The Devil in Montmartre: A Mystery in Fin de Siècle Paris
Page 17
“She did, Papa. She did.” Delphine was silent for a moment. Then: “When I left here I felt awfully sorry for myself, and it wasn’t your fault. You and mama were good to me. But—but I always wanted something more. I imagined a world outside the barriers; somewhere away from the Zone. I thought nothing could be worse than this place, but I was wrong. You warned me about the world, and so did others, but like most kids I wouldn’t listen. So I ran away straight into the arms of Jojo—and others.
“I learned the hard lessons of the streets, how to fight, roll with the punches, make do, and survive. Then I met Virginie. I thought I knew suffering, but she opened my eyes to real agony, unspeakable cruelty—” Delphine could not continue. She covered her face with her hands. “We’re in hell. There’s no justice, no mercy, no love. Why bring a child into such a world as this?”
Le Boudin got up from his chair, walked round, and took her into his arms. “I’m sorry, my girl, so sorry.” He let her cry for a while until she regained her self-control. Then, he looked at her and smiled. “You’ll stay the night with us, won’t you? Don’t walk all the way back to Montmartre in this filthy weather.”
Delphine took a handkerchief from her bag, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. “I’m sorry, Papa, I’m dancing tonight at the Moulin.”
He grimaced and shook his head. “For the love of God, you’d go back out into this shit for a few francs? Those degenerates can do without ogling your legs and behind for one night.”
Delphine smiled sadly. “I’m sorry, Papa. It’s my living, it’s what I do. Anyway, we have a few hours to visit and talk of old times. Hopefully, the rain will let up before I have to go.”
Marie entered the room, dumped her soaked blanket on a chair, and removed a patched brown dress from a canvas bag. “Try this on, dearie. I think it’ll fit all right. My Jacqueline’s just about your size.”
Delphine walked over and embraced Marie, her arms barely able to encircle the big woman’s waist. “Thank you, my dear, and please thank Jacqueline for me. I’ll make it up to her.”
“Oh, it ain’t nothing, dearie; just an old rag.”
Delphine laughed. “Well thanks anyway. And you can kiss me now. I’m not as wet as I was.”
“Bless you, girl, you’re quite dry, but now I’m soaked through!”
An intense white beam streamed down from an arc light situated high up in the rafters. Standing far below within the lamp’s gleaming aura, the ringmaster, a tall, stout man tricked out in white tie and tailcoat, and sporting an enormous handlebar moustache, snapped his whip with authority. A large white horse trotted round the perimeter of the sawdust-covered ring, its canter accompanied by a brass band playing a sprightly galop. A female acrobat in ballerina costume rode the horse bareback. Following the initial circuit, the woman rose to her feet gracefully, circled the ring once more, then executed a handstand, first on both hands and then on one to a round of enthusiastic applause.
Jojo capered about the ring in an ape costume, his simian antics garnering peals of laughter, especially so when he examined a pile of horse dung, stuck in his finger and sniffed. But laughter turned to applause when the clown performed a series of back flips, vaulted onto the horse’s crupper, and mimicked the acrobat’s every move, including spectacular twin somersaults that made the audience gasp.
The rain had let up and there was a decent crowd on hand for the evening performance. The one-ring circus was located in a high-domed wooden building with colorfully decorated rafters. The audience sat in rows of seats that rose precipitously from the ring, providing a superb view along with an intimacy and engagement in the performance not commonly experienced in the larger arenas. Artists frequented the Circus Fernando to sketch the acts, among them Toulouse-Lautrec. But Lautrec was elsewhere this particular evening.
The equestrienne and Jojo were followed by another popular act, a young woman who hung from an iron ring by her teeth. Dangling precariously, she was hauled up high into the rafters to the level of the trapeze, with no safety net below. Spectators craned their necks and thrilled to the danger as she started to spin round like a whirligig, while far below, clowns trembled and covered their eyes.
