Chapel Noir (49 page)

Red Tomahawk. No doubt Buffalo Bill’s “scout.” The names of the American Wild West are unmistakable. The Indian turned to gaze up at the Eiffel Tower. “I climbed a hill and looked down upon the multitude. Three white women I was to find.” He shrugged.

Three white women he had found. And his “hill” had been one of elevator cars whose cramped quarters I loathed. Amazing that an inhabitant of the endless open should adapt to such a device better than a city dweller like me.

“There are multitudes of white women here,” Irene said, adapting his expression.

“There were once many more multitudes of buffalo on the prairie. I mark my one, or two, or three and find them.”

“The buffalo have vanished,” Irene pointed out.

Red Tomahawk shook his head. “Multitudes are everywhere I go now. Many white people. I can still look. Find. Among the multitudes.”

“Is there an exhibit of an Indian village?” Elizabeth asked eagerly. As she had explained to me long ago, Americans from Pennsylvania were as bewitched by frontier tales as gullible Europeans. England, of course, is not part of Europe proper, or improper.

He grunted, assent I assume, to Elizabeth’s question, but stood for a moment frowning at the Gypsy encampment, the wild dancing, the circling curs, the discordant music.

“Not here. Next to the Persian mansion by the tower.”

It struck me that perhaps this Gypsy scene presented elements of Indian life, from what I have read of their activities before going on a “warpath.”

“Have you seen Gypsies before?” I asked, struck by the intent way he stared at their wild activities.

Instead of answering, he sniffed the air with the disdain of a drawing-room fop and declared the cryptic phrase, “much firewater.”

At that he turned and walked away, leaving us to do nothing but follow after.

“Firewater?” I asked my companions when we were far enough away from the Gypsy cacophony to hear each other.

“Raw hard liquor, Nell,” Elizabeth answered with zest. “That’s what the Indians named it when the frontiersmen first offered it to them in trade. I fear the red man is as likely as the white man to overdrink.”

“Don’t forget,” Irene said, “that James Kelly was driven by drink.”

I blanched, regarding this as a warning that a Red Indian was still a suspect for the role of Ripper. This Red Indian?

“How do they get their names?” I asked nervously.

Elizabeth grinned in the light of flickering torch. “I think it has something to do with deeds.”

“And I am right in thinking that a tomahawk is a sort of hatchet?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh.”

At least the figure of our guide was hard to lose even in these milling masses of people. He was not particularly tall—more ominous proof that a Red Indian could indeed have prowled Whitechapelbut his fringed shirt and trousers and quilled head ornament would hardly give him the nondescript appearance that the Ripper had taken such advantage of.

I mentioned this to my companions.

“Oh, pooh, Nell,” Elizabeth answered in that unmannerly way of hers. “Buffalo Bill has them all dress up in full ceremonial regalia for the Wild West Show, but many have adopted citified dress while traveling. Long Eagle, who left the show to stay in England last year, was known all over London for his tall beaver hat. Don’t believe everything you see at an exposition. It’s all show.”

Red Tomahawk stopped near the river’s edge and turned to face the length of the colonial exhibit. The Gypsy fire glowed like an ember far enough away that only the occasional whine of violins drifted to our ears, but the line of exotic buildings had darkened into a ragged escarpment.

I noticed then that people were streaming out of the area, toward the Eiffel Tower.

“Ceremony starts,” our guide said. “Buffalo Bill will come soon.”

I gathered we were to wait here until the famous scout climbed a hill and found us.

Suddenly the sound of hooves came pounding from the far end of the Esplanade. Ranks of mounted soldiers were galloping up the now-deserted walkway, a fearsome sight in the dusk.

Then, as if the sky had split like a theatrical curtain, a red-andyellow glow like a great celestial bonfire cast a lurid light on everything around us.

Red Tomahawk gave a long, low sound of admiration as these coursers pranced past us, ridden by black men in colorful plumed uniform, all illuminated by the unearthly glow.

I looked to the left to see the Eiffel Tower’s tall scarlet silhouette glaring like a sunset. Strings of electric lights like gilt braid circled its tiers and outlined its huge foundation arches.

