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

by Gary Inbinder

  Marcia indeed recalled the villa; eleven years earlier she had spent a magical weekend there with Lady Agatha that had inspired the famous painting. “Poor Aggie,” she sighed. “If she’s that hard up, I’m surprised she hung on to the painting this long. I believe it meant a great deal to her.” Marcia could have added that it meant a great deal to her, too.

  “I’m sure it does mean a lot to her, as it would anyone in the art market. Ruskin, Leighton, Sargent, and others have proclaimed it a modern masterpiece, a fact of which you should be justifiably proud. And it will certainly fetch a handsome price if I have anything to do with it. But I digress. When I met with Lady Agatha, I mentioned Sir Henry and his interest in Betsy. You should have seen the look on her face when I uttered his name; she winced as though she’d swallowed a glass of raw lemon juice. I won’t speculate as to the nature of their relationship, but I imagine it had its unpleasant aspect.”

  Marcia laughed. “Knowing Aggie as I do, it must have involved some protracted examinations and treatments of a highly stimulating nature.”

  Arthur frowned. “This is no joke, or rather, a diagnosis of hysteria is nothing to laugh at. In England, there’s a board in Chancery, made up of several gentleman holding the rather ludicrous title of Master in Lunacy. I’ve heard stories of independent, free-thinking women, no madder than you or I, who were diagnosed as hysterical, declared lunatics by the Masters, and then packed off to asylums for ‘treatment,’ leaving complete control of their persons and property to their husbands or guardians.

  “Now, as American citizens, both you and Betsy would not normally come under the jurisdiction of English law. But that could change if Sir Henry and Betsy married and resided in England and you somehow came under his guardianship. I don’t want to alarm you, but I advise you to remain on your guard. I can hardly imagine how difficult this must be for you, but please don’t give in to narcotics, soothing words, and pampering. Assert yourself, but do it reasonably and with good humor. Tell Sir Henry and Betsy that you’re feeling much better, even if you aren’t. Then, if Sir Henry raises no professional objection, you’ll go out with me tomorrow. But if he does object, don’t argue too much, and for heaven’s sake, don’t become emotional. We’ll work something out, I’m sure.

  “At any rate, I suggest you break with them as soon as possible and come to England with me. Besides, if you stay here much longer I suspect you’ll be questioned by the police concerning your relationship with Mademoiselle Ménard.”

  “But Arthur, I do want to talk to the police. I must, if there’s anything I can do to assist in the investigation. Surely, you understand.”

  He thought for a moment. If Marcia believed she was helping the police in their effort to locate the killer, it might put her mind at ease. Then he could negotiate the sale of the painting, settle up with Betsy and Lady Agatha, bid farewell to Sir Henry Collingwood, and get Marcia on the boat train to Dover. “You’re right, my dear. Let me handle this. I’ll find out who’s in charge of the investigation and set up a clandestine meeting. You surely don’t want any publicity. We can do it on the pretext of an outing to the Luxembourg Gardens, or some such thing. And I think it best to keep Betsy and Sir Henry out of it.”

  She responded to his suggestion with a warm smile. “Thank you, dear. As one of your English chums might say, you’ve been a brick. Now, why don’t you ring for tea?”

  Marcia contemplated Arthur wistfully as he walked to the service bell. She sometimes wondered if he had loved Mark, Marcia, or both? But she would not embarrass him to satisfy her curiosity; the question would remain unasked.

  “Is it true this is the toniest restaurant in Paris?” Betsy put the question to Sir Henry as they dined on Tournedos Rossini accompanied by an excellent Château Haut-Brion at the Maison Dorée. Immense chandeliers blazed with light; gilt cornices sparkled; Aubusson carpets cushioned the steps of modishly shod feet; salon paintings of gods, goddesses, fauns, and nymphs decorated richly papered walls; tables covered in crisp, dazzlingly white linen, set with the finest silver service, china, and crystal, displayed haute cuisine, the creations of master chefs served with the choicest wines from one of the world’s premier cellars. The terrace dining room was a study in Gilded Age opulence; the perfect setting for showing off Betsy’s Parisian haute couture and diamonds from the Rue de la Paix.

