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

by Gary Inbinder

  “Maybe I have. What of it?”

  “She was my—best friend. I want you to help me find her killer. I’m not asking this as a favor; I can pay for information.”

  Le Boudin glanced down for a moment and toyed with his glass. Then he looked back at her with a frown. “Sounds like you’re out for revenge.”

  “Could be, Papa. Will you help me?”

  Le Boudin scratched his nose with his hook. “I had a bellyful of killing in Mexico and Algeria. We shot at them, they shot back at us. Look what it got me. There’s an old saying: Revenge goes down sweet, but it comes back as bile.”

  Delphine did not reply. She swung her legs to one side, lifted her skirts, and pulled out a pouch from under a garter. Goggle-eyed, Le Boudin leaned over to get a good look. She smoothed down her dress, turned round, and placed the pouch on the table. “Screw your eyes back into their sockets, old man, and take a look at this.” She upended the pouch, emptying a small pile of gold rings, bracelets, earrings, and broaches, all set with semi-precious stones and pearls.

  Le Boudin’s eyes widened and he whistled. “Where the hell did you get all that?”

  “Don’t worry Papa, they aren’t hot. They’re tokens of appreciation from gentlemen, and a few ladies too. My life savings.”

  Le Boudin stared at the jewelry for a while, then shook his head. “I can’t take it from you, my girl. In a few years you’ll need it all, believe me. You don’t want to end up here, lifting your dress in a stinking alley, selling yourself for a crust of bread, a bottle of cheap wine, and a flop for the night.”

  “Then you won’t help me?” For all her streetwise toughness, there was a plaintive tone in her voice and a wistful sadness in her eyes; she reminded him of a little girl on his knee, begging for favors.

  “I didn’t say that. I might help you for—for your mother’s sake, but on one condition. Promise me you won’t act outside the law.”

  For a moment, Delphine stared at him, perplexed by his reference to the law. After all, the cops stayed out of the Zone; it was like a tiny foreign country outside French jurisdiction. But then, she realized that Le Boudin and his chiffoniers worked on the streets of Paris; they were licensed and didn’t want any trouble with the police. “All right, Papa, I promise.”

  Le Boudin smiled. He figured he could trust her, or at least he was willing to take a risk. But business was business, and he wanted security. “Here’s what I’ll do. Tell me what you want. If I think I can help, I’ll hang on to your trinkets as a pledge. If you keep your word, I’ll return them when the transaction’s completed.”

  “Fair enough. I think Jojo’s mixed up in it. I know some of your men scavenge Montmartre. I want—”

  “Wait a minute, girl,” Le Boudin broke in. “You’re going too fast. Do you mean Jojo the Clown?”

  Delphine nodded.

  Le Boudin laughed and shook his head. “That ugly runt? He’s a real zonard, a tough little shit. But I thought he went straight after he got outside? Has a job clowning at the Circus Fernando, as I recall.”

  She frowned. “Jojo’s a bastard. Throw him a crooked centime, he’ll jump at it. There’s an artist in Montmartre named Toulouse-Lautrec who looks like Jojo’s twin brother. I think Jojo tried to frame Lautrec, pin Virginie’s murder on him. Anyway, the cops are chasing their tails, and that fat pig Rousseau’s working on the case; I don’t trust him. But his partner Lefebvre’s all right, and I think he’s been put over Rousseau.

  “Your men go picking in Montmartre. It’s possible one of them might have seen Jojo dump the body, but so far he’s keeping his mouth shut. Maybe he’s been bribed or threatened. I want you and your men to help me find out who killed Virginie. It may be Jojo, or he may be working for somebody. Whoever it is, I want revenge, but I’m willing to go to Lefebvre rather than take it on myself.”

  Le Boudin drank some wine; then he scratched his beard and knitted his brow. “You’re asking a lot, my girl. Some of my boys are Rousseau’s snitches.”

  Delphine’s eyes flashed and her voice hardened: “Who do they work for, you or Rousseau?”

  Le Boudin grunted, drank another glass and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “A dog works for the man who feeds him.”

  They were interrupted by the little girl Delphine had seen outside. She walked to the center of the room, stood still, and started chewing on a fingernail.

  Le Boudin glared at her. “Hey girl,” he snarled, “I told you not to bother me when I’m doing business. Now get out before I tan your ass.”

