by David Haynes
“Alas, my professional position has inhibited opportunity to marry, but I should be honoured to come. And Monsieur Bishop is an acquaintance of yours?”
Bishop interrupted, “I have taken a position working alongside Alexander.”
Devaux smiled, “It seems the world you inhabit truly is one of death,” he turned and continued to examine the body. “You may go.”
Bishop and Metier turned toward the door.
“Your secret is safe with me, Monsieur Metier,” the inspector spoke again.
“My secret?”
“Yes, that you are not really a Frenchman.”
Bishop was pleased to be once more in the fresh spring air and out of the morgue. It had been another awkward meeting with Devaux and he was happy that Metier had been there to distract him.
“I take it you know the Inspector?”
“Yes, we met following the murder of the girl in the cabaret.”
“Then, your encounters have been unfortunate indeed!”
Bishop nodded, “Yes. I would prefer never to see him again but it seems our paths continue to cross. We should return to the theatre. Your father will be wondering where we have gone.”
“I very much doubt it. He is prone to disappear at any time,” he paused then added bitterly, “sometimes for years at a time.”
“You do not regard him with fondness, do you?”
“During my life I have met the man only a handful of times. It is not a matter of fondness or otherwise. I simply do not know him. I take my mother’s word that he is my father and she has no reason to lie.”
“And your mother is here, in Paris?”
Metier stopped walking, “No. She remained in London. She could not bear to see his libertine ways flaunted before her, so she remains. I shall bring her here when I am settled. And what of your family?”
“There is only my father. My mother died when I was young,” Bishop lied. He could not bear to speak the truth for it was painful to hear the words. “Come on, the bus is about to pass!” Both men ran toward the passing bus and hurled themselves at the ladder on the rear.
“We should ride on the top,” Metier started climbing. “I wish to blow the reek of that place from my clothes.”
When they reached the theatre, Eve Bissette was waiting for them. She was as immaculately dressed as ever but to Bishop her eyes lacked the effusion of life they usually had.
“I have been waiting for you. Victor would like to see us all in his office.” She lowered her voice, “I imagine it is concerning the incident this morning.”
They walked through the dark corridors and stood outside the office. Metier knocked, “Come in please!” Victor’s voice sounded cheerful.
“I trust you are all rested and recovered from this morning?” Victor remained seated behind his desk. The room was dark and the feeling of gloom was compounded by the dense cloud of cigar smoke which hung in phantom layers in the air.
“We are fine, Victor,” Eve was the first to speak, “but how are you?”
“Me? Why I am thoroughly splendid. Never better!” His eyes betrayed him for they looked as if he had not slept at all. “Did you return as I asked?”
Eve walked to the desk and placed her hand upon his, “Of course. The thief had gone. There must have been a spring shower for all trace of his blood had been washed away.”
Victor nodded and turned to Bishop and Metier, “The world is better without a man such as that living upon it. And you gentlemen, where have you been this afternoon?”
“We have been to the morgue on Île de la Cité to find the thief,” Metier replied.
Victor stood and walked toward them both, “You would not find him there. It is reserved for those found on the river; the Machabees.”
“Instead we saw a girl with her throat ripped out!” Metier continued excitedly.
“Oh yes?”
“Yes, she had been found this very morning. Murdered, quite clearly. We were just viewing the body when an old acquaintance of Robert’s arrived.”
Bishop interrupted, “Inspector Devaux is hardly an acquaintance. Although it is true, I have met him before. And thanks to you Alexander, I shall see him again this evening.”
“This evening?” Victor asked and straightened.
“Yes, he knew of my work and so I invited him, as my guest, to come and see the show!” Metier’s discovery of a new admirer clearly remained exciting to him.
Victor walked back to his desk, “I too have met Devaux and in less pleasant surroundings than Le Grand Guignol. Nevertheless we shall endeavour to make his visit as joyously terrifying as possible,” he looked at his pocket watch. “I suggest we start to prepare for this evening’s performance.”
They turned to leave the office.
“We shall never talk of this morning again.” All three nodded and left Victor to the company of his cigars.
As they walked along the corridor, the gentle sound of the piano drifted from the stage and echoed around them.
“Do you suppose he was dead?” Metier asked Eve.
“Undoubtedly. Did you not witness the loss of blood?”
Bishop interrupted, “I lay awake and we had no rain. It seems inconceivable that the blood should disappear so quickly.”
Eve stopped, “Indeed it is but I could not return. Besides, what if the blood were still there? It matters not, for if it had not been his blood, then it would have been yours,” she walked on, “either one of you.”
