Bertie and the Crime of Passion, page 3
One enters through a lobby hung with posters and peopled with vendors of flowers, bonbons, and less innocent wares. I paused at a flower basket to buy a knot of spring flowers for my companion’s bosom and we were importuned by a dozen other sellers. A few choice words from Bernhardt ensured a passage through the glass doors to the foyer, where the reek of cheap scent and face powder assailed us. The demimondaines were there in force.
“Your Royal Highness, Madame Bernhardt, we are deeply honored.” Some functionary of the establishment had spotted that we were of two minds whether to continue with this adventure and had darted forward. “Would you care to visit the gardens first, or would you prefer to take a table in the ballroom? At this very moment, Zélaska, the queen of the belly dance, is performing inside the plaster elephant from the Exposition. There are merry-go-rounds, shooting galleries, and donkey rides—whichever you desire.”
We told him that we desired a table in the ballroom.
“And I should like to speak to the manager, if that is possible,” I added. “Would you kindly ask him to come to our table?”
“Your Royal Highness—”
“‘Sir’ will suffice.”
“Sir, I am the manager, Georges Martineau.” Georges Martineau had the sort of physique that makes me feel slim. When he bowed, his face practically disappeared into his several chins.
“I am pleased to hear it. First, Monsieur Martineau, we should like to visit the cloakrooms.”
He cleared his throat. “If I may be so bold as to offer advice, sir, you may prefer to retain your coats. It can be drafty in the ballroom.”
I said frigidly, “Thank you for your advice, monsieur. Now, would you show us to the cloakrooms?”
(Answering a call of nature, I confide in passing, is no simple matter for members of my profession. The rest of the population appears to believe that the Lord provided royalty with a superior system of plumbing, but, alas, He did not.)
Comfortable again, we were shown to a fairy-lit table on a balcony overlooking the dance floor. The blare of what sounded like circus music was deafening at first; the orchestra—I use the term ironically—seemed to be engaged in mortal combat to see which instruments would prevail, the drums, cymbals, or trombones. Mind you, no one was interested. The players might have been silent, for all the attention they were getting. Every face was turned in our direction. And what did they see? Yours truly still in hat and opera cloak; Bernhardt rashly slipping off her sealskin to reveal one of Monsieur Worths creations, white cashmere ornamented with silver braid, with an antique silver girdle. Sarah is not a beauty, not by conventional standards, but I have to say that she always contrives to look stunning.
While Martineau called for champagne, I surveyed the scene of the recent crime. The ballroom was as big as Victoria Station and quite dazzling to the eye, thanks to abundant chandeliers, globe lights, and mirrors. Drinks were being served at small tables around the edge, and behind the massive pillars supporting the gallery on either side of the long hall, people were promenading. At least, one hopes that is what was going on. The lighting penetrated there only dimly and some of the promenaders in my view presented a rather Babylonian character. In the center, dancing couples wearing hats and coats cruised sedately around the wooden floor, observed by others chattering—and if they weren’t chattering, I’m sure their teeth were, for there was a wicked draft coming from the gardens. I took out a cigar and our host stepped forward to light it.
“Now, Monsieur Martineau,” I said, “shall we see the cabaret presently? I can’t sit here shivering for long.”
“Very soon, sir.”
“And is the lady known as ‘The Greedy One’ performing tonight?”
“La Goulue—yes indeed.”
“How did she come by such a name?”
“I think the explanation may be vulgar, sir. She is known for her amorous tendencies.”
She was not alone in that; I avoided Bernhardt’s gaze. “And is the man called Valentin also here tonight?”
“Le Désossé—yes.”
“The what?”
Bernhardt said in English, “‘The Boneless One.’”
