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

by Gary Inbinder

  “Oh very well, Inspector,” the clerk replied with an air of annoyance.

  This peevishness irritated Achille; the clerk had a civic duty to cooperate. But he maintained his composure and congenial smile. He needed the clerk’s cooperation, and he understood how an investigation interfered with the ordinary citizen’s routine; unlike the “old boys” (Rousseau being a prime example), he rarely resorted to intimidation. “Now Monsieur, I have a question about the dispensary. Have you had any report of missing supplies, most particularly narcotics, sedatives, or anesthetics such as morphine, chloroform, or chloral hydrate?”

  “No, Inspector; the apothecary keeps those items in a locked cabinet and maintains an inventory. Any suspected theft would have been reported to the police.”

  “I see; does your apothecary replenish those items on a regular basis?”

  “Of course; he orders them from a chemist. I can give you his name and address.”

  Achille was pleased to note the clerk’s reversion to a more accommodating manner; his little snit appeared to have been temporary. “Thank you, Monsieur; you’ve been most helpful. Now, before I leave, I’ll need to interview all the doctors who assisted in the vaginal hysterectomy. If they’re unavailable today, I’ll require their addresses. I’ll also need contact information for the gentlemen who are listed in the journal, including Sir Henry.”

  The clerk nodded. “I’ll do what I can to assist in your investigation.”

  Achille trusted the offer of assistance was sincere. “Thank you, Monsieur. If anything turns up that you believe might be helpful, or you have any questions regarding this case, please don’t hesitate to contact me. You have my card.”

  Arthur escorted Marcia to the Luxembourg gardens, where he hired a bath-chair and gallantly pushed her up and down, skirting puddles, fallen branches, and dead leaves scattered over the winding lanes. After a while, his increase in girth and years caught up with him. Puffing from unaccustomed exertion, he pulled to one side of a wide promenade, stopped, lifted his hat, and mopped his brow.

  Marcia turned her head and looked up at him with a wistful smile. “Do you recognize this place?”

  He gazed up the lane that forked round a fountain, with benches to the left, shrubbery and flowerbeds bordering the right. Beyond the fountain was a pair of statues in the Greco-Roman style, more benches, and an antique urn filled with bright red flowers. Further on, a staircase led to a white balustraded walkway fronting a stand of broad shade trees.

  “By Jove, you painted this scene, didn’t you? As I recall, Betsy posed next to the fountain. She wore a bright yellow dress.”

  “Your memory is sharp as a tack. That was eleven years ago when I was masquerading as Mark and Betsy fell in love with a man who never was.”

  “Ah, yes,” Arthur sighed and said no more.

  “Betsy and I lunched at a nice outdoor restaurant not far from here. A band was playing Je suis Titania. I wonder if it’s still there. The restaurant I mean.”

  Arthur needed rest and refreshment and replied enthusiastically. “I know the place well. Shall we go there?”

  “Oh yes, that would be lovely.”

  They found a table under a breeze-ruffled awning where several floating leaves had settled. The band wasn’t playing; the only sounds were the distant shouts and laughter of children playing with hoops and balls, the trickle of a nearby fountain, chattering birds perched in tall, denuded branches, and the polite murmuring of their fellow lunchers.

  Marcia picked at her roast chicken, but she enjoyed her wine. They made pleasant small talk, until she turned to the subject of Betsy. “This place brings back memories, Arthur. Now, I feel like a pentimento in her portrait; a ghostly, over-painted figure watching from a balcony while Betsy and Sir Henry make love in the garden below.”

  For a moment, Arthur was at a loss for words. Then: “I realize this is difficult for you, but you’ve already indicated your intentions. A clean, amicable break seems best. And, by all accounts Sir Henry is a decent fellow.”

  Marcia smiled wryly. “As an independent, freethinking woman I fear I must question his ‘decency.’ In my humble opinion, the diagnosis and treatment of ‘female hysteria’ is a medical dodge, a pseudo-scientific means of keeping us in our place. When one of our sex asserts herself, demands her right to vote and full equality under the law, and then reacts to all the abuse, ridicule, and scorn directed at her, it’s all too easy to say she’s ‘hysterical’ or suffering from ‘female troubles’ and prescribe treatments that range from the demeaning and humiliating to the brutal and cruel.”

