Floats the Dark Shadow

by Yves Fey

  “Could you have caught him if he danced blood-stained through the streets?”

  “It would have made our job simpler.”

  Noret gave a snort of laughter.

  “You went to the cemetery,” Michel reminded him.

  “I believe we all went to the cemetery. It is not every day a friend trips over a corpse,” Noret said. “You should not make too much of it, Inspecteur. Poets are impudent—they exploit experience.”

  “Nietzsche,” Michel responded. Noret looked startled and Michel thrust deeper. “Do you consider yourself beyond good and evil, Monsieur Noret?”

  “I consider art beyond good and evil.”

  “And would you consider this art? Michel placed a photo of Alicia in front of him.

  Noret started at it stonily, though he looked greenish and his nostrils quivered as if at a noxious odor. “That pushes the boundaries of art past my limit.”

  Michel covered the photograph of the corpse with one of the winged cross. Noret stared at it blankly, then retorted, “Art? I should say not. Should it mean something to me?”

  “Preferably.”

  Noret eyed him distrustfully then looked at the photograph again. “A clumsy cross. Is this murderer some sort of religious maniac?”

  “Perhaps.” Michel didn’t think he would discover much more. He asked a few questions about the fire. Noret had spent much, but not all, of that day with Jules Loisel. They had all, briefly, helped Charron tend the victims, and so all had time to snatch Alicia.

  He dismissed Noret and summoned the younger man. Loisel was flustered, yet there was something sly and secretive about him that Michel distrusted. Nor did he like the company he kept, dividing his time between anarchists and Satanists. His accent wasn’t Parisian. Michel discovered he was from a small village in Normandy. The local priest had taken an interest in him, and Loisel had entered the seminary to train for the priesthood. It was a common enough story. He was one of those poor young men for whom service to the Catholic Church was more a practical salvation than a spiritual one. But now he was a poet, not a priest, living like a beggar in Paris.

  “Why did you leave the seminary?”

  “I questioned the teachings. I was unhappy. There was a woman. A crisis of faith…” Loisel bit his lip and relapsed into silence.

  “And what can you tell me of this visit to morgue?”

  Loisel repeated the same explanation but with a peculiar fervor. He tended to speak either too softly or too loudly. “This was all for the sake of Monsieur Charron.”

  “Did you visit the cemetery for Charron’s sake?”

  Loisel looked guilty and frightened. It was almost impossible to understand his next whispers. “Curiosity…macabre…perverse. Ashamed.”

  “Did you recognize Alicia today?”

  Loisel looked at him wild-eyed. “No!”

  “But you saw her the day of the fire.”

  “No!”

  “Wasn’t she pointed out to you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember!” Loisel looked ready to bolt, so Michel tried a different approach, asking how he had joined the Revenants. Relieved, Loisel spoke quickly, “I take odd jobs. Once I made a delivery to Monsieur Noret’s office. I knew his writing. I showed him poems I thought worthy. He told me he would publish them. He befriended me.”

  “The poems in Le Revenant?” Loisel had a long and strangely salacious epic about Mary Magdalene and the dead body of Christ. In another, a nightmarish Eve performed tricks with a snake that a brothel keeper would envy. Perhaps Loisel should go to work for Leo Taxil.

  “Yes.” He sat up straighter, pride and defiance glittering in his eyes. “There were just two in the first issue, but I will have my own section in the second.”

  “May I see them?” Michel asked.

  Loisel gaped. A policeman was probably one step above a demon in his hierarchy. But he closed his mouth, swallowed, and refused politely. “I have shown them only to Monsieur Noret. He has made invaluable suggestions. I am still reworking them. They must be perfect.”

  “Perfection is difficult to achieve,” Michel said.

  Loisel’s jaw set stubbornly. “What else is worth the struggle, the torment?”

  “Can you tell me the themes?”

  “Death. God. The Devil. Lust. Love. Time. Beauty. What every poet writes about.”

