The Devil in Montmartre: A Mystery in Fin de Siècle Paris

by Gary Inbinder

  The prints intrigued Achille. Bertillon had not incorporated fingerprints in his identification method and neither Scotland Yard nor any other eminent criminal investigation division had a system for using them. Moreover, he was unaware of fingerprints having ever been admitted into evidence in a criminal case. But he had read a recently published paper by the English anthropologist Sir Francis Galton which made a persuasive argument for the unique individuality of prints and set forth a method for categorizing them that could prove useful in criminal cases. Achille lowered his glass, turned and looked up at Gilles. “Can you get a sharp image of the fingerprints?”

  Gilles shook his head. “That’d be awfully tricky out here. I might do better back at headquarters with a change of lenses, faster plates, filters, and flash powder.”

  “Very well, please do that.” Achille got up and circled the manhole cover. Something half-hidden by the cover caught his eye. Crouching, he spotted a cigarette butt smoked almost out of existence. “Gilles,” he cried, “Have you been smoking?”

  “Of course not, Inspector; I know better than that.”

  Achille lifted the butt with tweezers. He sniffed and eyed it carefully. “No, this was smoked some time ago. If it was the gendarme there’ll be hell to pay. Where’s Rodin?”

  “Over there, by the meat wagon, talking to Rousseau and the Morgue attendant.”

  Achille whistled to get the sergeant’s attention and then gestured for him to come over. “Hey Rodin, look at this cigarette butt. Have any of your men smoked around the barricade?”

  “No Inspector, they’re under strict orders not to.”

  “Do you think one of the night soil collectors could have dropped it?”

  Rodin shook his head. “No, that’s a gentleman’s smoke. The ladies like them too.”

  Achille smiled at the sergeant. “That’s very perceptive, Rodin. Have you ever thought of coming to work for us?”

  The sergeant smiled broadly. “That’s kind of you Monsieur, but I’m quite happy where I am.”

  “Well, that’s our loss, I guess.” Achille had learned that it paid to be friendly with the gendarmerie. They did their duty, but they would go the extra mile for an Inspector they liked. “Could you please ask Inspector Rousseau to come over here?” Rodin went to fetch Achille’s partner.

  Achille dropped the cigarette butt in an evidence bag. He made a final inspection of the area. As he walked the perimeter of the barricade, he noticed a small pile of dung near the curb. It was not fresh and he had noticed it before, but now he suddenly realized he had missed something. One of the droppings had been flattened, or squashed. He knelt down, and almost stuck his nose in it.

  “What’s the matter, professor, aren’t they feeding you enough at home?”

  Achille turned and looked up at Rousseau’s grinning moon face. “Don’t you see it, Rousseau?”

  “Yes, professor, I see it. It’s a pile of horseshit. Lots of them just like it on the streets of Paris.”

  Achille sighed in exasperation. “It’s a shoeprint! My God, how could we have missed it?”

  Rousseau lowered his bulk to a squat. “Damn it, you’re right.” Then he sprang up and pointed to a few prints on the pavement. “Look here and here, and then they stop; but all in the direction of the cesspit.”

  “We have something, Rousseau. Our man left the sidewalk here, carrying the body. He stepped in the dung, stopped to scrape off the sole, and then continued on to the cesspit. Look, I can draw a line from here to where I picked up the cigarette butt.”

  Thoughts whirled round Achille’s brain: Did he carry the body from one of these houses or did he use a vehicle of some sort? He couldn’t have carried it far; someone would have noticed. But there are no more footprints, and if he used a cart or wagon there are no marks, nothing discernible on the pavement.

  Achille pulled out a ruler and measured the shoeprint and the length of the stride. They belonged to a very small individual. But the handprints were large, and he would have been strong enough to carry the torso, lift the manhole cover, and stuff the remains into the cesspit. Achille remembered the sergeant’s description of Toulouse-Lautrec: Monsieur’s legs are stunted, but he has the body, arms, and hands of a normal man with better than average strength.

  “Gilles,” he cried, “I want you to photograph something up here.” Then to Rousseau: “I’m going to try to make a plaster cast of the shoeprint.”