  “Yes, it’s rather smart, isn’t it?” Sir Henry replied as he savored his Haut-Brion. “And you haven’t seen the private dining rooms, reserved for royalty, nobility, and the immensely rich.” His monocle magnified the wicked gleam in his eye as he pursued the subject in an insinuatingly hushed voice: “They’re the perfect venue for a discreet tête-à-tête between an emperor, king, or magnate and his paramour.”

  Betsy picked insouciantly at her foie gras. “I’ll admit it’s impressive, but I wouldn’t put it above Delmonico’s or Sherry’s.”

  Sir Henry laughed. “Do I detect a hint of Yankee pride?”

  Betsy’s face glowed through her powder and her inhibitions had been lowered by three glasses of Haut-Brion. “I guess you do. Frankly, there’s nothing you have over here that, given time, we can’t equal or excel. Take my father, for example. We come from an old New England family, Mayflower genealogy and all. But we don’t rest on the laurels of our ancestors. Each generation made their own distinct contribution to the family fortune. My father gambled on railroads; he had a good turn of luck on Wall Street, and he never stood pat. When the bubble burst in the ’70s he sold short and doubled his fortune. Now I collect art, and my purchases have all appreciated in value.

  “Marcia comes from a similar background, but her father wasn’t as shrewd or lucky as mine. He went under in the crash and subsequent depression. Fortunately, she possesses a singular talent that’s enabled her to climb to the top rung of her profession. But that’s just the marketplace acting according to the scientific rules of evolution set down by Darwin and Spencer—survival of the fittest.”

  Sir Henry was taken aback; he was not accustomed to women injecting market economics and Darwinism into a politely intimate conversation, at least not in such a bluntly provocative manner. “I see your point, but isn’t that an awfully harsh way of viewing the world?”

  Betsy smiled tipsily in a way that was both enticing and subtly calculated to put him off guard. Her words were ironic and an intended challenge to Sir Henry’s complacency. She might have viewed him as one of Oscar Wilde’s Liberals who counted among the Tories because he dined with them. “Oh it’s harsh, all right, but realistic and in some circles considered progressive. That’s why we dine at the Maison Dorée while others root through dustbins for a crust of stale bread or a scrap of rotten cheese.”

  He found this discussion distasteful and at the same time disturbingly stimulating. Sir Henry felt a sudden urge to carry her off to one of the private rooms. He wanted to change the subject to regain his equilibrium, but he couldn’t help making an observation. “I think we’d better make some provision for those scrounging unfortunates. As Dickens warned, we oughtn’t to behave like bad old Scrooge prior to his Christmas conversion. Otherwise, those who, according to Mr. Spencer and others, are less fit to survive might rise up and cart off their betters to the guillotine. Remember, the Universal Exposition celebrates the Revolution’s centennial; Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, and all that.”

  “Ah, I’d almost forgotten the Fair’s historical reference to a utopian ideal. I was much more impressed by the exhibits of progress, the Tour Eiffel, the focus on improvements in hygiene and public sanitation, and especially the new wonders of our industrial age. Take the Daimler, for example. The automobile’s in its infancy, like the locomotive sixty years ago. That little motor car is a seed that will sprout and grow until it spreads out and towers like one of our giant California Sequoias. By the way, Marcia told me she’d love to ride in an automobile before she dies. Poor dear, I doubt she’ll get her wish.”

  Betsy’s reference to Marcia’s condition provided a welcom
e opening for Sir Henry. “Oh yes, poor Marcia. I’m afraid the news of that unfortunate young woman’s disappearance and suspected murder has given her quite a turn, which leads me to a delicate subject. We needn’t pursue this now, but some thought should be given to the disposal of Marcia’s estate. As I recall, she never married and has no children, immediate family, or close relations with a claim?”

