Pedestrians flowed around them, and he felt her small body breathing against him. Eventually, she stirred. Reluctantly, he let her go.
THIRTY-THREE
AN INTERNAL CONVERSATION, translated from the French: Where did I put those charming little vertebrae the boy brought me? So neat and tiny—ah, here, in the box labeled hypodermic needles. Who knew a man who cleans the floors in hospitals could be so useful?
Yes, these are sweet, but they’re little more than cartilage. They lack the beauty of bone.
True. What if I paint them? Or—dye them? Yes, for a tightly-packed rainbow Display. I shall have to find out how to dye cartilage. Make a note.
What about the skull that odd American brought you?
Pity he cracked it so, removing it.
Clumsy fool.
Aren’t most of them? But in any event, it’s too large for a Display. I wonder how old it is? Such a lovely feel. Like silk.
What if you built a Display without glass, to permit touch as well? Would there be enough to fill all thirteen squares?
Perhaps if I use the fine saw, and mark it with care …
On the other hand, what if you turn to another form?
Such as what?
Dream something up! Something larger, grander. Your mind has been dwelling on taxidermy, lately. Begin there.
It is true, that the tight limitations of the Displays frames can be as satisfying as bondage, but they can also be simply restricting.
Also, one is forced to wonder about any art form as critically and commercially successful as the Displays.
Taxidermy, you say?
You have been longing to try human skin. Decent-sized pieces of it, that is.
True. Even those scraps—talk about silk!
Imagine an entire person—no: imagine a tableau of people. Cured by you, arranged by you, set in place by you, for all eternity. Museums would kill for them.
Museums would never show them.
Collectors. There are always private collectors to appreciate you.
I don’t know. Still … human skin is the ultimate technical challenge. The stretch of the stuff. The subtleties of position, and limb, and facial structure.
A lot more intriguing than rabbits!
I like rabbits. And where would I find a … subject? The hospital might notice if its cleaner walked out with an entire body.
And what kind of a body could you expect? Old, battered, abandoned.
Hideous. I’d as well work with Mme. Jory.
But there are others.
Are there?
I can think of one or two.
The hair …
Yes!
Magnificent. But is it permitted?
You are an artist. You are Didi Moreau. All things are permitted.
THIRTY-FOUR
TO COMPENSATE FOR having been granted an entire morning in the company of Sarah Grey, the afternoon would require two confrontations of him.
One of them he’d set an appointment with, at four o’clock in the Préfecture office on the Île de la Cité. The other had avoided him since the fiasco at Bricktop’s two days ago, responding neither to his flowers nor his petit bleus, hanging up when she heard his voice on the telephone.
Time to risk the wrath of the guardian dragon.
He went armed—not with his revolver, although he was sorely tempted to take that reinforcement, but with flowers, wine, and a large box of expensive chocolates.
Madame Hachette scowled when he handed her the flowers, and her eyes lingered only briefly on the wine he set on her table, but when he finally brought out the chocolates—all the while having plied her with running conversation and a string of humorous apologies that was less self-deprecation than outright self-abnegation—her fingers twitched. She did not reach for them, not yet, but she was definitely softening.
Before she could crack, their complex negotiations were interrupted by a voice drifting down the stairway. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harris, stop groveling and come up!”
Mme. Hachette caused the offerings to vanish from her table, and he bolted for the stairs in relief.
Up on the fourth floor, Nancy stood in the doorway and watched him come up the stairs. “I don’t see any chocolates for me.”
“I’ll buy you a chocolate store. Along with the flower stall next door.”
“Which will turn my nose red and my backside wide. Never mind, come in. Anything on Phil?”
“A lot on her, but no clear signs yet. I’m sorry.”
“Her mother must be frantic. But, you’re doing your best.”
Stuyvesant hoped that was true.
Despite Nancy’s protestations, the flowers he had sent her stood in the sitting room, dwarfing the low table in front of the sofa and making it impossible to see the fireplace, or anyone in the chairs opposite.
“Hmm,” he said. “The florist was a bit more … emphatic than I’d intended.”
