Paris Requiem

by Lisa Appignanesi

  ‘You’re Jewish?’ James smiled.

  The girl started, then nodded without returning his smile. He stroked her hair again, gently.

  ‘Who brought you here?’

  She shivered. ‘From the Ukraine,’ she whispered now.

  ‘I’m from Boston. From America.’

  Her eyes lit up and she suddenly clutched his wrist and repeated, ‘America’. She repeated it again and again, as if the word itself were a charm. ‘I have cousin in America.’

  ‘Oh yes? Would you like to go there?’

  Her delight turned to wariness again. James didn’t understand the shift.

  ‘That’s a pretty necklace. Does the letter mean anything?’

  ‘Chai,’ she said. ‘It means life. The man give it me. The man who supposed to bring me to America.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Tears leapt into her eyes. ‘Instead bring me here. To work. To pay for my travel. But never be able to pay. Never enough.’ The tears spilled down her cheeks.

  James patted her hand.

  ‘Did anyone come with you. From the Ukraine I mean.’

  ‘Two girls. But I don’t know where they go.’ She looked around her, as if someone might be eavesdropping. ‘Maybe you know them.’ She whispered two names.

  James shook his head.

  ‘No. No, of course not. They change our names.’

  ‘Who?’

  She stared at him for a long moment, then shivered. ‘That bad man. He meet us at the train.’

  ‘Marcel Caro?’

  She leapt up, wrung her hands. ‘No, no, Maro. You know him?’

  ‘Only by reputation,’ James murmured, wondering if the girl had elided the name or whether it might be a nickname. He waited a moment. ‘And that other man, the doctor? Do you have anything to do with him?’

  She wrapped her arms around herself as if she was suddenly cold, but her expression was defiant. ‘I’m clean. Clean.’

  It came to James that Comte might extract services in return for medical visits. Yes, he could well be the brothel’s state-appointed medical examiner – a position which would allow for extortion on a smaller or larger scale. He turned his attention back to Eugénie.

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course you’re clean. Don’t be frightened, Eugénie. I only want to help you.’

  Tears moistened her eyes. ‘Help? No one can help. Too late.’

  ‘It’s never too late, Eugénie. While you have life. Which reminds me, did you by any chance meet a young woman here called Olympe Fabre? Or Rachel Arnhem?’

  The girl shook her head slowly. ‘Were they your special …?’

  ‘No, no. It’s not that. I’ve never been here before.’

  Suspicion suddenly sharpened her features. She clutched at his arm. ‘Are you … are you police?’

  ‘No, no. Of course not.’

  Distrust stayed on her face. ‘You go now.’

  As he adjusted his tie, she forced a smile of surprising coyness. ‘Yes. And come back. Please.’ She touched his lips with a light finger, her face that of a child who had mastered adult wiles.

  This time shame suffused him. It brought moisture to his brow, a clenching of his jaw, so that he barely managed a brief bow, a mumbled thank you, before closing her door behind him. He leaned against it heavily, struggling to break free of the sullying currents of desire which threatened his purpose.

  A lazy heat impregnated the noisy salon and with it came a whiff of mass perspiration. Two women stood by the piano and sang what was, judging from their lolling eyes and louche gestures, a racy ditty, though he couldn’t quite make out the rush of words. The man he believed to be Marcel Caro was nowhere to be seen, but the woman he had noticed with him, and before that with Dr Comte, was still there. She was perched on the lap of an older man who, with his spats and paunch and white whiskers, had the benign air of a grandfather. A gentlemanly grandfather. James wondered how he could go about getting her attention.

  ‘Will you stay on with us a little, Monsieur? The night’s still young.’ Madame Rosa was at his side, waving a glass of wine into his hand. From somewhere behind her, the swarthy man whom he felt was Marcel Caro appeared. James stiffened. A little nod from her and the man vanished through the door from which James had come.

  ‘I trust our Eugénie was to your taste. She’s a sweet child.’

  ‘Altogether satisfactory,’ James heard himself say. He hoped she would report this to the man he had a sudden distinct sense had just gone to Eugénie. He would be checking on her, scuttling through her earnings, perhaps doing worse than that.

