“He started shouting ‘the Prussians are coming, the Prussians are coming’ just after Blucher bloodied his nose at Waterloo,” said Christine. “I had an uncle like that.”
“Of course,” said Trilby, “the Prussians really were coming.”
“That doesn’t make the old man any less a lunatic.”
“You’re behind the times, Chrissy,” put in Irene. “Gerard stopped tooting that particular trumpet a few months back. He’s a changed man since he got hitched to this little social-climber. Now, he’s big on beating swords into ploughshares and insisting the French people have no bigger buddy than Bismarck.”
The wedding brochure commemorated the joining-together of Grand Maréchal Gerard with his bride, Poupée Francis-Pierre.
“He’s over 90 and she’s what … 16?” said Trilby.
“Precise details about Madame Gerard’s age, background or qualities are hard to come by,” said Erik. “Such information is one objective of our investigation.”
“I heard she was a dancer,” said Christine, looking at a studio photograph of the bride. “Looks like she’s made of porcelain. You’d think she’d snap if the old goat so much as touched her.”
“Is she one of la Présidente’s dollymops?” asked Irene. “Some addlehead dotards go for that rouge-cheeked widdle girlie act.”
“Madame Gerard is not a former ornament of Salon Sabatier,” said Erik. “Indeed, she is the cause of some consternation among the girls there. Before his nuptials, the Grand Maréchal, despite his advancing years, was an especially favored and enthusiastic regular customer.”
“Tarts like ’em old and rich,” said Trilby. “They can’t do much, but pay well over the odds.”
Irene laughed, and Christine joined in.
“Though not of an artistic temperament,” continued Erik, “Grand Maréchal Gerard found Madame Sabatier’s establishment more to his liking than many rival houses run to cater to more military tastes.”
“Boots and whips,” shuddered Irene.
“Subsequent to his wedding, he has not visited the Salon.”
“No wonder. He’s getting poked for free at home.”
“La, Irène, you say such things,” tittered Christine.
“Madame Sabatier reports that losing a longstanding patron to marriage is an accepted risk of her business. However, she takes pride in the fact that, with this single exception, her clients have returned within three months of their honeymoon, and been more generous than before in the matter of recompense and gifts, usually with an added exhortation to increased discretion.”
Christine laughed out loud, musically. “The Madame is deluded. Look at Gerard’s life, all the way back to the last century. All those exploits and adventures. He’s obviously a reckless romantic.”
“I agree,” said Trilby. “The old idiot’s probably in love with the minx.”
“I’ll bet nuggets Petite Poupée has been down to the dressmakers to see how she looks in black,” said Irene. “Then steered by the apothecary’s on the way home. If used in excess, those boudoir philters for the use of senior gentlemen have fatal side-effects... so I hear.”
“If that is the case, we are required by our client to intervene,” said Erik.
“I’ll say,” put in Trilby. “Can’t let some filly get away with murder. We’ve got a reputation to think of.”
“Does Madame la Présidente fear for Gerard’s life?” asked Christine.
There was a pause. Breathing could be heard through the tube.
“It may come to that. At present, she is more concerned that the old fellow is not ‘acting like himself.’ She takes a keen interest in the defense of France…”
“Sausage-eaters are notoriously rough on whores and stingy about paying.”
“Thank you for that insight, Irene. ‘Adler’ is a German name, is it not? As I was saying, Etienne Gerard’s change of mind on matters military and political troubles Madame Sabatier more than his absence from her customer register. She believes the Grand Maréchal might have been ‘got at’ in some way…”
“Hypnotized,” said Christine, thrilled.
“Mesmerized,” said Trilby, dreamily.
“Doped,” said Irene, cynically.
“She wonders if the Grand Maréchal even is the Grand Maréchal.”
“Murdered and replaced by the mad twin from the attic,” suggested Christine, who read a great deal of sensation fiction, avidly following every feuilleton in every periodical in Paris. “Possessed by one of those invisible Horlas one hears of and forced to do the bidding of some creature from beyond the veil.”
The Persian gathered back all the documents, and resealed the packet.
