Paris Requiem

by Lisa Appignanesi

  ‘Or some strange rite, a ritual desecration aimed only at Jews. Like some of the horrors perpetrated on the Negroes after our civil war?’

  Durand stared at him, his eyes glazed. ‘There’s something I don’t think you saw, something I haven’t told you yet.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The cut.’ He touched his forehead and winced. ‘Her brain … it’s been removed.’

  James’s gasp drew a curious look from the barman. Like some automaton, he repeated Durand’s words in question form.

  The Chief Inspector nodded. He fiddled with the brim of his hat which lay beside him on the table. He removed a speck of lint. ‘There’s something else I only learned this morning. It didn’t seem relevant then.’ He met James’s eyes, his own incandescent. ‘Our pathologist’s report on Judith Arnhem. There was a quantity of chloroform in her blood, but we had reason to deduce that in any case. What surprised me in his report was the fact that when he arrived, they had already removed her brain. I asked him about it. He said it wasn’t an unusual procedure in research hospitals.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ James was already on his feet.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We’re going to make a visit to Dr Vaillant. It’s just as I suspected. There is something fishy going on at the Salpêtrière. And if Dr Comte is out of the picture, that leaves us with Vaillant, whatever his pre-eminence.’

  Dr Vaillant was on the point of leaving his office for the day when James and Durand caught up with him. With the commanding air of a general, he told them he had no time for an interview. His frock coat and top hat, his impeccably trimmed beard, backed up his excuse of an impending and urgent meeting.

  The Chief Inspector seemed to be on the point of deferring to rank. James bristled. ‘We only need five minutes of your time, Doctor. Those five minutes may mark the difference between life and death.’

  Vaillant shrugged. ‘Really, Monsieur, you astonish me. But let it not be said that Dr Vaillant is indifferent to life.’ He ushered them into his office and gestured towards two chairs. The room itself was as prepossessing as its inhabitant. Shelves towered with heavy tomes. The desk was huge and intricately carved. Oils on medical themes ranked the walls. One of them depicted a beautiful woman whose torso was an anatomy of bones and ribs. A bronze life-size nude of a well-muscled man stood by the window like some protective antique deity.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Vaillant asked. He stood opposite them, dwarfing his seated visitors.

  ‘When I last came to one of your lectures, you talked of the good fortune of the Salpêtrière in providing a hereditary pool for neurological study, specifically a Jewish pool.’ James began.

  ‘Indeed.’ Vaillant was utterly unruffled. ‘That is the case. But five minutes is not sufficient time for scientific deliberations, Monsieur. You must come back another day.’

  James overrode him. ‘What we need to know, Doctor, is whether your theoretical speculations are based on the firm foundation of studies of the brain. More specifically, do you anatomise the brains of all your patients?’

  Vaillant waved an impeccably manicured hand. ‘Many. I really cannot see of what interest this is to the police.’ He scowled at Durand.

  ‘Do you also extend your researches to the brains of their relatives?’

  ‘I don’t understand you, Monsieur.’

  Durand spoke at last. ‘What my friend here is trying to say is that the grave of a recent murder victim, the sister of a patient of yours, one Judith Arnhem, has been tampered with, the brain taken.’

  ‘Really, Chief Inspector. I am hardly in the habit of robbing graves.’ Vaillant pulled on a glove, eased it over his fingers. ‘Now if that is all, Messieurs, I must ask you to go.’

  ‘But in the interest of your research, you would not discourage such practices?’ James persisted.

  ‘Goodbye, Messieurs. I would remind you that we do not live in the dark ages. Dissection is a scientific tool. The Salpêtrière is at the forefront of medical progress.’

  ‘Which, of course, means that you keep impeccable records.’ James nudged the Chief Inspector.

  ‘Yes. We shall need to call on those, Dr Vaillant.’

  ‘Well, if your men can read and understand them, Chief Inspector, you are welcome to them.’ Vaillant gave him an arrogant smile. ‘This truly marks a new era for French science, Chief Inspector. I will tell the Minister tonight that our guardians of public safety are making great strides.’