  Michel nodded, though Noret’s list would have differed. He had reread the first issue of Le Revenant, and poems by these poets in other literary magazines. Noret’s were often violent, especially the ones in the more political publications. Loisel had talent but little restraint. The baron’s were polished and elegant, revealing little emotion but hinting at hidden depths. Charron’s were brilliant but too carefully controlled, as if he feared to unleash his emotions. Most were morbid. Loisel, Charron, and Estarlian all presented death seductively. Charron and Estarlian both had poems about Salomé, full of blood imagery. Yet, Paris was hardly lacking in poets who explored the dark realms of the psyche.

  But Michel had seen this failed priest in other company. “Monsieur Loisel, you know a man who calls himself Vipèrine.”

  Loisel went very pale. “That…that…can have no relevance,” he stammered.

  “You came with him to view the bodies after the fire, and this is your second visit to the morgue. You were here with him this morning.”

  The poet shook his head mutely, then licked his lips. “Death is one of the great themes. The death of a child is the ultimate tragedy.”

  “And the murder of a child is an even greater one?” Loisel was speechless again, so Michel asked, “This Vipèrine is a diabolist, is he not?”

  “Do you believe such things?” Loisel whispered.

  “Don’t you? Or did belief die with your crisis of faith?”

  “I cannot say.” He shook his head. Michel maintained a dubious silence until Loisel swallowed hard and said, somewhat louder, “If one believes in God, one must learn the snares of the Devil.”

  Michel thought that most snares were quite obvious. He laid the photograph of the cross with the wings down in front of Jules. The poet looked frightened, but asked, “What is it?”

  “This version of the cross has no significance for you?” Michel pushed it closer.

  Loisel shoved back the chair and stood. “Truly, I know nothing. I have seen nothing.”

  Michel was tempted to badger him, but it was only frustration. Better to leave some questions to pursue later. “You can go.”

  Watching Loisel sidle out of the room, Michel reminded himself to remain detached. He must not want Vipèrine to be guilty, or Charron—any of them. Unless he studied the evidence dispassionately, he might overlook something. There was no guarantee that the killer had returned to the cemetery or the morgue. The Revenants had. Charron’s father had. But so had a multitude of bartenders, cab drivers, milliners, tourists, and prostitutes—with and without their customers.

  Michel invited Estarlian in. The baron answered his questions with icy politeness. The Revenants had heard of Alicia from Theo or from each other. They were all at the fire—with two thousand other people. Estarlian said Noret had encouraged them to come to the morgue, but it was to support Charron. “Instead, it was Theo who needed us, so it was a wise decision. Don’t you agree, Inspecteur?”

  “You did not only come to the morgue, Monsieur le Baron. You went, alone, to the cemetery and visited the tombstone.”

  “Why should I not? My closest friend had a horrifying experience. I went to see where it happened. To comprehend and to commiserate.” Beneath the cold politesse, Estarlian simmered with anger. If he was lying, he did it superbly.

  “What did you feel when he told you what he had discovered?”

  “What would you expect me to feel? Shock. Horror. Disgust!” He paused for a moment, visibly seething, then stood. “Really, Inspecteur, this is ridiculous. I do not know what you expect to learn from us. We are not the sort of people who create obscene public spectacles.”<
br />
  “No? Poets are exempt?”

  “The Revenants are exempt. I cannot speak for other groups. We have no Ubu Roi chanting obscenities like a crazed nutcracker.” He gave a slight laugh. “Well, perhaps Noret, on occasion.”

  Ubu Roi was a play which had created a scandal earlier in the year. The first word that the bizarre Ubu spoke was ‘merde.’ That single bit of scatology set off a riot in the theatre. With the taboo broken, Michel presumed it would soon become a commonplace vulgarity.

  “Please sit down again,” Michel said quietly. “There is another case about which I must ask you—unrelated to this.”

  Estarlian paused, frowning. “Another case?”

  “The disappearance of Denis Armand. The son of a laundress who lived near Mlle. Faraday in Montmartre.”

