Fata Morgana Read Free Page B

glass.”
    Picard sat where he was, staring at the table. Bissonette rattled around in the kitchen and returned with an empty jar, into which he poured a drink for Picard, handing it to him with a smile. “Nothing to be upset about, nothing at all. It’s the younger men in the Prefecture who’re always making trouble for us veterans. They’re a pushy bunch, you know. But the Prefect understands. He asked me to give you your next assignment, when you’re ready, of course, when you’re able...”  
    “I’m ready. What is it?”
    “Just the sort of case I would like to be on myself, were I to go on cases these days, which I don’t, because of my unfortunate affliction. You know, don’t you, that I’ve been seeing double for some time now?”
    “I didn’t know,” said Picard, sipping the cognac.
    “Heredity. Double vision runs in the family.”
    “What is my assignment?”
    “It’s a lovely assignment, lovely. I have the address written down here... somewhere...” Bissonette searched in his pocket, withdrawing a slip of paper. “Eighty-seven, rue de Richelieu. There’s been a fellow entertaining there in luxurious style. No visible means of support. Lazare. Ric Lazare. Came to Paris from Vienna two months ago.”
    “The Prefect wishes me to look into these apartments?”
    “No hurry, Picard. When you’re able. It’s not a pressing case.”
    “I perceive that.” Picard drained his cognac slowly, staring at the table. “Is there anything else I should know about this man Lazare?”
    “There’s a hundred-franc admittance to his salon.”
    “Is he running a show?”
    “I’ve gathered there’s a magical game.” Bissonette’s pipe erupted, sending a burning ember onto his jacket. “A fortune-telling machine...” He casually brushed the ember onto Picard’s rug, where it smoldered and burned out. “The hundred-franc entrance fee is supposed to put the guests in the proper mood. And then your fortune is unveiled.”
    Bissonette smiled, burped, and poured himself another drink.
     
     

 
     
     
    ThePrefect opened the dossier. “Lazare claims to be Austrian. His source of income is supposedly from estates he owns in Leopoldstadt. We checked with the Bank of Austria here and found Lazare’s account is healthy— apparently he’s sold portions of his estate to some of our prominent citizens—Madame Westra, Marshal Legere, Prince Thibeault. Frankly, I don’t see why they should want to make such purchases.”
    “What about this fortune-telling business of his?”
    “These days every salon must have a fortune-teller. Ric Lazare has hired a Hindoo who mumbles over a crystal ball. Madame Leyette employs a woman who reads feet. I attach no importance to any of it.” The Prefect swiveled his chair toward the window. “We live in strange times, Picard, everybody playing at turning tables and such. The other day at the Place de l’Observatoire I myself witnessed a dog translating passages from the Greeks.” The Prefect swiveled back, opened a newspaper on his desk. “There’s something in here...” He turned the pages. “... something about Lazare.”
    His eyes went down the page, he stopped to read for a moment, then looked up with a smile. “Last night Countess Essena appeared at a ball as Salome, wearing an ‘unmentionable costume.’ What do you suppose that might have been?”
    “A few feathers, perhaps?”
    “A troubling thought.” The Prefect continued down the page. “Yes, here we are...” He handed the paper to Picard, pointing to an account of the Lazare salon.
    Picard went through it quickly. The guests were all of the highest station—Due de Gramont-Caderousse, the Russian millionaire M. de Kougueleff, Prince Paskevitch, the Countess Duplessia. But the angel of Paris, wrote the infatuated reporter, is Madame Lazare, who appeared wearing a net of gold in her hair, an off-the-shoulder gown of cream-colored satin by Laferriere, with arrangements of silver cord decorating the