  ‘Good, good. I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘And yes, I will stay on a little.’ James’s eyes moved in the direction of Dr Comte’s partner.

  Madame Rosa followed his gaze and raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Not quite in the same order, that young lady. I see you’re a man who likes his hors d’oeuvres followed by a good full entrée.’ She chuckled, rubbed herself against him, so that he could see beads of sweat glistening at her cleavage. ‘I’ll let her know, but she may be a little while. She’s with an old friend. Do sit down, Monsieur. Enjoy the music.’

  James lowered himself into an armchair. Women strolled in front of him, ruching skirts as they went, displaying legs, swinging hips. Clarice, the slender blonde, came to perch on the arm of his chair and let her hand play over the base of his neck. For some absurd reason, Marguerite de Landois flashed through his mind. He wondered how she might comment on his present adventure, wondered too what sensation her fingers on his neck might elicit. The thought astonished him and he buried it in a remote crevice of himself and sat up, his back ramrod straight despite the woman’s caresses. She moved away with a full Gallic shrug of displeasure.

  James waited and watched the activity of the place. Though appearances could hardly be foolproof, he estimated there were three Jewish women in the room, not counting the piano player and the absent Eugénie and whatever others were upstairs. He tried to see whether they too wore the telltale charm around their necks – a signal, if Eugénie’s story was an example, that they had been brought to France as part of some white slave racket, in which Caro evidently played a role. And Comte? What was his part, the obligatory medical examination apart? Was he in cahoots with Caro, raking in a cut for silence every time a new slave was introduced into the brothels within his aegis?

  He looked again in the direction of the statuesque brunette. Their eyes met this time, and with a slight tilt of his chin he nodded her over. She smiled a challenge, then turned lazily to ruffle the old man’s hair and plant a kiss on his forehead. Within seconds, she stood before James, her hands on her swaying hips, her legs firmly planted, as if she had learned her brazen posture from a cancan dancer at the Moulin Rouge.

  ‘Voulez-vous monter?’ she asked, her gaze basilisk still.

  James nodded. ‘You’ve been recommended to me.’

  ‘Really?’ Thick brows rose into an arch. ‘By whom?’

  ‘Charlie,’ James invented. ‘An American friend. A while back.’

  She shrugged. ‘He didn’t leave an impression. You’re American?’

  He nodded. Close to, he noticed that she was older than he had estimated. Her eyes had a bruised look.

  She surveyed him with an experienced gaze which seemed already to have undressed him. ‘We don’t get too many of your kind here.’

  ‘Oh? Guess I’ll have to spread the word.’

  ‘You do that.’ Her laugh was hard, insinuating.

  She led him up the stairs he had trod not so very long ago and then turned in a direction opposite to Eugénie’s room. From behind a door he heard a rasping sound and then a scream. He stopped.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s Madeleine. She likes noise.’ She eyed him curiously. ‘You don’t, I take it.’

  James shrugged and followed her into a room which was about twice the size of the last one he had been in. One wall was all but covered by a rack of clothes. Costumes, he corrected himself. He saw a nurse’s un
iform, a nun’s habit, a judge’s cloak, a gendarme’s cape, a frock coat and on the floor, a riding crop, handcuffs, an assortment of shoes and boots. One pair caught his eye.

  ‘You like boots?’ she asked, swift as lightning. She reached for them, raised them to his nostrils. James sniffed supple leather. ‘Shall I put them on?’ She lowered the boot to his crotch and rubbed it there.

  James stepped backwards, shook his head.

  ‘What’s your taste then, Monsieur l’Américain?’ From somewhere she pulled a leather thong and smoothed it between her fingers.

  ‘I … I really wanted to talk, to tell the truth.’

  ‘Talking … Is that an American form of brothel activity?’ Laughter cascaded from her.

  He found himself joining her in it. ‘Perhaps. Why not. What’s your name?’

  ‘You can call me Berenice. Berenice from Nice.’ She fluttered long eyelashes at him in some parody of the sultry southerner and showed him to a chair. She herself sat down on the bed, drawing her skirts up, so that he could see red garters and a length of thigh. ‘So talk away. Tell me your sins, if it excites you.’

