Paris Requiem

by Lisa Appignanesi

  At the next turn, the carriage stopped. Raf leapt out with bounding alacrity, his eagerness for action barely containable. James noted that his fists were clenched again.

  He paid the driver, waited until Raf was in, then followed more slowly.

  The entrance to the brothel took him through a dank hall. Red wallpaper suppurated moisture like drops of blood. As the inner door opened, the mingled smell of warm flesh and absinthe and cheap perfume enveloped him. It brought with it an image of Eugénie, so very young and so very frightened, as she had stammered out her sorry tale. Rage kindled inside him, banishing hesitation. Caro was a brute.

  This was a bigger salon than that at the Monpiquet. From somewhere came the brash sound of an accordion, but he couldn’t see the musician for the teeming crowd. They danced, they sang, they drank, they sprawled on sofas and chairs and on corners of the floor, bodies clasped so closely together that it obliterated the need for bedrooms. There was no attempt at refinement here. The men were in shirtsleeves. Half of them looked like gangsters. The women’s eyes were darkly kohled, their mouths crimson slashes, their clothes little more than bustiers with a gauze of skirt advertising an assortment of shapes.

  A burly, bearded man in a striped fisherman’s shirt extracted a sum from him almost before he had crossed the threshold. When James tipped him, he raised an eyebrow in mock astonishment.

  ‘Les garçons, alors? C’est par là.’ He pointed to a door behind him and placing his hand on his hip, swivelled it like some frenzied bee.

  Shocked, James shook his head vigorously. No, no. He certainly didn’t want boys.

  ‘This way then.’ He jostled James through to a sofa, whisking off a clinging couple in the process. He whistled between his teeth and in a moment, a brunette with the plump features of a sleepy cat curled beside James. The cheek she turned to his displayed a livid scar.

  James took a deep breath and looked round him. Raf was already dancing with a coltish redhead. Her features were voracious. As she pecked at his neck, she left the trace of her lips on his collar. He swung her round towards James and mouthed, ‘Signal when you spot him.’

  James tugged his partner onto the dance floor. It was a way of moving and observing. The place was too noisy for speech. The girl pressed close to him and seemed to want to guide him towards a door through which couples came and went with surprising speed. James lifted her in the opposite direction. Her hair tickled his face like feathers. When she looked up at him, her pupils were unnaturally large and bright, fixed in an unseeing stare. With a start, he thought of Ellie. He tucked her face down on his chest.

  He could see the accordion-player now, an elf of a man with a cigarette dangling from his lips, the ash precariously poised. At either side of him stood a woman. They were mirror images of each other; skinny tousle-haired urchins with veined necks, their breasts on display like apples on platters. They were singing, their voices raucous. The ditty must have been salacious, because they moved in obscene pantomime.

  He caught a refrain.

  ‘Pierreuses,

  Trotteuses,

  Les ch’veux frisés,

  Les seins blasés,

  Les pieds usés.

  Something about streetwalkers with tired breasts and tired feet, James translated for himself and simultaneously caught a glimpse of Touquet’s sallow profile in the shadow of a pillar. He abandoned his partner and made his way towards Touquet. Before he could reach him, another woman danced herself into his arms. This one had a Mediterranean complexion and a frizz of dark hair. She looked no more than fifteen. Around her neck was the telltale charm. He asked her name.

  ‘Manou,’ she murmured.

  Her eyes, too, were dilated, oddly luminous.

  ‘Excuse me, Manou. I must talk with someone.’

  She clung to him and he realised her feet were unsteady. He propped her gently on the arm of a sofa and hastened towards Touquet. Raf reached him at the same time.

  ‘Damn it. He’s gone. Vanished about ten minutes ago.’ Touquet was visibly agitated. ‘He came downstairs, had a word with Madame Boule and then he just upped and disappeared. Must have slipped out. And Comte never turned up, as far as I know.’

  ‘Let’s go after him. He can’t have got far.’ Raf was already making for the door.

  Touquet gave James a sceptical look, then shrugged. ‘Okay, we’ve got nothing to lose. You’re late.’

  ‘It was unavoidable.’

  ‘Meet you outside. We should stagger our departure. There are eyes and tongues in these walls.’ Touquet veered off towards the singers.