  The reference to her friend’s estate had a sobering effect. Betsy may have been slightly fuddled with Haut-Brion and taken with Sir Henry’s good looks, charm, and elegant manner. She enjoyed sparring with him, asserting herself as a free-thinking American woman. But she was never a fool when it came to money, and she replied cautiously. “Not that I know of; I’ve never given the matter much consideration.”

  “I see. Do you know if she has a will, or insurance? I believe she’s left quite a few valuable art works at your home in San Francisco.”

  Betsy sensed a significant shift in the tenor of the conversation; their pleasant dinner deluxe had begun to resemble a high stakes poker game. “Marcia has kept a studio in my home for several years. I’ve purchased many of her most important works, as have other American collectors. And she now has a contract with Goupil to represent her in Europe. Why do you ask?”

  Sir Henry attuned himself to her shifting mood. He played his next card carefully. “I fear that in the near future Marcia’s condition might deteriorate such that she may no longer be competent to make decisions concerning her medical treatment or the management of her estate. I’ve had considerable experience with such cases. Has she left many works in her studio that remain unsold; any written instruction as to their disposition?”

  Betsy knew of several oils, watercolors, and drawings in her possession that could fetch several thousand dollars in the American market. He might indeed be offering sound advice as a physician and friend; on that account, she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. But when it came to matters involving great sums of money, experience had taught her to play her cards close to her vest, even when you thought you were playing with friends. “Oh,” she remarked nonchalantly, “there might be a few, I suppose. I’ve never had them inventoried. At any rate, she’s going to England with Arthur. He’s always been savvy in business matters, and, should the need arise, I can easily put his solicitors in contact with mine.” She smiled disarmingly, and then casually placed a shot across his bow to keep him honest. “By the way, have you heard of Nellie Bly?”

  He suspected a diversionary tactic. That was all right with Sir Henry; he’d play along—for the time being. “No, I haven’t. Sounds like a stage name. Is she an American actress?”

  “Nellie Bly’s a nom de plume all right, but she’s not an actress. She’s a reporter for the New York World. Not long ago she went undercover, had herself committed, and wrote an exposé of the deplorable conditions at the Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell’s Island. Her article raised quite a fuss in the States. There was a thorough investigation followed by a shake-up in the hospital administration and vast improvements in the living conditions and treatment of the inmates. Considering your practice, I thought you might have heard of it?”

  Sir Henry smiled coolly. He decided to pay her back in kind. “No, in my practice I’ve had very few patients who required commitment, and in those cases they received the best private care. I haven’t heard of this American matter, but I’m certainly glad to learn that the conditions at the asylum were improved and the lunatics afforded better treatment. By the by, I wonder what your survival of the fittest chaps would make of it?”

  “Oh, I suppose they’d consider it a problem in public sanitation and waste disposal.” She took a sip of Haut-Brion and eyed him with a suggestive smile.

  Sir Henry returned her smile and said nothing. But for a moment Betsy evoked in him the troublingly erotic image of a fractious mare that needed breaking.

  Achille met Lautrec in a smoke-filled, murky boîte off the boulevard near the foot of the hill. The inspector tried to dress and act inconspicuously but the moment he crossed the threshold everyone smelled cop. Consequently, the regulars departed furtively in ones and twos until no one was left except for Achille and the artist.

  The proprietor, a squat, black-bearded bulldog of a man, served them with icy politeness; he was angry over the loss in business, but under no circumstances would he betray his contempt nor dare ask an inspector of the Sûreté to take his business elsewhere. And there was another factor adding to the proprietor’s indignation. He was a snitch, another strand in Rousseau’s underworld spider web. Achille had ordered Rousseau to lift the tail from Lautrec and concentrate efforts in shadowing Jojo. Rousseau complied reluctantly, and the widening rift between the two inspectors had become known on the street.

  The proprietor grinned acrimoniously as he filled the two glasses with cognac and left the bottle. He had served them what was by far the best liquor in his stock, and he’d charge accordingly to compensate for his loss in the evening’s trade.

