Le Poisson Fantôme

LE POISSON FANTÔME

If you are looking for a story, then just turn and walk away. This is hardly a story, hardly fantastical, hardly even entertaining. It is reality. Harsh; cruel; and untrustworthy. Like a love-sick horse in April, like a long-lost wandering soul and it happened on a day like any other

Paris, France. 2004. March.

She was on the verge of the discovery of the century. The revolutionary breakthrough that would put Mrs. C. V. Hemmings among the greats: Monsieur LaRoux of Toulouse or Pierre the Bear. Even Cathie LaBelle international detective, and she even happened to be a marvelous aficionado of fine German teas, as it turned out.

She stepped out of the carriage, and into the odd celestial blaze that is the daytime, taking in the scene around her; and she turned up her nose in disgust. I should have known it would be a day like this, pleasant no doubt about it. Typical.

“Richard! My shawl s’il vous plais. And hurry it’s chillier than the Devil’s left thumb out here!” She called back to the carriage.

Mrs. C. V. Hemmings oft tended to yell at the poor soul. He was a good boy, but a rubbish coworker. After rescuing him from the wasteland that is North Dakota, he became her personal assistance. Oh it was nice at first, but then she began to see the blessed thing for what he really was: clumsier than a left-handed monkey swimming in broth. The boy was 39 and acted it, his blundering often destroying crime scenes and ultimately ruining the case altogether. He was good for some things she supposed, like bringing her shawl.

“For the last time, Hemmings, it’s Robert!” He said, stepping out of the carriage into the equally bright day.

Bless his heart, the poor boy is delirious she thought offhandedly, not in the slightest disposed as to calling him by that name.

“Oh come off it Ronald, we have important...business to deal with this morning. And please dear, for the sake of all Turkish literature, do try to remain, well, ‘restrained.’ This will be the crux of my career I assure you. The day I finally catch the Fantôme!”

“Robert...” the assistant grumbled to himself bitterly.

“Alright,” the Mrs. C. V. Hemmings said, “time to be clever.”

So they walked into the gallery. The sight rattled her cage. Revolting. Absolutely horrendous. The police had already arrived and taped off the “crime” scene. This was hardly crime. It was disgrace, and the most idiotic sort at that. She reached up, fingers almost brushing the defiled canvas of the renowned work of Edvard Munch “The Scream.” Now it was clear why that disfigured face was screaming, for with the most childish of instruments, a thin black line was traced gently under his nose. Just the very sight of it made her stomach churn. For Mrs. C. V. Hemmings loved doing justice more than the average Jacque; it was her trade, but the reason the Poisson Fantôme was her nemesis was that he literally destroyed everything she believed it, not that belief meant anything, the sight of the state of these paintings made her want to regurgitate everything that she heard at church last week.

“Gentlemen,” she swept into the room like a whirlwind, “what have you for me this morning?”

“Anuzzer case of zee Poisson, Madame! Zee break-ins are becoming more frequent!” Officer Jacque Dubois came tottering up to her, his oversized paunch swaying in rhythm to his steps, his accent thicker than a baguette salesman.

“Monsieur Dubois, please,” and she raised her hand for silence. “When did the events take—?” and then Mrs. C. V. Hemmings was interrupted by an ungodly sound, and knew at once what had happened.

“Rupert!! What did I tell you?”

Robert emerged from the heap of police tape, and croissants, lying beside him was a statue in ruins.

“That was only 800 years old,” remarked the inspector.

“For the sake of all good men of Athens, this is a CRIME SCENE not a gymnasium good heavens.”

“Forgive me, Madame! There was  … well… you see…” Robert stuttered

“This is no time for excuses, Rudolf! There are more pressing matters at stake than your…” she paused noticing a shining object upon the marble floor, “Sacre bleu! There it is! The Fantȏme’s calling card! Why this is the very thing that I’ve been missing!”

“But Madame, zee Poisson leaves his calling card at every--”

“Silence, Christian!” Mrs, C. V. Hemmings cut the inspector off before he knew any better.

