waiter that served the champagne?’
‘I didn’t notice one way or the other, why?’
‘No one else did either. And the bottle didn’t come from the bar and neither Stephan nor any of his waiters saw the waiter who delivered it to your table.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘Maybe, but it happened just the same. I’m guessing that’s how the drugs were first administered to you.’
‘What about the needles and powders I found when I came to, or the oil on my skin?’
Harper stared at Katherine, the mad night flashing in his eyes. The cop in the cashmere coat raving about a breeding potion, as ancient as evil itself …
‘What are you thinking, Harper?’
… you understand what all this means for Miss Taylor.
‘I’m thinking … I’m thinking champagne was a gateway drug, made you receptive to the psychotropic drugs delivered later, without you ever knowing what hit you.’
‘Huh?’
‘The most effective way to drug someone into an alternate state of consciousness is to administer the drugs from a variety of sources over a period of time. So the subject isn’t alarmed at what’s happening.’
‘Since when did you become such an expert on psychotropic dope?’
‘Since coming to Lausanne.’
Katherine laughed to herself.
‘Man, what a tangled web we weave.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Not you, me. It’s weird, you know, when first I came to Lausanne I thought I’d made it to paradise. Look at me now.’
Harper did look at her a good long while, hearing the Inspector’s voice again … a breeding potion … used by those who already rule this world … before skipping back through his notes.
‘Tell me something, Miss Taylor, who helped you come to Lausanne?’
‘What do you mean who helped me?’
‘You said you came here to get away from the IRS. Swiss residency visas are tough to get if you’re not a billionaire.’
‘I didn’t have a problem, and I’m not a billionaire.’
‘That’s the point. Who helped you?’
‘A Swiss banker passing through Los Angeles. We sort of hit it off. He took care of moving my money to Geneva, visas, my flat.’
‘Did he introduce you to Madame Badeaux?’
‘Yeah, he did. The very night I met him.’
‘So he was a member of the Two Hundred Club?’
Katherine stared at Harper.
‘How do you know about the Two Hundred Club?’
‘I just do.’
‘You’ve been talking to the police about me?’
‘Other way around, actually. But don’t worry, Miss Taylor, I didn’t rat you out.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Sure, which is why I need you to be straight with me. The Two Hundred Club, who are they?’
Katherine pulled a smoke from her cigarette case and lit up.
‘There’re two kinds of rich and powerful in the world, Harper. The ones who’ve got it and like to flaunt it and see themselves on the cover of Hello! Then there’s the other kind. The über-rich and powerful who don’t need to flaunt a fucking thing, because they own the world already.’
‘They own the world?’
‘That’s how Simone describes them. Her way of reminding us girls to keep our mouths shut.’
‘Where did she find the girls to work for the club?’
‘They’re recommended to her by members, the way I was.’
‘Should be the other way round, shouldn’t it?’
‘The Two Hundred Club is like a gourmet tasting club. Someone finds a new savoury dish, he wants to pass it around to his pals. Simone managed the menu for them.’
‘Did you ever see a list of members?’
‘No way. The list was locked tight in Simone’s head.’
‘So what did she do, as manager?’
‘Booked our dates, took care of our money so we’d stay clear of the taxman, gave us allowances against our earnings. Mainly she made sure we were good little girls.’
‘Good little girls.’
‘You worked for the Two Hundred Club, you were exclusive to the Two Hundred Club. No jobs on the side, no getting it off for laughs with anyone who wasn’t a member.’
‘No boyfriends?’
‘Maybe you remember my reaction to you when you came sniffing around at LP’s?’
‘Miss Taylor, I wasn’t trying—’
‘Yeah, yeah, you only wanted to borrow my newspaper. So you kept telling me, and it’s still cute. But what I’m saying is it doesn’t matter what you were doing, I was giving you the brush-off because that’s the way it was. Look, you have to realize what it’s like. I was so rolling in cash and gifts, I didn’t need or want anything on the side. Besides I kind of got off on the whole scene. There’s a rush in fucking your way to the top. I’m sure it was the same for all the girls.’
‘How so?’
