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

by Gary Inbinder

  Marcia stared out the window as the cab rolled along the boulevard. Her painter’s eye acquired an impression of a city under a grayish-blue sky; cloud-diffused light glanced off slate roofs, gray stone walls, and shaded windows; russet leaves rustled gently in a mild breeze, purple shadows danced on the pavement. As she took in the scene visually she listened to an accompaniment, the steady, rhythmic clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the rumbling wheels. She swayed with the incessant rocking of the carriage, which had a calming, almost hypnotic effect.

  Arthur sat across from her, worried that the day’s events and revelations had been too much of a strain; they’d taken a toll. He would normally attempt an amusing quip, but he doubted whether anything he could say would cheer her up. Finally, he ventured a hopeful comment if only to break the uneasy silence:

  “It’s sad news about the girl. But perhaps she’ll show up.”

  Marcia turned away from the window and regarded him wistfully. “Do you remember our early days in Florence when we used to discuss problems of perception, the difference between appearances and reality?”

  Arthur smiled. “Yes, I recall some of our metaphysical chit-chat. I was playing the Socratic schoolmaster; I could be awfully pretentious in those days.”

  “No Arthur, it wasn’t pretense. You’ve always been perceptive, well-read, and worldly-wise; I’ve benefitted from all you’ve taught me. We live in a world of illusions; little or nothing is certain. We presume probable truths are certainties, until someone clearly rebuts our presumption. As for our will and freedom to choose, in most cases it seems our choice is limited to those falsehoods we wish to believe. I’ve always preferred beautiful lies to ugly ones. Perhaps I also prefer a beautiful lie to an ugly truth.

  “Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my life and career. At some point I made a crucial decision. Putting up all my talent and skill as collateral, I borrowed beauty from nature and invested her precious treasure in my art. For a time, I reaped a rich reward. But the market for beauty—at least my stock of beauty—has dropped of late. Now all my capital’s spent; my credit’s blown. Virginie Ménard appeared like a rich new resource to draw upon, a life-saving bank of beauty. But she’s gone, most likely the victim of a brutal crime. The damnable thing for me is that, deep down, I mourn my own loss from her absence more than I care for her suffering and death. I’m guilty in a moral sense; I’m little better than her murderer.”

  Arthur stared at her for a moment. Then, his voice choked with emotion, he replied, “No, my dear. You’re tired and you’ve had a shock. I believe you loved the girl, as you loved Betsy and Aggie Fitzroy. I think I know you as well as anyone. You’ve given far more to the world through your art, than you ever took in return.”

  Arthur crossed over to the opposite seat and put his arm around her. Marcia laid her head on his shoulder and wept.

  Achille puffed nervously on a small cigar as he waited in a cab outside Toulouse-Lautrec’s apartment. The two detectives were stationed on either side of the street, ready in case he tried to make a run for it. Not that Achille expected a son of the Count of Toulouse to bolt like a common criminal; it was simply a routine precaution.

  He glanced at his watch, leaned out the window, and pitched his half-smoked, half-chewed cigar into the gutter. Lautrec was coming up the sidewalk. Achille signaled his men and exited the cab. He approached the artist, flashed his credentials, and introduced himself: “Monsieur de Toulouse-Lautrec, I am Inspector Achille Lefebvre of the Sûreté. If you please, I’d like you to accompany me to headquarters where you may be of assistance in an important investigation. I apologize for the inconvenience, and I promise not to detain you any longer than is necessary.”

  Lautrec looked up at Achille’s slate-colored chin and black nostrils; the bright sunshine made him squint and he shaded his eyes with a hand. “Inconvenience, you say? It’s a damned liberty, accosting me this way. Have you a warrant for my arrest? If so, please state the charge.”

  Achille smiled and spoke calmly. “No charge and no warrant, at present, Monsieur. However, if you insist, I can obtain one. But I do have some property that belongs to you, a gold cigarette case.”

  Lautrec raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, you’ve found my cigarette case? It’s quite valuable. I’ve been searching for it for days. But why couldn’t the police notify me rather than approach me in such melodramatic fashion?”

