Floats the Dark Shadow Read online

  “You weren’t supposed to catch the axe man on your own,” he complained. “I had my men on it.”

  “You wanted to dispatch him yourself?” It made no sense to Michel. Nothing in the case should interest Dancier, only a man who slaughtered two harmless old women in hopes of claiming an inheritance. “Did you know one of the victims?”

  Dancier swiveled, impatient. “No. I wanted to make you a gift.”

  Michel understood instantly. “A bargaining chip?”

  Dancier paused and leaned back against the desk, examined his manicure. “Give a gift, get a gift.”

  “And what gift did you want in return?”

  “I’m missing a couple of kids,” Dancier said. “I want you to investigate.”

  Michel felt a cold sinking in his gut. Cases involving children were the most disheartening. He was surprised that Dancier would engender a debt for what was likely to be a futile task. There would be a reason. “Tell me.”

  “Jamet was a great little pickpocket. Smart kid. Funny. A couple of weeks ago, I sent him to get me some tobacco. He didn’t come back. Broad daylight yet no one sees him vanish.”

  A hundred things might have happened. Especially to a boy caught picking pockets. “You looked at the morgue?”

  “Right off. He wasn’t there.”

  Michel waited. There must be more.

  “I’m a better boss, true?” Dancier asked, his eyebrows stabbing upward.

  Michel nodded, watching the other man resume his prowl. Dancier had a personal code of honor. He took good care of the people who worked for him as long as they didn’t cross him. Like any crook, he was greedy to the core, but unlike most, he was greedy for admiration, for affection, as well as money. Like Machiavelli’s Prince, he knew it was better to be feared than loved, better still if you could manage both.

  “The boy’s got no reason to leave. He stays with me, he knows he can work his way up—like Jacques did. The good life.” He paused. “I checked. No rival tried some cheap ploy to eat into what I control.”

  “Few would dare.” Michel knew of a couple, but they’d have paid the boy to spy.

  “Jamet was a pretty boy, so I even asked at a few of the houses. Most of the madams, they wouldn’t try anything like that. Not with any kid that works for me.”

  Michel was six when the Commune fell. Children that young had been shot by the government troops. Orphans were taken into the workhouses of the Daughters of Charity. Michel had escaped those fates, but might as easily been snatched off the street and trained in crime. Trained by someone far crueler than this man. Dancier did not put his kids in brothels. “You said a couple of boys.”

  Dancier paused again. There was a flash of something in his eyes. Guilt? “About six months ago, there was another kid. His trainer’s in the ragpicker racket. One day the kid is just gone. The trainer is in fits—this kid is so good at looking pathetic it brings in extra. I searched, but not much. I didn’t like the kid, you know? A whiner. Good riddance.” He grimaced.

  “So, you think two?” Michel asked.

  Again Dancier hesitated. “Just two of mine.”

  “There are others.” Michel didn’t bother to make it a question. He felt a sudden frisson, an intuition that Dancier was right. Their eyes met. Dancier squared his shoulders, a typically belligerent gesture, yet Michel suspected it was from the same sort of chill that trickled along his own spine.

  “When I started asking around the neighborhood, I heard of some other poor kids gone nobody knows where. Some were young girls—less likely to just run off.”

  “But probably not related.”

  “Maybe not. But another boy—some laundress’ kid named Denis—disappeared into thin air a couple of months ago.” Dancier tapped his nose. “I smell a rat.”

  “Your nose is keen.” Michel frowned. “I will ask questions, Dancier. But surely, in this situation, your resources are better than mine?”

  “You’ve got a sharp eye. Maybe you’ll learn something we missed.” Dancier shifted, aware the situation was tenuous. “Even if you find nothing, I thought you should know. I thought you should spread the word.”

  “I promise I will investigate on my own,” Michel assured him. “If I find any evidence to confirm your suspicions, I will inform Cochefert. He is sympathetic to any situation involving children. Something may strike him from other cases.”

  “Yeah, tell the chief.” Dancier smiled at Michel. “He picked my pockets once, just to prove he could.”

