Floats the Dark Shadow (43 page)

“We have him
en flagrant délit
for kidnapping,” Rambert protested.

“Or for rescue, as he says.”

Rambert growled. “He was taking her up to be ravished, then they would murder her—as a public spectacle.”

“Perhaps.” He thought for a moment. “Question Vipèrine about the kidnapping, but do not mention the cross or the murders yet. Let him think he’s not suspected.”

“And if he confesses?”

Michel smiled. “So much the better.”

Just then, Vipèrine emerged from the curtained alcove and the warders took Charron inside. There he would be stripped, his body and clothes examined. Despite such precautions, weapons still managed to be smuggled inside. Vipèrine was barefoot, as his shoes had been confiscated. When the guard led him off to the interrogation room, Rambert followed.

Most of the prisoners would be kept at the Dépôt two or three days before being formally charged and transferred to one of the other holding prisons to await trail. In special cases
l’inculpé,
the accused, would remain here. Particularly dangerous suspects could be kept at the Dépôt indefinitely. Michel would make certain Charron and Vipèrine were incarcerated.

Hearing weeping, Michel looked over the sorry lot of Satanists they had collected. Some were furious but most, like the sobbing woman, were totally abashed. When they went behind the curtain, many would only need to drop the cloaks they clutched to their bodies to stand naked. Questioning them could wait till after they were officially processed tomorrow. There were only two rooms and two significant suspects. If Charron could be believed, some were guilty of nothing more than trying to fulfill a dark fantasy. They believed the Black Mass to be a bit of decadent theatre, the debauch staged. For them he felt a mingled disgust and pity. Those who came hoping for a real rape, he loathed utterly. One or two among them had probably helped with Ninette’s abduction and imprisonment. He perused the men and made note of those the most likely to be in league with Vipèrine. Any of them could possess some key piece of information, something to clarify this murk of fact and fantasy.

Remembering Lilias’ information, Michel scanned the crowd for Minister Williquette but did not see him anywhere. Perhaps he’d proved too squeamish to attend the Black Mass, though it was possible that someone in the police, even Cochefert, had seen fit to warn him off. Government scandals were to be avoided at all cost. Michel doubted he would reach out a hand to free Vipèrine from these charges—he would not succeed.

When Charron emerged from behind the curtain, Michel came forward to escort him to the cell that had been set aside. One of the guards accompanied them, jingling the keys as he walked. Two stories high, the men’s quarters were a grim gallery overlooked by a network of iron bridges and access stairways. In the faint glow of the lowered gaslight, it resembled the skeleton of some church—one far more demonic than the fake Gothic chapel of tonight’s satanic debacle. The guard led them up along the second tier. Charron’s cell was at the far end. As he unlocked the door, the guard winked at Michel and sniggered, “A perfect cell for spontaneous confession.”

Michel said nothing in reply though Charron looked at them both askance as he stepped inside. Inside the barred door, the tiny cell was bare as a monk’s. There was a table and chair, a rude toilet. Leaning against the wall were a plank bed and mattress that could be lowered for sleeping. Charron turned wearily, his pale eyes gleaming from the dark circles surrounding them. His skin showed stress easily. Despite Michel’s warning off Rambert, Charron probably expected to be beaten. Michel did not believe in brutal interrogation except in the most dire circumstances. But when he thought of the dead children, he felt like reducing Charron to a pulp. Almost as evil was the poet’s deception of his friends, his betrayal of the loyal Theo Faraday.

Except that he might be innocent of it all—

Charron chose the offensive. “Vipèrine is your kidnapper. Perhaps if you spent your time questioning him, the crime would become clear.”

“You would prefer answering to Rambert?”

Charron regarded him sullenly. “Would he bother with questions?”

“In your case, he might find questions bothersome. I do not.”

They went over the whole thing again, with the same answers. This time Michel asked what he knew of Vipèrine’s relationship to Noret.

“Hostile,” Charron replied. “They despise each other.”

“And to Jules Loisel?”

“Master and servant—Jules worships Vipèrine.”

“What is the appeal?”

“It is not just the flamboyance.” Charron thought a moment. “I think Jules wishes he too had no conscience—so he could wallow in sin.”

Was that psychological insight or an attempt to deflect suspicion?

“And what of Corbeau? A fellow bird of prey?”

Charron stilled. Something flickered in his eyes, but so briefly Michel could not be certain. “A raven?” Sitting back, he gave a breathless laugh. “Nevermore.”

Coldly, Michel replied. “Don’t condescend to me. I’ve read everything Baudelaire wrote, including his translations.”

Charron’s face became a mask. “I am tired. I am frightened. Interpret it as you will.”

Michel pressed on. “How exactly did you choose your driver tonight?”

Charron repeated Michel’s words. “How exactly did I choose my driver? I picked someone poor enough to wait for the other half of the money I promised.”

Michel held his gaze, searching for another flicker of unease. But Charron bent forward, running his hands through his hair. Hiding his face as he muttered, “I should save my voice for the juge d’instruction. Perhaps he will consider the possibility of my innocence.”

