The Devil in Montmartre (29 page)

“At this time, that’s all I’ve got.”

“I see. Well, then, I’d like to run a couple of tests first, using my own prints. I don’t want to muck it up on the first try. And even if I get it right, some or even all your suspect’s prints might be blurred. It depends on how he handled the document.”

Achille nodded his understanding. “Very well, Gilles. Can you have your results at my office by tomorrow morning in time for my meeting with Féraud?”

Gilles winced. “At five
A.M.
inspector?”

Achille smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m afraid so.”

The photographer clapped the inspector’s shoulder. “That’s all right, my friend. I’ll do my best. No rest for the wicked, eh?”

Achille laughed. “Yes Gilles, Satan never sleeps and neither does the Sûreté.”

Shortly before three
A.M.
, Jojo surfaced from the murky depths of a passageway sandwiched between two tenements. Emerging like a furtive cockroach from a cracked skirting board, he scurried onto the narrow, winding Rue Lepic. Pausing for an instant, he glanced back down the shadowy street in the direction of his flat; as usual, the unimaginative cop hadn’t stirred from his hidey-hole.

Pulling up his collar against the pre-dawn chill and misting drizzle, Jojo sneaked up the street on boots caked with mud from the passageway, toward his alley-way rendezvous. He sensed he was being tailed, but according to his instructions, having evaded the policeman’s notice, he acted as though he were now in the clear.

A thick cloud cover occluded the moon and stars; the pale glow of flickering gas lamps marked the way uphill with tiny points of light, growing smaller and dimmer in the distance until they merged near the summit in a dull, diminutive vanishing point. A few meters from his destination a yowling black cat leapt from its
poubelle
and scampered across his path. Startled, Jojo stopped and muttered a curse.
A bad omen
, he thought before walking on.

A few steps past his encounter with the foreboding feline, he turned into the alley. Several paces on, he heard a muffled hissing from a dark passageway. Approaching cautiously, he noticed his confederate’s eyes glowing beneath the pulled-down brim of his slouch hat. The man motioned for Jojo to join him in his hiding place.

“The kid’s right behind me,” Jojo whispered.

The man nodded. He clutched a bottle and a handkerchief in his gloved hands. “You grab him and I’ll chloroform him,” he murmured.

Moïse turned the corner, walked a few paces, and halted. Wary of danger, he stared up the dark alley. Seeing nothing, he sensed trouble.
Damn! It’s a trap.
He started to turn round, as if he were about to run back to the Rue Lepic.

“Now, before he bolts!” the man snarled.

Jojo sprang from his hole, ran a step or two, tackled Moïse from behind, and threw him to the ground. Straddling the youth’s back, Jojo grabbed him by the chin hairs and yanked his head up. His partner covered the squirming boy’s face with the chloroform-soaked handkerchief. Moïse struggled for less than half a minute. His eyes closed, his body grew limp, and then lay still.

“He’ll be out for at least ten minutes. Quickly now, put on his jacket and hat, and then we’ll throw him into the cart.”

Jojo switched clothes. He lifted Moïse under the arms while his partner grasped the boy by the ankles. They carried him to the
chiffonier’s
cart and hid him under a bunch of rags. Jojo threw his jacket on top of the pile. The man handed Jojo a round, cloth-wrapped package. Jojo gripped it with hands muddied from his scuffle in the unpaved alley.

“You haven’t much time ‘til the kid comes round.”

“What about the other one?”

“Don’t bother about him. He’s sleeping it off in a passage down near the boulevard. Remember what I told you. Drop the package in a
poubelle
near your flat so the cop can see. Then go down the street to the next alley, change back to your jacket, ditch the kid and the cart.”

“And the rest of my money, Monsieur?”

The man glared at him. “You’ll get it soon enough,” he growled. “I’ll send you a message. Now go!”

Jojo nodded with a sly grin, grabbed the cart handles with his powerful hands, and pulled his burden back out onto the street. Iron-shod wooden wheels rattled and rumbled on the cobblestones, announcing the ragman’s approach to the sleeping neighborhood. As he neared his flat, he spotted a
poubelle
within the shadowing flatfoot’s line of sight.

He stopped, lifted the cart’s handles, tilting it back gradually so as not to upset his unconscious freight onto the pavement, and then took out the package. Jojo casually walked over to a
poubelle
, opened the lid, and dumped the object into the rubbish. Then he returned to the cart and continued rattling and rumbling down the street.

The covert policeman’s eyes followed Jojo until he disappeared from view.
Now why would a rag-picker dump something into a poubelle?
That puzzling thought rattled round his stolid brain for a couple of hours while his feet barely shuffled and his eyes remained dutifully glued to Jojo’s flat.

14

OCTOBER 22, MORNING

THE MAGISTRATE’S SWORD

Y
ou see, Chief, these are the patterns Galton identified and categorized. All fingerprints fit within one of five types, but according to Galton’s calculations, the odds against two persons having the exact same lines are so overwhelming we can say duplication is impossible.” Achille pointed to a fingerprint chart set on a table in Féraud’s office, next to Gilles’s photographs. They viewed the evidence by gaslight supplemented by the illumination of two kerosene lamps and reflectors. “On each finger there are many lines organized in patterns around a nucleus, and over that central point are one or two secondary points. Following Galton’s method, I’ve identified two distinctive types found at the crime scene. Gilles did a fine job photographing the prints on the cloth and the enhanced latent prints on the cigarette case.”

Féraud examined the photographs under a magnifying glass. “Yes, Achille, I can see how one set of prints matches.”

“Now, please look at the prints on Sir Henry Collingwood’s letter and compare them to the prints on the cloth, cigarettes, and cigarette case.”

