Spectacle(101)

The nurse identified M. Pichon as an Insightful, according to his own admission. He never revealed the nature of his ability to her, saying it “didn’t matter anymore.”



But it did, thought Nathalie as she read, or Mme. la Tuerie wouldn’t have killed him. She wanted—needed—his blood for some reason. Did she choose him for his gift, his inability to put up a struggle, or something else?

The article identified Zoe Klampert, also known as Zoe Faucher, as the sole suspect.

Faucher. As she read the article, something else occurred to her. Those notebooks. The older one that had strange writing and looked to be penned by two people. Dr. Faucher’s work? Was she building upon it? Trying to create another generation of Insightfuls?

Murder played into it, though. And Henard hadn’t been a killer.

Classically featured and attractive, Zoe Klampert stared at hundreds of thousands of Parisians from the front page of Le Petit Journal, courtesy of a sketch artist. Nathalie and Louis had given a description, and no doubt the faux killer Blanchard and the witness who saw her leave Pichon’s building had as well. The portrait was masterfully rendered.

Omit the headline and she could have been taken as a mother or a theater actress or a beloved schoolteacher. That wasn’t the face of a killer.

And then four days passed.

No one had reported seeing her. Not one resident, not one landlord, not one shopkeeper, not one train conductor. A few mistaken leads were explored and discarded; otherwise it was as if Mme. la Tuerie vanished like night at sunrise.

People speculated that she fled Paris. Illustrated posters with Zoe’s name and face on them were nevertheless all over the city.

Nathalie looked over her shoulder every few steps and didn’t walk the streets unaccompanied. Just in case everyone was wrong about the disappearance of the murderess. Just in case she still wanted Nathalie’s blood.

As the search languished in futility, Paris’s attention shifted to another murderer: Henri Pranzini. Before the Dark Artist and Zoe Klampert stole headlines, Pranzini slashed two women as well as the twelve-year-old girl who witnessed his brutal crime. He had been the killer everyone talked about in cafés and on steam trams and omnibuses. Now, with his execution slated for the last day of August, the ink was spilled for him once again.

Nathalie would be among those to spill it: M. Patenaude had asked her to write an account of the execution. He’d assigned several journalists to do the same, each with a different focus. Hers was to be a reflection piece through the eyes of someone witnessing their first execution.

And it was a strange thing. Initially Nathalie had been looking forward to this when the death sentence was announced in July. At the time she was merely intrigued and anticipated satisfaction in seeing a murderer beheaded. It was something to witness, to be part of, to take part in like the morgue and the wax museum.

Death meant something different these days, though. She’d been so immersed in its grim, heart-wrenching, and terrifying realities that the spectacle of it had become much less palatable. Would she go to watch Pranzini die if M. Patenaude hadn’t assigned her to it? Her answer changed every time she posed the question to herself.

The day before the execution, Nathalie was dusting her shelves and moved the bottle of sand from Agnès to the side. Bottles and jars, jars and bottles. Who knew containers could hold not only things but also significance?

The Dark Artist never had justice handed to him, she thought. He never had to account for his crimes, never had to take responsibility for killing Agnès and five other girls. She remembered wishing for his capture and execution someday. A sentiment that seemed so very long ago, and yet it wasn’t.

At least he was dead. Mme. la Tuerie was not. As she so cleverly reminded everyone in her letter with the silk.

That woman was somewhere, and her crimes would follow her. The truth would stalk her.

Nathalie slid the bottle of sand back to its normal place, leaving her hand there a moment.

Bottles and jars. Jars and bottles.

Her uncertainty about attending an execution for entertainment would never be extended to Zoe Klampert. Not now, not ever. Nathalie didn’t care if she herself was fifty years old when Mme. la Tuerie got caught. She’d be there, witnessing the guillotine drop.



* * *



The day before the execution, late in the afternoon, a gaunt, uniformed man with a skinny moustache showed up at the apartment. “I’m a courier from the pneumatic post. Are you Mademoiselle Baudin?”

Nathalie nodded. She’d never gotten a pneu before; sending a capsule through the underground system of air pressure tubes was expensive. Only urgent, important messages were sent that way.

The courier handed her a carte télégramme and stood with his hands behind his back as she read.

I need your help—your ability. I have an idea that I hope will bring us closer to catching ZK. If you’re inclined, meet me at the bank on Rue Gerbier after the execution. From there we’ll go to the morgue.

Respectfully,

C.



He needed her to have a vision? Why at that hour? She’d be going there anyway later in the day, as usual. Maybe there had been another murder, another Insightful, and Zoe Klampert was the suspect.

The courier handed her a pencil and a reply card.

Of course. I assure you it would be my honor to assist. Until tomorrow.