Spectacle(90)

Prayer. Maman was at vespers right now, praying for Papa and probably for Nathalie, too.

She opened the book, which reminded her of Maman’s, and a red and gold prayer card fell out. One side depicted a Roman soldier with a spear and “St. Longinus” underneath. It wasn’t a saint she recognized. She flipped it to the other side and read the prayer.

O Blessed Saint Longinus,

You who pierced the side of the crucified Christ,

You whose blindness His Precious Blood then cured,

Intercede for us.

Aid us in our suffering, strengthen the weakness in our faith.

Keep us on the path to true understanding

Lest we falter into the darkness.

Through your intercession and the mercy of God, the Almighty Father,

Amen.



Nathalie was repulsed by the thought of Mme. la Tuerie praying and hoped that no saint interceded any prayers for her whatsoever. She started to crush the prayer card but changed her mind.

A box of matches lay near one of the pillar candles. She lit a candle and held the prayer card over it, watching it disintegrate as she tossed the last piece into the flame. Nathalie murmured a quick prayer of apology to the saint, hoping he would understand.

“Is something burning?” Simone poked her head around the corner. Nathalie started to explain when Louis called from the bedroom.

“Ladies, you won’t believe what I’ve found.”

Nathalie and Simone rushed in to see him standing over an open drawer. The bedroom was ordinary—street art paintings on the wall, a brass lamp, a quilted bedspread, a vanity with perfume bottles.

Louis took something out of the drawer and held it up.

A pair of white gloves covered in an unmistakable brown stain. Old blood.

Simone let out a squawk and slapped her hand over her mouth. Nathalie’s muscles went rigid.

“Come see,” he said, leaning against the mahogany bureau. When they joined him, he pointed to five more pairs of gloves.

“A trophy for each murder,” said Nathalie, her stomach twisting more with each word.

“We’ll bring this to the police,” Louis said. He began to stuff his pockets.

“Wait,” said Simone, placing her hand on his wrist. “Only one should do. What if she notices? It’s bad enough we took two jars. So to speak.”

“Out of hundreds.” Louis put back the blood-soaked gloves and pocketed a pair. Nathalie wondered whose blood it was. Odette’s? Mirabelle’s? Charlotte’s? Lisette’s? The unnamed victim’s? She hoped it wasn’t Agnès’s.

Nathalie turned away, and her eyes landed on the vanity. She noticed something long and thin among the bottles and leaned in for a better view.

She put her hand to her throat as an acidic taste rested on her tongue. It all sank in at that moment, all of this. The madness of it. The horror. The reality.

“You finish. I’ll be standing by the door in the parlor,” Nathalie said, backing away.

Simone took a step toward her. “Whatever you’d like.”

Nathalie retreated a step and bumped into the dresser. As she caught herself she looked down at the vanity. With a shaky hand she picked up a gold-plated syringe with enamel inlay. “Is this … what she used to draw the blood?”

She put it down and turned away, not waiting for an answer. She knew the answer was yes. They all did. “I don’t know why I didn’t demand for the door to be unlocked and run out as soon as we saw the bottles.” She struggled to get the words out over trembling lips. “This is madness. You’re mad for bringing me here, Louis. My goodness. My beautiful friend’s blood in a jar? The gloves that madman wore when he killed her? I want to leave.”

Both Simone and Louis approached her warily, and this time she didn’t retreat. Instead she let them embrace her as she sobbed, on the threshold of Mme. la Tuerie’s bedroom.

When the moment passed, they stepped apart. Louis, who was facing the parlor window, tensed up. “Oh no.”

Nathalie wasn’t sure if he said “She’s here” or if she just knew it instinctively.

They ran for the door and Louis pulled the key out of his pocket, dropping the gloves. He stopped to pick them up.

The hallway stairs creaked.

“Bedroom window!” he hissed.

They bolted out of the parlor. Simone unlocked the window and flung it open. She stepped onto the balcony first, then Nathalie.

The apartment door opened, followed by the squeak of the floorboards. Louis froze, his stricken face revealing the words he couldn’t utter.

There was no time.

“Gagnon,” Louis whispered, licking his lips. He tossed Simone the bloodstained gloves and put his hand on the window latch. “I’ll catch up.”

With that he pulled the window shut.





42


Nathalie and Simone stood on either side of the window, backs pressed against the cut-stone wall.

“Madame Klampert!” Louis’s voice ascended like a musical scale. “M. Genet told me you were … having some difficulty with a window latch?”

Nathalie eased away from the window, worried she might be visible from a certain angle. She eyed Simone, tense and motionless.

“Not at all. You work at the bookshop. How do you know the name of my landlord?” Her muted voice, suspicious yet under control, came closer with each word.