Paris Requiem (19 page)

The moment passed and a chilling fear took him over – as if the wild, shrieking creatures within the walls of the asylum might break out to assault him, to take them all over.

He tightened his fist. Order, clarity had to be maintained. If he could do nothing for the dead, he could at least take a few small steps towards fulfilling Arnhem’s injunction. Justice, the man had said, giving the word such force that James had felt he was thinking not only of Olympe’s killer, but the charnel house of his wife’s death, his mad daughter, the future of his remaining children, Captain Dreyfus bound for a new trial.

Yet what if Olympe’s death pointed to Bernfeld? Would that satisfy Arnhem’s call for justice?

Without realising that he had moved, James found himself in Raf’s study. A painting on the wall caught his attention. It was of Olympe. Yes, Olympe wearing the sad mask of a clown. The signature at the bottom was that of Max Henry.
So Raf knew of the man, indeed had certainly met him. James allowed himself a rueful laugh.

He looked down at the desk. There was a sheet of paper in the typewriter. He read through it quickly, noticed more sheets to the side of the machine. Raf had been working, charting the most recent developments in the Dreyfus case, the attack on the President. Perhaps his visit to the races today would provide the final paragraphs for the unfinished article.

His eyes strayed round the desk. There was a newspaper, part of a column circled in thick black ink. James read, horror mounting in him. The bottom of a woman’s severed body wrapped in a thick burlap sack had been found floating in the Seine by a fisherman. The police were conducting their investigations.

He shuddered and turned the paper over only to find a stack of postcards. The top image was a troubling one. It showed a woman in a lewd pose. He pushed it aside and the cards tumbled onto the floor. As he picked them up, he was forced to see that one after another they revealed women in various stages of undress striking lascivious postures. Their lips were pursed, their eyelids lowered in self-absorption, their legs bare or stockinged … James could feel his colour rising. Superstitiously he glanced over his shoulder. Of course he knew that men collected such images. But Raf?

He thought involuntarily of his mother, was glad he had already sent that reassuring, if somewhat curt telegram home, telling her there were a few immediate difficulties to overcome, but a matter of weeks should do it.

Suddenly his pulse set up an erratic rhythm. That face. He loosened his collar, turned on the desk lamp for a more accurate view. The photograph showed a young woman with wildly loosed hair, her face down-turned, her expression musing. She was dressed in a maid’s apron and nothing else. In her hands she held a bowl of fruit. But it was the face James
recognised. Olympe’s face, just as he had seen it in the photograph in her apartment. He was certain of it.

Raf’s relation to these erotic images abruptly took on a new and ugly twist. A perilous twist. James thought of Chief Inspector Durand and what he could make of this. He had an overwhelming desire to tear the picture into a hundred pieces and reduce each sliver to ashes. Instead he shuffled all the images into a drawer, despite himself taking a quick look inside to see what else his brother’s secret life might reveal. He told himself it was a matter of Raf’s own protection.

There was nothing of interest inside the desk, not even a stack of letters from Olympe. Perhaps the girl’s talents didn’t extend to writing.

He sat back in the chair and tried to think calmly about what he had discovered.

Was it possible that someone from her past, someone like Bernfeld, having been utterly rejected, perhaps in need of money, had returned, his passion still alive and now allied to vengeance, and tried to blackmail Olympe for the work she had undertaken as a model for such lewd photographs? Oriane, the woman in the theatre, had mentioned blackmail. In the web of rumour she could have got everything wrong. It could be Olympe who was being blackmailed, rather than doing the blackmailing.

James took the photograph out of the drawer again and stared at it for a long moment. The melancholy sweetness of the face tugged at his heart. Yes. A blackmail threat that had gone savagely wrong. Abruptly, he placed the image into his jacket pocket and leaned back into the chair, closing his eyes for greater concentration.

Yes. When Olympe had refused to pay, either with love or money, Bernfeld had sent this photograph to Raf, a first step in his master plan. When the man had told Olympe of his action in order to demonstrate the seriousness of his
intent, they had argued. Yes, yes. James could see them on the banks of the Seine somewhere, engaged in bitter
conversation
. Olympe had refused both his passion and his blackmail and in a rage, he had knocked her unconscious and thrown her to the waters. Yes, of course. And he had undressed her first, so that she couldn’t be as quickly recognised. And then he had fled.