  With this parting shot, Vaillant hurried along the corridor.

  ‘He knows nothing about it,’ Durand muttered.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ James countered. ‘Not sure at all.’

  *

  Had James had the name of Marguerite’s intern he would have gone in search of him straight away. He didn’t. An interview with Dr Comte was similarly out of the question, particularly since James suspected bullying tactics were in order. The man was still on the danger list.

  But the matter of Olympe’s rifled grave not only troubled him. It perplexed him greatly. Both Dr Comte and Marcel Caro, his two prime murder suspects, were out of the picture. Yet he was certain that there had to be a link between whoever had desecrated Olympe’s grave and body, and the person who had killed her. Chief Inspector Durand had raced off. Having received the whole-hearted backing of his politician and Touquet’s promise of an imminent press campaign which could only do his career good, the Chief Inspector was now under greater pressure to gather evidence about Caro’s white slavery ring than to solve the mystery of Olympe and her sister’s deaths.

  Left to his own devices, James wandered towards the ward which had until so recently been home to Judith Arnhem. He opened the door a fraction, caught the first moans and paused to gird himself in sensory armour. Once inside, he forced himself to look at the women one by one. Were there any here who, like Judith, might be alert to the deaths or disappearances of their fellows and be able to give him some clues? Poised, like some primitive statue on the fourth bed to his right, he noticed a mountain of a woman, her face impassive, her eyes turned inwards. She was utterly still, unlike her shrill or rocking fellows. Just as he reached her, the white-wimpled nurse he had encountered on a previous visit came hurrying towards him.

  ‘You remember me,’ he smiled. ‘I’m with the police. I’m investigating the death of Judith Arnhem.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘I wasn’t here that day. What do you want to know? We’re run off our feet here. What with dear Dr Comte ill, we’re in turmoil.’

  ‘Yes, I do understand. I just wanted to know if any of your patients were close to Mlle Arnhem. Any who might have talked to her that day or just prior to it.’

  ‘Talked, yes, but made sense, probably not. This is an asylum, Monsieur.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’m aware of that. Still …’

  ‘Ask me. I knew Judith. We all thought she was getting on so well. Well, for here, if you see what I mean. Then, suddenly, about two months ago it was, the delusions took hold of her.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I’m not surprised she did it, you know. All she could talk about was death. Dr Comte didn’t agree with me, but I thought it was the fire that set her off.’

  ‘What fire?’

  ‘Oh just a small one. It was put out quickly enough. Out there.’ She pointed to the windows at the far end of the ward. ‘I suspect one of the inmates threw a match onto a heap of old mattresses that were being chucked. Anyhow, they caught fire. And the straw … well, you can imagine. And Judith was in a bed at that end. She … we had to pacify her.’

  ‘I see. Tell me, Mademoiselle, who performs your post-mortems?’

  She looked at him strangely.

  ‘After they die, patients are examined, I take it.’

  She nodded. She was fingering a small gold crucifix which hung from her chest. ‘I don’t like it. I’ve never liked it. They cut them up something fierce. For research. But it’s not right.’

  ‘Who does it?’

  ‘Not Dr Comte. Dr Froissart,
I guess. And the professor. Others too. That skinny intern who’s always sticking his nose into everything. Very serious, he is.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Labiche or Spitzer or something. There are so many of them.’ A particularly piercing howl caught her attention. ‘I must go, Monsieur.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you, Mademoiselle. You’ve been very helpful indeed.’

  James walked and mused. All his thoughts abutted at dead ends. They had discovered so much, yet the mystery of Olympe’s death was like an ever-receding horizon. As soon as he felt close to a solution, it melted away again into the distance. If her murder, like her sister’s, really had something to do with a malign form of research, why hadn’t her murderer simply taken the desired organ before shunting her into the Seine? It didn’t make sense.

  He had a sudden desire to talk things over with the ever-lucid Marguerite. He wasn’t too far away now, but he grew impatient and hailed a fiacre. He arrived just as two young bloods in top hats emerged from her door. There was something vaguely familiar about them. Perhaps he had seen them at Marguerite’s gathering. It all seemed so long ago.