“I did wonder where they found a bowl big enough.”
He bent to peer under the laden branches. “I think it may be a horse trough.”
“The neighbor across the way has already asked for it. Her baby needs a bathtub.”
“The rest of the family could fit in there as well.”
“In any event, it was a very clear message.”
“Is my apology accepted?”
“Apology? For what?”
He straightened in surprise, then saw the mockery in her dark eyes. “I shall try not to make a habit out of fisticuffs in a bar.”
“You do know that a person can be arrested for fistfights here?”
“I am indeed aware of that fact.”
“And the woman?”
He nearly said, Which woman? That would have been a bad mistake. “She’s an old friend I haven’t seen for years.”
“A good friend?”
“Used to be pretty good. Now I’m closer to her brother.”
She studied his face, searching for the lie she could feel in him. “Are you going to see her again?”
“I saw her this morning. She knows some people that Pip was involved with. She could be helpful.”
“Do you mean Man Ray?”
“Not specifically,” he lied. “It’s a kind of tangled knot of connections, both social and professional. It may take me a while to sort it out.”
“And she’ll need to help you?”
“Her name is Sarah. Sarah Grey. You’d like her. But yes, I expect I’ll see her again, for one reason or another.”
“If one of the other reasons turns into—”
“It won’t,” he interrupted. “If it does. You’ll tell me?”
“Nancy, she’s engaged. To a cop.”
“Oh. Well, fine. But I won’t do with two-timing.”
“I wouldn’t ask you. Now, is there any chance of coffee?”
“Not wine?”
He nearly blurted out that he’d had about six glasses already with Sarah. “I need to prove my sobriety to you.”
“Dull, but noble,” she muttered, turning towards the kitchen.
“Would you rather have it outside? Now the heat’s broken, coffee in the sun isn’t a repulsive idea.”
“What a romantic offer: something not actively repulsive.”
Stuyvesant walked across the Pont Neuf later that afternoon with a lift in his step. Not that he was all that sure what he felt about Nancy Berger, and not that he’d budged her from her conviction that something awful had happened to Pip, but at least she’d forgiven him for his behavior at Bricktop’s. She’d even agreed to go out with him again—although not until Sunday.
In the meantime, the sun was bright and the air was no longer stifling. There were boats on the Seine and rows of fishermen along the bank, a fringe of long cane poles.
In a minute, the buildings closed around him. As he came closer to the police offices, his mood closed in as well. Doucet was fine for a cop, but the memory of that possessive kiss planted on Sarah’s cheek would take some g
etting past.
But he’d need to push it away, now. He really couldn’t do with getting himself arrested for decking a policeman.
When he saw Doucet, however, he had less of an urge to punch the man than to bring him a drink, or maybe tuck him into bed for twelve hours.
“You look like hell,” he told the man half-obscured by a desk laden with files.
The bloodshot eyes squinted up, wondering what Harris Stuyvesant was doing in his doorway. Or maybe just wondering who it was.
“We had an appointment,” Stuyvesant reminded him.
Doucet eased back in his chair and dry-washed his unshaven face. “Merde. What else have I forgotten today?”
“What’s up?” He was getting a bad feeling about this.
“A nightmare. I feel as if I’ve stepped in a hornets’ nest, and they’re all pouring out at me.”
“Is this related to Pip Crosby?”
Doucet’s chair screeched back, nearly tipping over, and the flic snatched his coat from the hook. “I need some air.”
“You need a drink.”
“I wouldn’t stop at one.”
The Frenchman exploded out of the door as if demons nipped his heels. A pair of flics on their way inside looked after him in alarm, and were not reassured by Stuyvesant’s eloquent shrug. He trotted behind the fleeing Doucet out of the Préfecture de Police and through the Palais de Justice, watching Doucet step into the Pont Neuf traffic as if it were three in the morning. Horns blared and brakes squealed as the oblivious cop plunged through the traffic, leaving Stuyvesant to slip through the resulting snarled knots of cars, collecting a series of curses all his own.
