The Curse of the Grand Guignol (9 page)

The candle-scented enfilade of
salons situated on the piano nobile was a
fête galante
study
in pastels straight out of a picturesque Watteau and several of the
guests looked quite bucolic, perhaps even
pastorale
. There
was a charming shepherdess singing an aria and a handsome young
goatherd posing as a poet, or perhaps the other way around. He was
reciting Petrarchan sonnets in Italian to a small clique of ardent
female admirers, fans aflutter.

In an adjoining ante-chamber
lined with rococo boiserie a couple of Dreyfusards had gravitated
towards a group of Dreyfusists and Dreyfusiens and a heated
three-way exchange was coming rapidly to the boil. Most of the
guests were giving the heat a wide berth.

“That short dumpy cleric in the
black robe standing by the window looks like the one who scuttled
out of the booth and almost knocked you over,” said the Countess,
pretending to be interested in the Fragonard hanging above a Boulle
commode.

“Yes, you’re right,” agreed her
companion, endeavouring not to sound too tightly wound-up. “I’m
sure it’s the same man.”

“I’ll introduce myself. You
mingle.”

Mingle! He hated mingling! He
was no good at mingling! “Why don’t I introduce myself to the dumpy
cleric,” he said peevishly, “and you mingle?”

“Very well,” she acquiesced
before gliding gracefully in the opposite direction.

Dammit! Now he was stuck. Too
late to close the gate after the horse had bolted. He never felt
comfortable in these sorts of social situations and it showed. As
he crossed the room his legs felt as wobbly as those of a lamb to
the slaughter.

“Bon soir,” he bleated
awkwardly to the rotund cleric. “
Je m’appelle
Dr John
Watson.”

“I speak fluent English, Dr
Watson. My name is Monsignor Jorges Delgardo. I am Colombian but I
have lived many years in France. You are the author of the
chronicles of Sherlock Holmes, am I right?

Relief washed over the doctor
when he realized he would not be forced to speak bad French all
evening. “Yes, quite right.”

“I believe I bumped into you at
the theatre, literally. Please accept my belated apology. No
excuse, but I was in a hurry to congratulate Mademoiselle Kiki on
her performance.”

“Oh, yes, the old mad woman,
she was rather good wasn’t she? Very realistic – the whole
show.”

“Your first visit to the Grand
Guignol?”

“Yes.”

“What did you make of our
avant-garde theatrics?”

“Oh, well, yes, avant-garde,
that’s a good way to describe it. Quite new, er…”

“Quite shocking too, no
doubt?”

“Yes, quite shocking. I have to
admit I was shocked. Quite shocked.”

“Raoul Crespigny, the
playwright, is shockingly clever. But the actors and actresses must
also be congratulated. To pull off such naturalistic horror night
after night takes real talent. And the director, Serge Davidov, is
a creative genius - not to mention a tyrannical madman - but then
all geniuses are a bit tyrannical and a bit mad. Don’t you
agree?”

“Oh, yes, certainly. Do you go
often to the Grand Guignol?”

“Every week. Sometimes twice a
week or even thrice. Whenever my busy schedule allows. My work at
the hospital keeps me busy but I go as often as I can. I always
have the same booth. I reserve it whether I am there or not. That
way I am guaranteed a seat.”

“Hospital?”

“Salpetriere.”

“The famous
Hospice de la
Salpetriere
?”

“Yes, the one and only. I have
a medical degree as well as a degree in theology but I do not
practice medicine as such. I prefer to devote my time to God.
However, I am currently doing some clinical studies at the behest
of the Vatican. The Pope is keen to establish a hospice similar to
Salpetriere in Rome. Oh, there’s Davidov now.” He caught the
director’s eye.

Monsieur Davidov, who had burst
into the salon like a Russian bear with a sore head, now stomped
across to them like a bull in a china shop, almost knocking over a
tray of drinks. “Have you seen Raoul?”

Monsignor Delgardo ignored the
interrogative demand. “Have you met Dr John Watson, Serge? He is
the author of the chronicles of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes, yes, we met earlier,” the
other mumbled, hardly listening and caring less, avidly scanning
the pastel palette dotted with ugly people like a luminous
watercolour flecked with lurid blobs of oil paint. “If you spot
Raoul don’t tell him I’m looking for him. I want to corner the
weasel before he has a chance to make a run for it.”