  Michel smiled briefly. It was a favorite trick of Cochefert’s, and neither criminal nor gendarme was safe. Michel had caught him trying it but he didn’t tell Dancier that. “Do any of these children have parents, friends, trainers? Tell me where to begin.” Dancier gave him some names, some dates, and Michel wrote them down. He would see if these cases had any elements in common, perhaps cross-check them with other unsolved disappearances. He could also ask Lilias to inquire but only if something proved to be amiss. Dancier said he’d spoken to some of the madams, but Lilias was a courtesan of the upper echelons, with a more rarefied clientele.

  “I’ll see you get a gift of equal value, Devaux. Meanwhile—” Dancier rummaged through a desk drawer and extracted two tickets. “The Grand Guignol opens soon. These are for opening night if you want them. Take a pretty girl.” He gave a theatrical shiver. “Nothing like a scare to get them excited.”

  Michel had heard that Dancier was investing in the new theatre. He had also heard that his main interest was a certain blonde actress. But he did not accept this sort of favor. “No thank you.”

  “Your loss.” Dancier shrugged off the snub. “It’s raining. My carriage is at your disposal.”

  Michel didn’t refuse again. He finished his cognac and bade Dancier good night. “I will let you know what I learn, though I do not expect it to be much.”

  Dancier looked up, his eyes glinting darkly. “Too little might be better than too much.”

  Chapter Three

  I’ll rush at life so swiftly and so hard,

  With a fierce embrace and an iron grasp,

  That before the day’s sweetness can be torn from me

  It will warm itself in my winding arms.

  ~ Anna, Comtesse de Noailles

  BRANCHES swayed overhead as Theodora Faraday cantered along the bridle path in the Bois de Boulogne. Shafts of light broke through the massed storm clouds, and the bright chartreuse of the lime tree leaves gleamed, eerily vivid against the ominous charcoal grey. To either side, lush meadows glittered with a king’s ransom of golden dandelions. Feeling the mare’s impulse to gallop ripple through her own muscles, Theo shifted forward, merging with the lengthening stride of her horse. Elfe had a lovely gallop, smooth and supple beneath Theo, her hooves drumming an eager rhythm on the ground. The March wind whipped the little mare’s mane, and scattered raindrops sparkled chill against Theo’s skin as she rode. Laughing, she urged Elfe to go faster. “Va, chérie, va!”

  One dark rain cloud swept over them and passed on, leaving them wet but cheerful in an expanse of dappled sunlight. Theo eased Elfe back to a canter, then to a sprightly trot. They followed the Route de la Grande Cascade to the picturesque waterfall then rode back along the lake toward the stables. Elfe pranced, wanting to return to her waiting hay, but Theo kept her to a walk so she could savor the gorgeous afternoon light. She found a long pathway where the cherry trees were bursting into bloom and guided the mare into the glorious universe of pink. Theo hadn’t planned to sketch, but she never went anywhere without pencil and paper. There was a small sketchbook wrapped in oilcloth safe inside the pocket of her jacket. She let Elfe roam along the trail while she looked about for the best composition. She loved the wide horizontals of pink blossoms above and fallen petals below, the stormy sky looming behind and the path curving through. Even more, she was enticed by the elegant branching of one particular tree, asymmetric like a Japanese print, the bark flat black against the glowing grey clouds. Then a patch of azure open
ed behind one corner of the blossoms, making Theo giddy with delight. But the blue sky was to the east, and now the clouds overhead began to spatter her with rain. There was no point in making sodden drawings. If tomorrow brought sunshine, she would come back with her pastels. With luck, the rain would spare most of the blooms. If not, she could sketch the beautiful form of the tree.

  Theo loved working en plein air. Painting with the ardent Impressionists in Mill Valley had shaped her technique with oils and taught her to see an infinity of color amid the gold and green of California hillsides and the cool, ever-changing expanses of bay and ocean. But she often felt it was a kind of madness to try to capture the truth of the light when it shifted so quickly. She’d heard that Monet took a wheelbarrow of canvases with him to whatever place he had chosen to paint. Depending on the light, he plucked out whichever one was most like the current moment. Theo laughed at the thought of wheeling a dozen canvases about Montmartre in search of yesterday’s perfect vision. It was not the evanescent glimmer of light that she wanted to capture but the emotion the landscape evoked.