Above it all shot bright white heavenly rays from the great lamp atop the tower, a lamp as powerful as a lighthouse beam, which reflected on the many islands of heroic sculpture and fountains dotting the grounds. Its man-made lightning glanced off the glass domes and crystal roofs of the mammoth buildings also erected for the occasion, the machinery pavilion and the various pavilions devoted to art as well as industry. We stood in the midst of an electric fairyland.

The colonial area, however, only basked in the reflection of the exposition lighting. The passageway was still darkish and felt miles away from the crowds and illumination surrounding the tower and extending far back from the river.

Before us, still on parade now that the mounted vanguard had passed us, came Indian, Chinese, and Arab foot soldiers in their colorful, exotic garb, marching in unnerving order.

Before this display of military might could make me uneasy, along came a troupe of planned disorder, the theatrical performers displaying their wares . . . themselves.

Robed figures in frightening masks dashed from side to side to confront the watchers. Algerian dancers, women veiled everywhere but their torsos, performed lascivious motions and managed to progress forward at the same time. The Javanese dancers who followed were clothed completely in stiff, jeweled robes, masks, and whole pagodas of headdresses that rose perhaps two feet above them. The music changed with each company that danced past, so the cacophony was earsplitting.

Palanquins were carried past, drums beat as black people from the Congo in wildly clashing figured robes danced past us, and finally came a lurching group of people waving banners and paper parasols and lanterns, banging on gongs until I thought my head would split open down the center as if from a tomahawk blow.

Behind them all came the endlessly long, undulating, gaudy form of a huge dragon, a kind of gigantic puppet/kite carried and manipulated by a band of puppeteers beneath the writhing silk construction, their churning legs like those of a centipede.

As the parade passed, the watching crowd flowed into its wake, laughing and running, skipping and dancing, all heading to the fount from which all light and noise flowed, the Eiffel Tower.

We three—four, of course; I was forgetting our silent, stoic scout—remained to watch a few stragglers pass. The scene of such recent hectic merriment grew dim again, and quiet.

“Magnificent,” said a voice behind us. “I’d give my eyeteeth to have that Senegalese cavalry in my show, eh, Red Tomahawk?”

“Good horses,” Red Tomahawk agreed. I gather he was not as impressed by the riders.

Of course I had turned to view the last exotic foreign visitor on my menu that night: Buffalo Bill.

His light-colored hat and fringed shirt and trousers, accoutered with a wide, studded belt and other strange accessories, reflected highlights of pink from the inescapable Eiffel Tower, which made me think of water-thinned blood.

“I am glad you could join us,” Irene said.

“When I got your message day before yesterday, you saw I answered ‘yes’ in Pony Express time,” he answered. “A manhunt on a World Exposition ground is too intriguing to resist. And who is the third of your party? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

The famous scout’s attention to the courtesies surprised me, but Irene introduced me as if we were at a tea party.

“My pleasure, Miss Huxleigh,” said the man Irene had addressed as Colonel Cody, much to my relief. Apparently Red Tomahawk had no more formal name, and I would have to avoid addressing him completely. “I salute you. We are not surprised to see so many doughty women on the frontier, but here in the Old World there are few with the true grit to face off a villain the likes of Jack the Ripper.”

There was nothing I could do in answer except smile politely.

I had no intention of facing off the likes of Jack the Ripper and had all the hopes in the world that such plainsmen as Buffalo Bill and Red Tomahawk could do it for me. I was here only as a chaperone, really, and because I could not bear the anxiety of not knowing what was happening with Irene when she thrust herself onto such treacherous and terrible ground.

“Now, don’t you worry, Miss Huxleigh,” he consoled me quite unasked. “If I thought we were really facing any danger, I’d have asked Miss Annie Oakley along. And Madam Irene is not relying on us old Wild West hands alone.” He turned to her. “When are the reinforcements coming?”

“Anytime now,” she assured him. “I thought it best they not be seen by the parade viewers.”

“The police will be here?” I asked in relief.

Irene was silent a moment too long. “I thought it best to call in the police only if we are successful in finding the culprit.”

