Floats the Dark Shadow

by Yves Fey

  “I now understand something about Gilles de Rais which I did not even when I devoted myself to studying him.”

  “And that is?” Michel asked.

  “His faith. No, for I always understood that sin and redemption were interlocked in his soul.” Huysmans’ eyes shone with his own fervor. “The unsullied soul of Catholicism endures in the unsurpassed beauty of its art, its music, which can transform both sin and suffering. The creation of such beauty and the besmirching of it were both Gilles’ light and his darkness.”

  “What did the children know of this unsurpassed beauty?”

  “Let us hope that their very innocence transformed their suffering before God.”

  “Forgive me, Monsieur Huysmans, but perhaps your own search for faith makes you too generous.”

  “Not at all. Gilles never stopped worshipping, never stopped abasing himself before the glory of God, even as he questioned it, even as he defied it and defiled it. He was center stage in his own fabulous drama.”

  “That I can believe,” Michel said. Gilles de Rais probably only believed in God and the Devil to give more importance to his own gore-sodden soul.

  “Once he lost his saintly Jeanne, he turned to Satanism. It was his revenge on God, yet it was also his path to salvation.”

  “You believe he was saved?” Michel’s tone was flat.

  “The forgiveness of God is infinite.”

  “I hope not.” Michel did not believe a killer like Gilles should be saved. It made him hope that the soul existed, so it could be damned.

  ~

  Leaving, Michel thanked Huysmans and affirmed that he would reread Là Bas. He decided to take the long walk back to the Seine and search the stalls of the bouquinistes for the biography Huysmans’ recommended. There had been nothing about the heraldic symbol in Là Bas, or he would have remembered it. The killer must have had other sources to be able to find the symbol and to know the children’s names. Any of the Revenants might be able to beg or bribe their way into the archives.

  Gilles de Rais had been an aristocrat. Estarlian was of noble birth and a baron. Would that make him more likely to identify with the historic figure? Perhaps, but others might crave that distinction for the creature who lived inside. Paul Noret might have a hidden Hyde who was everything that his Jekyll personality despised. Jules Loisel might desire the elegance, distinction, and power implied in a title. Charron—any of them—might think Gilles de Rais the ultimate decadent artist, carving the flesh of his angelic choirboys after listening to them sing Hallelujah.

  And Vipèrine… Lilias had said that Vipèrine was to conduct a Black Mass. He was the only suspect known to be dabbling in the slimy malevolence of Satanism. An icicle streaked Michel’s spine, for he remembered that Lilias also said that Vipèrine was from Rouen.

  Jeanne d’Arc was burned at the stake in Rouen.

  Tonight, Michel would read about his killer’s secret mentor, whispering in his ear from beyond the grave.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Every hideous vice has a lair—

  ~ Paul Verlaine

  “MERDE!” Michel’s curse was loud enough that the other detectives in the bureau looked up from their work. He stared them down, then bent over his notes again.

  He would, however, have to inform Rambert of his mistake.

  Michel had done what he told himself he must not. He’d looked for evidence to implicate his chief suspect, fitted fact to theory. In doing that, he had overlooked a lead—the cocky young fiacre driver who had seen Averill Charron in Montmartre cemetery early in the morning. Zacharie Corbeau had been so obliging. So pleased to become part of the drama.

  Was this Corbeau instead tweaking the tails of the police? Had he seized upon the chance to push an innocent man further into the spotlight? Could the driver possibly be working with Charron? If so, why not provide a better alibi?

  “Débile.” Stupid. This time his mutter was low enough that no one else heard.

  Why had he been so neglectful? He had solved cases in the past following just such oblique leads as this driver. But he had spent most of his time brooding over the Revenants. Why? The image of Theodora Faraday came to mind. Michel pushed it away. He did not like that a spirited young woman was endangering herself, but it was her choice, not the urging of her decadent poet friends. Then he realized it was exactly because his suspects were poets that he found them more intriguing as killers. Ridiculous. There was nothing poetic in the slaughter of Alicia.

