Only when I returned to land did I do a true appraisal of my haul, and, with the exception of Mrs. Stanton’s contribution, it was quite disappointing. I had one corner of The Battle of Chickamauga, a portrait of Edward J. Phelps (though no explanation of why he was worthy of the honor), a cartoon of a demure woman shielding her face with a fan, another of two peculiarly dressed women dancing together, and several depictions of various kitchen implements. Not the sort of thing Mr. Beardsley provided the Yellow Book. However, I did take comfort in the fact that my portion of the battle scene showed a fallen soldier and might be used to accompany one of my adventure stories.
When I arrived back at Captain Ingalls’ to gather Fanny, I found them still seated at the table, the drained bottle of brandy between them. Both seemed to be in some sort of reverie, and neither noticed my entrance. They were having a literary dialogue. First, Fanny would read a selection from her book of Limericks, and then the captain would recite something of Shakespeare’s from memory. One I recognized as being from Love’s Labour’s Lost:
“From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive.
They sparkle still the right Promethean fire.
They are the books, the arts, the academes
That show, contain, and nourish all the world….”
Fanny’s reply—involving an impoverished young woman of Norway, whose unmentionable livelihood was threatened by the unmentionable habits of an unnamed viscount—struck a decidedly discordant note. To my ears at least. The captain seemed enraptured by it. I began to feel like something akin to a voyeur and made a little cough. Fanny blushed on seeing me and quickly came to her feet.
“There you are at last,” the captain said. “What comes of your quest?”
“I found just seven, and nothing compelling.”
“…you shall seek all day ere you find them; and, when you have them, they are not worth the search,” he recited.
“Yes, it is rather vexing.”
He escorted us to a car stop and from there we made our way home. I had little to show for my effort, but by identifying the man with the missing toe I had solved the second mystery and took what satisfaction I could from that.
The newspaper that evening carried a story about the body found in the Gowanus. The man had indeed been murdered—bludgeoned to death, then tossed in the canal. And I had insisted we ignore it! My heart wept. What if that were the murder? What I mean is, the murder that justifies this discursive tale I’m laying before you. You may be thinking, “How could she have been aware there would be a discursive tale to tell which required a murder to justify it while the tale was unfolding?” If pondering that makes your head spin, you know well how I was feeling, for my head was spinning like a top.
IV
For Fanny, other parts of her anatomy were spinning. Half a bottle of brandy on an empty stomach had left her in a delicate state. Michel was ministering to her attentively, but all the while tossing out little bits of sarcasm in his native tongue—all carefully cloaked in solicitous tones. He knew Fanny didn’t understand the language well enough to suspect the meaning of the words, and he was foolish enough not to suppose I did. But I said nothing, and gave every indication of being ignorant on the subject. That may sound callous, but one never knows if some future advantage might be gained by familiarity with another’s misdeeds. And calling one’s mistress “a drunken whore of Babylon” is generally considered adequate grounds for dismissal. If the average student appreciated how useful knowledge of a foreign language can prove, she would show more diligence in the matter. Of course, if we all spoke the foreign tongue equally well, it wouldn’t prove nearly so useful—particularly in this case. Rather paradoxical.
Over the next few days, I finished writing the various pieces for our inaugural issue. There was a letter from the publisher, Fanny—written by me, of course. And another from me as editor. Plus two of my adventure stories, the letter from Bangkok, and, at Fanny’s insistence, two of her favorite Limericks, with the overly-explicit parts cleverly redacted. It was some days before she allowed me to survey the book, so suspicious was she that I might harm it. It was entitled Cythera’s Hymnal, and bore a subtitle I dare not print. It was full of bawdy songs and poetry of a type I wasn’t at all familiar with. But Fanny insisted she’d seen much of a similar kind at college. I’d never seen anything of the sort, and told her I found her account doubtful.
“Didn’t you ever attend Elizabeth’s readings?”
“Elizabeth Strout?”
