Chapter 27
“Sometimes I forget how awful men can be. The ones I keep company with have spoiled me.” I step crossly away from the back door of the Phono-Cinéma-Théatre.
Maher is at my side, though I know he would like to stay and watch a show or two.
The man who designed this exhibition trained under our friend Louis Lumière and, with Louis’s blessing, has taken the technology even further.
He matched the moving picture to recorded sound to make it seem as though the images, flitting like ghosts across the screen, are also talking.
I wonder what Diavola, still in our cellar auditioning methods of self-destruction, would think of what we just watched.
I find the whole thing grotesque, but Maher is delighted.
Or at least he was, until we spoke with theater manager Otto, a wiry man with large eyes and wispy hair like mold growing on bread, who insulted my gender and Maher’s heritage while also being absolutely no help at all.
“He’s hiding something,” Maher says. “Probably stealing from the theater, or trying to—”
A terrible crash shakes the ground behind us. Maher turns on his heel and we rush back inside, but we’re too late. Otto is on the floor. On top of him is half the rigging from the ceiling. Maher shouts for help. I examine the scene as several men rush from the audience and try to free Otto.
There. A rope that held the heavy equipment aloft. I examine the edge of it. It didn’t fray. It was cut.
As the men cobble together a stretcher, I crouch close to where Otto lies in his blood. His legs are smashed, bone tearing through the cloth of his pants. His shoulder, too, is broken. The rigging must have hit there first before landing on his legs.
“Did you cut the rope?” I ask.
He looks at me, a dazed, faraway expression on his face. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
I move, making space for those better equipped to get him to medical care.
The damage back here is catastrophic. The rigging smashed not only Otto, but all the extra equipment he refused to let us look at just moments ago.
Which means no one will be able to do a proper inventory and determine what’s missing.
I gesture to Maher. In the chaos, another man has taken charge, shouting orders to the others. He appears to have it well in hand. Maher won’t be missed, so we slip back outside.
“The Watcher got to Otto, and made him destroy any evidence of what was missing as soon as someone inquired,” I say, feeling no triumph over our discovery. Any time we arrive after the Watcher, there’s a human cost. We don’t usually see it while it’s being paid, though.
“He’s procured new toys,” Maher says, putting his hat back on. “We can assume he now wants to record the sounds of pain in addition to images of it.”
I take Maher’s elbow and we hurry toward the international pavilions to meet Inge. She’s still on her artist hunt today for the new flyers. Many of the artists working at the fair are employed by the international pavilion restaurants, each competing to have a more beautiful menu than the next.
“Assuming he has a camera for still images, a cinematograph, and whatever that thing is that records and plays back sound—”
“Telegraphone,” Maher says.
“Yes, that.” I haven’t been keeping track of updates in technology.
It’s an oversight, given what we know of the Watcher’s interest. In my defense, I have had rather a lot going on in the last couple of years.
“It’s a lot of bulky equipment to be carting around.
Plus, so many people visiting the fair wouldn’t have lodging nearby.
Which makes me think perhaps his modus operandi has changed.
He must have a base of operations here. He can store his precious things, and lure victims there if he needs to.
” It’s easy to think of the Watcher as some unknowable horror, but even he must bow to practicalities in order to get what he craves.
“If we can find it, we can target him directly with a flyer. This is good.” Maher pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Should we update your detective contacts about the accident?”
“Otto can’t remember meeting the Watcher; he has no idea why he cut that rope and hurt himself.
We can’t explain it without delving into the supernatural and losing all credibility.
But I’ll send word that there’s missing equipment, and for everyone to be on the lookout for a magnetic recorder.
That’s even more unusual than one of the cinematograph cameras, right? ”
“Do you think the average Swallow will know what a magnetic recorder looks like?”
I shake my head. Some of my elation has faded. Otto gave us a lead, yes, but that’s all it is for now.
Usually, Inge is ahead of schedule and impatiently waiting for us.
But we make it all the way to the Swedish pavilion with no sign of her.
The international houses are miniature representations of the best individual countries have to offer.
