Authors: Toby Barlow
He looked again at the shivering Bemm. This was too impossible and absurd for words. He knew this whole thing was a trap that Vidot had set for him, that was the only explanation that made any sense, and his only thought was to go find the little detective and beat him unconscious. “I am taking personal charge of this investigation, starting immediately!” he announced.
“You were not here”—Pingeot looked slightly nervous as he spoke now—“so I had to call someone…”
“So? So?” All the nerves in Maroc’s body were now screaming. “What are you saying to me?”
“What I mean to say is, I called the prefect and he is now on his way.”
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” screamed Maroc, shaking violently. “You called Papon’s office! He is on his way here? Right this moment? Are you an imbecile? Are you insane?” Enraged, he lunged out furiously for the officer, intending to throttle him. In the process, the case flew out of Maroc’s hands. Falling to the floor and bursting open, its contents spilled all over the floor. Maroc was too mad with anger to notice and continued choking Pingeot.
It was at this point in time that the prefect of the Paris police, Maurice Papon, strode around the corner to find his recent appointee, Maroc, standing in the center of a small crowd who were all energetically trying to keep him from strangling some boggle-eyed subordinate. Beneath this eruption of violence, a naked man sat at the foot of Maroc’s desk, awash in an enormous pile of loose ten-thousand-franc banknotes. The naked man, seemingly oblivious to the men struggling above him, stared out at the world with a troubled look of awe and confusion. And that was the last day of Superintendent Maroc’s once promising career in the Prefecture of Police.
II
Noelle was tired of listening to the old ghosts bicker in the coop. She and her chicken had first found the abandoned, low-roofed building after fleeing from the priest’s farm. She had crawled in for shelter and to recover from the shame of the barn fight. She had been hiding too, worried that Elga would find and punish her for running away. She thought about going back home, or even returning to the dreaded asylum, but every avenue seemed to lead to more punishment, so she stayed in the coop. When she grew chilly, she piled a rough bed of dusty old straw over her body and slept. The chicken stayed dutifully by her side, keeping watch.
The first morning she woke, her stomach growled with hunger. Beside her, she found a solitary egg lying on the floor. Her red chicken sat next to it, looking up at her with an expression that held no emotion. She hesitated at first, remembering her sufferings from the last egg, but finally the extreme pangs of hunger outweighed the fears and Noelle snatched it up fast, still warm, cracked it against her knee, and opened it up. She swallowed it in one gulp, catching the yellow yolk and licking up every bit of the clear albumen before any could drip off the shell.
Then she heard voices behind her. Turning around, she saw them standing against the wall. She recognized Elga right away. The old woman had the point of a butcher’s knife sticking out through her chest. Much to Noelle’s relief, Elga paid no attention to her, focusing instead on the heated discussion she was having with the two other women. One of them, who had a bloodstained hole where one of her eyes used to be, seemed to be baiting Elga with sharp words in a language foreign to Noelle, while the other looked solemnly on, occasionally nodding in agreement with the first. Elga was loudly arguing back, waving her finger in both their faces and then gesturing toward what seemed to be a third person, though no one was there.
That entire first day, none of them spoke to Noelle, though they occasionally gestured in her direction. Tempers flared and at times the coop was thick with the din of their shouting. Occasionally Elga would clomp over to the far corner, where she would sit alone with her back to them, her arms crossed in a pout. The bloody-eyed woman would yell and curse at her and Elga would turn and yell back until finally Elga would come stomping across the coop to shake her finger once more in the other woman’s face.
After a full day of this, the sun sank and Noelle lay down again, ignoring the old women and piling up her straw for another night of sleep.
The next morning when she awoke it was so cold she could see her breath. The room was quiet and the women were no longer there. Noelle’s throat was parched with thirst, so she crawled out of the coop and into the brush, following her chicken as it wandered through a glade toward the sound of a creek. Once they found it, Noelle leaned over the flowing water and scooped up handfuls to drink. The chicken in turn waded into the shallows and pecked at the creek’s surface in a manner that made Noelle giggle.