“He is there now, just below us,” said Martineau, pointing to an exceptionally thin man—a veritable beanpole—partnering a woman wearing a faded yellow coat and a black feather boa. I’m no judge of dancing, but I could see with half an eye that they were moving more elegantly than any other couple on the floor. It was a bizarre spectacle because Valentin—this man guiding his partner with such sinuous grace—had one of the ugliest faces it has been my misfortune to see, his nose like the sharp end of a pickax, poised over a huge spadelike pointed jaw. He wore a battered stovepipe hat with a decided downward tilt, as if to hide as much as possible of the disaster. By the same token, his suit was cut to draw attention to those supple limbs, the trousers tailored like tights.
“Will he appear in the cabaret, as well?”
“Oh yes. He dances every dance, each night, sir. He can treat a waltz in a hundred different ways. The women queue up to partner him.”
“No wonder,” murmured Bernhardt. “The man is fascinating.”
To restore some balance to the conversation, I observed, “I dare say dancing with such an ugly fellow tends to lend attraction to the lady.”
“Oh, Bertie—he’s a joy to behold!”
I turned to a more interesting topic. “Monsieur Martineau, I learned that there was a fatality here on the dance floor quite recently.”
A quiver went through Martineau’s more-than-ample flesh. “That is correct, sir, but I assure you we have taken steps—”
“I’ve every confidence, or we wouldn’t have come,” said I. “Where were you when the incident occurred?”
“On the step beside the orchestra. I announce the cabaret from there.”
I glanced across to the wooden bandstand where the dozen or so instrumentalists were housed. “And where did the shooting take place?”
“Across the floor from there.”
“How much did you see?”
“Very little, sir. Like everyone else, I heard the shots.”
“This was during La Goulue’s performance?”
“Yes, in the chahut. I suppose the assassin chose the time when everyone’s attention was on the dancing. They crowd on to the floor for a better view and there’s a tremendous crush. You’ll see presently. There were two shots, followed by some screaming. The orchestra stopped playing and presently a man dropped to the floor.”
“Someone must have seen the man with the gun.”
“Apparently not. No one has come forward. The shots were at close range, sir. I imagine that the murderer had the gun secreted inside an overcoat.”
“Come now,” I persisted, “the people around must have been aware of what happened. You can’t tell me that if some idiot standing next to you fires a gun, you don’t look to see who he is.”
“Your Royal Highness, I couldn’t agree more—in theory. With the utmost respect, you haven’t experienced the crowding when La Goulue performs. People jostle for position, trying to get a view between the hats. You may turn your head, but you are unlikely to get a sight of what is happening below shoulder level. The shots were deafening even from my position across the room. It was impossible to tell with any accuracy from where they had been fired.”
His explanation was beginning to sound plausible. “How many people were present that evening?”
“At least five hundred. Friday is a popular night.”
I turned to Bernhardt. “A curious paradox. If you wish to commit murder and get away with it, choose the most crowded place you can find.” Then I asked Martineau, “How soon did the police arrive?”
“Within a very short time, sir. I sent for them immediately. We moved the unfortunate young man to the dressing room and they came soon after.”
“You stopped the entertainment?”
“Naturally.”
“And I suppose some people left the dance hall?”
“Practically everyone. It would have been impossible for me to detain them. I was trying to comfort the Agincourt family. Such a tragedy!”
“But the show goes on,” commented Bernhardt acidly. “You opened your doors again?”
“Not until this week, madame. Monsieur Zidler, the owner, discussed it with Detective Chief Goron. The police were in favor. They wanted to interview some of our regular clients. The only way was to reopen. I’ve had detectives here every night asking questions. It isn’t very good for business.”
“Have they learned anything useful?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir. Monsieur Goron describes the case as an infliction.”
“I’m sympathetic if he has to spend his evenings getting chilled to the bone,” said I. “No wonder some people are stamping their feet.” In fact, in the last few minutes the drumming of leather on wood had become distracting.
“They are impatient for the cabaret, sir,” answered Martineau sheepishly.
We detained him no longer.
A drumroll signaled his arrival beside the bandstand, and I saw precisely what he had meant. There was excited shouting. People were already gathering on the floor, coming in from the gardens and down from the galleries, more than I’d realized were in the building—and this was supposed to be a thin attendance. You could see their breath mingling with the cigarette smoke on the cold air. Bernhardt was all for our joining them, but I didn’t relish being squeezed by Parisians reeking of garlic and tobacco.
