21: Gourmet Deserts

The morning dawned fresh and clear. The pavements steamed, the shopfronts shook the last few raindrops from their signage, and the Seine looked even more full of itself than usual.

Shenanigan was miserable.

Her dreams had been drenched in water, perhaps because of the storm, or the ferry crossing, or Maelstrom’s boat, the striped awning of which she could see from her window. The purple figure of her uncle was moving about on deck. Talking to him would make her feel better, she knew, and that was why she couldn’t do it. If he was going to sail away into the sunset soon, she was going to have to get used to making herself feel better. She had to be more self-reliant, she decided, in a sudden burst of maturity. Her uncle had left Trinidad when he was only a boy around Shenanigan’s age. Who did he have to talk to? No one. And wasn’t he braver, and stronger, and tougher because of it? Surely. Probably. Maybe.

In a few hours, the exhibition was going to open at the Musée Deburau. As far as Shenanigan could see, there were two futures on the other side of it: either Ouvolpo were going to go for the final Pierrot artwork, pull off a daring heist, and leave an incongruous tableau; or Ouvolpo were going to go for the final Pierrot artwork, be caught by Soufflé and the police, and be packed off to jail by dinner. Either way, the real mystery of what happened to Pierrot-the-artist wouldn’t be solved. Oh, the Swifts could shout about what they’d learned so far. But what did they have, really? An old signature in a guest book and a lot of pointing fingers.

Still, Shenanigan was a doing-something person, and though she couldn’t put the whole world right, she could put right one thing. She woke her eldest sister, explained what she wanted to do, and then together they went out into the morning, armed with a list from Mercredi.

Souris sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, staring into an open fridge roughly the size and color of an iceberg. Inside was a tower of choux buns, held together with sugar thick enough to crack a tooth. It had been iced in black and white, and looked rather like a Pierrot’s conical hat.

“Gourmet’s gone,” said Souris as the kitchen doors flapped open and shut at Shenanigan’s entrance. He gestured at the prep table, where several pillows and blankets had been neatly folded. “And before you say, ‘Oh, Souris, you know where he went,’ I don’t.”

Shenanigan sat down next to him. She wasn’t really sure where to start. “What’s that?” she asked instead, pointing to the edible hat.

“It’s a croquembouche,” he said. “Gourmet made it for the party after the exhibition.”

“Oh right. A what?”

“You make them for celebrations. Choux pastry buns full of cream, stuck together with sugar and built into a cone. You can decorate it however you like. This is the Martinets’ own version, the croquembouche qui blesse,” said Souris.

Shenanigan frowned, attempting to translate. “The croquembouche that blesses?”

“The croquembouche that wounds. Blesse means ‘wound.’ ” He looked at her sidelong. “It’s a false friend.”

“I’m sorry,” said Shenanigan.

“It’s called that because we make the sugar extra thick,” Souris went on, as if he hadn’t heard her. “It shatters in the mouth like glass. In days past, we’d serve it to our enemies at banquets. Or to the Swifts, when they came to visit.”

“I’m sorry,” Shenanigan tried again.

“I heard you.”

“Well, I meant it more the first time, anyway,” she said. “I’m not sorry I shouted, because you did spy on us. But luckily you weren’t a very good spy.”

“This isn’t a very good apology.”

“A good spy would have told Soufflé everything, even after they found out he might be a murderer. And you didn’t.”

Souris nodded stiffly. “Thanks.”

“You helped us, so I’m sorry I said you were untrustworthy. And I’m sorry I poured Solution Solution over your head. I don’t know why I did that.”

“I do,” said Souris. “It’s because you were angry about something else.” He took off his bellboy cap and spun it round his finger. “Every week I see guests explode over something tiny, like a towel that wasn’t folded properly or a mouse in their soup. My mother says it’s because they are upset about something else. They take it out on you because you’re close by, and they can’t reach the thing that’s really upset them. Maybe they don’t even know what it is.”

Shenanigan thought about that. “I really am sorry,” she said, and she meant it the most the third time round. “I brought a peace offering.”

She reached into the paper bag and pulled out a package wrapped in greaseproof paper. And then another. She kept pulling packages out of her bag like a magician pulling roast rabbit out of a hat, and the kitchen began to fill with the mingling smells of a dozen street foods.

