Fata Morgana (5 page)

The sound of a slammed door made them turn. Bonnat came toward them, his face as red as his hair, his lips set in a hard scowl. Raising his hand, he laid the back of it across Duval’s cheek with a loud crack.

Duval stood silent for a moment, then spoke in a quiet voice. “Very well.”

“Tomorrow at dawn,” said Bonnat. “At the southeast gate of the Montparnasse cemetery.”

“A suitable location,” said Duval. “Pistols for two and coffee for one.”

Bonnat started to say more, then turned and walked away, out of the parlor, his footsteps echoing in the silence that had fallen over the salon. Duval picked up the crumpled piece of paper Bonnat had hurled at his feet.

“What is it?” asked Madame Lazare.

Duval glanced at the paper and then folded it, putting it in his pocket. “As you say, madame, there are secrets.”

“His wife?” she asked softly.

“You are too perceptive.” Duval smiled, Bonnat’s handprint slowly disappearing from his cheek.

“What are you going to do?” asked Picard, feeling that he must stop the duel.

“Do? There is only one thing a man of honor can do. I’m leaving Paris at once.”

“I’m happy there will be no bloodshed,” said Madame Lazare. “It doesn’t do to carry such things to extremes.” She smiled, a flickering scorn in her eyes, for both of them. She extended her hand to Picard, and turned away. He studied her movements as she crossed the room—beneath the elegance of the hostess there was something else, a hint of the gypsy dancer, of wine and taverns, her hips looking as if they wanted to roll when she walked. But it was all hidden, or nearly so, this dark abandon, veiled by the propriety and wealth of the rue de Richelieu.

Duval flourished the Eldorado portfolio again, tapping the gold embossment with his finger. “Has Bonnat spoiled your taste for adventure, Fanjoy? Or do you still love a mine?”

“What happens in people’s bedrooms is all the same to me.”

“Good, good, then you and I shall meet as planned, tomorrow at my club.” Duval lowered his voice conspiratorially. “But how do you suppose this fellow Lazare gets his information?”

“A network of informers,” said Picard, regretting at once that he’d spoken a policeman’s sentence, but Duval paid no attention, was already moving toward Lazare. Picard crossed the room beside him. Lazare had seated himself, with a number of young ladies nearby him. The ladies looked at Duval curiously, for by now they had divined, without the use of a fortune-telling machine, what the slap in his face had meant.

“Your oracle is a most efficient spy,” said Duval, speaking from behind Lazare’s chair.

Lazare looked up, turning his head slightly over his shoulder toward Duval. “It is only a toy, monsieur.”

His wife had reached alongside him, to an ornate music stand, from which she’d taken a stringed instrument of obvious antiquity. “Play for us, Ric,” she said, handing him the instrument. Its wood was black, highly polished and shaped in the form of a snake, with four strings running from tail to lip.

Lazare’s long fingers touched the strings, and the serpent’s fourfold tongue twanged softly, exotically, a tune like no other Picard had heard. The ancient instrument responded with delicate reverberation, the snake’s puffed hollow body echoing the minor air, as a spell fell over the parlor.

There was something in the song—Picard could not remain aloof from it. A strange feeling came over him, the feeling that he was rootless, homeless, an endless wanderer. For an instant his Paris was gone, and the jeweled women were stars, twinkling in a vast empty space.

The bass string returned, thumping softly, as if to an incessant drumbeat, and Picard felt still more alone, on the distant wind. Blown upon a carpet, floating out upon the finely woven song, he felt himself returning to Algeria, to the war. The salon of dreams was far behind him and he was racing on the sands toward the lamplight of a tent. He had it all in his hands—youth, the reins of a good horse, the music of a military encampment calling him.

Lazare’s jeweled fingers flashed, ending the song abruptly, dramatically, the last bass note dying softly as the room was held in suspension, Picard no less than the others, as the dream dissolved, a dream one should certainly not forget.

He found himself staring down at the magnificent carpet which covered the salon floor—a Persian rug woven in patterns that suggested ever-deepening webs and wells. And the hanging vines around us, how easily one escapes. Magic carpets to the stars, noble suckers, magic carpets for all!