“Then who are our reinforcements?” I asked.

She nodded beyond me, and we all turned. A party of men in dark lounge suits was moving through the dusk toward us. I glanced back at Irene.

She lowered her voice and spoke only to me. “The Rothschilds still have the greatest interest in catching this man, and this ensures that these murders are not used to foment political unrest.”

Much as I was pleased to have armed men among us, I was surprised by their number, perhaps seven or eight.

I glanced around. The area was deserted except for our company. I noticed with a pang that the ship-shaped panorama was outlined by the same gold strings of electric lights as decorated the Eiffel Tower and cast a glittering reflection of itself on the Seine’s fluttering waters.

It looked so festive, and what we were about to do was so grim.

The Indian suddenly uttered some unintelligible words to Buffalo Bill, who nodded, then spoke softly to Irene and whoever stood close enough to hear.

“Red Tomahawk and I have paid a visit to the site near here where the young woman was killed, and also to the cellar you told me of. He has seen signs, and tells me he wishes to start by visiting the camp you just saw. I will have to explain Gypsies to him.”

Gypsies! Now that was an idea. They were everywhere, after all, and wild, unreliable people. And terrible violin players as well. Why should not a Jack the Ripper hide among their nomadic tribes?

Red Tomahawk took the lead, and we all moved quietly in his wake, not speaking.

I was surprised to notice that the Gypsy bonfire was no longer visible. When we reached the site everyone and everything was gone, even the charred wood from the fire.

All that remained to testify to the Gypsy camp’s passage was a dark burnt circle on the bare ground.

46.
An Exhibition in Terror

He who is possessed of the spirit belongs not to himself, but
to the spirit who controls him and who is responsible for all
his actions and for any sins he may commit
.
—
PRINCE YUSUPOV

While Irene conferred with the Rothschild agents, Elizabeth pestered me with questions.

“Who are those men with Irene? Are they French detectives? They speak the language, but they look more like Pinkertons.”

You should know, I thought uncharitably. I only wished the girl would honor us with some honesty at last. Yet I could not ascribe much frankness to Irene, not that I blamed her. Her work with the Rothschilds had replaced her Pinkerton assignments in America, and being active in a larger enterprise was something her performer’s soul craved as deeply as Sherlock Holmes evidently craved puzzles and pipes as well as other less benign things.

I well understood that my presence here was due solely to Elizabeth. Like a relentless kitten, she always insisted on going everywhere and getting into everything. She would never have permitted Irene to escape unaccompanied on this bizarre scouting expedition, and for some strange reason Irene felt far less protective of Elizabeth than she did of me.

In turn, Irene knew she would never hear the end of it if I had been left behind while Elizabeth accompanied her. At least Buffalo Bill had no qualms about a female presence. Apparently the harsh life of the frontier had forced women to rely more upon themselves and had made men less aware of their duty to protect them from all unseemliness. If the Rothschild agents objected to women, it did not show. They seemed to regard their role as a rear guard, ceding the night’s action to the odd commanding trio of Irene, the famed Indian fighter, and his exotic former foe turned employee.

The rest of us stood at a respectful distance as the two plainsmen scoured the area with lanterns, eyes, and noses.

Although I found the process distasteful to watch, they managed to produce evidence where I would have sworn there was none. While Red Tomahawk circled in the empty space like a dog (for good reason I was to learn later), Buffalo Bill made similar circles widening out from what had been the fringes of the camp.

He returned with a pottery bottle that could have been as old as the Romans or as new as last week.

This he first showed to Red Tomahawk, who sniffed it at great length and with an almost-snobbish seriousness, like a Frenchman judging a new wine, then nodded and pronounced a judgment the onlookers could not hear.

Buffalo Bill moved to the fringes again and, lantern bobbing in his hand, carefully made his way back to us women.

“Red Tomahawk says this held firewater,” he noted on arrival, “though I can’t smell whiskey and he admits that he has never smelled or tasted a spirit like this before. He says the same odd odor was present in the cavern near here where the murdered woman was found and in the bloodied cellar you explored near the Parc Monceau. You ladies care to see if you have a better nose for liquor than an old scout?”

