Floats the Dark Shadow Read online

  Floats the Dark Shadow

  by

  Yves Fey

  FLOATS THE DARK SHADOW

  Copyright © 2012 by Yves Fey.

  All Rights Reserved

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted by the publisher. Your support of the artist’s rights is appreciated.

  Library of Congress Control Number 2012934486

  Casebound: 978-1-937356-20-0

  Trade: 978-1-937356-21-7

  Kindle: 978-1-937356-22-4

  EPUB: 978-1-937356-23-1

  Publisher's Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Fey, Yves.

  Floats the dark shadow / Yves Fey.

  p. cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-937356-20-0

  1. Murder—Fiction. 2. Paris (France)—History—1870-1940—Fiction. 3. Satanism—Fiction. 4. Blood accusation—Fiction. 5. Historical mystery novels. I. Title.

  PS3606.E99 F56 2012

  813.6—dc22

  2012933526

  Book design by Frogtown Bookmaker.

  Front cover photograph by Michel Colson

  Published by BearCat Press:

  http://www.BearCatPress.com

  France, 1897

  When your heart is in horror lost,

  And over your present like a ghost

  Floats the dark shadow of the past.…

  ~ Charles Baudelaire

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Some perfumes are as fragrant as a child,

  Sweet as the sound of hautboys, meadow-green;

  Others, corrupted, rich, exultant, wild….

  ~ Charles Baudelaire

  GILLES unlocked the scorched oak door and raised his lantern, illuminating the staircase that coiled down to the dungeons of the chateau. Underneath the smell of ashes, of damp stone and lantern oil, he inhaled traces of other odors. Mold, urine, and feces. Clotted gore. Fear. The fetid bouquet blossomed in his nostrils. Repugnance entwined with anticipation.

  In his ancient castle, opulent perfumes would have dizzied his senses. The wine rich scent of hippocras would have spilled from a goblet set with jewels, mingling with the crushed almond aroma of honeyed marzipan. Luscious red roses would have shed petals bright as virgin’s blood on pure white linen. Over all, plumes of incense would have drifted, saturating the night with a scent at once sacred and lasciviously profane.

  But that was another place.

  Another century.

  Another life.

  And there was a pleasing austerity in these simpler smells. A perverse purity.

  Gilles closed the door and descended the winding staircase, his leather soles scuffing on the limestone. No other sound—but the mortal odors intensified with each step. When he reached the bottom, the stench clogged his nostrils. The lantern cast a sickly light on the stone walls surrounding him. A barred gate stood ajar. He saw nothing but his own flickering shadow. He heard nothing. No, there, a faint noise, like a breath caught. A sob. He moved forward quickly, stepping through the iron gateway into a large chamber.

  In the center of the room the boy hung from the rafters. Ropes bound him tightly and an iron hook and chain held him suspended. He revolved slowly in the air, not struggling, silent but for his weeping. His eyes were swollen, and runnels of tears slid down his cheeks to drip off his chin. Letting out a cry of outrage, Gilles rushed forward. He set aside the lantern and lifted the boy down.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered as he tugged at the knot on the ropes. They came loose in his hands and he tossed them aside. The child threw his arms around him, weeping more fiercely with relief. Gilles drew him into his arms, comforting him. “What is your name, boy?”

  “Denis,” he choked out, fighting to stifle his sobs. Though old enough to grasp at manly courage, the boy clung to him. His chilled limbs felt deliciously fragile.

  Gilles held him for a moment, then drew back to look into his eyes. Gently he stroked the sweat-soaked fringe of hair plastered to Denis’ forehead. “Who did this to you?”

  The boy clutched him more tightly, tears and snot smearing Gilles’ velvet-clad shoulder. “A man in Paris promised me a job as a stable boy,” he blurted. “He said we would ask my mother—but then he covered my face with a rag. He brought me to this awful place. He dragged me down to this wine cellar!”

  “Dungeon,” Gilles murmured, but too low for Denis to hear. From what he knew of the boy, he had expected more imagination.

  Denis looked over to where a thin trail of smoke drifted over pieces of charred wood. “He lit a fire—I thought he would burn me.”

  “Terrible!”

  “He put it out when he left. I thought I would freeze!” The boy’s gaze darted around the walls. “He will come back.”

  “I will take you somewhere else,” Gilles promised him, bringing another spasm of sobs from Denis. He stood, taking up the lantern with one hand, beckoning with the other.

  “Back to Paris?” Bright with hope, he looked up at Gilles.

  “Come now, you must be brave.” Gilles smiled a little. “St. Denis was brave, wasn’t he?” Swallowing back a sob, the boy made a small choking sound. Was he imagining his martyred namesake carrying his head through the streets of Paris? Was he imagining his own head severed from his body? Lovely.