Both men looked at each other; they knew she was right. They returned to their office in silence. At the mention of Devaux, Victor had visibly bristled and the exchanged glance between Eve and Victor had not gone un-noticed. Perhaps Devaux was an annoyance to more people than just himself
*
Inspector Devaux dressed in silence. Neither his income nor desire allowed for an apartment in a fashionable arrondissement, the very districts inhabited by the artists and students of Paris. He had no desire to hear the shrill sound of their pleasure driven voices echo through his perfunctory existence. It was not to say he had no appreciation for the paintings they produced or the songs they sang, but he desired them on his own terms and at times of his own choosing.
He combed oil through his hair and turned his head in the mirror. He was already late for the theatre. He had been dragged from one side of the city to the other, first to Pigalle to see a murdered thief, and then more interestingly, to the morgue. What an interesting man Robert Bishop was. His arrival in Paris was surely ill fated in its timing, for he had no reason to suspect him of murder; at least not yet.
He had looked into the eyes of men with murderous hearts before, in the streets and on the battlefield, and Bishop did not possess their anger. Yet there he was at the morgue and in the cabaret. Whether by coincidence or other means would no doubt be revealed with the passage of time.
He took his hat from the stand and placed it on his head. It was indeed fortunate that he had been invited to the theatre by Metier. It would provide him with further opportunity to examine Monsieur Bishop. His association with Blair was troubling too. Where there was Blair, there was inevitably Cresswell and where both men were together, there was usually violence. He disliked both men but Creswell was a loathsome creature who deserved no quarter. One day he would reap the rewards for his nefarious endeavours.
Nevertheless he would enjoy the performance. There was something liberating in the twisted theatrical facsimiles of violence which were not present in the sordid brutality of the real world. Then of course there was Eve Bissette; a handsome and striking woman and no mistake.
He opened the door and a faint evening breeze stole into the apartment. A mink stole he had once bought for his sweetheart sat atop the dresser and its dark fur trembled in the wind as if it were waving farewell. He could not bear to part with it. It would be akin to admitting she would never return.
*
The theatre was no more than half full, and those that were present did not scream with anguish or howl in terror
, but clapped politely as the entertainment came to an end. As they filed out, Victor walked among them with an angry scowl painted upon his face.
As the last spectator left, Bishop found himself standing in silence beside Victor at the foot of the stage. It was an awkward moment and he was delighted to see Metier come toward them. Victor’s scowl deepened and became a look of contempt.
“May I introduce, Inspector Devaux,” Metier announced.
Devaux nodded at Victor but neither man offered a hand, “Lord Cresswell, you have made quite a name for yourself. For the better I might add since our last meeting. Perhaps this environment better suits your disposition.”
“And your meaning?” Victor replied brusquely.
Devaux was inscrutable under such a frosty welcome. There was clearly a history between them. “Simply that you seem more at home surrounded by other actors.” He paused before adding, “It is quite the show.”
Victor eyed the Inspector, “Yes, quite the show, but I fear we have not fulfilled the obligation to the audience.” He averted his stare from Devaux and looked to Metier. “There were no screams and my services as a doctor were not needed. Besides, the theatre was only half full,” he turned to Bishop. “I fear we need to change things somewhat. What do you say Robert?”
Bishop nodded but remained silent.
“If I may?” Devaux began. “I found it to be dark and in places, terrifying perhaps, but I think too cerebral for the palate of the common man. They come to see blood and the horrors of an operating table. They come to see madmen torturing their victims. They come to be repulsed.”
“I was not aware of your interest in the theatre, inspector. Is not the horror of one’s mind more terrible than anything so blatant? The uncertainty of delusion and subsequent loss is a powerful weapon to use against a man.”
Devaux kept his eyes fixed on Victor, “Only if the horror of the mind is unleashed. For if it remains within, then it only terrifies those who conceal it.”
“And what do you know of theatre, inspector?” Victor countered.
“Nothing. But I know of murder.” He at last turned away from Victor and addressed Bishop. “For example, the girl in the morgue today. She had been the victim of an atrocity, not merely a murder. A man capable of murder is like any of us. He may simply find himself in the wrong place, a battlefield, an act of self protection and so on, but a man who commits an atrocity such as the one you saw, is not like that. This is a man who can no longer restrain the demons within.”
“And if he cannot control it?” Bishop asked.
“Then you have seen what happens.”
“Perhaps he no longer wishes to control it, inspector. Perhaps he enjoys it and welcomes the savage guests in his mind.” Victor smiled.
“Undoubtedly he does. Monsters lurk in all of us. Some closer to the surface than others.”
Victor and Devaux stared at each other in silence until Eve appeared at Victor’s side.
“Inspector,” she spoke softly but did not offer her hand.
Devaux removed his hat and lowered his head, “It is a pleasure to see you again, Mademoiselle.”