A young bearded man went toward Lazare; the fellow’s clothes were ordinary, his manner that of an observer, a fact which Picard affirmed a moment later when the young man identified himself as a journalist and took a pad and pen from his pocket. “Did you write that piece yourself, Monsieur Lazare?”

“It was given to me by a friend,” said Lazare.

“And whom might that be?”

“The vulture-priestess of El Kab.”

“El Kab? That’s an Egyptian city, is it not?”

“It had another name, when the priestess played for me.”

“And when were you traveling in Egypt, Monsieur Lazare? Recently?”

“In the forty-third century B.C.”

“The forty-third century?”

“Our king was known as the Scorpion,” said Lazare, placing the ancient instrument down. “I believe it was actually he who composed the song, though I received it from his attendant priestess.”

“A moment, Monsieur Lazare, a moment please! Are you saying you learned this song five thousand years ago?”

An elegant young woman, adorned with a massive chignon held by a startling diamond pin, came forward, her body obviously still charmed by the music. “I have heard you tell others differently about this song, Monsieur Lazare.”

“Have I?” The host smiled. “Oh well, it has undergone many transformations...”

“You said the other night it was written by the father of Cleopatra.”

“The song, dear child, is a traveler through time. It visits now one fellow, and now another...”

Lazare’s voice grew softer then, and the young woman moved closer to him, as the reporter came away from the little tête-à-tête shaking his head, and joining Duval and Picard at the wine table.

“He would have us believe he was alive five thousand years ago,” muttered the reporter, accepting a snifter of brandy.

“And do you?” asked Duval.

“I... I don’t know.”

“It strikes me, monsieur, that you might be interested in the opening of a new gold mine, in Africa...”
 

“Monsieur Fanjoy?”

Picard turned. The butler was standing beside him, and the gold tray was extended. On it was the card of Paul Fanjoy, Africa Oyster Bed Company, and across the bottom of the card was written:

25 seconds, no more!

Picard walked in the tiptoeing way of his foppish puppet, Monsieur Fanjoy. He was conscious of the eyes of others upon him, for now he was the chosen guest, about to be initiated into the mysteries. He smiled insipidly, acting altogether naive and playful as he followed the butler across the room, toward the large oak door.

They walked through the doorway, into a hall lit by arabesque lamps. Ahead of them was another door, carved with floral designs, and it opened from within as Picard approached.

A tall Hindoo in white robe and turban awaited him inside. The room was windowless. Small candles burned in twisted-silver holders. The Hindoo led Picard to a snake-legged table, on which a crystal ball was set. Picard looked into the ball, saw nothing in its spherical depths.

But the incensed atmosphere and the flickering candles produced a momentary illusion—the room seemed to curve gently around him, as if he were standing inside a transparent bubble. Lazare’s operation is all suggestiveness—strange backdrops and dim lights, effects to weaken the mind and make the imagination run riot. I’ll wager people see all sorts of things in that ball.

The Hindoo took Picard by the elbow and moved him to another table, on which a small telegraph machine was mounted. The machine started to click; the Hindoo opened a drawer in the table, beneath the telegraph instrument, and withdrew a piece of paper which he thrust into Picard’s hand. A tiny chime sounded somewhere in the room, and the butler entered.

“This way, Monsieur Fanjoy,” he said, leading his guest back into the dimly lit corridor.

“One moment,” said Picard, stopping beneath a lamp. He opened the piece of paper.

PAUL PICARD—THE SPY WILL DIE

The butler opened the door to the parlor and Picard stepped through. The puppet, Monsieur Fanjoy, was completely gone, relegated to the everlasting scrap heap of punctured disguises. Picard tried to get his bearings, felt ridiculous, a laughing-stock.