‘When you fuck the guys who own the world, you don’t bother with the boys who shine shoes for a living. No offence.’
‘None taken.’
Harper flipped through his notebook.
‘You said Komarovsky told you that you’d been recommended to him by members of the club and that Madame Badeaux said she’d checked around with the members. She told you they all knew who he was. Then in your last phone call to Madame Badeaux, she told you you’d been spotted in the States and brought to Lausanne to be groomed and sold to Komarovsky.’
Katherine puffed nervously on her smoke.
‘Yeah, so?’
‘Did you ever meet any other women who worked for the club?’
‘Simone’s number-one rule, no talking to the other girls.’
‘No phone calls, no emails just to say hello?’
‘Harper, I never met the other girls because I never knew who they were.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just the way Simone ran her shop. She didn’t want us trading pillow talk about the members.’
‘Or knowing what the hell they were really up to.’
‘What do you mean?’
Harper checked his notes again, found the quote.
‘“Grooming and selling sweet little things like you is what I do … Monsieur Komarovsky holds fine affection for you.” Those were Madame Badeaux’s words to you on the telephone.’
‘Yeah, and what are you getting at?’
‘Every club’s got a president.’
‘You mean, I’m not the only one who’s been sold to Komarovsky?’
Harper watched Katherine lay her cigarette in the ashtray, he saw something pass through her eyes.
‘What is it, Miss Taylor?’
‘It’s weird. It’s like trying to remember a dream days later. But I think I remember something, from that night.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I sort of woke up, once. I mean, I was still drugged out but I heard Komarovsky talking with the others. I remember hearing someone say the test was positive and I needed another dose of something, more psychowhatever stuff probably. And I remember Komarovsky saying I was to be taken to stay with the others.’
‘Did they say who the others were?’
‘No.’
‘Did they say what kind of test?’
‘No.’
‘Can you remember anything else, anything at all?’
‘Yeah, it was then or another time, but Komarovsky was reading my reviews from my coming-out party.’
‘Reviews?’
‘Yeah, reviews. Apparently I was the belle of … Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Where did these reviews come from?’
‘What?’
‘“Reviews” implies an audience of some kind.’
‘You mean someone was watching it happen?’
‘That would be my guess.’
‘I was flying on all rockets, Harper, I couldn’t tell you more than I have. I don’t remember anything that makes sense till I saw myself on a computer screen.’
Harper flipped back a page.
‘You said you saw yourself, thought it was a mirror, walked over and bumped the table and the picture stopped for a second. Think back, walk through it again, what happened?’
‘What do you mean what happened? Some words came on the screen and I ran away.’
‘What words?’
‘Harper, I was fucked up and I’ve told you everything I can remember.’
‘Tell me again.’
‘How many times do we have to do this?’
‘Till it makes sense. Tell me again.’
‘I was in some kind of orgy with these bodies I couldn’t touch and I was carried to Komarovsky. Then I woke up on semen-stained sheets and I was masturbating on the internet.’
‘How do you know?’
‘What do you mean, how do I know? There were six fucking cameras in the room, I saw myself on the computer screen.’
‘How do you know you were on the internet?’
‘Because … because … there were words on the screen.’
‘What did they say?’
Katherine closed her eyes, she saw herself in the room, standing before the laptop.
‘Connected at powerline hyperspeed or something … one hundred ninety-nine members online.’
‘And Komarovsky makes it two hundred.’
Katherine opened her eyes. Harper saw terrible fear rising.
‘Jesus, who the hell is he?’
‘You need to stay calm, Miss Taylor.’
‘Fuck that, what I need is to get my money from that bitch Simone and split.’
‘Simone Badeaux is dead.’
‘Dead … how?’
‘She was found in her flat about the same time you disappeared. She’d been flayed alive and beheaded, her body was left hanging by her ankles.’
Katherine reached for her burning cigarette, fumbled it, her hands shaking. ‘I am so getting the fuck out of here.’
‘There’s nowhere to go, Miss Taylor.’
‘Can you tell me those freaks won’t find me in the cathedral? Can you tell me they don’t already know where I am?’