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

by Gary Inbinder

  Lady Agatha would be up from Nice on tomorrow’s train, to conclude the deal. As soon as this business was over, Arthur intended to spirit Marcia away to England. He wanted to extricate her from the entanglements of the investigation and Sir Henry and Betsy’s affair, to provide her shelter in the safe harbor of his country garden.

  He held her gloved hand as she sat beside him on the sun-warmed leather carriage seat. Dressed in white, with a flower- and ribbon-trimmed hat, and veil, a fringed parasol protecting her from the sun, she appeared innocent, as though twenty years of worldly experience had been erased from the slate of her less than stainless life. If only I could give her one more spring, to see her painting the roses in my garden. He had a vision of her working at her easel on the lawn as he looked on from the unobtrusive vantage point of a window seat in the angle of a bay.

  He smiled and squeezed her hand. “I almost forgot to tell you, my dear. I’ve closed the deal for Lady Agatha’s portrait. Betsy’s agreed to seventeen hundred guineas without so much as batting an eyelid.”

  Marcia gasped at the enormous sum. “Goodness! I would have asked half that price. I hope Betsy won’t feel cheated.”

  “You underestimate the value of your work. That’s why you need a canny manager. We’ll make a good team, just like in the old days.”

  “Oh Arthur, I’m afraid all you’ll get from me now are a few watercolors, if that.”

  He laughed. “Nonsense, young lady. Just wait ‘til I get you to England. The pure country air will brace you up, and then it’s back to work. Malingering will not be tolerated.”

  She patted his hand. “I fear you’ll be a hard taskmaster. What am I getting into?”

  They both smiled and sat quietly for a few minutes, enjoying the sights of the boulevard, the horse-drawn cabs and omnibuses bustling up and down, the well-dressed pedestrians out for a stroll. As they neared the café-bar Arthur remarked: “If at any time you feel this is too much for you, we’ll break it off. Inspector Lefebvre’s a gentleman; he’ll understand.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Arthur. I’ll be fine.”

  The carriage pulled up to the curb under a spreading, autumnal poplar. Arthur paid the fare and then assisted Marcia down from the step. He took her arm and immediately noticed Achille approaching from an outdoor table set up under a striped awning. They greeted one another, made their introductions, and proceeded to the table, which was purposefully set off from the other patrons, Achille having asked the owner not to seat anyone within earshot.

  Arthur surreptitiously handed an envelope to Achille. “This is the document you requested, Inspector.” He had not told Marcia about Sir Henry’s letter.

  “Thank you, M. Wolcott. I’ll have a copy made and sent to you tomorrow.” Then, to divert Marcia’s attention from the letter, Achille recommended the freshly baked croissants and coffee. “Or a good house wine, if you prefer.” They settled on a respectable vin ordinaire. Achille called the waiter, ordered, and then opened the inquiry with a compliment. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Mlle Brownlow. My wife and I viewed the American gallery exhibit at the Exposition and we very much admired your prize-winning landscape.”

  “You’re most kind, inspector. The painting was done in the Impressionist style. Do you like the Impressionists?”

  “Yes indeed, Mademoiselle. I’m especially fond of Renoir. Last Sunday. . . .” He was about to say they had gone rowing at Chatou, but he caught himself. He did not know if Marcia was aware Sir Henry and Betsy Endicott had been at the restaurant that day. “Last Sunday my wife and I visited a gallery and viewed one of Renoir’s paintings of Chatou. It was charming. Alas, he’s become so popular we can’t quite afford him. We must content ourselves with the paintings of younger, less well-known artists.”

  Marcia smiled and nodded. “I know Renoir, and I’m familiar with the scenes at Chatou. I’m also familiar with an excellent Corot painted in the vicinity before they built the railway and the iron bridge. Anyway, Renoir paints delightfully. But I’m afraid the new generation of artists sees things differently and is changing their style accordingly. I’ve met some brilliant young painters here in Paris, and their work is quite affordable, but I doubt you’ll find their creations as charmant as their predecessors.”