  Late in the afternoon, Hugh Rambert entered the dim, wood-paneled office. Michel beckoned him over. “Zut!” was Rambert’s mild expletive after hearing the explanation. “It’s like the warning Monsieur Bertillon has written on the wall upstairs, that the eye sees only what it is looking for.”

  “And looks for the idea already in the mind.”

  “Yes.” He gave his pleasant, diffident smile. “I’ve been investigating the stables all day, working outward from Montmartre. It’s good you have found a specific lead.”

  Michel could give only a bland description. “He looked a little less than thirty. Undistinguished—brown eyes, dark brown hair, light olive skin. Face and features a bit on the narrow side. Very animated. I think he wore a black coat but that means almost nothing.”

  “He could be the man I saw or one of a thousand others,” Rambert agreed.

  Michel handed him the interview. “The first step will be to find out if he was who he claimed to be. He gave his name as Zacharie Corbeau.”

  “Corbeau?” Rambert repeated, then began flipping through his notebook.

  Michel leaned forward. “What?”

  “He’s here,” Rambert announced with satisfaction. His smile took on a grim edge. “I felt that anyone who’d tortured Alicia so cruelly must enjoy inflicting pain, so at each stable I asked if they’d fired anyone because he was a bully or cruel to the animals.”

  “That was good thinking,” Michel told him. “It did not occur to me.”

  Rambert stood straighter at the praise, then added apologetically, “I have a dog…sir.”

  Touched and amused, Michel confessed, “I feed the cats behind the Palais, but it still did not occur to me.”

  Rambert smiled broadly now. Michel pointed to the notebook. Rambert cleared his throat and resumed a serious expression. “Two or three drivers were mentioned. One had been fired from two places. I spent the morning chasing him down, only to find out he’d been trampled to death a week ago.”

  “Justice?”

  “I think so. There was no time to continue before meeting you, but this other man was next because he was closest in age.”

  “Zacharie Corbeau?”

  “I didn’t learn his Christian name. One owner told me that Old Corbeau’s grandson was an evil brute with the beasts.” Anger sparked in Rambert’s eyes.

  “Go first thing tomorrow.”

  “I’ll go now. The stables are near the Quai d’Orsay. That gives him river travel and train travel as well as the carriages.”

  Michel stayed him. “Aside from Blaise Dancier, you and I are the only ones who can recognize him. But he knows our faces as well. Work up some sort of disguise.”

  He eyed the other’s thick mustache, but Rambert raised a protective hand. “More men have mustaches than not. Perhaps a fake beard?”

  “Not too fake. At the very least wear worker’s clothing and something different each day so you will be more difficult to spot.”

  “I can do it in an hour.” Then he ran out of the building.

  Michel waited till after nightfall. Just as he was about to leave, Rambert reappeared. His clothes were scruffy, his face bright with triumph. Michel stood to greet him. “Success?”

  “It’s him!”

  Michel felt an answering surge of anticipation.

  “I put on these workman’s clothes and found a café on the corner across from the stables. I teased along a beer through the evening, had some bread and olives. There were checkered half-curtains to hide my f
ace, but I could see over them. Just after sunset, Corbeau appeared and went into the stables. He’s not so ordinary that I couldn’t recognize him. The street lights were bright enough.”

  “You are sure he didn’t notice you?”

  “He didn’t even glance at the café, but the owner’s wife could tell I was watching the place. To win her over, I bought a nice dinner. Then I said this Zacharie owed me money, but I wondered if it might be more trouble than it was worth to try and collect it.”

  “Good. Did she offer information?”

  “Oh yes. They don’t like him there though he’s done nothing in particular. The wife said he was arrogant and rude to her. Even worse, cheap. He’s the grandson of the aging, ailing owner. The father’s long dead. Our suspect lives in the house beside the stables and works when he pleases, sometimes day, sometimes night—sometimes both. For years there were other drivers, but the last few months there has been only the grandson.”

  Michel met Rambert’s gaze. “That is suspicious.”