  Achille noticed Lautrec’s response; his attitude and tone of voice in expressing his primary concern for lost property reinforced Achille’s belief in the artist’s innocence. “The cigarette case was discovered at a crime scene, and is being held in evidence. If you’ll kindly accompany me, I’ll explain the matter on the way to headquarters. My cab is waiting up the street.”

  “All right, Inspector, if you insist. Lead on, and I’ll follow.”

  Lautrec accepted Achille’s “invitation” to wait at headquarters while the detectives searched his studio and apartment. Achille detailed a promising young man, Inspector Legros, to head up the search. Legros was one of the “new men,” a recent polytechnic graduate skilled in Bertillon’s methods. Achille left Rousseau to his specialty, working the dragnet with the aid of his network of snoops and snitches. But there was something else to Achille’s thinking besides assigning the man best suited to a specific job; in his opinion Rousseau seemed much too eager to have access to the artist’s premises where he might make a brilliant “discovery” that established Lautrec’s guilt, QED. It wasn’t that Achille didn’t trust his partner; he just preferred not to lead him into temptation.

  To gain Lautrec’s confidence and kill time, Achille took the artist on a Cook’s tour of the Palais de Justice before returning to his office for questioning. Achille and Lautrec sat facing one another across the desk. He offered the artist a cigarette, which he declined, preferring to smoke his own brand.

  Lautrec struck a match, took a few puffs, leaned back and observed Achille with a shrewd smile. “Thank you, Inspector, for that delightful excursion through the bowels of our justice system. I found it most edifying, like the popular tour of our sewers and catacombs, or a charming day at the Morgue. Now I am in your debt and completely at your mercy. You may commence with the thumb-screw and rack.”

  Achille laughed. “You are a wit, Monsieur, but a poor public servant is hardly a worthy target for your rapier thrusts. At any rate, my men are very efficient.” He glanced at the wall clock. “They should finish their work presently, so you needn’t be bored much longer.” He opened a drawer, retrieved an evidence bag and a pair of gloves, and carefully displayed the cigarette case on his desk. “Can you identify this object? But please be so good as not to touch it.”

  Lautrec leaned forward and examined the cigarette case. “That’s mine all right. But why do you handle it so gingerly, and with gloves?”

  Achille returned the case to the bag, put it back in the drawer, and removed his gloves. “I’m preserving the fingerprints. It’s a new technique, an experiment in forensic science.”

  “Oh, that interests me, Inspector. It appears you’re very progressive and well-educated—for a policeman. Now I just happen to be a good Cartesian.”

  Achille smiled broadly; he saw an opening. “A good Cartesian, you say? Is that why you enjoy observing surgical operations?”

  “That’s a clever comment, Inspector. I thought you were going to refer to Cartesian rationalism, his a priori reasoning, and forget the empirical side, such as his dissection of animals to discover how they work. Break things down to their simplest components. After all, we must use some induction to set up our hypotheses before we proceed to our deductions.

  “Yes, I do enjoy watching people being cut up. Surgery is like my art. I probe for the truth; I apply scientific method, dicing things down and then reassembling them on paper and canvas.

  “I study facial expressions, gestures, physical attributes, and the underlying anatomical structure, physiology, and psychology to get an impression of charac
ter types; I can draw on this bank of knowledge to relate the individual subject of a portrait to a known category.”

  Achille looked Lautrec directly in the eye before pursuing: “I see, Monsieur. Do you apply your method to your intimate relationships?”

  Lautrec winced; he clearly found the question offensive. He took a last puff, and then vigorously stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray. “I’m not sure I follow your meaning, Inspector,” he muttered. “Unless you’re referring to a syllogism based on the major premise, all whores fuck for money.”

  Achille remained calm but firm, like a physician sounding his patient. “Tell me about Virginie Ménard. First, I’d like to know when, where, and how you met her.”

  Lautrec paused a moment to regain his composure before answering. “I met her about one year ago, at the Atelier Cormon. She was modeling, and she interested me. I’d already heard of her from a friend, Vincent Van Gogh. At the time, she lived near him and his brother Theo, on the Rue Lepic. He got her to pose a couple of times.”

  “Excuse me, Monsieur. Do you know where I can find Vincent Van Gogh?”

