Chapter 10
“What did he do?” Dávid roars, leaning past Inge as though the projectionist might be in swift pursuit.
We stand at the same time. I look wildly around the restaurant; Diavola is here, somewhere. How?
Inge shakes her head. “No, he was nice, it was—”
“It was her,” I say, shaking. She tried to hurt Inge. This is my fault, it’s all my fault.
“What? No, please just let me speak.” Inge sits emphatically at the table.
Louis looks uncomfortable, suddenly aware he’s in the middle of a story he didn’t agree to be part of.
In the confusion of Inge’s entrance, no one else noticed the letter.
It’s clutched in my hand beneath the table.
I can’t stop searching the room for Diavola, so Dávid takes over for me.
“Louis Lumière, this is our colleague, Inge Van Engelenhoven.”
“Always enchanting to meet a genius,” Inge says in flawless French. They really should have brought her, instead of me.
My fingers twitch over the envelope, needing to know what it says, knowing I want to be alone when I read it.
Because if my friends see it, then I’ll have to explain that it’s one of many.
After that very first letter slid under the door of the hotel room, I’ve kept the others to myself.
I know I shouldn’t, but they’re addressed to me.
They’re written for me. They feel personal and private in a way I don’t think I can explain to the others. Which is part of why I’ve never tried.
“Thank you?” Louis still isn’t certain what to make of the situation.
Inge continues. “Your charming projectionist was showing me the collected reels from around Europe. Tell me, do you keep track of who sends in what? For example, if I were to show you a specific reel, would you know who recorded it and how to find them?”
Louis frowns. “Is there a reason you need to know?”
“Because it’s the last known image of a murder victim.”
My attention is fully on Inge now. “Who?”
“London, 1897. The—” She gestures at her wrists and makes a biting motion.
“I remember.” Though we’ve seen many terrible aftermaths, the young man who chewed his arms so violently we couldn’t determine whether he bled to death or choked first on his own skin and muscles ranks near the top in images I can never forget.
“Who are you all, really?” Louis demands. He doesn’t look angry or scared, merely concerned.
Dávid provides a card and his identification. We all have identification from the many police forces that have worked with us. None for Belgium yet, but Dávid wisely chose his French papers.
“We’re investigating a series of murders,” Maher says. “They’ve taken place over the course of many years and in many locations. We’ve long suspected that the perpetrator takes photos and perhaps even moving images of the process.”
“My God,” Louis murmurs. “And you found one of the victims in a reel?”
Inge nods. “He was—” For a moment, her infinite composure breaks, and I remember how young she is. How young we all are. How much we’ve all seen. “In the projection, he was chasing a dog around a park.”
“And you’re certain he was your victim?”
“I remember his face,” Inge says, her tone flat. “I remember all their faces.”
I reach out and take her hand. She’s not alone in that.
Louis rubs his mustache, frowning. “Did Louis—sorry, the projectionist is also named Louis—did he know where that reel came from?”
“No,” Inge answers. “He had them all in a box. He said they’re shown in different countries, but when they’ve been played too much, they’re sent to the Brussels Cinématographe theater. Something about collecting them for a showcase in Paris.”
“The Paris Exposition. That’s not for another couple of years. April 1900, I believe. Yes, we have the old reels gathered here. It’s our best storage facility. But if it wasn’t labeled, I can’t tell you anything about when it came or who sent it.” He looks genuinely sorry.
“Could we get a list of everyone who has your equipment?” I ask. “Every projectionist? Everyone with access to the cinematographs who would know where to send reels?”
“Yes, of course.” He nods emphatically to himself. “I’ll have to consult my records in Paris, but I’ll leave tonight and send the information directly to you. And I’ll have all our reels labeled from now on. Louis—the other Louis—can let you know whenever we receive new ones.”
“Thank you,” I say. Inge writes down the address for him to send the information to.
I clutch the letter so tightly I know I’m crumpling it, which I always try not to do, but my heart is breaking.
This is the biggest development we’ve had in years, and it doesn’t matter.
Diavola knows we’re here, which means she knows we’ve made this connection.
She won’t be so foolish as to reveal anything else.
Besides which, Louis doesn’t have every camera accounted for, because he thinks only men are using them. Still, we won’t neglect this lead, even if it’s already dead. Every contact leaves a trace. She’ll have left something behind—a memory, a connection, evidence—that she doesn’t realize.
“Do you want to go watch it?” Inge asks.
I imagine watching that young man, running around a park, still alive. With no idea what is coming for him. No idea who is watching him, then or now.
“No.” I clear my throat, which is suddenly aching.
“I’d like to.” Maher sounds so sad it breaks my heart even further. “And we ought to watch every reel they have, just in case.”
Dávid stands. I should tell him to wait. I should tell them all about the letter. How this is ultimately futile because she knows we’re here. Was it just an hour ago I was despairing over the wasted time investigating a murder that wasn’t hers?
But how did she know we’d come here? She often leaves me letters with police precincts or even hotels where we stay, but we’ve never been to Brussels. And she had no reason to know I’d be here today, since this murder wasn’t one of hers and we aren’t staying in the Métropole.
She’s following us. Right now. This is the closest I’ve been to her since Budapest, and I won’t waste it.
“Thank you so much, Monsieur Lumière.” I hold out my hand as I tuck the envelope into my skirt pocket where the others won’t see it. “You’ve been so kind and so very helpful.”
“Of course.” He takes my hand and brushes a kiss against it, more mustache than lip, and it’s such a familiar, pleasant sensation I nearly cry.
He’s a good man, and we’ve tainted his work with the evil we’ve been chasing.
I know in my heart it was already tainted, but I still feel as though we’ve corrupted something innocent.
In a daze, I follow Dávid, Maher, and Inge outside. The afternoon is slipping toward evening, the oppressive summer heat finally about to break. There’s an expectant hush to the city, everyone waiting for their moment to venture outside, walk the streets, see and be seen as twilight cool descends.
I gesture to the benches around the fountain. “I’m going to sit here for a while.”
“Are you sure?” Dávid asks.
“Yes. Go on.” I shoo them but they don’t need prompting, eager for this confirmation that we’ve at last found a new piece to the puzzle. They’ve worked hard for so many years and we’ve never gotten any closer.
We still aren’t. I’ll let them hold on to the feeling for a while longer, though.
I sit on the bench and pull out Diavola’s letter.
It’s all I can do not to stand on the side of the fountain and shout her name, demand she show herself.
Maybe if I’m here, alone and vulnerable.
Maybe she’ll come sit by me. Maybe she’ll want to gloat, or to show me, at last, how she makes her victims do what they do so that my body will be the next horror my friends have to examine.
But in my pocket next to her letter is a knife.
I hope she tries it. I’ve never hoped for anything so much in my life.
With only a quick, subtle glance at the rooflines to make certain I’m not missing her, I pull out the letter. I’m getting my wish to sit on one of these benches and read, but without the peace part. Thanks to my devil, I’m incapable of peace.
I close my eyes. I’ll dream of her tonight. I do most nights, but whenever I have a new letter from her it’s a guarantee. Every time, I try to kill her. And every time, the oily black infection of her spreads over both of us as she holds me close and whispers poison in my ear.
What happens when you die?
Worst of all, the dreams I wake from shaking and horrified, the ones that linger with me for days afterward, filling me with shame and hatred, are when she holds me close and doesn’t whisper anything at all. Merely presses her lips to my earlobe while I shudder in her arms.
I read her letter. And then I sit on the bench until long past nightfall, waiting for her to join me.
She never does.