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Art in the Blood
Our cab pulled up outside 68 Boulevard de Clichy. A bold sign announced that we had reached our destination. The building itself looked like a country home, crowded in between two larger buildings, which leaned in like overly solicitous relatives. It was the famous cabaret Le Chat Noir, or ‘the Black Cat’.
I took a deep breath and willed myself to be on the alert. As we stepped down from our cab, I glanced up and down the street, but no one stood out in the milling masses.
Inside, after depositing our capes, hats and sticks with a blonde coquette who flashed me a wink and a smile, I reluctantly felt myself swept forward by the arriving crowd down a narrow hallway and up a steep stairway lined with French political cartoons. While the French sense of humour, I’ll admit, is not my own, I was struck by the bitter undertones, the funereal slant of the subject matter, the scorn and the anger beneath the humorous caricatures.
The contrast between the hostess’s inviting smile and the sarcastic political commentary was as unsettling as the tendency of the remarkably varied crowds to, well, push.
And then I got a glimpse of the main room.
My first impression was of utter chaos – the noise, the smoke, a hodgepodge crowd of Parisians of all classes, jammed in like sardines; the walls covered with paintings, posters, ornate cornices, lanterns, bizarre sculptures. An enormous stuffed aquatic creature hung from the ceiling. A porpoise? A giant catfish? I could not be sure.
The crowd was a milling, laughing mass. The noise was oppressive. In one corner were several Swiss Guards. I later learned Le Chat Noir was a social mecca for these odd mercenaries in their startling blue-and-yellow striped Renaissance clothing and white ruffs. A rowdy burst of laughter came from a cluster of them at a far table.
I’d heard of Le Chat Noir of course, but never imagined it would be a place that I would visit. It seemed a madhouse.
Holmes and I pushed our way through the dense crowd towards a couple of empty seats. A bearded ruffian in corduroy abruptly rammed into me, splashing his glass of wine on my waistcoat.
‘I beg your pardon!’ I said. The man stopped in his tracks and turned penetrating dark eyes to my face.
‘Anglais!’ he literally spat, the viscous wad narrowly missing my polished boots. ‘Va te faire foutre, espèce de salaud! On ne veut pas de toi ici!’ He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
I shot Holmes a questioning look, and he took my arm, guiding me to our seats. I blotted at the wine with my handkerchief, feeling my face turning red from the insult.
‘Sit,’ said Holmes, as we squeezed into two empty seats at the end of a long banquette against a back wall. ‘I see this is your first encounter with the virulent form of anti-English sentiment which has grown over the past years here.’
‘Still angry over Agincourt, I suppose,’ I replied, my dignity ruffled.
‘You do not understand the French,’ he said.
‘No one understands the French!’ I replied. Holmes grinned.
But it was true that there was a flavour to the crowd and the place itself that was impenetrable to my sensibilities. Looking around me, I sensed we were at the epicentre of some cultural movement, but I could not grasp its significance … or its meaning. I felt a bit like the stuffed creature hanging above us – an observer – separate, and quite out of place.
My attention was next drawn to a decorative circular frame enclosing a large translucent screen of some sort on the wall behind the stage. Noticing my puzzlement, Holmes explained. ‘That is the screen of the famous Théâtre d’Ombres, the Shadow Theatre,’ he said. ‘Shadow puppets, figures cut out of zinc, are projected there nightly. The writing is quite amusing. Very popular now.’
‘You’ve seen it, then?’ I wondered.
‘Several times. But, aha! There is the man of the hour.’ He indicated with a nod a tall, handsome fellow in a well-cut suit of European style, sporting a jaunty moustache and gliding effortlessly through the crowd. He was French, from his elegant dress and dark good looks. ‘Exactly whom I expected,’ said Holmes.
The gentleman looked our way, and Holmes nodded in greeting. I thought I detected a flash of annoyance from the man but his face then broke into a charming smile. He bowed mockingly in our direction before taking his seat.
‘Old friend?’ I asked.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ replied Holmes. ‘Is he familiar to you, by chance?’
I studied the man, recognizing nothing. ‘Who is he?’
