The Curse of the Grand Guignol Read Online Free PDF Page A

Where it had once made him seem taller and more
frightening like a mystical Arabian Nights djinn; it now appeared
merely exotic.
    Surprisingly, his tawny skin
seemed lighter than she remembered, not at all dark and menacing,
merely sun-tinted. His flashing eyes, however, were the same, like
obsidian gems, they gleamed – she remembered - in the dark, like
the all-seeing eyes of an ancient desert idol with supernatural
power. He never smiled. He was not smiling now. Not even as he
greeted her, welcoming her home after years of absence.
    “ Merci, Mahmoud, vous parlez
l’anglais ?”
    “ Oui, la comtesse -
English, French, Pashto, Dari, and Hindi.”
    “Bravo, Mahmoud,” she praised,
genuinely impressed by his mastery of so many tongues. “May I
introduce my travelling companion, Dr Watson. He speaks
English.”
    Dr Watson’s eyes fell at once
on the sheathed dagger. He got the distinct impression the Sikh
would like to slit his throat given half a chance. He made a mental
note to sleep with his door locked, in fact, to keep his bedroom
door locked at all times, whether he was in or out. Memories of
Pashtun tribesmen slipping death adders into empty beds made him
break out in a cold sweat. Major Rawlins had endured a horrific
death.
    In fact, the doctor decided
then and there to keep his Webley in his pocket from this moment
forth. The Sikh might recognize it as a service revolver, which it
rightly was, and think he was back in the Hindu Kush. Sikhs were
born warriors; killing was in their blood; they made the deadliest
assassins.
    What on earth had possessed the
Countess’s aunt to hire an assassin as a major-domo? It defied
belief. Actually, come to think of it – it was par for the course.
Ukrainians were all mad. The Countess was a case in point. How had
he ever been talked into detouring to Paris? Oh, hang on! It had
been his idea. Perhaps certain forms of madness were
contagious.
    “Hello, Mahmoud, no need to
stand on formality.”
    He tried to sound relaxed when
the major-domo bowed stiffly but a slight tremor in his voice
betrayed him. Still, he didn’t think the Sikh noticed. Not with all
that wadding around his head.
     
    Café Bistro was a seedy little
establishment near the Moulin Rouge. It was frequented by
down-at-heel artists, muses, writers, pamphleteers, dancers,
anarchists and anti-Dreyfusards. The regulars took their coffee
bitter and black with a dash of homemade vodka to dilute the
sludge. Everyone chain-smoked cheap Russian cigarettes that were
really dried horse shit. The place smelled like a barn full of
animals at the end of winter. The ceiling was black, the floor was
blacker, the glasses were grimy, the cups were greasy, the
windowsill was a graveyard for dead flies and the people who worked
there were surly, belligerent and dangerous.
    Arguments erupted over every
little thing: the colour of Clemenceau’s cravat, the name of
Voltaire’s cat, Marx and Lenin, the existence of the devil, the
Third Republic, the Panama Canal, the Dreyfus Affair, the Paris
Fair, the price of bananas in Venezuela, and who was paying for the
next round of drinks.
    Café Bistro was owned by three
German brothers (Kaspar, Karl and Klaus) who were known
affectionately as The Brothers K - a nod to Dostoyevsky, brotherly
madness and the Russian babushka who had raised them; and sometimes
less affectionately as Die Troika - a wink to their
subversive politics.
    The brothers lived upstairs and
kept a printing press in the cellar along with the still for making
samohonka. Most nights would find them running off seditious
articles concerning bankers, financiers, politicians, policemen,
judges and Jews. They signed their work KKK. Their surname was
Humboldt and the masthead at the top of their pamphlets proudly
proclaimed: The Brotherhood of the Boldt.
    Inspector de Guise had already
viewed the mutilated corpse outside Café Bistro soon after midnight
when he first received word that another murder victim had been
found