“What has he done to upset
you?” enquired the Monsignor.

“I want him to do a re-write
before tomorrow’s show but do you think I can find him? No! He is
holed up somewhere. But he knows full well he is expected to make
an appearance here tonight and he dare not stay away! The little
prick!”

“Will Mademoiselle Kiki be
coming tonight?” Monsignor Delgardo enquired in a hopeful tone.

“What?” The Russian was
momentarily distracted by the arrival of a group of noisy guests –
six men wearing large pink paint-smocks, purple berets and vivid
orange pussy bows. “Yes, yes, of course, she will be coming, but
you don’t stand a chance with her you old lothario. How old are you
fifty? Besides, she doesn’t have time for love affairs!”

Monsignor Delgardo turned
bright pink and to avoid compounding embarrassment Dr Watson
directed his gaze toward the six men who had entered dressed like
clowns minus grease paint. “Who are they?”

“The Splattereurs,” replied the
Monsignor, glaring violently after the director as he stomped off
in search of the playwright.

“Ah, yes, the new art
group.”

“Movement.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It is generally referred to as
an art movement. Excuse me, won’t you. I have just spotted Monsieur
Radzival, the private librarian of the Marquise de Merimont. He
promised to locate a book for me. I must follow it up while I have
the chance. We must chat again later. I am interested in your
colleague, Mr Holmes. He appears to have a mental illness. It is my
field of study, you see. I’m interested in megalomania. A pleasure
to meet you, Dr Watson.”

As Monsignor Delgardo sailed
away, a perambulating servant in livery sailed into view and the
doctor swapped his fizzy flute of champagne for a glass of rich red
burgundy. Through an archway he spotted the Countess chatting to a
couple of Dreyfus debaters, simmering rather than boiling now that
the other hotheads had gone to cool their heels elsewhere.

To avoid the agony of mingling,
he decided to slip out to the balcony. The night air was fearfully
cold and he wished he’d worn his woollen singlet. He was about to
light up a cigarette when he realized he was not alone. A young man
was hanging back furtively in the shadow of the wall. At first he
thought the man might be up to no good, perhaps a burglar, but that
made no sense. How did he manage to climb up to the balcony and why
rob a house full of people?

“Oh, I say, I didn’t see you
there.” He offered the young man a cigarette and a lucifer but it
was damned tricky to keep the match alight. He tried to shield the
man from the wind until the cigarette glowed red. “I’m Dr
Watson.”

“Is anyone else coming?” The
voice sounded fragile and jittery.

“What?”

“Is anyone else coming out to
the balcony with you?”

Dr Watson looked back over his
shoulder to check. “No, I don’t believe so. I stepped out to get
away from everyone. I’m no good at mingling. My travelling
companion is wonderful at soirees, but I’m afraid it’s not for me.
Are you trying to avoid someone?”

“The Slavic lunatic.”

The young man puffed on the
gasper as if each inhalation was going to be his last.

“Monsieur Davidov?”

“That’s the one!”

“You must be Raoul.”

“Raoul Crespigny. Guilty as
charged but don’t tell anyone you saw me.”

“Congratulations on your
naturalistic plays. They are very, er, very naturalistic.”

The playwright laughed, but it
was a jerky, convulsive, strained laugh. “You are a terrible liar,
Dr Watson. No wonder you’re useless at soirees. Not for you the
glittering stage set for liars, hypocrites, sycophants and
idiots.”

Fortunately, there was no need
to pussy-foot around the nervy young man. “If that is your belief,
why did you bother accepting an invitation?”

“La marquise bestows largesse
on
le Cirque du Grand Guignol
. When she issues an invitation
there is no playing the refusnik. Besides, it’s not her I’m trying
to avoid.”

“I understand Monsieur Davidov
wants you to do a re-write?”

Surprised, Raoul looked up
quickly and a shaft of moonlight caught him full on the face. His
eyes were darting left and right, jumping at shadows. “It’s not as
simple as it sounds.”

“I am a writer too. I write
short stories for magazines and editors are forever lecturing me
about what readers like and don’t like. I imagine it is the same
with directors and plays.”