  James averted his eyes from her legs and plunged. ‘Not my sins, exactly. I’d like to ask you some questions. You look like a woman who knows her way round this world.’

  ‘You’re a cop?’ The laughter fled from her face.

  ‘No. No. Promise. I’m a visiting American and all I want is to ask you whether by any chance you know a woman called Olympe Fabre, once Rachel Arnhem?’

  She sprang from the bed and walked towards the window, straightening the curtain with an abrupt movement. There was a glimmer of fear behind the well-oiled mask which was her face.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  James reached for his wallet. ‘I’m trying to find out how and why she died. She’s a friend of the family.’

  ‘Family! You can put your money away. Until later. I haven’t seen her in years.’

  ‘I was told she used to visit here.’

  ‘Maybe she did and maybe she didn’t.’

  ‘So she wasn’t a particular friend of yours?’ He looked at her throat to check for the charm. There wasn’t one. James thought quickly. ‘She never tried to persuade you out of here?’

  ‘I enjoy my work, Monsieur. Though I’m not enjoying this particular pass.’

  James reached into his pocket and pulled out the erotic photograph. ‘Is that what Olympe looked like when she worked in your trade?’

  Berenice stared at the image and scoffed. ‘That’s not Olympe. That’s Judith.’ She clamped a hand over her mouth.

  ‘Judith. I see. I see,’ James murmured. ‘Judith used to work here.’

  ‘Not here. Another place.’ She gave the bedclothes a savage tug, then her face softened. ‘She was a sweet thing. Helpless. I took pity on her. I got her that posing job. Not that the money really helped. She wasn’t cut out for the profession. So there you have it, Monsieur l’Américain. That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘You’re Jewish?’

  She shrugged. ‘What difference does it make? But no, if you must know, I’m not. I’m a good little Catholic girl. Want to hear my catechism? No, I can see you don’t.’ She walked over to him and drew out his wallet, helped herself defiantly to a few bills. With a shushing finger over her lips, she walked to the clothes rack and hid the money in the swathes of the nun’s habit.

  ‘So you never saw Olympe Fabre here?’

  ‘Okay, sure. I saw her. Once. Madame Rosa was all atitter. That’s how I found out the woman I was looking at wasn’t Judith. Thought she’d just somehow managed to grow too grand for me.’

  James swallowed a little sigh of triumph. So he had been right. The Olympe of the present and the Judith of the brothel days bore an uncanny resemblance. ‘Go on,’ he urged Berenice.

  ‘Anyhow Rosa thought that maybe this Olympe had come ’cause she wanted to pick up a little extra cash on the side. Women do, you know. In the afternoons. Good upstanding ladies,’ she sneered. ‘Rent themselves a place. Take away our trade. But no. That’s not what she’d come for. She’d come to talk to Simone.’

  ‘Simone?’

  ‘Our pianist. Well not always just a pianist. She’s quite a hand if you fancy her type. Been round the track a few hundred times.’

  ‘So Olympe came to see her?’

  ‘Yup, apparently they’re old friends. That’s it, Monsieur l’Américain. Your time’s up. I’m a working woman.’ She pulled him from his chair, so that he stood face to face with her. ‘Too bad you didn’t want to play. I rather like those icy eyes of yours and the upright posture.’ She slipped her hand into his shirt. ‘And you’re in good shape for a man of your years.’

  James stopped her hand. ‘Better than Dr Comte?’

  She moved away. ‘I don’t know any Dr Comte.’

  ‘I just saw you with him.’

  ‘Oh him!’ There was a faint tremor in her laugh. ‘He’s just a form filler. We all need form fillers in this great Republic of ours.’

  The door suddenly burst open and over her head he saw the man he assumed was Caro lunging across the room. Berenice stepped aside with a gasp. Before James could move, the man was shaking him like some child’s rattle, slamming a fist into his jaw, another into his belly. The last landed with such force that the walls went reeling.

  James fell back onto his chair, tried to catch a painful breath and simultaneously charge at the man.

