Spectacle(77)

This was an especially short-lived mystery, as Mademoiselle Jalbert’s parents identified her body mere hours after it was placed on display.



The article went on to describe the scene, complete with quotes from bystanders, the guard, and Christophe. Her thoughts went to the morgue tableaux at the Musée Grévin that depicted the first two victims. Had they continued to change it, to add corpses?

Would a likeness of Agnès be there?

She didn’t want to know.

Nathalie folded the paper neatly and turned it over so she wouldn’t have to see the illustration of Agnès’s mother. It was too accurate. Too real.

She pulled today’s Le Petit Journal closer. Again the headline attacked her.

POLICEMAN KILLED IN CATACOMBS

Agent de Police Sébastien Ethier was murdered by an unknown assailant yesterday at the entrance to the Catacombs.



His name was Sébastien. And she never knew, never even asked Christophe the names of the men who’d protected her.

Neither the Dark Artist nor Nathalie were mentioned in the article. Christophe had prepared her for this, saying the police wouldn’t want to incite panic. To every other Parisian it would read like an act of violence perpetrated at random.

Sébastien deserved better. He died because of me.

She stood up and went to the parlor window where Stanley was perched. She gazed across the street to where a policeman, her policeman, sat. You will be protected until we catch him, Christophe had told her. But she’d never thought to consider their protection and the sort of risk they’d undertaken for her.

“Ask him his name, Maman. When you go out later.”

Maman furrowed her brow. “Him who?”

“The policeman watching the apartment.” She gestured toward the window. “I want to know his name. I’m not to address them, but there’s no reason you can’t.”

“I understand, ma bichette. I will.”

Tonight she would pray for Agnès, Sébastien, and the policeman outside the apartment, by name.



* * *



Later that morning, while Nathalie was folding clothes, Simone knocked at the door. “If you like profiteroles, open up.”

Nathalie went to the door and greeted her. Simone swept into the apartment with two crème-filled pastries on a plate. “I thought I’d bring the two of you some food for a change. Someone was kind enough to bring us some, and I thought I’d share.” Her glance darted between Nathalie and her mother. “Did—did I come at a bad time?”

Maman shook her head, thanked Simone warmly, and took a profiterole. Nathalie closed the door and took the second profiterole off the plate. “Thank you. I’m going to save mine for later.”

“My dearest friend putting aside a profiterole?” Simone eyed her with a frown. “Something is wrong, isn’t it?”

“I have a lot to share,” Nathalie said, pointing her finger upward. “Maman, we’re going to be at the Rooftop Salon.”

Maman wiped her fingers with a cloth and tightened a jar. “Be careful.”

“We will,” said Nathalie.

“Why did she say that?” Simone asked as they exited the apartment.

“Because of yesterday.”

Several minutes later, as they sat near the inside edge of the roof for shade, Nathalie told Simone all that had happened.

“Do you think he’ll come after you?”

“Maman said Mathieu, the policeman watching from the street, is especially vigilant.” Nathalie hugged her knees. “Who knows? I don’t want to leave this building anytime soon, I can tell you that. And last night I slept with a chair propped under the doorknob.” Even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t a viable long-term plan. But it was a good one for today.

“First the jar, then his curious remark about your blood. I wonder if that’s what drives him, some sort of fixation on blood.”

“He’s a lunatic,” Nathalie said. She touched the cut on her cheek. “That’s what drives him.”

“I know, but maybe there’s a connection to what he’s doing and Henard’s blood transfusions.” Simone pressed back against the bricks and pulled her feet out of the sun.

“I wish I’d asked him another dozen questions. Not that he’d have answered them, but…” Nathalie let her voice fall away. “I’m exhausted.”

She rested her head on Simone’s shoulder. They sat like that, quietly, until an ant crawled up Nathalie’s leg. She stood up and brushed the ant away. “The sun is catching us anyway. Shall we head back downstairs?”

When they entered the apartment, Maman was not alone.

Christophe sat on the sofa, petting Stanley, and greeted her with a weak smile.

“If it’s not too much to ask,” he began, “I’d like you to come to the morgue with me. Please. There’s another victim.”





36


Nathalie squeezed her nails into her palms. “Another one already.” And it could have been me.

After introducing Christophe and Simone, she crossed over to Papa’s chair, where Maman sat tracing her scars. Nathalie stood beside the chair, fingertips grazing the leather.

Christophe leaned forward. “I know it’s asking a lot, given everything that’s happened, but we’d be most grateful. And Madame Baudin, I assure you, she will be under protection the entire time.”