Jojo rested on a stool in the dressing area, taking a short break between acts. He pulled off his mask and mopped sweat from his face and neck with a towel. Then, staring into the gas-lit mirror, he mocked himself with an ape-like grin. He reached for a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. A slip of paper lay hidden beneath the matchbox. What’s this; another bloody job? It better pay well. Jojo examined what appeared to be a blank sheet. He struck a match and held it behind the note. The following appeared: “Meet me usual place at 3:00 A.M.” Jojo burned the note and lit his smoke. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and then stubbed out the cigarette. It was time to get ready for the next act.
Lautrec sat at his favorite table at the Moulin Rouge, sketching the crowd and dancers while consuming a prodigious quantity of cognac. His life had become more complicated and his worries multiplied in consequence of his involvement with the investigation. He drank more, sought more diversions, and enjoyed them less. Earlier, he had surreptitiously slipped a note to Zidler to pass on to Delphine, urging her to meet him at his studio the following day, and he requested she acknowledge and confirm the appointment through Zidler; Lautrec did not want her to reply to him directly. He disliked such furtive behavior, but he could not shake the disquieting sense of being under constant surveillance, the sort of feeling he imagined one might have in a police state like Tsarist Russia. He believed an honest citizen of the French Republic ought not to fear asserting his rights of free expression and association, nevertheless he was afraid.
“Good evening, Monsieur Lautrec.”
Lautrec looked up with a start; his hand trembled, smudging the sketch.
Arthur noticed the artist’s reaction and could sense anxiety in his blank stare. “I apologize for coming upon you so suddenly. I trust I haven’t spoiled your drawing?”
Lautrec relaxed at the sight of a familiar and not unwelcome face. “It’s nothing, M. Wolcott. Will you join me?” Lautrec rubbed out the stray mark from his charcoal sketch while Arthur took a seat. He was glad of the company; anything to distract him from the murder case.
Arthur had his own troubles; he had been similarly affected by the investigation. The storm had passed. With the change in the weather and some improvement in Marcia’s condition he had arranged a meeting at the café-bar near Sûreté headquarters, and he would bring Sir Henry’s letter. He was well aware of his pledge to secrecy; he would not discuss his suspicions about Sir Henry with anyone except Achille and perhaps Lautrec. And he would be similarly discreet when discussing Virginie Ménard and her relationship with Marcia.
Arthur lit a cigarette and ordered more cognac. The orchestra had taken a break; the dance floor was empty; customers were milling about the mezzanine, bar, and gallery, keeping up a constant buzz of conversation. Arthur looked toward the rafters and blew a couple of smoke rings. Then he deposited the cigarette in an ashtray and smiled at Lautrec. “I was at Joyant’s gallery today. Your work is impressive, Monsieur; it’s all excellent, but I was especially taken by your portrait of the unfortunate Mlle Ménard. I made Joyant a fair offer, and hope to close the deal should you not receive a better one. I’d like to make a gift of the painting to my friend, Mlle Brownlow.”
Lautrec drained his glass and then re-filled it. “I’m honored, Monsieur. I’m well aware of your reputation as a connoisseur of fine art.” There was no hint of sarcasm in Lautrec’s reply. He respected Arthur and was grateful for his interest. Lautrec took a sip of cognac before inquiring: “How is Mlle Brownlow? I understand she has not been well.”
“Thank you, Monsieur; she’s as well as can be expected. Alas, Mlle Brownlow is dying. She’s a dear friend, and I intend to make her remaining days as pleasant and comfortable as possible. She was indeed quite impressed by your portrait of Virginie Ménard. In fact, she was concerned that you mi
ght have been offended by her reference to the painting’s ‘prettiness.’ In any case, you may rest assured she admires your work, despite the fact that it’s quite different from hers. You see, Mlle Brownlow always found it difficult separating her life from her art. She once told me how she envied my objectivity, my cool detachment. But I’ve learned over the years that there’s more than one way for an artist to get at the truth.”
