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

by Gary Inbinder

  12

  OCTOBER 20

  CONSPIRACY

  THE DEVIL IN MONTMARTRE

  Jojo’s up to something, all right.” In the early morning hours, Le Boudin sat at the table in his “shop” across from Moïse, one of his most trusted men. A light rain pattered on the roof shingles, dripping here and there through the open slats. Out back, a rooster perched on a fence near the henhouse crowed, as if in response to Le Boudin’s suspicious declaration; goats stirred and bleated in their pen.

  Tallow from a guttering taper flowed down the sides of its brown bottle holder, forming a little waxen pool on the tabletop. The flickering candle revealed the young chiffonier’s face in chiaroscuro, sharply contrasting highlights and shadows, like a Rembrandt. Long, oily locks framed Moïse’s lean, hawk-like face; the beginnings of a black beard shaded the youth’s upper lip and jaw line; shrewd dark brown eyes gazed at Le Boudin directly.

  “It was hard work shadowing him, that’s for sure. Jojo was shaking some dumb flatfoot, one of Rousseau’s men. Nathan and me tailed the clown all the way up the hill, twisting and turning, like chasing a friggin’ monkey through the jungle. He met someone in an old mill up by the big church at the top of the butte. Nathan hung round and followed the other guy while I clung to Jojo’s tail, all the way back to his digs. Nathan says the other guy was tricked out like an actor: cloak, slouch hat, fake beard, and spectacles. Nathan says the bloke ran like a bat out of hell, all the way downhill to the boulevard where a coach was waiting.”

  Le Boudin’s eyes narrowed. “And Nathan lost him?”

  “Yeah, he tried to jump on the back of the coach, but it pulled away too fast.”

  “The guy didn’t suspect Nathan was shadowing him, did he?”

  Moïse shook his head confidently. “No, boss, Nathan’s too sharp for that.”

  “Hmmm, I guess so, but it’s too bad he couldn’t keep up the tail.” Le Boudin looked down and drummed his fingers for a moment. Then: “Did you boys pick up anything else on Jojo or the mysterious bloke?”

  Moïse scratched his fuzzy cheek and thought a moment. “Yeah, the clown’s been living it up the last week or so, spreading his gelt round the boîtes and whore houses, more than he could earn at the circus, that’s for sure. He’s probably done a job for that shady cove. But so far, nobody’s seen or heard of Jojo’s new pal. Anyway, it’s a good bet he ain’t from Montmartre or Pigalle.”

  Le Boudin pulled out a purse, opened it, and emptied a few silver coins onto the table. “That’s for you and your brother. Keep shadowing Jojo and see what you can find out about the other guy. And get word to Delphine. I want to see her here today if possible, or tomorrow for sure. But not a word to her or anyone else about what you’ve found out. You boys keep your traps shut. And watch out for Rousseau. If the cops pick you up, you don’t know nothing. If they put the screws on, tell them you’ll talk to Inspector Lefebvre, and no one else. You follow?”

  Moïse smiled, scooped up the coins and shoved them into his pocket. “Don’t worry, boss; Nathan and me, we’ve dealt with the cops before. We know the ropes. And we’ve heard Lefebvre’s a square guy.”

  Le Boudin’s brow knitted. “It ain’t you boys I’m worried about, it’s Delphine. She’s got a hot temper and sometimes she acts before she thinks. She’s a tough girl, all right, but she ain’t a match for Jojo.” A few dim morning rays seeped into the shed through the cracks and unglazed windows, striking Le Boudin’s face. His hard-boiled features glowed like a savage mask in firelight. He recalled the beating Delphine had taken from Jojo and imagined what had been done to her friend, Virginie.

  Le Boudin balled his one huge hand into a hammer-like fist and rested it on the table next to his hook; looking down at these two weapons he swore an oath: “Moïse, I’ve killed men in battle under the French flag, but I’ve never committed murder. But as God is my witness, if that bastard ever hurts my girl again, I’ll gut him with my hook, rip out his evil heart, and feed it to the crows.”

  Arthur and Achille sat at a window table in one of the quieter, less conspicuous café-bars, not far from the Quai des Orfèvres. Rain beat down steadily on the pavement, driving the sidewalk trade indoors. Still, the place was not crowded and the two could speak freely. Arthur had contacted Achille’s office that morning and set up the appointment. He would have included Marcia, but the inclement weather had kept her at the hotel.