  Arthur found the subject awkward and embarrassing, but he had written about the inequality of women and was not unsympathetic to their plight. Nevertheless, he tried to divert the unwelcome drift with a question: “Have you found Sir Henry’s treatment unsatisfactory?”

  Marcia thought a moment and took a sip of wine before answering. “No, I’d say he’s quite professional and he does have an excellent bedside manner. But then, my illness does not fall within his peculiar specialty. On the other hand, he might see Betsy as a subject ripe for his nostrums. She’s moody and unpredictable, especially when she drinks. What’s more, she’s past thirty and hasn’t been under the influence or domination of a man since she came of age. And of course, there’s her considerable fortune.”

  Arthur sighed. “You paint a bleak picture. However, if Sir Henry were a bounder I doubt he’d be able to maintain such a sterling reputation and lucrative practice. People talk in London society, as you well know, and you can’t keep objectionable behavior covert for too long. People won’t know you; they’ll cut you dead in public.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Marcia sighed and turned to gaze at a stand of gently rustling beech trees.

  Arthur hesitated; he wondered if Marcia’s worries were more the consequence of jealous envy than concern for her friend. Considering the hopelessness of her condition, he opted for the latter. “You might speak to Aggie Fitzroy. She was one of Sir Henry’s patients.”

  Aggie Fitzroy, formerly Lady Agatha Clifford, was one of the great society beauties of the previous decade. As Mark Brownlow, Marcia had painted a portrait of Lady Agatha that caused a sensation and, for a brief time, they had been lovers. Marcia’s ears pricked up and her eyes widened at the mention of the name. “How is Aggie? I haven’t seen her in ages.”

  Arthur already regretted mentioning Agatha, but he answered forthrightly. “She’s seen better days, I’m afraid. When she married Colonel Fitzroy she had quite a fortune from her first marriage, and she believed the Colonel was flush as well. After all, he had Brodemeade, a fine manor and lands. Everything looked beautiful on the surface, but was mortgaged to the hilt; Aggie didn’t learn the worst of it until four years ago when the colonel died. The whole kit and caboodle had to be sold to satisfy creditors; Aggie was lucky to keep some of her separate property. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Her health and looks declined along with her fortune. That’s why she consulted with Sir Henry. Now, she’s no longer welcomed in the best society, and from all accounts lives a sad and lonely life.”

  “Poor Aggie,” Marcia murmured. “Où sont la neiges d’antan? She was once my ideal of the sublime and the beautiful. I’m afraid I’ve misspent my brief career chasing aesthetic butterflies.” She paused a moment; then: “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to the Atelier Cormon to ask about a model, Virginie Ménard. She may have inspired me to use what time I have left to do something important.”

  Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Could she be another of your ‘aesthetic butterflies’?”

  Marcia laughed. “You’ll never change. Always ready with a caustic observation. But I know your secret, my old friend. Beneath that sardonic exterior beats a kind and generous heart. You’re just ashamed to show it.”

  9

  OCTOBER 17, MORNING, AFTERNOON AND EVENING

  AN INTERVIEW

  Your graphite powder has done the trick, Inspector. The lines on the fingerpr
ints are as sharp and clear as can be.”

  Gilles displayed his photographs with pride. He and Achille studied the results of their experiment aided by the bright morning light streaming through the windows in Bertillon’s laboratory. The photographs of the cigarette case with enhanced latent fingerprints had been set next to the photos of the stained cloth for comparison. After a minute of careful examination, Achille smiled.

  Pointing first to the cigarette case and then to the cloth, Achille said, “You see the difference, Gilles? It’s most obvious in the thumbs. One has what’s called an ulnar loop; the other doesn’t. I’m certain these are the fingerprints of two different individuals.”

  Gilles looked carefully and nodded. “I see, Inspector, but how does this aid your investigation?”

