Death Au Gratin

by Richard Grindal

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

When a young chambermaid is found dead, bitten by a cobra concealed in the bed of notorious libertine Armand de Périgord, Inspector Jean-Paul Gautier is certain that she was not the intended victim. The charismatic de Périgord is very wealthy and has never married, and some very salacious stories circulate regarding his many affairs. Could the cobra have been planted by a jealous husband or a jilted lover? When Gautier is put in touch with the widowed Catriona Becker to tutor him in English, he soon discovers that she has fallen victim to a ruthless blackmailer. The tale she tells him provides another insight into the shady activities of de Périgord and Gautier is soon facing more than one case of blackmail . . . and murder.

Release date: December 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 199

Sample

‘Eh, Windsor! Are you buying the champagne?’ Le Coussin called out loudly.

She had just finished her dance, ending with a flourish by raising her skirts to show the hearts embroidered on her frilly pants and two or three inches of generous thigh. She seemed to hold the
pose for a shade longer than usual, thrusting her hips suggestively towards the portly, bearded man in evening dress, who was sitting at a nearby table with two companions. The audience, many of
whom were habitués of the Moulin Rouge and may have recognized the portly man, began laughing and clapping.

Monsieur Windsor laughed too and seemed delighted. ‘Only if Mademoiselle does me the honour of joining us,’ he called back.

Le Coussin went to his table and he rose, kissed her hand and held the chair which a waiter had brought up for her. His companions too kissed the dancer’s hand. Champagne was brought and
poured for them as one of the others of the troupe began to perform. The Moulin Rouge’s dancers, many of them enticed away from a rival establishment, the Elysée Montmartre, were its
principal attraction. Le Coussin was the star, but most of the others were known throughout Paris, also by their nicknames: Cri-Cri la Grimace, La Sauterelle, Lili Jambe-en-L’air and Zagoda
the belly dancer, who performed on the stage in the garden alongside its huge stuffed elephant.

‘Anyone might think that it was she who was the royalty,’ Claire Ryan said to Gautier.

Gautier smiled and placed one finger over Claire’s lips. Monsieur Windsor was visiting Paris incognito and the dancers and staff of the Moulin Rouge had been warned to be discreet. Gautier
supposed that he and Claire Ryan should put on a show of discretion as well, particularly as he was officially there on duty that evening, watching to see that Monsieur Windsor came to no harm.

A few weeks previously he had been given a special assignment as part of his duties as a chief inspector of the Sûreté. Ever since France, afraid of being left isolated and without
allies in Europe, had entered into the Entente Cordiale with Britain, the French Government had been most solicitous for the safety of any English who came to Paris. Courtrand, the Director General
of the Sûreté, had instructed Gautier to arrange that any important visitors – royalty, milords and politicians – be kept under a discreet surveillance, so that they could
be given protection if they should need it. Policemen would be posted near the entrances of the hotels in which they were staying, and other officers in plain clothes would follow them if they went
out to restaurants or theatres or to sample what they believed were the naughty pleasures of Paris by night, in cabarets, dance-halls and bordellos.

Courtrand, who was jealous of Gautier as easily the youngest of the Sûreté’s inspectors and of his frequent successes in solving spectacular crimes, usually gave him the most
boring and tiresome assignments. This one, though, Gautier had turned to his advantage. His knowledge of English was rudimentary, restricted to a few words of courtesy, so he had obtained
permission to take lessons in the language and had been taking them from Claire Ryan.

Claire was Irish, the illegitimate daughter of an earl, who was living at that time in Paris. Gautier had met her when he was investigating the murders of a judge and a ballet dancer. They had
become lovers, and the excuse of English lessons allowed them to meet alone and more often than social conventions would normally allow.

‘That was rather a cheeky remark for that dancer to make, was it not?’ Claire asked him.

‘She calculated that our English friend would not mind. They say he will forgive a pretty girl almost anything.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard he has earned that reputation in Paris,’ Claire said, and then she added, ‘Do you find her pretty?’

