House of Corruption (18 page)

The four walked down the quay without a word. On a typical day fishmongers hawked fresh-caught crab and lobster, eel, mackerel, and pageot, the air ripe with the scents of garlicky rouille and fennel and pungent sardine pastes. Today it was hosed down, empty. The air stank of bleach and seawater. To their left, the grey water of the harbor sloshed against the docks, many boats of all sizes, both steam and sail, bobbing in the tide. To their right stood a line of elderly buildings. Straight ahead, the grey horizon of the Mediterranean lay sterile and cold.

The white-hulled shape of the
Kalabakang
leaned against the far end of the dock. Numerous police wagons huddled in conference, their horses twitching against their tack. The four eased through a crowd of curious onlookers, stopping before three uniformed officers of
La Sûreté Nationale
who kept vigil at the head of the plank. The tallest of the three, in his blue uniform and cap, wore the most stripes on his shoulder.

“I wish to speak to
l’inspecteur principal
,” Reynard said to him, his French sharp and full of authority. “This woman, Miss Kiria Carlovec of Sandakan, chartered this very steamer. It left her behind in Boston.”

“Did it now?” the officer replied.

“My sister was an unwilling passenger. I believe we can identify...” His voice thickened. “We may be able to identify many of the victims.” He motioned to Savoy. “This man is a doctor. He will also be of service.”

The officer looked over their papers, regarding each of them in turn. He waved Reynard and Kiria to board, but stopped Savoy and Grant. “We have plenty of doctors,” he said. “Speak with Inspector Pourry and tell him Janoux gave you permission.”

“Thank you.”

Reynard took Kiria’s hand, assisted her onto the plank, and the two crossed over to the
Kalabakang
. It was an aged four-deck steamer with twin smokestacks towering above whitewashed planking and rails, decorated with oriental symbols Reynard did not recognize. His stomach twisted as they stepped onto the deck.

I can smell it already
.

“Are you certain you can do this?” he asked.

“Despite their behavior,” Kiria said, “my retinue treated me with the utmost respect. Miss Lourdes, my secretary...she was a dear friend. I must do this.” Her composure faltered. “I must.”

He nodded, and led her on. After haggling with various lower-ranked officers and showing and re-showing their papers, the two were finally ushered downstairs to the Crew’s Galley.

They entered.

Kiria stiffened, closed her eyes.

Tables and chairs had been pushed aside, the linoleum floor lined with three rows of bodies shrouded with vulcanized tarps. Five of the remains retained no recognizable shape, and beside these sat buckets swarming with flies. Though every door and window was open to invite fresh air, the room reeked with gore—a makeshift abattoir. Reynard removed his white handkerchief and pressed it against his nose, overwhelmed by the stink, wondering why he did not anticipate such an awful scene.

“You can identify this crew?” came Inspector Pourry. He stood off to the side in his smart blue uniform and square cap, stout of build with a swarthy complexion. He spoke with the subtle drawl of Provencial stock. “You are not spies for
Le Provence
?”

“No, not journalists,” Reynard said.

“No,” Kiria said in serviceable French. She explained her relationship with the
Kalabakang
. “I can identify the passengers, if I must.”

Sergeant Pourry hesitated but, at her silent approval, he crouched near the closest body and lifted the sheet. This first victim was a man with a shock of black hair, his fleshy neck splayed open to the spine, his cheeks and what remained of his throat punctuated with the dotted curves of his tribal tattoo. It was the native man who had taken Lasha from Metairie Cemetery.

Kiria closed her eyes. “So it is true.”

Pourry lifted another sheet to reveal the mangled remains of Marion Loudres, a young woman of twenty. She may have been pretty once, if not plain, yet now there was nothing but glazed eyes and drooping jaw above the ruin of her shredded clothing and mangled body. Silent tears poured down Kiria’s cheeks. Her hands shook. As Pourry revealed each victim, she relayed names and ages and whatever details she could provide as another officer transcribed into a notebook.

Nausea clutched Reynard’s stomach at the mangled flesh and muscle, the horrified expressions on those few faces still retaining shape. Yet deeper, lingering below his revulsion, he felt the same, terrible need—he could not describe it. It took all his strength to not rush to the outer deck, spewing the contents of his stomach into the sea.

