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

by Gary Inbinder

  “Papa’s home! Papa’s home!” The little girl broke free from her nanny and scampered in a flurry of curls, ribbons, and lace through the front hall to Achille. He swept her into his arms, kissed her rosebud mouth, and hugged and squeezed her until she giggled. “I miss you, Papa. Why are you never here?”

  Achille stroked her silky golden hair. “I’m sorry, little one. Papa’s very busy keeping Paris safe from wicked people.”

  “Wicked people? Do you mean the Germans, the Jews, and the Freemasons?”

  Achille stared over the child’s shoulder at Adele; she looked away and fussed with some frills on her dress. Jeanne had obviously been listening to her grandmother. He looked back at his daughter and smiled. “No, my angel, I mean the wicked people who break the laws of the Republic.”

  Confused, Jeanne pouted and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Achille put her down and handed her back to the nanny. He waited until they were out of earshot before speaking to Adele:

  “I wish your mother wouldn’t fill the child’s head with reactionary rubbish.”

  Adele pouted like her little girl. “I’m sorry, Achille. I can’t correct Mama.”

  His patience wearing thin, he replied harshly: “Well, perhaps it’s time someone did. I won’t have my four-year-old daughter’s mind polluted with extremist propaganda.”

  Adele’s face reddened; she was on the verge of tears. “You finally come home at a decent hour, and the first thing you do is criticize mother and pick a quarrel over nothing. You didn’t even notice my new dress. It’s your favorite color; or at least you used to say it was your favorite.”

  Achille calmed himself. He took a moment to admire the green silk gown trimmed with lace ruches. His voice softened. “It’s very pretty; the fabric matches your emerald eyes, it brings out their luster.” He walked to her, put his hands on her shoulders and smiled. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m tired. I just wish your mother would be more careful about expressing such controversial views around Jeanne.”

  Adele had the pleased look of a wife who had won yet another minor skirmish with her husband. “Well, since you liked my dress and apologized nicely I’ll permit you to kiss me.”

  He kissed her lips and held her tightly until he heard a familiar rustle of silk, creaking of stays, and smelled the sharp odor of camphor transfused with sweet overtones of attar of roses. Madame Berthier entered the hallway. A dumpy woman in her fifties with a vestige of prettiness around her hazel eyes and full red lips, Madame looked like a Gallic Queen Victoria dressed in old-fashioned black bombazine crinoline and white widow’s cap. “Good evening, Achille. It was most kind of Chief Inspector Féraud to permit you an evening with your family.”

  “Good evening, Madame.” Achille walked to his mother-in-law, bent down, and kissed her proffered cheek. “I have the pleasure of dining en famille this evening, but I’m afraid I must retire to my study immediately after dinner. I must finish my report for tomorrow morning.”

  Madame smiled, displaying crooked yellowish teeth and spreading dozens of wrinkles through a layer of white powder round her eyes and rouged mouth. “I’m honored to have a son-in-law so devoted to his duty. It’s a shame you can’t turn your singular talents toward rooting out France’s real enemies rather than chasing common criminals through the gutters of Montmartre.”

  Achille glanced at Adele with a wry smile before inquiring: “Oh, and who might these real enemies be, Madame?”

  “Read Monsieur Drumont’s La France Juive and you will be enlightened, my boy.”

  Adele interrupted judiciously: “We’re having veal chops with sorrel and an excellent Chateau Haut-Brion. I think you’ll prefer it to your usual sandwich and bottle of beer.”

  Madame grimaced at the mention of her son-in-law’s common, workday supper. “Beer,” she muttered, “how disgusting.”

  Achille laughed. “To what do we owe this feast? Is it some special occasion of which I’m unaware?”

  “Yes, my dear,” Adele answered with a smile. “It’s to celebrate your dining at home.”

  The dinner was superb, but after two hours of listening to Madame’s conspiracy theories, Achille was relieved to return to work. He sat at his desk bent over a typewriter, straining his eyes in the yellow glow of an oil lamp. Constantly referring to his notes and considering a number of leads developed from new evidence, he completed his report to Féraud.