  Achille admired the author; he had read some of his stories in English and decided to take some time to get to know the man better. He hoped that by establishing a good rapport with Wolcott he would gain Marcia’s confidence and thereby obtain something he needed desperately, an object with Sir Henry’s fingerprints.

  Arthur seemed tense; he fidgeted with his gloves and kept glancing out the window, as if he were being followed. Achille tried to put the author at ease with small talk. “The coffee and pastries are quite good, don’t you agree?”

  Arthur turned to Achille with a surprised look. “Oh—yes, of course, Inspector. Rather good, and reasonably priced too.”

  “I’m glad you agree. I come here often when I’m deeply involved in a case, and want a quick meal. It’s a short walk from headquarters. The beer and sandwiches are pretty good too.”

  Arthur didn’t mind the pleasantries, but he hadn’t come out in foul weather to discuss the bill of fare at what seemed to him a second rate café for the lower middle class. He was about to lay his cards on the table, but on reflection decided it was best to remain polite. “Indeed, I’m sure the beer and sandwiches are superb, and will keep that in mind when I’m next in the neighborhood.”

  Achille smiled and continued his effort at breaking the ice by reference to one of Arthur’s stories. “Last year I read your story about the detective who tracks down a lady jewel thief and falls in love with her. I thought it was excellent, as good as anything by Maupassant.”

  “Thank you, Inspector, that’s very kind of you.” Arthur forced a smile; he hated the story. He had written it hastily at the urging of a magazine editor who regularly published his work and paid top dollar. Arthur wanted to use a nom de plume, but the editor convinced him that would hurt sales. Not surprisingly, the story was a great success, which made the publisher and Arthur’s agent quite happy. Moreover, since its publication, nine out of ten readers who complimented him mentioned this story, which he considered a meretricious potboiler. Maintaining his smile, he pursued: “That detective story is quite popular, and I’m very pleased you enjoyed it, but it’s not really my line of country.”

  They were speaking English. Achille was fluent, but something Arthur had said puzzled him. “Pardon me, Monsieur, what is your ‘line of country’?”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, I’m afraid that’s an Anglicism that’s crept into my speech. I should have said not my métier.”

  “Ah, I see, well for something that’s not your métier you handled it splendidly.”

  Achille’s calculated flattery had worked its magic. Arthur relaxed and enjoyed his coffee and brioche. Rain battered the plate glass window, washed over the pavement and filled the gutters to overflowing. No use rushing in such weather, he thought. It’s a cozy place, the coffee and brioche aren’t bad, and this policeman seems like an intelligent fellow. I wonder if he reads anything besides romantic detective novelettes. “Perhaps you could satisfy my professional curiosity, Inspector. Have you a favorite writer or novel?”

  Achille seized the opening. “With all due respect to your work, Monsieur, which I do indeed esteem greatly, my favorite novel is Dumas père’s The Count of Monte Cristo. I say this because it had a significant influence on my choice of career.”

  The author was now intrigued by the policeman, Achille’s literary allusion having made a further inroad into Arthur’s confidence. An interesting individual, he thought. The inspector was more than a flattering casual reader; he had transformed into a ‘character,’ grist for Arthur’s fictive mill. “If I may inquire, Inspector, in what sense did th
e novel influence you?”

  Achille smiled, now confident that he had accurately analyzed Arthur’s personality; his calculated effort to ingratiate himself with the author seemed to have been a success. He proceeded to reveal something about himself that was sincere while at the same time self-serving in the sense that it was intended to help secure Arthur’s unequivocal support. “I was a boy of thirteen when I read the book. I was deeply moved by the story of Edmond Dantès, an honest, decent man who through no fault of his own became the victim of treachery, greed, and the corruption of justice. Through either chance, or more likely the intervention of Divine Providence, he transformed into an avenging angel, an instrument of Divine retribution, a strict lex talionis that, in the end, was tempered with mercy.

  “Of course, there were elements of adventure, mystery, romance, violence, and intrigue that would appeal to a young boy. But above all, Dumas’ story inspired in me a passion for justice, a dogged determination to pursue the guilty and defend the innocent.”