  The girl spat a tiny scrap of chewed fingernail on the floor. “I’m hungry, Grandpapa,” she whined without looking up.

  “Well then, go find your ma and tell her to feed you.”

  The girl rocked back and forth on her filthy bare feet. “Don’t know where Ma is. Ain’t seen her all day.”

  Le Boudin grimaced. “Oh, all right.” He reached into a barrel and pulled out an apple. “Here you go, little one.” He lobbed the apple; the girl caught it deftly in one hand, took a bite, chewed and grinned. Then she turned her curious gaze on Delphine. Her mouth half-full, she mumbled, “Who’s she?”

  Le Boudin gave the girl a mock frown and waved his hook menacingly. “She’s your Aunt Delphine. Show some manners, you little demon, and then scram.”

  The child giggled, turned her back on Delphine and ran out the door.

  “A wild one,” Le Boudin muttered, “just like you. Anyway, I’ll talk to the boys and see what they can find out. I’ll put up some trinket as a reward—at my expense, not yours. You mind what I said about your savings. And remember, if the dirt we dig up leads to Jojo or anyone else you take it to that inspector—what’s his name?”

  “Lefebvre.”

  “Yeah, you take it to him and don’t mess with it yourself. You ain’t as tough as you think. Now, it’s been nice seeing you after all these years, but I’ve got a business to run.”

  Delphine laughed. “I know, Papa. Guess I better scram too.”

  Le Boudin raised his bulk from the stool and lumbered round the table. He lifted Delphine out of her chair ’til her feet dangled a foot above the floor, and gave her a bear hug. “You take care of yourself, my girl,” he whispered huskily.

  “You too, Papa,” she replied.

  Arthur Wolcott occupied a marble-topped table on the sidewalk fronting a popular café on the fashionable Boulevard des Italiens. He experienced the clear, fresh autumn afternoon, his coffee and cigarette, his desultory reading of a newspaper article reporting President Carnot’s latest remarks on the Exposition’s success, the rumbling of cabs and omnibuses, the bustle and chatter of well-dressed boulevardiers, the sparrows flitting among the shedding branches, russet leaves floating in a mild breeze, a large, high-soaring red, white, and blue balloon advertising the Fair, the countless congenial impressions summing up a pleasant afternoon in the city. But whenever his mind tried to anchor itself in a sheltering harbor, a place of agreeable repose, it soon broke from its mooring and drifted back into a rough sea of consternation and doubt.

  Earlier, he had called upon Marcia to invite her out for some refreshment, thinking such an outing would be a sovereign remedy for what ailed her, but she had taken to her bed. Following the shocking news of Virginie Ménard’s apparent abduction and murder, Marcia had suffered a mild relapse, not from her consumption but rather from what Sir Henry diagnosed as “female hysteria.” The doctor had prescribed a sedative and obtained the services of a nurse. Having thus quieted his patient and provided for her care, he had no qualms about spending the day at Chatou with Betsy Endicott.

  The Exposition is an unprecedented success, presaging a new century of progress and enlightenment. He read that line for the fifth time, and then lost it amid his recurring concerns about Marcia’s mental and physical decline, Betsy’s seeming indifference, and Sir Henry’s increasing detachment from, and questionable treatment of, his patient. He doesn’t give a damn about Marcia; it’s Betsy he’s after, and she seems infatuated w
ith him.

  Arthur put down his paper, stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette, and habitually lit another. We’ve all bought our one-way ticket to the slaughterhouse. Arthur had written that line in a play, and then judiciously scratched it out as too dismal and disturbing for his audience. But eliding such comments on the human condition from his work did not keep them from repeatedly nettling his conscience.

  “Well this is certainly a chance meeting. Good afternoon, Arthur.”

  He looked up with a start into the veiled face of the onetime Venus of Belgravia. Lady Agatha Fitzroy smiled slyly at her old friend’s wide-eyed look of astonishment at her sudden appearance.

  “My goodness, Arthur, do I look as bad as all that? You stare at me as though I were one of the ghosts in that deliciously wicked story of yours.”

  He rose from the table, tipped his hat, and made a slight bow. “Pardon me, Lady Agatha, I was preoccupied and you came up so—so unexpectedly. Of course, you’re looking splendid, as always, and I’m both delighted and surprised to see you.”