‘Le Coussin? Not pretty, but she has a way with her that one.’ Gautier had been tempted to say that Le Coussin was pretty in a vulgar sort of way, but he thought it might sound
patronizing, even though the chief asset of the principal dancer at the Moulin Rouge was her vulgarity. She had made herself popular among the clientele of the Moulin largely by imitating the
manners and the style of her predecessor, La Goulue. A decade ago, it had been La Goulue who had first attracted crowds to the dance-hall when it had not long been opened. With her plump, pink
face, her blonde hair cut in a fringe above her eyebrows, a chignon on top of her head and her abundant bosom freely escaping from her corsage, Le Coussin looked very like La Goulue and had been
quick to exploit the resemblance.

‘The cushion; a strange nickname for a dancer,’ Claire remarked. ‘I suppose I need not ask the reason for it.’

‘No. She will have provided comfort for a good many men.’

‘Are all the dancers here – ’ Claire hesitated over a choice of expression. She had been well brought up by her father the earl, notwithstanding the circumstances of her
birth.

‘Not all of them supplement their income after the performance is over.’ Gautier smiled as he helped her out of her difficulty. ‘Though they were obliged to when the Moulin
first opened.’

He told Claire how Ziddler, a butcher turned impresario, had bought La Reine Blanche, an undistinguished guinguette in Boulevard de Clichy, below the Butte of Montmartre. Ziddler had
pulled the place down and built the Moulin Rouge, crowning its entrance with a giant mock windmill with bright red sails which could be made to turn. The existing cabarets and guinguettes
around Montmartre had been mainly patronized by young workmen, with a leavening of prostitutes, pimps, thieves and cut-throats. Within a few years, Ziddler was drawing a different clientele from
the bourgeoisie. They were soon followed by visitors from abroad: the English, the Russians and wealthy Americans off transatlantic liners, attracted by the risqué vulgarity of the
quartier. The upper crust of French society, the gratin as it was called, would never condone a visit to the Moulin Rouge, but Monsieur Windsor frequently disregarded the
conventions of society in France as well as in England.

At first, Ziddler did not pay his dancers. Now the Moulin Rouge was becoming a legend and Le Coussin was supposed to be earning one thousand francs a month, at a time when little seamstresses
were paid two francs a day.

‘I’m so glad you brought me here,’ Claire said, ‘I would not have missed it for the world.’

What attracted Gautier about Claire, apart from her red hair, pale, freckled skin and – he had to admit – her body, was her love of life. She approached every new experience,
including some they had shared in bed, with an almost innocent naivety and eagerness. She was also generous in showing her appreciation.

‘How amazed my friends back home will be when I tell them,’ she added.

‘It might be wiser not to tell them everything you have done in Paris,’ Gautier teased her gently.

‘Why should I not? We have nothing to be ashamed of!’ she answered defiantly, but Gautier could see a sadness in her eyes as she reached out and placed a hand on his.

The Moulin Rouge did not offer entertainment suitable for young ladies of careful upbringing, but Claire had begged Gautier to take her there, and he had agreed because it was her last night in
Paris. The following day she would travel back to Ireland to live with her father’s sister. She was still young enough for the Earl to have hopes that they might yet find a husband for
her.

Gautier was sad too, but he would not give in to sadness and spoil her last evening. Later, when they were alone, there would be time for them to share their melancholy. So he tried to raise her
spirits by telling her some of the stories about the dancers at the Moulin Rouge which were causing hilarity among Parisians.

As the evening passed, the music and the laughter grew noisier, the dancing more vigorous and daring. Monsieur Windsor appeared to be enjoying himself, but was paying more attention to Le
Coussin than to the performance on the stage. Soon it would be time for the Quadrille Naturaliste, a dance performed by eight dancers, which dated back to the Second Empire and which was
becoming internationally famous under the name of the cancan.

Shortly before it was due to begin, Gautier heard raised voices and saw that there was a disturbance by the entrance to the hall. The two doormen, who had been reinforced that evening by a
policeman from the local commissariat, were restraining a man who was shouting at them. Quickly excusing himself, Gautier left their table and crossed the hall towards them. He had been
half expecting something like this.