Martineau shouted, “Mesdames et messieurs, le cabaret!” A cheer drowned the rest, except for “. . . La Goulue!”
A gangway had to be forced in the circle before several dancers could run in, gripping their skirts. Behind them, alone, making the entrance of the star performer, strutted the woman known as La Goulue, in a red and white polka-dot blouse and black skirt, a black ribbon around her throat. She appeared preoccupied, eyes down, indifferent to the reception she was getting. I should have realized that it was done for effect, because suddenly she flung back her head, stared straight up at me, gave an evil grin, and shouted, “’Ello, Wales!”
A great cheer from the audience greeted this overfamiliarity and I raised my hat in response—to their greeting, not hers. Hers was infernal cheek and I was not amused. If I hadn’t been there for a very good reason, I’d have left at once. I’m told that the lady is known to present her rear view on occasions, flicking up her skirts to display the scarlet heart embroidered on the seat of her drawers. I’m no prude, but I have to be thankful that she spared me that spectacle.
I shall be generous. What followed went some way to expunging the incident. Rarely have I watched a performance as exotic, acrobatic, exceedingly naughty, and hugely entertaining, but I shall not dwell on it here except to say that La Goulue transformed vulgarity into art. Other dancers joined her in the so-called quadrille—unrecognizable as the sedate dance of that name performed in English ballrooms—but one’s eyes were only on this virago with the Psyche topknot and the kiss curls who flung herself into each movement with lunatic abandon, high kicking, shrieking, whirling, and leaping.
The climax was the chahut with Valentin. Now, I’ve watched the cancan performed in other places, and, believe me, it is tame compared to the chahut. If the cancan is mainly skirt and petticoats, the chahut is—let us not duck the truth—all legs and drawers. As if goaded by the antics of her partner, La Goulue flung her black-stockinged, diamond-gartered legs ever higher and grabbed her foot with her hand, regardless of the expanse of white thigh she was revealing in the midst of that froth of lace. Now she released the foot and let it go higher, higher, as if to kick the chandelier above her: le grand écart. Scandalized shrieks from ladies in the audience only encouraged her more. Spinning on one foot, then the other, wriggling and bending, vulgar and athletic, witty and alluring, she went through her repertoire of movements. Some of the contortions appeared impossible as she repeatedly performed the splits while standing on one leg. And always Valentin le Désossé was there to complement the movements, his gargoyle of a face expressionless, even when, in a final dervish-like gyration, La Goulue spun with one foot high above her head and finished by kicking the hat from her partner’s head. Valentin, being the artiste he was, retained his dignity by catching the hat and replacing it in one movement.
Did I say I wouldn’t dwell on the performance? Obviously, it made more of an impression than I realized. I must add that the cabaret went on for some time after and nothing came up to La Goulue’s chahut.
It was past midnight when we left. Bernhardt had overindulged in champagne and was beginning to become embarrassing in ways that I’d rather not go into, except to state that I have always insisted on decorum in public places, whether in Paris or anywhere else.
My investigation—if it could be so termed at this early stage—had not advanced so far as I would have liked, and I took the opportunity to put some more questions to Martineau while he escorted us toward the exit. “I take it that Letissier was dead before you got him to the dressing room?”
“You’re speaking of the incident the other evening, sir?”
“Does it sound as if I’m discussing the racing form?” I said with sarcasm.
He reddened appreciably. “You must forgive me, sir. I was instructed not to discuss the tragedy.”
“Who by?”
“The owner of the Moulin Rouge, Monsieur Zidler. It is not good for our reputation.”
“Your what?” said I, wondering if I had heard correctly.
“To come back to your question, Monsieur Letissier was killed on the dance floor, sir.”
“There were no last words?”
“I believe not.”
