“No, I have his report. Let’s start without him.”
They held their early meeting in Féraud’s office. Achille had prepared a chart with a map of Montmartre indicating Virginie’s route from the Moulin Rouge to her flat, including a timeline. He’d set the chart on an easel, and referred to it with a pointer.
“To my knowledge, no one has seen or heard from Mlle Ménard since Sunday the 11th at approximately two A.M. The last person to speak to her was a friend, a dancer at the Moulin Rouge, Delphine Lacroix. According to Rousseau’s interview with Lacroix, Ménard did not feel threatened by anyone, nor did she express any specific concern about her safety at the time. But she had in the past expressed her fear of walking the streets unescorted at that hour, which of course is understandable. Following Lacroix’s advice, she carried a razor in her purse for self-defense.
“Under normal conditions, it would take Ménard about thirty minutes to walk to her flat. She tipped the concierge to wait up for her, and the woman was concerned when Ménard didn’t arrive on time. The concierge waited about one half-hour before checking the front door. She found a note in the girl’s handwriting indicating she would be out of town for three days, but there was no indication of where she had gone or for what purpose.
“After three days had passed the concierge became suspicious and reported the missing girl to the police. The report was considered routine until the body was discovered in the cesspit. Sergeant Rodin notified us immediately and Rousseau questioned the concierge. She told him that Ménard was a ‘good girl’ with regular habits; she also provided information about Mlle Ménard’s relatives in Rouen.
“I contacted the Rouen police to see if they could locate Mlle Ménard. They made inquiries, but turned up nothing. However, they did provide some interesting information about her relationship with her aunt and uncle. According to the locals, the Merciers abused the girl and treated her like a servant. Moreover, there’s a neighborhood rumor that the aunt and uncle cheated their niece out of a small inheritance, and that she discovered their malfeasance and threatened legal action.”
“Ah, they had a motive!” Féraud broke in.
Achille shrugged. “Perhaps, but further inquiry traced the rumor to a former employee of the Merciers who bore them a grudge.”
The Chief nodded knowingly and said, “I see; please continue.”
“The Merciers are butchers, so initially I thought they might have had the skill to cut her up. And they were out of town around the time the victim died.”
The Chief’s eyes widened. “Now you may be on to something!”
Achille frowned and shook his head. “They have an alibi. They went to Louviers to visit relatives. There are plenty of witnesses to confirm that. Further, considering the results of the post-mortem, I believe the victim’s wounds are more likely the work of a surgeon rather than mere butchery.”
The Chief sighed and leaned back in his chair. “All right, Achille. So it looks like the aunt and uncle are in the clear. What else have you got?”
“After her benefactor M. Ménard died, there was only one man in her life, Toulouse-Lautrec—”
There was a loud knock; Rousseau entered. “Good morning, Chief, professor. Sorry I’m late. That was one hell of a storm last night. Water and fallen branches all over the place. A bloody mess.”
“Yes,” Féraud replied. “The sewers in my neighborhood backed up; my damned cellar’s flooded. Anyway, Achille’s been briefing me about Virginie Ménard. We’re concentrating our attention on her as the probable victim.”
Rousseau walked round the easel and stood next to Achille. “That’s right, Chief. If you ask me, it’s Ménard for sure.”
Achille addressed his partner. “We need to question everyone on her route. Even at two A.M. it’s likely someone saw, or at least heard something.”
“Right, professor. I’m on it.”
Turning back to Féraud: “We believe she died during the afternoon or evening of the 14th and the body was dumped in the cesspit during the early morning hours of the following day. That means she lived at least three days after the disappearance. We know she was heavily drugged when she died. But we don’t know where the death occurred, and we’re still searching for her head and limbs.
“I’m going to check the records at Doctor Péan’s’ clinic, most particularly those relating to a vaginal hysterectomy performed the afternoon of the 14th. Lautrec was there, but I’m looking for a doctor who was present and might have a connection with Virginie Menard. I’m also going to check to see if there are any drugs missing from the dispensary. Which brings me to the subject of Péan’s opinion regarding the mutilation: he thinks only a surgeon would have had the skill to cut her up that way.”