  Achille recognized her oblique reference to Lautrec. He decided to begin his circumspect interrogation by mentioning the painter. “I’m acquainted with one of the young painters of whom you speak, M. de Toulouse-Lautrec. I believe you know him from the Atelier Cormon and of course, your mutual acquaintance, Mademoiselle Ménard is the subject of my investigation.”

  The waiter arrived with the wine. They sat silently as he served them and did not continue their conversation until he had returned to the bar. Then: “Yes, Inspector, I know something about your investigation. How can I assist you?”

  Achille wasted no more time with pleasantries. “Do you know if Mademoiselle Ménard had been threatened by anyone? Or did she ever tell you she feared, or had reason to fear, anyone in particular?”

  Marcia sipped some wine to clear her throat before answering. “No one in particular, Inspector. She told me about her relationship with M. Lautrec. It had been intense, at times, and they quarreled, but she did not fear him. Frankly, I believe they were in love, but they couldn’t stand living together. A not uncommon situation, if I may be permitted an observation. She was also intimate with Mademoiselle Lacroix.” Before continuing, she glanced at Arthur and noticed him avoiding her gaze. “Frankly, I believe they too were lovers. Does that shock you, Inspector?”

  Achille shook his head. “Not at all, Mademoiselle. Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum puto.”

  Arthur coughed nervously into his serviette but Marcia smiled. “You are very well-read and sympathique inspector. At any rate, far from fearing Delphine, Virginie felt safe with her. It seems Mademoiselle Lacroix knows the rules of the game, how to survive in the demi-monde jungle.”

  “I appreciate your candor. Were you also attracted to Mademoiselle Ménard?”

  Arthur blushed; his hands trembled and he spilled some wine. “Really, Inspector, you go too far.”

  Marcia touched his hand lightly. “Please, Arthur, it’s all right.” Then to Achille: “Virginie was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known, and I’m noted for my portraits of les belles femmes. I was most certainly drawn to her aesthetically. As for sexual attraction, all I can say is there has always been a fine line between Eros and aesthetics in my art. But my vision of Virginie was formed in chiaroscuro, sharp contrasts in light and shade. I believe it’s the dark side that interests you, is that not so?”

  “Please elucidate, Mademoiselle.”

  “I’ll try, Inspector. You asked if there was anyone Virginie feared. I would say, from a few conversations during our brief acquaintance, the person she feared most was herself. She was an orphan raised by an aunt and uncle who treated her like a slave. The aunt had been particularly abusive, and the source of much pent up anger and resentment. Virginie had two means of releasing that seething hostility: the wild, uninhibited Can-Can, which was positive, and fits of what the doctors call ‘female hysteria’, which was of course negative.

  “At our final meeting, which was a few days before her disappearance, she said she had met someone she believed could help with her hysterical fits. But I’m afraid she didn’t elaborate, and my sensitivity precluded me from pressing her for details.”

  Achille’s eyes narrowed; his mind focused on his primary suspect. “Do you believe the individual who was ‘helping’ Mlle Ménard could have been a doctor specializing in the treatment of female hysteria?”

  Marcia frowned; she stared at him for a moment before replying: “Are you referring to Sir Henry Collingwood?”

  Arthur’s eyes darted furtively from Marcia to Achille, but he remained silent.

  Achille responded cautiously but forthrightly. “Not necessarily, Mademoiselle, but to my knowledge he is the only physician practicing in that
field who had made acquaintance with Mlle Ménard.”

  Arthur instinctively held Marcia’s hand as though she needed reassurance and support, but she remained cool and composed. “Inspector, you are of course aware that I’m presently under Sir Henry’s care. You may also know that he is pursuing an intimacy with one of my dearest friends, Mlle Endicott.”

  Arthur broke in: “Inspector Lefebvre, you assured me that these ladies were in no immediate danger or at least that there was no present need for concern.”

  Achille nodded. “That is correct, M. Wolcott. At present, I have insufficient evidence to accuse anyone in this matter, but so far everything points to a doctor who had access to the victim, Mlle Ménard. You and Mlle Brownlow have provided me with useful information, for which I’m grateful. I have another appointment today, and some work to do at headquarters, after which I expect to be closer to solving the case. If I may ask, what are your plans for the next few days? Do you intend to remain in Paris?”

