The Curse of the Grand Guignol by Anna Lord

to the theatre. I refuse to attend a
performance of amoral horror. It will only encourage more of the
same. Before we know it theatres promoting lechery will start
springing up in every city and it will become the norm.”
    “Very well,” she relented with
surprising biddableness, noting the self-righteous and censorious
tone. “I will go with Mahmoud. He looks like he could use a night
out at the theatre. I imagine he rarely goes out of an
evening.”
    “Do you think that is
wise?”
    “Wise?”
    “Degeneracy, lechery, violence
– have you seen the size of his dagger?”
    “It is a religious
accoutrement.”
    “A dagger is a dagger.”
    “Your fears are
exaggerated.”
    “Nonetheless, I will rest
easier if you take Fedir instead.”
    “Fedir will be paying a visit
to Café Bistro tonight. He will be busy ingratiating himself with
his Slavic comrades. I have already instructed him to play the part
of a disgruntled Don Cossack, angry with the tsar after the
humiliating defeat of the Crimean War which supposedly killed off
his grandfather and impoverished his family, etc, etc.”
    The doctor didn’t say anything
for a moment or two. But there was no way he could allow her to
venture into the Pigalle after dark in the company of a man they
had met for the first time not more than a few hours ago – a man
who wielded a dagger as naturally as Mrs Hudson wielded a teapot -
not when there was a lunatic with a link to Slavs on the loose in
the city. Hell! Five murders so far! The lunatic might even make
the Ripper look like a rank beginner! Oh, well, he would just have
to bite the bullet.
    “In that case, I will go with
you after all. If you think the Grand Guignol is somehow linked to
the murders then I suppose we might as well put your theory to the
test.”
    “I don’t know if the Grand
Guignol is linked to the murders, but I’m certain the murderer is
linked to the Grand Guignol.”
    “Isn’t that the same thing in
reverse?”
    “Not at all - if the victims
are not connected to the theatre, and we have no reason to doubt
the inspector when he asserts that there is no such connection,
then it must be the killer who has the theatrical connection. A
crime scene usually says something about the killer and these crime
scenes say more than most, in fact, they appear entertainingly
scripted.”
     
    “Patyomkin!”
    “Are you referring to Prince
Potemkin, comrade?”
    “Durack! Are you deaf! That’s
what I said! The Paris Fair is a Patyomkin village!”
    “Yes! Yes! I see your point,
comrade. The whole thing is a theatrical ruse to amuse the idle
rich – Turkish minaret, Indian temple, Chinese pagoda, Dutch
windmill, American log cabin, English Tudor mansion…a side-show to
take attention away from the poverty and misery afflicting the
masses!”
    “Don’t forget the human
zoo!”
    “The entire exposition is a
zoo!”
    “What about that monstrosity of
a gate?”
    “La Salamanda!”
    Everyone fell about
laughing.
    “Don’t forget La
Parisienne!”
    “A triumph of
prostitution!”
    The infamous quote always had
the same effect – grown men wept with laughter and almost wet their
pants.
    The raucous laughter reminded
Fedir of kookaburras in the Australian bush. He had decided on the
spur of the moment to pay a visit to Café Bistro en route to the
Pigalle. He wanted to get a feel for the place before returning
later in the evening. Men who frequented such establishments were
naturally wary of newcomers. They would remember him and know that
a second visit meant he was not merely passing through Paris. He,
in turn, could pretend to be wary of them, as if he had something
to hide – a dark secret coupled with a seething resentment of
authority.
    He ordered vodka and slapped
some coins on the greasy bar, his eyes straying casually to the
dust-smeared mirror that had lost its silver polish some time
during the last revolution. The tarnished glass reflected the broad
back of the blond barman as he reached