Féraud spent a few minutes examining the fingerprints. Finally, he put down the magnifying glass and looked at Achille. “I can see how the prints on the letter match the prints on the opium cigarettes and the blood-spattered cloth. And there’s clearly a different set on the case.”

Achille nodded confidently. “That’s right, Chief. I believe the other fingerprints are those of Sir Henry’s accomplice, an individual of short stature who would match the shoeprints I found at the scene. Lautrec has been ruled out; I believe Joseph Rossini’s our second man.”

Féraud gestured to Achille and returned to his desk. Once seated, he said, “Let’s review what you’ve got on Sir Henry and Jojo.”

Achille took his seat across from the chief and began his summary of the evidence. “First, there’s the victim’s body. According to Dr. Péan, the pathologist, and Chief Bertillon, the suspect was a physician of considerable skill. The head and limbs were surgically amputated, and the uterus removed by a rarely used technique. In fact, our foremost gynecological surgeon, Dr. Péan, has only performed the operation twice. Sir Henry witnessed one of the operations, and he specializes in gynecology.

“Second, Sir Henry is the only physician attending Dr. Péan’s clinic who had relations with the victim. That relationship has been confirmed by Delphine Lacroix. Moreover, I have evidence that Sir Henry met with the victim at a hotel in Montmartre the day before she disappeared.

“Third, according to Mlle Lacroix, the Gunzberg brothers,
chiffoniers
who work for Le Boudin, have been shadowing Jojo. They’ve. . . ”

Féraud raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t tell me that,” he interrupted.

“No Chief, I just found out about it when I interviewed Mlle Lacroix. I want them to continue the surveillance and report directly to me. The man Rousseau put on Jojo’s tail is incompetent.”

Féraud eyed him with a skeptical squint. “What makes you think that?”

“According to Mlle Lacroix, the Gunzbergs shadowed Jojo to an abandoned mill near the summit of the Butte. He meets an individual there, and they pass notes to each other at the Circus Fernando and a tobacconist’s shop near the corner of Rue Lepic and the boulevard. The
chiffoniers
can’t identify the man, at least not yet, but I believe he’s Sir Henry Collingwood. It fits with my theory.”

Féraud smiled wryly. “Yes Achille,
your
theory. So to make the evidence support your theory you’ll take the word of a slut and a pair of ragpickers over that of a brother officer?”

“Remember, Chief, Jojo’s an acrobat. He could easily evade an inattentive detective by climbing to the roof, leaping to the next building, and then shinnying down a drainpipe. I recall that happening in another case involving a trapeze artist.”

Féraud shook his head. “Yes, I remember the case well. But you’re forgetting something. Delphine has a grudge against Jojo. After all, he was her pimp and he beat her up.”

Achille replied firmly. “I found her credible, Chief. I believe she wants justice for her friend, and is willing to assist in our investigation.”

Féraud leaned back in his chair while weighing the pros and cons of using the ragpickers for surveillance. He had always trusted Achille’s judgment, but he worried that the young inspector was too committed to his theory and may have been overly influenced by Delphine Lacroix. Finally he said, “I think your evidence against Sir Henry is compelling, though I don’t know what the
juge d’instruction
will make of the fingerprints. Still, all things considered, I’m willing to bring the Englishman in for questioning. Do you have any suggestions?”

Achille had a plan, but he knew it was a gamble. “Chief, we’d have a stronger case if we could get a confession from Jojo. He’d lead us to Sir Henry in exchange for a reduced sentence. I’m sure he’d cooperate if he thought he was facing the guillotine or life in
Le Bagne
.”

Féraud grunted in frustration. “But what have you got on him besides conjecture?”

Achille replied patiently. “First, we have the shoeprints. They’re a close match to the measurements in Jojo’s records. We could bring him in for questioning on that alone, measure his feet and his gait and make the comparison; I believe Chief Bertillon would back me up. In addition we have fingerprints taken at the scene, his evasion of our surveillance, and eyewitnesses to the suspicious meetings at the old mill. If the fingerprints and shoeprints match, he’s the accomplice, and I believe he’ll crack under pressure.”

Féraud frowned and began a washing motion with his hands, usually a bad sign. “You’re counting on Jojo’s fingerprints and shoeprints matching what you got at the crime scene. As for the meetings at the mill, you have the word of two ragpickers by way of Delphine Lacroix, which directly contradicts one of our men’s eyewitness reports.”

The telephone rang. Féraud lifted the receiver. “Chief Inspector Féraud.” He listened for a moment, then: “Yes; yes; I see.” He glanced at Achille with a worried frown. “Yes, Inspector Lefebvre is here in my office. I’ll send him out directly with the photographer. Have you set up a barricade? Good.” Féraud hung up. “That was Sergeant Rodin. Rousseau’s man found a neatly severed female head wrapped in a muddy cloth. At about three
A.M.
this morning a ragpicker dumped the head in a
poubelle
on the Rue Lepic, near Jojo’s flat. They suspect Moïse Gunzberg; Rousseau’s already working with the police to track him down. Well Achille, I guess that blows a hole in your theory?”

Achille remained cool; he spoke calmly and met Féraud’s piercing eyes with a steady gaze. “Not necessarily, chief. I’ll fetch Gilles and get to the scene as soon as possible. When I’m done, I’ll take the head to the Morgue for identification. We should know soon enough if it’s Virginie Menard. If it’s another woman—” Achille checked himself. “Please notify Chief Bertillon.”

Féraud shook his head and muttered, “This is the devil of a case.” Then: “I’ll do that, and report back to me immediately when you’ve finished with Bertillon.” As Achille opened the door, the chief added: “If it’s a second murder, the press will be screaming ‘Ripper’. If that happens, we’ll be up to our necks in shit.”

Achille glanced back at Féraud, replied with a determined nod, turned, and walked out into the hallway.