Chapter 134 Courtesan
“What?” Charlie’s disbelief was palpable.
Lumian shared his surprise, casting a sympathetic glance at Charlie.
He was convinced that Charlie had no reason to kill Madame Alice. After all, while she lived, Charlie stood to gain 500 verl d’or a month for the next six months. According to various publications, this sum was nearly equivalent to the monthly salary of a doctor, lawyer, mid-level civil servant, senior high school teacher, senior engineer, or deputy police lieutenant. For someone who had nearly starved to death and could only find work as an apprentice attendant, it was a small fortune.
As his two colleagues headed upstairs, the officer who had handcuffed Charlie tersely explained, “Madame Alice was discovered dead in her room at the H?tel du Cygne Blanc this morning. Multiple witnesses confirm you spent the night there and didn’t leave until close to midnight.”
Charlie’s fear and confusion mounted.
“How is this possible? How did she die…”
Muttering to himself, he suddenly turned to the officer, anxiety etched on his face, and insisted, “She was alive when I left! I swear by Saint Viève!”
The officer’s deep voice responded, “The preliminary autopsy report places Madame Alice’s time of death between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. last night. Besides you and her, no one else’s presence was detected.”
Could the other presence not be human? Lumian mused silently, considering the Montsouris ghost.
If it weren’t for his lack of an adequate disguise and his desire to avoid the detectives’ scrutiny, he would have voiced his thoughts.
“Impossible! This can’t be happening!” Charlie’s eyes widened, his voice raised in protest.
A police officer, who had slipped away earlier, descended from the fourth floor, a glittering diamond necklace held in his white-gloved left hand.
“Found this!” he informed the lead officer.
The officer nodded without further explanation to Charlie. He stared at him solemnly, declaring, “Charlie Collent, you’re under arrest for murder. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you in court.”
“I didn’t do it! Do you hear me? I didn’t!” Charlie screamed, struggling futilely.
Despite his protestations, he was led out of Auberge du Coq Doré by the two police officers.
By then, several tenants had been drawn by the commotion to the staircase, where they watched the scene unfold.
Among them was Gabriel, who appeared to have just completed an all-night writing session on his manuscript.
“Do you think Charlie did it?” Lumian asked the playwright, deep in thought as he stared down the now-empty corridor.
Gabriel had emerged earlier and had a rough understanding of Charlie’s predicament.
He shook his head, replying, “I don’t think Charlie is guilty. He’s not a saint, but he’s not evil either.”
“Why do you say that?” Lumian inquired, turning to him.
Gabriel adjusted his black-framed glasses.
“Charlie was swindled out of his money and nearly starved, yet he never considered stealing from us.
“That means he either has principles and a moral compass, or he’s terrified of the law. In either case, it’s enough to prove he wouldn’t murder that lady.”
Lumian nodded, then chuckled.
“People can be impulsive and change.”
With that, he climbed the stairs to the fifth floor.
This was the top floor of Auberge du Coq Doré. Large sections of the ceiling overhead showed signs of water damage, as if heavy rain would cause it to leak.
Lumian approached Room 504, Charlie’s room, and extracted a small wire he carried with him to unlock the wooden door.
Inside, Charlie’s suitcase, bed, and wooden table had been rifled through by the two police officers earlier. Items were strewn about, but they were few and far between.
Lumian recalled that during a conversation with Charlie at the basement bar, he had mentioned pawning his only formal suit and many other belongings while unemployed. He still couldn’t afford to retrieve them.
As he entered, his gaze shifted, and Lumian suddenly spotted a portrait.
Taped to the wall opposite the bed, it depicted a woman in a green dress.
The woman appeared to be in her late twenties, with auburn hair, jade-green eyes, and lustrous red lips. She possessed an exquisite beauty, radiating elegance.
Lumian was taken aback. The woman in the painting seemed eerily familiar.
He realized it must be Susanna Matisse, the infamous prostitute Charlie had confused for Saint Viève.
Yet he had never met this woman before, so there was no reason for him to find her familiar.
After some thought, Lumian suddenly remembered something.
During his Summoning Dance in Room 207, he had attracted a translucent figure that was clearly more powerful than the other entities.
The figure, too, was female and bore a striking resemblance to Susanna Matisse in the portrait. However, one had turquoise hair, the other auburn; one’s hair was long enough to cover her naked body, while the other’s was merely long enough to form a bun.
Moreover, the figure was even more alluring, seemingly capable of stirring hidden desires within anyone. Susanna Matisse’s portrait didn’t provoke such feelings in Lumian. A consequence of misguided prayers? Lumian silently nodded in agreement.