  But Caro, despite his bulk, was too quick and experienced a fighter. He all but lifted James up and shoved him towards the door. ‘Let that be a warning,’ he hissed. ‘Get out of here and don’t come back. Nobody scares Maro’s girls. Nobody tampers with them. You hear me.’

  ‘Nobody but you and your friend, Comte, eh?’ James heard himself snarl.

  The door slammed behind him. He lurched down the hall. The walls swerved towards him.

  Clinging to the banister, he tried to assemble his scattered wits. He should go back and give the man a wallop. His pride cried out for it. Yet even if he could dent that solid girth, it would serve little purpose. The police then. But Touquet had already intimated that Caro was probably in cahoots with the locals and he now knew the swarthy pimp was Caro.

  No, no. The sensible thing was to talk to Simone, the pianist, before the bull of a man made his way downstairs. And then he would go to Durand. For all his mad speculations, Durand wasn’t crooked. He was all but certain of that. Then together they would confront the evil Comte. Like some maleficent presence, the doctor had shadowed every point of their investigation. Who knew but that a little further digging would show that the girls in Caro’s white slave racket ended up on slabs at the Salpêtrière when they took the first brave steps towards exposure or escape – steps that Olympe had encouraged. Yes, at the Salpêtrière, where they could provide ready physical proof for theories of degeneracy.

  James straightened his jacket and made his way downstairs. The room looked slightly desolate now, empty of the favourites who were elsewhere engaged. Only a few girls lolled on the sofas. The men looked dazed, worse for drink perhaps. He could use one, but he didn’t want to have to confront Madame Rosa. He sidled towards the piano, where the large woman was playing a bittersweet number, and leaned against it, catching her eye.

  ‘I’d like to speak with you privately, Madame,’ he said, hardly moving his lips.

  She looked up at him lazily. A gold tooth glittered as she smiled. ‘I’m busy, Monsieur. I hope you liked our little Eugénie.’

  ‘I want to talk to you about Olympe Fabre.’

  Her stubby fingers missed a beat.

  ‘Come again.’

  ‘You heard me. I know the two of you were friends.’

  She looked quickly round her shoulder, her fleshy arms quivering with the motion, her face now as tight as a mask. ‘Not here,’ she murmured. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘When then?’

  ‘I have nothing to say.’

  ‘Better to say it to me than to t
he police, however.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A private investigator. Shall I speak to Madame Rosa?’

  ‘No, no.’ She flashed him a plea, her face sinking into jowly gloom as she struck a dissonant chord.

  ‘Name a place then. For tomorrow.’

  She looked round again. ‘Café Dauphine. Near the Comédie. 11.30.’

  ‘If you’re not there, I’ll come straight back here. With a friend.’ James’s stance threatened.

  ‘I’ll be there. Poor Olympe.’

  NINETEEN

  Exhaustion tugged at James’s limbs like metal weights. He leaned heavily on the hotel counter and tried to clear the fog that had invaded his mind. He was certain that he had left his room key here, but now it was nowhere to be found and the lengthy business of identification had only just begun. He searched his pockets once more. Could he have mistakenly taken the key with him and dropped it somewhere in the brothel – or left it at Marguerite’s house with his pipe? He tried to think back to his departure from his room – almost two days ago now, but all he could focus on was that he felt soiled, irascible, bruised.

  ‘Eh bien?’ He growled at the night clerk who had just re-emerged from some nether office.

  ‘It’s all right, Monsieur. The porter will see you up. You may find your key safely in your room.’ He waved James’s papers at him. ‘We’ll just hold on to these until everything is settled.’

  James grunted a response and followed the porter. In the night-time dimness, the hotel felt eerie. The empty elevators, the long, darkened corridors with their rows of neatly polished shoes awaiting their owners, were like some image of an afterlife in which the sleeping dead had not yet risen from their tombs. He shivered with sudden cold as the porter fitted a key into the lock of room 411.

  It turned smoothly. He nodded his thanks and let himself in, switching on the bedside light as he made gratefully for the bathroom.

  There was a rustle of noise behind him. Before he could turn, his arms were clamped behind his back in a muscular vice. He struggled against it. To his surprise, it relaxed. He veered round.