They walked through the sun-dappled trees up the low slope of the hill, the chicken keeping a few steps ahead of Noelle. Climbing back up into the coop, Noelle lay down on the hay again. She longed for the hotel suite, with its warm bed and chocolate éclairs. The thought rekindled her hunger and she looked at the chicken.
The chicken sensed Noelle’s gaze and seemed to grow slightly self-conscious. It got up, shook out its tail, and made its way to the edge of the hay. It walked around in a small circle and then sat down. It remained there, in an almost contemplative manner for a number of minutes, occasionally looking over at Noelle but then looking away again. When it rose, there was an egg.
Noelle slurped it down and within moments the old women were back. They were no longer shouting at one another. Now they were all comforting Elga, who sat on the floor, sobbing into her hands. The one with the bloody eye leaned over and whispered words into Elga’s ear as she caressed the old woman’s shoulder. After a long time of this, the ghost of Elga finally rose, straightened out her skirt, and, wiping the tears and snot off her face, came over to Noelle.
“Okay, well, it’s time to go. You can’t stay here,” Elga said, clapping her hands.
Noelle felt nervous. She reached over and grabbed the chicken, holding it close to her chest for comfort. “I’m sorry I ran away,” she said.
“Ah,” Elga snorted, “forget about it. Regretting the past only eats up the future. But now you must go.”
“Where?” asked Noelle.
“First, go to the train station and pick a stranger’s pocket. Look for someone tall to prey on, their brains and eyes are so far away from their pockets.”
“But I don’t know how to pick a pocket.”
The old woman nodded. “You will. All you have to do is try. You’ll be good at it. We’ll give you a charm to protect you. Then, take the train to the city. We are going to find you help there.”
“But what if I get hungry. How will I get food?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Elga snapped out of her gloom and pointed at the bird. “You can always sell the chicken.”
Noelle held the bird tight to her chest. “Oh, but I don’t want to give up my chicken.”
Elga chuckled, her eyes were still glassy and wet from weeping but they sparkled now. “Don’t worry, that chicken is smart, it will always find its way back to you.”
Noelle looked at the bird. “Really?”
The old woman nodded. “Yes. Believe me, child, you’re going to be selling that chicken for a very long time.”
III
Slowly coming to, Will reached clumsily across the bed to where she should have been. Finding only the empty pillow, he got up fast, leaping out from the sheets and shouting Zoya’s name with an urgency that shocked him. Nobody answered, the room was empty. On the small table he spotted an envelope with his name written on it. Inside, the message was short.
Dear friend,
Good day to you! I have asked your friend Zoya Polyakov to come to the police station on rue St. Denis for some questioning. She is technically “under arrest.” Please excuse me for not waking you. There was too much to explain. A desk officer should be able to help you with any questions once you arrive. I may be out of the station on an errand but I hope you will await my return.
Sincerely,
Detective Charles Vidot
Will was out the door in a shot. Tumbling down the hotel staircase as he buttoned his shirt, he tore through the lobby and out onto the street. There was no taxi in sight so he started running down the sidewalk. Cars flew by and he craned his neck over the automobile hoods, desperate for a cab. Finally he spotted one coming around the corner of rue Blanche. Will dashed across the street and threw himself in front of it, causing a shriek of brakes.
He jumped in and rattled off the address to the driver. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was almost five o’clock. As the driver’s radio played a Polish polka, Will tried to piece together what must have happened. He remembered carrying Zoya to the room with the other fellow, the one he had seen in the dream world. Was that man this Vidot? The letter referred to him as a “friend,” so presumably they knew one another. And where was Oliver? The taxicab jolted, braked, and barked its horn through the traffic, the Place de l’Opéra was bumper to bumper. Will rubbed his face with both hands in frustration. His memory was cloudy. He remembered smoking the owl pellet as the priest had instructed. Then he must have passed out. He did not remember any dreams or visions, only a deep, soulful rest. He tried to remember what day it was, Friday? Saturday? The traffic on the street was busier than it would have been on a weekend. It must be Friday. At the thought of work, Will shook his head. He had not called in sick, left any sort of message with his assistant, or even checked in. At this rate, his job probably wouldn’t be waiting for him.
He leaned toward the driver, “
Je te donnerai cinquante francs de supplémentaire si vous pouvez m’amener au commissariat de police en dix minutes
.”