  Before James could reach the door, a great tub of a woman in a strawberry red dress accosted him. Something about her jowly face reminded him ominously of Mrs Elliott. He found himself bowing.

  ‘Ah Monsieur,’ she preened. ‘Not leaving us already, are you? I know, I know, my best girls are upstairs. But if you wait just a little longer, I’m sure …’

  ‘On another occasion, Madame. Thank you.’ He bowed himself out, kept his hands on the latch behind him, to make sure it didn’t move. As he stood there for a moment the door diagonally opposite him opened and a thin, dapper, top-hatted man stepped out. He lifted his hat to James ceremoniously. Behind him, James saw whorls of cigarette smoke, strange, lithe creatures moving as if in a cloud, their eyes brightly outlined, their cheeks rouged, their gestures feminine though they wore trousers. He steadied himself. The top-hatted gent tweaked his moustache and pointed his walking stick invitingly through the door.

  James shook his head and raced down the darkened corridor. Marguerite came into his mind. Marguerite and the husband she and Olympe had blackmailed into departure. Emotions warred within him. Disgust and pity and over it all a sense of awe, as if he had come across a mysterious, uncharted island, filled with a multiplicity of life forms which hadn’t yet found their way into public classification systems. Yet these were secretly known to many of the people he had met here and Olympe ran like a scarlet ribbon between them, linking them all.

  ‘Jim.’ Raf’s voice nudged him from his thoughts. Nudged the top-hatted man behind him, too. They both turned to see Raf leaning against the corner lamp post. The man gave James a knowing smile and with a nod took off in the opposite direction, his walking stick tapping out a desultory rhythm on the wet pavement.

  ‘What took you so long? Good, here’s Touquet at last. Which way Touquet?’

  Touquet shrugged. ‘We could try Renard’s. It’s not far. And he apparently goes there, too, from time to time. There’s a short cut through the back here.’

  Touquet cut into a narrow alleyway. But for the glimmer of a light from an upper window, the lane was blacker than the night, the buildings on either side weighing in on them like looming ramparts. They walked in single file over uneven cobblestones, slippery from the rain. A rat slithered out of a gutter and ran between them. From somewhere a dog barked. They didn’t speak. The atmosphere weighed on them, far heavier than the warm, curling mist.

  They had arrived at some sort of tiny square or courtyard, a stone figurine at its midst. Touquet led them across it and then to the right where they plunged into another dingy alley. When they reached the next corner, a scream pierced the silence. It hurtled through the lane like a banshee, ricocheting off the stone walls, gathering an echoing force as it went. They stopped in their tracks. A thud followed, like a sack hitting stone and then the sound of running footsteps, a clacking on cobbles which reverberated through the canyon of the buildings.

  ‘Come on,’ Raf roused them. He was already dashing in the direction of the sound. They raced after him, all but colliding with his motionless form in the next lane.

  James’s foot touched something soft, but inert. He looked down, felt as much as saw an ungainly bundle. Old clothes, heaped on the ground. Raf was kneeling.

  ‘Touquet, get the police. Quick,’ he lashed out.

  ‘Where? Why?’

  ‘It’s a body, you idiot. Where’s that brothel of yours?’
<
br />   ‘At the next corner.’

  ‘Well get over there. Bring a lantern back with you.’ He shouted after him.

  From a window above them, a light flickered. A curtain had been pushed back. Through the shadows, James made out a shape. ‘Venez,’ he shouted and waved. ‘Bring a lamp.’ He repeated his injunction.

  ‘Jesus, Jim. This is just what we needed.’

  ‘Is he alive?’ He kneeled to take hold of a cold, dank wrist. ‘There’s still a pulse. Faint though. Should we turn him over?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jim. The guy needs a doctor. Au secours! Un médecin!’ Raf yelled at the top of his lungs.

  Light suddenly illuminated them. A man, a boy really, with tousled hair and sleepy eyes was holding a lantern above them.

  ‘Bring it closer,’ Raf ordered. He gestured to James and together they slowly turned the body over.

  The man’s suit and waistcoat were rumpled, but it was a good enough suit and the shirt was white, except for the red stain which crept up its midriff. At the dark centre of the stain, the shirt was slashed. So was the flesh beneath. Blood oozed from the man’s belly in a pumping rivulet.

