Spectacle(56)

“You’re not to acknowledge them,” Christophe added. “But you’ll be able to identify them. They’ll have a white walking stick with a black handle.”

Nathalie nodded. “Thank you, Monsieur Gagn—Christophe. That’s very kind of you.”

“We can’t protect everyone in the city, but we can do our best to protect you. I prefer to err on the side of caution,” he said with a grin, his imperfect tooth poking out.

She thanked him again and returned to her place in line as he went back inside. Several minutes later, the line moved and she entered the morgue. The same corpses were on display as the day before. As much as she pitied the fourth victim, she again refrained from touching the glass. Nathalie apologized, silently, to the girl on the slab.

I’m sorry. I can’t. I need to take care of my own self, my own sanity. I hope you understand.

After a subtle acknowledgment to Christophe, she left. The temptation to turn around was strong, and despite intending to wait until she crossed the bridge, her curiosity got the better of her. She paused on the bridge to look into the Seine and peeked toward the morgue. A burly man, carrying a white cane with a black handle just as Christophe had said, strolled toward the bridge as casually as any other urban wanderer.

A feeling of power coursed through her blood. It was thrilling to be protected and to push back the Dark Artist’s influence on her.

She finished crossing the bridge and settled on a bench to write her article. Afterward she took a steam tram, and the man with the walking stick boarded as well. She relaxed into a seat toward the back. At the next stop, several people got on.

Including a man with a white mustache and white gloves.

M. Gloves took a seat in the front row with a prim expression on his face. He hadn’t noticed her. She was grateful (for once) for a crowded omnibus.

Could he be the Dark Artist? Time had diminished her suspicion; he seemed too old and lacking in agility. She’d wanted to have a suspect, someone to consider, because it was better than having a faceless face and a nameless man haunting her. Right now, with M. Gloves on the same omnibus, she questioned herself yet again. Was it the desire for a suspect, or was there something else about him—and not just the concept of him—that nagged away at her?

Today she intended to find out once and for all.

The policeman was observing the passengers, unaware that the portly man two rows in front of him, the one telling the ticket collector that his rat gave him “someone to talk to,” might be the Dark Artist.

Nathalie planned to get off when he did and, once she was sure her protector was behind her, follow M. Gloves.

Several stops later, he exited and walked through the gate.

Père Lachaise Cemetery.

She hesitated in the aisle; if it weren’t for an impatient passenger jostling behind her, she might have missed her chance to disembark.

Of all the places to go in Paris, she wouldn’t expect a murderer to stop here.

Then again, why not? Maybe he did his work in the cemetery. Or found new victims among the graves.

Nathalie got off the bus. Out of habit she reached for her vial of catacomb soil before remembering its fate on the floor of the morgue. One of these days she’d have to take a trip to the Catacombs to fill another tube. She didn’t like being without a good luck charm.

After a glance to make sure the policeman was close enough behind, Nathalie entered under the arch.

She and Simone had been to Père Lachaise several times in the past few years, with every visit inadvertently turning into a game of hide-and-seek. It was a densely populated city of the dead, a netherworld version of Paris, with its regal mausoleums and snaking pathways and elegant memorials. Most recently they’d gone in May, thrilled at the notion of seeing the composer Rossini’s remains exhumed for reburial in Italy. They couldn’t get close enough to see the coffin, but it was nonetheless exciting.

She followed M. Gloves. When he stepped off the path to a cluster of tombs, she halted. Being inconspicuous was easy enough along the main pathways. Among the gravestones and mausoleums themselves, she couldn’t possibly follow without being noticed.

She jumped as a couple stepped out from behind a mausoleum. The thin, clean-shaven man wore a light gray waistcoat and the woman, a white lace tea dress and a hat with a red flower on it. Her pretty eyes peeped over an ornamental red-and-gold fan. They were so well-groomed they could have emerged from an illustrated fashion periodical. Nathalie felt like she’d seen them before. Were they the couple from the morgue who witnessed her vision and told Christophe she said “Mirabelle”? Or maybe it was only one of them she recognized. Or maybe neither, because here she was, skulking through a cemetery after someone who probably wasn’t the killer but could be.

“Mademoiselle, are you lost?” asked the man.

Nathalie glanced past them to M. Gloves. The tombs of Abelard and Heloise, famously tragic lovers from the Middle Ages, were in that direction. “I was heading to, uh, Abelard and Heloise. I think I see the monument from here.”

“Don’t forget to leave them a love letter,” the man said. “We once did.” He nudged the woman, who giggled.

The couple bid her good day and moved on. As soon as they were a few steps away, Nathalie peeked over her shoulder. Seeing the policeman with his walking stick, she swelled with confidence and trailed M. Gloves.

He wound his way through tomb after tomb, taking so long Nathalie wondered for a moment if he was luring her somewhere.