“So, you think we’re looking for a runty sawbones?” Rousseau interjected.
“I thought of that, but no. I believe we’re looking for two individuals; a doctor and his stunted accomplice. What’s more, despite the location of the body, the cigarette case, and Mlle Ménard’s relationship with Lautrec, I think the accomplice is a short individual who a witness could mistake for Lautrec. In other words, I think the case was stolen and planted in the cesspit with the body by someone with a strong motive to pin the crime on the artist.”
“What makes you think that?” the Chief asked.
“Although he lives like a bohemian, Lautrec’s an aristocratic intellectual with a fine sense of honor. He doesn’t seem the type to cut up a girl, dump the remains in the nearest hole, and leave a calling card.”
Rousseau smirked. “Aristocratic intellectual, eh? Sounds like the Marquis de Sade.”
Achille glared at his partner. “I wouldn’t compare M. Lautrec to Sade.”
“Have it your way, professor,” Rousseau grunted.
Féraud narrowed his eyes skeptically before asking, “You’re not completely ruling out Lautrec, are you?”
“No Chief, not completely,” Achille replied. “However, as I’ve already indicated, I believe only a surgeon would have had the skill to perform the hysterectomy and amputations so neatly. On the other hand, Lautrec knows anatomy, he’s observed operations, and by all accounts he’s highly intelligent with strength and manual dexterity much like that of the most skilled surgeons. So, for the time being I can’t rule him out as a suspect.”
Féraud leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and fiddled with his watch fob; a habit when confronted with a thorny issue. Rousseau turned to Achille, shrugged, and made a face as though he’d smelled a fart. After a moment, Féraud opened his eyes and said, “The accomplice makes sense if we accept Dr. Péan’s opinion. Do you have an individual in mind?”
“Searching the records I found a file on a circus performer, a dwarf named Joseph Rossini who lives near the victim.”
“Jojo the Clown?” Rousseau broke in. “I put him inside for pimping, awhile back. A mean little bastard; the girls hated him. He had a method for dealing with whores if he thought they weren’t handing over all their earnings. First offense, he’d strip the girl, tie her to a bed, and whip her ass with his belt. Second offense, he’d cut her with a stiletto. And if the bitch was stupid enough to cheat him a third time, well then he got really rough. Anyway, he’s got a job in a circus and a clean record since he was released from prison.” Rousseau turned to Achille with a grin. “And he’s proved to be a good snitch, on occasion.”
“Well,” Achille replied, “I think we list him as a possible suspect. We might want to shadow him, see if he can lead us to the killer. Which brings me back to Lautrec; I want to question him myself, but I don’t want to bring him in on a warrant. Despite the evidence, I’m not convinced he’s our man. So I want to lay my cards on the table. Instead of doing a warrantless search behind his back, I want to get his permission to search the studio and his apartment. I also—”
“Wait a minute,” Rousseau interrupted. “You want to tip him off?”
Achille turned to Féraud. “Chief, if he’s innocent, he’ll want to he
lp us; he’ll have nothing to hide. And I was about to say that I’d also ask him to let me take his fingerprints to compare them with the prints on the cloth and the cigarette case. If he refuses my requests I’d take that as evidence of guilt, in which case we can get a warrant and turn him over to the magistrate for questioning.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Féraud muttered. “Rousseau, have you picked up anything from tailing Lautrec?”
“Not much, chief, except to confirm that our aristocratic painter’s a degenerate little monkey. He spends more time scribbling and daubing in the brothels, cabarets, dance halls, and boîtes than he does in his studio. Oh, last night he met up with an old acquaintance of mine, the victim’s girlfriend, Delphine Lacroix.”
Féraud’s brow knitted: “Oh really? And just how long have you known Lacroix?”
“A few years ago I put the screws on her for street-walking; I sent her man up for a nice, long vacation in Le Bagne.”