  Arthur glanced at Marcia; she nodded as a sign, a tacit agreement that he could speak for her. “I have some business to conclude within the next two days, after which I intend to accompany Mlle Brownlow to England.”

  “Very well, Monsieur. And do either of you know Mlle Endicott’s intentions?”

  Marcia replied, “Betsy plans to stay for the closing ceremonies, and I assume she’ll attend them with Sir Henry. Afterward, they’ll both depart for London.”Marcia’s eyes widened with apprehension; she coughed into her handkerchief.

  Arthur placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right, my dear?”

  Marcia nodded and took a sip of wine before continuing. She looked directly at Achille. “Of course, Inspector, if you suspect Sir Henry—”

  “Mlle Brownlow,” he broke in, “I have asked M. Wolcott to give his word of honor not to discuss this matter with anyone, and now I must ask the same of you. You may of course be concerned for your safety and that of your friend. Please be assured if I discover any further evidence against Sir Henry, I will see to it that you and Mlle Endicott are notified at once. Moreover, I’m going to request that Sir Henry be placed under surveillance, which will afford you and your friend additional protection. But I most urgently request that you not speak of this to Mlle Endicott or anyone else.”

  “You have my word on that, Inspector,” she answered firmly.

  Achille smiled, and he noticed more evidence of worry in Arthur’s expression than in Marcia’s. “Thank you, Mademoiselle. Now, I know you and M. Wolcott have other things to do, so I won’t detain you any longer. I appreciate your cooperation and please, if either of you have any further questions or concerns, contact me immediately.”

  They parted amicably, but on the way back to the hotel Arthur muttered, “Don’t worry my dear. The French are always jumping to conclusions. I’ll be deuced if Sir Henry’s a murderer. After all, he’s a member of my club.”

  Marcia smiled faintly. She knew the seemingly fatuous comment was Arthur’s way of putting her at ease. “I hope you’re right. At any rate, we both know Betsy’s quite capable of defending herself.”

  Arthur nodded. “Ah, yes; her concealed pistols. I’ve heard she’s a regular Annie Oakley.”

  Marcia recalled several demonstrations of Betsy’s marksmanship. “Yes, thank goodness she is,” she replied. Then she turned and tried to divert her attention away from Betsy by watching the multi-hued falling leaves floating gently in the breeze.

  “These are quite interesting, M. Lautrec. I can learn a great deal about the subject from your sketches.” Achille occupied a chair in Toulouse-Lautrec’s studio. The artist had opened a portfolio, displaying several drawings of Virginie. He spread them out carefully on a long, narrow table near the center of the room. This area was bright and warm with sunshine flowing in through a large skylight.

  The artist contemplated the policeman from a shadowy corner, his arms folded and his back resting on a shelf stacked with plaster casts. He reached into a vest pocket and pulled out his watch. “Delphine should be here shortly. Would you care for a drink?”

  Achille looked up from a pastel he was admiring. “No thank you, Monsieur.”

  Lautrec walked to a cabinet near the table and retrieved a bottle. “Well, I’m sure you won’t mind if I indulge. Let me know if you change your mind.” He pulled up a chair next to Achille, uncorked the bottle, filled a glass with brandy, and continued silently observing.

  After a few minutes, Achille returned the drawings to the portfolio. “I feel as though I’m getting to know Mlle Ménard. That’s often important in my work, to understand the victim as well as the criminal.”

  Lautrec took a drink before asking, “Why is that, Inspector?”

  Achille was about to answer when they were interrupted by a knock on the door. “That must be Delphine,” Lautrec said. He got up from the table, walked to the entrance, opened the door and greeted her. Then he turned to Achille: “Inspector Lefebvre, this is Mademoiselle Lacroix.”

  Achille rose and made a slight bow. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle.”

  She nodded curtly and stared at him with wide brown eyes. Delphine was not timid, but the streets had taught her to fear the police. To her way of thinking, Achille’s customary politeness seemed like a ploy; it did not put her at ease. Nevertheless, after a moment of anxious silence, she replied, “Call me Delphine; everyone does.”