  “That’s a noble sentiment, Inspector, and a fine ideal for a man of your profession. But what do you think of Hugo’s Javert?”

  Achille felt like an angler; Arthur had taken the bait, it was now time to tug the line and drive the hook home. “You know, M. Wolcott, many believe Hugo modeled Javert on the Sûreté’s founder, Eugène François Vidocq. But Vidocq spent his career pursuing and capturing dangerous criminals; he did not hound poor individuals who stole bread to feed their starving families, and neither do I.

  “Yet in many ways I am like Javert; I’m not a Divine avenger, and I’m more a realist than an idealist. I don’t make the laws; I assist in their enforcement. Justice is imperfect as is our world; citizens can make improvements, but we will always fall short of an ideal. As for my youthful passion, it’s been tempered by experience and the constraints of my profession. I now subscribe to Rochefoucauld’s maxim: “The love of justice is simply, in the majority of men, the fear of suffering injustice.”

  Arthur nodded his silent agreement. He sipped his coffee and nibbled some pastry. Then: “Tell me Inspector, what can I do to assist your investigation?”

  “At the moment, there are two things, Monsieur. First, if her health and circumstances permit, I would like to speak to Mlle Brownlow, informally and away from the hotel. You may be present. Hopefully, she can tell me something about Mlle Ménard that will be of some significance. Women often share confidences, even with casual acquaintances, that they would keep from their husbands or most intimate male companions.”

  Arthur did not disagree. He knew Marcia had spoken intimately with Virginie and she had not yet revealed the details of their conversation to him. “Very well, Inspector, I’ll try to arrange such a meeting as soon as possible. You mentioned something else.”

  Achille frowned and spoke solemnly to emphasize the gravity of the situation. “Monsieur Wolcott, I know you by reputation to be a man of honor. What I’m about to say must be held in the strictest confidence. I must have your word as a gentleman that you’ll not reveal what I’m about to tell you. If you break your oath, there could be grave consequences.”

  Arthur nodded. “You have my word of honor, Inspector.”

  “Very well, Monsieur. While this remains unofficial in the sense that no evidence has been presented to the magistrate, I suspect that Sir Henry Collingwood may have some involvement in the disappearance and death of Virginie Ménard. At present, and for reasons you do not need to know, I want a writing of Sir Henry’s, a note, letter, or perhaps a prescription. Could you obtain such a document?”

  Arthur’s eyes widened. He had had his own suspicions about Sir Henry, but they had not gone so far as murder. Moreover, he had recently obtained a letter from the doctor relating to Marcia’s illness and recommendations for further treatment in England. “I do have something in my possession. May I ask why you need it?”

  “I’m afraid not, Monsieur. The less you know about this matter, the better.”

  “I see. Will you return the letter to me?”

  Achille shook his head. “Depending on what I discover, I may need to keep it in evidence. If that’s the case, I’ll provide you with a copy. By the way, Monsieur, have you noticed if Sir Henry always wears gloves?”

  Arthur found the question perplexing; he thought a moment before answering, “I’ve seen him without his gloves on occasion. And I suppose if I ask why you need this information you’ll tell me to mind my own business.”

  “I apologize for being so secretive. Permit me another question. Were you with him when he wrote the letter? If so, was he wearing gloves?”

  Still puzzled, Arthur replied “I was indeed present and he wasn’t wearing gloves.”

  Achille smiled with relief. “Thank you, Monsieur Wolcott. You’ve been most helpful. There’s one more thing. When you arrange the meeting with Mlle Brownlow, you may do so on the pretext of taking her to the Bois, a gallery, or whatever. But instead, you’ll bring her here. You may contact my office by telephone to make arrangements.”

  “All right, Inspector. But before I leave, I insist you tell me something. Do you believe Mlles Brownlow and Endicott are in danger?”

  The question raised concerns that had troubled Achille’s conscience day and night. Regardless, he answered honestly: “For the time being I believe not, Monsieur. But the sooner my suspicions are either confirmed or refuted by hard evidence the better for all involved.”

  The rubbish-clogged drainage ditch burgeoned into a swollen stream, overflowing its muddy banks and rising to the level of the rickety footbridge. The steep trail winding uphill from the old military road to Le Boudin’s compound had transformed into a waterfall, cascading into the flooded channel. Delphine chose a longer, more circuitous route round the gradual incline of the reverse slope.