  In addition to the evidence he had discussed with Bertillon at the laboratory, he made two intriguing discoveries in records. First, a concierge on the Rue Lepic had reported a missing young woman, Virginie Ménard, and the police had questioned an artist named Émile Bernard who had been roaming Montmartre and Pigalle searching for the girl. The time of her disappearance and physical description matched what they knew from the corpse.

  Second, he found a file on a dwarf, Joseph Rossini, aka Jojo the clown. Jojo was an ex-convict with a record of violence against women, a circus performer who rented a room on the Rue Lepic, not far from Virginie Ménard. His photographs looked like Lautrec’s twin, and his measurements matched the footprint cast and stride measured at the crime scene. Achille wondered what Rousseau’s investigation had turned up; at any rate, he’d know first thing in the morning. Achille finished typing, and turned his attention to the latent prints on the gold cigarette case.

  In 1863, Paul-Jean Coulier, a chemistry professor, published his discovery that latent fingerprints could be developed on paper by iodine fuming. He also explained how to preserve the developed impression and mentioned the potential for identifying fingerprints by use of a magnifying glass. Achille had read Coulier’s paper. But without a credible classification system and a sound argument for the individuality of fingerprints that could be accepted as evidence in a court of law, there was no practical use for them in criminal identification. Galton had provided the supporting argument for individuality and the classification system, what was needed was a means of capturing the prints at the crime scene so they might be compared to the suspect’s fingerprints and presented to the court.

  Achille knew that the prints on the cigarette case were impressions made by the oily residue and perspiration on the fingertips. What he needed was a reagent, the equivalent of Coulier’s iodine fumes that could sufficiently enhance the prints so they could be classified accurately, photographed, and compared to the prints on the canvas.

  He yawned, removed his pince-nez, rubbed his bleary eyes, and then focused on the loudly ticking desk clock. Eleven P.M.; time for bed. Achille rose from his desk, stretched his weary arms and legs, and walked to the doorway that entered into a short corridor leading to the master bedroom. He had already removed his shoes and changed into slippers to keep the carpets clean and not make too much noise. The gas was off; he groped through the shadows, careful not to trip over toys Jeanne often left on the runner. When he reached the bedroom door, he knocked gently. Adele bid him enter.

  He saw her seated at her dresser. She had changed into a nightdress. Her hair was down, and she slowly brushed the long, brown strands while gazing at her reflection in a lamp-lit mirror. Achille came up behind her, leaned down, brushed away some stray hairs and caressed her bare shoulder. She put down the hairbrush and accidentally knocked some face powder onto a silver box. “Oh,” she muttered. Then she bent over and blew away the powder.

  The accident caught Achille’s attention. “Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “Don’t move; don’t touch anything.”

  “What’s the matter, dear?” Adele turned around with a worried frown. But Achille was already out the door, sprinting up the corridor toward his study. She heard a crash and a cry of “Merde!” Achille had tripped over Jeanne’s toy duck, Oscar.

  Presently he returned, limping and rubbing his knee with one hand and carrying his magnifying glass in the other. Scowling, he muttered, “Nanny must teach Jeanne not to leave her toys in the hallways, or at least pick up after her.”

  “Yes, dear, I’ll speak to them. But what’s all the fuss? What are you
doing with that glass?”

  Achille forgot his throbbing knee. He bent over the dressing table and examined the silver box. “My dear, we’re conducting an important experiment in forensic science.”

  He handed the glass to Adele. “Here, see for yourself.”

  “Oh, very well,” she grumbled. “What am I looking at?”

  “Your fingerprints enhanced with face powder.”

  “How disgusting!” She handed back the magnifying glass with a peevish glare. “Why is it so important?”

  Achille explained patiently. “Fingerprints might be significant to the solution of the mystery surrounding my case. They can provide the missing pieces to a puzzle that, when completed, could catch a dangerous criminal. But I’m breaking new ground, practically writing the book as I proceed.” He lowered his voice, smiled, and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry if my behavior seems peculiar at times, but I’m under pressure and it’s a matter of the utmost urgency. Your little accident put me on the right track, and I’m grateful. Now, I just need to find something, a fine dark powder that will increase the definition of the lines so they can be clearly identifiable and photographable as well.”