“
Monsieur
,” Sergeant Pourry said. “You look pale.”

Reynard wanted to tell him that
of course
he was pale and
yes
, he was going to vomit, that any reasonable man
should
vomit, but he constrained himself. This craving was unnatural, abominable, a damnable stain of the Beast and its unwanted appetites. He refused to accept it. Reynard LaCroix— anyone of sound mind—was incapable of such feeling.

No
.

By the fifth victim the bodies became unrecognizable. In the midst of these another sheet was lifted, the body mangled like the rest, but this one still retained its complete skeleton. Reynard shuddered. The body wore the shredded remains of an ivory frock and embroidered dress, the same worn by Lasha at Metairie.

Reynard began to shake.

Not her
.

He looked at his knuckles, his fingers and nails, turning his palms upward. The muscles beneath his skin shifted. They tensed against his slender bones, tightened down his forearms and into his shoulders. He tightened his hands into fists and opened them again, watching the ruddy imprints of his fingertips bleach into white. When his muscles tightened again he shook his hands vigorously. He plunged his hand into his pocket and fingered the silver bullet. He squeezed it, pressing it into his palm.

“
Monsieur
?” Pourry asked.

“When did this happen?” Reynard asked.

“As best we can tell, a day. It will take time to confirm if this ship saw harbor since leaving Boston, for there is no manifest, no itinerary. Nothing.”

“This steamer was bound for North Borneo,” Reynard said. He turned to Kiria. “Miss Carlovec.” Kiria did not seem to hear, her gaze connected by an invisible thread to the shrouded remains of her secretary. “Miss Carlovec.”

She looked up, dazed. “Yes.”

“This ship was bound for North Borneo. Marseille was part of its itinerary.”

“Yes.”

“Were there any other stops planned?”

“Marseille, Port Said, Bombay, possibly; Singapore, Sandakan. It held a strict manifest, for it carried additional cargo aside from my contract.”

“If we assume,” Reynard said, “she was in complete control of the crew, then one might wonder if...”

“
Pardon moi
,” Pourry said, “but is there more you might share?”

“I told you everything I know,” Kiria said.

“And you,
monsieur
?”

“A woman,” Reynard said.

“A woman?”

“She is responsible. Upper twenties to early thirties, milky white skin, red hair, shapely, fond of saucy dresses. That is the description I have been given. She would have been in the presence of my sister, Lasha LaCroix, who was taken against her will upon this steamer back in Boston—and whose description I wired in detail to your headquarters not one day ago. This woman, and my sister, are headed for North Borneo.”

“You mean they
were
headed.”

“No. My sister and this woman are still alive. They must be. It would not surprise me if two of the female victims are women of similar size and shape, slain in their places.” He considered the ivory dress and vest. “My sister is not here.”

Pourry pondered this information as he glanced over the shrouded corpses. “I know nothing of a kidnapping,
monsieur
. You say a woman did all this?”

“Yes.”

“On her own?”

“She is responsible for two deaths in New Orleans,” Reynard said, “including a host of others from Boston down the eastern seaboard. She is extremely dangerous.” He noted the incredulity on Pourry’s face. “I suggest you write that down.”

“Again, my pardon,” Pourry said, “but this terrible scene is the work of...pirates or strife among the crew. The hold especially held a dangerous concentration of foul vapors, and such unhealthy air has been known to make men do all sorts of unnatural things.” He motioned toward the exit. “Your description of the victims is most appreciated. If we have further need, I hope you can avail yourself to—”

“Write it down,” Reynard said.

“—Assist us, as necessary. Please furnish Officer Janoux, the one who saw you aboard, the name of your hotel and your—”

“Write it down.”

“I shall.”

“Do it now.”

“You may need some fresh air,
monsieur
,” Pourry said. “You do look a little pale. Do you prefer to leave on your own?” He looked to two junior officers on the other side of the galley. “Or may I provide an escort?”

“Monsieur LaCroix,” Kiria said, squeezing his arm. “I think I have seen quite enough today.”

“Write it down,” Reynard said firmly.

