Pierre Cauchon, editor and publisher of L’Antisémite, sat across from Drumont at a sidewalk café table. Pink-faced, portly, with beady blue eyes, a fringe of graying blonde hair, twelve children, a long-suffering wife, and fifteen-year-old mistress, his enemies had nicknamed the anti-Semitic editor le vieux Cochon. Earlier that day, Cauchon had received a letter signed “Angelique” from an anonymous source. The mysterious missive had been dropped off at the newspaper’s office; there was no postmark or return address.
Angelique claimed to be a Catholic girl of eighteen, the eldest daughter of an old Provençal family that had been impoverished due to the machinations of a Jewish banker. While the banker occupied their foreclosed manor, Angelique, her parents, and two younger siblings were reduced to living in a peasant’s cottage on their former lands.
Angelique was pretty and the Jew took an immediate interest in her. He offered her employment as a maid; despite her misgivings and her parents’ entreaties, she accepted his offer to aid her starving family. At first she was well-treated and her employer made no unwelcome advances, thus creating in her a false sense of security. Then, one night as she slept, the Jew and his accomplices stole into her bedroom and chloroformed her. Bound, gagged, and stupefied with drugs, Angelique was transported to a secret location in Montmartre. Once there, she tried to resist her abductors, insisting that her parents would go to the police when they realized she was missing. The fiends laughed; her parents would be told she had run away, and if they went to the police no one would waste much time or energy looking for her. Angelique continued her resistance; she was starved, beaten, and thus forced into slavery as a temple prostitute for the Illuminati.
According to Angelique, the Illuminati were an international cabal of wealthy Jews and Freemasons who, through manipulation of currencies, financial markets, and political corruption, had conspired to rule the world from the shadows. The spider had spun an immense worldwide web, but the organization’s headquarters, commanded by a Sanhedrin of six Jewish High Priests of global finance, was located in Paris. There, they employed a system of bribery and extortion intended to gain influence, subvert, and manipulate the highest levels of government. Moreover, the Illuminati enticed and abducted innocent Catholic girls to be used as sex slaves in their satanic rituals.
Angelique had escaped her tormentors, but another young woman who had fallen into the spider’s web had not been so fortunate. Having been lured into performing a Can-Can at one of their Baphometic orgies by promises of an enormous fee, Virginie Ménard fled the Illuminati and threatened to expose their foul practices. The following evening, she was abducted and ritually slaughtered by a shohet (kosher butcher) to silence her permanently and as a warning to others.
“Of course I know the risks of publication, M. Drumont. I believe it’s my duty to publish this letter as a service to France, but I intend to preface the article with a disclaimer.”
Drumont nodded. “A disclaimer is good. We must exercise some caution, since you can’t produce the girl as a witness. We should avoid embarrassment to the League, especially with all these foreigners in Paris for the Exposition. Of course, there’s no problem with credibility among our followers who’ll believe anything against the Jews, but we must remain plausible when going to print if we are to gain new adherents to our cause.
“The letter doesn’t name anyone specifically, and it makes no direct accusations except against a shadowy organization. Moreover, it does not blame the police directly for incompetence in the Ménard investigation. So I don’t think there’s danger of a suit for libel.
“You are publishing matters of public interest and concern so you can certainly rely on the Press Law of 1881 if the police clamp down. In my experience the present government respects our right to publish freely; they’ll leave you alone as long as you comply with the requirements of the law. When do you go to press?”
Cauchon smiled broadly. “Thank you for your advice and support, my friend. I’ve already given orders to set type. I intend to have a special edition ready for distribution by tomorrow morning.”
Drumont nodded affirmatively. “I hope Baron de Rothschild gets hold of a copy. I’d like to see the look on his face when he reads it. I’ll bet it makes him choke on his matzoth.”
The Jew-baiting journalists had a hearty laugh before settling the bill and parting company to embark on their next great crusade.