  Adele grasped his hand and rose from her chair. She smiled, looked into Achille’s eyes and spoke softly: “I think I understand a little now. Perhaps it might help if you shared your work with me, from time to time. Not the grisly things, but your theories, your methods, your problems. I’ll help, if I can.”

  He kissed her. “Thank you, I’d like that very much.”

  “All right, it’s a bargain. And now, Inspector, I’m going to test your powers of observation further. Have you noticed anything different about me?”

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see now. Does is it go with your new dress?”

  “Good question; you’re warm.”

  He sniffed her neck and bosom. “Ah, I detect a new fragrance.”

  “Bravo! And you approve?”

  Achille opened her night dress and caressed her breasts. “Yes,” he whispered. “It’s perfection.”

  “Inspector Lefebvre, for your unerring skill as a detective, excellent taste in perfume, and unwavering devotion to duty, I award you the highest honor I can bestow.” She lifted his hand, smiled mischievously, and nibbled his fingers.

  Achille laughed, swept Adele into his arms, and carried her off to bed.

  Just before midnight a brilliant lightning flash lit the sky over Sacré-Cæur. Thunder rumbled, stirring memories of the Prussian Krupp guns that pounded Paris day and night during the siege of 1870-71. Wind-whipped rain battered shutters, poured through drainpipes into overflowing gutters, washed over twisting streets and alleyways down to the boulevard at the foot of the hill. Lautrec and a few others sought shelter in a small boîte in Pigalle. The artist sat alone at a small table, drinking absinthe while sketching a young woman seated at the other end of the bar. She appeared through a grayish haze of tobacco smoke tinged yellow by flickering candles and gaslights. The place reeked of fumes emanating from clay pipes and cheap cigarettes re-rolled from discarded butts, interfused with the odor of damp clothing clinging to infrequently washed bodies.

  The young woman sang in a husky mezzo-soprano about her life on the streets to the accompaniment of an old man fingering a wheezing, out-of-tune concertina. The working-class patrons paid little or no attention to her; a couple of men played draughts while another watched, one in a dark corner behind Lautrec laid his head on his arms and snored, another plied his woman with liquor while groping her under the table, the few remaining men and women smoked, drank, stared into space, and grumbled about the weather, work, politics, and life in general.

  Lautrec recognized his subject; she was Delphine, a dancer at the Moulin Rouge. Too hard-boiled and streetwise to be called pretty, there was still something attractive about her; dark hair and eyes, dusky skin, flat nose, thick sensual lips, large, even white teeth, perhaps all evidence of her mixed blood. He rendered her honestly with a facial expression reflecting the worldly resignation of her lyrics.

  Delphine finished her song, turned toward Lautrec, and stared defiantly. He responded with a casual smile and a tip of his black bowler. She sauntered to his table, placed her hands on her hips, and said, “I know you, Monsieur. You’re the artist who hangs round the Moulin. Buy me a drink?” The ultimate phrase of her greeting might have been a command rather than a request, had it not been for a questioning upturn to her inflection and a curious aspect in her large brown eyes.

  Lautrec had already made a quick study of her gestures, mannerisms, shabby dress, poor but proud demeanor. He immediately replied, “But of course, Mademoiselle. Name your poison,” and beckoned the bartender.

  Delphine ordered absinthe. The bartender brought her drink; she took a swig, then for a while said nothing while Lautrec finished his drawing. Then: “I’m a good friend of Virginie Ménard; did you know that?”

  Lautrec put down his charcoal and looked up at Delphine. “Yes Mademoiselle, I recall her mentioning you on occasion.”

  “Oh, really? And I suppose you know that she’s gone missing. No one’s seen or heard from her for almost a week.”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle, I have already been informed of that fact.” Lautrec exaggerated his toffee-nosed accent and continued smiling as though he were baiting her. He enjoyed picking fights; it broke the monotony and this woman looked tough enough to make it interesting.

  Delphine drank some absinthe; her hand trembled and there was a noticeable quaver in her voice. She put down her glass and glared at Lautrec. “Have you also been informed of the fact that a woman’s body was found stuffed in a shit-hole on the street in front of your studio?”