The driver’s eyebrows went up and a broad smile broke out on his face. “Okay!” he said in English and they were off. Through a combination of blaring horns, bravado, and inspired sidewalk driving, the cab zoomed, lurched, cut, swerved, and sped down the Boulevard des Capucines, along rue de la Paix, then turned up the Right Bank until it crossed the Pont Notre-Dame and pulled up in front of the police station.
Will threw a fistful of francs at the self-satisfied cabbie and, leaping out, ran up the steps. Inside, he found a desk clerk. Yes, yes, she said, a woman matching that description had been brought in early that morning. The clerk began leafing through the ledger in front of him.
“Well, hello!” said a voice behind him. Will turned and saw the man from the barn, no longer naked or wearing the priest’s borrowed clothes but now clothed in what appeared to be a smartly tailored suit. “We never had time for a proper introduction. I am Detective Vidot.” He looked down at his clothes. “I am not usually this formal, but I will be reuniting with my wife soon after some time away and I would like to look my best.” He offered a tight smile. “I trust you had a good rest.”
“Where is Zoya?” Will said.
“Ah,” said Vidot, “I have some news there, good news or bad news, I do not know. I had hoped we could keep her longer, but when I returned from the tailor I discovered she had already left.”
“She was released?”
Vidot looked uncertain as to how to answer that. “Maybe? Or perhaps she released herself, with some assistance? I am not sure yet.”
“You think she escaped?”
Again Vidot paused before answering. “Yes, that is my guess, though it was not entirely unexpected. I was actually on my way to speak with a man who will, I believe, shed a bit of light on what occurred. Perhaps you’d like to join me?”
As Vidot led him down the hall, Will looked around. He had never been in a police station before. The slow clatter of typewriters clicking out reports and the stale cigarette scent mixed with the smell of mimeograph ink permeated all the rooms they passed through. The officers and clerks they passed moved in a slow and steady motion, as if they were assured justice would ultimately prevail, or because they simply did not care. At the end of the corridor they came to a closed office door that Vidot opened without knocking. An older man sitting behind the desk stood up as they entered. He already looked nervous.
“Detective Vidot,” the man began, straightening his tie, “it is good to have you back—”
“Lecan, please, be seated,” said Vidot curtly, taking a chair across from the man. Then he paused and stared at the older detective. Will remained standing, watching the two and trying to figure out what was going on, until Vidot remembered he was there. “Oh yes, this is my American friend Mr.—I am sorry, Will, I don’t know your last name.”
“Van Wyck.”
“Ah, yes, a Dutch-American? I see. Well, Mr. Van Wyck, this is a colleague of mine, Detective Lecan. Now that we have made our introductions, Lecan, could you please tell us what happened with our prisoner Zoya Polyakov?”
“Who?” Detective Lecan grinned, clearly attempting to look as if he had never heard the name before.
Vidot shook his finger at his colleague in a scolding, almost teasing way. “Now, now, Lecan, do not try to hide it from us, tell us what you did with her. I have found three officers who can testify that she was last seen in your custody, so please provide us with the details of what happened or we will have to go to the authorities.”
Will looked confused. “Wait, aren’t you the authorities?”
Vidot lifted a pack of cigarettes off Lecan’s desk. “Perhaps we are,” he said, taking one out, “or perhaps we are simply three men talking about a pretty girl as men so often like to do. So now what do you have to say?”
Lecan looked at him suspiciously. “You are saying this conversation is off the record?”
Vidot smiled and held out his hands. “Of course.”
Lecan shifted in his seat, he looked nervous. “No, it’s too much. What I have to tell you will sound preposterous. You will think I’m mad. Who knows, I might truly be mad. Maroc’s probably right, he says I’m going to kill myself if I keep drinking like a Belgian.”
“You will be surprised what my friend and I find preposterous,” said Vidot.
“Well…” The old detective looked down at his hands as he spoke. “First there is this, I saw her not long ago, I think maybe it was last week. She was walking on the street while I was at Chez Loup. I knew it was her immediately, though it seemed impossible. I had not seen her for years, many years, and yet I swear she had not aged a day. I told Maroc as much and of course he laughed at me.”