Arnhem had testified that Bernfeld was a good man, but good men were not unknown in the heat of passion to commit violent acts. Bernfeld had probably not intended to kill. Indeed he might only have accidentally knocked Olympe unconscious and then presuming her dead, in panic thrown her to the waters.

James closed his eyes and re-imagined the scene. The next thing he knew, someone was shaking him by the shoulder and calling his name. He jumped up, his head fuzzy from interrupted sleep.

‘Don’t worry, Jim. I’m not about to punch you for invading my office.’ Raf snapped.

‘Sorry. Sorry. I was just …’ James’s eyes fell on the telephone. ‘I was wanting to use the phone. Couldn’t get through. I must have fallen asleep.’

Raf chuckled. ‘You were always a terrible liar, Jim. Could never trust you to cover for me with Father. Did you like my piece? I’ve got to finish it off now. But we could have a drink first. Since you’ve obviously been waiting. You should have come to the races with me, Jim. It’s been quite a day.’

‘I saw the procession along the Champs Elysées. I didn’t realise it was going to be a major event.’

‘Beautiful horses. But not much action apart from that. No attacks on the President. Though there was a God Almighty kerfuffle at the Pavillon d’Armenonville later on. That’s where I’ve just come from. A row broke out. The aristos were dining in relative quiet, all passion having been spent at the races,
when the mighty matter of Dreyfus’s homecoming came up, and within seconds there was a brawl. Don’t know how the news got to the champions of the people, but suddenly there they all were storming the pavilion as if it were the Bastille itself. I managed to get out, just as the police pounced, on what side I’m not sure, but probably in the general squall, on both.’

James followed Raf out to the front room and accepted a glass of wine. Raf chewed on a hunk of cheese and
examined
him astutely. As he did so, he frowned, his face growing abruptly solemn. ‘I can see you’ve been pursuing matters of more immediate interest.’ He sliced through the slab of cheese with a violent gesture. ‘What have you found out?’

James told him briefly about his visit to the Salpêtrière, mentioning only that Judith had been unseeable, and then about the letter he had found in Olympe’s apartment after Raf had left and how he had taken it to Arnhem for translation and had discovered it was from Bernfeld. Had discovered, too, that the man had probably seen her.

Raf stopped chewing, emptied his glass in one large gulp. ‘All right. We have to find the bastard.’

‘Arnhem promised that he would.’ James paused.

‘We’ll make sure that he does. What other letters did you find, Jim?’

James coughed. ‘There was a bundle from you. They’re at the hotel. I’ll pass them over.’

‘Anything else?’

Raf was staring at him and James decided not to
prevaricate
. ‘A handful from admirers. You know the kind. I imagine all actresses receive them. There were more I couldn’t quite pack into the satchel in my hurry. I’d like to go back … before the police find them.’

Raf nodded, but his frown deepened.

James changed the subject. ‘I … I was wondering about those photographs on your desk.’

‘What photographs?’

‘Don’t play the innocent, Raf. You know very well what I mean.’

‘I don’t know that I do.’

‘The pictures of those women. Undressed women.’

‘You mean the pornography.’ Raf laughed abruptly. ‘Mustn’t be coy, Jim. Does it appeal to you?’

‘Really, Rafael.’

‘Oh I see. You think I’ve fallen into the pits of unspeakable corruption. Sorry to disappoint, Jim. They’re Touquet’s.’

‘Touquet’s?’

‘Yes, my journalist friend. You remember.’

Raf had misinterpreted his query.

‘Yes, but why …?’

‘I told you Touquet was interested in all that. Brothels, prostitutes. The lot. He says that it’s not only our dear
Bertillon
and his detectives who are making use of the new photographic technology. Oh yes, the police may use it to chart and identify the physiognomy of criminals. But there’s a rather more lucrative, indeed burgeoning use – a trade in erotica. Touquet has been carrying out an investigation. What happens is that the pimps or brothel keepers provide their most fetching girls to be photographed. The girls don’t get paid. Or maybe just a pittance. They think they’re having a day out. They pose. Do what the photographer asks of them. And then the images are developed and duplicated, again and again. And sold. Here, there and everywhere. The mails are
efficient
. I wouldn’t be surprised if your most respectable
Harvard
friends have some in their private collections, Jim.’ He chuckled. ‘Ask them when you get home. Ask them who they buy them from, too.’

James flushed.

