Abberline watched from a dark doorway as two men exited the main steps of the
DGSE building. They had coats buttoned up to their chins but their faces were
familiar—cold, hard, and completely without morality—the secret police came
from the same brood wherever you went in the world. He waited until they had
rounded the corner then he slipped from the shadows and crossed the street,
confidently walking into the reception area. The young desk clerk barely had
time to stand up before Inspector Abberline was brushing past him towards the
stairs. “Wait Monsieur...you have to sign in!”
Fred Abberline turned on his heels with an exaggerated sigh, “I tell you what,
since you are the one with the paper and the pen, why don’t YOU fill in my
name…OR I could waste my time and that of your boss by filling in forms in
triplicate, while you stand there looking like a nob and he waits upstairs
getting that look in his eye...you know the one that says ‘Look for another
job’.” Abberline raised his eyebrows and, with a dismissive, “I will be on me
way, then,” continued up the wide stone stairs to the floor above. He tried the
door handles of a fair few in the darkened stretch of corridor before he found
the one that was locked. He grinned to himself and slipped a switchblade from
his pocket and into the key hole. Jiggling it gently, he said “Open sesame.”
Maybe it was just superstition, but it seemed to work.
Working by candlelight, he fingered through thin grey files—“Blanchard”, a
small frown passed through his brows to see “Dubois”, then “Richelieu”—but
found nothing more than cold details until he muttered “Fabergé” under his
breath. And there it was, copies of the original theft report, statements by
the Comte and Comtesse, Aimee’s faked Death Certificate, and, at the back,
another thin paper folded in two. He squinted at the writing, which was a
statement given to a police officer by the name of Mouton at the local police
station by a Giselle Martin, whose occupation was listed as scullery maid. What
made Abberline’s heart skip one or two beats was the address—Les Tuileries.
“Bloody hell! That’s the comte’s place!” drifted out of his mouth as his eyes
moved quicker even than his brain to take it in. It appeared that Mademoiselle
Martin had not only heard the shouts as Aimee had been “discovered’ but from
the back door of the scullery had seen Aimee knocked to the ground and kicked
repeatedly before being bundled into a carriage. She reported, apparently with
some shock, seeing the comte smiling and clapping the man on the back before
retiring back into the house. She had, she said, reported what she had seen to
the head cook but was told that it was non of her concern, a point of view
clearly she did not share.
A loud laugh in the hall brought the inspector back to where he was. There was
nothing to do except relieve the DGSE of this obviously unwanted piece of
paper, which should anyhow have found its way onto his desk. That would have to
wait. The thing now was to get out of this building and find Mademoiselle
Martin without delay, if he hoped to avoid ending up with another crime to add
to others no doubt piling up at his desk in police headquarters. Nothing for it
except to walk out of there the way he came in. Abberline slid the paper inside
his jacket and let his mind concentrate on the slipping of buttons through
holes instead of the more taxing proposition of coming face to face with some
curious agent of the DGSE as he stepped back out into the hall.
He had always found that if you looked like you were late people tended not to
stop you. Alright, so he had more often tested that out on the fore mentioned
wives and sisters and maiden aunts of colleagues, but then again this was the
DGSE, not exactly known for their social niceties. He would just have to hope
his luck held. There was a nasty moment when a door to an office swung open,
necessitating a quick about turn, but at last he reached the front door.
“You can sign out Napoleon Bonaparte if you like, sonny,” he muttered under his
breath as he hailed a cab.
The carriage stopped outside the dark boarding house, just faint glimmers of
candlelight left in the windows. Abberline climbed out, his boots loud on the
cobbles and echoing down the thin street. Despite the loudness of his knock, it
was some time before the door opened an inch or two. “What would a gentleman be
wanting here at this hour?” He smiled past the landlady and was taking the
stairs in no time, somewhat faster than was necessary, it has to be said.
Lily had long since decided that, since Abberline had apparently disappeared off
the face of the earth into the arms of some other less disreputable woman or
the even colder arms of the DGSE, brandy was the only answer. She was well into
the “he really is no good for me, what was I thinking of?” all mixed up with
the touch of her fingers along her lips to see if she could feel him still when
the door swung open and it was his turn to gasp. The candlelight diffused a
picture Botticelli himself might have sketched. Her body was barely concealed
by white cotton and her mouth smiled an invitation. She was stretched out on a
tumble of sheets and already softening to greet him. He had to close his eyes
to say it, “Lily, come with me. We must find Giselle Martin before they do,
though if I am honest with yer, I don’t know exactly who ‘they’ are. She is in
mortal danger. We have to go.”
Well at least she was with him, which was how Lily was trying to reconcile why
it was that she was now getting dressed instead of feeling all those buttons
against her skin. Fred Abberline was standing in the doorway of her room, his
body leaning against the door frame and watching her pull a dress over her head
and fumble with the fastenings. Christ, she maybe had drunk a little bit too
much of that brandy.
