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

by Gary Inbinder

  Achille replied firmly. “I found her credible, Chief. I believe she wants justice for her friend, and is willing to assist in our investigation.”

  Féraud leaned back in his chair while weighing the pros and cons of using the ragpickers for surveillance. He had always trusted Achille’s judgment, but he worried that the young inspector was too committed to his theory and may have been overly influenced by Delphine Lacroix. Finally he said, “I think your evidence against Sir Henry is compelling, though I don’t know what the juge d’instruction will make of the fingerprints. Still, all things considered, I’m willing to bring the Englishman in for questioning. Do you have any suggestions?”

  Achille had a plan, but he knew it was a gamble. “Chief, we’d have a stronger case if we could get a confession from Jojo. He’d lead us to Sir Henry in exchange for a reduced sentence. I’m sure he’d cooperate if he thought he was facing the guillotine or life in Le Bagne.”

  Féraud grunted in frustration. “But what have you got on him besides conjecture?”

  Achille replied patiently. “First, we have the shoeprints. They’re a close match to the measurements in Jojo’s records. We could bring him in for questioning on that alone, measure his feet and his gait and make the comparison; I believe Chief Bertillon would back me up. In addition we have fingerprints taken at the scene, his evasion of our surveillance, and eyewitnesses to the suspicious meetings at the old mill. If the fingerprints and shoeprints match, he’s the accomplice, and I believe he’ll crack under pressure.”

  Féraud frowned and began a washing motion with his hands, usually a bad sign. “You’re counting on Jojo’s fingerprints and shoeprints matching what you got at the crime scene. As for the meetings at the mill, you have the word of two ragpickers by way of Delphine Lacroix, which directly contradicts one of our men’s eyewitness reports.”

  The telephone rang. Féraud lifted the receiver. “Chief Inspector Féraud.” He listened for a moment, then: “Yes; yes; I see.” He glanced at Achille with a worried frown. “Yes, Inspector Lefebvre is here in my office. I’ll send him out directly with the photographer. Have you set up a barricade? Good.” Féraud hung up. “That was Sergeant Rodin. Rousseau’s man found a neatly severed female head wrapped in a muddy cloth. At about three A.M. this morning a ragpicker dumped the head in a poubelle on the Rue Lepic, near Jojo’s flat. They suspect Moïse Gunzberg; Rousseau’s already working with the police to track him down. Well Achille, I guess that blows a hole in your theory?”

  Achille remained cool; he spoke calmly and met Féraud’s piercing eyes with a steady gaze. “Not necessarily, chief. I’ll fetch Gilles and get to the scene as soon as possible. When I’m done, I’ll take the head to the Morgue for identification. We should know soon enough if it’s Virginie Menard. If it’s another woman—” Achille checked himself. “Please notify Chief Bertillon.”

  Féraud shook his head and muttered, “This is the devil of a case.” Then: “I’ll do that, and report back to me immediately when you’ve finished with Bertillon.” As Achille opened the door, the chief added: “If it’s a second murder, the press will be screaming ‘Ripper’. If that happens, we’ll be up to our necks in shit.”

  Achille glanced back at Féraud, replied with a determined nod, turned, and walked out into the hallway.

  Shortly after dawn, Achille and Gilles met Sergeant Rodin and the Morgue attendant at the crime scene barricade. The cloth-wrapped head had been left on the pavement near the poubelle in front of Jojo’s flat. Achille knelt by the dust-bin; he examined the muddy fingerprints on the cloth and a faint trail of shoeprints. He looked up at Rodin: “They were clumsier this time, sergeant.”

  “They, Inspector? You don’t think Gunzberg was alone?”

  Achille rose to face Rodin. While dusting some dirt off his jacket he replied, “I don’t suspect Moïse Gunzberg. I believe he was set up. What do you know about him?”

  The sergeant pursed his lips and scratched his beard as he pondered the question. “Not a bad kid, really. There was some trouble with his license a couple of years ago, but Le Boudin squared it all right. Anyway, Gunzberg works this street regularly, and your man shadowing Jojo is a witness. Rousseau plans to question everyone on this block, including Jojo.”