“Yes, she used to sell tickets for a dollar each. Then she would read a chapter of Justine.”
“Justine?”
“The Marquis de Sade. You’re so innocent, Emmie.”
I’d never thought of myself as innocent, and I disliked intensely being characterized as naïve—especially by someone as simple-minded as Fanny. The more likely explanation for my not being invited to these events was that Elizabeth knew I couldn’t spare the price of admission. And if you are wondering, yes, this is the same Elizabeth who may, or may not, have been in Bangkok.
That week Captain Ingalls stopped by twice. The first time was to bring me three conspicuously novel wood-blocks he’d kept for himself. The first showed a skeletal bat-man flying above a city and the second a cow riding on the prow of a locomotive. But the third was the most intriguing. It portrayed a typical scene at the seashore, with a number of fairly ordinary-looking people strolling about, yet the center of attention was a woman of singularly strange construction. She was, in fact, more mollusk than woman. She had the head of a snail, and her derrière had been replaced by its shell. Because she wore the dress of a lady, the rest of her anatomy was difficult to determine. I could tell the captain was much attached to this image, and I promised to return it as soon as I finished printing the first issue. While Fanny entertained our guest, I made some alterations to one of my stories, replacing the Maharini of Valparaíso with the snail-woman of Trieste. It was surprisingly easy.
As you may remember, we had been faced with three mysteries. The first being who was the Marchioness of Karpolov? The second, who was the man with the missing toe? And the third being where was Elizabeth? Having met Captain Ingalls, I had solved the second. That left just one and three, or, if three is now thought to be two with the elimination of the previous number two, one and two.
It was this new juxtaposition of the two remaining mysteries that led me to their common solution, for I at last realized who was behind the appearance of the Marchioness of Karpolov: Madame B____ herself. I doubted she had played the part, but she had almost certainly orchestrated the bit of theatre. She’d betrayed me. But let me explain the course of my reasoning. You see, she had agreed to allow me to write her biography, provided there was no truth in it. And I had complied faithfully. I’d even sent her drafts, which she told me she’d found very entertaining. Nowhere did I even hint at her current identity. But given her treachery, I may as well reveal all.
The previous summer, Madame B____ had married a German count and become the Countess von Schnurrenberger und Kesselheim. And not long after that, Elizabeth contrived to become her secretary. (I say contrived because it is generally safe to assume that anything Elizabeth has achieved was gained through contrivance.) The count was posted to the German Embassy in Washington, and the countess—with Elizabeth in tow—joined him there. By coincidence, Harry and I visited that city in December. We met the countess through Elizabeth and saw her on several occasions, twice being invited to the embassy. I soon learned that the countess has a playful nature, and enjoys devising little jests to spring on others. Which brings me to the motivation for her duplicity: the brooch.
The countess had tried to make a fool of me, using an exquisite Lalique brooch as bait. But I had turned the tables and gotten the better of her (and the Lalique). Though she told me I’d been forgiven—and “forgiven” is the word she used—I knew she harbored a lingering resentment. This was made readily apparent when she had her coachman impersonate a policeman
and detain us at the train depot, in an effort to reclaim the brooch. He demanded to search our baggage, but found nothing. I had outwitted her again. The Marchioness of Karpolov’s threat of a lawsuit was the countess’s way of taking revenge.
But who to play the part of marchioness? Who better than Elizabeth—a woman of rare beauty and intelligence, and questionable moral character. And who likewise harbored some lingering—and, I might add, unwarranted—resentment toward me. And so each of the final two mysteries provided the other’s solution: Elizabeth had played the part of the Marchioness of Karpolov, ergo, Elizabeth was in New York. Or, put another way, Elizabeth was in New York and the countess needed someone to play the part of the Marchioness of Karpolov, ergo, she persuaded Elizabeth to perform the task. I say persuaded because Elizabeth left her service in December, and not on the best of terms. Of course, one must keep in mind that the countess’s usual manner of persuasion very closely resembled what a less single-minded person might term extortion.