‘And report back to Touquet. His file is growing. Soon there’ll be enough for a big exposé.’

‘Do you know any of the girls in those pictures?’ James blurted out bluntly, angry now.

‘Sorry to disappoint, Jim. Can’t say that I do.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Absolutely sure. I’m not a prude, Jim. But ask Touquet. He probably does. He can introduce you.’ Raf was still baiting him.

James let it pass for the moment. Perhaps he was wrong. Or perhaps Raf was simply blind to a resemblance his lover’s blinkers didn’t permit him to see. He was about to ask him, rather more gently than he felt inclined to about the rumour of blackmail he had heard from Oriane, when Raf went on.

‘By the way, I saw Touquet briefly yesterday. He’s on to something, he thinks. He talked to some worried
plainclothesman
, who told him he was almost certain there was a new white-slavery ring bringing women in from the East. Jewish women. Some of them seem to have disappeared. He wants us to pose as clients, separately would be more efficient, and go to the designated brothels. Choose the most recent arrivals. Try and find out who their keepers are, who arranged for their travel, who met them once they got to Paris, and so on. He thinks we’ll find out more than he can, ’cause we can pose as innocent, God-fearing Americans, just the type they might confess to, even if they’re scared. And in the hope of getting out. Also, Touquet is too well-known in those circles.’

James was taken aback. ‘I don’t see how that can help us with Olympe. You were so certain she had never been involved in anything of that kind. Have you changed your mind?’

‘No. Of course not.’ Raf leapt up and paced the length of the room. He was running his hands through his hair. By the time he turned back to James, there was something haggard in his dishevelment.

‘You see … I don’t think I’ve said this to you before, but Olympe was concerned about these women. I never
understood quite why, except perhaps that some of them were her people. Maybe she also felt that there but for the grace of God …’ His voice trailed off. ‘In any case, I think she felt a certain burden of responsibility in her success. She sometimes went to visit one or t’other of them. Brought them small presents. Tried to talk them round into leading their lives differently. Almost like charity work. I admired it in her.’

He paused, then added abruptly. ‘Though we did argue about it. I didn’t like her to go too often.’

‘Did you argue recently?’ James asked with deliberate casualness.

Raf was pacing again. He nodded. ‘Not too long before …’ he waved his arms, his eyes hollow. ‘Anyhow, Touquet thinks there’s just a chance that some pimp or Madame didn’t like Olympe’s contact with the whores, maybe didn’t like what they suspected she was up to or suspected she was up to more than she was and …’ He stopped, sloshed more wine into their glasses. ‘I have to go and finish that article, Jim, while I can still see straight.’

‘There’s just one more thing.’ James took a deep breath. ‘You’re going to have to be a bit careful, Raf. Chief
Inspector
Durand suspects you, thinks you might be implicated in Olympe’s death.’

‘Yes, Marguerite told me.’

‘You’ve seen her?’

‘At the races.’ Raf looked away.

In that slightly furtive gesture, James sensed another confirmation of what he already more than half suspected, though it made his pulse leap erratically. How could Raf square it with himself? With his love for Olympe? And Marguerite, how could she allow parallel passions? There was too much he didn’t understand.

He had to force himself to concentrate on Raf’s words.

‘The Chief Inspector’s more of a fool than I thought.
Marguerite thinks it’s partly her fault. She’s shown such
interest
in Olympe’s case that Durand feels he has to work quickly. Any old theory will do. So he’s come up with that utter piffle.’

‘But he could make your life unpleasant.’ James hesitated. ‘They don’t have habeas corpus here. They could take you in at any time.’

Raf scoffed. ‘Just let them try. I’ll have the ambassador down on them like a ton of bricks. Don’t you worry about that.’

He studied James for a moment. ‘You look spent, Jim. Why don’t you just stay the night here? The spare room’s all made up, I think. And it’ll save you having to trek back for Ellie in the morning. Yes I know about that. I’m not quite the foul, neglectful specimen she makes out these days.’ His face grew suddenly grim. ‘Or maybe I am. Who can tell what these women want, eh Jim? Jealous. Jealous of everything. Take Mother. She was always on at me about deciding on a career. And when I finally seem to have one, she suddenly wants me to give it up and come home and tend to her whims. That was one of the wonders of Olympe. With her I never felt there was a double agenda. She loved her work. And yes, she loved me. We were kindred souls.’ His eyes filled with tears.