Page 3 of The Midnight Carousel
‘What we should focus on, gentlemen, is that, with Victor Cloutier due to be executed by the guillotine in two hours’ time, the citizens of Paris are now safe from such disappearances, and the victims are at peace.
’ He waits a moment for a rattling cart to pass.
‘Each of them should, henceforth, be remembered not for the circumstances of their last moments, but for the joy they brought their loved ones.’
The Chief Inspector smiles his approval.
Laurent returns the smile, but beneath the surface he suspects that the absence of bodies and no motive established will always haunt him.
As the reporters drift away, he calculates there is just enough time to make a detour before he is expected at La Santé prison to witness the execution.
‘See you there,’ he tells the Chief Inspector and hurries off before there is any objection.
The evidence warehouse is crammed with ill-gotten gains, mainly acquired from various corners of the Paris slums– crates of wine, murder weapons, a stuffed black bear stolen from the National Museum of Natural History.
At the back of this huge space is the carousel, the individual components assembled as a visual aid for the judge and jury.
Chloé Fourtou’s disappearance provided the most detailed eyewitness statements, the other cases offering patchy information at best. Thus it was decided by the prosecution team to re-enact the known movements of both the little girl and Victor at around that time, using police officers and members of the court as extras.
The jury was instructed to observe carefully from the sidelines.
There was clapping when the carousel music began, pointing at the painted soldiers that appeared to march across the canopy as it spun.
Finally, the entire room burst into cheers as a spectacular pattern of lights flashed above the horses.
And not a single person noticed the stand-in Victor whisking away the actress playing the part of Miss Fourtou.
The exercise clearly demonstrated the ease with which it is possible to lose sight of someone– and the difficulty in noticing a crime– when faced with the excitement of the ride, and the bustle of the crowds.
With the trial over and the execution imminent, the carousel will be taken apart later today, leaving Laurent with only a few hours for a final look at the place where Chloé, along with Gérard and Nathalie, were last seen.
His shiny boots tap between aisles of shelves crammed to the ceiling with boxes.
Past the large container of black-market cigarettes, Laurent stops in his tracks.
Naturally, he has viewed the carousel in its fully formed state before.
He remembers glimpses through the captivated crowds at the Exposition all those years ago.
There it stood as a wonder of modern engineering in a glass-domed building, surrounded by exotic palms and marble sculptures.
And, again, several weeks ago, as a part of the court proceedings.
But Laurent has never seen it alone, and he is awestruck.
A circle of early-afternoon sunlight illuminates the structure like the star of the show in a theatre production.
Steel gleams– the platform, steps and struts– crowned by a painted canopy decorated with familiar scenes from French history.
The storming of the Bastille. The Napoleonic Wars.
With reverence, Laurent draws closer to it.
Ascending the three steps, he admires the intricate metalwork–fleurs-de-lis cover everything, including the poles supporting the twenty-four carved horses, which are paused mid-motion, manes flowing and hooves kicking, each one centred above a large hexagonal shape engraved on the platform.
A horse the colour of light fudge stands out amongst the others, distinguished by a raised blue diamond on its forehead.
Although the paintwork is universally skilled, it is obvious that extra care has been taken with this creature; stroke by stroke has been applied with such precision that each hair, every feature, looks real.
An inexplicable compulsion overtakes Laurent.
He pounds to the central cylinder. Curious, Laurent had watched as the jury was shown the spot where eyewitnesses spied Victor lurking during the rides, and he knows where to find the controls.
He opens a metal flap, pulls down a lever, races back to the horse and leaps on.
The carousel glides into motion. Laurent peers into the dark depths of the control cylinder. It is the perfect hiding spot, and, yes, large enough for both Victor and a victim. The man could easily have darted out and in, unseen.
As the ride accelerates, Laurent is struck by the sleekness of movement, smooth as a knife over soft butter.
My, this is wonderful! With the rise and fall of the horse, he feels his heart pounding as he clings on.
Soon, however, the initial thrill is replaced by wistfulness.
This reminds him of the summer afternoon three decades ago at the Parc de Belleville.
In those days, it was rare for his mother to feel up to an outing.
But there she was, perched beside him on the park’s pretty blue-and-white carousel, the rush of the ride loosening her neat chignon.
‘Oh, to hell with it,’ she laughed, and, with a flourish, pulled out the clasp, setting those rich brown curls free.
Never having known her to be so bold, so alive, Laurent was captured by the moment.
He can almost see her here now, sitting on the elegant grey pony next to him with her hair flowing back.
He can almost reach out and touch her. Almost. As the ride slows to a gradual stop, Laurent stumbles off the horse and staggers to the edge of the platform, where he sits, his head between his hands.
A crowd is already assembled on the pavement outside La Santé Prison when Laurent takes a seat opposite the guillotine. He is just in time to witness Victor’s scrawny neck being positioned beneath the sharp blade. The man screams, protests his innocence, but it is too late.
After Victor’s body is placed on the ground, the young woman from the court steps forward, clutching the hand of the little boy, Henri.
Both mother and son stare at the lifeless man.
Laurent knows from interrogating Victor that the boy is a bastard, and, therefore, entitled to nothing from the estate.
Discomfort pricks Laurent. A pauper’s life in the slums is what lies in store for the boy: starvation, begging for scraps, beatings, being taken advantage of by unsavoury types. But Laurent’s hands are tied. After all, he doesn’t make up the rules.
Henri escapes his mother’s grip to grab a long stick from the ground. Not fully grasping the situation, he begins running around, lost in innocent play. In that moment, Laurent pictures Amélie, delicate and vulnerable. To hell with it, he thinks. There must be a way to help the boy.