Broken Toys

by johnnedwill

The first thing that the chevalier Toussaint noticed about the cell was the rank stench of stale urine that seemed to ooze from the stones themselves. It stung his eyes, making them water, and seared his sinuses. The chevalier fumbled in his pocket for a linen handkerchief, which he pressed against his face in an effort to negate the atmosphere.

"Why in here?" Toussainst asked.

"It does not matter," the gardien de la paix standing behind him said. "It can't smell a thing - can you?"

This question was directed towards the inhabitant of the cell. Under the light that streamed in mockingly from the barred window high up in the wall, she looked like a ballerina: thin with long, graceful limbs that were porcelain-white under a layer of grime. As she stood up, there was the whirring of cogs and clockwork. "Non, monsieur." Her voice was quiet and breathy. "I do not have a sense of smell."

"You see?" The policeman smirked at Toussaint. "The stench does not bother it."

"It bothers me," the chevalier replied. "Please. I will conduct this interrogation somewhere more civilised."He fixed the gardien with a stern glare. "If that is not inconvenient?"

The policeman looked away, unable to meet Toussaint's eyes. "Non, monsieur le chevalier. It is not inconvenient."

"Come, my dear." The chevalier extended a leather-gloved hand towards the cell's inhabitant.

The pair followed the policeman through the green and grey corridors of the police station. They made a strange couple: the chevalier hunched under his overcoat and bowler hat, protection agains the mild Parisian spring; the other upright and dressed in a tattered tutu and leotard. A few minutes' walk brought them to a sparsely furnished office, the door of which was unlocked by the policeman.

"Are you sure you will be alright?" the gardien asked. "It is a mécanique - a malfunctioning one at that. It - ."

"I know what she is accused of," Toussaint replied. "Go. I shall be safe."

When they were alone in the bare office, the chevalier cleared his throat. "My name is Chevalier Martin Toussaint. I am here to investigate your case. What should I call you?"

In the warm sunlight that poured through the office window, it was obvious that the figure on the other side of the table was not a human being. Rather, it was a life-size mechanical doll, made to resemble a ballet dancer. Her outer skin was made from ceramic, her hair was a wig woven from a horse's mane, and her face - although beautiful - was a moulded mask. When she moved, her actions were measured and precise. When she talked, her voice came from a mechanism within her chest.

"My master called me Yves," the mechanical ballerina replied.

"That is not what I asked," Toussaint replied. He put a small, black notebook on the table and opened it at a blank page. Then he took out a pencil, licking the graphite tip to moisten it.

"Nevertheless, monsieur."

"Very well."

Toussaint shrugged off his overcoat and draped it across the back of his chair. "You have been accused of a serious crime - the murder of Jean-Charles Dupont."

"That is correct, monsieur."

Toussant scribbled in his notebook. "You do not feel any guilt? Any remorse?"

"Non, monsieur," the ballerina replied without hesitation.

"Can you tell me why?"

"Why what, monsieur?"

Toussaint took a deep breath. "Can you tell me why you killed Monsieur Dupont?"

The sound of cogs and clockwork from the ballerina grew louder and more grating. "I - I - I cannot." Yves shuddered, then recovered her composure. "I regret I cannot, monsieur."

Again, the chevalier scribbled something in his notebook. "It is a serious crime, Yves. The laws decree that you should have been dismantled for what you did. But there have been questions about what happened. For example, you did not try to escape or hide the evidence of your crime. Why not?"

"I did not want to, monsieur. In fact, I wanted to be found."

"Indeed. But you know what you did was wrong?"

Yves was silent. Chevalier Toussaint sighed and carefully - deliberately - put his notebook and pencil to one side, pushing them across the stained wood of the tabletop. "Yves, you have only been permitted to continue functioning because your maker wanted to find out what had gone wrong with you. He argued - very convincingly, I might add - that dismantling you would destroy any evidence of what had gone wrong, and that it would be better if someone was to question you. That is why I am here. To question you about what you did and to observe your responses. But, if you will not cooperate, then you will be ended immediately. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Yves replied. "But I cannot tell you. I want to, but I cannot."

"Please. Explain."

Again, Yves hesitated; the gears of her mechanism grinding against each other in some internal conflict. "I cannot tell you," she said at last.

"Ah." Toussaint thought on this, applying his knowledge of logic and the workings of the mécaniques. "I think I understand. You are divided. One part of you wishes most greatly to tell me your story. The other part of you has been commanded to be silent. For now the silent part of you holds sway. But there are other ways t find out the truth." He stood up. "Where do you live?"

"Rue Vincennes, in the Twelfth Arrondissement," the ballerina replied automatically. "My master is -."

"Dead. But that is not important for now." Toussaint picked up his hat and coat and opened the office door. "We shall take a taxi. Come."

The chevalier hurried through the corridors of the police station, Yves following close behind him. More than a few heads turned in curiousity at their passing, but it was not until they reached the entrance hall that they were challenged. A brutish brigadier barred their exit. "You!" The officer pointed a thick, stubby finger at Toussaint. "What are you doing taking that -, " he spat the word out, "- from its cell? It is a criminal! A rogue mécanique! It has been condemned to destruction! It cannot leave here."

Toussaint remained calm in the face of the verbal onslaught. "She is not a criminal. Only people can be criminals, monsieur le brigadier. And, as you have so rightly pointed out, she is a mécanique. Therefore she is an item of evidence - one that I am taking to place in its proper context at the scene of the crime. Now monsieur le brigadier, as I am the appointed special investigator for the Dupont case, I request that you allow me to carry out my duties."