  Achille smiled. He offered her a chair. “Please be seated, Delphine.” As she approached, he noticed her stiffness and hesitancy. He’d seen the same look and gait in prisoners on their way to interrogation. That gave him an idea. “M. Lautrec and I were about to have a drink. Will you join us?”

  She sat and glanced up at him furtively. “Yes, thanks.”

  Lautrec produced two more glasses and poured for all three. Then he took a seat next to Delphine.

  Achille retrieved a packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket and offered her one. She accepted gratefully and held his hand to steady the match. After a few minutes of smoking, drinking, and small talk he decided things had loosened up enough to venture a question: “So Delphine, I understand you have some important information about Joseph Rossini. Will you please give me the details?”

  She drained her glass and held it out to Lautrec for a refill. Then: “Yes, Inspector. Papa Le Boudin is having Jojo shadowed.”

  “Excuse me, Delphine,” Achille broke in, “Who is Papa Le Boudin?”

  She stared at him incredulously. “Why, everybody knows Le Boudin. He’s the King of the chiffoniers. Old clothes, pots and pans, scrap, junk, you name it. He’s the biggest dealer in Paris.”

  “Pardon my ignorance, Delphine. I’d like to meet him some day. Anyway, please continue.”

  For an instant, she eyed Achille suspiciously. He seemed on the level, although a bit green. Delphine remembered what Le Boudin had told her about going to Lefebvre; she had no alternative but to trust him. “All right, then. Le Boudin put two of his men, Moïse and Nathan Gunzberg, on Jojo’s tail. They shadowed him up to an old, abandoned mill on top of the Butte, near Sacré-Coeur. Jojo met some guy up there about three in the morning yesterday, and again this morning at the same time. Nathan followed the guy back downhill to the boulevard, but he lost him. The guy wears a disguise; Nathan can’t give a good description of him.

  “Jojo and his pal pass notes to each other. Jojo gets his messages at the Circus Fernando and the guy picks up his at a tobacconist on the Boulevard de Clichy near the corner of the Rue Lepic. You can bet they’re up to no good. As for the cop watching Jojo. . . ” She caught herself on the verge of saying something disparaging about the police.

  “Please go on, Delphine.”

  She stared at her hands, her fear returning like a sharp shaft of light cutting through the amiable fog of brandy, cigarettes, and Achille’s good manners. Finally, and without looking up she replied, “Well, Inspector, he just hangs around doing—nothing.”

  “I see. Thank you for your honesty.
Now, is there anything else you want to tell me about Jojo and this man he meets?”

  She shook her head. “The Gunzberg boys are still on the lookout, that’s all.”

  Achille took a moment to digest her information. If the fingerprints on the letter matched one of the sets of prints he’d obtained at the crime scene, he could assume the man Jojo met at the mill was his suspected partner in crime, Sir Henry. A matching set of Jojo’s prints could complete the connection. He would test the letter in Bertillon’s laboratory later that afternoon. He decided to change the subject to Virginie. “Delphine, I’d like to ask you a few questions about Mlle Ménard. According to your initial statement to the police, you said that as far as you knew she did not feel threatened by any particular individual. Do you know if she was being helped by someone?”

  Her brow knitted and she eyed him curiously. “What do you mean by ‘helped’?”

  “I’ve heard that Mlle Ménard was a troubled young woman and that she’d found someone who was assisting her with her troubles, a doctor perhaps. If that were indeed the case, I believe she would have said something to you. After all, you were quite close to her, weren’t you?”

  She glared at Lautrec, as if he were the source of the information. He responded with a shrug. He was itching for charcoal and paper so he could record the expression on Delphine’s face, which he found most interesting. But to have done so would have been outré; instead he scratched his itch with another drink.

  Delphine ignored the artist and replied to Achille. “We were very close, Inspector. Virginie was troubled, that’s true. We all are, I suppose. But perhaps her troubles were worse than most. You see, Virginie was full of hate, but all she ever wanted was love. She hated those who had hurt her, and she hated herself for hating. This is hard to explain, but I think when people hate themselves as she did, they feel that no one can love them. So when the wrong person comes along they’re—oh, I can’t find the right word—”