Free The Curse of the Grand Guignol by Anna Lord

de Guise alluded to earlier;
the ones who own the cafe where the fifth murder took place. It
establishes a definite link between the café and the theatre.”
    “It links one of the actresses
to the cafe too.”
    “Was she the one who played the
role of the old mad woman who cut out the tongue?”
    The Countess checked the
theatre programme in her hand. “Yes, Mademoiselle Kiki.”
    “It appears that all three
brothers are in love with the same woman,” he added portentously,
“that cannot possibly end well.”
    “Let’s see if we can score an
introduction to the fatal allumeuse .”
    “What about the Russian?”
    “What about him?”
    “I don’t think he takes kindly
to strangers skulking around back-stage.”
    “Let me handle him. On y
va .”
    Dr Watson developed a bad
feeling in the pit of his stomach. He cast a nervous glance over
his shoulder before following in her reckless wake. They made it as
far as the next cramped corridor before they came face to face with
the mad Russian. This time he was tearing strips off the
doorman.
    “If you let those three
anarchists in again you can find another job! I don’t want to see
those fucking revolutionaries back-stage again! Is that clear!” He
turned abruptly and crashed straight into the Countess. “Who the
hell are you!”
    “Countess Varvara
Volodymyrovna.” Without fail, her name stopped people in their
tracks, even mad Russians
    With flirtatious elegance, she
held out a silk-gloved hand and to Dr Watson’s eternal surprise the
demented director did not chop it off or tear her limb from limb.
Totally tamed, he took her silk-wrapped fingers and brought them to
his spittled lips.
    “Enchante,” he frothed with
husky restraint.
    “A thrilling performance
tonight,” she praised flirtatiously, “but not half as thrilling as
the one we witnessed a few moments ago back-stage. Bravo, Monsieur
Davidov.”
    The proud and fearless despot
burst out laughing and everyone stopped to look, stunned and not a
little frightened of the Russian tyrant who sometimes flayed them
alive just for the fun of it. Things were always tense after a show
as their temperamental director let off steam by venting his
spleen, and when the Brothers Boldt showed up there were always
sure to be an explosion of fireworks.
    Monsieur Davidov was the
epitome of the passionate Russian artiste. He possessed a
blistering gaze and a pugnacious chin. His zealous hair was wild
and woolly. Startling black eyebrows looked like they’d been forged
from pig-iron; they framed the windows to his dark Slavic soul and
could have held up the Eiffel Tower in the event of collapse.
Despite being minus his frock-coat he was well-groomed with a fine
silk cravat and diamond pin, matching waistcoat and gold pocket
watch.
    “I am thrilled you found it
thrilling. Be sure to tell all your rich friends. The play runs all
week. Next week we do another thrilling piece. Bring all your rich
friends to that one too.” He waved his hand in the air as he spoke
as if painting with broad brushstrokes on a large canvas. The
effect was expressive, impressive and outrageous.
    “The current play started
when?”
    He was in the process of
rushing away when the Countess’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Last night was opening night.”
    “Each play runs for one
week?”
    “Da.”
    “You are the director?”
    “Da – producer, director,
owner, everything!”
    “You own the theatre?”
    “Da, da, da! Questions,
questions, questions! What is this – a Tsarist interrogation!”
    “Do you write the plays
too?”
    “More questions!” He threw back
his head and guffawed riotously. “That is the one thing I do not
do. Raoul writes the plays.” The name seemed to trigger something
in the dim recesses of his long lost memory as he swept the wild
shaggy mane out of his darkly shining eyes. “Raoul? Where is Raoul?
I want to speak to Raoul now! That opening scene was a stinker!
Where is Raoul? You little weasel you