I can’t help but be reminded of the Père-Lachaise Cemetery, though the mausoleums there were designed to be much more permanent than these structures.
There’s a Georgian manor for England, an Italian building grand enough to rival any cathedral, a more sedate Serbian building that also looks like a church—many of them do—and the offering from the United States, which is a miniature version of their capital.
Poor young things, always trying to keep up with the grandeur and pomp of Europe.
I wish I could wander the fair as a tourist. I’ve barely glanced at the wonders here, too focused on looking for evidence of horrors.
Which is in line with most of my time spent in other countries, always examining the worst they have to offer.
Diavola mocked me for it, but it’s no use.
I can never fully relax here. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering where the Watcher is.
If she were out here with me, would she nudge me in the direction of art and beauty? Or would I keep her firmly on target?
Maher stops and beams in delight, gesturing at the building he chose as our rendezvous point. Though there are countless places to meet within the borders of the fair, I see now why he selected the Swedish pavilion.
His smile grows, and it makes me glad, as always, to see that he can still find happiness in small things. “Every other country tried to look like a church or palace, but the Swedes made the sort of fort I dreamed of building as a child.”
Rather than the same plaster and faux-stonework of its neighbors, the Swedish pavilion is covered in pine shingles and painted a cheery yellow with red accents.
Triangle pennant flags fly from roof to roof, and a tower leads to a bridge that leads to an even taller tower, all with lookout points to take in the river and the rest of the fair.
It does look a little like a child’s dream come true.
Whimsical in place of self-aggrandizing, which, at an event designed to prove Paris’s superiority to every other city in the world, is a bit of a visual relief.
We pay the entrance fee and settle in at the restaurant. But before we can order, Inge rushes in holding a menu. She slams it down on the table.
“This is for the Belgian pavilion. Do you want to eat there, instead?” Maher asks.
“The art,” Inge says, jabbing it triumphantly.
“For our flyers?” I appraise the illustration.
Along the side of the menu is a woman in a dress the colors of the Danish flag.
Her flowing blond hair curls around the various offerings, thick-lashed eyes down-swept as though she, too, is deciding what to eat.
No matter what Diavola thinks of my lack of appreciation for art and beauty, I do like this new art style sweeping Europe.
The murals on the Bosnia-Herzegovina pavilion, painted by Alphonse Mucha, appeal to me with their romantic, liquid portrayals of beautiful women.
One image in particular, of a fair-haired woman in repose being kissed by a dark-haired beauty, has stuck in my mind.
I try not to dwell on what appeals to me so much about it, though.
“Do we think the artist could do a technical image of a fake camera, though?” Maher asks.
Inge sits, exasperated with us. “I have the new flyers finished already in my bag. I commissioned the original and then copied it more than a hundred times. What do you think I stayed up all night doing?”
I say nothing, because she barely sleeps at all, ever, as far as I can tell. I don’t know how she does it.
“I mean,” she continues, “I’ve found an artist who’s already met the Watcher. And painted something for him!”
“The Watcher is a patron of the arts now?” Maher asks, genuinely taken aback.
“No,” Inge snaps, at last losing all patience for us.
“The artist, Milomir, had a strange commission he can’t remember, after which he took a hammer and destroyed his hand so he couldn’t make art anymore.
” She takes a deep breath and pauses. Sometimes she does that—physically interjects a moment to feel something, before getting back to business.
“It was quite sad. I noticed him because he looked so devastated. After he explained what happened to his hand, he took me to the Belgian pavilion to show me his work. I grabbed this as a sample. Don’t you see what it means?
If we find a piece that looks like this, we find our devil! ”
Maher makes a face like he doesn’t want to say what he’s about to. “Inge, this was very well done, but I’m afraid that woman looks like every other woman on every flyer, menu, mural, and advertisement in the fair.”
Inge is so crestfallen that I have to find a way to soften the blow. I look closer at the menu. “Look, there.” I point. In the woman’s curling hair are the initials MM. It’s a subtle signature, one the Watcher probably wouldn’t have noticed at all. “I’ll bet that’s in his commission, too.”
