The Devil in Montmartre (15 page)

Achille doubted they were dealing with Jack the Ripper, or another criminal in that vein. And he also believed that the fingerprints, along with a search of his studio and apartment, would exculpate Lautrec. Much of Achille’s thinking along these lines was intuitive; Lautrec seemed too obvious a suspect, as was often the case with a frame-up. As for the Ripper, the surgery in this case was too neat and clinical, whereas the Ripper’s victims had been savagely butchered. Yet he feared that some failure on his part, a missed clue or inadequately investigated lead, might result in another woman’s death.

Achille finished his coffee and dumped the unappetizing remains of the brioche in the wastebasket. He would have worked all day Sunday if he thought it would help the case. But he’d promised Adele a day in the country at a quiet
auberge
only twenty minutes from central Paris by train. They’d leave Jeanne with Madame Berthier and nanny.
Madame will enjoy that. More time to infect my child with her grandmamma’s prejudices.
There was no telephone at the inn, but the station was nearby; if a telegram came from headquarters Achille would return immediately.

He lit a cigar, packed his briefcase, pocketed his credentials and service revolver, and prepared to leave. He was about to confront Toulouse-Lautrec. There was a risk in asking the artist to cooperate voluntarily without a warrant, but Achille thought it was worth it. If possible, he wanted to know the man, to gain his confidence and assistance in cracking the case. He checked his watch; two detectives would meet him outside Lautrec’s apartment. Two others were detailed to the studio; they waited at the local station with Sergeant Rodin. They would begin the search as soon as Achille issued the order by telephone. It was time to go.

Established in Montmartre near the foot of the hill, the
Atelier
Cormon was located in a spacious workroom with large exposed wooden beams, unpainted walls, and immense glass windows, lamps, and reflectors suspended from rafters to provide the desired lighting. High shelves stacked with white plaster casts of nymphs, Caesars, gods, and goddesses lined the unpainted walls, and there was a centrally situated dais for models. A sharply distinctive, but not unpleasant odor of linseed oil and turpentine permeated the atmosphere; several students seated themselves at easels surrounding the dais, concentrating their attention on a dark, young woman posing nude, in a semi-reclining position. Marcia immediately recognized her as Virginie’s friend, Delphine Lacroix.

Arthur held Marcia’s arm as she scanned the premises, searching for the
maître
. But Cormon was not there; he only attended once a week to provide friendly critiques, suggestions for improvement, and encouragement where it was due. She saw Émile Bernard and waved to catch his eye. A young man working next to Bernard spotted her first. Recognizing the noted American artist, he leaned over and nudged his friend.

“Hey, Émile, you see that woman standing near the entrance, next to the gentleman? I believe she’s waving at you. That’s Mademoiselle Brownlow, isn’t it? Her landscape won a Silver Medal at the Fair.”

Bernard put down his brush and looked up. Surprised, he replied to Marcia’s friendly greeting with a curt nod. Then he got up from his chair and picked his way gingerly around the sketching and painting students.

Marcia greeted Émile with a handshake and introduced him to Arthur. “Good-day, Monsieur Bernard; I don’t believe you know my friend, Arthur Wolcott?”

Bernard shook Arthur’s hand and greeted him: “I’m honored, Monsieur Wolcott. I’ve read and enjoyed many of your novels and stories.”

Arthur smiled warmly. “Thank you, Monsieur. That’s very kind of you. And Miss Brownlow has recommended your work to me on several occasions.” That was a courteous deception. Marcia had said little to Arthur about Bernard, and what she had said was indifferent at best. But the polite deceit ran both ways; Émile had read little of Arthur’s writing.

Bernard turned to Marcia with a curious look in his eye: “What brings you to the
Atelier
, Mademoiselle?”

“I was looking for Virginie Ménard, but I see she’s not here. I’d like her to model for me, privately. Do you know how I might get in touch with her?”

Bernard’s mildly questioning expression transformed into a bewildered stare. “You haven’t heard, Mademoiselle? No one’s seen Virginie for days. Now the police are going round asking questions of everyone who knew her. They suspect foul play. But perhaps you haven’t read the newspapers about the unidentified woman’s body found on the Rue Tourlaque?”

Marcia said nothing. Her eyes registered shock; she fixed her gaze on Émile, but did not see him. Instead, she had a vision of Virginie’s corpse laid out on a slab in the Morgue. Arthur immediately sensed something was wrong. He put his arms around Marcia to prevent her from collapsing, and spoke to Bernard in a hoarse, urgent whisper: “Please Monsieur, would you kindly fetch a chair for Mademoiselle?”

Bernard ran to the nearest empty seat and returned shortly. Arthur thanked him, and helped Marcia into the chair. By now, almost all the students had abandoned their work to observe the drama; Delphine broke her pose, twisting her head round to see what the fuss was about.

“May I get you a restorative, Mademoiselle? I’m sure someone has a flask of brandy.”

