VII
The Angels sat with the Persian in the Café de la Paix. Yuki ate ice cream and Clara drank China tea.
Kate was still irritated.
The job was done – the Red Circle sundered, the Montmartre murders stopped – and the client satisfied.
She had thought she understood why Clara betrayed her, but it turned out that the Englishwoman had shammed her way into the Red Circle. Now, Kate was bewildered again. It had made so much sense for Clara Watson to defect. She was a self-declared connoisseur of torture. Whatever was wrong with Du Roy was wrong with her too – perhaps far more so. Erik had taken her on precisely because of this defect.
'What was it, Clara?' she asked. 'Why were you so set against them?'
'The Légion d'Horreur were bourgeois hypocrites – salivating in secret, rather than proudly taking their pleasures in the open. Besides, I wanted to see a true artist perform… and I have. I shall treasure the memory.'
'Guignol?'
'Oh, he's adorable… but no. Not Guignol.'
Clara raised her teacup to Yuki, who dipped her head modestly.
'Grace. Elegance. Minimalism. Mutilation. Execution. Perfect.'
Kate would never understand. For her, horrors were just horrors.
She looked up at the frontage of the Opera House and fancied a gargoyle was up there, watching over them.
She'd never understand him either. As a reporter, as a detective, she needed only to know the facts; only as Kate Reed did she want to know more.
The Persian laid a dossier of press cuttings on the table.
'Now, les filles, another matter has come to the attention of the Agency. Kate, you will be interested. In the Louvre, guards have been assaulted. It is rumoured that treasures have disappeared. Some talk of a curse upon the building. A strange figure has been seen, drifting through the halls by night, cloaked and silent, wearing the headdress and golden death-mask of a pharaoh…'