The man who was creating the disturbance did not look like a drunk or a voyou from Montmartre. He wore evening dress, with a monocle hanging from his buttonhole, and must also have been
carrying a top-hat, for one lay on the floor behind him, knocked there no doubt as he struggled to free himself from the grip of the doormen.

‘You have no right to stop me coming in,’ he shouted at them.

‘I regret, Monsieur, that we do. The law gives us the right to exclude anyone who might cause trouble.’

‘I am not here to make trouble. All I wish is to speak with that gentleman over there.’ The man pointed in the direction of Monsieur Windsor.

‘That will not be possible, Monsieur. You must leave.’

At this the man shouted again, still pointing towards Monsieur Windsor, ‘Adulterer! Libertine!’

‘Take the gentleman outside,’ Gautier told the two doormen.

‘Who are you?’ the man demanded. ‘On what authority do you give orders?’

‘This is Chief Inspector Gautier of the Sûreté,’ the policeman told him. Gautier was known to most of the local police officers in the arrondissements of
Paris.

The doormen began leading the man out of the hall. Perhaps because now the Sûreté was involved, the man did not resist, but in a final show of defiance he shouted abuse at Monsieur
Windsor over his shoulder.

‘How did you come here this evening?’ Gautier asked him when they were outside.

‘In my automobile of course.’ The man pointed at a De Dion-Bouton which stood in the street, its chauffeur waiting at the wheel.

‘Then have your chauffeur drive you home. If you return or try to embarrass our English visitor in any other way this evening, you will be arrested and spend the night in jail,’
Gautier said, and he watched as the man reluctantly obeyed him.

Inside the Moulin Rouge, the cancan had begun. Most of the audience had not been aware of the incident that had taken place near the entrance. If any of them had heard the man’s shouts of
abuse, they would probably not have known at whom they were directed.

‘What was all that?’ Claire asked Gautier when he sat down beside her.

‘A rather ineffectual attempt to embarrass our English guest and cause a scandal.’

‘Who was that man?’

‘The Comte de Chartres.’

‘What is his grudge against Monsieur Windsor?’

Gautier told Claire that the Comte Edmond de Chartres was one of the less distinguished relics of the French aristocracy that had survived the purge of the Revolution. He was married to the
daughter of an immensely wealthy Spanish grandee, and seven or eight years ago his wife had for a time been the mistress of Monsieur Windsor, sleeping with him during his not infrequent visits to
Paris.

‘Are you saying that this happened all that time ago, but the Comte has only just found out?’

‘Unfortunately, a cocu is all too often the last to hear of his wife’s infidelity.’

Gautier spoke from experience. Some years previously, when his wife went to live with a policeman from the 15th Arrondissement, he had only learnt of her infidelity after she had left
their home.

‘And the Comte came here this evening just to shout abuse at Monsieur Windsor? As revenge, that would not be very satisfying, I would have thought.’

‘I believe he had something more in mind. He had white gloves with his evening dress, as one would expect, but was wearing only the left-hand glove and carrying the other in his hand. Had
he reached Monsieur Windsor, he could have slapped him across the face with the glove.’

‘Challenging him to a duel?’

‘Exactly.’

Although duelling was supposed to be against the law in France, gentlemen not infrequently met at dawn to settle their differences with the épée or pistols. Usually these
confrontations in the Bois de Boulogne ended with, at the most, a trifling flesh wound, but honour was felt to be satisfied.

‘Surely Monsieur Windsor would not be allowed to fight him?’

‘Of course not, and in any case he is leaving Paris tomorrow. But the Comte de Chartres could claim a sort of satisfaction, and no doubt the challenge would be reported in the newspapers.
He would see to that.’

‘You say that Monsieur Windsor is returning to England tomorrow? Do you think he may be travelling on the same train as I?’

‘I understand that they travel on a special train on these occasions.’

Gautier was not certain that what he said was true, but he did not want Claire to have any false hopes. He sensed that any sadness she felt at leaving Paris and leaving him was being overtaken
by the excitement of the journey ahead and seeing her home and her Irish friends again. Any disappointment she may have felt at learning that she would not be travelling with royalty did not last
long, for as they were talking, one of Monsieur Windsor’s companions came over to their table. Gautier knew that his name was Forbes and that he was either Monsieur Windsor’s secretary
or equerry. He was not sure which, because, like most Frenchmen, he was baffled by the subtle distinctions of protocol at the English court. It had been Forbes who, throughout their visit to Paris,
had kept Gautier informed every day of Monsieur Windsor’s movements.

