The Dream Killer of Paris (6 page)

‘The first was to 89 Avenue Niel. The second was to Montmartre.’

‘Eighty-nine Avenue Niel? Isn’t that the address of the headquarters of the Institut Métapsychique International?

‘That’s right.’

‘What did he do there?’

‘I have no idea for the moment. According to Monsieur Lerouge, he stayed for half an hour. Afterwards, he returned to La Toison d’Or.’

‘And Montmartre?’

‘The garage owner dropped him off at the end of the afternoon on the corner of Rue Fontaine and Boulevard de Clichy. He noticed that the man went into a café and only came out at about quarter to eight.’

‘A café?’ exclaimed Fourier.

‘Yes, Café de la Place Blanche.’

‘Was he thirsty then?’

‘I don’t know, Superintendent. But it is common knowledge that the Surrealists have been using that brasserie as their new headquarters ever since they were forced to abandon the Cyrano. André Breton’s group meets there every evening between half past six and half past seven.’

The case had moved on apace in the space of a few hours. Lacroix’s information still had to be verified though.

When Dupuytren returned, he more or less confirmed what the journalist had said. A certain Hans-Rudolf von Öberlin had stayed at La Toison d’Or for six days until Saturday 13 October, the day the Marquis de Brindillac had died. Having been informed about the man who had provided a taxi service for the Austrian professor, Dupuytren had then gone to see the garage owner, who had told him about the five journeys he had made.

Now it was a question of picking up the trail of the mysterious stranger and that didn’t look as if it would be straightforward. Of the two names he had used it was unlikely that either was his real name. And despite the details we had of his appearance, there was nothing definite to hold on to. The stranger seemed to take a mischievous pleasure in disguising himself – with the exception of those remarkably intense eyes which made such an impression on everyone who saw them. To top it all, there was nothing to confirm that the man was still in Paris.

There was no need for us to remain at the château any longer. Given the late hour, the superintendent made sure he telephoned headquarters before we left to request that two of his men should go immediately to the Café de la Place Blanche and stayed there until he arrived. The Austrian might be spotted again and Fourier passed on the description provided by Amélie and Suzanne Ducros.

It also seemed imperative to visit the Institut Métapsychique International as soon as possible. If the man had spoken to Charles Richet, Dr Osty or any other eminent members of the society, we might get some more information from them.

What connected the Austrian to the metapsychists and Surrealists? It was a question that needed answering as soon as possible.

Jacques Lacroix offered us a lift back to Paris in his car, which was parked not far from the château grounds. As we still had some questions for him, we gladly accepted and took our leave of the Marquise and her daughter, as well as the examining magistrate and the clerk, before proceeding to the gates where the gendarmes, on the orders of Second Lieutenant Rouzé, were now doing their utmost to prevent journalists and the curious approaching the château.

The sun was low in the sky as the engine of the red Peugeot Torpedo sputtered into life.

I used the bumpy journey (and bumpy is the word; the exessively tight suspension sent me flying up to the canvas roof over and over again) to ask Lacroix to explain exactly what the Marquis de Brindillac had been working on.

After decades spent studying sleep according to the most rigorous rules of physiology, the scientist’s ideas had been shaken by his growing awareness, through Professor Richet and his associates at the Institut Métapsychique, of the work of a certain Frederik Willem Van Eeden, a Dutch psychiatrist who had methodically recorded the contents of his dreams for twenty years. In 1913 he had noticed that, during certain dreams, he remained perfectly aware that he was in the process of dreaming. He had described that mental state in an article for the Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research (SPR). During a so-called lucid dream, the cognitive faculties are not suspended; the sleeper experiences the dream very intensely, gliding through a dream-like world which seems surprisingly real,
while still being able to reason with clarity and even remember his waking life. As he has almost total control of the dream, he can transform it at will, make characters appear or disappear, act according to plans drawn up in advance, defy the laws of nature, fly and pass through matter.

In truth, Frederik Van Eeden didn’t discover lucid dreams. Aristotle and Descartes had recounted their brief experiences of this kind. In particular, in 1867 a French orientalist, Hervey de Saint-Denys, had discussed the subject in a book which had gone unnoticed at the time,
Les Rêves et les moyens de les diriger
(Dreams and How to Control Them). However, since Hervey, no serious work had been carried out and, with the exception of Van Eeden’s article, lucid dreams had been almost completely forgotten.