Achille bounded up three flights of steep stairs to Gilles’ studio and knocked impatiently on the door. He heard a faint “I’ll be with you in a moment” followed by a clatter of paraphernalia and the rapid clomping of footsteps on the bare wooden floor. Presently, the door opened a crack and a pair of excited eyes greeted him: “Ah, it’s you Inspector. You came at just the right time. There’s something here I must show you.” Before Achille could say “fingerprints,” Gilles was leading him to a work bench in a back corner of the loft, a shaded area away from the late afternoon sunshine flooding through an immense skylight.
The photographer halted abruptly and pointed to a small black box resting on the tabletop. “There it is, Inspector, an invention that will revolutionize photography. It’s just arrived from America.”
Achille was anxious to discuss the latent prints on Sir Henry’s letter, but his curiosity intervened. “What is it, Gilles?”
The photographer smiled proudly and presented the wonder to Achille for closer inspection. “It’s the new Kodak No. 1 box camera. It has the latest modifications, including an advanced shutter and celluloid roll film, an improvement over the paper stripper film. It’s light, hand-held, and simple to operate; perfect for detective work. And you don’t need to focus through a ground-glass. Do you see that “V” shaped device on top of the camera?”
Achille examined the object. “Yes, it looks like a sighting mechanism.”
“Exactly so; almost like you’d have on a firearm. Now please give me the camera and back up into the light.” Achille returned the Kodak and did as Gilles asked.
“There, that’s it. Perfect! Now, I set the shutter with this string, line you up in the sight, push the button, and voila! I’ve just taken your photograph in a matter of seconds; I wind this key and I’m ready for the next exposure, one hundred in all on a single roll of film.”
Achille immediately saw the camera’s potential. He approached to get a better look at the Kodak. “You’re right, Gilles. As long as you had enough available light, this would be perfect for surreptitiously photographing suspects.”
Gilles frowned and returned the camera to the work bench. “It would indeed be ideal for that purpose, but there is a major drawback. The new film and the method for developing and printing it are patented; the whole camera must be returned to the Eastman Company in Rochester, New York for processing and reloading. That might be all right for a detective in the eastern United States, but for us the time involved in shipping and handling makes it impractical.”
Achille pondered the problem for a moment. “Do you think the Eastman Company would be willing to negotiate a contract with our government to permit the processing of the film here, in Paris?”
Gilles rubbed his chin. “I don’t know, Inspector, but it might be worth pursuing.”
Achille made a mental note to raise the issue with Féraud and Bertillon. Then: “I’ve come to you on urgent business.” He pulled an envelope containing Sir Henry’s letter out of his breast pocket and handed it to Gilles. “This envelope contains a document with a suspect’s fingerprints. Please handle it with gloves or tweezers.”
Gilles smiled. “Ah, Inspector, this is another of your fingerprint experiments.”
“Yes it is, and at first I was going to perform it myself at the laboratory, but I believe the method used to develop the latent prints would be better suited to your skills.”
“Oh, and what may I ask is that method?”
Achille reached into another pocket, withdrew a notebook, and turned it over to the photographer. “I’ve written it down here
. The process was discovered more than twenty years ago by the chemist, Coulier, but to my knowledge it’s never been used in forensics.”
Gilles studied the notes carefully for a few minutes. Then, muttering to himself: “This is interesting. Coulier used iodine fuming to bring out the prints. A small quantity of iodine is mixed with finely grained sand. The mixture is placed in a developing tray with the document fastened to a lid placed over the tray. The document is then exposed for a period of time to the iodine fumes. The fumes act as a reagent with the oil and sweat residue from the fingerprints. The latent images emerge and can be fixed with silver nitrate. This is all familiar to me; it’s a process similar to developing and fixing an image on a photographic plate. The trick is to get the iodine mixture and exposure time right.” He looked up at Achille. “Is this your only document with the suspect’s fingerprints?”
“At this time, that’s all I’ve got.”
“I see. Well, then, I’d like to run a couple of tests first, using my own prints. I don’t want to muck it up on the first try. And even if I get it right, some or even all your suspect’s prints might be blurred. It depends on how he handled the document.”
Achille nodded his understanding. “Very well, Gilles. Can you have your results at my office by tomorrow morning in time for my meeting with Féraud?”