I certainly did not wish to play human bloodhound, but Elizabeth nodded eagerly. First Irene took the crude bottle and lifted its small mouth to her nose.

She nodded at last. “I smell something faintly caustic, but can’t identify it. It could be spirits, it could be poison.”

“Some say they are one and the same thing,” I pointed out.

Buffalo Bill laughed as if I had committed a great witticism. “Truly spoken, Miss H. I’d guess it’s some crude homemade variety of pure alcohol, so unmannered it bears no odor of any aging process or wooden cask. I have sampled the products of England and France, but must admit they were all of splendid vintage, and all released a telltale and most persuasive perfume.”

Elizabeth sniffed eagerly at the rude lip, but was unable to add anything to the speculations, as if a green girl could.

I waved away the bottle in her offering hand. “I know so little of spirits that the only liquid I can recognize by aroma is good English tea,” I said.

In the meantime, Red Tomahawk had returned to us. He turned to point out areas of the site. “Wagon left, loaded, with many people and dogs on foot beside it. I will follow.”

At that he trotted off along the parade route, lantern in hand, pausing frequently to study the frequent horse droppings and to sniff at the foundations of buildings along the route.

“What is he tracking?” Irene asked Buffalo Bill as we followed at a respectful twenty paces behind the Red Man. “Surely no footprints can be traced on this ground.”

“I agree that the exposition grounds look like they’ve been trampled by a buffalo stampede, but even then a good tracker can find a sign or two. Red Tomahawk doesn’t have to do that. He’s following the most reliable trail markers on the planet: the Gypsies’ dogs. They are sure to mark any spot where another dog has left its scent. Dogs being dogs, that’s every few feet or so.”

“You mean,” I said, “that we have an inadvertent pack of bloodhounds working for us.”

“Exactly. And our own bloodhound to trail them.”

The Indian had stopped and held up a hand to halt our party. Then he nodded to Colonel Cody.

“Only we four should go scout what Red Tomahawk has found,” he declared, as if reading the Indian’s mind.

Irene turned and instructed the men behind us to wait.

We approached the area diffidently, Buffalo Bill in the lead, then Irene, with Elizabeth and I bringing up the rear in tandem, neither wanting the other to be the first to see and hear.

Indian and scout conferred in a blend of English and some native tongue, with Buffalo Bill translating by pointing to what—to me—were meaningless marks in the trampled turf.

“The wagon stopped here. See the deep heel marks? A man leaped out.”

“How can he tell the marks weren’t made earlier by someone else?” Elizabeth asked.

“Because the parade had already passed when the Gypsy wagon left by a reverse route. They made the latest spoor and thus the freshest impressions. Besides, Red Tomahawk detects a scent of the same spilled liquid here. The boots move onto less-trod-upon ground, toward the river beyond the promenades. And, he says, other feet have gone in that direction recently, perhaps two or three hours ago.”

“You are saying,” Irene mused, “that one man from the Gypsy troupe left them here to join other men who had been gathering somewhere below on the river embankment.”

Buffalo Bill consulted Red Tomahawk in the same guttural language, then turned back to us.

“People, yes, but Red Tomahawk says several were women.”

“Women!” I hadn’t intended to insert myself into the discussion, but was too shocked to keep quiet. “If women are meeting men below the promenades for some lascivious end, and if the man who left the Gypsy wagon is following them, he will have victims for the picking.”

“It is indeed possible,” Elizabeth said. “Jack the Ripper frequented the one area of London where prostitutes were in profuse, open evidence. If there is a clandestine meeting place here at the exposition for such activities, he would naturally hunt those grounds, and that is why the woman was found in the nearby catacombs.”

“Perhaps,” Irene said, sounding doubtful, “but I suspect it’s not nearly as simple as that. Colonel Cody, can you ask Red Tomahawk to lead us where this man has gone, but quietly so we do not lose our ability to spy upon him?”

The scout chuckled. “You are talking about a war party sneaking up on an encampment. Red Tomahawk could do that in his sleep. But tell those city fellows to stay well behind us, and only to come forward if called.”