“It’s more complicated than
that.”

“There is nothing to fear with
re-working some dialogue or changing a scene.”

“There’s more to it than you
could possibly know.”

“How so?”

Raoul inhaled deeply and ran a
shaky hand through his unkempt hair. “
Le Cirque du Grand
Guignol
opened on the third of November and, and, well, I
didn’t know it at first but something terrible happened on that
night as the play was being performed on the stage. I didn’t know
it until much later, you see, and it’s, it’s, unnerved me.” His
voice began to quiver. “I cannot explain it. You’ll think me
mad.”

“Indeed, I won’t. I think I
understand.”

“No, no, you cannot possibly
understand,” he argued. “You see, it’s totally insane.” His body
twisted round sharply when they heard a click. “What was that?
Someone’s coming!” He leapt back into the shadows as soon as two
people, a man and a lady, stepped through the French window onto
the balcony for what appeared to be a clandestine tryst.

By the time Dr Watson looked
back to see where the nervous young man was cowering, he had
disappeared altogether and all that was left was the glowing stub
of a discarded cigarette. The doctor checked behind some pots of
clipped topiary but the terrified playwright had vanished as
effectively as a will-o-the-wisp. He looked over the balcony
railing to make sure Raoul Crespigny had not leapt to his death and
was relieved to find that no blood and guts splattered the
slate-paved terrace below.

A brief examination of his
surrounds revealed a smaller balcony hidden behind some trailers of
ivy, possibly opening from a bedroom. The little balcony was less
than four feet away from where he stood. The French window was ajar
and lace curtains were billowing in the breeze. The young man must
have leapt across the divide, a not impossible feat for a nervy
young man with long legs. He must have disappeared inside the
bedroom. There was no other explanation.

Dr Watson finished his
cigarette before returning to the salonniere to find the Countess
engaged in conversation with Monsignor Delgardo and the man whom he
had referred to as the librarian of la marquise, Monsieur Radzival.
The latter was tall and lean, not unhandsome, possibly in his late
thirties, with tidy brown hair, a neat moustache and a well-trimmed
triangular beard. He wore no spectacles and did not appear at all
bookish.

Their conversation appeared
quite animated and though he was keen to inform his counterpart
that he had just had an encounter with the elusive playwright, he
decided not to interrupt. He drifted into the music salon instead
where a harpist was entertaining a rapt crowd. He tried to lose
himself in the back of the room.

“There was another murder last
night?”

The voice came from somewhere
near his left shoulder, barely a whisper.

He willed himself not to turn
around.

“Are you sure?” someone else
said in a lowered tone.

“Yes, my sister’s husband works
at the Quai des Orfevres.”

“Where was it this time?”

“Café Bistro.”

There was a disbelieving grunt
followed by a note of eager relish. “Mutilated?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Tongue cut out.”

This time there was a definite
clutching of the breath. “Let’s pay a visit to Café Bistro. There’s
nothing happening here. Kiki hasn’t even showed up. She’s probably
at Café Bistro right now entertaining the Bolsheviks.”

As the two whisperers slipped
out of the salon, Dr Watson followed. From the top of the stairs he
could see at once that the duo belonged to the group known as the
Splattereurs. One was a heavy set man with red hair and a fiery red
beard. The other was rake thin with the most absurd moustache the
doctor had ever witnessed. It was in two parts, each part as thin
as a blade of grass, curved like bicycle handle bars that stuck out
sideways, and waxed to within an inch of its gravity-defying
absurdity. He consigned the physical features to memory and
prepared to return to the music salon when up the stairs came
sashaying the actress known as La Noire.

Mademoiselle Maxine La Noire
was an American Negress with slick black hair, mesmerising black
eyes and skin that glowed like a rare black pearl, all shiny and
wet. She was unnaturally tall and muscular for a woman but
voluptuous and round in all the places that a woman should be, yet
she moved with an economy of grace, like a sleek black jaguar. Her
voice was a husky purr, more masculine than feminine. She was a
versatile actress who had played several serious roles plus a
number of comedic ones as well. She could dance and sing, and at
one stage had dared to appear almost naked except for some
strategically placed garlands of paper flowers. The audience loved
her.