Louis Shalako
She had lips like rubies, toes like jelly beans and
nipples that could cut glass. Her cheeks were high and flushed. Her skin was
like alabaster.
Her name was Mathilde Gaudrau. It was her first really
good role rather than just being in the chorus.
Mathilde was, quite naturally, devastated.
She’d been the closest to the victim when the lights
came down. When the lights came back up again, Largo Banzini, a promising new
tenor, was dead on the floor at her feet.
The circumstances were troubling.
So far, only they knew that. To everyone else, it
would merely be sensational. They had damned little evidence and no suspects.
It was early and no one knew a thing.
Not yet, anyways.
“So you didn’t hear anything at all? Nothing out of
the ordinary?”
The girl was still sniffling.
She crumpled the wet handkerchief, all lace and airy
holes in her anguished hands. Gilles was wondering if there had been any sort
of deep relationship there. Banzini had a reputation as a play-boy and was
successful.
He had money and style, as such things went. Even the
critics liked him.
“I’m sorry, Inspector.”
“You’d think he would have gasped, or cried out, or
clutched at his chest or something…”
“No, Inspector. But it really is a hustle and bustle
back there with the crew working at top speed.”
“Uh-hmn.”
Maintenon raised his eyebrows, flipping idly through
the notebook. It was the end of Act One, and time for a change in the set and
scenery. Banzini had shown no signs of distress.
The star, having sung very
well according to those they had interviewed thus far, would have normally
stepped off the stage. He would have gotten back to his dressing room on the
double. There was a quick costume change. After a little touch-up on the hair
and makeup, he would have waited in the wings until the scenery was done. She
certainly had, as she had her own change. Her hair style would be done, and the
dress. Then, along with other members of the cast, Banzini would have gone out,
the curtain still down, and found his marks. He would have waited patiently.
The lights would be down, although there was enough light back there to find
their way around. The curtain would go up, up would come the lights—and there
was Banzini, lying dead on stage.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t happened that way. He seemed
to have died at the end of the first act, still in the original costume.
Apparently he dressed alone, with no help. It was a personal idiosyncrasy, not
unheard of. With his clout, not too many questions had been asked.
No one had noticed whether he came or went, in other
words.
The whole thing seemed very unlikely and yet there it
was—
They needed to establish everyone’s movements during
the break. There was a cast of dozens, dozens more in support crew, and dozens
more in various categories of hangers-on. It was opening night and anyone who
was anyone, anyone who could be there, would be there. Wild horses couldn’t
have kept them away.
The opera itself was almost secondary—to be seen was the thing.
The audience would have been abuzz, up on their feet
and craning their necks. The manager had quickly called an ambulance. The
understudy had stepped in, performed magnificently, and the show must go
on—always, always, the show must go on.
It’s what everyone had said so far.
Banzini had been whipped away via ambulance, only to
be pronounced dead (really dead) at the hospital.
Quite a treat for lovers of drama. Telling the
audience that the star was indisposed—something they must have known for
themselves, the manager called police, and arguably—his insurer.
Banzini’s agent, also in attendance in a private box
reserved for just that purpose, would have been doing exactly the same
thing—calling his insurer.
There really hadn’t been much more that they could do, except to try and keep a lid
on things.
They would have been hoping for the best…
“..and, when the lights came up, and there was Largo
Banzini, lying dead at your feet…”
She flushed, but what else would one have done?
She started screaming and then ran away, sobbing,
providing a fine distraction for those other cast members who still hadn’t seen
it...
So far, their witnesses were merely speculating as to
why he might have collapsed. Heart attack, stroke, brain embolism—the whole
gamut from A to Z. Banzini had been the picture of health before the
performance—opening night, the house full of celebrities, the corporate boxes
full, even the President of the Republic’s wife attending with friends.
Mathilde Gaudrau was wearing a simple pink slip of a
dress, hand-beaded with faience or something fine and colourful. That one must
have set somebody, (probably not her), back about four thousand francs at any
one of a hundred shops somewhere along the Rue de las Paix. It was opaque
enough that a slip wasn’t required—just barely.