“Erik,” said Irene, “are you sure this is a job for the Agency? It sounds mighty like some scorned popsy, sulking because Sugar Dad has cut off the cash-flow, out to do dirt to the chit who has stolen him away. Shouldn’t they settle it with a decent knife-fight and leave us out of it?”
The Persian produced several more wallets.
“The Grand Maréchal is not an isolated case.”
The Marriage Club had international members, though all were often found in Paris. Aristide Saccard, the daring international financier, a man who would never escape the sobriquet of “shady;” the Duke of Omnium, an English cabinet minister whose speeches were rumored to have the mystic power of sending entire Houses of Parliament into restful sleep (“if Planty ever had to declare war,” sniped one critic, “we’d have to wake up the enemy to shoot at him”); Chevalier Lucio del Gardo, a respected banker no one outside the Phantom of the Opéra’s Agency would have believed moonlighted as a needlessly violent burglar known as the “Spine-Snapper;” Walter Parks Thatcher, the American statesman and banker; Georges Duroy, the social-climbing journalist who had risen through marriage and inheritance to a position of influence as a newspaper publisher; Simon Cordier, behind his skirts called “M. Guillotine,” a magistrate and sculptor, renowned for cool, balanced and unsympathetic verdicts in capital cases; and Cardinal Tosca, the Papal Legate, reputedly the greatest virtuoso of the boudoir to come (or be chased) out of Italy since Casanova.
All were getting along in years, widowed or lifelong bachelors, and had recently taken to wife much younger, socially-unknown women, or–in the Cardinal’s case–brought her into his household as official servant and unofficial bed-warmer. All had reversed long-held public positions since their happy unions, made peculiar public statements or financial transactions, been far less often seen in society than before (Gerard was not the only old bridegroom to be missed at his favorite brothel) and were reported by estranged friends and relations to have “changed their spots.” All, it transpired, had first encountered their current spouses at soirées hosted, on an absurdly well-appointed barge in the Seine, by one Countess Joséphine Balsamo. Some said the Countess was a direct descendant of the mountebank and purported sorcerer Cagliostro. It was believed among the peers of la Présidente that the Countess was directress of an unofficial wedding bureau, schooling girls plucked from orphanages or jails in the skills necessary to hook a prominent husband, arranging discreet disposal of the lovestruck old men, then taking a tithe from the widows’ inheritances. A flaw in the theory was that none of the husbands, as yet, had died in the expected mysterious circumstances–several long-term moaning invalids had leaped from apparent death-beds and taken to cavorting vigorously with their pixie-like sylph brides.
Christine held, against experience, to the possibility that nothing more was amiss than a collection of genuine May-December romances (“more like March-Next February,” commented Irene) which should be protected from the jealous wiles of Erik’s client. Trilby considered malfeasance was likely on the part of these men of wealth and influence, and that the Countess Joséphine was simply a well-dressed procuress with a dubious title. She felt the true victims of the Marriage Club were the unfortunate, nearly-nameless children given over into the beds of men who purchased them as others might a hunting dog or a
painting. Irene suspected everyone was up to no good, and wondered what their angle on the Affaire Balsamo ought to be. She was as much magpie as eagle and it occurred to her that this case should afford access to households where valuables might be carelessly strewn about for the filching.
The Persian, through his Police and Government contacts, had obtained a list of the Countess’s holdings. Few of her interests were in the name she most commonly used. These papers were passed through a shutter, to the chamber behind the mirror.
“This seems the most likely ‘lead,’ ” said Erik, after a perusal. “Ecole de Danse Coppélius. The Countess is a ‘sleeping partner.’ Young women of barely marriageable age and malleable personality might be found in a dancing school, hein?”
The Persian showed again the photograph of Poupée Gerard. In the corner of the picture were scratched the initials E.d.D.C.
“It’s a perfect front,” said Irene, getting the talk back on track. “Haul ’em in, paint ’em up, sell ’em off.”
A lever was thrown, and two wardrobe doors sprung open, disclosing three varied sets of female attire and one suit of male evening dress (with turban). The girls knew at once which were their costumes. The Persian took the turban.