  He replied cautiously. The new method of identification might be viewed as a radical challenge to Bertillon’s established system, though that was not what Achille intended. Rather, he conceived of fingerprinting as a supplement to the portrait parlé and anthropometrical method. But means of enhancing the prints and “lifting” images at the crime scene needed to be developed before the widespread fingerprinting of suspects became practical. Premature advocacy for the new system might subject Achille to ridicule, not to mention Chief Bertillon’s ire for poaching on his preserve. At this point, fingerprints might be useful, but only on a case-by-case basis. “If I can fingerprint a suspect and compare his prints to these photographs, I’ll either have evidence of criminal activity to support an accusation or exculpatory evidence to rule out that suspect. Either way, it’s a step forward in the investigative process.”

  “I see, so all you need to do is haul in a suspect or two and fingerprint them.”

  Achille smiled wryly. “Yes my friend, it’s as simple as that.”

  He returned to his small corner office on the same floor as Féraud’s. Achille’s cubbyhole was in stark contrast to the chief’s cluttered workspace: neat, spotless, and well-organized, with little personalization and nothing whimsical or macabre. The only items that proclaimed his “ownership” were a nameplate and desk photographs of Adele and Jeanne. Otherwise, the place could have been exchanged with any other inspector assigned to the case.

  Achille sipped lukewarm, black coffee and nibbled a stale brioche while reviewing his file and planning the rest of his day. Féraud had assigned him more detectives; he was pushing for results. He most particularly feared a surge of “Ripper mania” in the newspapers. Reporters were snooping round Montmartre, searching out every gossip and crackpot with a theory of the case. If the penny-a-liners couldn’t find anything sensational enough to satisfy their editors, they would surely make it up.

  As for the leads, none of the hospitals had recently reported thefts of narcotics or anesthetics; the chemists and apothecaries provided lists of hundreds of Parisian doctors who routinely used the drugs in their practice, but so far they hadn’t turned up anyone connected to Virginie Ménard.

  Lautrec’s tobacconist examined the cigarettes; he recognized the paper and the Turkish tobacco, but he swore he didn’t use opium in his blends. However, he did refer to tobacconists who included the drug for special customers, but further investigation hadn’t yet uncovered anything of interest.

  The search through the art supply shops had also proved fruitless. There were more painters in Paris that used the particular type of canvas in which the torso was wrapped than doctors who administered narcotics and anesthetics. The old cliché applied; it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  Tomorrow was Sunday, a day off, and Féraud was impatient. He wanted an arrest before another body turned up and made more of a stink in the newspapers. Rousseau was itching to arrest Lautrec. But the chief backed Achille, partly because he hesitated to accuse a descendant of Raymond, the great crusader. Not that Féraud gave a damn about nobility, but he was very sensitive when it came to the nation’s history and the honor of France.

  Achille doubted they were dealing with Jack the Ripper, or another criminal in that vein. And he also believed that the fingerprints, along with a search of his studio and apartment, would exculpate Lautrec. Much of Achille’s thinking along these lines was intuitive; Lautrec seemed too obvious a suspect, as was often the case with a frame-up. As for the Ripper, the surgery in this case was too neat and clinical, whereas the Ripper’s victims had been savagely butchered. Yet he feared that some failure on his part, a missed clue or inadequately investigated lead, might result in another woman’s death.

  Achille finished his coffee and dumped the unappetizing remains of the brioche in the wastebasket. He would have worked all day Sunday if he thought it would help the case. But he’d promised Adele a day in the country at a quiet auberge only twenty minutes from central Paris by train. They’d leave Jeanne with Madame Berthier and nanny. Madame will enjoy that. More time to infect my child with her grandmamma’s prejudices. There was no telephone at the inn, but the station was nearby; if a telegram came from headquarters Achille would return immediately.

  He lit a cigar, packed his briefcase, pocketed his credentials and service revolver, and prepared to leave. He was about to confront Toulouse-Lautrec. There was a risk in asking the artist to cooperate voluntarily without a warrant, but Achille thought it was worth it. If possible, he wanted to know the man, to gain his confidence and assistance in cracking the case. He checked his watch; two detectives would meet him outside Lautrec’s apartment. Two others were detailed to the studio; they waited at the local station with Sergeant Rodin. They would begin the search as soon as Achille issued the order by telephone. It was time to go.