He saw the host, then, leaning against a window in the corner of the room, withdrawn from the guests. Picard went toward him, the swift poison of anger spreading through his veins. He wanted to break a few things apart, among them, Lazare’s neck. He suppressed his violence; the monster raged inside him instead, smashing the chandeliers and coffee table in his liver and stomach, ruining his digestion, but it’s considerably better than ruining number 87,
rue de Richelieu, thought Picard, as he closed the gap between himself and his host. The Prefect would not take kindly to such a brawl. Go calmly, Picard, you’re not in the army any more.

“Monsieur Lazare?”

“Yes?”

“You have threatened me with this note.”

“But of course.” Lazare was quietly confident. Picard observed Duval moving closer, eavesdropping on the conversation. The host smiled at Picard and gestured toward the wine table. “Drink with me, Inspector, and forget you were ever given this assignment. It will be much the wiser move for you to make.”

Picard’s monster flung an upholstered chair through his gall bladder; he turned, walked through the crowded salon toward the door, the bit of telegraph paper still crumpled in his fist. The polished floor of the hallway reflected the round yellow wall lamps, and each step he took was into a faintly glowing sphere.

The footman awaited him at the outer door, producing his cape and hat from the cloakroom. He slipped into them, couldn’t shake the notion that Lazare was somehow following him, his countenance concealed in the glow of the yellow wall lamps, his shadow gliding unseen in the muted depths of the glistening parquet floor. But the hall was empty, save for Duval, who received his own cape from the footman and stepped with Picard into the courtyard.

“Inspector? Did I hear him address you as a police inspector?”

“Yes,” snarled Picard. “So watch your step, Duval.”

“No one’s to be trusted these days,” sighed Duval, as they walked through the iron gate to the rue de Richelieu. Duval hailed a carriage, climbed into it, and opened the window. “Can I leave you someplace? No? Then good hunting, Inspector. And remember, Eldorado Investments welcomes all investors, no matter how small.” The driver cracked his whip and the carriage rolled away.

Picard walked slowly away from the Lazare household, into the lights and traffic of the boulevard Montmartre. How did Lazare know I was coming? One of his spies at police headquarters, perhaps. A
logical place for one. It’s happened before, headquarters troubled by a leak, subsequently plugged by hot lead. I smell fried potatoes.

He found the seller, an old woman with a portable stove. She handed him a portion of the potatoes, wrapped in white paper, and he walked on, toward Pigalle.

Lazare knows how to unnerve his guests, I’m still feeling strange. But in truth, Picard, you’ve felt strange for half your life. Too much cognac, too many all-night card games, depravity in general, and most recent, your two-story fall from a burning building. These things do not lead to inner steadiness.

I feel another of my worthless resolutions coming on.

He finished his potatoes, threw the paper away, unsatisfied, knowing it was the type of case that would cause inordinate hunger for weeks, months, for as long as it took to nail Lazare.

He paused before a crêpe seller’s stand, thought better of it, moved on toward the Café Orient. If one sampled too much street food an unpleasant rash could develop. His face had swollen like an overripe tomato while following Cajetan Seveck, the white slaver.

He was like you, Monsieur Lazare, with great dreams of conquest. Wanted to rule the Empire. You can compare notes with him, over a tin plate in the penitentiary.

The glass doors of the Café Orient had yellow dragons painted on them, yellow with hollow eyes, illuminated by lights from within the café.
Here is Lazare’s secret,
whispered the dragons as he pushed through the swinging glass, moving its dragons aside.

He took a table on its glass-enclosed terrace, glanced around at the array of thieves, smugglers, and pimps who sat in the flickering candlelight. He hoped that someone in the café of bad company would prove annoying, so that he might knock a few heads together—and so he was left alone, steeping in the atmosphere of tobacco, sauerkraut, and stolen goods. The brazier glowed, casting a dancing light on the terrace, where the voices remained low, and the dancing light made the underworld faces still more menacing, like denizens of fire. He thought of others he’d known from this quarter, St. Gervais, the bodyguard of David Orleans, who could break a six-inch board with his head, Abdul the Bird, ruler of the rooftops of Paris. These, and others, haunted the grillwork of the brazier, played amongst the coals. He’d gone against them and they were dead, reduced to phantom memories, to ashes.