Before Holmes could answer, a server placed before us two carafes of water, and two curved glasses with a strange green liquid nestled in the lower part of each. A perforated kind of knife balanced across each, with a lump of sugar on top. Holmes paid her and turned to me with a smile, indicating I should pour the water over the sugar. ‘We’ll discuss it later. Now, do give this a taste; it is quite unique. But no more than a single sip, Watson; I need you sharp tonight.’
Absinthe! Was he mad? I watched Holmes add water, and with a stir, the liquid took on an eerie glow. It looked like something one might imagine oozing from under the sea in a Jules Verne novel. Of course I had read of the stuff. The famed concoction was an extreme depressant renowned for its hallucinogenic effects.
‘No thank you, Holmes.’ I pushed my glass away.
He took one sip and did the same. ‘Wise choice,’ he said. ‘I once spent an afternoon at a nearby establishment, working off an absinthe-induced reverie.’ He shrugged. ‘It is worth trying once – in the name of science, of course.’
My attention returned to Holmes’s ‘old friend’. He was seated near the door, engrossed in conversation with a young couple, the girl staring at him in frank admiration. I could see from his gestures and her enraptured expression that he possessed that very particular Gallic charm which was easy to spot and impossible to emulate. What was Holmes’s interest in this man?
I noticed another small group, off to the side, also regarding the Frenchman. There were four men, three very tall and muscular, and a smaller, almost delicate man. There was something quite odd about them. In addition to being clad entirely in black, almost like a group of clerics, they somehow conveyed an air of menace. While the crowds around them laughed and gestured, they remained preternaturally still, their drinks untouched. The smallest man, whose manner subtly commanded the others, made me think of a cat, coiled and waiting at a mouse hole.
I started to point them out to Holmes, but he’d risen and, taking our drinks, crossed the room towards the bar. I observed that the Frenchman kept a careful eye on Holmes while remaining in conversation. His regard caused the group of four to follow his gaze to Holmes. I did not like the look that passed over the small man’s face. It seemed to be recognition, and something more. A chill came over me in the crowded, warm room.
Holmes returned with a carafe of red wine and two fresh glasses.
‘Holmes,’ I began. ‘There are four men over there who seemed very interested to find you here.’
‘The Americans. Yes, I noticed.’
This should not have startled me, but it did.
‘You are referring to the oddly dressed gentlemen in black?’ he smiled. ‘Not exactly your Grand Tour types. They are more interested in our French friend, not me.’
‘And yet they seemed to recognize you,’ I pointed out. ‘Or the small one did.’
‘That is unfortunate,’ said Holmes. ‘It may change our plans slightly.’ He thought for a moment. ‘If there is any trouble, or if I so signal you, escort our client safely away from here and to some place other than her home. Do you understand me?’
‘Of course I understand you,’ I replied peevishly. ‘What is it that you expect to happen?’
But before he could answer, we were drowned out by a loud musical flourish from the small band.
There was an audible murmur of anticipation as our client took the stage.
PART THREE
THE LINES ARE DRAWN
‘Art, like morality, consists of drawing the line somewhere.’
G. K. Chesterton
CHAPTER 7
Attack!
‘You are gaping, Watson,’ Holmes whispered. Perhaps I was. But save for Holmes, so was everyone else.
A unanimous shout, ‘Cherie!’ rose up from the room. Our client, Mlle Emmeline La Victoire, was unquestionably a star.
In retrospect, I realized that what I had anticipated was a bawdy, music-hall-style performance with half-shouted melody and swishing skirts. But as the music started up and she began to sing, what came from the lovely creature was the voice of an angel, soaring and clear. She conveyed a sweet melancholy that ripped at one’s heart.
For nearly an hour I sat transported.
As she finished a song about a rare tropical bird which flew many leagues to be with its lover (or perhaps it was a dog, I cannot be sure), I turned to my friend – only to discover that the space where Holmes had been sitting a moment ago was now filled by a rude-looking peasant, red nose aglow with drink.
Where the devil had he gone? Scanning the room, I observed that the Frenchman he had pointed out earlier was missing and the black-clad men as well. I grew uneasy and stood up. Holmes was nowhere to be seen. Damn his secrecy!