“I am considering it.”

“With overwhelming skepticism.”

“Yes.”

“There is no point in talking to you.” He looked around the cell. The oppression was growing on him already.

“We can keep you here indefinitely,” Michel said, taking advantage of that unease. “The juge d’instruction has made it clear he does not want the killer to go free. There have been cases when the prisoner was simply forgotten, sometimes deliberately, sometimes not.”

“
Un
e
mise au secret
?”

“Exactly.”
He’d already conferred with the assigned juge d’instruction. They agreed that this case would be investigated in secret. It was sensational and it was vicious. Far better to gather the evidence and solidify the case before the press got hold of it.

“Those laws are medieval,” Charron said angrily.

“Not quite. In the Middle Ages you could have called for holy combat to prove your innocence.”

“And I would have been tortured as a matter of course. Now I will only have to survive the occasional beating.”

Michel was annoyed with Rambert, but he did not want to show Charron any sympathy. He said nothing.

Charron gave a humorless laugh. “Secrecy might prove difficult. While my father would prefer if I vanish rather than besmirch the family name, Theo will organize a demonstration in front of the jail.”

“To defend a murderer of children? She might find herself faced with a brutal mob looking for a scapegoat.” Michel paused, seeing Charron’s defiance turn fearful. “Secrecy has its benefits. If you are innocent, you do not want your name sullied with suspicion.”

Charron managed a shrug. “It might add a certain
élan
to my reputation as a poet.”

Michel regarded him stonily. “Do you remember the boy Denis?”

The poet’s face grew shuttered. “You know I do. His mother was sometimes my laundress, and he often accompanied her.”

“Or was sent on errands alone. Did you hold him in your apartment in Montmartre? You were there the day he vanished.”

Now Charron looked white. “I was writing poetry. I was alone.”

“So there is no one to say otherwise?”

Charron sighed heavily. “For whatever reason, you have decided I am the killer. I thought you wanted the right man, not just any man.”

“I do not want more slaughtered innocents.”

Charron sagged with weariness. Carefully, he repeated, “I did not abduct Ninette. Or Denis. I did not murder Alicia.”

“The crimes are linked,” Michel insisted. “We will find the truth.”

“You cannot find the truth when you are searching for lies.”

“I will find the truth hiding in the lies.”

“Will you recognize it when you do?” After that Charron refused to say another word.

Michel prodded him verbally, expecting he would be unable to resist the duel, but was met with stony silence. He had hoped to achieve more. In a few hours, the official process would begin. After Charron went through Bertillon’s measuring, the juge d’instruction would question him for hours. In the afternoon, Michel would take over again. There would be no problem getting the juge d’instruction to issue search warrants. He wanted one for Charron’s home, another for the apartment in Montmartre that he shared with the baron.

Michel wanted to go back to his apartment and sleep for a couple of hours. Letting Charron brood alone in his cell might work where intimidation had not. Michel was also feeling uncertain. He needed to approach the next round of questioning with a clear head. Charron’s story seemed preposterous at first, but he told it with weary conviction. Was Rambert having any better luck with Vipèrine?

Michel summoned the guard, who let him out and locked the cell behind him.

The anteroom was cleared of prisoners when he went through. Two guards sat playing cards but glanced up quickly as Michel passed. He nodded to them on his way out. Once he reached the street, he paused and looked around, feeling restless and uneasy. He walked over to the quai and watched the Seine flow under the hard gleam of the arc lamps. It was close to five in the morning. Perhaps he should have coffee instead of sleep. On the Left Bank, he could find a
café
open all night. But he would only chase the same thoughts in the same circles. Sleep might show him a different path. Still reluctant, he watched the river for a moment more, then set off for home.

Michel was almost to the bridge when he stopped, remembering the two guards playing cards. Impressions flashed in his mind—their tense posture and the shifty look thrown at him as he left. Something was wrong. Michel turned and began to walk back. With each step, his uneasiness increased until he was running back to the Dépôt. He flung open the door to the anteroom. The officers who had watched him—waited for him—were gone. Michel pulled his pistol. Then he was racing again, back through the ancient corridors. Near the entrance to the cells, he collared a patrolling guard and demanded he follow. He ran on ahead, hearing the other man lumbering behind him.

Turning the last corner, he almost collided with the card players. One took hold of him. The grip was tight, as if to prevent a fall, but it blocked his passage. Michel kicked the man’s legs out from under him. He swiveled to get them both in his sight and pointed his pistol at them. “Don’t move.”

Burning with frustration, he waited for the trailing guard to catch up and told him to hold the other two. He wasted a few seconds seizing their weapons, then ran up to the level where they’d locked away Charron.

The last yards to the cell seemed endless, retreating before Michel like a nightmare. He reached the cell. Charron was hanging from the high grill of the bars. His shirt and linen had been ripped to make a noose. His chest was bare, bare and scarred. Strange. Michel lifted him up, pulling out his army knife to cut the cloth. Charron collapsed onto him and Michel lowered him to the floor. Kneeling beside him, he checked for his pulse.

Nothing.