Féraud smiled at Rousseau’s reference to the infamous penal colony. “I suppose the young lady wouldn’t hold a warm and friendly opinion of you. Anyway, I see the logic of Achille’s approach. If Lautrec’s got nothing to hide, he ought to cooperate, and his knowledge of the victim could be useful in helping us catch the criminal—or criminals.” To Achille: “Have you anything else to tell me before I let you go?”
“Yes, chief. We’re going to track down the shop that sold the canvas the body was wrapped in. And I’ve located Lautrec’s tobacconist. I’m going to question him about the cigarettes found at the scene; they contain opium. If they’re Lautrec’s and they were stolen along with the cigarette case, that doesn’t tell us much one way or the other, except that he’s got a bad habit. On the other hand, if they aren’t his, and I can track down the real opium smoker, well then, we’ll have something.”
Féraud nodded and began fumbling with his paperwork. “Very well, boys, carry on.”
Betsy and Sir Henry had arrived early at the Javanese Village on the Esplanade des Invalides. Notwithstanding their timeliness, they were obliged to wait in line to enter the Pendopo, a columned, thatch-roofed, open-walled hall, where they would experience one of the Exhibitions’ most popular shows, the four lovely Javanese dancers accompanied by a gamelan orchestra.
They had an almost perfect day for attending the Fair—bright, clear, and pleasantly cool following the storm. However, the tempest had left its calling card in the form of fallen leaves, branches, and muddy puddles that threatened the dragging hemlines of the female fair-goers’ skirts.
Even in such conditions, Betsy was happy and content to wait. Sir Henry amused her with anecdotes and society gossip; when her mind wandered, she could breathe fresh, botanically perfumed air and drift off to faraway places conjured by the exotic surroundings. She consciously avoided a burgeoning subliminal desire to be freed from her invalid friend. But despite Betsy’s mental evasion, her repressed fear of death’s proximity emerged like drifting clouds, casting a guilty shadow over her sunniest moments.
Sir Henry pointed his stick at a tiny creature slowly wending its way up the muddy trail. “I wonder which will reach its destination first, this queue or that snail. Will you give me odds if I take the snail?”
Betsy laughed. “Oh Sir Henry, I think I should have the odds if I take the queue!”
Sir Henry smiled and stroked his moustache. “At any rate, I hear the show’s worth it. The exotic, Oriental music and dance have had their impact on our young musicians. It may be a subtle form of colonial retribution. We’ve taken their lands by force of arms, imposed our religion, laws, and social values. Now they’re paying us back with attractive novelties that insinuate themselves into our culture. Thus, the conquerors shall be ingeniously subverted and transformed by the conquered. You mark my words, Miss Endicott, within a generation instead of waltzing to the melodious strains of Strauss we shall gyrate to heathen yammering and the banging of pots and pans.”
Betsy smiled in response to Sir Henry’s fanciful prognostication. “You forget that we Americans are former colonials. Do you think our rough frontier ways will undermine the foundations of Western Civilization?”
“You Americans are transplanted English who have strayed from the fold. Nevertheless, we forgive you. After all, our differences are political but our culture remains the same.”
“Don’t be so sure of that, Sir Henry. You haven’t experienced our Wild West.”
Sir Henry screwed in his monocle, as if to get a better look at her. “Cowboys, Indians, and buffalo herds; should be jolly fun. I look forward to it.”
Betsy laughed, but her expression changed suddenly. “I’m afraid you may not see it. When I last spoke to her about a sanatorium, Marcia seemed to have changed her mind.”
He dropped his flippant manner, altering his demeanor with the alacrity of a chameleon to match her changed mood. “It appears we’re moving, at last. We’ll speak of this matter later, over luncheon.”
After the dance, they lunched at the Anglo-American Bar on the first level of the Eiffel Tower. From their vantage point they could look out through plate glass windows and admire the panoramic view of the fairgrounds on the Champ de Mars. Many of the structures were ephemeral, but the great iron tower was there to stay. To some it was an eyesore, an ugly, brutal symbol of industrialization, but to most it was emblematic of French ingenuity and progress. Love it or hate it, the tower asserted itself magnificently as a prime attraction, a landmark and nascent cultural icon implanting the idea of Paris in the popular imagination.