It was good to see that her feet were not too
deformed, although as she aged, it might still happen.
It was all too common with modern footwear.
“Very well, young lady. If we have further questions,
may we contact you?”
Levain had all the details of address and phone
number.
He never forgot a pretty face, as the saying went.
That’s what notebooks were for.
“Of course.” She rose gracefully from her seat,
smoothed down the clingy knit and with a nod from Levain, Mathilde turned and
headed for the door.
It was hard not watch that kind of action, and Andre
Levain a married man and all.
No one thought Banzini drunk, and if he had any really
bad habits, it had never interfered with his performance before. Some of them
already knew he was dead. Not just collapsed, but dead.
When pressed, they said a rumour was going around—and
ambulance attendants could be bribed if the price was high enough. Excited
people blurted things out that perhaps they shouldn’t have.
Secrets didn’t last for long, not in this town.
The fact that he was laying on the stage and
unresponsive would have been a dead giveaway.
Tips were sold all the time, auctioned off over the
phone as it were.
A few drops of blood, one small round patch where he
had been lying, had been completely missed, at first.
Even so—
A death by natural causes would be sensational—Banzini
was that popular, known from his society page and tabloid antics…the meteoric
rise in the opera career.
Maintenon rubbed his tired eyes.
The opera was The
Golden Dragon, by the late composer Fosse. He was, according to witnesses,
generally regarded as not a genius but competent enough and knowledgeable in
the tastes of Parisian opera-goers. Maintenon knew, vaguely, that this was the
composer’s most popular work without ever having seen an opera in his entire life.
That was the benefit of a working class upbringing, a liberal education and
thoroughly reading the newspaper on any given day. A hit might not be the same
thing as good, thought Maintenon.
Some of them were very prolific, and the more money they made, the more
important they became.
“All right, Andre. Who’s next?” Called out into a
black and dreary winter night, Gilles was distinctly cranky.
Levain looked at his list. His mouth opened, but at
that exact moment, someone knocked at the door of the small room they were
using.
Bring
on the witnesses.
All two thousand of them.
“Yes? Come in.”
A gendarme stuck his head in the door.
“It’s Chiappe—and he’s got company. He’s on his way
up, sir.”
“Aw, for shit’s sakes.” Maintenon gave his head a
quick shake. “What, was he watching the show?”
“I don’t think so, sir. You know what big ears he’s
got—”
“Shit, Gilles.” Levain gave the officer a look. “So,
like who else?”
“The President’s wife for one thing. Also Monsieur—ah,
what’s his name, the president or director of the Opera Garnier.”
“Merde.”
Levain nodded. “That would be a certain Jacques Rouché.” They’d already gotten a
quick and dirty précis as to the
night’s events from the gentleman.
A full statement probably wouldn’t include much more.
“There goes the neighbourhood.”
“Yes, sergeant.”
Levain, reaching for a cigarette, eyed the fellow
speculatively.
He gave him a quick wink, Maintenon busy scowling at
his notes and no doubt wishing he was home with the cat, a book and his brandy.
A cheese and mushroom quiche, or something like that…
“Well. Looks like we’re going to have ourselves a real
bastard of a time with this one, eh, sir?”
Coal-black eyes came up and stared at the gendarme.
Gilles was otherwise silent.
The face was a bit stiff and the corners of the mouth
turned down. The chin jutted forwards, a bad sign in the officer’s
interpretation.
“Ah, yes, sir.” The young fellow, duty done, averted
his eyes and closed the door very quietly behind him.
***
Madame Poincaré was a stout, competent woman, clad in
black as befitted her age, her marital, and her social status.
Rouché hung in the background, grey and sweaty in his
seersucker suit.
Her face was grim, gloved hands in her lap, her hat of
a previous season oddly counterbalancing a frock which would have been a
promotional item rather than a purchase.