The countess had put me in a quandary. If I exposed the Marchioness of Karpolov as a fraud, I exposed my biography of Madame B____ as a fraud. And so it was that mystery two (or three if you chose not to renumber) was solved, and mystery number one became a conundrum. Though frequently preoccupied with the search for a solution to my dilemma, I returned to work on Psi.
I had just finished the editing when Harry arrived home. And then things became unpleasant rather quickly. Apparently there was nothing in Wilkes-Barre diverting enough to keep his mind off my imagined romance with Michel and so his jealousy had intensified. Then he learned that Michel had been teaching Telemachus to say things like, “Not now, Harry…,” as if in imitation of some comment I had made. The next afternoon, when the captain stopped by again, this time making no pretense that his visit was for any reason but to see Fanny, Harry blew up. I had told him that Michel and Fanny were firmly attached to one another, so he had nothing to fear. But seeing the captain there wooing Fanny, he began to suspect I had misled him. When I refused to immediately send Fanny and her servant on their way, Harry grabbed his bag and told me I could find him at his club. He has no club, of course. I assumed he was referring to the Carleton House up in Williamsburg. Harry frequented the saloon there whenever he was in town.
The captain, recognizing the cause of Harry’s anger, turned to Michel and advised him, “Come not between the dragon and his wrath.”
“Quoi?”
“Just a sound warning, from the good King Lear.”
“Quoi?”
“Look out for yourself.”
“Quoi?”
In order to put an end to this tedious bit of vaudeville, I translated for Michel—thus revealing my intimacy with his native language. He realized at once the significance of my subterfuge: I knew all about the insults he had been casting the way of his employer. He looked at me silently, and swallowed twice. I realized that if I was going to make good use of his compromised state, this was the time to do it. The iron was hot, and I needed to strike.
Fortunately, the stimulatory impetus of necessity acted as muse to my able imagination. I had an idea. I took Michel into the kitchen and recounted some of his choicer abuses of Fanny. He tried to make light of them, but gave up when I reminded him of the epithet “drunken whore of Babylon.”
Now that I had him cowed, I offered a way out. I would keep quiet about his slurs if he would perform one simple task: attest that he was the Baron Dampierre, the lover of the Marchioness of Karpolov. For once she had been thus exposed, she would have no grounds for a lawsuit regarding her husband. And at the same time, the scandal would generate a good deal of attention in the press for my biography of Madame B____. It’s oft been said that a good scandal is the best publicity. I remember well when the authorities tried to close down Clyde Fitch’s Sapho due to its supposed indecency. The ensuing trial turned a mediocre melodrama into a smash hit.
It required most of the afternoon to explain the matter to Michel, but once I had, he agreed. I then telephoned Mr. Sackett and asked if he had a way of contacting the marchioness. He told me he had received a note from her saying she would be by the following day at 2 p.m. with a written agreement for him to sign. In it, he was to guarantee he would take no further steps toward publishing my work. I spent the next morning preparing Michel for the great task before him. I had him in one of Harry’s best suits, which, to be honest, looked much better on Michel. He really was a handsome man, and had some sense of the deportment of a gentleman. Though I began to suspect he’d never been a valet to any man, especially when he needed my help with the tie.
That’s why I was in such an intimate pose with him when Harry walked in. He didn’t stay long, but while he was there he made his feelings on the matter very clear. Poor Harry. And, I should add, poor Mary. For the maid still hoped to capture Michel’s heart. And now that his employer was regularly entertaining the captain, Michel, a master of deceit, returned Mary’s attentions—knowing full well this would arouse Fanny’s jealousy. When it did, and this in turn was noticed by the captain, he too became jealous of the Quebecois.
Now, as I’m writing this, the outcome seems painfully obvious. But you must remember that I had been misled by the news of the murdered man found in the Gowanus, and felt no assurance there would be another opportunity for a dramatic climax that would render this a tale worth recording. You, reader, have the advantage of me. I mean me the character, and not me the author. But I think I’m straying a bit.