For a moment Bishop thought he saw the trace of a smile in the corners of Devaux’s mouth. The image vanished in the flicker of the gas lamp.
Devaux straightened again and turned back to Victor, “I do not know if this is of any help to you, but tomorrow when that girl is placed in the windows of the morgue, a thousand people will come in the first hour to see her. Her lifeless and mutilated body will be more popular than the beautiful smile of Mademoiselle Bissette. Perhaps this should be your guide?”
“It is something to consider.” Bishop pondered the atrocities committed in his own mind.
“Perhaps you are correct, inspector. Perhaps my writers will write me a new play tomorrow. One laced with blood and murder.” Victor turned again to Metier.
“Impossible!” Metier snapped. “How on earth can I do that? Your expectations are ridiculous!”
“There are two of you now, Alexander. Do not reveal your hidden monster to the inspector.”
Metier opened his mouth to issue a response but thought better of it in the presence of his guest.
“Please show the inspector out. Good evening inspector Devaux.” Victor turned his back on Devaux and offered his arm to Eve. They walked back along the corridor together.
Devaux nodded and followed Metier along the corridor. Where Victor’s true feelings had been etched across his face, Bishop could see nothing of Devaux’s.
Perhaps the inspector’s monologue was correct. There was certainly at least one monster inside him and it wanted to be free. His strength was sure for now but what of it in the future? Was it possible he too could become a murderous lunatic, ripping throats and hurling corpses into the river? Tomorrow he would write again; he would write the most violent and gruesome words he could conjure. The words would slice through flesh and coat the paper in the dark inky blood of his mind. And when he was done, the girl at the morgue would be nothing more than a passing distraction against the ruined and flayed body of Mademoiselle Bissette’s corpse on the stage.
Pigs’ Blood And Angels
By eight o’clock the following morning both Metier and Bishop were sitting behind their respective desks at the theatre.
“I have not slept for two nights now.” Metier looked exhausted and his appearance was somewhat ragged.
“I feel the same, Alexander.” Although Bishop was tired, he was filled with excitement and had been writing since the first light of morning fell through his dirty window.
He handed a collection of crumpled sheets of paper to Metier, “Here, would you have a look at these and tell me what you make of them.”
Metier read in silence and winced periodically, “This is quite disturbing. I do not think we can use it. We will be censored.”
“Alexander, this is not London! They care not for thoughtless censorship or constraint. Perhaps what I have written is too much but with your help we can turn it into a triumph, I am sure.”
Metier looked down at the paper again, “Must there be so much detail? How will we show what you have so violently portrayed?”
“Of course! The screams are in the detail! We must have as much detail as we can manage. You saw the girl at the morgue yesterday and listened to the inspector; it is what they crave. Besides, it is only misdirection and illusion, simple childish tricks. Although we may need to find a butcher for the more graphic episodes.” Bishop’s fervour was growing with each word and it was having an effect on Metier.
“Well, it is undoubtedly unique and once word spreads, we shall either be thrown in jail or held aloft in triumph.”
“Good! Then it is settled.” Bishop smiled broadly.
“I have only one question.”
“Yes?”
“Where did this come from?”
“Come from?” asked Bishop, “Why, it is all in here of course!” he tapped his forehead. “It merely needed to be unleashed.”
They worked without pause all day, and even when Victor came to see them, he left in smiling silence, for he could see they were in rapture. Bishop’s hurried composition in the weak light of the breaking dawn required refinement and craft to make it work on the stage. For this, the union with Metier was perfect. At four o’clock the words were written and the directions recorded but the cast had not yet been given the opportunity to view any part of it.
Metier and Bishop walked to the stage where the cast were gathered. Metier held the script held at arm’s length as if it the words themselves were the tiny paw-prints of diseased vermin.
Metier checked his pocket watch, “We have three hours to perfect this, ladies and gentlemen. Erik, please go and locate a butcher. Request from him all the offal he has not yet made into your favourite sausages.” He paused, then continued, “Oh and blood, we will need a lot of blood.”
Eve approached them and put her hand on Metier’s shoulder, “We have been down this road befor
e and they simply laughed. Are you sure this is the right path?”
“We have not been down this particular road, Mademoiselle,” said Bishop, “I can assure you of that.”
“You must prepare yourself to be slaughtered, night after glorious night. And in so many ways you will imagine the very torments of hell are upon you! Figuratively speaking of course.” Metier smiled.
Eve laughed, “Then I shall be your Melpomene! Gaze upon me and devise my murderous demise.”
*
Without the time or opportunity to advertise or to promote the new work, the theatre was once again only half full. Victor had not been shown the content but had been given a cue and some lines. His sprits were low and he seemed satisfied to go with the direction.