“You want to help me, Abberline, since you are the one insisting on buttons
being done up rather than down?” A little giggle and she tried again. The both
knew that one step forward would be the end of detection for tonight.
He took a breath. He had always wanted to be a policeman, but the reason why
was quite escaping him now. “The comte’s scullery maid, Lily...we have to find
Giselle Martin and quickly,” he said as much to remind himself.
“Yes, yes! So Aimee is safe and this maid is saved and you get to find the egg
and justice is done and all that, but I want you right now,” her voice trailed
off as the last bow was pulled tight. “There, I am ready, but if you touch me,
I swear you won’t leave this room.”
His low moan was lost in the huge hammering on the door downstairs. All down
the street lamps were being lit and curses uttered, the noise ringing out in
the cold Parisian night. They could hear the door opening accompanied by the
curses of Madame and the breathless voice of a young man surging up the
stairwell. “I am Officer Mouton, Madame. I am looking for Inspector Abberline.
There has been a shooting at the home of the Comte de Richelieu. The Comte he
is dead...the Inspector, he must come at once!”
Lily closed her eyes, “Just go…”
She brushed off his hand from her shoulder with the confidence that she knew
she would regret within a second and sat back on her bed, her eyes already
filling and the clatter of feet down the stairs ringing in her ears. She could
just hear him, “Les Tuileries. Vite!” She took another two huge slugs of brandy
by the time she found herself doing what she knew she had no choice in, pulling
her shawl around her shoulders. The next two slugs she took to take her mind
into that of a penniless scullery maid in need of somewhere to rent and the
means to rent it.
The night air was probably the best thing for Lily. As she walked towards the
Pigalle, she planned it out in her head, but spoke aloud “Le Poussoir Rouge! I
should start there,” well it was better than no company at all. She was about
to ring the bell to what was possibly the least inviting door it would be
possible to imagine—one too many drunken arguments with a doorman scarring the
wood and the detritus of a night already nearly over evident in a slumped body
beside it—when a woman’s voice called out, “Down on your luck then, Lily?”
She grinned back; it wasn’t so far from here to the Moulin Rouge after all. “Ah
no, I am not here to steal your trade, Monique!” Raucous laughter echoed in the
dark lane and Lily was glad of their warmth, even if they had nothing to tell.
“Giselle Martin? Non…” There were any number of women passing through these
streets and one more went quite unnoticed. “Try Les Bras de Maçons down the
street.”
Lily winced a bit. “Anyone have a knife I can borrow? Just in case?” With some
trepidation and a small blade down her sleeve, Lily stepped into the bar of Les
Bras de Maçons. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of spilt beer and
bodies. She did her best to slip unnoticed through the groups of men, her eyes
searching for she wasn’t sure what, now that she thought of it.
“What will you have?” the barman’s tone was more of an instruction than a
question.
“I am looking for a young woman…”
“And so am I!” Huge hands took hold of her hips from behind, and Lily gritted
her teeth.
“Monsieur, take your hands off me. I am neither for sale nor yours for the
asking.” The hot beery breath on her neck was making her feel nauseous. Lily
swung round with the small knife now in the palm of her hand, “I can assure you
I will use this in your belly if you don’t take your hands off me.” The drunk
obviously figured she was too much like hard work and with a curse that Lily
hadn’t heard in awhile he stepped back into the sea of men. Lily turned to the
barman, desperation in her voice that she hoped he could understand, “Please,
monsieur…Giselle Martin, I must find her.”
The barman’s face screwed up a little in thought. She was pretty enough after
all, and maybe she would have a kiss for him later if he gave her what she
wanted. “Giselle, maybe that was her name…small brunette, she was here an hour
ago, though she was hardly standing. The man she left with drinks in La Tête de
Porcs. Come back here after you find her…” Lily shook her head slightly with a
smile of thanks all the same.
Outside however she leant against the damp wall and gritted her teeth. La Tête
de Porcs, of course it had to be there, a drinking hole with no hours kept and
no rules. Mon Dieu, why hadn’t she found Gabrielle to come with her? Lily
breathed deep, well there was the state of things—her, rough drunk alone in the
Pigalle, searching the darkest depths of the city’s underclass for a woman who
didn’t want to be found, and him, well him no doubt this minute feeling the
deep plush of carpet under his feet, surrounded by crystal and light and men
with important faces and fine port. Alright, so there was a dead body to deal
with, but it might still be better to find that, shot clean, than to dip into
the muck of
Her jaw tightened. If there was a time to jump ship, it was now, before she
really jumped ship and walked into that place taking on whatever she found
there. She could go back to her room and finish that bottle of brandy and tell
him to get out of her life and her thoughts. Why not? What did she owe him?
Nothing save the heat she could feel when he touched her. Only she couldn’t,
even if her eyes were brimming with frustration and fear. She couldn’t abandon
Aimee, nor this Giselle to a similar fate, nor could she abandon who she was,
and Lily wiped her hands over her face. Inspector Frederick Abberline had
better not let her down.