  “You’re the boss, professor, but have you ever made a cast of a turd?”

  “There’s a first time for everything, Rousseau.”

  The Morgue was a modern building erected on the Île de la Cité following the demolition of the medieval slums vividly described in Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris. Upon entering, a visitor could look up and read the noble sentiments of The Republic: “Liberty! Equality! Fraternity!” Some might ponder a grim truth implicit in the revolutionary motto, for in this place the dead barons, bourgeoisie, and beggars were liberated from class distinctions and thus equal in fact rather than theory.

  The Morgue was open to the public from morning to closing at six P.M. The morbidly curious with time on their hands came to gawk. They milled round the gas-lit corridors, gathering before immense plate glass windows, shivering in the cold air and inhaling the sharp odor of chlorine disinfectant, rubbernecking at the frozen macchabées—Parisian slang for corpses—whose naked bodies were propped up for display on steel slabs. Refrigeration was a recent improvement over the older preservation method: cold running water that gave the corpses a bloated, discolored appearance and chemicals that exuded an eerie, grayish-green mist round the bodies.

  Many of the corpses on display were suicides fished out of the nearby river; some were murder victims whose bodies had been dumped by their killers. Regardless, all remained unidentified; the authorities hoped that viewers might recognize a loved one, friend, acquaintance, or co-worker. Indeed, some came to the Morgue searching for a lost relative, viewing the cadavers in the hope that identification might provide certainty and some closure to their personal tragedy. But, as with public executions, most just came for the show.

  The Morgue attendant parked the meat wagon in a dark, narrow, cobblestoned passageway and unloaded the torso onto a trolley. He wheeled the corpse through a guarded back entrance closed to the public; Achille displayed his credentials and followed along with Gilles toting his camera and tripod. They passed through a murky corridor until they made a sharp right turn and entered a small, low-ceilinged dissection room.

  The place reeked of carbolic disinfectant and formaldehyde. A bloodstained dissecting table stood in the middle of the room under a blazing gaslamp. Next to the table was a tray covered with neatly arranged scalpels, probes, forceps, clamps, and sutures. A mahogany and glass instrument cabinet occupied a corner of the drab, green-painted wall behind the dissection table. Two vividly colored folding anatomical charts with cutaway views—one male, one female—hung from the wall.

  The gray-haired pathologist greeted them with a cold, bored stare. He had cut up too many corpses, a slave to routine like a factory worker who, over the years, had turned innumerable bolts on countless widgets. In contrast, Alphonse Bertillon was animated and enthusiastic.

  Bertillon was an up-and-comer in his mid-thirties with a neatly trimmed beard, curious eyes, and a brisk manner. His brilliant career had begun ten years earlier, as a records clerk. Immediately recognizing the need for a better system of filing and organization, he pushed his new ideas on his superiors until they gave way from sheer exhaustion.

  Young Bertillon was a force of nature, like a youthful Bonaparte telling old generals how to do their jobs. Having cleaned up the records system, he turned his attention to a better method of identification. Before long, the police had adopted his anthropometric system, incorporating multiple photographs, careful attention to features, and numerous, precise measurements. Now chief of the department of identification for the prefecture of the Seine, Bertillon was at the top of his profess
ion, but he had not yet recognized the significance of fingerprints, a fact of which Achille was keenly aware.

  His sleeves rolled up and ready to proceed, Bertillon smiled and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Inspector Lefebvre. I’m Bertillon. I’ve heard good things about you from your chief. You’ve brought me an interesting case—a very interesting case indeed.” Bertillon spoke rapidly, leaping from sentence to sentence and thought to thought with the agility of an intellectual acrobat.

  Achille admired Bertillon; he shook his hand warmly. “I’m honored, Monsieur. As you say, it’s an interesting case, and a tough one to crack.”