  She laughed at his formal flattery, laughter that he had once compared to that of a tinkling silver bell, demanding one’s attention in a manner that was both charming and intrusive. “Why are you so stiff? I’m the same Aggie you’ve known these past ten years and more. Now, will you permit me to join you, or should I just plop down and impose myself like a fellow American?”

  “Oh, please do be seated, Aggie. I’ll call the waiter. I’d like another coffee and an aperitif. Will you join me?”

  “Thank you, Arthur; that would be delightful.” Aggie sat across from him and lifted her veil. Venus had certainly withered, but she had not yet quite decomposed. Lady Agatha looked like a tastefully wrapped mummy of a type Arthur often encountered in society, a once-beautiful woman now well past her prime who tried to conceal her wrinkles, warts, and age spots beneath a layer of paint, powder, and rouge. Typically, such relics had been belles coming out early in the reign of Queen Victoria and at the court of Louis Philippe. But those beauties of yesteryear were in their sixties; Aggie was barely thirty-nine. Years of casual promiscuity, drinking, and opium smoking had taken their toll.

  Arthur offered her a cigarette. She accepted and leaned forward as he struck a match. He noticed the slight tremor in her gloved hand as she held his to steady the light.

  Arthur called the waiter and their drinks were brought presently. The aperitifs had a tongue-loosening effect. After exchanging a few pleasantries Arthur asked, “So what brings you to Paris?”

  Aggie downed her drink and requested another before answering: “I won’t beat about the bush with an old friend. Frankly, I’m strapped for cash and selling artwork to raise capital. I’ve had some very good offers in London, but for certain pieces I might get a better price in Paris. And I have one item of particular interest to Betsy Endicott, my famous Mark Brownlow portrait. Someone—you’ll forgive me if I don’t reveal the name—has already offered me a thousand guineas.”

  Arthur’s eyebrows lifted at the sum. “By Jove, a thousand you say? That’s quite a handsome offer, even for a modern masterpiece.”

  The waiter interrupted with their drinks. Aggie took a sip and then fiddled with the liqueur, rolling the stem between her fingers, sloshing the drink, and spreading a green film on the inside of the glass. After a moment: “I expect Betsy would pay more than a thousand guineas, quite a bit more in fact. I know she and Marcia have a suite at the Grand Hotel, and you’re staying there as well. I’m afraid that’s a bit beyond my means these days. I was going to announce myself by leaving a card at the front desk, but I wonder if you’d do me a favor by sounding them out first?”

  Aggie’s frank disclosure of her financial difficulties coupled with her expectations of significant gain from the sale of her portrait to Betsy raised Arthur’s suspicions. To his knowledge, only five people besides himself knew of the Mark Brownlow deception—Marcia, Betsy, Daisy Brewster, Princess Albertini, and Lady Agatha. Was Aggie’s situation so desperate that she might attempt blackmail? Such things were not unknown in society when creditors came banging at one’s door. The revelation that for more than two years Marcia had lived and painted as a man would be harmful to all concerned, including Arthur, who had acted as “Mark”’s agent and had promoted the young artist’s works aggressively among his many social contacts and friends.

  Arthur tried to disguise his apprehension behind a smile. He was privy to some information that might extricate him from his dilemma. Betsy would pay a premium for Marcia’s work if she knew some of the money would be used for Marcia’s care. Arthur immediately conceived of a scheme that would benefit Marcia and at the same time help Aggie without her being tempted to resort to criminal tactics. “I’ll of course be glad to ‘sound them out.’ We’re old friends, after all. And I believe Betsy would indeed pay a fine price for your portrait, assuming you kept your demands within reason. By the way, did you know Betsy and Marcia were parting company?”

  “No, I didn’t know that. Has Marcia’s illness anything to do with it?”

  “Her illness—and other things. At any rate, she’s currently under the care of a noted physician, Sir Henry Collingwood. I believe you’re acquainted with the gentleman?”

  Lady Agatha’s eyes narrowed, revealing a network of wrinkles through white face powder like the crazing on an old pottery glaze. “You needn’t be coy, Arthur. We’re not in a London drawing room. My former relationship with Sir Henry is quite well known.”

  “Ah yes, but now it seems Sir Henry has turned his attention to Betsy, and that is one of the ‘other things’ I mentioned as the cause for separation.”