  “Ah…yes. She mentioned it. So, I am her alibi?” He lifted a mocking eyebrow. “And, of course, she is mine. I don’t remember the exact day, but I did take her to tea around that time.”

  “Do you often do so?” Michel asked.

  Estarlian lifted an eyebrow. “Does that have some relevance to the disappearance of the little boy?”

  None, except that she had said that the baron was not her lover. “Sometimes I discover what is relevant by asking questions which do not seem to be. I imagine that writing poetry may proceed in the same fashion.”

  Estarlian actually smiled at that. “Very well, Inspecteur. I do not see Mlle. Faraday often. I try to make her welcome to Paris because she is Averill Charron’s friend. Perhaps every other month I escort her to her favorite tea shop, to the opera, to the ballet. We have ridden in the Bois de Boulogne. She is always an interesting companion—unique.”

  “Do you remember anything about that afternoon?”

  “It was the last time we went to Ladurée. It was chilly and threatening to rain. She had a new dress, lavender and grey—not muted but stormy, like the sky.”

  “What time did you escort her home?”

  “Perhaps five. It was dusk.”

  “And afterwards?”

  The baron hesitated, obviously reluctant. But he could not know what the others might have said already. He offered a disarming smile. “I have a small apartment in Montmartre. It is mine but Averill shares some of the rent. We both find it…convenient. For amours, of course, but Montmartre inspires us both. We sometimes go there to work. I went to see if he was there.”

  “And was he?”

  “Yes, but I did not speak to him. We have an agreed signal. I knew he did not wish to be disturbed. I returned home.”

  “Did you see him that weekend?

  “I had business out of town, I believe. Yes. I was gone that weekend.”

  Michel nodded. He would question Charron again to confirm what he had just learned.

  “Is that all? I am sorry not to be of more help. This is truly a despicable case.” Estarlian’s lips thinned with anger. “A poor young girl murdered and put on display for the masses to gawk at. The very idea is repellent.”

  “Yet we have discovered her identity.”

  Estarlian looked perplexed. “Ah…yes. Not this display at the morgue—I understand the necessity, however unpleasant. I was thinking of how my friend found her. Appalling.”

  Michel reached for the folder of photographs taken at the crime scene. He had no intention of revealing that Denis’ murder was linked to Alicia’s, but he would show the baron the new mark. The Revenants would, of course, discuss what had happened today. He hoped Theo would not remember the cross in her alley. It was just one scribble among more eye-catching offenses, but she was observant.

  Estarlian lifted his hands in protest. “Please. I do not want to see your photos. The corpse in the window was pathetic enough.”

  “Yet you came to the morgue and visited the grave.”

  “For my friend’s sake.”

  Friend. Did he mean it in the intimate sense? Could the baron be Charron’s partner in this? Michel opened the folder. “I will not show you anything repellant.”

  The baron inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  “When you went to the cemetery, did you notice this?” Michel laid out the photo of the back of the gravestone. Estarlian went very still, staring down at the photo. Michel felt electric excitement crackle along his nerves. He kept his voice calm. “You recognize it.”

  “I did not see this at the cemetery.”

  “But you have seen it.” Michel had no doubt. “Where?”

  Estarlian responded with another question, “This has something to do with the murdered girl?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Michel said. “So you must tell me where you saw it.”

  “It is some meaningless scribble,” Estarlian said, his jaw tensing. “Graffiti is everywhere in Paris—even graveyards.”

  “This mark is not everywhere. Tell me where you saw it.”

  Estarlian was reluctant, smoothing his gloves over his fingers. Michel did not push, for now the baron was implicated by his own silence. Still studying his gloves Estarlian said, “I have seen something similar by the Seine—but it was months ago.”

  Months? Frustration warred with eagerness. “Where exactly?”

  “Near the Pont Neuf. There was a dog groomer…” Estarlian glanced up briefly, almost defiantly, then looked down again. “She was supposed to pick up the wretched poodle that belonged to Averill’s grandmother and take it for a bath. She did not come. Averill and I were going to the bouquinistes that morning, so we were given the errand of finding the woman.”