  “Yes Inspector; he’s locked up in the asylum at St. Rémy. He hasn’t been in Paris for more than a year.”

  “I see; please continue.”

  “Well, there isn’t much to tell. Our relationship began professionally and developed into something more. But it ended in argument and recrimination. That was about a month ago.”

  “What was the ultimate cause of the break up?”

  Lautrec laughed sardonically. He held out his hands in a mocking gesture. “Clap me in manacles and convey me to the dungeon. I’ll admit my guilt, Inspector. I was a jealous lover.”

  Achille ignored the sarcasm. “Of whom were you jealous, Monsieur? Can you give me a name, or names?”

  Lautrec shook his head. “That’s the devil of it; she never told me, no matter how hard I tried to pry it out of her. Instead she made up excuses for her long absences, prevarications that wouldn’t have fooled a simple child. She insulted my intelligence.”

  Achille noted that the relationship had left wounds that had not yet healed. “A moment ago, you said she ‘interested’ you. Could you be specific?”

  Lautrec sighed deeply. “You’ve probably heard that she was a great beauty. Well, I don’t require beauty in a model or a lover—or rather a sexual partner. What really interests me is the facial expression, in a model that is. I don’t copulate with the face.

  “In Virginie’s case, she could convey a sense of suffering, sadness, and even madness; at other times she could express joy and unbridled ecstasy. And it all seemed natural; not like what you see on stage or in sentimental art. I’ll admit she fascinated me. But living with her was difficult. She was plagued by nightmares, demons from her childhood that drove her to hysterics. I wanted her and hated the idea of sharing her with anyone. On the other hand, living with her could be hell, and I felt relieved when she left me.”

  “I appreciate your candor, Monsieur. Do you know of any other artists or individuals who took a particular interest in Mlle Ménard?”

  Lautrec thought for a moment. “My friend Émile Bernard wanted to use her for a new painting; he saw something spiritual in her. But I understand you’ve already talked to him. He couldn’t hurt a fly. And there is an American woman, Marcia Brownlow, a well-regarded painter. She seemed to like my portrait of Virginie and urged her friend, a wealthy collector, to buy it. But she made an odd comment. It could have been a compliment or an insult; I still don’t know quite what to make of it. At any rate, they’ve yet to make an offer.”

  “Do you know where I can contact Mlle Brownlow and her friend?”

  “Yes, they’re staying at the Grand Hotel.”

  “Can you tell me what was so odd about her comment?”

  “She distinguished my portrait of Virginie from my other work by reference to its ‘prettiness.’ Mlle Brownlow is known and much admired for her vivid landscapes and portraits of beautiful women. She’s one of those aesthetic painters who get inspiration from nature’s ‘beauty.’ I’m not such an artist. To call one of my paintings ‘pretty’ is damning it with faint praise.”

  Achille nodded without comment. Then: “Can you think of anyone else who might have taken an interest in Mlle Ménard, perhaps a doctor who paints for a hobby?”

  Lautrec looked away for a moment, as if searching his memory. “Well, there’s Sir Henry Collingwood, an English doctor visiting Paris on holiday. He attended the life drawing classes at the Atelier. I know he made sketches of Virginie, but I don’t recall him showing any particular interest in her.”

  Achille had anticipated the answer. He pursued: “Do you recall seeing this English doctor at Péan’s clinic?”

  “Yes, on a few occasions.”

  “How about at the vaginal hysterectomy Dr. Péan performed on Wednesday the 14th?”

  Lautrec narrowed his eyes. “It’s strange you should mention that. I don’t recall seeing Sir Henry there, but he did turn up at Le Chat Noir that evening. He mentioned attending the operation. Of course, I could have missed him. I was concentrating on the procedure and my sketch.”

  “Do you recall any details of the conversation?”

  “Not much, except that Bernard was there. He’d been looking for Virginie and was concerned that he couldn’t find her.”

  “Did you and Sir Henry share his concern?”

  “No, I thought she’d turn up sooner or later. Sir Henry agreed, but then he didn’t know her. Or at least, I didn’t think—” Lautrec stopped and looked down at his hands. For the first time that day he appeared worried. The sarcasm and flippant manner disappeared. He looked back at Achille with a troubled expression: “Inspector, do you think Sir Henry had anything to do with Virginie’s disappearance?”