A bit frumpy on her blocky frame, it
was all black silk and Chantilly lace, the neckline high and skirt hemmed
relatively low. Just this once, she had forgone the high, lace-up Victorian
boots. That’s not to say her shoes weren’t sensible, because they were…
One of the perks of being the President’s wife was
that people sent you things. Very nice things.
She had a rose named after her, or so Gilles recalled.
She might have been something in her younger days—probably had, one must
concede. She’d recently been featured in a prominent home decorating magazine,
giving a big long interview on the duties of a proper wife and what a home
should be.
“Ah, Inspector—”
“Yes, Jean-Baptiste?”
“How are things going?” This was not a very good time
to ask as Maintenon and Levain had only been there for a little over an hour.
The performance had to end, and due to the events of
the evening, the cast had made several encores, resulting in one final standing
ovation. The ticket-holders had certainly gotten their money’s worth tonight.
All of this took time, and the police had waited for the players to clean up
and change into street clothes before beginning the interviews.
To say the opera was special would be an
understatement. The only thing bigger was the ballet—which were also performed
at the Palais Garnier.
“The Madame had a wonderful view of the stage from her
box.” Chiappe coughed.
So the lady wanted some attention, then—
She must have been upset.
“Ah, yes. Of course.”
Gilles indicated a seat.
Hopefully she would be discreet.
“We really don’t have much information to go on, not
at this point, Madame. But all sources indicate he was young, healthy, and in
the prime of life. Still, in the case of such a sudden demise—”
They were in the Imperial concourse, the pavillon or Rotonde de l'Empereur, left unfinished when the Empire
fell—hopefully for good that time.
Gilles took a seat. Rouché would have to do without. He was in no fit
state to notice at this stage of the game. If anyone knew where the chairs were
kept, it really ought to be him.
“Please, Madame.” Gilles gave the impression of being
pleased, to at last discover an intelligent woman. “Tell us. What did you see
and hear.”
Chiappe bustled about, bringing up his own chair to
sit beside her. Thoughts of taking her hand and patting it clearly crossed his
mind, but then he caught Gilles’ eye and thought better of it.
“It’s okay, Henriette—just tell him what you told me.”
They were knee-to-knee.
She nodded. She was the wife of the President of the
Republic. Never would she forget.
While she had a certain dignity to maintain,
and would have loathed any suggestion of nosiness, if there was anything she
could do to help the police, naturally it was her duty to do so. The psychology
was not hard to read.
Slightly neurotic, but not too over the top. About what you’d expect, in other words—
“Very well. Well. The performance was going along
nicely—really, it’s a very lovely little
play, quite aside from the music, and so nice to see them together on stage—”
“Who, Madame?”
“Ah. Monsieur Banzini and Mademoiselle Gaudrau—”
“Go on.” Maintenon made a show of jotting things down.
“He was older, wasn’t he?”
“Er, yes—I believe he was about thirty-four.”
“Ah.”
She had the grace to blush.
“And she, I believe, is about twenty-three.” They
would have made a nice couple, in other words.
She probably had more power than Poincaré himself, if one cared to
think of it that way.
He at least had to preserve the forms, the appearance
of democracy. She would be subject to no such restrictions or illusions.
“It’s a romantic tale, after all. Go on, please.”
“Yes, Inspector.”
Levain stirred at his side. His guts rumbled in tired
disdain, but the Madame appeared not to have heard. A glance from Chiappe
settled that question, as for Rouché,
it’s not like he cared.
That one was definitely distracted.
“Well. He finished the aria, the chorus did their
little bit, and people were applauding. The lights came down very slowly.
Banzini and Mademoiselle Gaudrau were taking a breath and having a wave at the
audience before going off. And that is when I heard something.” She grimaced,
looking down at her clutching hands. “Naturally, when I saw Jean-Baptiste coming
along, I felt I had to mention it straight away.”
Blowing a few kisses to famous faces on opening night
wasn’t exactly new. Audience reaction was very good and everyone was enjoying
the performance.
