The Devil in Montmartre (25 page)

“I’ll knock him out too. But I’ll add an injection that’ll keep him stupefied for an hour at least.”

Jojo grinned. “You’re going to frame up the Yids?”

“That’s right. The cops wouldn’t go after the son of a count, no matter how degenerate. But a rag-picking Jew from the Zone is the perfect suspect. And if what you’ve told me about your chum Rousseau is true, it’ll shake things up at the Sûreté when he takes our bait and openly turns against Lefebvre. Imagine how he’ll gloat when he cracks the case and shows up the professor.

“At any rate, I figure no one will help the Jew, especially when I set the rest of my plan in motion. But that’s none of your business. You just play your part as written. Now get out of here, and try not to let on that you know you’re being followed. I’ll wait awhile, and then give the other kid the slip. And here’s an incentive, a little something on account. Do this right, and there’ll be more.” He reached into his pocket, retrieved a few gold coins and dropped them into Jojo’s outstretched palm.

Jojo’s eyes gleamed at the sight of the gold pieces. “Don’t worry, Monsieur. It’s a cinch.”

“It had better be, my friend. Remember—three
A.M.
in the alley, and no slipups.”

“So your friend at Scotland Yard has something?” It was five
A.M.
sharp. Féraud stared across his desk at Achille, his interest piqued by the news.

“Yes, chief, I received a coded message by wire this morning. They have two recent cases involving the torsos of unidentified females. The Yard doesn’t think it’s the Ripper’s work, but the torso killer’s
modus operandi
does resemble that of the perpetrator in our case. And of course the English press is connecting the bodies to the Ripper murders. Without more evidence, that’s pure speculation.”

Féraud shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “Did your contact give you any more information concerning the status of their investigation?”

“I’m afraid this is all my friend’s willing to provide by cable, even in code. If we want more, I’ll have to go to London and get it in person.”

Féraud thought for a moment before replying. “I’d need to get authorization from high up for something like that. If word leaked out of what you were doing unofficially, things could get very sticky with the English. But you may share some information about the mutilated torsos through official channels without relating it to the Ripper. And you certainly don’t want to stir up a hornets’ nest with our own press. Now what else have you got planned for today?”

“I’m meeting M. Wolcott and Mlle Brownlow. The American woman might have important information about Virginie Ménard that I believe will point to Sir Henry. And M. Wolcott has a letter with Sir Henry’s handwriting and latent fingerprints. The handwriting could be very useful, and there’s a proven method for bringing out latent prints on paper. I can compare the prints to those on the cloth and cigarette case. If they match, he’s our suspect.

“After I’m done with that meeting, I’m going to interview Delphine Lacroix at Lautrec’s studio. She has important information about Jojo, and she may also provide more clues from her knowledge of the victim.”

Féraud nodded. He shuffled some paperwork and ruminated for a moment. Then: “All right. Carry on, and get back to me if or when you turn up anything significant. What I’d really like is one credible witness, a lead from a believable snitch, or at the very least some strong circumstantial evidence that’ll hold up in court. This fingerprint business is too experimental; it makes me nervous. What have you heard from Rousseau?”

Achille frowned. “Nothing, I’m afraid, and frankly I don’t expect much.”

Féraud shook his head and drummed his fingers in frustration. He stuck a cigar in his guillotine, lopped off the tip, and started chewing without smoking. “Very well, Achille,” he muttered with the unlit cigar shifting round in his mouth, “you may go.”

“How lovely,” Marcia had observed as Arthur helped her up into an open carriage. “I doubt we shall have many more such days.”

“A fine day indeed,” he replied. They were on their way to the café-bar to meet Achille. Arthur had his qualms about their rendezvous with a policeman, but he consoled himself with the thought that the inspector was a man of discretion, a gentleman. Considering her health, he would not press Marcia if he sensed his questions were too upsetting. And Marcia was enthusiastic; she wanted to help, if she could. At any rate, she had insisted on going out on the pretext of visiting the Louvre followed by some refreshment at a boulevard café and Sir Henry had not objected. It was as though he had lost interest in his patient (“She won’t survive the winter” was his undisclosed prognosis) and was now concentrating all his attention on Betsy.

Arthur had concluded his negotiations for the sale of Lady Agatha’s portrait. He had wired Betsy’s generous offer of seventeen-hundred guineas to Aggie, and she had replied immediately. He’d earn a handsome commission and use it all for Marcia’s care, though he would not tell her that. Arthur would let her believe his physician friend was providing services at a reduced rate out of gratitude and repayment for favors rendered.

Lady Agatha would be up from Nice on tomorrow’s train, to conclude the deal. As soon as this business was over, Arthur intended to spirit Marcia away to England. He wanted to extricate her from the entanglements of the investigation and Sir Henry and Betsy’s affair, to provide her shelter in the safe harbor of his country garden.

He held her gloved hand as she sat beside him on the sun-warmed leather carriage seat. Dressed in white, with a flower- and ribbon-trimmed hat, and veil, a fringed parasol protecting her from the sun, she appeared innocent, as though twenty years of worldly experience had been erased from the slate of her less than stainless life.
If only I could give her one more spring, to see her painting the roses in my garden.
He had a vision of her working at her easel on the lawn as he looked on from the unobtrusive vantage point of a window seat in the angle of a bay.

He smiled and squeezed her hand. “I almost forgot to tell you, my dear. I’ve closed the deal for Lady Agatha’s portrait. Betsy’s agreed to seventeen hundred guineas without so much as batting an eyelid.”

Marcia gasped at the enormous sum. “Goodness! I would have asked half that price. I hope Betsy won’t feel cheated.”