Thus the frustrating difference between reality and fiction, I reflected. There are always dying words in a detective story, the half-finished sentence that only the investigator can interpret. “And—you must tell me if I have it wrong, monsieur—you removed the body to the dressing room and called the police?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who was present?”
“The family Agincourt, sir. The comte, the comtesse, and their daughter and son. Also a doctor and his wife who were in the audience and certain of the performers who used the dressing room.”
“That La Goulue creature?”
He shook his head. “This was the gentlemen’s dressing room, sir.”
“I can’t imagine that would trouble her. Was Monsieur Zidler present?”
“No, sir.”
“And was anything said that threw any light on the mystery?”
“Not while I was there, sir.”
Bernhardt gave an exaggerated yawn and leaned her head against my arm. My tolerance was severely strained. I asked Martineau to see if our carriage was waiting. Once he was out of earshot, I reminded Sarah why we were there. She said she was ready for bed and I said she’d made that transparently clear. She drew herself away from my person and promised to behave.
“You’ll have gathered that I’m taking a personal interest in the case,” I told Martineau when he returned. “Was any suspicious person seen here on the night of the murder?”
“That’s impossible for me to answer, sir.”
“Presumably you know the sort of clientele you get. They come to enjoy themselves. You’d notice anyone of a furtive demeanor?”
“That may be true, but my duties don’t permit me to study everyone who enters and leaves the place.”
“Is there anyone who does?”
We had reached the foyer. The answer to my question was all around us in the shape of members of the scarlet sisterhood.
Bernhardt cackled like a parrot and said in English, “I ’ope you’re feeling strong, Bertie.”
I disregarded her.
Martineau coughed nervously and said, “There is one of our habitues who may be willing to assist you, sir. He knows most of the working girls. They confide in him.”
“A pimp, do you mean?” I said, shocked.
“No, sir, the artist, Toulouse-Lautrec. He is responsible for several of the posters that you see around us.”
I had vaguely registered that there were some particularly grotesque drawings displayed on the walls. They were all over Paris, on posters in the boulevards. Valentin and La Goulue were pictured in a crude representation of the dance. To my eye, all the drawings looked unfinished, as if the artist had wisely decided to abandon them. “If that’s the best he can do, I’d hesitate to call him an artist.”
“He’s here most evenings, sketching,” Martineau said. “I haven’t seen him tonight, however. His studio is not far from here, at twenty-one rue Caulaincourt.”
“Was he here on the night of the shooting? “
“Yes, he was one of the last to leave.”
“And you say that this Lautrec converses with the wretched creatures around us?”
“He paints them. Sometimes he visits the houses where they, er, conduct their business and paints them. They all know Toulouse-Lautrec.”
“He sounds utterly depraved.”
Bernhardt whispered in my ear, “Bertie he is a nobleman. He is the Count of Toulouse-Lautrec Monfa.”
CHAPTER 3
Hotel Bristol
Paris
Dearest Alix,
And how is Fredensborg this year? It cannot be more tiresome than Paris, where the racing has been canceled because the turf is frozen. That is not the whole story. The theaters are half empty because the plays are all written by philosophers. The latest craze, would you believe, is an importation from London or New York that seems destined to supplant the traditional French café; it is the “bar,” complete in many cases with a British barman. I don’t come to Paris to sit up at a counter and stare at a row of bottles. You can judge how desperate I am for recreation when I inform you that I have decided to dedicate this morning to art! As you well know, I can’t tell a Leonardo from a Landseer, but I propose to visit the studio of a painter who is all the rage, I gather. I saw some of his work yesterday, scenes of Parisian life (interiors) done with a certain flair, though I can’t imagine that his style would pass the selection committee of the Royal Academy. Not to prolong your curiosity I shall now reveal that he is a count, from one of the oldest families of the provincial aristocracy, the Toulouse-Lautrecs and the visit will be mainly social. Mind, I shall probably inform my new friend the count that my wife paints admirable watercolors. It’s a pity you can’t be here to give him some advice, because his colors seem to me to lack the restraint that is so characteristic of your little masterpieces.