“You hardly ever get to leave the Hôtel, so I thought I’d bring you something from the outside world,” she said awkwardly. “I asked Mercredi what you liked. She told me there was no such thing as too much cheese.”

Souris opened the nearest package. His nose twitched at the melted cheese and mushroom oozing from a galette.

“I know this looks like breakfast, but it’s actually a symbol,” explained Shenanigan. “I didn’t poison it or anything.”

Souris grinned. He disappeared into the fridge and came back with a mug of apple juice.

“I didn’t poison this, either,” he said, setting it in front of her. “If I eat the food you brought, and you drink the juice I gave you, and neither of us dies, that means we trust each other.”

“Acceptable,” said Shenanigan. And since neither of them began frothing at the mouth or choking after the first sips and bites, that was enough.

Erf poked their head around the door. “Are you done apologizing yet? I’m starving.”

“Fair warning, Shenanigan insisted on ordering all this herself,” said Felicity, sitting down. “But she doesn’t speak French and only had half a phrase book, so if you end up with syrup on your sausages rather than ketchup, that’s why.”

They ate. They stared at the croquembouche.

“Do you have any idea where Gourmet might be, Souris?” asked Phenomena, eventually.

Souris shook his head. “He left a note.” He waved a hurriedly torn-off slip of paper. “It was pinned to the croquembouche. It says, ‘Not to be eaten until my return.’ That’s all.”

“Well, at least he’s planning on coming back.”

“I also found this. It was the only thing in the bin.” Souris handed Phenomena a crumpled envelope. On it was written INSURANCE. “It’s Bernard’s handwriting.”

Phenomena turned the envelope over and over in her hands. “I think it’s fair to say Bernard did know something incriminating, then. Whatever it was, he left it for Gourmet, as insurance—but against what, we don’t know.”

“And once Gourmet learned Bernard was dead, he opened it. After he woke up, I mean.”

“Fantastic. So now Gourmet is who-knows-where, with who-knows-what evidence.” Phenomena, face shuttered in thought, put down the remains of her muffin. Shenanigan picked it up and ate it.

“We should have just barged into the kitchen, picked Gourmet up, and put him on Maelstrom’s boat,” she said, spraying crumbs. “Then we could have sailed down the Seine and asked him questions somewhere safe.”

“And I should have let you break into Soufflé’s office,” said Souris, “oath or no oath. Then at least we’d know whether it contained any proof.”

“What would have happened if you’d broken your oath?” asked Erf.

“I’d have to break my button-pushing finger too,” said Souris.

“Oof.”

“And my lever-pulling hand.”

“Ouch.”

“And eat my hat, without seasoning or béchamel sauce or anything.”

“What about cheese and gravy?”

“I think cheese and gravy would make it worse,” said Souris, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “I will never understand the English.”

There was the tap-tap-tap of pompous little feet, and Soufflé put his head through the serving hatch. He already looked on the edge of a breakdown.

“Where’s Gourmet?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” said Souris.

Soufflé sighed as if the world was against him. He explained at great length how he had planned for the attendees of the exhibition to come to a reception at the Hôtel afterwards, where they would eat and drink so much that they’d be unable to move, and then they would all have to pay for rooms. But now his head chef was missing and Débris had somehow managed to blow up the vacuum cleaner. He began rattling off tasks for Souris to do ahead of the expected influx of guests.

Shenanigan felt herself vibrating with anger, like a small dog waiting to be given the command to lunge. She realized now how much pressure Souris was under. She felt Felicity’s hand on her collar, half there for comfort, half for restraint. She took deep breaths and tried to communicate telepathically to her sister that she was not planning to seize one of the enormous saucepans from the counter, throw it over Soufflé’s head, and whack it with a ladle until it rang like a bell. The thought had never occurred to her, honest.

Souris listened to Soufflé’s list with a polite expression and several Oui, Oncles, but as soon as Soufflé left, he stood and brushed himself off, face hard.

“I have decided Pomme had the right idea,” he said. “I’m not doing anything he tells me anymore. And if he wants to scold me for it, well, he’ll have to find me first. No one knows the Hôtel better than me.”

They returned to the Non-Smoking Room and updated their canvas.