“Christine, Trilby,” said Erik, close to the glass, eyes shining. “You will try to enroll at the Ecole Coppélius. Christine, at least, should be able to pass an audition if dancing is actually required, while Trilby can certainly be passed off as bride-to-be material.”
The girls looked at each other, not sure whether to be offended by Erik’s implications. Then Christine was struck by the loveliness of her new dress, and forgot any sleight.
The shutter opened again. A newly-struck, gilt-edged invitation card lay within. The Persian picked it up by forefinger and thumb, careful not to smudge the ink. Erik had a printing press in his lair–along with much other apparatus somehow smuggled below street level for the use of the Agency.
“That,” said Erik, “is for the Countess’s Summer Ball, to be held tonight on her famous barge. She expects the pleasure of the company of Rhandi Lal, the Kasi of Kalabar, and his daughter, the Princess Jelhi.”
Irene held up a silken sari, pressed her hands together in prayerful submission, and bowed mockingly at the mirror, eyes modestly downcast.
“Do try not to overact, Miss Adler.”
With her jeweled head-dress, scarlet forehead dot, exposed midriff, kohl-lined eyes, near-transparent costume and sinuous walk, “Princess Jelhi” was instantly popular, attracting a platoon of admirers in white tie and tails or dress uniform. Most of the men had swords: as a consequence of jostling for position among the upper ranks, several duels were likely.
As Irene flirted and fluttered, the Persian scanned the ballroom.
The dancing floor was not the classic square, but an oblong. Brassbound porthole-shaped windows above and below the waterline reminded guests that they were on the river. The mooring was secure and the barge heavy in the water: only the slightest motion reminded guests they were not on dry land. The theme of the ball was Childhood Remembered, and the room was dressed as a giant’s playroom. Ten-foot tall wooden soldiers and other outsized toys stood around, as conversation pieces or to excite wonderment. In the center of the floor, a gigantic, stately top spun on its axis, ingeniously weighted not to stray from its spot or fall over.
Irene lifted a bare foot, showing off her painted nails and oddments of paste jewelry from the Opéra’s vast store of dressing-up kit. The motion parted her sari, affording a glimpse of her shapely inside-leg. Gasps rose from her admirers and she tittered modestly at the “slip,” chiding the gallants in delightfully broken babytalk French.
The Persian looked about for anyone not enraptured by the Princess. If the business of this ball was fishing for fiancés and an uninvited interloper was raiding the stock, the fleet who held rights in these waters would be out of sorts. Countess Josephine had not made an entrance, but the Persian knew she would be watching. Erik was not the city’s only addict of secret panels, two-way mirrors, listening tubes and portraits with removable eyes. Any descendant of the mountebank Cagliostro would be mistress of such matters.
Irene Adler could be relied upon to glance at a crowd of gentlemen and single out the most distinguished victims–taking into account inherited or acquired wealth, ancient or modern title, achievements on the field of battle or in the arts, and degree of commitment to their current marital state. At a masquerade where everyone was dressed up as what they were not, she could spot a Crown Prince through a throng of mere Viscounts and chart a course which would lead inevitably to taking the prize. Within minutes, she had dismissed the also-rans and narrowed the field down to the three men in the company worth bothering with.
The choice picks were Count Ruboff, the Russian military attaché (which is to say, spy) and a cousin of the Tsar, Baron Maupertuis, the Belgian colossus of copper (and other base metals), and “Black” Michael Elphberg, Duke of Strelsau, second son of the King of Ruritania (a mere unmarried half-brother’s death or disgrace away from succession to the crown). Any or all of these might be candidates for the Marriage Club, though only the Baron was elderly.
Count Ruboff asked the Princess to demonstrate the dancing style of far-off Kalabar, and Irene obliged with a shimmy she had learned as warm-up for a snake-oil salesman in the Wild West. As a well-developed 13-year-old, her tour with a medicine show had been her first attempt at escaping from New Jersey. Of course, the moves that had dried mouths and stirred vitals in Tombstone, Cheyenne and No Name City were still effective in Paris, though the crowds were cleaner and, on the whole, had more of their original teeth. Some women simply gave up, collected their wraps and went home in huffs, leaving behind befuddled gentlemen who would find home lives difficult for the next week or so. Others took careful note of Irene’s steps, and resolved to learn them.