  “Well, perhaps we can simplify things. Let’s take a closer look at the corpse. We have a moment while your photographer sets up his equipment, and there are some observations I can make before the doctor opens her up.” Achille followed Bertillon to the dissecting table, where the chief began his remarks with a theatrical flourish. Pointing a finger at the torso, he declared, “Keen observation and clear thinking can solve any mystery. We don’t chase our tails, we don’t waste time. For example, certain things are obvious to the trained eye. Your chief questioned whether this might have been a prank; some tipsy medical students stuffing a cadaver in the cesspit. But cadavers are embalmed prior to dissection, and the embalming fluid causes a grayish discoloration. That is not present here. On the other hand, if you look closely, you’ll notice a slight greenish spot on the lower abdomen. That is the first sign of decomposition. By that spot alone, I can place the time of death from forty-eight to seventy-two hours ago, and further examination can confirm my hypothesis and perhaps narrow it down. Do you know how long she was in the pit?”

  “About forty-eight hours at most, Monsieur; the time between collections.”

  “Ah then, whomever left the corpse would have known the schedule. And we can estimate the interval between the time of death and deposit in the cesspit. Then we’ll posit as to how the corpse was transported and from whence it came.”

  Achille took out a pencil and pad and began scribbling notes.

  Bertillon smiled at his attentive pupil and continued: “There are no visible signs of exposure to the elements, animals, or insects. Her skin is smooth and quite lovely, even with the pallor of death. We must look for scars, moles, birthmarks, tattoos or other identifying marks. Hmmm, nothing on the front. Let’s turn her over, doctor.” Bertillon and the pathologist rolled the torso onto its stomach, and then examined the neck, shoulders, back, buttocks, and thighs. “One small mole on lower right buttock; one smaller mole inner lower left thigh. We’ll measure them, and you’ll note them in the photographs. All right, doctor, let’s turn her right side up.”

  Bertillon continued: “She was very fair, Inspector, and beautifully proportioned. A little, blonde Venus de Milo. I’ll make careful measurements and extrapolate her height and weight. Considering her skin color and fine, fair vestigial hair she most probably had light blue eyes. Now here’s something of significance. Either she, or someone else, has shaved her armpits and pubic hair; there’s nothing but fair stubble. Generally speaking, women of the lower classes don’t shave their body hair, and few women of any class, with the exception of artists’ models, shave the mons pubis. Considering these facts, her symmetrical proportions and beautiful skin, one might conclude that this woman had been a model.” Bertillon paused a moment, as if for dramatic effect. Gazing intently at Achille, he added ominously: “But there’s another explanation for the shaved pubic hair, although it doesn’t necessarily negate my proposition that she was an artist’s model. The woman may have had an operation, and quite recently.”

  That last remark got the blasé pathologist’s attention. He lowered his wire-rimmed spectacles, which until then had been pushed up onto his forehead, as if he anticipated viewing something of consequence.

  Bertillon turned to the pathologist. “Doctor, will you please examine the vagina?”

  The doctor put on a head mirror and spread the vulva; Bertillon and Achille leaned over for a closer look. The pathologist spoke first: “You see that, gentleman? A fresh surgical wound; a neat incision cleanly sutured.” He inserted a speculum and performed a pelvic examination.

  “Doctor,” asked Bertillon, “do you know what sort of operation this was?”

  The pathologist backed away from the corpse and wiped his hands with a towel. He eyed Bertillon and Achille with a worried frown. “I’d say it was a vaginal hysterectomy. I’ll confirm that for the record when I open her up. But—” The pathologist stopped speaking, and stared as if suddenly struck dumb.

  Bertillon’s impatience was palpable. “But what, doctor? Please continue.”

  The pathologist breathed deeply and exhaled slowly before continuing: “The uterus is usually removed through a large incision made in the lower abdomen just above the pubic bone. This operation through the vagina is rare. As far as I know, only one surgeon in Paris has performed it successfully—Péan.” The doctor lowered his eyes and stared at his hands.

  Achille turned to Bertillon. “Péan? Is that possible, Monsieur? Could he be a—a suspect?”

  “Péan—the great Péan? That’s unthinkable!” sputtered the pathologist.

  “Please, gentleman,” Bertillon said calmly, “we must not jump to conclusions. Anything is possible, but to suspect Péan is, as the doctor puts it, unthinkable. Still, this is certainly a lead we must follow. I know Péan; he’s given lectures at the Morgue. He may provide us with information that is useful in solving the case. Now, Inspector, before we proceed is there anything else you want me to consider?”

