The Green Muse Read Online Free PDF

officials of the Prefecture of Paris Police, Capt. Henri Bezier. He was as stiff as any other who sat for a portrait, but he talked more, and loudly. He was insistent that he needed, with the utmost urgency, to hire a young photographer of sound physical and mental constitution and a steady hand and eye in the face of death. I was to find out later that the most important requirement for the job was a finely honed sense of the absurd.
    Now I settled into the work that was before me.
    The first step toward developing the pictures in evidence that I had gathered was simply to expose them to what light there was in the darkness. I readied a solution of sodium thiosulfate, which I would then use to fix the exposure to the paper and watched the first image emerge out its hiding place in the glass plate. The woman lay as I remembered her, her face turned away toward the darkest part of the courtyard. I waited, watching as she emerged. The bolero jacket, the pale gloves, the pretty dress. Even though my lady’s golden head was turned away, I almost flinched as it crystallized into view. There was the trail of blood that led away from the body, toward the street, the blood that had dripped from my dying lady as she was carried hence. And there was something . . . three dark drops leading away from the body in the opposite direction. I remembered a door that lay that way, a back door to the tenement, most probably.
    Another photograph: her face. The strands of loose hair that had so pulled at my heart. And what was that dark object? I had not noticed it when I was looking at her face, her sorrowful hair.
    I grabbed the magnifying glass and held it above the picture. A small, dark, rectangular shape. A box? Yes, a matchbox holder, probably of silver, some three feet from my lady’s head. I gently released the other photographic papers from their glass plates even as I bathed the first in the solution I had mixed. I would add a toner, either of gold or selenium, in order to stabilize against fading. As my hands performed the familiar actions I wondered what this victim had been to her murderer. Capt. Bezier said that the identity of the victim gives us the identity of the killer every time, but it seemed to me that it was the relationship between the two that was important. I applied the gold toner—­this girl deserved gold—­and began cleaning up my workspace. I worked more quickly than usual. I had someplace very important to go tonight. After I had finished I opened my window and saw the last light lingering at the top of the sky. But even if it were pitch when I reached my destination, I was certain of what I would find.
    I hurriedly put on my jacket and set off.

 
Chapter 4
    From the Journal of Augustine Dechelette
    M Y MOTHER SAYS the new telegraph in town is causing this spring’s hails, and Papa complains of the rumors that Paris time is to be imposed throughout all the country, saying that he will have himself tied to the face of the old cathedral clock rather than have anyone come and change its ancient hour. I listen to them talk as I boil the morning milk. Maman had to wake me to cook it before it turned, else we would have spoilt milk by afternoon. I could see the worry in her eyes; of late I have been hard to rouse. I have woken before the dawn since I was small. Now I cannot sleep at night, and dream with my eyes open. And in the mornings,I cannot rise.
    I do not know what it means. I would like to think it means nothing. But Maman has a sad panic on her pretty face when she looks at me now, and questions. I stir the milk, I listen to them talk. I dream.
    I look at myself in the windowpane as the milk cooks. When I live in Paris I will own a mirror. Yvette, the greengrocer’s daughter, has one almost as big as her palm. I remember the first time I looked in it; how afraid I was! It was only two months ago, in midwinter. Maman did not like that I looked, she said it fed my vanity;