Pourry snapped his fingers and the two officers responded, moving around the galley. Reynard took Kiria’s hand and led her toward the exit. The officers followed casually but steadily.

“Red hair,” Reynard said, his voice rising. “My sister’s name is spelled—”

Pourry’s voice followed. “
Oui, monsieur
.”  

***

Shadows lengthened along the quay as lamplighters began their duties. Kiria materialized into view of Savoy and Grant, who waited at the table of an outdoor café overlooking the sea. Her expression offered no relief.

“Where is Reynard?” Savoy asked.

“He will join us at the hotel,” she said.

“Lasha. Is she...?”

“Three women are dead. One is my secretary. The other two are so badly...” She choked on her words. “Horrible.”

Grant helped her take a seat, while Savoy ordered a round of hot cocoa and a platter heaped with warm rolls of
pain au chocolat
. They sat in silence for a time, drinking their cocoa and eating warm pastries.

“It is the crew of the
Kalabakang
,” she started, “and my retinue. It was as if a deliberate...malice was manifested upon them. Such savagery. All the lifeboats are gone. The inspector presumes there was a riot, or mutiny.”

“They cannot be serious,” Savoy said.

“They suspect nothing, and everything,” she said, sipping her cocoa. “This is delicious. You are very kind.”

“It always lifts my spirits,” he said, giving her a fatherly smile. He folded his arms and took a deep breath of thought. “The crew and passengers are slain and the ship set at full steam toward Marseille,” he continued. “She knew we would attempt an interception here. Customs would have noted any change in the
Kalabakang
’s itinerary.”

“There is no itinerary. There is no record of anything.”

“Of course,” he said. “This way her road is erased.”

“Miss Lasha—?” Grant asked.

“Is alive,” Savoy said. “I am certain of it. I admit to some perverse admiration at this creature’s audacity, her sheer lack of morality. I wonder if learning Reynard’s whereabouts was the sole reason for visiting Marseille?” He leaned back in his chair, reaching down remove his leather notebook from his bag. “Have you ever met Professor Ernst Stronheim?”

“The name is not familiar,” Kiria said.

“A mentor. He teaches in Vienna but enjoys a summer cottage in Cassis, not far from here. He is a trusted confidant in my work with Monsieur LaCroix. Some time ago I received a strange note.” He removed Stronheim’s letter from his notebook, allowing her to read:

Whited sepulchers beautiful outward, inside lie

dead men’s bones. Then Simon Peter having a

sword drew it ... Then said Jesus unto Peter, Put

up thy sword into the sheath: The Cup which my

Father hath given me ... That ye may put difference

between unclean and clean...

“I see,” she said. “It is unusual.”

He held up the letter’s envelope. “It was posted from Sandakan. You see the stamp?”

“Curious.”

“Is that where Lasha is going? To your father?”

“I do not understand,” she said. “Father has always been a pillar of strength, an essential part of Her Majesty’s success there. I cannot see how...”

“And yet you say he is dying.”

“His curse has ruined him.”

“Until he would go to any length?”

“I did not say that.”

“And your valet?”

“Edward was not...obsessed, if that is what you mean.”

“We may not be dealing with Edward Tukebote,” Savoy said. “Who else might be obsessed for your father’s well being, as you say?”

“I...I do not know,” she said. “Not like this.”

Beyond the docks and the high-masted ships, lamps glittered along the limestone hills rising on the other side of the harbor. At the highest point shone the Catholic basilica
Notre-Dame de la Garde
. It stood like a lighted beacon against the heavy darkness spreading inland from the sea. In the distance, a pleasant sound of provincial music wafted from another café. Grant had listened quietly during the exchange, drinking deeply from his mug.

“I’ve never left America,” he said. “Now here I am, eating fancy bread and chocolate.”

“We will return on a better occasion, my boy.” Savoy gave him a pat on his arm. “Yet Miss Lasha still requires our help.”

“I’ll trust in that.”

“This creature is a blasphemy. I mean to see it pay for its crimes.”

***

A petite blond woman seated at the next table stood, smoothed wrinkles from her white dress, and left the remains of her half-eaten supper without a gratuity. She pulled long strands of her golden hair behind her ears, tucking her parasol under her arm, as she worked her way around the tables to exit the café.