  Michel forced himself to silence, waited.

  “We found her where she usually washed the dogs—but she was quite mad with grief, poor woman. Her little boy had vanished.”

  “Why did you notice the mark?”

  “She was kneeling in front of it, praying—it was, after all, a cross of sorts.” Estarlian shrugged. “Probably it is meaningless. Everyone said the child must have fallen in the Seine.”

  “When was this?” Michel asked.

  “It was barely warm enough to be washing dogs outside. Last October?”

  “Can you show me where you found the mark?”

  “It will have been rained away by now.” The baron frowned. “But of course I can show you where it was.”

  ~

  Estarlian was right. All that remained was a blurred stroke and a faint line that might have been the upper sweep of a wing. Michel would never have noticed it. Asking others on the bank, he learned that the grieving mother was no longer here. She believed her child had drowned and left Paris not long after he disappeared. She had not been on his list.

  Now he had three victims marked with a winged cross. Had the little boy been snatched here? Killed here? Standing in the shadow of the bridge, Michel stared across the Seine. This site was too close to the Palais de Justice. He felt as if the killer was laughing at him.

  Whoever the killer might be.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  My peers are fired even as I am…ardent and breathless

  before life’s intensity,its bright fires of knowledge.

  ~ Emile Verhaeren

  “DOWN with women! Down with women!”

  The shouts of the male students clanged in Theo’s head, as she watched them march inside the huge iron gates of the École des Beaux Arts. She had woken groggy and wretched after crying late into the night, but determined to meet Carmine here, for Mélanie’s sake.

  “They are yapping dogs.” Carmine didn’t yap, she snarled.

  “Puppies with power,” Theo agreed unhappily. Her headache grew worse with each angry shout. She probably should have gone back with Averill yesterday, but she’d needed to be alone after seeing Alicia in the morgue.

  “Out with the women! Out! Out! Out!”

  “No!” “Stop!” “Cowards!” Cries rose from the crowd as a new pack of male students drove the two distraught women students across the vast courtyard, through the gate, and into the street. The protesters outside quickly drew them into th
e center of a protective circle. Theo had seen the same arrogance and brutality when she marched for the vote in San Francisco. Why had she expected Frenchmen to be any better, especially when they granted their women even less power than American men did? Her friends were the exception, and even they preferred the image of the perfect muse—a seductive, destructive Salomé who would rend their souls the better to inspire their poems.

  “Go back to your embroidery!” a whey-faced student taunted.

  “Go back to your diapers!” Another student surged to the front of the pack. He looked like a scruffy fox—a rabid fox. “You can use baby caca for your paints!”

  “They are the ones full of caca,” Carmine fumed. “Only men can create le grand art! You remember Mélanie’s Cassandra.”

  “It was beautiful!” Theo affirmed as insults pelted them like rocks. “It was everything they say art should be and it had soul. It had passion.”

  “That’s why they didn’t give it an award. Too much life. Not posed pain—real pain. They need their art to be dead, like a rabbit strung up for a still life.”

  The futility of Mélanie’s sacrifice tormented Theo, but Carmine brought back Mélanie’s hope for her art, her courage in fighting for what she believed. The demonstrating women shared that hope and that courage.

  “Your brains are stuffed full of ruffles!” the whey-faced one sang out, winning hoots of laughter from his friends.

  Theo thrust off the smothering misery of the morgue and stalked to the gates, looking into the paved quadrangle where the irate students marched and shouted. Men she presumed to be professors and administrators hovered anxiously in the background, but some of the male students and teachers squeezed through the gates to join the growing crowd supporting the women. Turning to look across the street, Theo saw a man who must be a journalist scribbling madly in a notebook. Behind him, half-hidden in the arch of a corner doorway, a young woman watched the protesters. Theo caught her eye and beckoned her to join them. She smiled a little but shook her head, looking anxiously from side to side.

  “You’re ruining everything!” a petulant voice called out. “All sorts of stupid new rules and restrictions came trailing on your petticoats.”