Sir Henry studied Betsy’s fine features as she sipped a light, white wine and stared into space. A large, garishly decorated red, white and blue balloon floated across her field of vision; Betsy’s eyes focused on it and followed its progress. Her consciousness seemed to imitate the soaring object, drifting away from her troubles, at least for the moment.
“The dance was lovely, wasn’t it?” he remarked quietly, as if to bring her imagination back to earth with a gentle tug on the tether. “Much better than I’d expected.”
She turned her attention to Sir Henry. “Yes, I was thinking how much Marcia would have loved it. She would have sketched—” Betsy lifted a handkerchief to her eyes; she sobbed softly for a moment, and then controlled herself. “Forgive me, Sir Henry, I’m making a spectacle of myself.”
He reached across the table and touched her gloved hand gently. “Think nothing of it. I understand your feelings, but you have no reason to reproach yourself. Marcia Brownlow’s a great painter; she’s devoted her life to art. If she wants to complete her work outside a sanatorium, there’s nothing either of us can do. You must stop worrying about her, and start thinking more of yourself.”
“I—I know you’re right, but the past eleven years have meant a great deal to me. I’ll see to it that’s she’s properly cared for. She’s been discussing plans with an old mutual friend, Arthur Wolcott. She told me Arthur invited her to stay with him at his country home in England. If she doesn’t return to America, I’ll do what I can for her whether she remains in Paris, or goes to live with Arthur.”
Sir Henry seized an opportunity. “Ah, you think she might go with Arthur? All things considered, it might be best for her.”
Betsy’s eyes widened. “Do you really think so? I know she and Arthur get along, and she’d love the countryside and the society.”
“Yes, and since she doesn’t want to go to a sanatorium, I think it’s a splendid alternative. And here’s another idea. You might consider taking up residence in London, for a while, that is. You could visit her regularly; it’s not far by train.” He paused a moment and smiled. “Of course, I can’t claim to be disinterested. After all, if you were in London, I should have the hope of enjoying more of your company.”
Betsy blushed and said nothing; but she did nod her head agreeably. She continued gazing fondly at the handsome physician, as though he were the answer to her prayers.
Péan’s clerk was a well-dressed, well-groomed, middle-aged
, officious little man with a high-pitched voice and meticulously waxed impériale, making him appear like an actor impersonating the late Emperor. He opened a leather-bound journal on a lectern near the entrance to the operating theater and flipped the pages to October 14, 1889. “Here we are Inspector, a list of the gentlemen who witnessed the vaginal hysterectomy.”
Achille went through the list, six witnesses in all. Four were well-known physicians and surgeons with practices in Paris. The fifth was Toulouse-Lautrec, and the sixth appeared to be an Englishman. “Who is Sir Henry Collingwood?”
The clerk smiled as he proudly extolled the clinic’s operations and its widespread reputation. “Sir Henry Collingwood is an eminent English physician and surgeon, a very affable gentleman. He’s on holiday in Paris, enjoying the Fair and the many attractions of our city. He takes a particular interest in gynecological surgery and therefore has come to our clinic to observe Dr. Péan’s world-renowned operations.”
“I see, so naturally I assume he would want to be present when Dr. Péan demonstrated a new and very important technique in his specialty?”
“Of course, Inspector. As I recall, Sir Henry was most keen to observe the vaginal hysterectomy.
Achille smiled amiably. “I assume you can provide me with a detailed description of the English gentleman?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Can you show me how many operations Sir Henry attended?”
“They’re all logged in the book. I believe the first was a few weeks ago.”
Achille examined the journal. It confirmed that Sir Henry had witnessed four gynecological surgeries: two abdominal hysterectomies (one with ovariotomy) and two mastectomies (one single, one double). Lautrec had also been present at these operations.
“I’m afraid I must take this journal to headquarters so the relevant pages can be copied. I apologize for the inconvenience. I’ll issue you a receipt and have the book returned by courier as soon as possible.”
The Devil in Montmartre: A Mystery in Fin de Siècle Paris Page 9