  Laughter came easily now that the misery of the last months in California had faded. She’d lived in Paris a little over a year, lived as a participant, not a voyeur. When the century turned, she wanted to be established here in the center of the world for an artist—a world that Impressionism had exploded into a million glittering pieces. Each new piece another shining world to explore.

  Before leaving the row of cherry trees behind, she broke off a spray of blossoms and tucked it into her jacket so she could capture the details of the flowers and the nuances of color. Cherry time…everyone in Montmartre was singing Le Temps des cerises. Theo warbled what she remembered and filled in the rest with humming as she set Elfe back on the road to the stable abutting the Longchamps racecourse.

  When we gather in the cherry season

  gay nightingale and blackbird mocking

  will both be rollicking

  the pretty girls will grow all giddy

  and lovers' hearts all sunny

  when we sing the cherry season

  the mocking blackbird piping all the more….

  In the stable, Theo dismounted and handed the mare over to a young groom. “She’s a lovely ride,” Theo said, stroking Elfe’s soft nose.

  “Your ride home will be wet,” the boy answered, nodding toward the bicycle she’d left resting against a wall.

  “Very, very wet.” Theo gave what she hoped was a truly Gallic shrug, collected her mechanical mount and wheeled it out into the rain. Despite the weather, there were still fancy carriages rolling through the Bois de Boulogne, filled with fashionable Parisians determined to show off their costly garments and extravagant chapeaux. Theo relished weaving her bicycle in and out between them. After that diversion it was indeed a long and very wet ride back to the bottom of the Butte Montmartre. Tired and dripping, she pushed her bicycle to the top of the rue Lepic and, finally, through the entrance of her landlady’s enclosed garden.

  As she approached, Averill Charron opened the door and leaned against the doorjamb, smiling. Theo was elated to see him cheerful rather than melancholy, but a burr of disquiet snagged her bright surge of happiness. Her cousin had promised to pose yesterday. Once again, he’d vanished mysteriously. The memory rankled, but she ignored it and smiled a welcome.

  Stepping into the entryway, Theo felt, as always, the shock of recognition. His features were almost twin to hers, high cheekbones, short straight nose, and full lips. At a ridiculous five foot ten, she matched his height, and his pale blue eyes regarded her as if in a mirror—but his thick tumble of black hair made it a dark mirror.

  Averill held something small and golden. A cookie. He sketched tantalizing circles in the air, then tapped her nose before popping it into her mouth. “Madame Masson let me in from the rain. She fed me hot chocolate and macarons while I waited for you.”

  Theo smelled the luscious fragrance of chocolate clinging to him and felt a swell of relief. She had expected the licorice undertone of absinthe. Greedily, she finished the macaron before she chided, “I hope you left some for Matthieu.”

  “One or two.”

  Once Averill had realized his father’s elegant prison was suffocating Theo, he’d found this place for her, complete with chaperone landlady, and loaned her the funds to move. His father, her Uncle Urbain, was livid. Her own father had been displeased to find her living in racy Montmartre but reassured by Madame Masson’s respectability. Matthieu was the widow’s only child, and Theo often had him assist her after school to earn pocket money. He would far rather carry canvases than pose, but always made a valiant effort not to squirm.

  “Come upstairs,” she said to Averill. He hesitated, then picked up her bicycle and carried it to her top-floor apartment—a large studio, a tiny bedroom, and a miniscule kitchen. Entering, Theo instantly went to the painting on the easel and covered it. Her second painting of Matthieu was no more successful than her first. She felt a pang of dismay.

