The Curtain

The heat of the day has waned, the late afternoon air is still warm. Agenté Truffaut and Ashra walk Rue Caumartin in silence making their way to Theo’s apartment building. The young woman breaks the silence.

         “I am sure you have questions regarding our partnership. What can I answer for you?” Ashra asks in her melodious voice.

         “What is the nature of your work for Monsieur Ashcrow?”

         “Usually acquisitions. However, I have a broad role.”

         “How long have you worked with Ashcrow?”

         “Decades at this point. He and my family have been long connected.”

         “How long have you lived in Paris?”

         “I arrived in the autumn of… 1857.”

         “Did you arrive as a child?”

         “Non, but you are kind to assume so. I met Ashcrow after a journey commissioned that took me from the mountains of Persia to the coast of Cathay and back.”

         “That sounds like quite the adventure, I am sure you have stories to tell.”  The woman smiles thinly and moves past the comment.

         “How long have you been with the Sûreté?” She redirects.

         “Coming up on twenty-five years. The city has gone through vast change since my days as a sergent de ville.  I have been an agenté assigned to L’Olympia since the end of the war.” Truffaut gestures a mock salute with his cane.

         “Did you serve?”

         “Non, I was here maintaining order in the city. It was a difficult time for many.”

         “I recall, I returned shortly after the conflict ended.”

The pair stop at the stairs to the apartment building.

         “This is the place.  Let us start with the property manager. He should have insight into the comings and goings on the property.”

Ashra nods and steps back as the agenté steps through the door to the long hall.  From the building’s exterior the property seems modern, close to the entertainment of the 9th and the businesses of the 10th. Though Theo seems to lack any employ.  As they step through the door a mix of dust and stale air are unexpected, the hall twinkles reflecting the light of the afternoon. Stenciled blue signs identify a stairwell to the left, a hall to the right and a heavily painted and chipping white apartment door with “propriétaire immobilier.”

Truffaut points to the rust stain just above the door handle and lock.  He knocks on the door to no answer. At a second unanswered knock he produces a small folio. He makes short work opening the door with a small lock pick. Ashra stands back adjusting her scarf as they enter the apartment. The kitchen is a mess, two hens unfazed by their presence cluck and peck at freshly strewn seed across the floorboards. Unread Petite Presse are piled high, read and discarded papers sit on a broken and propped table. Green envelops are strewn randomly across the entry. The heavy smell of ammonia wafts throughout the space. The stove is long cold and the shelves are barren save a worn rental ledger.  Flipping through the pages the last entry is April, conspicuously absent are any entries for May or June. The agenté notes Theo’s name and address on the 4th floor. He closes and replaces the book upon hearing the hall door open. Three hard workmen enter, each similar in bird-like features wear only differentiating hats. One wears an out of place felt top hat wrapped with a silk black ribbon, likely stolen. Ashra stiffens while Truffaut makes a gesture to calm.

         “Oi, who you two?” Épervier, the fat pigeon of a man wearing a brown bowler demands.

         “I am Agenté Truffaut with the Sûreté conducting an investigation of a resident in this building.” Truffaut states.

Top hat and the third wearing a page cap fill the kitchen, the hens skitter and screech as they are shuffled out of the way.

         “You don’ belong here.” Épervier states looking at the green envelops across the kitchen floor.

         “Monsieur, my colleague and I are here on official business.” Truffaut says while reaching into his coat for his credentials. He is capable in a confrontation though three on one would require luck. Protecting Ashra is an unexpected requirement.

         “Why you in Jacob’s flat?” Moineau, in the page-cap demands oblivious to the answer just given.

The tension rising with each passing second as the stork in a top-hat kicks one of the hens out of the way.

         “Alan close your eyes.” Ashra commands. 

Truffaut turns to Ashra just as a flash of white light passes over the room. Temporarily blinded, through sprites and stars his vision and color slowly returns. Everything is frozen in place. A hen, screeching and flying through the air is stopped silent in mid-flight. The men, in various levels of tension and aggression stand stock still.