The Marquis de Brindillac had also scrupulously recorded thousands of his dreams in his notebooks. Some were undeniably in the lucid category. From the day he had made this discovery, Brindillac had devoted all his energy to studying and elucidating this strange state of mind.

Despite repeated attempts, Lacroix had been unable to discover the precise stage the scientist had reached in his work. However, he must have obtained some results because the directors of the Institut had been planning to organise a lecture before the end of the year, to which Europe’s leading experts in psychic research would have been invited.

‘Which makes a visit to these gentlemen even more necessary,’ declared Fourier, who was sitting in the front seat.

‘Yes. And I wonder what the Marquis was intending to tell them all.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Lacroix. ‘But knowing him, it must have been damned important.’

A hole in the road bounced me up to the ceiling again and, as I
fell back on to the narrow seat, I almost crushed the book I’d taken from the château.

‘By the way,’ I continued, ‘earlier, we found a book under the Marquis’s bed. It’s called
Le Comte de Gabalis or Discourses on the Secret Sciences
.’

‘Yes, I noticed it once or twice among the pile of books on his desk.’

‘I’m sure I’ve seen the title somewhere before but I’ve racked my brains and I can’t remember where. On the inside cover it says it was written in 1670.’

‘By a certain Abbé Montfaucon de Villars, yes. A strange fellow, that one! After a career as a cadet of Gascony, he made a name for himself as a literary adventurer in Paris before being mixed up in a dark vendetta, for which he and his accomplices were sentenced to be broken on the wheel. But the Abbé obviously managed to escape that fate because he died a few years later, his throat cut by outlaws on the road to Lyons.’

‘Ah! The roads were much more dangerous than today,’ growled Fourier as a bend negotiated at full speed almost sent us into a ditch. ‘Would it be too much to ask, Lacroix, for you to drive more slowly?’

‘Apologies, Superintendent. To return to Abbé de Villars, jokers spread the rumour that ethereal spirits killed him to punish him for revealing the mysteries of the secret sciences to the general public.’

‘Ethereal spirits?’

‘That’s what the book is about actually. The main character, Gabalis, is a Hermetic philosopher and he explains to his follower Rosicrucian theories on the existence and powers of sylphs, gnomes and other elemental spirits that fill the atmosphere. According to him, it is possible for man to enter into contact with these entities, which are invisible to the naked eye, and, in certain conditions, bond
with their females. The possibility of this kind of union has allegedly been proven since the dawn of time, and most of humanity’s heroes through the ages (Solomon, Zoroaster, Achilles, Hercules, Aeneas, Plato, Merlin and so on) are actually the offspring of these unusual love affairs. As you can imagine, after its publication the book was banned. The Church also banned the author from the pulpit because it couldn’t establish whether the Abbé was just having some fun or whether he was actually serious.’

Superintendent Fourier burst out laughing. ‘Well, maybe Brindillac was trying to create one of these carnal unions then! If that’s the case, I take my hat off to him. What energy at his age!’

‘I don’t know why the Marquis was interested in
Le Comte de Gabalis
actually. To the best of my knowledge, he had no particular liking for light-hearted books.’

I lit a cigarette to distract myself from the damned car’s suspension. Next to me, Dupuytren appeared to be quietly enjoying my ordeal.

Fortunately, the signposts which were lit up every now and then by the Torpedo’s headlights told us that we would soon be in Paris.

‘You seem to know a lot about this book yourself, Monsieur Lacroix.’

‘Let’s just say that it’s one of the set texts for the apprentice Surrealist. Traditionally, the elemental entities in question are related to the incubi and succubi which have always tormented sleepers. I’ve devoted a chapter to them in the book I’m writing on the representation of dreams in our society.’

‘Incubi? Succubi? What are they?’

‘Nocturnal creatures,’ I explained. ‘The ancient treatises on demonology are riddled with tales of men and women who were victims of their attacks at night while they were asleep
11
. But I admit that I don’t quite see the connection with the Surrealists.’

‘Well, succubi were the subject of numerous discussions at group meetings a few years ago. Some members have written very eloquently on this theme
12
. In a report about sexuality, published in 1928 in
La Révolution surréaliste
, some even considered carnal relations with a succubus to be one of the most intense pleasures known to man.’