  Before her father left for Italy, he’d seen her working on the first portrait. He’d urged her to submit it to the Salon, claiming it was certain to be accepted. But the longer she worked, the less she’d liked its bland pastel prettiness. Theo had taken the finished portrait all the way to the door—and stopped. She’d worked hard to please her father. Acceptance by the Salon would have been proof she was worth the upkeep of her studio and her lessons at the Académie Julian. And it had not been only for her father that she had struggled with the portrait. She wanted her work displayed. At the Salon de Champs de Mars, her painting would be viewed by twenty thousand people a day.

  Not this painting. Theo had carried it back and scraped it down.

  She waited tensely for some probing question from Averill and was grateful that he said nothing. Turning around, she found him still leaning in her open doorway, artfully insouciant, a wicked little smile hovering about the corners of his lips. “I have an invitation for you.”

  “An invitation?” she prompted.

  He sauntered over. “To the Gates of Hell…and beyond.”

  A riddle. La Barrière d’Enfer. Theo knew Hell’s Gate was what they called the old southern toll gate out of Paris. And beyond? The guillotine had once stood nearby, but no longer. Then, beneath? “The catacombs.”

  “Exactement.”

  Theo smiled, feeling a shiver race along her spine—apprehension, but anticipation too. Wandering through a labyrinth of ancient bones wasn’t her first choice for an evening out in Paris, yet Averill made the darkness alluring. Life was more vivid when contrasted with death. Theo had been promising to go to the catacombs ever since Averill said he was writing a poem about them. To illustrate it she would need to see the beauty in their desolation, as he did.

  “Casimir is playing his violin in a midnight concert tomorrow—at midnight on April 1st. We are all invited.”

  Casimir Estarlian, baron de la Veillée sur Oise, was Averill’s oldest and closest friend among the Revenants, the group of poets—and one California artist—who’d joined together last year after the performance of Oscar Wilde’s Salomé. Their magazine, Le Revenant, had created quite a stir in the literary world. “A revenant is a ghost that is not only visible but tactile,” Averill had explained to her that night. “Sometimes even a corpse risen from the grave. A ghost that feeds upon emotion. Upon desire.” Averill had written four poems, all highly praised. Theo had illustrated them for him in the intricately twisted style he favored. Those illustrations had won her praise as well.

  “A midnight concert in the catacombs?” She tilted her head, considering. “How can I resist?”

  Averill smiled with such boyish delight that this time her answering smile was unforced. He had challenged her. She had accepted. It would be an adventure, and however forbidding the territory, she would be with him.

  “It will be unique.” He looked at her intently, frowning slightly now.

  “What?”

  Reaching out, Averil
l smoothed back a strand of wet hair sticking to her cheek. Then he broke off a cherry blossom from the branch she’d put inside her jacket and tucked it behind her ear. He nodded toward the easel. “You should do a self-portrait—The Bedraggled Amazon.”

  Theo sputtered with laughter, amused and embarrassed. The Revenants had dubbed her their Amazone blonde. She was skilled with horses and weapons. Her nickname was masculine and she often wore trousers instead of skirts. That choice was daring. Illegal. They applauded her for it, their bold American. But sometimes she felt she was permitted her brashness because she was from California, a name they pronounced with the same exotic savor as Trinidad or Madagascar. She was something not quite tame. At times, Theo felt more like a mascot than a person. But never with Averill. “Beware the bedraggled Amazon doesn’t skewer you for the insult.”

  “The Amazon is far too merciful to inflict pain.” Even in shadow, his blue eyes had a luminous glow she knew her own did not possess. “Theo,” he said hesitantly, “I must apologize. I promised to pose.”

  “Yes?”

  “There were arguments at home…exams for which to study….”

  “Or not?” Theo hated the acid in her tone.

  “Or not.” Averill shrugged elaborately, but did not look away. “Sometimes I am tempted to fail again just to aggravate my father.”

  Theo did not look away either, though she was sorry for her cut. “But you are succeeding. For yourself.”

  “Yes. The new school of psychology fascinates me—almost as much as a new poem.” He smiled ironically. “I was distracted this past week, but that is not why I avoided posing.”

  “Then why?”

  He hesitated. “I think I fear what you will see if you paint me.”

  “Fear?” The resentment melted. Of all the reasons she had imagined, that was never one.