“Hmn. So. What did you hear?”
“I heard this funny little sound—like a grunt or a
gasp, or a stifled cough…something like that.”
“And when the lights went up, approximately five or
six minutes later, the gentleman was lying on the stage. Not unnaturally, you
put two and two together. And you did exactly the right thing—I just wanted to
assure Madame of that. Very well. Could you tell us more or less where this
sound might have come from?”
“That, ah, is terribly difficult.” The lady’s eyes
rolled up and back, going from one side to another.
She impaled him with her next glance. Madame wasn’t
exactly stupid. She was smart enough not to make
up an answer.
“I couldn’t really swear to it, but it seemed to come
from below us—perhaps a bit to one side or another. A little bit to the right,
perhaps. But it might have been him—Monsieur Banzini, I mean.” Their box was
hanging practically over the stage, as she explained.
The light folding chair creaked as she shifted her
weight.
“I see. And this was just after the lights went dark?”
“Yes—very shortly afterwards.” The transition from
bright to dark had not been complete, as she put it.
“I see.”
Ahem.
“Okay, so was there anything else?” Levain.
She shook her head, unintimidated.
Chiappe looked at Gilles and Gilles looked at Chiappe.
That would appear to be it.
“I would just like to reassure Madame—and the
President, that we will leave no stone unturned.”
Now he really was
patting her hand.
Shut
up, Chiappe.
Maintenon and the boss exchanged a look.
The door opened.
Their young gendarme stuck his head in, catching
Maintenon’s eye.
“Yes?”
“Phone call, Inspector—it’s Doctor Adam, down at the
hospital.”
“Ah.”
Chiappe stood, extending a hand to assist Madame
Poincaré.
“Well. Thank you, thank you, Madame. You may have been
of very great assistance to us.”
She flashed them a grateful look and then Chiappe
managed to get her out the door as the officer held it politely.
“Inspector? Right this way, please.”
***
It was a huge vast room with bare stone along the
exterior wall. Blank windows stared out into the black night, curtain-less. The
public never saw this part of the building.
Someone had found them a small office with a telephone
extension, for what looked like a high-pressure, very political investigation.
“Hello. Doctor Adam? Inspector Gilles Maintenon.”
“Ah. Inspector Maintenon. I think you might want to
get down here.”
“I don’t think I can get away. There’s quite a few
people we haven’t spoken to yet, and they are, ah, rather unanimously
clamouring to go home.”
“Okay. Anyways, it’s definitely murder. Just to remove
all doubts. He was killed by a dart from a blow-gun.”
“What?”
Gilles turned and looked at the young gendarme,
looking furtive and trying to pretend he wasn’t listening for all he was worth.
“Nom
de Dieu.” Gilles made a shooing motion and the young fellow moved
off, hands behind his back and resisting the urge to whistle in cheerful
boredom. “Ah. Right. I’ll tell you what—”
“We’re probably not going to ship the body over to
Doctor Guillaume before morning, Inspector.”
Maintenon thought furiously.
“I’ll be down there as soon as I can get away.”
Maintenon had just seen Inspector Martin enter the
room, with an eager-looking young man in tow, Detective-Sergeant Proulx as he
recalled.
“Ah, Gilles. What in the hell is going on?”
Tall and cadaverous, hair thinning up top and with
permanent lines and pouches under the eyes, Martin was known to all and sundry
as The Bloodhound.
He was nothing if not competent.
Gilles had wondered once or twice if he knew about
that nickname.
“That, is a very good question.” Taking Inspector
Martin aside, he gave him the news. “I would like to keep the fact that this is
murder, and the weapon, as quiet as we can. At least until the inevitable news
conference.”
“Huh. I agree. Anything else?”
“I would like to know who called the police. So far no
one has admitted to calling us, and I would like to know why.”
Martin nodded thoughtfully.
“Right. You.”
Their anonymous gendarme froze. “Stay here by this phone. Proulx. Come with
me.”
(End of excerpt.)