‘I have been asked to give you this, Monsieur,’ he said, handing Gautier a visiting card. On one side of the card, Monsieur Windsor’s name was printed without any address, and
on the other, a brief note had been written in English. It read:

Monsieur, we are greatly obliged to you for your timely and tactful intervention. Please accept this small token of our gratitude. W.

As he read it, Gautier noticed that Forbes had been followed to their table by a waiter carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses on a tray. He told Forbes, ‘Please
be so kind as to thank Monsieur Windsor and tell him that I am always at his disposition.’

‘Willingly,’ Forbes replied. He spoke excellent French. Then he smiled as he added, ‘You may be relieved to hear, Monsieur Gautier, that we are going home directly from
here.’

‘To the home of Madame Brandon?’

‘Yes. Her carriage is already here to take us there.’ Forbes glanced at Claire and smiled mischievously as he added, ‘So you may end your vigil and go home too.’

Mrs Laura Brandon was a wealthy English widow who had made her home in Paris. On his incognito visits, Monsieur Windsor invariably stayed at her home in Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. People said
she had been his mistress when they were both much younger. Now she was one of the leading hostesses in Paris and, whatever her past, her reputation was inviolable.

Gautier was pleased to hear that Monsieur Windsor had decided to end his evening of entertainment. On other occasions he had been known to carry on into the early hours of the morning, sometimes
visiting exclusive houses in Rue de Richelieu where expensive pleasures were available. Had he done so that evening, Gautier would have been obliged to continue his discreet watch, and he could
hardly have taken Claire with him. And that would have meant that he and Claire could not have shared her last evening in Paris in the way he had hoped they might.

After Forbes had left them, he noticed that Claire was looking at the note which Monsieur Windsor had sent him and he could sense her curiosity. There was enough room at the top of the card for
him to write a brief note on it.

Claire. A little memento of the evening we spent at the Moulin Rouge. Jean-Paul.

When he handed the card to Claire, she was delighted. Gautier knew that she had been collecting souvenirs of her stay in Paris to take back to Ireland. She had showed him some
of them: the programme of a performance of Le Spectre du Nil by the Dashkova Russian ballet company, a hand-painted fan presented to ladies who had helped at a charity fête, a copy
of a new volume of verse by Renée de Saules signed by the poetess, a small brass model of the Eiffel Tower. A handwritten note from royalty would really crown her collection.

‘You’re so good to me, Jean-Paul. How can I repay all your kindnesses?’

‘You already have.’

Claire smiled and once again reached out to touch his hand. ‘We still have some time left together.’

They drank the champagne and watched as Monsieur Windsor and his companions left. Soon afterwards, a uniformed police officer came to their table. Gautier recognized him as one of two men who
had been on duty at the Hôtel Meurice. The Meurice was popular with English visitors, many of whom stayed there when they came to Paris for the races at Longchamps. Gautier had arranged for
two men to be on duty outside the hotel that evening because another important Englishman, Sigmund Locke, was staying there that week. Locke was a banker, a partner in the firm of Locke and Locke,
which had done great service to France by lending the country part of the money needed to pay off the massive indemnity demanded after her defeat by Germany in 1871. As the policeman was
approaching, Gautier had a presentiment that the news he was bringing would be unwelcome.

‘Chief Inspector,’ the man said, ‘I thought you should know that a woman has been found dead in the Hôtel Meurice.’

‘An English woman?’

‘No, Monsieur. One of the hotel chambermaids.’

‘How did she die? Was it an accident?’

‘No. She was bitten by a poisonous snake.’

In spite of its reputation for elegance, its colonnades and the Jardin des Tuileries, Gautier had always found Rue de Rivoli a gloomy street. Late at night it was even more
depressing. As one left Place de la Concorde and passed the austere buildings of the Palais Royal, the elegance was soon supplanted and the street became a long finger pointing reproachfully at
Place de la. . .