“You underestimate the value of your work. That’s why you need a canny manager. We’ll make a good team, just like in the old days.”

“Oh Arthur, I’m afraid all you’ll get from me now are a few watercolors, if that.”

He laughed. “Nonsense, young lady. Just wait ‘til I get you to England. The pure country air will brace you up, and then it’s back to work. Malingering will not be tolerated.”

She patted his hand. “I fear you’ll be a hard taskmaster. What am I getting into?”

They both smiled and sat quietly for a few minutes, enjoying the sights of the boulevard, the horse-drawn cabs and omnibuses bustling up and down, the well-dressed pedestrians out for a stroll. As they neared the café-bar Arthur remarked: “If at any time you feel this is too much for you, we’ll break it off. Inspector Lefebvre’s a gentleman; he’ll understand.”

“Don’t worry about me, Arthur. I’ll be fine.”

The carriage pulled up to the curb under a spreading, autumnal poplar. Arthur paid the fare and then assisted Marcia down from the step. He took her arm and immediately noticed Achille approaching from an outdoor table set up under a striped awning. They greeted one another, made their introductions, and proceeded to the table, which was purposefully set off from the other patrons, Achille having asked the owner not to seat anyone within earshot.

Arthur surreptitiously handed an envelope to Achille. “This is the document you requested, Inspector.” He had not told Marcia about Sir Henry’s letter.

“Thank you, M. Wolcott. I’ll have a copy made and sent to you tomorrow.” Then, to divert Marcia’s attention from the letter, Achille recommended the freshly baked croissants and coffee. “Or a good house wine, if you prefer.” They settled on a respectable
vin ordinaire
. Achille called the waiter, ordered, and then opened the inquiry with a compliment. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Mlle Brownlow. My wife and I viewed the American gallery exhibit at the Exposition and we very much admired your prize-winning landscape.”

“You’re most kind, inspector. The painting was done in the Impressionist style. Do you like the Impressionists?”

“Yes indeed, Mademoiselle. I’m especially fond of Renoir. Last Sunday. . . .” He was about to say they had gone rowing at Chatou, but he caught himself. He did not know if Marcia was aware Sir Henry and Betsy Endicott had been at the restaurant that day. “Last Sunday my wife and I visited a gallery and viewed one of Renoir’s paintings of Chatou. It was charming. Alas, he’s become so popular we can’t quite afford him. We must content ourselves with the paintings of younger, less well-known artists.”

Marcia smiled and nodded. “I know Renoir, and I’m familiar with the scenes at Chatou. I’m also familiar with an excellent Corot painted in the vicinity before they built the railway and the iron bridge. Anyway, Renoir paints delightfully. But I’m afraid the new generation of artists sees things differently and is changing their style accordingly. I’ve met some brilliant young painters here in Paris, and their work is quite affordable, but I doubt you’ll find their creations as
charmant
as their predecessors.”

Achille recognized her oblique reference to Lautrec. He decided to begin his circumspect interrogation by mentioning the painter. “I’m acquainted with one of the young painters of whom you speak, M. de Toulouse-Lautrec. I believe you know him from the
Atelier
Cormon and of course, your mutual acquaintance, Mademoiselle Ménard is the subject of my investigation.”

The waiter arrived with the wine. They sat silently as he served them and did not continue their conversation until he had returned to the bar. Then: “Yes, Inspector, I know something about your investigation. How can I assist you?”

Achille wasted no more time with pleasantries. “Do you know if Mademoiselle Ménard had been threatened by anyone? Or did she ever tell you she feared, or had reason to fear, anyone in particular?”

Marcia sipped some wine to clear her throat before answering. “No one in particular, Inspector. She told me about her relationship with M. Lautrec. It had been intense, at times, and they quarreled, but she did not fear him. Frankly, I believe they were in love, but they couldn’t stand living together. A not uncommon situation, if I may be permitted an observation. She was also intimate with Mademoiselle Lacroix.” Before continuing, she glanced at Arthur and noticed him avoiding her gaze. “Frankly, I believe they too were lovers. Does that shock you, Inspector?”

Achille shook his head. “Not at all, Mademoiselle.
Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum puto
.”

Arthur coughed nervously into his serviette but Marcia smiled. “You are very well-read and
sympathique
inspector. At any rate, far from fearing Delphine, Virginie felt safe with her. It seems Mademoiselle Lacroix knows the rules of the game, how to survive in the
demi-monde
jungle.”

“I appreciate your candor. Were you also attracted to Mademoiselle Ménard?”

Arthur blushed; his hands trembled and he spilled some wine. “Really, Inspector, you go too far.”

Marcia touched his hand lightly. “Please, Arthur, it’s all right.” Then to Achille: “Virginie was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known, and I’m noted for my portraits of
les belles femmes
. I was most certainly drawn to her aesthetically. As for sexual attraction, all I can say is there has always been a fine line between Eros and aesthetics in my art. But my vision of Virginie was formed in chiaroscuro, sharp contrasts in light and shade. I believe it’s the dark side that interests you, is that not so?”

“Please elucidate, Mademoiselle.”

“I’ll try, Inspector. You asked if there was anyone Virginie feared. I would say, from a few conversations during our brief acquaintance, the person she feared most was herself. She was an orphan raised by an aunt and uncle who treated her like a slave. The aunt had been particularly abusive, and the source of much pent up anger and resentment. Virginie had two means of releasing that seething hostility: the wild, uninhibited Can-Can, which was positive, and fits of what the doctors call ‘female hysteria’, which was of course negative.