‘Were they speaking from first-hand knowledge?’

‘To be frank, Monsieur Singleton, succubi were really a literary creation and none of them seriously believed in the existence of immaterial unions. Breton, for example, reduced the subject to a simple psychological phenomenon.’

‘Your friend Pierre Ducros, had he read
Le Comte de Gabalis?
’

‘I can’t be sure but it seems likely that he did.’

By the light of the streetlamps I recognised the familiar outlines of Haussmann buildings and boulevards. My ordeal was nearly at an end.

‘To return to the Surrealists,’ I began, just as we drove on to a long paved stretch of Avenue d’Italie, crushing my hopes, ‘you mentioned the
époque des sommeils
this afternoon. I recall Breton referring to it at the beginning of
Nadja
. What is it?’

‘Have you read
Nadja
? My word, you’re the first Englishman I’ve met to do so.’

‘I’m not English, I’m Canadian. From Halifax in Nova Scotia.’

‘Maybe so, but that doesn’t alter the scale of the achievement. As for the
époque des sommeils
, it was one of the most exciting periods! Right at the beginning of the movement, when most of the members were about twentyfive, they carried out a crucial experiment which completely changed how they viewed reality. During the summer holidays of 1922, René Crevel took part in a spiritualist séance organised by a certain Madame Dante. Very quickly, he fell into a deep sleep during which, according to the other participants, he
said some remarkable words. Upon his return, Crevel shared his experience with other members of the group and Breton suggested repeating the séance in his studio. Crevel and Breton were joined by Max Morise, Simone, André’s partner at the time, and Robert Desnos, a new member of the circle. Crevel followed the same protocol as the medium: he turned off the lights, requested silence and invited the group to hold hands in a circle around the table. After a few minutes, Crevel fell into a deep sleep and, in a state of trance, began to recount a wonderful tale which rivalled the most horrifying pages of the
Chants de Maldoror
. A few days later it was Desnos’s turn to fall into a hypnotic trance and answer questions, incongruously and poetically, in writing. At the end of the séance he improvised a sonnet. Breton was naturally astounded at the evocative power of hypnotic sleep. After the discovery of “automatic writing” and his work on dream narratives, he was convinced he had uncovered a new vein of creativity. As far as he was concerned, access to the source of poetry itself had just been found. The séances continued at a frenzied rate. It was at that time that I heard of the Surrealists. I must have been about eighteen. But when I finally met them two years later at their headquarters in Rue de Grenelle, the famous
époque des sommeils
was over. Breton had decided to stop in February 1923.’

‘Why? Did the well dry up?’

‘For the simple reason that it was becoming impossible to control the séances. You know, a state of trance brings out certain aspects of character which are not necessarily fit to be seen. Some members began to argue violently and, above all, display aggressive behaviour. There were insults, frightening predictions, punches thrown, etc. It totally degenerated. I was told that, during a meeting organised at Marie de La Hire’s home near Place de Clichy, no fewer than ten people went into a trance at the same time. By common agreement,
with a rope around their necks, they decided to hang themselves from the coat stands. They had to be woken up with slaps and glasses of cold water thrown in their faces. And of course, it must not be forgotten that Breton is a committed materialist deep down. Yes, he adopted some spiritualist techniques for his trance sessions but he has always categorically rejected the idea of communication between the world of the living and that of the dead.’

We had passed the Palais de Justice and crossed the Seine via the ancient Pont-au-Change. Fourier, who was starting to become irritated with our literary chatter, considering it unsuitable for advancing a police investigation, decided to change the subject.

‘So, Lacroix! You seem to get on very well with the Marquis’s daughter. What is your relationship with her?’

‘What do you mean, Superintendent?’ replied the journalist, pretending to be offended. ‘Mademoiselle Amélie is a very nice person but I can assure you that our relations are based purely on courtesy.’

We had just passed the Théâtre des Nations when, fifty yards further on, I caught sight of a huge figure I would have recognised anywhere.

‘Hey! Pull over, will you! I think I’ve just won two cases of Vouvray!’

The journalist, not sorry that the conversation had taken a new turn, braked sharply and parked on Avenue Victoria.

Having extricated myself from the car with great relief, my muscles aching, I called out to my faithful friend, who was walking along the pavement of Square Saint-Jacques with his hands in his pockets.