There in the place where the poor ignorant fool fell and ended the life of one Henry VIII, amidst the rubble of statue carapace, was a shining silver fish about 19 centimeters in length.

“Aha! There, I see it! That small fish must be what the Poisson left when he broke in last night! It is clear to see--”

And again with only a raise of the hand, silence fell. Mrs. C. V. Hemmings rose, and began pacing the room. She was wearing her clever face, as Robert noticed; indicated clearly and simply by a 12 degree tilt of the head to the immediate left and a gentle hand resting softly and firmly under her chin. In all her 39 years on God’s green earth, Robert wondered if--well hang it, this was not the time.

“Oui, clearly this is a fish...fish. Fish. Fish. Fish. What am I missing? Where could he strike next I wonder. “The entire room was washed over in a deluge of pontification.

“Randal! Fish. Fish? Fish! A silver fish? Why fish? Why silver?” she interrogated the boy without mercy

“Um, it’s Robert, Madame, and you really don’t speak French do you?” Inquired the assistant in return.

“What?” Mrs. C. V. Hemmings was momentarily caught off guard, “of course I do! Did your blasted mind forget the pure and untainted origins of your superior? Or did your vertically challenged disposition cause a momentary lapse of oxygen to your thought processes?”

“I see you are not a scientist neither” mumbled the assistant.

“Oh, hang it you are missing the point, Reuben!” And she mentally kicked herself for being so cross with the boy. If only she really knew just how important he was in her life.

“Wait! Look! I have found something!” Said Robert from across the room, “Hemmings, come over here!”

Mrs. C. V. Hemmings rushed over to where her associate stood ‘neath a rather abstract sort of turtle. Which had been stroked with a fine layer of...she put her finger in the yellow paste and touched it to her tongue, dijon mustard. Of course.

“Can you see it, Madame? There on the head, well, tail, no sort of an entire body actually. Abstract art really steams my clams. Frustrates the living willies out of me. Isn’t the slow progression of time through the narrow hourglass of existence what really hinders greatness?”

“Hush, Ryan,” and again the hand was raised. “Now isn’t the time to think like an American. Mustard…Dijon…” and she gasped in epiphany, “That must be where he will strike next! At the Dijon Mustard factory!” But no one seemed impressed.

Then Robert spoke up, “I think you mean the Dijon art museum, Hemmings, oh and my name is Robert.”

They left the museum at half-past one, and rode all through the night amidst a torrential downpour. Must be the Americans again, she thought. Over pot-holed paths and through narrow passageways, the duo traversed over France in hot pursuit of Le Poisson Fantôme. With Robert sitting across from her, she began to feel slightly uncomfortable. With his stooped shoulders, messy hair, and unforgiving pot belly, there was something about him that made him unique. She trusted him, and never took on a case, or investigated without him. There was something charming about him, nothing romantic of course, Mrs. C. V. Hemmings did not believe in anything so petty and foolish. It’s funny, she thought to herself, why was Robert always gone the night the Poisson struck? He certainly wasn’t in the manor whenever her adversary came about. Then she reflected on Robert’s weekly nights of billiards with the chaps from the masonry society. He did like to go out for a bit of pool, cigars, and fine candy floss. She turned her head away from the window and looked at her friend. He looked distressed, more nervous it seemed; his hand was pitilessly tapping his suitcase, and his eyes were darting around in his head, fast enough to make even the most unorthodox mailman jealous. And then again, kicked herself in the mind. You are better than this, Hemmings. You are above them. The words played through her thoughts, the voice of her mother.

After an eternity the carriage halted outside the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Dijon, a massive structure that loomed over Mrs. C. V. Hemmings in the dark, crying sky, which made her feel as if she was walking through the valley of the Shadow of Death. This was her greatest moment, she felt giddy, yet so very, very afraid. A loud clap of thunder and she stepped through the doors.

Breaking into a museum was new to her, but as Robert handed her the grappling hook, she began to feel giddy again, to her disgust. After all this is simply the first night in a very long time that anything has made sense.

“Hurry up, Hemmings. I’m freezing my shins off down here!” Robert said through chattering teeth.