  Pierre showed him into the small salon on the first floor. Marguerite was reclining in a chaise longue, a cigarette in an ornate holder between her fingers. She seemed deep in thought, but she rose as he came in and greeted him warmly.

  ‘James. Perfect. I was contemplating a long evening alone. The Arnhems left me a few hours ago and the house feels far too quiet. I shall miss the little ones. But Arnhem felt it best to take them home. He feared that they would get a little too used to the splendours of my life and find the return to their lodgings unbearable. As it is, he thinks they will always and ever only associate Judith’s death with a holiday in a grand house.’ Her laugh was rueful. ‘Maybe he’s right. But it wasn’t wrong of me to have them here, was it?’

  She seemed genuinely to want a response.

  ‘Not at all. Not at all. I’m certain it kept Arnhem from sinking into the abyss as well.’

  ‘You know,’ she gestured him towards a chair. ‘Sometimes I think Arnhem feels I’m to blame for half of his misfortunes. That I’m somehow responsible for Olympe’s death. He thinks that if she hadn’t met me, she’d still be alive. Maybe he’s right about that, too.’ She threw him a sombre look.

  ‘That’s hardly a rational thought. Her fortunes might have been worse elsewhere.’

  ‘They could hardly be worse.’

  James reached for his pipe. ‘Your thoughts are very gloomy this evening.’

  ‘You’re right. I need cheering. Why don’t we treat ourselves to an evening out, James? My favourite restaurant will certainly find a table for us. If you don’t mind the rumours flying about the delicious and mysterious twosome we make.’ Her laugh had an edge of shrillness.

  ‘Is Raf not about?’

  ‘Rafael is not about, as you say. He rang just over an hour ago. He’s on a piste with Touquet. Things are moving quickly.’ There was a slight weariness in the eyes she turned on James. ‘If he spends yet another night in those brothels, I shall begin to fear for his welfare. No, no, James. Don’t look so grim. I’m not being serious. I’m at loose ends.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘What’s that you have there?’

  ‘Olympe’s notebook. I just realised that I’d forgotten to pass it on to Chief Inspector Durand. It’s been sitting in my pocket all day.’

  ‘May I have another look at it? I’ve been thinking about it. Last time, I hardly glanced at it. You merely chanted a lot of initials at me. But I have a sense that if I look at it properly, something may occur to me. I knew Olympe fairly well, after all. There’s one thing in particular …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘May I?’

  James handed her the notebook. She shivered slightly as she clasped it in her hand, but she gave him a coaxing smile. ‘So are you agreed? Shall I get myself ready? If you prefer, I could transform myself into the dashing Monsieur Bonnefoi.’

  ‘No, no.’ James was shocked.

  Her smile played with him. ‘That’s settled then. You shall take me out as Madame de Landois.’

  ‘Most definitely as the gracious Madame de Landois.’

  She was rather a long time in returning, but when she did, she was regal. Her hair was impeccably coiffed. A small intricately curved hat sat atop it. An ivory cape fell from her shoulders in a long, elegant sweep. Strands of pearls decked her throat.

  ‘I have decided on the Ritz,’ she said. ‘So that we can eat in the garden. And so that I can make up to you for the minor fiasco of our first meeting there.’

  ‘That,’ James said with a hovering smile, ‘will be altogether delightful.’

  A panoply of candles adorned the stretch of white-clad tables. Light flickered over leaves and illuminated flowers. Birds warbled their evening song. Amidst the rustic charm, silver glittered and glasses sparkled as brightly as the jewels, the bare shoulders and white cravats of the assembled diners. They had made a small detour to the Grand, so that James, too, would be in appropriate attire. Now he was grateful that they had.

  As the waiter led them through the fragrant garden to their table, an assortment of strangers pursued them with their eyes, or proffered greetings to Marguerite. She nodded and smiled like a princess on a state visit.

  ‘Good,’ Marguerite said as they sat down in a quiet corner. ‘We’ve run the gauntlet.’ Her eyes were mischievous. ‘Shall we celebrate with champagne?’