Inge perks up once more. “Exactly! So, we’ll know it’s Milomir’s.”
Maher is less convinced. “There are a lot of images in the fair. We’re going to search for initials in every single one?
And why would the Watcher display his new art somewhere we could see it, anyway?
” Maher holds up his hands before Inge can get angry with his lack of enthusiasm.
“We’ll be on the lookout, but it’s more likely he’s just decorating his new bachelor pad.
Because Anneke and I also made a discovery.
” Maher fills Inge in on the missing equipment and our theory that the Watcher must have a place to store his infernal devices.
Inge stares forlornly at her menu. “He destroyed that man’s entire life just to have a piece of art to himself?”
“He’s done much worse for much less.” I place my hand on hers. “But this is still a clue, and you found one of his victims we wouldn’t have known about. That matters. We never know what information will end up cracking this all. So, good work, Inge.”
She sighs and nods, gazing out the window toward the river, the rest of the fair, and Paris in the distance.
“He has a room somewhere out there, then. Among the tens of thousands of workers who have rented rooms for the duration of the exposition, the countless visitors crowded into hotels and lodging houses, and the millions of actual Parisians.”
It’s Maher’s turn to sigh. “When you put it that way, I feel worse than I did before we got these clues.”
I try not to let a bleak spirit overwhelm me, too.
“Joren always taught me that tiny details added up to a clearer whole. We’re collecting those details.
I know we’ll find a clear whole soon. In the meantime, thanks to Inge, we can finally start advertising our miraculous new all-in-one phono-cinema-camera designed by Louis Lumière himself. ”
“Generous of him to let us sully his good name with our fake product.” Maher flags a waitress in a traditional Swedish outfit, a dress with an embroidered blue bodice and skirt worn over a blouse with puffy white sleeves.
As she takes our orders, I study Inge’s artist’s last great work: a menu for a temporary house in the middle of a temporary fair.
My life’s work has less to show for it than poor Milomir’s, though. But no. That isn’t true. I’ve solved more than a dozen murders.
And I’ve gotten two good men killed, and am currently working with the murderer of my own father.
I rub my eyes wearily. It’s been nearly impossible to sleep, knowing Diavola’s beneath us, working tirelessly trying to find a way to destroy herself.
“Anneke?” Maher prompts.
“Yes?” I look up, startled, to find food in front of us and Inge and Maher staring expectantly at me.
“Do you think she’d be willing to?”
“Sorry, who would be willing to what?”
“If Diavola would be willing to stay at the house and screen anyone who comes inquiring about the camera.”
“I’ll ask her.”
Maher leans back, taking a sip of black currant juice.
None of us are drinking alcohol during our time here in order to keep our heads as clear as possible.
“Do you know, I was just trying to force myself to remember what she looks like. I can picture every portrait I’ve done.
And you say I’ve met her more than just when she sat for me.
And I know I saw her this morning. Yet all I can come up with is that she’s a woman, and has hair, and wears… a dress?”
“Very perceptive,” Inge says with a droll expression.
“You do better, then,” Maher prods.
Inge puts a spoonful of lingonberry jam directly into her mouth and pretends to be unable to speak around it.
It’s not lost on me that she didn’t answer, and I file that detail away.
Can Inge remember what Diavola looks like and doesn’t want to admit it for some reason?
Or is she merely annoyed that I can recall something she can’t?
Inge and Maher get into a contest to see who can be the least capable of answering a question. I do my best to laugh and act engaged, but after so long hunting Diavola, it turns out it’s far more distracting to know exactly where she is at any given moment.
My thoughts return to that mural. Those women, lying in each other’s arms, out there for everyone to see yet still somehow the only two people in the entire world. Existing only for each other. How many lines, how many strokes, did it take to create them? All those pieces, adding up to a whole.
Just like our investigation. Eventually, all these lines we’ve drawn will add up to a complete picture. So why does the thought of being so close to the end make me feel nothing but dread?
And why can’t Maher picture Diavola, when she’s the only thing I see when I close my eyes?