Mrs. C. V. Hemmings rolled her eyes, “Oh, Roshawn. Where’s your sense of adventure?” And she was already halfway up the wall. It may have been simply her imagination, but she thought she heard Robert say faintly, “Belgium,” down below her. No matter. Hand over foot she climbed the wall, faster than a Mongol she climbed for fear of electric shock. After a few more steps she risked a glance down and saw her partner hanging with one foot in the rope, the other flying aimlessly like a kite. His hands groped about the air, whether looking for a handhold or reaching out to the spirits of the freshly departed, she couldn’t tell. Bless his heart, the boy’s hopeless, she thought.

Finally they reached the top, and descended down through the roof; that’s when the nightmare began. It couldn’t be anything earlier than 11 o’clock, and the museum was darker than Edgar Allen Poe at a raven aviary. Which didn’t stop Robert from leaving a trail behind him. They traversed to the Salon Condé, where the paintings were on display, and behind their path were broken statue, overturned wastebaskets, and strangely some mysterious black ink.

Mrs. C. V. Hemmings had had just about enough. At last they reached the art room and Mrs. C. V, Hemmings carefully lined the doors with traps and snares, barbaric yes, but practical, and set cameras along the walls. She hid behind a nice bunch of begonias nearby, and waited. And waited. The paintings were still pure and nothing interesting seemed to be happening save the odd gang of flies and once Robert did trip the alarm system. Typical.

They waited for hours with no sign of Le Poisson Fantôme. Something inside her told Mrs. C. V. Hemmings that now would be a good time to reflect, and her mind drifted to the origin of the name “Sperm Whale.” But she pushed these thoughts away, nothing could distract her, especially fruitless thinking. At length Mrs. C. V, Hemmings noticed that her accomplice was becoming a bit restless. Perhaps there wasn’t much for the stakeout business in North Dakota.

“Ricky,” Mrs. C. V. Hemmings whispered to the darkness, “Ricky are you there?”

Silence.

Now this IS unusual, she thought to herself, he must have fallen asleep. So she searched and felt around in the darkness for the sleeping carapace; but to no avail. Panic overcame curiosity within Mrs. C, V. Hemmings. And again she sat in silence; alone now. Did René go to the loo? Did he slip out for doughnuts and a bit of coffee? Her thoughts wandered and did not notice the dark figure running down the aisle. She stood up quickly and slipped out from the flora. The shadowy figure sprinted away, knocking over a flowerpot as he fled. Mrs. C. V. Hemmings wasted no time in pursuit. She cried out,

“Ha! the little Poisson has swam into my net!”

They ran through twisting corridors and up and down flights of stairs, Mrs. C. V. Hemmings slowly gaining on her prey. Then the chase led to a dead-end room. The man Mrs. C. V. Hemmings was chasing turned to face her and all the lights flashed on. Momentarily stunned, her vision cleared and Mrs. C. V. Hemmings got a look at the strange figure, who as it turns out was wearing the most ridiculous costume the Mrs. Hemmings had ever had the blessing to witness. The figure was wearing a multi-colored rainbow cloak with a long red cape resembling a fish tail, a long red neck tie and a blue Fedora. Mrs. C. V. Hemmings gasped.

“Le Poisson Fantôme! At last I can witness my nemesis, face to…” and she paused noticing the mask the Poisson was wearing.

And he laughed a deep, evil, maniacal laugh.

“Charlotte Viola Hemmings,” the words were slow and deliberate as if with each word a spike was being driven into Mrs. Hemmings. No one knew her real name.

Snapping out of her stunned demeanor, she mustered up enough confidence to speak: “Bon Matin my old friend, if I can call you such! Tonight the greatest mind of mankind will come to terms with the most foolish. You who deface art and beauty, your time is up.

The creature laughed a deep, high-pitched laugh that was colder than a penguin’s bosom and dryer than the Book of Mormon. “Oh, my dear, dear Mrs. C. V. Hemmings. For far too long have I had to totter along beside you, playing the bumbling assistant, the klutz! Well, no longer. Tonight, on what you hoped would be the greatest night in your career will actually be in fact, mine.”