Doucet only stopped when he ran out of land. He stood at the prow of the Île de la Cité, facing the setting sun. Stuyvesant slowed as he saw that the man was not about to throw himself off, and caught his breath. After a minute, he took out his cigarette case.
Half an inch of tobacco later, he remarked, “The Vert-Galant used to be a separate island. Called the ‘Île aux Treilles,’ because of all the grape trellises. But you probably know that.”
Another half inch. “You sure you don’t want a drink?”
“The very reason I took the position in the missing persons department,” Doucet moaned. “The very reason.”
If he doesn’t spill it pretty soon, I’ll be forced to beat it out of him. “You have another Henri Landru on your hands?”
Doucet shuddered. Hardened cop, ex-soldier, and he shuddered. Then he reached for the cigarette case with uncertain hands. “We investigate, M. Stuyvesant. I swear on my soul we investigate all our cases. And because … because of Landru, I am on guard for any faint trace of a pattern. But in a city of this size, people vanish. They travel, they have accidents. Some are matched with bodies in the morgue.” He turned his head to the American. “I swear to you, I never take my task lightly.”
“I believe you. How many?”
“I don’t know. Dozens perhaps. We’ve only worked our way back to the beginning of last year.”
Stuyvesant’s gut lurched. “I … No, I don’t believe it. You’d have noticed.”
“Would I?”
“Yeah.” Stuyvesant dropped his cigarette and crushed it out. “Yes. You’re a good cop, Doucet. Quit beating yourself up over this and let’s get to work.”
The Frenchman went rigid. “What the hell do you think I’ve been doing? I’ve barely left the office in three days!”
“Then it’s high time you have someone else’s eyes look at the problem,” Stuyvesant snapped back. “And for God’s sake, let’s get you something to eat.”
He thought the cop was going to hit him. Then Doucet’s broad shoulders dropped as if his strings had been cut. “You’re right. You’d think I’d never worked on a major case before.”
Stuyvesant physically turned the man around and pushed him towards the nearest brasserie. “Didn’t Sarah tell you? I’m always right.”
“Yes, she said that she knew you.”
There was so little tension in the statement, Stuyvesant had to wonder just what Sarah had told him. That she and Harris Stuyvesant were just old friends? Because if so, if Sarah was hiding what Stuyvesant had once meant to her, then—
Stop it, Harris. This isn’t the time. Take the poor bastard’s mind off things for five minutes, and let him catch his breath.
“Did Sarah tell you how we met?”
“Your former colleague told me, on the telephone. You were hunting a terrorist.”
“That’s right. Three years ago. I was still with the Bureau then, more or less, and a roundabout set of connections led me to her brother. He’d been invited—Say, is this place okay? Want to tell the man what you want? Nothing to drink?”
Stuyvesant waited for his companion to make his lunch order, then immediately plunged back into his narrative, keeping the man’s thoughts away from that list of names.
“Bennett had been invited to a country house-party where my suspect was going to be, and said I could tag along and meet him. Have you met Sarah’s brother?”
“He was here briefly, in April. Nice fellow.”
Nice? Doucet couldn’t know much about Sarah’s brother. Interesting would mean he had some clue about Bennett Grey’s odd gifts. Unfortunate, distressed, or poor bloody bastard would have made it clear—but if Sarah Grey hadn’t told him, Harris Stuyvesant certainly was not about to. “He is, very nice.”
“Shy, wouldn’t you say?”
No, I wouldn’t. “He had a bad war.”
Doucet’s lips compressed in sympathy, and Stuyvesant went on with his story. When the food came, the flic’s reaction made it clear that he had been neglecting more than sleep. Stuyvesant kept talking, avoiding all mention of bombs but otherwise drawing out the story of Bennett and the General Strike. At last, there was color in the man’s face. When the empty plate had been exchanged for cups of coffee, Stuyvesant lit him a cigarette and finally let the Inspector talk.
“Since speaking with you on Tuesday, my Sergeant and I have reviewed every unsolved missing person report back to January 1928. Every one.”
“Lot of work,” Stuyvesant commented, with feeling. The older the case, the more digging required.