  “She even gave a little shiver when she talked about him,” Rambert went on eagerly. “He hasn’t murdered anyone on their doorstep, but something about him doesn’t settle well. Maybe the other drivers quit because he was a brute to them as well as the animals.”

  “Or maybe he threw them out because he has something to hide.”

  Rambert nodded his accord. “Do you think this fiacre driver works alone?”

  “A driver could, but we cannot discount a cohort. The driver captures the child and gives the other man an alibi. Perhaps they can even arrange the reverse.”

  “Does your instinct say Charron is this cohort? Or one of the others of his clique?”

  “Nothing insists that any of the Revenants is guilty. They are simply the most probable suspects.”

  “We must hope we have the killer in our sights.”

  Michel agreed. “So far, our only other choice is Vipèrine.”

  “Once you mentioned Charron’s vivisectionist father.”

  “He is still possible, but I thought the father dominated and perverted the son. With Corbeau that would make three. Also, the father is older, why wait so long to commit these crimes?”

  “Who knows what might have set him off? What he does is cruel, but perhaps it was Corbeau who took him even further into the darkness.”

  “That is possible. And it is possible they are setting a frame on the son.” Michel had Rambert pick four men to follow Corbeau while he was driving his carriage. Since Corbeau worked odd hours, two were to be in place at dawn and another two would come at noon. Michel and Rambert at sunset. Michel told them to follow very discreetly. “Stay on foot if he’s meandering. Take a carriage if need be. It’s better to lose him than have him spot you. If you can keep up with him, take note if he contacts anyone or goes anywhere suspicious.”

  ~

  After sunset, Michel and Rambert walked past the stables, noting one of their men loitering at the corner. They went into the café and joined the other watcher at the table by the window. Seeing Rambert again, the proprietor’s wife grinned broadly and placed tankards of beer in front of them all. She was gleefully hoping that Corbeau was in deep trouble, swishing her skirts in anticipation. After a minute, the loiterer came in. He said Corbeau had gone out once in the afternoon for a few hours, then returned.

  “You followed?”

  “For a while he stopped often enough that I could keep up, but then he took a turn through the Bois de Boulogne. I couldn’t match him, so I came back here.”

  “He turned up about an hour later,” the second watcher said, then glanced at the first man uneasily.

  “Did he spot you?” Michel asked.

  The first man shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  Which meant he thought so but hoped he was wrong. It made Michel uneasy. Just then, looking out over the checkered curtains, he saw Corbeau emerge on foot from the gates and lock them behind him. Rather than replace the afternoon watchers as planned, Michel sent the two men to follow Corbeau. When they were out of sight, he left the café with Rambert and crossed to the stables. The street was sleepy. No one appeared to be watching except the café owner’s wife peeping over the curtains. She counted herself part of the drama. Michel had Rambert hoist him to the top of the stone wall. He wanted an unofficial look around inside while Rambert waited to confront Corbeau if he returned unexpectedly.

  Michel lowered himself on the other side of the wall and dropped down to a cobblestone courtyard thickly littered with straw and dung. Everything looked filthy. First he went to the front door of the house next to the stables. It was locked. Michel had his lockpicks but decided not to bend the rules that far. Instead he went to the stables, which were open. Inside were one carriage and an empty space for another. Three horses waited in the stalls. Both the carriage and the animals were better tended than the courtyard though the rest of the interior was shoddy. Corbeau was still keeping up appearances on the streets. Two of the horses were shy of him, perhaps because their owner was cruel, but one greeted him with a nicker and allowed its ears to be scratched. Looking around as he stroked the horse, Michel saw a wooden staircase rising on one side, leading up to a high hayloft. More bales of hay were piled up in a wall directly below it.

  Michel thought he heard a rustle in the loft above. A rat in the straw? Most likely. But his uneasiness lingered. Drawing his gun, he moved quietly up the stairs. At the top he paused and quickly surveyed the loft. Nothing seemed awry, but there were hay bales everywhere, easy to hide behind, and storage cabinets were spaced out along the half-timbered walls. Michel moved as noiselessly as he could, but the hay crinkled and the floorboards creaked. He opened the three storage closets on the side wall, all filled with stable paraphernalia, extra tack and grooming tools, medicines for the animals. He turned and began to search along the back wall.