Gilles winced. “At five A.M. inspector?”
Achille smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m afraid so.”
The photographer clapped the inspector’s shoulder. “That’s all right, my friend. I’ll do my best. No rest for the wicked, eh?”
Achille laughed. “Yes Gilles, Satan never sleeps and neither does the Sûreté.”
Shortly before three A.M., Jojo surfaced from the murky depths of a passageway sandwiched between two tenements. Emerging like a furtive cockroach from a cracked skirting board, he scurried onto the narrow, winding Rue Lepic. Pausing for an instant, he glanced back down the shadowy street in the direction of his flat; as usual, the unimaginative cop hadn’t stirred from his hidey-hole.
Pulling up his collar against the pre-dawn chill and misting drizzle, Jojo sneaked up the street on boots caked with mud from the passageway, toward his alley-way rendezvous. He sensed he was being tailed, but according to his instructions, having evaded the policeman’s notice, he acted as though he were now in the clear.
A thick cloud cover occluded the moon and stars; the pale glow of flickering gas lamps marked the way uphill with tiny points of light, growing smaller and dimmer in the distance until they merged near the summit in a dull, diminutive vanishing point. A few meters from his destination a yowling black cat leapt from its poubelle and scampered across his path. Startled, Jojo stopped and muttered a curse. A bad omen, he thought before walking on.
A few steps past his encounter with the foreboding feline, he turned into the alley. Several paces on, he heard a muffled hissing from a dark passageway. Approaching cautiously, he noticed his confederate’s eyes glowing beneath the pulled-down brim of his slouch hat. The man motioned for Jojo to join him in his hiding place.
“The kid’s right behind me,” Jojo whispered.
The man nodded. He clutched a bottle and a handkerchief in his gloved hands. “You grab him and I’ll chloroform him,” he murmured.
Moïse turned the corner, walked a few paces, and halted. Wary of danger, he stared up the dark alley. Seeing nothing, he sensed trouble. Damn! It’s a trap. He started to turn round, as if he were about to run back to the Rue Lepic.
“Now, before he bolts!” the man snarled.
Jojo sprang from his hole, ran a step or two, tackled Moïse from behind, and threw him to the ground. Straddling the youth’s back, Jojo grabbed him by the chin hairs and yanked his head up. His partner covered the squirming boy’s face with the chloroform-soaked handkerchief. Moïse struggled for less than half a minute. His eyes closed, his body grew limp, and then lay still.
“He’ll be out for at least ten minutes. Quickly now, put on his jacket and hat, and then we’ll throw him into the cart.”
Jojo switched clothes. He lifted Moïse under the arms while his partner grasped the boy by the ankles. They carried him to the chiffonier’s cart and hid him under a bunch of rags. Jojo threw his jacket on top of the pile. The man handed Jojo a round, cloth-wrapped package. Jojo gripped it with hands muddied from his scuffle in the unpaved alley.
“You haven’t much time ‘til the kid comes round.”
“What about the other one?”
“Don’t bother about him. He’s sleeping it off in a passage down near the boulevard. Remember what I told you. Drop the package in a poubelle near your flat so the cop can see. Then go down the street to the next alley, change back to your jacket, ditch the kid and the cart.”
“And the rest of my money, Monsieur?”
The man glared at him. “You’ll get it soon enough,” he growled. “I’ll send you a message. Now go!”
Jojo nodded with a sly grin, grabbed the cart handles with his powerful hands, and pulled his burden back out onto the street. Iron-shod wooden wheels rattled and rumbled on the cobblestones, announcing the ragman’s approach to the sleeping neighborhood. As he neared his flat, he spotted a poubelle within the shadowing flatfoot’s line of sight.
He stopped, lifted the cart’s handles, tilting it back gradually so as not to upset his unconscious freight onto the pavement, and then took out the package. Jojo casually walked over to a poubelle, opened the lid, and dumped the object into the rubbish. Then he returned to the cart and continued rattling and rumbling down the street.