  Achille noticed the sudden change in demeanor. “I don’t know, Monsieur. You said Mlle Ménard had, on occasion, behaved hysterically. Did you know that Sir Henry specializes in the treatment of female hysteria?”

  Lautrec shook his head. “No Inspector, I didn’t know that.”

  The telephone rang. Achille lifted the earpiece and transmitter. It was Inspector Legros. The detectives had completed their search of Lautrec’s studio and apartment; they found nothing suspicious, and were returning to headquarters.

  For a moment, Achille wondered if he should tell Lautrec the outcome of the search. Under these circumstances, other detectives might have tried to trap a suspect and trick him into a confession. But he decided that dealing forthrightly with this man would achieve the best results. “The search is completed, Monsieur. I’m pleased to inform you the detectives found nothing incriminating.”

  Lautrec smiled with relief. “Then I’m free to go?”

  “I can’t legally hold you, Monsieur Lautrec. But I do have a couple of questions and the fingerprinting to complete. If you please, it won’t take much time.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Inspector. If anyone’s harmed Virginie I—I want to help catch the criminal.”

  “Thank you. Do you recall the last time you saw Mlle Ménard?”

  “After midnight last Sunday morning at the Moulin Rouge; I sketched her dancing, but I didn’t speak to her.”

  “Did you speak or socialize with anyone else?”

  “I spoke briefly to a couple of people, Zidler the Moulin’s manager and the gallery owner Joyant—just small talk and business. But I did spend some time with the American women, Mlle Brownlow and Mlle uh—Endicott I believe was her name.”

  “And you discussed Mlle Ménard?”

  “Yes, we spoke about my portrait of Virginie.”

  Achille returned to the subject of the cigarette case. “Did you smoke?”

  “Yes, I smoked and offered them cigarettes.”

  “Did you have your cigarette case at that time?”

  Lautrec thought a moment, frowned and shook his head. “I believe so, but I can’t be sure. I’m afraid my memory of the occasion is a bit foggy.”


  “Do you recall noticing anyone suspicious at the time, someone who might have taken the case?”

  “Inspector, have you been to the Moulin Rouge on a Saturday evening? The place is packed to the rafters, especially with all the tourists here for the Exposition. Thieves could easily work the Moulin unnoticed.”

  Achille nodded while making a mental note: We’ll need to question the manager and the staff, and the American women too. “Thank you, Monsieur; we’ll end the questioning here. I trust you don’t plan to leave Paris in the near future?”

  Lautrec smiled and shook his head. “No Inspector; I shall remain at your disposal.”

  Achille took ink impressions of Lautrec’s fingerprints according to Galton’s method. Then he walked the artist to a cab. He thanked him again, adding “You have my card, Monsieur. If you have any further information regarding this case, please contact me immediately.”

  “Of course, Inspector, and I apologize for my earlier rudeness. I understand your job is difficult and important; you serve the public interest. Good afternoon.”

  He watched Lautrec enter the cab. Achille had already noticed how difficult it was for the artist to go up and down stairs or to step into or descend from a carriage on his stunted, misshapen legs. A man with such a disability could not have carried the body very far. As for his motive, jealousy, he made no attempt to conceal it. He did not behave like a guilty man. However, I can’t jump to conclusions; it would be a mistake to rule him out completely.

  Achille took the fingerprint card to the evidence room, where he compared Lautrec’s prints to those on the cloth and the cigarette case. The difference between Lautrec’s prints and the prints on the canvas was obvious. The cigarette case was another matter. The graphite powder dusting had turned up more than one set of prints. He hypothesized that a very faint finger and thumbprint that he had not noticed on initial examination were Lautrec’s; he assumed the fresher prints belonged to one of the criminal accomplices.

  On the way back to his office, Achille began mentally composing his report for Féraud. He believed he now had enough evidence to rule out Lautrec as a suspect. He would concentrate his attention on his two man theory, focusing on Sir Henry Collingwood and Joseph Rossini, aka Jojo the Clown, while keeping an open mind as to other possibilities.