In the past, he wouldn’t have questioned Charlie’s actions. If it meant avoiding starvation, Lumian would have prayed sincerely to a prostitute, let alone Trier’s guardian angel.
But now, through Aurore’s grimoire, Lumian had gained a basic understanding of the entry-level Sequences of the twenty-two divine paths, sacrificial taboos, and associated mystical knowledge. He knew that careless praying could be perilous.
After searching for a while, he left Room 504, grabbed the carbide lamp, and hailed a public carriage on Avenue du Marché, heading toward Quartier de l’Observatoire.
As he ventured into the underground toward the area where Osta Trul typically lurked, Lumian periodically scrutinized the shadows behind the stone pillars.
He laughed at himself, thinking, I won’t run into the Montsouris ghost again, will I? If that were the case, he would need to consider whether the Montsouris ghost had a particular connection to something he possessed, or if corruption had indirectly altered his “horoscope,” resulting in exceptionally bad luck. Fortunately, Lumian’s concerns proved unfounded. He found Osta Trul sitting beneath a stone pillar, a bonfire crackling nearby.
The hooded, black-robed figure glanced at Lumian and offered a genuine smile. “Mr. K has granted you permission to attend our biweekly mysticism gathering at nine o’clock on Wednesday night.”
Osta’s gaze bore a distinct sincerity, as if to say payment was due.
At 9 p.m. the day after tomorrow… Lumian nodded with a smile.
“Where’s the gathering?”
“Meet me at my place an hour beforehand. I’ll take you there,” Osta replied without hesitation. Lumian tersely acknowledged.
“I’ll pay you the rest then.”
“Alright.” Though Osta seemed slightly disappointed, he acquiesced.
...
Lumian inquired, “What should I be cautious of at the gathering?”
“Cover your face and hide your identity,” Osta advised from experience. “You don’t want other attendees exposing you if they’re caught by the authorities, do you? Aside from Mr. K, no one should know everything.” Lumian grinned, retorting, “You’ve already seen my face and know my identity. Should I consider burying you in some corner of Underground Trier after the first gathering?” Osta involuntarily shuddered and forced a smile.
“You’re quite the joker. But I don’t actually know who you are, where you live, or what you do. Besides, it’s unlikely that you’ve shown me your true self.”
Taking pleasure in unnerving the other party, Lumian found a rock and sat down. Basking in the warmth of the bonfire, he casually asked, “Have you ever heard of Suzanne Matisse?”
“I have,” Osta replied, his excitement evident. “For a time, she was the woman of my dreams. I bought numerous posters and postcards featuring her image. A few years ago, she was Trier’s most famous prostitute, the kind who attended high society banquets. She was linked to countless scandals involving members of parliament, high-ranking officials, and the wealthy. Rumor has it that she made hundreds of thousands of verl d’or annually, but she’s been out of the limelight for the past two or three years. Nana has since taken her place as Trier’s renowned courtesan. Sigh, she might have become someone’s permanent mistress.” Hundreds of thousands of verl d’or? Lumian was taken aback.
“A high-level courtesan earns more than most best-selling authors?”
“Isn’t that normal?” Osta wore a peculiar expression. “A high-level courtesan can sleep with members of parliament, bankers, and high-ranking officials, but a best-selling author can’t[1].”
Amused and self-deprecating, Lumian remarked, “That’s true. Poet Boller once said there is no difference between a poet and prostitute. The former sells the product of his imagination, the latter her body.”
“I prefer bodies,” Osta admitted candidly. Lumian inquired again, “Have you heard of the legend of a female ghost? She has turquoise hair, long enough to wrap around her body. Her features are exquisite, capable of enchanting most men and arousing their desires.”
“No.” Osta shook his head. With a wistful expression, he added, “If such a female ghost truly exists, I’d love to encounter her just once.”
Lumian stood up and chuckled. “Then brace yourself for sudden death after doing it dozens of times a night.”
...
“…” Osta’s expression froze.
3 p.m., 27 Avenue du Marché, Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman Police Headquarters. Lumian, having spent nearly 300 verl d’or on three sets of differently graded clothes, affordable cosmetics, and other disguise props, entered the unusually noisy hall. Some people were being brought in, others were fortunate enough to leave, while still others argued loudly, caused a scene, and cursed-some slammed tables and kicked stools…
Lumian, his blond hair neatly combed back, black-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and a mustache adorning his lips, appeared with overly fair cheeks. Dressed in a black formal suit and carrying a brown briefcase, he approached a male constable overseeing reception.
He stopped before the man, lifted his head slightly, and confidently announced, “I’m Charlie Collent’s pro bono lawyer. I’d like to see my client.”
[1] I remember Baudelaire mentioning it, but I couldn’t find the source for the time being. It could be someone else.