Stellar Nurseries

Broken Toys

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?" Toussaint 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?"