  “Yes, my landlady has told me as much.” He glanced at her empty glass. “Would you care for another absinthe?”

  Delphine leaned over the table; her hand gripped a bag containing a razor. Her husky voice deepened and hardened into a sotto voce snarl: “If I thought—if I believed you had done anything to harm Virginie, I’d slit your ugly throat, here and now.”

  Without a flinch or the slightest change of expression, he replied, “You might try to slit my throat, Delphine, but I’m quite capable of stopping you. I fear you’d be seriously injured in the process. So for both our sakes, please don’t think of trying. Nevertheless, I assure you I’ve not harmed Virginie, nor do I know her whereabouts. As for the unfortunate young woman in the cesspool, I know nothing about her either, and I wouldn’t jump to conclusions by assuming she’s Virginie. At any rate, this is a matter for the police. Have you gone to them with your concerns?”

  Delphine backed off; she sighed and shook her head. “Monsieur Lautrec, people like me don’t go to the police; they come to us.” She paused a moment to calm down; then: “May I have another drink?”

  He signaled for the bartender. The woman’s passionate concern for her friend had an effect on Lautrec. He dropped the sarcasm and tried to put her at ease. “Maybe she suddenly took off from Paris for some good reason. Perhaps she went to Rouen? I believe she has relatives there.”

  Delphine shook her head. “She’d never go back there; she hates it. I know you were close to her, Monsieur. Didn’t she tell you about her aunt?”

  Lautrec looked down at his sketch; for a moment he was at a loss for words. Virginie had tried to tell him about her life, the abuse, her fears, her nightmares, but he would not listen. As usual, he had cut her off with sarcasm; it was his defense mechanism. He had enough trouble struggling with his own monsters. Finally, he looked up with sad eyes: “I’m sorry, Delphine. I hope she’s all right but there’s nothing—nothing I can do.”

  “I understand, Monsieur.” She turned her attention to the sketch. “May I see it?”

  “Of course you may.” He handed her the drawing.

  She studied it for a while before pronouncing: “It’s really good. Is it—is it worth something?”

  Lautrec smiled. “If I may?” She returned the sketch and he signed it. “Th
ere, Mademoiselle, you may have it as a memento of our meeting on this stormy midnight in a dingy boîte. As for its value, depending on the laws of supply and demand, in a few years it might indeed be worth something. On the other hand, if you’re not inclined to wait for an upswing in the market for my work you may take it to Salis, the proprietor of Le Chat Noir. Tell him Henri said it was worth free drinks for a week, no less.”

  “Thank you Monsieur.” She crooked a finger as if to return the favor by taking him into her confidence. He leaned forward, and she whispered: “Watch out for Rousseau.”

  “Who is Rousseau?”

  “A fat pig, Monsieur. One of the inspectors running the investigation. His paid snoops and snitches are crawling all over Montmartre and Pigalle. He’s already questioned me, and your friend Bernard. His partner, Lefebvre is all right, but Rousseau’s a bastard. If he thinks you’re guilty, he’ll stop at nothing. He planted evidence on a friend of mine and got him twenty years transportation to Guiana.”

  “Thank you, Delphine. I’ll be on my guard.”

  They sat together for a while, smoked, made small talk, and finished their drinks. The rain let up and the boîte emptied. Delphine and Lautrec were among the last to leave. The sleeping man in the corner watched them go, making a mental note of the hour. With a half-opened eye and keen ear, he had been watching and listening all along.

  8

  OCTOBER 17

  A THEORY OF THE CASE

  So Achille, you think Virginie Ménard’s our victim?”

  “Given what we’ve got, she’s our best likelihood,” Achille replied. “I base my conclusion on the post-mortem examination, Chief Bertillon’s identification analysis, the missing persons’ report, and Inspector Rousseau’s inquiries.

  “Mlle Ménard’s from Rouen; she’s an orphan, born Virginie Mercier, raised by her uncle and aunt. Ménard’s a stage name, taken from her former employer and benefactor, now deceased. Assuming we’ve identified the victim, I’ve developed a plan for proceeding with the investigation. Do you want to wait for Rousseau? He’ll be here shortly.”