  Lautrec sniffed his glass, sipped, rolled the fiery liquid round his tongue, and then swallowed. He winced. “They label this stuff ‘cognac.’ As to its age, I believe it entered our world about the time the Fair opened. If I were rating swill, I’d place this cognac manqué in the superior category, fit for the most discriminating pig. Thank you for buying it, and I trust you’ll pay our host generously. I’m one of his regulars and would like to remain in his good graces. Your unwelcome presence has managed to clear the premises in record time. A raging fire or a swarm of plague rats could not have done a better job.”

  Achille shook his head and grimaced. “Yes, apparently I’m not the master of disguise. The great Vidocq must be turning in his grave. On the other hand, my unwished for appearance in this establishment has provided us with an opportunity to speak freely, so perhaps my disgrace is not complete.”

  “I assume you wish to discuss your case. Have you made any progress?”

  Achille scanned the room before speaking. They were indeed alone except for the proprietor, who appeared to be out of earshot and preoccupied behind the bar with the rearrangement and cleaning of bottles and glasses. Nevertheless, Achille leaned forward and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “The investigation is ongoing. I’d like your assistance in arranging discreet, informal meetings with two persons acquainted with the victim whom I believe are known to you: Delphine Lacroix and Mademoiselle Brownlow, the American painter.”

  Lautrec smiled shrewdly and rubbed his beard. “Delphine’s no problem. She models for me from time to time, and we can arrange a surreptitious tête-à-tête at my studio. Mlle Brownlow is a different matter. She’s quite ill, you know, and under Sir Henry Collingwood’s care. Her companion, Mlle Endicott, might prove to be an obstacle too. But there’s another way to approach her. She’s intimate with Arthur Wolcott, the American author. I’m acquainted with M. Wolcott and believe I can persuade him to act as go-between. Actually, he’s quite well known for his discretion in such matters. Is there a particular message you wish to convey to him?”

  Achille thought a moment before replying. “Please tell him that it’s an urgent matter relating to my investigation. I’ll try not to impose too long on Mlle Brownlow. We should arrange to meet somewhere inconspicuous, away from the hotel, and without the knowledge of Sir Henry or Mlle Endicott.”

  “Very well, Inspector; I’ll do what I can. Delphine’s dancing tomorrow evening at the Moulin Rouge. I’ll make arrangements for a meeting the following day. And I’ll get a message to M. Wolcott at his hotel. How shall I communicate with you? I fear if we keep meeting like this we’ll put the boîte out of business.”

  “Have you access to a telephone?”

  Lautrec laughed. “I’m afraid not, Inspector. I also lack the means of flying round the Eiffel Tower.”

  Achille smiled, but in fact the issue of discreet and efficient communication was no joke. The proprietor would most likely report this meeting to Rousseau, especially if he thought there
was something in it for him. That would alert Rousseau, leading him to believe that he was being excluded from an important part of the investigation; he might then put another tail on Lautrec, despite Achille’s orders to the contrary. He sipped brandy and gave the problem some thought. This clandestine meeting would be reported to Rousseau, but he did have a means of discreet communication going forward. Achille could trust Sergeant Rodin to convey a message without leaking its contents. At any rate, he was willing to take the risk. “Do you know Sergeant Rodin?”

  “I’ve come across him a few times. Not a bad fellow, for a cop.”

  “Very well, Monsieur. Pass all your messages through Rodin, but make it clear that they are for my eyes or ears only. I’ll contact the sergeant and explain the situation beforehand.”

  Lautrec eyed Achille with a knowing grin. “Pardon me, Inspector, but might one infer from your precautions that there’s dissension in your ranks?”

  Achille frowned. “It’s dangerous, Monsieur, to make such inferences based on insufficient knowledge of the facts.”

  Lautrec nodded and adopted a more serious tone and demeanor. “Perhaps you’re right, Inspector. Nevertheless, if there is an individual involved in the investigation who happens to be the cause of your concern for security, and that certain individual also happens to be someone very well-known in these precincts, you should know that many of my local acquaintances would gladly come to your assistance.”

  Achille had no doubt Lautrec had referred to Rousseau. For an instant, he did not know how to reply. Then: “Thank you, Monsieur. I’ll keep that in mind.”