A five-piece orchestra provided ever more frenzied accompaniment in what they must have fondly imagined was the style of far-off Kalabar. The musicians were dressed as a strange breed of clown, with ridiculously stack-heeled boots, lightning-pattern leotards immodestly padded with rolled-up handkerchiefs and cut low to reveal thick thatches of chest hair (not entirely natural), faces painted with celestial maps so eyes and mouths opened disturbingly in purple moons or stars, and shocks of bright orange hair teased up into jagged peaks. The band made a lot of noise, and even more fuss–sticking out gargoyle tongues, making obscene advances to their sparkle-patterned instruments, capering grotesquely like dressed-up apes with their rumps on fire.
Irene began to unwind the interlocking scarves that constituted her sari, wrapping them around admirers’ necks, brushing the trail-ends across their faces to raise their color. The Kasi of Kalabar, suspecting this might go too far, was on the point of stepping in to administer reprimand to his “daughter” when the Princess was flanked.
Two pretty girls, similar enough in face and figure to be taken for sisters, assumed positions either side of Irene, clicked fingers, and fell in step, mimicking exactly her dance moves. There was a ripple of applause from those who supposed the Countess had brought in a choreographer. A frown of surprise briefly passed across Irene’s tinted forehead. She left off the Salomé business, concentrating on energetic, elaborate footwork, with snake-moves in her hips and back. Out West, the crowd would have been discharging Colts at the ceiling. The sisters, however, were not thrown. They perfectly matched her, not even seeming to follow a lead.
The Persian considered the bland, shiny faces of the girls. They showed no emotion, no exertion, scarcely even any interest. Irene was, in polite terms, “glowing”–and thus in danger of sweating through her betelnut makeup. The caste mark on her forehead looked like an angry bullet-hole. It was harder and harder for her to keep up with the dance.
Everyone in the room was watching this trio.
The band were murdering the “Jewel Song” from Gounod’s Faust–la Carlotta’s signature number, as it happens. One of the clown
s sang like a castrato, inventing new lyrics in double Dutch.
Irene made a tiny misstep, and lost her lead. Now, she had to follow, to mimic, to copy–and the Terpsichorean sisters began to execute a series of balletic leaps, glides and stretches which were too much for the New Jersey Nightingale. Her bare foot slid, and she had to be caught by a nobody–her former admirers were now enslaved by the sisters.
For a moment, it seemed there would be a problem–three swains, two dancers–but Irene was instantly replaced by a third girl, darker-haired but sharing the family resemblance. The debutante locked at once into the dance, and the three tiny, strong girls performed like prima ballerinas prevailed upon to share a leading rôle. Now, there was a sister apiece, if sisters they were, for the Count, the Baron and the Duke.
The Princess was helped, limping, out of the circle by her rescuer, Basil–a homosexual English painter with only academic interest in the female form. Even he deserted her as soon as she was dumped on a couch, and was drawn back to the circle around the dancing girls.
“They ain’t human,” the Princess said–through angry tears–to the Kasi.
The performance concluded, with a tableau as the darker girl was held high, pose perfect. Thunderous applause resounded. The girls’ pleasant smiles did not broaden.
“It must be mesmerism,” said Irene. “Trilby’s old tutor is probably behind it. He put her to sleep with a swinging bauble and fixed her croak so she came out an angel. Those witches have had the same treatment, only for dancing.”
Irene stood up, putting weight on her foot. Her ankle was not turned or sprained. Only her dignity was really damaged.
“The patsies are lost,” she told the Persian. “While no one’s watching, let’s sneak out. There must be something on this tub to give the game away.”
He nodded concurrence.
“Zut alors, Trilbee,” said Christine. ‘We have wasted our time. This is not a dancing school…”
Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night Page 21