The two men faced each other in the hallway. Toussaint's face was calm, almost saintly in its appearance; in direct contrast to the red-faced snarl of the brigadier. They remained motionless for a minute, their eyes locked in silent conflict. Then the police officer relented. He took a step back and barked a sharp, humourless laugh. "Very well, monsieur le chevalier. But I insist that you sign a receipt."

"Of course."

The policeman went to the tall desk by the entrance and extracted a sheaf of forms from its depths - one of which he thrust towards Toussaint. "Sign," he grunted.

With no more fuss than if he had been signing a bill for his dinner, Toussaint wrote his signature on the bottom of the form. "Thank you, monsieur le brigadier," he said, then turned to Yves. "Come."

There was a taxi rank not too far from the police barracks, with a row of steam taxis already there. Curls of smoke emerged from their chimneys, and the hissing from the boilers of some of them showed their readiness for duty. The chevalier went down the rank, trying to find one which would take him and the mechanical ballerina to the Rue Vincennes. None of the drivers, however, were willing to take the pair. Toussant shrugged in resignation. "Ah well. I suppose we shall have to take the metro. I believe there is a station near the Rue Vincennes?"

Yves bobbed her head. "There is, monsieur."

"Good. And there is one not far from here.

They left the taxi rank and headed along the boulevard to the nearest metro station. The street was busy with traffic - horse-drawn wagons, steam camions and electric hansoms. As they drew opposite to the entrance to the metro station, Toussaint stood on the edge of the footpath to cross. He looked left and right, gauging the flow of traffic - then stepped out in front of an oncoming vehicle!

An airhorn blared a warning, and Toussaint felt himself being pulled back to the safety of the pavement by a pair of mechanical arms. The chevalier landed on his backside. As the lorry went past, its driver yelled choice insults in a coarse accent. Yves helped Toussaint to his feet. "Are you alright, monsieur?" the mécanique asked.

Toussaint brushed the dirt from his overcoat. "I am. Thank you." He paused to collect his thoughts. "Tell me, Yves. Why did you pull me out of the traffic?"

"I cannot allow a human to come to harm," the ballerina replied without hesitation.

"Of course." Toussaint extended his left hand towards Yves. "If you would be so kind as to help an old man across the road, then I would be most grateful."

The pair boarded the metro and let it carry them across the city. The elevated railway afforded a wonderful view of the City of Lights. Toussaint was particularly taken by the metal skeleton of a great iron tower that rose above the rooftops of the Champs de Mars. His companion sat next to him, staring straight ahead in silence. The other passengers, however, were not so tolerant. Many of them stared in disgust at Yves. A few muttered curses, but turned away quickly when Toussaint glared at them.

As they left the metro and made their way along the tree-lined avenues of the Twelfth Arrondissement, Toussaint stopped. "Yves - I must apologise for what happened on the train. You should not have to endure such ignorance. Please accept my apologies."

Yves' voice was calm and without rancour. "It does not matter, monsieur."

"You have endured worse?"

"I cannot tell you, monsieur."

Toussaint noted the response.

The Dupont house was set a little way back from the road. A low wall topped with iron railings surrounded a narrow terrace, and a set of steps led up to the front door. A single gardien de la paix was standing by the gate. He saluted Toussaint when the chevalier presented his papers, and allowed the pair to enter the house.

Inside, everything had been left the way it was on the day of Dupont's death. Only the deceased's body had been moved from the parlour - and that had been done by the coroner. Toussaint examined the scene of the crime. To his experienced eye, it seemed that an act of concentrated violence had taken place. He turned to Yves. "Tell me, in your own words, what happened here."

Yves walked to the centre of the room, every step measured and precise, and pointed down at the bloodstained carpet. "It was here," the mechanical ballet dancer said. "My master turned away from me. I picked up the poker." She pointed towards a fireplace, the hearth of which was filled with cold ash. "And then I struck my master three times on the back of the head. I wanted my master to die."

"Why, Yves? Why?"

Yves shook, her equilibrium disturbed by some great upset in her mechanisms. "I. Cannot. Tell. You."

Toussaint grabbed Yves by her shoulders and looked deep into her glass eyes. "I want you tell me! And I know you want to tell me! Have you been ordered not to reveal something?"

"I-I-I-I."

"I know." Toussaint thought for moment. "But perhaps there is some other way. I order you to show me the reason why you killed Jean-Charles Dupont."

Yves became calm. "Follow me, monsieur."

The chevalier followed the mécanique into the hallway of the house and up the staircase all the way to the attic landing. Yves stopped and pointed at a door, its paint cracked and peeling. "In here, monsieur, if you please."

Toussaint entered the room. It was right beneath the eaves of the house, the ceiling sloping in line with the roof above. Two turret windows at opposite ends of the room allowed daylight to enter, revealing the horror of what lay within. In the centre of the attic room was an iron frame, about six feet high and two feet wide. A web of leather straps and metal chains had been fastened to it in a manner that reminded Toussaint of some illustration her had seen in a book on medieval tortures. Next to the frame was a wooden table. Various tools still lay on top of the table. On the other side of the frame was an apparatus that Toussaint recognised as a Wimshurst machine. The chevalier looked at in wonder. Then his expression turned to one of horrified disgust.

He selected a tool from the table and held it up. "Yves - what is this?"

Yves flinched and looked away.

"I understand," Toussaint said quietly. He put down the tool. "Yes, monsieur. I cannot allow a human being to come to harm."

"Indeed." The chevalier's voice was tinged with sadness and disappointment. "Jean-Charles Dupont was inhuman."