  There was a sudden sharp creak and a surge of movement behind him. Michel had time to half turn before the cord looped over his head. He caught it with a hand in front of his throat and took a swift breath as Corbeau yanked it tight. Michel twisted against the pull. Reaching back, he managed to get his free hand around the base of Corbeau’s skull, then lunged, trying to drag Corbeau over his back and onto the floor. Corbeau slid sideways, toppling onto a pile of bales and taking Michel with him. Michel scrabbled against him, unable to get any leverage. Rolling over, Corbeau landed on his feet, still holding tight. He yanked on the cord and rammed his knee into Michel’s kidney.

  Ignoring the clout of pain, Michel dropped to one knee, pulling Corbeau on top again, driving an elbow up into his solar plexus. Corbeau grunted but didn’t let go of the cord. Michel twisted his hand, trying to get a better grip and only cutting his palm. He felt his own knuckles choking his windpipe. Corbeau pulled the cord tighter, lifting Michel to his feet and tightening his grip as they lurched back. Michel caught a glimpse of a trick door open between the timbers in the wall.

  Swinging around, Corbeau flung Michel against the cabinet, thrusting his head against the wood. The panel cracked. Corbeau slammed him into it again and it splintered. Jagged wood cut his scalp. Tasting blood, Michel pivoted, braced a foot against the wall and shoved. They stumbled back together, but the pressure on the cord gave a little. Michel tightened his fist around the cord and pulled it forward. Taking a breath, he exhaled and jammed his elbow up into Corbeau’s face.

  Michel felt the grip on the cord slacken and seized the chance. He twisted free and spun around, cracking Corbeau’s forehead with his own. Corbeau staggered. Michel grabbed him and landed a hard punch to the jaw. Corbeau reeled back, breaking his hold and lashing out with a nasty kick to the groin that Michel dodged. Regaining his balance, he sprang forward, but Corbeau twisted sideways, rolling across the flat top of the bales to land on his feet. A rope hung from the ceiling in the center of the hayloft. Corbeau leapt, catching hold of the rope and swinging to the far side. Michel raced toward him.

  The floor cracked and dropp
ed away. Michel fell straight down, catching the ragged edge of the floorboards. Splintered wood cut into his raw palm, layering new pain over the sliced line of the cord. Swaying, he looked down. The drop wasn’t far at all, with inviting bales of hay piled up. More loose hay was scattered across the top. That seemed wrong. Then the dim lamplight picked up the glint of metal. Looking back up, he saw that some of the floorboards were splintered, others cut through. Corbeau had led him here, hoping he’d drop to his death. What was below?

  There was a creak and a rush of sound above him. Corbeau swung back, landing on the still solid edge of the flooring. A booted foot lifted, threatening to crush his hands. Michel moved along the shattered edge. Corbeau grinned maliciously as it started to crack. Quickly, Michel reached for the far end of the break. Above him, Corbeau shifted, trying to drive him back toward the center. Was it only another ploy to fool him with deadly traps laid under all the bales? He could grab Corbeau and topple him, but then they would both be impaled on what lay below. Again, Corbeau lifted a booted foot, his body tensing to drive it down. Before his hands were smashed, Michel took the chance and swung forward, twisting in the air to try and land on his feet. One heel caught between the bales and he tripped and landed flat on his back. His breath was knocked out of him—but no metal pierced him.

  He dragged in air. Exhaled in relief.

  Overhead Corbeau cursed and ran across the loft. Michel guessed he was leaving through his secret entrance. He rose to his feet and looked up at the gaping hole eight feet above him, cursing in turn. Could he make the jump and haul himself up without falling back on the bales? It was quicker and less dangerous to take the stairs. But neither would be quick enough to catch his killer.

  Heavy footsteps thundered across the cobbles. Michel rolled off the bales to see Rambert enter the stable. He must have heard the commotion and clambered over the wall. “You’re bleeding. Are you hurt?”