  Once it had come and they had placed their order for caviar followed by truffled duck, she leaned towards him. ‘You should know, James, that I didn’t spend all that time dressing. I was studying Olympe’s daybook.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her tone demanded attention and he leaned closer. ‘You found something.’

  ‘I’m not certain. I have to confess I’d been feeling somewhat miffed that Olympe hadn’t trusted me enough to tell me about her pregnancy. I know we’ve speculated as to whether she herself was aware of it or not, since she hadn’t mentioned it to Raf either. But increasingly, I’d been feeling that she must have known or at least suspected. Olympe wasn’t an ingénue, blind to the facts of life. Quite the opposite.’

  ‘Perhaps if she knew, she didn’t tell you because she sensed that you might let it slip to my brother. Before she was ready.’

  ‘Your opinion of me sinks lower and lower.’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that. Really not. It’s just that maybe she planned to … well to rid herself of it, so she preferred no one to know.’

  James stopped to stare at her. He was astonished at the thoughts that he managed to voice in front of this beautiful woman. Not that she had flinched. Her composure, her openness were altogether extraordinary.

  He was suddenly aware of the waiters hovering around them. Had they understood what he was saying? No, no. Surely they didn’t speak English. He waited until the silver dishes of caviar on ice had been served, waited until they had each swallowed a mouthful and made the requisite small talk. Then, he lowered his voice.

  ‘But what did you discover?’

  ‘Some ten days before she disappeared, on a Monday in any case, which was her free day, Olympe went to see a doctor.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. But the notebook shows a staff with a serpent twined round it. The symbol of the medical profession. Olympe liked to draw. Maybe she was hesitant about noting the doctor’s name, which would make it all the more likely that she was going to see him about her suspected condition.’

  ‘Yet she didn’t say anything about it when you saw her on the Thursday, saw her as Marcel Bonnefoi?’ The question tumbled out before he had taken its implications into account.

  ‘No.’ She considered, her eyes thoughtful. ‘But Marcel and Olympe never discussed women’s matters. It wasn’t a rule. But that’s how it turned out. Marcel was an admirer and sometime advisor largely to Olympe, the actress. To say anything about her condition would have brought us out of the pleasure of the masquerade.’ M
arguerite sipped her champagne. ‘Still, it was an exceptional moment. I guess you’re right. She didn’t want me to know.’

  ‘She must have wanted to tell Raf first.’ James consoled her. ‘She must have been waiting to find the right moment.’ He had a sudden vision of Maisie hiding her face, barely moving her lips as she whispered her news to him. ‘That would have been only right.’

  ‘Or you’re the one who’s right. She was having darker thoughts.’ She pushed her plate away. ‘You know, James, this is the first bit of information that makes me think that after all, she might have chosen it. Chosen death, I mean.’

  They sat in silence, the glitter of their surroundings forgotten. Finally, James shook his head. ‘No, no. I don’t believe it.’ He hadn’t told her about what they had discovered at Olympe’s grave that afternoon. He wasn’t going to tell her. But it was another in the many factors that tipped the balance for him.

  He watched the waiters remove their plates, bring on the next course on a vast silver platter, pour glasses of rich Bordeaux. He searched for an easier subject, heard himself say, ‘I noticed two young men leaving when I arrived at your house earlier. I thought I recognised them, but I couldn’t quite place them.’

  She laughed. ‘You would make a wonderful spy, James. I shall have to remember this. That was my young intern, Georges Legrand, and a friend of his. I’d asked him to drop round so that we could talk through his findings.’

  ‘Oh? Was there anything new of interest.’

  ‘Not really. His friend sang the praises of Professor Vaillant. He was rather impressed that I knew him. Strange, bony young man. He kept playing with his knuckles. But there’s something else I must tell you. About Olympe’s daybook.’

  ‘Yes?’

  James’s eagerness met with her sudden discomfort. ‘I’m not sure. I could be wrong. And it may not please you.’

  ‘Tell me in any case.’

  She picked at her duck, arranged slender greens into a neat pile. ‘You remember you asked me about the initials that came up in those last days and I couldn’t identify some of them?’

  ‘Yes.’