“In the past two days, we have located roughly half of those reported missing. Some were alive and no one bothered to let us know. Others were dead, but again, we weren’t told. Drowned Parisians who only come to light when they hit salt water are a constant source of irritation for the Le Havre police.”
Stuyvesant cocked an eyebrow, but there was no jest in Doucet’s face.
“We have got the list down to forty-seven names.”
“Forty-seven? Sweet Jesus. Did any of them have connections to Pip Crosby?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Lived in her neighborhood, went to her bars, worked for the same—”
“I know my job,” Doucet snarled.
“Yeah. Sorry. Can I ask, how many of them are blonde women?”
“It would not appear that a larger proportion of missing persons have been blonde women,” he replied with care. Neither man said the name both were thinking.
“May I see that list of names?” Stuyvesant asked.
Doucet looked around for the waiter. He did not let the American pay l’addition.
The list was, in fact, a ringed notebook bulging with anguish and loss. Daughters reported missing by their mothers; mothers who walked away from their children; fathers whose loss drove a family out onto the streets. Many were so poor, the person reporting their absence had nothing to show but the name: no picture, not even a birth certificate. At the other extreme was the fiancée of an Indian prince, last seen here with the prince’s English secretary.
The first two pages of the ring binder were the actual list, a running tally of contents that had been amended whenever names were added or crossed out.
There were a lot of amendations.
The tally pages contained: the names; the person’s age, sex, a
nd hair color; his or her home address, including the arrondissement; the place where they were last seen; and their date of disappearance. They were organized according to those dates.
The two names Doucet had already given him, Alice Barnes and Ruth Ann Palowski, appeared halfway down the first page: June and October, 1928. Two women and a man came between them. At the top, Stuyvesant read:
3 jan 28—Katrine Aguillard—f—brn—19—Fr—12 rue Charlotte (XVII)—inc
13 fev 28—Lotte Richter—f—blonde—German—inc (XIII)—Pigalle
The inc he figured meant inconnu: unknown. Working his way along the line, this meant that Katrine Aguillard, a nineteen-year-old French brunette whose home was on rue Charlotte in the XVII arrondissement, had disappeared on January 3, 1928, from an unknown location. The following month, Lotte Richter, a German blonde who had been staying somewhere in the XIII arrondissement, had disappeared from the Pigalle district.
There were mostly women. Brunettes outnumbered blondes, plus assorted grays, blacks, red-head, and one bald (Daniel La Plante, a sixty-four-year-old shoe-shiner). Their homes tended to be in the outer arrondissements; their places of disappearance tended to cluster in Montmartre and Montparnasse. They were mostly between twenty and forty-five.
Behind the brief cover pages were the details of each case, copied in what he came to know as four different hands. Some of the case notes went on for two or three pages, and these often had photographs of varying quality attached. Others were brief, saying in effect little more than: this person seems to have vanished, and nobody knows why.
The youngest person on the list was six years old.
As he read, he tried to sort out the relevant information—but what was it? The only men who’d brought a twitch to his mental fishing line were Man Ray, Didi Moreau, and Dominic Charmentier. However, Paris was a large pond full of would-be criminals swimming in the depths. It was too early to limit his pool of suspects.
Anyway, what was he suspecting the men of? If he wasn’t ready to assume that Pip Crosby was … that something dire had happened to Pip, what did that leave? Dirty films? White slavery? Anarchist plots?
He watched for patterns—any patterns. Was that art? Margot Jourdain, a nineteen-year-old brunette from the VI arrondissement, had gone to a party in Montmartre on March 22, 1928, told her friends that she was going to talk to a man about a theater job, and not been seen again. Luc Tolbert (brown hair; twenty-eight years; resident of Orleans; last seen August 12, 1929 at Luna Park) was in Paris visiting a sister who worked as a shop girl, but supplemented her income with work as an artists’ model. Raoul Bellamy (brown; twenty-one; home in the V arrondissement; last seen March 1, 1929, in a bar a quarter mile from the lair of Didi Moreau) had recently played a small role in a modern film. And so on.