The Curse of the Grand Guignol by Anna Lord

Holmes, am I right?
    Relief washed over the doctor
when he realized he would not be forced to speak bad French all
evening. “Yes, quite right.”
    “I believe I bumped into you at
the theatre, literally. Please accept my belated apology. No
excuse, but I was in a hurry to congratulate Mademoiselle Kiki on
her performance.”
    “Oh, yes, the old mad woman,
she was rather good wasn’t she? Very realistic – the whole
show.”
    “Your first visit to the Grand
Guignol?”
    “Yes.”
    “What did you make of our
avant-garde theatrics?”
    “Oh, well, yes, avant-garde,
that’s a good way to describe it. Quite new, er…”
    “Quite shocking too, no
doubt?”
    “Yes, quite shocking. I have to
admit I was shocked. Quite shocked.”
    “Raoul Crespigny, the
playwright, is shockingly clever. But the actors and actresses must
also be congratulated. To pull off such naturalistic horror night
after night takes real talent. And the director, Serge Davidov, is
a creative genius - not to mention a tyrannical madman - but then
all geniuses are a bit tyrannical and a bit mad. Don’t you
agree?”
    “Oh, yes, certainly. Do you go
often to the Grand Guignol?”
    “Every week. Sometimes twice a
week or even thrice. Whenever my busy schedule allows. My work at
the hospital keeps me busy but I go as often as I can. I always
have the same booth. I reserve it whether I am there or not. That
way I am guaranteed a seat.”
    “Hospital?”
    “Salpetriere.”
    “The famous Hospice de la
Salpetriere ?”
    “Yes, the one and only. I have
a medical degree as well as a degree in theology but I do not
practice medicine as such. I prefer to devote my time to God.
However, I am currently doing some clinical studies at the behest
of the Vatican. The Pope is keen to establish a hospice similar to
Salpetriere in Rome. Oh, there’s Davidov now.” He caught the
director’s eye.
    Monsieur Davidov, who had burst
into the salon like a Russian bear with a sore head, now stomped
across to them like a bull in a china shop, almost knocking over a
tray of drinks. “Have you seen Raoul?”
    Monsignor Delgardo ignored the
interrogative demand. “Have you met Dr John Watson, Serge? He is
the author of the chronicles of Sherlock Holmes.”
    “Yes, yes, we met earlier,” the
other mumbled, hardly listening and caring less, avidly scanning
the pastel palette dotted with ugly people like a luminous
watercolour flecked with lurid blobs of oil paint. “If you spot
Raoul don’t tell him I’m looking for him. I want to corner the
weasel before he has a chance to make a run for it.”
    “What has he done to upset
you?” enquired the Monsignor.
    “I want him to do a re-write
before tomorrow’s show but do you think I can find him? No! He is
holed up somewhere. But he knows full well he is expected to make
an appearance here tonight and he dare not stay away! The little
prick!”
    “Will Mademoiselle Kiki be
coming tonight?” Monsignor Delgardo enquired in a hopeful tone.
    “What?” The Russian was
momentarily distracted by the arrival of a group of noisy guests –
six men wearing large pink paint-smocks, purple berets and vivid
orange pussy bows. “Yes, yes, of course, she will be coming, but
you don’t stand a chance with her you old lothario. How old are you
fifty? Besides, she doesn’t have time for love affairs!”
    Monsignor Delgardo turned
bright pink and to avoid compounding embarrassment Dr Watson
directed his gaze toward the six men who had entered dressed like
clowns minus grease paint. “Who are they?”
    “The Splattereurs,” replied the
Monsignor, glaring violently after the director as he stomped off
in search of the playwright.
    “Ah, yes, the new art
group.”
    “Movement.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “It is generally referred to as
an art movement. Excuse me, won’t you. I have just spotted Monsieur
Radzival, the private librarian of the Marquise de Merimont. He
promised to locate a book for me. I must follow it up while