  Lady Agatha laughed, but it sounded more like a rasping file than a tinkling bell. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll make a jolly pair.” She paused a moment and sipped some liqueur to clear her throat. She did not want to meet Sir Henry, a fact Arthur had counted on, and she made up an excuse which fit perfectly with Arthur’s off-the-cuff scheme. “I forgot to mention I’ve been invited to Nice, and must leave Paris presently. You remember my friend, the count? He was once a famous sportsman; I believe you did some shooting with him? Now he’s in his dotage, poor dear, almost blind, bound to a wheelchair, and his heirs hover round him like vultures. He can’t stand the sight or smell of them. At any rate, he remembers me as I was and enjoys my company immensely, so I must go to him when he calls. I provide diversion, and he rewards me with little tokens of his appreciation. C’est un prêté pour un rendu, n’est-ce pas?

  “Would you be willing to act for me in my absence? Negotiate with Betsy for the purchase of my painting. I could make it worth your while if you get me the right price.”

  Arthur smiled, but was careful not to seem overly eager. “Well, I don’t know, but perhaps I could. You’d have to give me a figure to work with.”

  “I told you I was offered a thousand in London, but I think the painting’s worth fifteen hundred—that’s guineas, my dear, not pounds or dollars, and certainly not francs.”

  Arthur whistled in feigned astonishment at her stated amount. “That’s a great deal of money, Aggie. Still, it might be done, but will you come down to, say, twelve-fifty? I might need some leeway to close the deal.”

  Lady Agatha sighed. “Oh, all right, if necessary I’ll take twelve-fifty, but not a farthing less. And here’s an incentive. If you get me fifteen hundred or more, I’ll cut you in for a ten-percent commission.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Aggie. I promise I’ll do my best. Now, I’ll need your address, a place I can wire.”

  Lady Agatha opened her purse and withdrew a silver pencil and a little scented notepad. She scribbled a few lines and handed the ecru slip to Arthur. “Here’s my address in Paris. I’ll be leaving for Nice tomorrow and you may wire me there.” She glanced down at a small gold watch pinned to her breast. “Ah, this has been delightful, but I fear I must leave. I shan’t be gone long; a couple of days, no more, and I’d like this business concluded by then. It’s been lovely s
eeing you again. À bientôt!”

  Arthur watched as she vanished into the crowd streaming up and down the boulevard. Contemptible hag. He ordered another coffee and aperitif, lit a cigarette, and returned to his newspaper. He’d get her price and more and use the commission to help defray the cost of Marcia’s care in England. I’ve become a regular Major Pendennis when it comes to squaring things and cleaning up after people. He turned to the article about the Exposition and for the sixth time read: The Exposition is an unprecedented success, presaging a new century of progress and enlightenment. “Rubbish!” he muttered, and then turned the page to read about an execution in Marseilles.

  Jeanne sat up in bed and smiled at Achille. She had Adele’s bright green eyes and light brown hair, an adorable expression when she was pleased as she was now, and for the most part, a sweet temperament. He had just finished reading Beauty and the Beast.

  “That’s my very favorite story, Papa,” she declared enthusiastically.

  He put the book on the bedside table, turned down the lamp, leaned over, brushed away a few curls, and kissed her forehead. She smelled of clean fresh linen and scented soap. “Why is it your favorite, little one?” he whispered.

  “Because the beast turns into a handsome prince, he marries Belle, and they live happily ever after.”

  “But do you know why he became a handsome prince, and why Belle became his queen?”

  Jeanne’s sweet, contented smile changed into a perplexed pout, a typical reaction to her papa’s questions that often seemed beyond her comprehension. She thought a moment, and then the smile returned with what she believed was the correct answer: “Because the good fairy made the beast into a handsome prince so he could marry Belle and be rich and happy!”

  Achille tried to formulate a response his four-year-old daughter would understand. He gave her a quick, simple plot summary until he reached the moral of the story. “Belle was rewarded because, unlike her wicked sisters, she preferred virtue to wit and beauty. Appearances are deceiving, Jeanne; people are not always as they seem. Belle had a pure and virtuous heart, and that allowed her to look beyond the beast’s appearance, to see his noble soul, the handsome prince within. Now, do you know how to get a pure and virtuous heart?”