  She grabbed a stout fallen poplar limb to aid in her climb. Her bonnet and waterproof cape provided protection from the elements; leaning forward with the wind and rain at her back, she lifted her skirts in her left hand while her right worked the staff; her leather boots slogged on through the muck as Delphine made slow and steady progress to the summit.

  She picked up her pace as the ground leveled. Her eyes scanned the ridge for signs of life, but all the inhabitants, human and beast alike, had sought shelter indoors. Only Bazaine remained outside, crouching in a dry spot on the leaky porch, faithfully guarding his master’s doorway.

  Delphine bent over and patted the dog’s upturned head. “You haven’t forgotten me, have you old boy?” She stroked Bazaine’s muzzle and he licked her hand in greeting. Then she knocked on the door and shouted, “Hey Papa Le Boudin, it’s me. Let me in before I drown!”

  “Come in Delphine,” he called out “and shut the door behind you!”

  She found Le Boudin at his table, eating a light meal and reviewing his receipts with one of his women. Delphine recognized her immediately. “Hello, Marie. You remember me, don’t you?”

  The portly, ruddy-cheeked, good-natured woman of forty welcomed Delphine with a gap-toothed smile. “Of course I do, my dear. I’d kiss you, but I don’t want to get soaked. We were just going over the accounts. Business is good; we’ll make a fine profit this year.” She got up on her feet and scrutinized the girl, from dripping bonnet to mud-caked boots. “Now, you better get out of those damp clothes and hang them up to dry. I’ll fetch one of my dresses, though God knows it’ll be big enough for two of you.”

  Le Boudin laughed and patted Marie’s broad backside. “Three of her at least, and with room to spare!”

  Marie slapped the offending hand and grinned. “You old bastard.” Then to Delphine: “Now take off your bonnet and cloak and have a seat. I’ll be back,” she turned to Le Boudin with a gleam in her eye, “with one of my little daughter’s dresses.”

  “Take your time, old woman. The girl and me have some personal business to discuss.”

  Marie nodded knowingly, covered herself with a woolen blanket, and ran out into the storm. Delphine shook out
her hat and cape and hung them on the back of a chair. She sat down and was about to speak when Le Boudin piped up: “Wait a minute. I’ve got rum. You need a stiff drink to keep out the chill.” He fetched a black bottle and then filled two glasses with the fiery liquor. “Now take it down in one gulp. It’s like medicine.”

  She drank, then coughed and cleared her throat. “What is this stuff? Tastes like lamp fluid mixed with roach poison.”

  Le Boudin laughed and re-filled their glasses. “It’s rotgut, sure enough, but it ain’t as bad as all that. Do you want me to send out for vintage champagne?”

  “All right, Papa, make it Veuve Clicquot, 1878. Seriously, I’m sure you didn’t bring me out in this weather to see who could crack the lamest joke.”

  Le Boudin frowned. He stared at the liquor in his glass for a moment, swirled it round and took another swig. “Frankly, I didn’t expect you so soon, but it’s just as well you came. You were right about Jojo. He’s up to no good, and the cops are already onto him. Rousseau’s having him shadowed, but he’s put a fool on Jojo’s tail. And the clown’s working for someone. Moïse and his brother Nathan tracked them to an abandoned mill near Sacré-Cæur. Nathan tailed the other guy down to the boulevard, but he lost him.

  “We’re going to keep shadowing them to see if we can figure out their game. And I want to remind you of your promise. Take the information to Lefebvre and keep your nose out of trouble. Jojo’s bad enough, but we don’t know anything about this guy he’s working for. He may be the bastard who killed your friend. If that’s the case, you’d best leave him to the cops.”

  Delphine looked down at her hands; she fiddled with the catch on her bag. “I gave my word, Papa. But if he is the guy, I’d like to get him alone, just long enough to give him a taste of my razor.”

  Le Boudin leaned over the table and lifted her chin so he could look her in the eye. “I understand, Delphine, but get those thoughts out of your head. Remember what I told you about revenge.” She stared back at him and he saw tears running from the corners of her eyes. He wiped them away gently and stroked her cheek. “That girl must have meant an awful lot to you.”