         “What. Is. Happening?” Truffaut demands as color and shape return to him.

         “A charm, for now we must agree that an altercation was not in our interests. Come, it will be minutes before they wake. They will have no memory of meeting us.” Ashra waves to Truffaut from the door and makes her way up the stairs. As the crest to the fourth floor landing, she places a finger to her lips indicating the need for stealth as she approaches Theo’s door.

Inside his apartment Theo renewed to full health, his wound faded to a pink scar, absently tidies his things. He places a collection of six items, grisly souvenirs taken from the abattoir in the alley. Previously Theo had an aversion to filth, vermin and unclean things. No longer. These gory trophies sit on the desk next to the grocer’s box found weeks ago in the landlord's apartment. Inspecting each he places them first by quality, then reorders them based on size, finally on readiness. These will require cleaning. Next, he organizes the tranche of envelops collected from his recent visit to the landlord’s apartment. The grocers box sits full on a small desk at a single window overlooking the street below.  His skin goes cold, announcing his unwelcome imaginary antagonist. The stonecutter stands at the edge of the room by the door.

         ‘Oi, shitbird. Something is amiss. You need to leave this place.’

         “Why now?”

         ‘Someone close is using the path.’

         “The path? What are you talking about.”

         ‘Leave. Now. You are not prepared to engage even the most nascent mystic.’

At this Theo covers the grocer’s box with the stonecutters long since abandoned coat. Ashra closest, both with their backs to the hallway wall stiffen as Theo’s door opens. Complaining to an unseen companion he holds his coat under his arm as he closes and locks the door. His top hat pushed far back on his head he takes the stairs two at a time. The agenté and his unexpectedly skilled companion are left quiet in the hall until they hear the hall door open and slam. Truffaut foregoing stealth observes Theo walking in haste toward L’Olympia from a window at the end of the hall. From afar he and Ashra can hear the hens clucking and screeching. The three birds-in-hats who confronted them in the apartment join another standing opposite the stairs to the apartment.

If not a dandy, he would not be so conspicuous. They all walk away opposite the direction Theo went.

         “See. Nothing to report. They have been glamoured and remember nothing of our interaction. I will explain all once our business here is complete.” Ashra states.

Truffaut finds Theo’s door locked. He smiles resting his cane against the door frame pulling the small folio from his pocket.

         “May I?” Ashra asks. She passes a hand over the handle. The doorknob turns and breaks free from the door jamb unlocked.

         “It must have been stuck.”

         “Hmm, must have.” Truffaut shakes his head. 

Theo’s apartment is a mess, it is more a nest than a living space for a gentleman. The cloying scent of decay and rot mix with stale air. Made up of three small rooms: a sitting area, kitchen and a bedroom with a mattress on the floor.  The lack of a bed frame makes this feel more of a squat than a home of a gentleman. A beaded curtain hangs covering a small closet. The pair quietly move through the space looking for clues. Ashra looks for any mystical connection.  Truffaut feels that Theo’s only luck was to survive his duel and mugging, if not only for his improvement in living conditions. Each corner of the room is covered in webs of foul mold reaching blackened corners like living tendrils of fine hair.  Using his cane, he lifts the dirty oiled cloth, a jacket, covering the grocers box on the desk. The smell of decay and burnt hair blooms as the coat is removed. The smell flashes his memory to the alley abattoir days earlier. The box holds a collection of open and sealed green rental fee envelops.

         “Alan.” Ashra calls Agenté’s attention to the closet.

He parts the beaded curtain looking inside. Some suits, shirts, jackets and hats. Shoes sit in piles.

         “Nothing here.”

         “The curtain.”

Looking closer at the beads agenté realizes what he thought were simple beads or shells is something more entirely. Each strand is made of hundreds of teeth and sinew sewn through the root with black thread made from fine black hairs, the same black and burnt tendrils as the mold creeping from the corners of the squat apartment.

         “Sacre Bleu! What is this?”

Ashra holds her finger to her lips then motions to the door. As the pair exit, Ashra pulls the door closed. Turning the handle, she confirms it is locked as when they arrived.