  Denis frowned. “I know you sir, don’t I?”

  “Do you? Yes, I believe you do.”

  Denis looked confused. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, wiped his nose on his sleeve. He rubbed his sore arms, shivering with the winter cold as he glanced anxiously at the barred doorway. Gilles clasped the boy’s shoulder protectively, stroking it to warm him. “There’s another way.” He hurried him across the chamber to another iron gate, opened it, urged Denis into the passage beyond. “Through here.”

  “You know this place, sir?” Denis asked.

  “I own it.” When he felt the boy tense, Gilles shook his head and frowned in concern. “There were rumors about my stable master. At first I did n
ot believe them, but finally I came to investigate.” A few feet, and they stopped at another door, strapped with decayed leather and studded with iron. Gilles reached up and took the key from the lintel.

  “He told me I would work in a beautiful chateau.” Denis’ voice was hesitant. Tears still glistened on his cheeks. “But this place is in ruins.”

  “So it is.” Gilles unlocked the door. It opened into darkness lit only by the lantern light falling across the threshold. The odor of fleshy rot enveloped Gilles as he stepped through, coaxing Denis to follow. Would he resist? That might be amusing. But no…the boy crossed over. Gilles’ heart gave a lovely shudder, as if struck like a bell. He locked the door behind them, then led the way to the center of the chamber. Lifting the lantern high, he smiled.

  When the boy saw the others, he began to scream.

  Chapter Two

  Seductive evening, friend of the criminal,

  Enters like an accomplice, a stalking wolf….

  ~ Charles Baudelaire

  LEAVING the Palais de Justice, Inspecteur Michel Devaux, detective of the Sûreté, inhaled deeply, clearing away the stink of the jail with the scent of incipient rain. Cold, moist air prickled his skin. Above the glare of the arc lamps, lowering clouds swallowed the stars, the waning moon thin as a fingernail paring. He glanced up at the corner of the Conciergerie, where the oldest clock in Paris told him it was just after midnight. The adrenaline of the hunt and arrest had drained away during the questioning of his prisoner. His body ached for home and sleep but his mind remained watchful. He could spend an hour playing his guitar instead of staring at the ceiling, unreeling horrors. The axe murders had been particularly gruesome, the killer’s grandmother and her equally ancient maid hacked into pieces.

  Yet the hunt for the killer had served as distraction from even uglier childhood memories. Twenty-six years ago yesterday, the Paris Commune had claimed rulership of the city. Two months later their reign ended in slaughter. His own life ended then.

  Ended and began again.

  Music might ward off all kinds of blood-drenched nightmares.

  The March wind gusted and the rain came down cold and sharp as needles. Michel turned up the collar of his jacket and set out across the Île de la Cité. The pale limestone of the city looked ghostly in the night. The Right Bank was all but silent, but looking over to the Left he caught glimpses of the activity always brewing in the cafés of the student quarter. He made his way past Notre Dame, where the illuminated carvings of kings and saints glistened with rain. Soon its rooftop gargoyles would be gushing. He crossed the small bridge to the tiny Île Saint Louis, and turned to follow the slant of the quai down toward his apartment.

  A man stood under the trees at the far point of the island, his shape dark against the lamp-lit shimmer of the inky water. Michel knew no one had followed him from the detectives’ bureau, but any detective could have enemies lying in wait. On guard, he continued to approach, listening for other movements to the side or behind. No one else. The shadowed figure struck a match, cupping it against the rain as he lit a thinly rolled cigarette. The quiver of light revealed one of Blaise Dancier’s henchman, his âme damnée, Jacques le Rouge. For a damned soul he had an oddly angelic face, though his hair was red as hellfire. “Le Rouge” was not for the hair, but for the throats he cut. The red scarf around his neck was deliberately provocative. Michel stopped, waited. Jacques gave a brusque nod toward the Right Bank. Moving forward, Michel saw a carriage waiting just across the Pont Louis-Philippe.

  Intrigued but not apprehensive, Michel followed Le Rouge over the bridge to the waiting carriage and climbed inside. With a sharp snap of the whip, the coachman set off through the narrow cobbled streets of the sleeping Marais district, where the lavish abodes of sixteenth century aristocrats were now the crowded homes of poor Jews. The road smoothed as they moved into increasingly fashionable areas. Rain drumming on the roof was the only sound. The street lamps sent stray slices of light through the carriage windows, showing Michel his companion watching him with ice blue eyes. Normally, he tried to bribe someone like Jacques le Rouge to give up tidbits of information about his employer, but Dancier tossed gifts to beggars bigger than Michel’s bribes. And a bribe wouldn’t have worked with the taciturn Le Rouge. Michel already knew he was utterly loyal. Blaise Dancier could inspire that.