Just then, a series of shouts burst from backstage, followed by a loud crash. Our client froze, and the music ground to a halt. What happened next was so fast I can barely recount it.
There, against the backlit, glowing screen of the Théâtre d’Ombres, the small puppets were overshadowed by the distorted silhouettes of two men locked in mortal combat. The struggling figures bashed against the oiled canvas.
A spray of some dark liquid spattered in a wide arc across it. The crowd gasped.
A rending tear sounded as a knife split the fabric. The torn screen peeled forward revealing the splatter as bright red blood!
I was up and pushing through the crowd towards Mlle La Victoire when a man hurtled through the tear, landing on the stage at her feet. An arterial wound in his chest shot a fountain of crimson several feet into the air. Mademoiselle screamed.
The crowd leapt as one and clambered to get away from the stage. I lost sight of our client through the churning mass of bodies. Using every ounce of strength, I shoved my way towards the stage against the tide of the mob.
I reached the stagehand on the floor and saw instantly that the wound was fatal. I looked up and Mlle La Victoire was gone. Leaving the dying man in the arms of a colleague, I ran backstage.
Chaos! In a dark room lit by a piercing ray of white light aimed at the back of the screen, struggling figures bashed into large wooden frames on wheels.
The spotlight was blinding. I tried to shield my eyes. ‘Mademoiselle!’ I cried.
I heard nothing but the shouts of men. I dodged as the highly flammable light crashed to the floor next to me. There was a small explosion. The room went black and flame erupted near my feet. There was more shouting as several stagehands rushed towards it to put it out.
Mlle La Victoire’s voice rang out. ‘Jean!’
Two large stage doors swung open to a nearby courtyard dimly lit by a single street lamp. The fight spilled into it. The cobblestones gleamed with black ice and the struggling men slid and tumbled on its slick surface, falling with sharp cries of pain.
I recognized the mysterious Frenchman of Holmes’s acquaintance, and two of the black-clad men I’d observed earlier. I drew my revolver and followed.
Mlle La Victoire dashed out from backstage into a circle of light. Brandishing a large vase, she brought it down on one of the black-clad men. The vase glanced off his shoulder. He grunted, whirling to grab her wrist. She screamed.
The thug, his bald head gleaming in the lamplight, pointed a knife under her ribs and backed her towards the wall of the adjacent building, as the tall Frenchman continued to battle one of the others.
‘Bitch!’ snarled the bald villain, raising the knife to her face. ‘I’ll cut you good for that.’
American? I aimed but had no clear shot. Pocketing my gun, I dashed forward at the exact moment the Frenchman downed his red-haired attacker and did the same. Both of us leapt towards the man with the knife, and as if we were choreographed, the Frenchman knocked the weapon from the man’s hand, as I threw a punch straight at the kidneys. The bald man in black dropped to the ground, his knife flying into the darkness.
Two were down. But there had been four at the table.
‘Jean!’ cried Mlle La Victoire, flinging herself into the Frenchman’s arms.
‘Allez-y!’ he said, pushing her away. Run!
She hesitated. In that instant, her bald assailant rose from the ground like Lazarus, and in a flash knocked me into the wall. We struggled as the second attacked the Frenchman with renewed vigour.
The four of us slid and tumbled on the ice like drunks. My revolver fell from my pocket. It skittered away into the darkness.
As I struggled with my attacker, a third man grabbed Mlle La Victoire and slapped her, hard.
Furious, I tried to wrench free, but at my momentary distraction, my attacker took his chance. I felt myself choked from behind, and gasping for air.
It was then that the fourth man in black, the small man whom I had spotted as the leader, moved into the light. The odds had worsened. He ran towards me, butting me hard in the stomach. My knees buckled.
He pulled out a long stiletto which glittered like a deadly icicle in the pale light. The man choking me altered his grip and grabbed me by the hair, forcing my head back. The small man now slowly raised the stiletto to my throat, and began caressing it with the flat of the knife.
It was a strange gesture, like a surgeon cleansing the skin with carbolic before his incision. Time slowed.
His pale face and beady eyes were strangely rat-like. ‘The dangerous one dies first,’ he said. The sharp side of the blade pricked my skin. I felt a warm trickle of blood down my neck and it seemed the end. I closed my eyes.