And he removed his masquerade.

Mrs. C. V. Hemmings fell to her knees, absolute and utter horror spreading across her visage like a cobweb. She hung her head. Le Poisson snapped his fingers and ropes sprang up and bound her to the floor. She was helpless, still in shock.

Her adversary paced in front of her, hands behind his back. Then spoke, “And now, it’s time! My moment of glory, my biggest scandal yet. One that will set me among the greats. And oh! Look, you get to watch, helplessly bound and unable to stop me! Hahahahaha!”

He walked to the center of the room, where on a raised dais, sat a canvas covered on an easel.

“Behold,” he said, and Mrs. C. V. Hemmings raised her head, “my crowning moment!” and pulled the cover off of the canvas, and there is was. Her. Her portrait, done by her grandfather in the most elegant watercolor. It was her prized possession.

“No…”

“Oh, yes. Witness now, the defamation of the great, Charlotte Viola Hemmings!”

On the word witness, he drew from his Technicolor folds a Sharpie. On the word great, he uncapped it, the smell like rotting flesh. Then he raised the Sharpie slowly to the masterpiece. Hemmings lost it.

“No, no, please!!! I beg of you, no! Have mercy!!” she struggled against the bonds, crying out in hysteria. Where her perfect lip once was, there was now an impeccable French moustache. She hung her head and sobbed. It felt as if the fire inside of her was nothing more than an ember in the ashes. Then, in the faintest of known human sonic capability she uttered one word, “Robert…”

He froze, the malicious grin fading like sunset. The Sharpie fell to the ground. “You… you know my name?”

And for the very, very briefest moment of moments, their eyes connected. Something inaudible was said that, to this day, Mrs. C. V. Hemmings would never tell a single soul.

Then it was gone. Le Poisson Fantôme turned his back and continued in his sin.

“All these years, waiting. Waiting for my chance to shame the name Hemmings, to make her life miserable. Coming on as your… associate was not easy, but I took an improv class in Dakota. All part of a master plan to--”

Mrs. C. V. Hemmings was laughing, which was evidently, not pleasing to ‘Rainbow Trout.’

“What? why are you laughing? What is the meaning of this?”

“Oh, Robert… is that even your real name? Hang it, I don’t care anymore. But you honestly took me for an absolute fool! Do you think the cleverest mind in France would not suspects something like this, please, you practically told me to come to Dijon, I mean come on!” and she erupted into a laughing fit, whilst Robert stood dumbstruck.

“But, what about your painting?” he asked.

“Sorry, what?”

“Your painting, the portrait! Your greatest treasure in life!”

“Oh right you mean your trap.”

“Sorry what?”

And the painting erupted into flames.

The next morning was sort of a blur for Mrs. C. V. Hemmings. It sounded like all of the town was happy, which was good for them, considering the nature of the event and how silly it all seemed now. She watched as the Police dragged her poor, old friend, burnt to a crisp into a car to be driven to prison. Well the case was closed, Mrs. C. V. Hemmings would be lying if she said that she wasn’t satisfied with finding out at last who Le Poisson Fantôme was. She would furthermore be lying on her name if she said she wasn’t tinged with sadness. But sadness, like every emotion, would have to wait. With all of the shutters closed, Mrs. C. V. Hemmings sat in her big, comfy armchair, looking up at the portrait of herself frowning down on her as if to say ‘only one lump, Mrs. Blanche, or the whole town will soon know of your dealings with the Germans.’ And so life went on, for Mrs. C. V. Hemmings, ace detective, local private investigator and nearby trumpet prodigy. She now oft considered adding ‘fish arsonist’ to her title, but that would not go well with the folks in Parliament, bless them.

The whole nation of France knew of the marvelous and clever deeds of Mrs. C. V. Hemmings, and never once did they not look up at their precious art, grasping firmly and lovingly the precious hand of their children, and not repeat the adage that now stuck in everyone’s hearts: “Give a man a fish, feed him for a day. Let the man become a barking mad fish himself…” Well, I’ll let you figure the next bit out for yourself.