WHAT WE KNOW

Ouvolpo

  1. Ouvolpo are stealing Pierrot artworks. They have three of four:

    • “A Clown Laments His Lot in Life,” taken from Swift House

    • “The Buildings in Their Finery,” taken from La Garde-robe

    • “The Crocodile Follows Wherever I Go,” taken from the Galerie Valerie

  2. WE ASSUME they will go for the last Pierrot, “Always, I Am Waiting,” tomorrow today at the Musée Deburau exhibition.

  3. Ouvolpo believe Pierrot’s art was stolen by the Martinets, which is why they are taking it back.

  4. Ouvolpo have been framed for the murder of Bernard Plourdes—by the Martinets?

  5. Pomme is a member of Ouvolpo.

  6. Pomme is missing—afraid of her Family?

Pierrot

  1. Thought to have disappeared Disappeared soon after June, 1926—we know this from his sculpture.

  2. Tyran Martinet bought 21 rue Regrette in August.

  3. Tyran Martinet found said he found Pierrot’s art abandoned in his old apartment.

  4. He exhibited it himself, making Pierrot famous.

  5. Three of the pieces were gradually sold off to pay for the upkeep of the Hôtel.

  6. We now know Pierrot ACTUALLY disappeared from the Hôtel Martinet on or after New Year’s Eve, 1926, because his signature is in the guest book.

  7. Evidence of and reference to Pierrot has been removed from city archives, and the police files on his case are gone.

“Of course, we have no proof of any of this,” Phenomena muttered, “other than this signature.” Guest Book 1926A had been relocated upstairs to a seldom-used airing cupboard. It was dangerous to keep it among their things. It was the only actual evidence they had.

Bernard

  1. Bernard Plourdes, handyman at the Hôtel, disappeared a week ago.

  2. He was found dead inside one of Ouvolpo’s tableaux.

  3. Ouvolpo have never been known to harm anyone before now.

  4. Cause of death unknown, but bruising around throat indicates strangulation. Bernard was garroted by nontraditional means—a chain? A rope? Beads?

  5. Specialist opinion suggests the body was placed there by a third party AFTER Ouvolpo completed their tableau.

  6. Before he disappeared, Bernard left an envelope marked INSURANCE for his friend Gourmet.

  7. Gourmet has now vanished, though he has left a note saying he’ll be back, so is presumably still alive.

And, finally, Phenomena wrote:

WHAT DON’T WE KNOW?

They stared at the canvas. It was all right there. When they had arrived, the Swifts had thought they had three separate mysteries, three threads to untangle. But what had seemed like a tangle was a braid, the three threads interwoven to create one cord, unspooling behind them as they navigated the labyrinth of the Hôtel Martinet.

And that cord had tightened round the neck of Bernard Plourdes.

Around midday, a group of men arrived at the Hôtel. They were all large and powerfully built, in gray suits. Shenanigan recognized some of them from the Galerie Valerie. She had thought they were gallery security, but from the way they listened intently to Soufflé’s instructions she gathered they worked for the Family.

Several of the men left the Hôtel, and a short while later the Swifts heard Mercredi shouting. They ran into the lobby and saw her rush out of the doors, chasing after the gray-suited men, who were shoving the crowd of Pierrots away from the Hôtel entrance. They were not being gentle. One of the Pierrots who had been knocked to the pavement bounced upright and darted back towards the doors. A gray-suited man made a grab for the Pierrot’s ruff, but Mercredi kicked the man hard in the shin with one of her enormous boots. Souris’s ears turned dark red at whatever words she was yelling in French, and they hurried outside to help.

Soufflé was already there, smiling placidly.

“You can’t just bully these people off a public street,” Mercredi snarled. “They’re not doing any harm! Soufflé!”

“They’re a nuisance,” said Soufflé. “I’m clearing them off Hôtel property.”

“You can’t do that!”

“I’m the manager.”

Mercredi aimed another stream of invective at the men, but they ignored her, and herded the Pierrots farther down the street. They stood silently, some of them rubbing bruised limbs. The Swifts and Souris went to them.

“Je suis tellement desolé,” Souris apologized as Mercredi continued to hiss at the suits like an angry cat. “Mon oncle Soufflé, il est—”

At the name Soufflé, several of the Pierrots snapped to attention, whipping handkerchiefs out of their pockets and adopting the manager’s pompous walk. They strode around wagging their fingers at each other, and puffing out their chests. The children laughed, but Erf looked thoughtful. They began thumbing through their half of the phrase book, frustrated.