  Criminel extraordinaire, Dancier had done it all—thief, pimp, assassin. Michel could not bring himself to call such a man a friend. Neither would he deny that he enjoyed Dancier’s company and valued their odd alliance. Still, Michel was surprised when the coachman entered the courtyard of Dancier’s home on the far side of L’Opéra Garnier. Usually any exchange of information took place somewhere neutral. He understood that a meeting at Dancier’s townhouse was intended as a compliment. He felt extremely curious and slightly annoyed at the unwanted intimacy. Also, very slightly, complimented. No doubt, Dancier was equally ambivalent about him.

  Michel descended from the carriage and crossed to the door. It opened before he knocked. The man who admitted him was an impressive combination of muscle and maître d'hôtel manners. He took Michel’s wet jacket, then led him to the salon. Dancier was waiting, deliberately casual, perched on the edge of his desk, brandy snifter in hand. He waited till the butler departed, then lifted the Baccarat decanter on the tray beside him. “Cognac?”

  Michel recognized the bottle as Napoléon’s favorite. One taste could be counted as a most extravagant bribe. He smiled a little—after all, courtesy was important. “Thank you.”

  As Dancier poured the amber liquid, Michel idly wondered if the decanter was stolen or perhaps actually purchased from some fine shop on the grand boulevards. Dancier handed him the other snifter. Michel inhaled the rich aroma, letting it tease his senses as he silently thanked his lover for her tutelage in such matters. Lilias’ skills went far beyond the erotic. He took a small sip. As expected, the cognac was sumptuous, fruit melted into amber fire. Michel nodded his compliments, relishing hints of apricot and honey, a tinge of cinnamon.

  “Courvoisier. Only the best.” Dancier gestured with the snifter, indicating the brandy, the glass, the whole room.

  “Of course.” Rather fantastically, Michel had imagined Dancier surrounded by a vast piratical treasure trove of stolen booty. Not so. The salon was elegant in the most modern style, paneled and furnished with fluid and rhythmic woodwork that looked almost alive. The velvety wallpaper was a riot of autumn leaves, vivid as splashes of flame. A strange chandelier of crimson lilies coiled overhead, a multi-headed hydra, beautiful yet sinister.

  “You missed a good savate session tonight,” Dancier told him.

  “It was worth it and I made good use of my skills.”

  “I hear you kicked the chopper in the throat—sent him ass over ears down the stairs.”

  “It seemed expedient. He came at me with an axe.”

  “A louse who cuts up old ladies—why not just shoot him between the eyes?” When Michel refused to respond to that, Dancier shrugged and went on, “What kick?”

  “Fouetté.”

  They’d met through their savate teacher, an acknowledged master, a student of the man who had taught Dumas. Michel had taken several classes, Dancier private lessons. The master suggested the two meet and spar. Reluctantly, they’d agreed and found he was right. Physically they were well matched. Michel had an advantage of height and weight, and had trained himself to an implacable calm. Dancier was thirty-seven, five years older than Michel, but possessed whipcord strength, lightning reflexes, and a dynamic, almost manic energy. He claimed fire flowed in his veins instead of blood and scoffed that Michel might as well have ice water. They had become sparring partners in life as well, always en garde against a false step, a hard kick, a dirty trick that might shatter their tentative alliance.

  “At first I just wanted cane fencing lessons, figuring I could learn a new trick or two. But la savate—I thought I already knew all there was to know about the old shoe.” Dancier d
isplayed a highly polished pair of boots, their gleam mocking the old sailor’s shoes that gave the sport its name. “One demonstration taught me I was wrong. The man put me on my ass.” His eyes narrowed slightly at the memory and he adjusted his jacket with a sharp tug. Vain and prickly as a cat, Dancier kept himself perfectly groomed, dark hair in artful curls, mustache in perfect twists. His clothes were impeccably cut, ostentatiously expensive, and blatantly gaudy. Catching the dubious glance at his magenta waistcoat, Dancier lifted his eyebrows in a delicate shrug. “I make fashion. When they copy me, they tone it down. No testicles.”

  Michel considered Dancier might need an extra helping to defend his sartorial choices. Blaise scanned Michel’s clothes in turn. “And you—just how do you do it, Devaux? You make a flic’s salary suit look like haute couture.” He added an almost lascivious wink.

  “I’ll introduce you to my tailor.” The conversation, however amusing, seemed pointless. Michel went to the heart of the matter. “Why am I here?”

  Dancier began to prowl the room. For all its richness and innovative ornament, the space was not cluttered, allowing Dancier’s movement free rein. Michel was used to the restless energy, but surprised at Dancier’s hesitation in voicing his request. Was it something Michel would have to refuse?