No Good Deed 64

There was not a drum in sight, but there was an intense low beat passing through our bones, as though an orchestra of percussion was performing in an adjacent room. I looked at Gottschalk in the gloom. He seemed barely able to keep still. Catching my eye he mouthed something. I shook my head. He leaned close to my ear and whispered 'Ashiko!' It was either a sneeze or he referred to the drums. The audience looked on, no others whispered between themselves as Gottschalk and I had done. Márie Laveau held them captive: up to that moment by doing nothing more than sitting in a chair, wearing a snake as a necklace. She began to chant, counterpointing the insistent drums.

'Papa Lemba!
Le Grand Zombi!
Grant a wish
For your Márie
Voudoun magic,
gris-gris, cries:
make your Márie
woman-wise.'

This inane doggerel Miss Laveau followed by throwing out an arm, whereupon the room was filled with light so bright as to blind all those present. There were shrieks as all became aware that the light had faded, but they still could not see. The drums continued: thankfully, the chanting from Miss Laveau did not. The smell of Márie Leveau became noticeable once more, although it was different in some subtle way. Not some grace note of perfume; something old and knowing, perhaps decayed. Or that may have been nothing but fancy caused by being temporarily blind.

After several minutes, I could discern shapes in the darkness and a clear outline of Gottschalk whose face was close to mine.

'Isn't she magnificent?' Gottschalk whispered.

It was not the word which occurred to me. I preferred mountebank – or perhaps Magnesium – by far, and wondered how Robert-Houdin's principles of misdirection had been so thoroughly learned by the New Orleans woman. After five minutes more, it was possible to see more clearly, although not so well as before Miss Laveau's pyrotechnical ruse. Judging by the gasps from my fellow on-lookers, they had recovered sufficient vision to see that an old, old woman sat in the peacock chair, her arthritic hands clutching at the snake around her neck. The voice was similar, of course; with the added croak and warble of the agéd.

'Qui veut quelqu'-chose de Le Grand Zombi, demandez-vous à moi, Márie Leveau!'

The gullible stepped forward with their petitions for 'Le Grand Zombi'. My French was sufficient to discern that these consisted mostly of requests for success in business, in love, or in sundry other ventures where luck – but not hocus-pocus – might play a part. One attractive matron bade the crone and her snake to ensure her some pleasure in the bedroom if she should meet a man to her taste. I resolved to make her acquaintance before we departed the ridiculous charade. After the last petitioner at the court of the Witch Queen had backed away in deference, the drums became gradually louder and I prepared myself once more for chanted verse of dubious quality.

'Papa Lemba!
Le Grand Zombi!
Grant a wish
For your Márie.
Voudoun magic,
Cock-brained hen;
make your Márie
young again.'

My eyes were tight-shut by the time the croaking voice reached 'Cock-brained hen' and my hands had covered them before the verse had ended. Nonetheless, it was possible to detect the moment the flash occurred. I waited a long minute and opened my eyes. Two confederates were pushing at one edge of the book-lined wall and the whole edifice was rotating on a central pivot. The aged crone on her peacock chair disappeared from view to be replaced by the younger woman once more. Perhaps I should not have laughed aloud, for my arms were grasped by two hulking fellows who had crept up behind me, whilst Gottschalk smiled in blind ignorance of my situation.