The covert policeman’s eyes followed Jojo until he disappeared from view. Now why would a rag-picker dump something into a poubelle? That puzzling thought rattled round his stolid brain for a couple of hours while his feet barely shuffled and his eyes remained dutifully glued to Jojo’s flat.
14
OCTOBER 22, MORNING
THE MAGISTRATE’S SWORD
You see, Chief, these are the patterns Galton identified and categorized. All fingerprints fit within one of five types, but according to Galton’s calculations, the odds against two persons having the exact same lines are so overwhelming we can say duplication is impossible.” Achille pointed to a fingerprint chart set on a table in Féraud’s office, next to Gilles’s photographs. They viewed the evidence by gaslight supplemented by the illumination of two kerosene lamps and reflectors. “On each finger there are many lines organized in patterns around a nucleus, and over that central point are one or two secondary points. Following Galton’s method, I’ve identified two distinctive types found at the crime scene. Gilles did a fine job photographing the prints on the cloth and the enhanced latent prints on the cigarette case.”
Féraud examined the photographs under a magnifying glass. “Yes, Achille, I can see how one set of prints matches.”
“Now, please look at the prints on Sir Henry Collingwood’s letter and compare them to the prints on the cloth, cigarettes, and cigarette case.”
Féraud spent a few minutes examining the fingerprints. Finally, he put down the magnifying glass and looked at Achille. “I can see how the prints on the letter match the prints on the opium cigarettes and the blood-spattered cloth. And there’s clearly a different set on the case.”
Achille nodded confidently. “That’s right, Chief. I believe the other fingerprints are those of Sir Henry’s accomplice, an individual of short stature who would match the shoeprints I found at the scene. Lautrec has been ruled out; I believe Joseph Rossini’s our second man.”
Féraud gestured to Achille and returned to his desk. Once seated, he said, “Let’s review what you’ve got on Sir Henry and Jojo.”
Achille took his seat across from the chief and began his summary of the evidence. “First, there’s the victim’s body. According to Dr. Péan, the pathologist, and Chief Bertillon, the suspect was a physician of considerable skill. The head and limbs were surgically amputated, and the uterus removed by a rarely used technique. In fa
ct, our foremost gynecological surgeon, Dr. Péan, has only performed the operation twice. Sir Henry witnessed one of the operations, and he specializes in gynecology.
“Second, Sir Henry is the only physician attending Dr. Péan’s clinic who had relations with the victim. That relationship has been confirmed by Delphine Lacroix. Moreover, I have evidence that Sir Henry met with the victim at a hotel in Montmartre the day before she disappeared.
“Third, according to Mlle Lacroix, the Gunzberg brothers, chiffoniers who work for Le Boudin, have been shadowing Jojo. They’ve. . . ”
Féraud raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t tell me that,” he interrupted.
“No Chief, I just found out about it when I interviewed Mlle Lacroix. I want them to continue the surveillance and report directly to me. The man Rousseau put on Jojo’s tail is incompetent.”
Féraud eyed him with a skeptical squint. “What makes you think that?”
“According to Mlle Lacroix, the Gunzbergs shadowed Jojo to an abandoned mill near the summit of the Butte. He meets an individual there, and they pass notes to each other at the Circus Fernando and a tobacconist’s shop near the corner of Rue Lepic and the boulevard. The chiffoniers can’t identify the man, at least not yet, but I believe he’s Sir Henry Collingwood. It fits with my theory.”
Féraud smiled wryly. “Yes Achille, your theory. So to make the evidence support your theory you’ll take the word of a slut and a pair of ragpickers over that of a brother officer?”
“Remember, Chief, Jojo’s an acrobat. He could easily evade an inattentive detective by climbing to the roof, leaping to the next building, and then shinnying down a drainpipe. I recall that happening in another case involving a trapeze artist.”
Féraud shook his head. “Yes, I remember the case well. But you’re forgetting something. Delphine has a grudge against Jojo. After all, he was her pimp and he beat her up.”
The Devil in Montmartre: A Mystery in Fin de Siècle Paris Page 20