  ‘Jesus!’ Raf repeated. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Try and bind it I guess.’ In a split second, James had his jacket off and was unbuttoning his shirt. As he did so, he noticed a small crowd had gathered round them. A second lamp had arrived. A woman was gesturing at him. ‘Here, here. This will be better.’ She was tugging at her petticoat. ‘It’s bigger. He’s a large man.’

  She handed Raf the garment and knelt down beside him. ‘Prop his head up slightly. Just in case. And untie his collar.’

  Someone passed them a rolled-up jacket and James moved to tuck it under the man’s head. It was only then that he became aware of the man’s face. The pucker at the brow, the stubby nose, the corpulent cheeks, blotched with dusky blue now. He let out a noisy breath. ‘Raf, Raf! It’s Dr Comte.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, it’s him.’

  ‘Police. Make way. Make way.’ A stentorian voice reached them. The crowd moved aside and in a moment a young, lavishly moustachioed man in a bowler hat and ordinary clothes was at their side.

  ‘You.’ Raf scowled, then grinned. ‘Well, for once I have to say I’m happy to see you. We need an ambulance here. And you’d better try and get someone to wake Chief Inspector Durand. This man here isn’t quite a corpse yet and his name is Henri Comte. Dr Henri Comte. Meet my shadow, Jim.’

  After that, everything happened quickly. Touquet reappeared with a gaggle behind him. The narrow lane heaved with people and voices. A baby’s cries echoed through the air. Someone proffered brandy. Three men arrived with a stretcher, closely followed by two caped constables. Dr Comte was heaved on to the stretcher and borne aloft to the end of the lane where a hospital vehicle waited.

  ‘We should go with him,’ James said.

  ‘You’re right.’

  No sooner had they begun to move forward, than they were surrounded by the three police officers.

  ‘You’re under arrest.’ The moustachioed plainclothesman announced.

  ‘Arrest. Don’t be ridiculous.’ Raf tried to push him aside.

  ‘This woman here saw you both kneeling over the body.’

  ‘Of course she did,’ James said evenly. ‘We found the man here, Officer. We heard a scream and came running. We put out the alert.’

  ‘You’ll come quietly.’ The man seemed a little confused, but he wasn’t about to let them go. ‘You can repeat that at Headquarters.’

  ‘Search us for the weapon, you oaf. If you find a knife on us, then you’ve got a reason to take us in. The man was stabbed, remember. If you don’t and you still insist, you can bet your life, you’re going to be back in uniform. And in a hurry. Touquet, get over here.’ Raf waved to his friend.

  ‘We’re going to Headquarters,’ the officer repeated stubbornly.

  ‘It looks like Headquarters is coming here,’ James murmured. Over the heads of the lingering onlookers, he glimpsed Chief Inspector Durand’s staunch form. He was coming from the end of the lane opposite to the ambulance. James waved him forward.

  ‘I’ve rarely been so pleased to see you, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Indeed. What’s happened, Flammard?’ Durand addressed his officer, who quickly relayed his view of events.

  ‘That’s all nonsense, Chief Inspector,’ Raf burst out. ‘The Nortons of Boston are hardly in the habit of stabbing doctors in alleyways.’

  ‘So what exactly were you doing here? I don’t relish being woken in the middle of the night just because you’re out playing, Monsieur.’ Durand peered up at Raf. His face was bullish.

  ‘Let me handle this, Raf.’ James took the Chief Inspector aside and explained briefly, stressing that they really should all accompany Comte to the hospital. He might have some valuable information, if he was in any state to be questioned.

  The Chief Inspector rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘A knife wound, you say?’

  James nodded.

  The youth who had first held the lantern came up to them. ‘I saw it all, Monsieur. Well most of it. The scream woke me. I live up there.’ He pointed. ‘I heard footsteps running in that direction. And then more of them coming from over there.’ As he pointed again, James saw a broad-shouldered, capped form emerge from the shadows.