But the Frenchman had prevailed and suddenly the Rat was knocked aside!
Seizing the moment, I yanked the man who was choking me off balance. Dimly I was aware of the Frenchman struggling in the corner of my vision but I could not dislodge my assailant and his chokehold tightened. I dropped to my knees, growing faint.
We were outmatched.
The Rat regained his footing, and charged. But a sharp crack of something hard on bone caused the small man to tumble before me with a high-pitched cry of rage. Somersaulting skilfully out of his fall like a circus acrobat, he leaped to his feet and turned to face a new attacker.
Backlit by the streetlamp was a tall, cloaked figure brandishing a stick. It was Sherlock Holmes!
The odds were looking up.
I slammed an elbow into the gut of my assailant. He loosened his grip and staggered back. I turned and we grappled, slipping in the ice and landing on the ground.
Holmes’s voice pierced through the sounds of the mêlée. ‘Your pistol, Watson!’
‘Gone!’ I cried. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
In a single glimpse I saw the Rat now facing the Frenchman, as two others advanced on Mlle La Victoire.
‘Busy!’ shouted Holmes, as he ran to her aid.
Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed him battling two assailants, walking stick held out before him in both hands, like the trained singlestick fighter he was. He whirled it above his head and then rained it down in a series of quick blows on the men facing him.
My own assailant leaped on top of me, and as we struggled, I heard Holmes’s stick connect and the cries of his attackers.
I landed a sharp uppercut to the thug charging me and he fell. I turned to see if Holmes needed help. But he had one man down, and as Mlle La Victoire cowered behind him he neatly felled the second of her attackers with a blow to the legs.
Then he took the lady’s hand, and pulled her away from the light and off into the darkness.
Where? I wondered.
The Rat, across the small courtyard and advancing on the Frenchman, saw it, too. But he did not follow. Instead, he uttered a curse, and turned, slashing at my tall ally. The Frenchman fell with a cry and the Rat leaped on him.
Without thinking, I plunged towards the two and for a moment the Frenchman, the Rat and I rolled like marbles on the icy cobblestones. I managed to land a sharp blow on the Rat’s collarbone and he screamed but rolled free and up on to his feet.
The Frenchman lay unmoving. I was on my own!
The Rat gave a quick glance to my mysterious ally. Dead? He barked a short command and his three cohorts – two downed by Holmes and the third trying to help them up – froze and looked up. Then all four vanished into the darkness.
I paused, waiting for a further attack. Silence.
From the ground came a sigh. ‘Ah,’ said the Frenchman. ‘Enfin, c’est fini!’ He stood up with barely a wince, brushing off his elegant suit.
I was panting, exhausted. What in the hell had just happened?
I felt my neck; it was still bleeding. I took out my handkerchief and pressed it to the cut. I looked over at the Frenchman. His face was now a mask of pain, and he had a hand to one shoulder.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked. ‘I am a doctor.’
He flashed me a look I did not understand. Guilt? Embarrassment? Then it was immediately replaced by an impudent grin.
‘I have never been better,’ he said, straightening up and shaking off his pain like a man would fling a bead of sweat on a summer’s day. For the first time I noticed his size. He had at least two inches and fifty pounds on Holmes, hardly typical for a Frenchman. Could he really be French? He glanced around and casually retrieved his top hat, lost in the struggle, replacing it at a jaunty angle.
My doubts were at rest; he was most definitely French.
‘Jean Vidocq,’ he said. ‘And you must be Dr Watson.’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘You fought well, Doctor,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Not injured too badly?’ While his words were friendly, there was an undercurrent of mockery.
‘No,’ I replied stiffly. ‘Thank you.’
I looked about me. Mlle La Victoire and Holmes were nowhere to be seen.
The Frenchman noticed this as well. ‘Merde!’ he said. ‘Where did Holmes take her?’
‘How do you know us?’
At that moment, Holmes strode into the light, alone, and carrying my cape and hat. ‘Good work, Watson,’ he said, handing me my things. Then – ‘Watson, your neck!’
‘I’m fine.’ I removed the handkerchief. The wound still bled but only a little. I pressed harder on it.
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