  Established in Montmartre near the foot of the hill, the Atelier Cormon was located in a spacious workroom with large exposed wooden beams, unpainted walls, and immense glass windows, lamps, and reflectors suspended from rafters to provide the desired lighting. High shelves stacked with white plaster casts of nymphs, Caesars, gods, and goddesses lined the unpainted walls, and there was a centrally situated dais for models. A sharply distinctive, but not unpleasant odor of linseed oil and turpentine permeated the atmosphere; several students seated themselves at easels surrounding the dais, concentrating their attention on a dark, young woman posing nude, in a semi-reclining position. Marcia immediately recognized her as Virginie’s friend, Delphine Lacroix.

  Arthur held Marcia’s arm as she scanned the premises, searching for the maître. But Cormon was not there; he only attended once a week to provide friendly critiques, suggestions for improvement, and encouragement where it was due. She saw Émile Bernard and waved to catch his eye. A young man working next to Bernard spotted her first. Recognizing the noted American artist, he leaned over and nudged his friend.

  “Hey, Émile, you see that woman standing near the entrance, next to the gentleman? I believe she’s waving at you. That’s Mademoiselle Brownlow, isn’t it? Her landscape won a Silver Medal at the Fair.”

  Bernard put down his brush and looked up. Surprised, he replied to Marcia’s friendly greeting with a curt nod. Then he got up from his chair and picked his way gingerly around the sketching and painting students.

  Marcia greeted Émile with a handshake and introduced him to Arthur. “Good-day, Monsieur Bernard; I don’t believe you know my friend, Arthur Wolcott?”

  Bernard shook Arthur’s hand and greeted him: “I’m honored, Monsieur Wolcott. I’ve read and enjoyed many of your novels and stories.”

  Arthur smiled warmly. “Thank you, Monsieur. That’s very kind of you. And Miss Brownlow has recommended your work to me on several occasions.” That was a courteous deception. Marcia had said little to Arthur about Bernard, and what she had said was indifferent at best. But the polite deceit ran both ways; Émile had read little of Arthur’s writing.

  Bernard turned to Marcia with a curious look in his eye: “What brings you to the Atelier, Mademoiselle?”

  “I was looking for Virginie Ménard, but I see she’s not here. I’d like her to model for me, privately. Do you know how I might g
et in touch with her?”

  Bernard’s mildly questioning expression transformed into a bewildered stare. “You haven’t heard, Mademoiselle? No one’s seen Virginie for days. Now the police are going round asking questions of everyone who knew her. They suspect foul play. But perhaps you haven’t read the newspapers about the unidentified woman’s body found on the Rue Tourlaque?”

  Marcia said nothing. Her eyes registered shock; she fixed her gaze on Émile, but did not see him. Instead, she had a vision of Virginie’s corpse laid out on a slab in the Morgue. Arthur immediately sensed something was wrong. He put his arms around Marcia to prevent her from collapsing, and spoke to Bernard in a hoarse, urgent whisper: “Please Monsieur, would you kindly fetch a chair for Mademoiselle?”

  Bernard ran to the nearest empty seat and returned shortly. Arthur thanked him, and helped Marcia into the chair. By now, almost all the students had abandoned their work to observe the drama; Delphine broke her pose, twisting her head round to see what the fuss was about.

  “May I get you a restorative, Mademoiselle? I’m sure someone has a flask of brandy.”

  Marcia shook her head. “Please don’t trouble yourself, Émile. I’m all right; I apologize for disrupting the class. Your news came as quite a shock. You see, Virginie had inspired me to conceive something new, something different in my art. I was hoping—” She caught herself mid-sentence and paused a moment before continuing: “But of course, my art means nothing now. It’s Virginie I’m worried about.”

  Bernard took her frail hand and smiled sympathetically. “Please don’t reproach yourself. She has affected us that way. I too had a glimmer of hope for something new, but now. . . .” He sighed and shook his head. “But now, I’m at a loss. There’s nothing we can do for her. It’s in God’s hands—God and the Sûreté.”