Michel and I arrived at the office of Baily & Sackett at precisely ten minutes after two. I could hear Mr. Sackett speaking with the marchioness, whose voice I recognized as that of Elizabeth. I gave Michel a signal and he rushed into the room and attempted to embrace the marchioness. I say attempted, because the faux aristocrat responded to his assault by rising from her chair and clubbing him on the side of the head with a paperweight. If I had needed further confirmation that this was Elizabeth, I now had it. She is a stunningly attractive woman, thus well-practiced at discouraging unwanted advances. And both powerful enough and ruthless enough to draw blood.
Michel sat on the floor clutching his cheek and whining in a mixture of French and English that lent a convincing touch to my scheme.
“This, Mr. Sackett, is the Baron Dampierre,” I announced. “And I have here his signed affidavit that he has been intimate with the marchioness on thirty-seven occasions in the last six weeks alone.”
“Thirty-seven?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. And he is willing to give dates, and details.”
“Hello, Emmie.”
“Hello, Elizabeth. I thought you were no longer working for the countess.”
“I’m not. The dowager asked if I’d like to help her play a little joke on you. She reminded me of the time you blackmailed me into burglarizing that house in Washington and thought I might like an opportunity to get even. And she was right. You remember that night, don’t you, Emmie? It was the night I spent in jail.”
“Blackmailing you was her idea.”
“No doubt. But you were her willing instrument.” Then she nodded toward Michel. “Where did you find him?”
“He’s Fanny Baum’s valet.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve heard of Fanny’s valet. What exactly was your plan, Emmie?”
“Well, if I could prove you were the baron’s lover, then there would be no basis for your lawsuit alleging that publication of my biography would ruin your marriage to the marquis.”
“You mean, your imaginary marquis?”
“Yes, him. I’ve already arranged to have an account of the affair placed in Town Topics.”
“The scandal sheet? I see. But did it occur to you that you might in fact ruin my marriage?”
“Your marriage to the marquis?”
“For god’s sake, Emmie. There is no damned marquis! I mean my marriage here in the real world. Do you ever have occasion to visit the real world, Emmie?”
“Oh, that’s rich. Coming from the Marchioness of Karpolo
v. When did you get married?”
“Just before Christmas.”
“To that English snob?”
“No, he really did go to Bangkok. But I won’t divulge any more. And if you agree not to pry into the matter, I will end my part in this.”
“All right, if that’s what you want. But it seems rather curious to keep it a secret.”
“I have my reasons. Well, I should be on my way.”
“Wait, I must know how you managed to have your letter mailed from Bangkok.”
“I sent it to the English snob and had him mail it. He was very cooperative—once I’d agreed not to bring a breach of promise suit. Before I go, I will add this. Do not go too far with the countess, Emmie. You no doubt are enjoying your little contests, being just as unbalanced as she is, but you will never match her cold-bloodedness. Remember what happened to the count.”
“Oh, I remember.” The count had upset the countess—most likely by flirting with Elizabeth—and two days later he choked to death on a chicken bone. You might think it mere coincidence, but this chicken bone had somehow made its way into his Charlotte Russe.
V
Elizabeth gave my cheek a peck and left me there with Mr. Sackett and the wounded baron. If the preceding conversation left you puzzled, imagine its effect on a man of limited intelligence and only a rudimentary understanding of the English language. Michel just sat there on the floor, rubbing his cheek and staring dumbly at whoever was speaking. With his assailant’s exit, he pulled himself up and asked if we could leave.
“Just a moment, Baron,” Mr. Sackett interjected. “I was wondering if I might have a word.”
“Whatever about?” I asked. “We’ll hear no more from the marchioness.”
“Yes, of course. But that affidavit. And the details of the thirty-seven occasions…”
“Mr. Sackett, what are you suggesting?”
Psi No More… Page 3