For a moment Lautrec gazed at Arthur without comment. He was not sure what the author was implying. Had Arthur made an oblique reference to Lautrec’s relationship with Virginie? Was he suggesting that Marcia would have been more understanding and sympathetic? Unable to resolve this quandary he replied coolly: “I observe and record what I see, like a photographer with my own peculiar lens and singular set of plates. At any rate, I don’t make moral judgments and market them as art.”
Arthur smiled wryly. “I appreciate that, Monsieur. An old Royal Academician friend of mine used to quote Turner: ‘I paint what I see, not what I know.’ Marcia was always fond of that quote, but I don’t think she ever quite believed it.”
Arthur was about to venture a cautious query concerning the intimacy of Marcia and Virginie’s relationship when Zidler came to their table, looking very prosperous in his dapper tailcoat. He greeted Arthur politely, then turned to Lautrec, bent over and whispered into his ear. Lautrec nodded his understanding; Delphine would meet him at his studio the following day. He would notify Achille of the meeting by way of Sergeant Rodin.
His business with Lautrec concluded, the manager turned his attention to his distinguished guest. “I trust you will stay for the Can-Can, M. Wolcott?” Zidler glanced at his watch. “It begins in little more than five minutes. I assure you the girls are very pretty and,” he added with a sly wink, “quite uninhibited and provocative.”
Arthur laughed. “M. Zidler, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Zidler rubbed his hands and bowed unctuously. “Thank you, thank you very much, Monsieur. You won’t be disappointed.” Then he took off in the direction of his office to count his receipts.
The house lights flashed, the musicians returned to their stands and began tuning and warming up their instruments. Wandering patrons returned to their tables and chairs, and out of the corner of his eye Lautrec noticed Delphine waiting in the wings with the other dancers. He flipped his sketchbook to a fresh sheet, exchanged his charcoal for pastels, and fueled his artistic imagination with another glass of cognac.
13
OCTOBER 21, MORNING, AFTERNOON, EVENING;
OCTOBER 22, MORNING
The abandoned mill about three hours before dawn: Jojo stared at a huge black spider dangling from an immense web overspreading a pair of rotting cogwheels. He marked the spider’s resemblance to the cloaked figure beckoning him from the shadows on the other side of the millstone.
The shady “spider” raised a silencing finger to his false-bearded lips and motioned for Jojo to approach, signaling halt with a raised hand when the clown had come within whispering distance. “You’ve been careless, Jojo,” he hissed.
“Careless, Monsieur? I don’t understand,” Jojo replied in a perplexed whisper.
The mask grinned sardonically. “You’ve seen the spider but you missed the two little flies.”
“Please Monsieur, you speak in riddles. Is there a problem?”
“There’s a problem, all right, but thankfully I have a solution. We’re being shadowed by a couple of rag-picking Jews. One follows me from the boulevard; the other tails you from your flat. I didn’t notice them until this morning. I don’t know who they’re working for, but my guess is it’s not Rousseau.”
Jojo’s eyes blazed. He reached into his pocket and flicked out a switch-blade. “I’ll fix the little rats here and now.”
The disguised man’s whisper hoarsened to an angry rasp. “Put away your stiletto and listen. Is the dumb flatfoot still watching your apartment?”
Jojo closed the blade, pocketed his knife, and nodded in the affirmative.
“Good. Tomorrow morning at three sneak out of your flat the usual way. The cop’ll keep his eyes glued to your window and the front door but one of the Jews will tail you up the Rue Lepic. Two blocks on there’s an alley. I’ll lose my shadow and wait for you with a cart, the kind the ragpickers use. The kids are both runts; in the dark you could pass for either of them. I’ll chloroform your shadow. Once he’s out, we’ll put him in the cart under a pile of rags. You take the cart back down the street and drop a little package in a dustbin right in front of the cop’s nose. You’ll be very sneaky looking but obvious, enough to catch the fool’s attention. You’ll continue to an alley where you’ll ditch the kid and the cart. There’ll be just enough time before he wakes up, and when he does he’ll be groggy and disoriented.”
“What about the other kid?”
“I’ll knock him out too. But I’ll add an injection that’ll keep him stupefied for an hour at least.”