Irene went back to the cluster of confused men to do just that. While she conversed in French with them, I shook my head.

“What is the matter, Nell?” Elizabeth inquired, shivering with chill and excitement and stamping her numbing feet on the ground like an impatient horse.

“French to the back of us, Pony or Sue or whatever breed of wild Red Indian I have heard of to the front of us. Was there ever such an odd hunting party?”

“Pawnee,” Elizabeth corrected me. “And you forget to include the Romany language of the Gypsies. I find it hard to believe that Jack the Ripper is a Gypsy, though. You saw the women dancing; some were girls of barely twelve or thirteen. Plenty of women are freely available to Gypsy men; they have no inhibitions about that sort of thing, men or women. The book by Krafft-Ebing points to a killer who has little access to women, or who hates himself for wishing to consort with them.”

“You are saying that Jack the Ripper has a conscience.”

“That is one way to put it, I suppose. I would rather say that Jack the Ripper has a very confused conscience.”

“That is exactly it, Pink.” Irene had come up during our discussion. “A man with a seriously confused conscience is a danger to himself and others. But, look, Red Tomahawk has shuttered his lantern and is moving down the embankment behind the Javanese temple building. It will be darker and steeper if we follow. Let us hold hands.”

The ghostly outline of the panorama ship’s strings of electric lights lay along the waterline only a hundred feet from the Esplanade, and lent the area some slight illumination. With shock I recognized the moving panorama attraction that had earlier been too crowded to see, now shut up and illuminated for the night.

The ship’s faint glow made Buffalo Bill’s buff-colored fringed suit into a kind of will-o’-the-wisp to follow. Soon our bootheels were digging into soft dirt, and our downward progress developed an impetus of its own we were unable to slow, only our clasped hands keeping all three upright.

We were forced to check our breakneck progress as we came abreast of the plainsmen on level ground. We glanced behind to see the bristled silhouettes of the Rothschild agents on the brow of the embankment above us.

Red Tomahawk was squatting on the ground, the dimmed lantern beside him, shaking his feathered head from side to side.

“Rock,” Buffalo Bill whispered to us. “No tracks.”

“Not rock,” Irene answered in a hushed but triumphant tone, “but granite.” She nodded to the foundation of the Javanese temple’s elaborate upper stories. It was a cellar wall of hard stone. “There is a way beyond that wall,” she said, “and probably a natural cavern beyond that.”

Buffalo Bill conveyed that conviction to Red Tomahawk, who leaped up and on silent moccasins approached the wall and began running his hands over it like a blind man feeling a door for the entry knob.

He eventually moved to the wild bushes springing from the embankment base and suddenly stood upright, brandishing a trophy high in one hand.

For a wild moment I feared a scalp, but it was only another of the crude pottery bottles he had found at the Gypsy camp.

When we tiptoed nearer to see, he pulled aside the shrubbery to reveal a gaping natural opening in the rock perhaps four feet high.

Without a word, Buffalo Bill sprang back up the embankment and brought the agents to our sides.

Whispered consultation produced a plan: the plainsmen would lead, the women follow, the agents bring up the rear, weapons at the ready.

No one said it, but we women were obviously to be sheltered in the middle of a front and a rear guard.

Red Tomahawk bowed so low that even his penultimate feather would not brush stone and entered the tunnel.

Buffalo Bill doffed his hat to follow suit.

Irene and Elizabeth exchanged glances. Their broad-brimmed hats were affixed ‘til death did them part with foot-long pins and would only be a nuisance in their hands. They bent over deeply to enter the yawning hole.

My cap was no problem and the Rothschild men wore bowlers, so we all made appropriate obeisance and instantly found ourselves in a dark passage. Both Red Tomahawk and Buffalo Bill (somehow I was finding it easier to use those astonishing names than I ever had been able to accept “Pink,” even now when I knew the nickname was a clue and not simply an affront to convention) had darkened their lanterns.

Our first impression of the tunnel was a warm exhalation of air that implied it led deep into the earth. Then came the eerie thrum of sound, of distant chanting. A single voice droned for a few instants. Many voices responded.