  For a second, the message his eyes conveyed lacked distinctness. Then he bounded forward, using his shoulders as a ram to clear a space through the crowd. He charged the man with his head, forced him against the wall. Thick fingers gripped his arms, pressed him backwards. This time he landed a fist square into the man’s chest. There was a return punch at his jaw, a kick at his groin.

  Like a flash of forked lightning, he saw the glint of steel. ‘Caro,’ he shouted, ducking as the knife lunged at him. ‘Caro,’ he screamed again and felt stone scrape against his back, his head.

  ‘Bastard,’ Raf was yelling. ‘Pimp.’

  James heard steel clatter on cobbles. And then he heard nothing more.

  TWENTY-THREE

  He was back on shipboard. He could feel the heave and toss of the waves, a gentle rhythmic swaying which wasn’t unpleasant at night, except that it tugged at his innards and his head felt too heavy to lift. Then came the mutter of indistinct voices. An alien smell attacked his nostrils. He wondered distantly if some waste pipe had burst, wondered too at the ache which cut through him, as regular as the ship’s sway. But he was too tired to pay it heed. Sleep carried him away.

  The next thing he knew cold hands were prodding his chest. He flinched away. Steel weighed on his eyelids. With a grunt, he forced them open. A world he didn’t recognise swam slowly but not fully into focus, so that he thought he must be dreaming. A white-coated man stood over him, next to him a vaguely familiar but unrecogniseable figure with a pointed weasel-face and drooping moustaches. Beyond them, a sea of beds floated in murky light.

  The white-coated man’s voice was brisk, but oddly maternal. ‘It’s only a surface wound. But your head must be hurting. I’ve given you something for the pain. Best to sleep.’

  James’s eyelids obeyed the injunction with no prodding from his will.

  When he woke again, pale sunshine streamed through windows, making dust motes dance. Raf was sitting by his side, anxiety etched on his handsome face.

  ‘There you are, Jim. I was beginning to think we’d lost you for another day. How’re you feeling, old man?’

  James considered. ‘Rather like an old man. Where am I?’

  Raf chuckled. ‘Well, the first thing to say is that you’re something of a hero. But like all heroes you needed just a little wound to make us believe it. So Marcel Caro provided one. He by the way is safely behind bars. Even our favourite Chief Inspector couldn’t doubt the evidence of his own eyes. An attack with a five-inch blade on an American citizen may not be murder, but it sure is an attempt. And the attempt has landed you in this not altogether pleasant hospital. We’ll have you out so
on enough, Jim. The doctor says as long as you’re not seeing double and you can walk, you’ll be fine. Though you’ll probably be groggy for a bit. It’s your head that got the worst of it. That’s what knocked you out. He gave you a soothing concoction.’

  James eased himself up on the uncomfortable roll of a bolster, battled with dizziness. He felt quite the opposite of a hero, whatever that was, though it probably had to do with bounding bewilderment and a creaking stiffness in the joints. He closed his eyes again for a moment. The dash through the wet streets, the body, came back through a fuzzy distance.

  ‘Comte.’ His mind sprang to attention. ‘What’s happened to Dr Comte?’

  ‘I’m afraid he hasn’t fared quite as well as you have.’

  ‘You mean he’s dead?’ James lurched forward, gasped at the pain.

  ‘Take it easy, Jim. Your wound’s not mortal, but it’ll take a few days to heal. No, Comte’s not dead, though I suspect Marcel Caro hoped he would be, which is why he came back to check on the state of his wished-for cadaver. He wasn’t expecting quite such a crowd to happen upon the scene so very quickly.’

  ‘You mean Caro tried to kill Dr Comte?’ Confusion whipped through James, thicker than egg yolk. ‘I thought … I thought they were a team.’

  Raf shrugged. ‘I’m pretty sure the knife that made that little indentation in you was the one that did the damage on Comte. For once the Chief Inspector seems to agree. Let’s hope he’s got Caro talking. Touquet and I briefed him, a little too hastily in the midst of all this, about the list of dead girls. Let’s hope that Comte wakes up to talk. He lost a lot of blood.’

  A nurse appeared bearing a tray. A bowl filled with some grey-coloured gruel sat on it. It looked as appetising as sewage. James shook his head. A hammer seemed to have taken up residence inside it. He pushed the tray aside with as polite a ‘non’ as he could muster.