Jojo grinned. “You’re going to frame up the Yids?”
“That’s right. The cops wouldn’t go after the son of a count, no matter how degenerate. But a rag-picking Jew from the Zone is the perfect suspect. And if what you’ve told me about your chum Rousseau is true, it’ll shake things up at the Sûreté when he takes our bait and openly turns against Lefebvre. Imagine how he’ll gloat when he cracks the case and shows up the professor.
“At any rate, I figure no one will help the Jew, especially when I set the rest of my plan in motion. But that’s none of your business. You just play your part as written. Now get out of here, and try not to let on that you know you’re being followed. I’ll wait awhile, and then give the other kid the slip. And here’s an incentive, a little something on account. Do this right, and there’ll be more.” He reached into his pocket, retrieved a few gold coins and dropped them into Jojo’s outstretched palm.
Jojo’s eyes gleamed at the sight of the gold pieces. “Don’t worry, Monsieur. It’s a cinch.”
“It had better be, my friend. Remember—three A.M. in the alley, and no slipups.”
“So your friend at Scotland Yard has something?” It was five A.M. sharp. Féraud stared across his desk at Achille, his interest piqued by the news.
“Yes, chief, I received a coded message by wire this morning. They have two recent cases involving the torsos of unidentified females. The Yard doesn’t think it’s the Ripper’s work, but the torso killer’s modus operandi does resemble that of the perpetrator in our case. And of course the English press is connecting the bodies to the Ripper murders. Without more evidence, that’s pure speculation.”
Féraud shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “Did your contact give you any more information concerning the status of their investigation?”
“I’m afraid this is all my friend’s willing to provide by cable, even in code. If we want more, I’ll have to go to London and get it in person.”
Féraud thought for a moment before replying. “I’d need to get authorization from high up for something like that. If word leaked out of what you were doing unofficially, things could get very sticky with the English. But you may share some information about the mutilated torsos through official channels without relating it to the Ripper. And you certainly don’t want to stir up a hornets’ nest with our own press. Now what else have you got planned for today?”
“I’m meeting M. Wolcott and Mlle Brownlow. The American woman might have important information about Virginie Ménard that I believe will point to Sir Henry. And M. Wolcott has a letter with Sir Henry’s handwriting and latent fingerprints. The handwriting could be very useful, and there’s a proven method for bringing out latent prints on paper. I can compare the prints to those on the cloth and cigarette case. If they match, he’s our suspect.
“After I’m done with that meeting, I’m going to interview Delphine Lacroix at Lautrec’s studio. She has important information about Jojo, and she may also provide more clues from her knowledge of the victim.”
Achille frowned. “Nothing, I’m afraid, and frankly I don’t expect much.”
Féraud shook his head and drummed his fingers in frustration. He stuck a cigar in his guillotine, lopped off the tip, and started chewing without smoking. “Very well, Achille,” he muttered with the unlit cigar shifting round in his mouth, “you may go.”
“How lovely,” Marcia had observed as Arthur helped her up into an open carriage. “I doubt we shall have many more such days.”
“A fine day indeed,” he replied. They were on their way to the café-bar to meet Achille. Arthur had his qualms about their rendezvous with a policeman, but he consoled himself with the thought that the inspector was a man of discretion, a gentleman. Considering her health, he would not press Marcia if he sensed his questions were too upsetting. And Marcia was enthusiastic; she wanted to help, if she could. At any rate, she had insisted on going out on the pretext of visiting the Louvre followed by some refreshment at a boulevard café and Sir Henry had not objected. It was as though he had lost interest in his patient (“She won’t survive the winter” was his undisclosed prognosis) and was now concentrating all his attention on Betsy.
Arthur had concluded his negotiations for the sale of Lady Agatha’s portrait. He had wired Betsy’s generous offer of seventeen-hundred guineas to Aggie, and she had replied immediately. He’d earn a handsome commission and use it all for Marcia’s care, though he would not tell her that. Arthur would let her believe his physician friend was providing services at a reduced rate out of gratitude and repayment for favors rendered.