“Souris, how do you say, ‘Could we ask you some questions about Pierrot?’ ”

Souris translated. The clowns pointed to themselves, confused.

“The artist Pierrot, I mean. The one who went missing.”

In a moment, a previously unseen basket was produced, and props were passed around: a beret, an artist’s palette, an easel, a blanket. One of the Pierrots positioned themselves at the easel, donning the palette and beret to show they were the artist.

The children looked at each other, dismayed. Shenanigan, in particular, hated charades.

The artist-Pierrot pretended to paint. Another one tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to greet the newcomer—smiling, and a third Pierrot, this one wearing a cravat and twirling an invisible moustache, whipped the painting from the easel while his back was turned. The artist-Pierrot fell into a theatrical panic when he found his painting missing. He checked behind the easel. He checked in the empty basket. He checked under his beret. When he spied the thief, he started after him—only for four other clowns to toss a forget-me-not-blue blanket over his head. He struggled for a moment, fabric rippling as he sank to the ground.

When his compatriots pulled the blanket away, the artist-Pierrot had vanished.

It was a neatly done trick, and the Swifts clapped politely as the clowns bowed.

“We, um, know he disappeared,” said Felicity. “What we’re trying to figure out is how. And why.”

The Pierrots looked at each other, unsure.

“This isn’t going to work,” said Souris, and Shenanigan remembered Pomme saying, They won’t talk to us. Trust me on that. She wondered if Pomme knew that from experience.

“Why do you hang around here?” Shenanigan asked the forlorn knot of clowns. “There must be better places. Safer places.”

The Pierrots looked at each other. Eventually, one of them stepped forwards. He had an old-fashioned slate and chalk, like a schoolchild from the Victorian era. He scratched something on it, and turned it round.

BECAUSE PIERROT IS HERE STILL

Shenanigan felt her skin prickle. “What does that mean? Do you mean the statue? His ghost? What?”

The Pierrots looked steadily at her, as if the question was too foolish for even a Pierrot to answer.

“How do you know?” she tried instead. “How do you know Pierrot is still here?”

More scratching. The new message read:

WE SEE HIM IN OUR DREAMS

At four p.m., Maelstrom came into the Hôtel with a wrapped package for each of them.

“I realized we didn’t pack party clothes,” he said, “barring yourself, of course, Fliss. I picked up a few things.”

He himself was wearing a new silk shirt beneath his long coat, and had gold thread woven into his hair. For Phenomena, he had bought a sensible dress in radium green, with a pair of black-and-white saddle shoes that would go nicely with her ever-present lab coat. For Erf, who was roughly Shenanigan’s size, a yellow waistcoat patterned with beetles. Felicity was well prepared on the clothes front, and so Maelstrom had bought her her first real piece of jewelry, a beautiful antique gold brooch shaped like a bird, all swoops and curves, with a single pale sapphire for an eye.

And for Shenanigan, her own leather jacket, in bright red.

“It’ll be a bit too big,” he warned. “But I want you to get some decent wear out of it.”

Indeed, the cuffs went past her fingers, but Shenanigan pushed all her sleeves above her elbows anyway. It was soft, and very red, and Shenanigan never wanted to wear anything else. She hugged her uncle hard. Not just because she was grateful, which she was, but because everyone knows that presents mean a person is about to leave you, and they’re trying to soften the blow.

“What about you?” Shenanigan asked Souris. “Aren’t you coming?”

“And leave the Hôtel unprotected? Never.” He grinned, but Shenanigan could see the nerves thrumming just under the skin.

At 4:30 p.m., the gray-suited men formed ranks across the lobby and through the door like a line of concrete bollards. A large black car idled at the cleared curb. Souris brought Grisaille, tightly clutching the black case that contained Toujours j’attends, down to the lobby. Shenanigan thought again how small the sculpture was—so much fuss over something the size of a loaf of bread. Soufflé escorted his mother into the waiting car, and then all three disappeared from sight.

A short while later, at five p.m., more cars came to fetch the assembled Swifts and Martinets, who were by now well dressed and well prepared. None of the children said it aloud, but they were prepared for the worst. They didn’t know what that worst looked like. They were hoping they’d know it if they saw it.