  “A couple of things, Monsieur. We’re going to search the contents of the cesspit. If I find anything of interest, I’ll bring it to you immediately.”

  “Very well, Inspector. Anything else?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. The torso was wrapped in a sheet smeared with what appear to be bloodstains. There are perceptible handprints and fingerprints; I want them photographed to see if they can be enhanced. They might prove useful.”

  Bertillon’s eyes narrowed. “Fingerprints, eh? Of course you know we don’t use them in our system?”

  Achille replied firmly, “I understand, but I believe in a matter like this we shouldn’t overlook anything that might help solve the case.”

  Bertillon’s stare turned to a smile. He placed a hand on Achille’s shoulder. “I can see why your chief values you so highly. Very well. Have the cloth sent to my laboratory. I’ll examine the fabric and the prints as well. Your photographer can take before and after images for the file.”

  Relieved, Achille smiled warmly. “Thank you, Monsieur. I look forward to working with you.”

  Following the autopsy, Achille stopped at a café, purchased a bottle of beer and a sandwich, and returned to his office. He sent a message to his wife, Adele, and told her not to wait supper for him. He then typed his report for Féraud. The old boys hated the typewriter; they refused to use it, and the chief did not insist. But Achille had mastered the new machine, and he preferred its neatness and uniformity to the typical detective’s scrawl.

  As he worked he could not shake the image of the torso on the dissection table. What sort of monster could have committed such a crime? It’s as though the Devil had come to Montmartre. Might the Devil have been a deformed, aristocratic painter, or France’s greatest surgeon? Could it be Jack the Ripper, as Rodin implied in his morbid joke? Don’t jump to conclusions. They knew so little, but hopefully in the coming days they would learn more. Could the murderer strike again? Scotland Yard’s failure in the Ripper murders loomed large.

  Shortly after ten P.M., Achille finished typing his report, closed his file, rubbed his weary eyes, turned out the lights, and headed for home.

  Achille, his wife Adele, their four-year-old daughter Jeanne, and Adele’s mother, Madame Berthier, lived in a spacious second-floor apartment in the 1st arrondissement, not far from Sûreté headquarters. The building was one of Baron Haussmann’s elegant modern creations, located on
a quiet, tree-shaded avenue. The apartment belonged to Madame Berthier, widow of a much decorated cavalry colonel, a fervent Bonapartist and friend of General Boulanger.

  Achille paid rent to Madame and she retained a commodious boudoir and an adjoining study. This arrangement allowed the family to live a very comfortable bourgeois life, much better than that of a typical civil servant of Achille’s rank. They could even afford a maid, a cook, and a nanny for the little girl.

  Achille got along reasonably well with his mother-in-law, despite the fact that she disliked his chosen profession. She had formed an image of detectives from the first Sûreté chief, Vidocq, who employed reformed criminals like himself, on the theory that it takes a thief to catch a thief. She also railed against the government for its treatment of General Boulanger, looked forward to a war of revenge against Germany, and blamed the Germans, their Jewish bankers, Protestants, and Freemasons for all the evils of mankind. Achille found Madame’s politics and prejudices illogical and distasteful. But as a good husband and son-in-law he tried to maintain peace at home. Therefore, whenever in conversation with Madame Berthier, Achille avoided discussing his job, politics, or anything controversial; if she raised these matters he simply nodded sympathetically, tried to switch the subject, or if possible, politely excused himself.

  When he arrived home that evening, his mother-in-law had already retired to her boudoir. Adele greeted him in the front hall, with a petulant frown:

  “Cook made your favorite cassoulet for supper, and Jeanne wanted you to read her a story before she went to sleep. She cried when I told her you weren’t coming. Why can’t Féraud be more considerate? He works you like a slave.”

  Achille’s eyes were sad and tired; the last thing he wanted was an argument. He smiled and stroked Adele’s soft cheek. Such bright green eyes; such warm red lips. How pretty she is, he thought. He noticed a change in her expression from mild vexation to deep concern. “Please my dear,” he whispered, “I’m dog-tired. Féraud’s assigned me to a case of the utmost importance and I must report to him at five A.M.”