Marcia shook her head. “Please don’t trouble yourself, Émile. I’m all right; I apologize for disrupting the class. Your news came as quite a shock. You see, Virginie had inspired me to conceive something new, something different in my art. I was hoping—” She caught herself mid-sentence and paused a moment before continuing: “But of course, my art means nothing now. It’s Virginie I’m worried about.”

Bernard took her frail hand and smiled sympathetically. “Please don’t reproach yourself. She has affected us that way. I too had a glimmer of hope for something new, but now. . . .” He sighed and shook his head. “But now, I’m at a loss. There’s nothing we can do for her. It’s in God’s hands—God and the Sûreté.”

Marcia stared out the window as the cab rolled along the boulevard. Her painter’s eye acquired an impression of a city under a grayish-blue sky; cloud-diffused light glanced off slate roofs, gray stone walls, and shaded windows; russet leaves rustled gently in a mild breeze, purple shadows danced on the pavement. As she took in the scene visually she listened to an accompaniment, the steady, rhythmic clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the rumbling wheels. She swayed with the incessant rocking of the carriage, which had a calming, almost hypnotic effect.

Arthur sat across from her, worried that the day’s events and revelations had been too much of a strain; they’d taken a toll. He would normally attempt an amusing quip, but he doubted whether anything he could say would cheer her up. Finally, he ventured a hopeful comment if only to break the uneasy silence:

“It’s sad news about the girl. But perhaps she’ll show up.”

Marcia turned away from the window and regarded him wistfully. “Do you remember our early days in Florence when we used to discuss problems of perception, the difference between appearances and reality?”

Arthur smiled. “Yes, I recall some of our metaphysical chit-chat. I was playing the Socratic schoolmaster; I could be awfully pretentious in those days.”

“No Arthur, it wasn’t pretense. You’ve always been perceptive, well-read, and worldly-wise; I’ve benefitted from all you’ve taught me. We live in a world of illusions; little or nothing is certain. We presume probable truths are certainties, until someone clearly rebuts our presumption. As for our will and freedom to choose, in most cases it seems our choice is limited to those falsehoods we wish to believe. I’ve always preferred beautiful lies to ugly ones. Perhaps I also prefer a beautiful lie to an ugly truth.

“Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my life and career. At some point I made a crucial decision. Putting up all my talent and skill as collateral, I borrowed beauty from nature and invested her precious treasure in my art. For a time, I reaped a rich reward. But the market for beauty—at least
my
stock of beauty—has dropped of late. Now all my capital’s spent; my credit’s blown. Virginie Ménard appeared like a rich new resource to draw upon, a life-saving bank of beauty. But she’s gone, most likely the victim of a brutal crime. The damnable thing for me is that, deep down, I mourn my own loss from her absence more than I care for her suffering and death. I’m guilty in a moral sense; I’m little better than her murderer.”

Arthur stared at her for a moment. Then, his voice choked with emotion, he replied, “No, my dear. You’re tired and you’ve had a shock. I believe you loved the girl, as you loved Betsy and Aggie Fitzroy. I think I know you as well as anyone. You’ve given far more to the world through your art, than you ever took in return.”

Arthur crossed over to the opposite seat and put his arm around her. Marcia laid her head on his shoulder and wept.

Achille puffed nervously on a small cigar as he waited in a cab outside Toulouse-Lautrec’s apartment. The two detectives were stationed on either side of the street, ready in case he tried to make a run for it. Not that Achille expected a son of the Count of Toulouse to bolt like a common criminal; it was simply a routine precaution.

He glanced at his watch, leaned out the window, and pitched his half-smoked, half-chewed cigar into the gutter. Lautrec was coming up the sidewalk. Achille signaled his men and exited the cab. He approached the artist, flashed his credentials, and introduced himself: “Monsieur de Toulouse-Lautrec, I am Inspector Achille Lefebvre of the Sûreté. If you please, I’d like you to accompany me to headquarters where you may be of assistance in an important investigation. I apologize for the inconvenience, and I promise not to detain you any longer than is necessary.”

Lautrec looked up at Achille’s slate-colored chin and black nostrils; the bright sunshine made him squint and he shaded his eyes with a hand. “Inconvenience, you say? It’s a damned liberty, accosting me this way. Have you a warrant for my arrest? If so, please state the charge.”

Achille smiled and spoke calmly. “No charge and no warrant, at present, Monsieur. However, if you insist, I can obtain one. But I do have some property that belongs to you, a gold cigarette case.”

Lautrec raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, you’ve found my cigarette case? It’s quite valuable. I’ve been searching for it for days. But why couldn’t the police notify me rather than approach me in such melodramatic fashion?”

Achille noticed Lautrec’s response; his attitude and tone of voice in expressing his primary concern for lost property reinforced Achille’s belief in the artist’s innocence. “The cigarette case was discovered at a crime scene, and is being held in evidence. If you’ll kindly accompany me, I’ll explain the matter on the way to headquarters. My cab is waiting up the street.”

“All right, Inspector, if you insist. Lead on, and I’ll follow.”