  Achille nodded, inwardly wincing at the thought of Jojo as witness. He caught the sergeant’s attention with a sweeping gesture. “Do you see the muddy shoeprints?”

  Rodin glanced round. “Yes, quite a trail of them. You really can see them clearly since the sun came up.”

  “Yes, and there’re muddy handprints on the cloth. The stuff’s quite sticky and it dried nicely. Where in this neighborhood would someone pick up all that mud?”

  “Oh, there are plenty of unpaved alleys and passages hereabouts.”

  Gilles joined them. He smiled at Rodin. “Excuse me, Sergeant.” Then to Achille: “I’ve got some good photographs, Inspector. Your suspect tracked plenty of mud around the scene, that’s for sure.”

  “If I can locate where he stepped in that muck maybe I can get a good cast of the impression. Anyway, please tell the attendant he can take the head now. We’ve got some more work to do around here, and then we’ll follow him to the Morgue.”

  Gilles nodded. “All right, Inspector. I suppose you got a good look at her forehead?”

  “Yes, Gilles, I did. I’ll discuss that with Chief Bertillon at the Morgue.”

  Gilles understood from the inspector’s terse reply that the mark on the forehead was something not to be bandied about. He changed the subject. “So where do you want me to photograph next?”

  Achille glanced up at the garret window. Is Jojo watching us? Achille looked back at Gilles. “Gather your equipment and follow me.” Then to Rodin: “Sergeant, I’d like you to accompany us.”

  As soon as Gilles returned with his camera, tripod, and plates, he and Sergeant Rodin followed Achille into the narrow passage between Jojo’s tenement and the next building. A few paces in, Achille halted and motioned toward the rooftops. “Have you seen Jojo perform at the circus, Sergeant?”

  “Indeed I have, Inspector.”

  “Do you think he’s capable of making the leap from the roof of his tenement and then catching hold onto the roof of the adjacent building?”

  Rodin looked up four stories, raising his right hand to shade his eyes from the early morning sun. “I believe he could do it easily, Inspector.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if we found some shoeprints up there. We’ll check later.”

  Gilles sighed audibly.

  They followed the passage until it ended in a cramped, unpaved back alley, its borders demarcated by the rear of the building and a high wooden fence. Achille pointed up to the guttering. “Can you see how someone with Jojo’s skill could work his way round to the drainpipe without being observed from the street?”

  “Of course,” the sergeant replied. “That’s a typical cat burglar’s trick.”

  Achille appreciated Rodin’s perspicacious response. “Too bad Rousseau’s man lacks your perception and experience, Sergeant.” They turned right into the alley, Achille cautioning Rodin and Gilles to be careful not to step on shoeprints. As they walked up the path, a large watchdog started barking, growling, and thumping its bulk against the other side of the fence.

  “That’ll get the neighbors waked up,” the sergeant observed.

  Bringing up the rear, Gilles cursed under the burden of his equipment and almost stumbled as he skirted round a bloated rat carcass crawling with maggots. The muddy alley was littered with rubble, rubbish, and rank with weeds. Flies swarmed and buzzed; the sharp stench of backed-up sewage and rotting trash permeated the stagnant air. “My God, the stink,” Gilles muttered. “It’s like an open sewer running through a graveyard; makes you want to puke. I wouldn’t be surprised if we discovered a decomposing body or two.”

  Presently, Achille raised his right hand. They stopped near the drainpipe that emptied into the alley. “Just as I thought. Look at these
shoeprints.” He approached cautiously and crouched beside the prints. “Nice, deep, dry impressions. I’m going to set up a boundary line for a casting.” Achille reached into a shoulder satchel and pulled out a few wooden stakes, twine, and a mallet. He pounded the stakes firmly into the ground and strung the twine as Gilles set up his camera.

  “I can see they’re the prints of a small man, Inspector. Just like the casting you got from the horse turd near the cesspit.”

  Achille glanced up from his work with a satisfied smile. “I believe so, Sergeant.” When he had finished staking out the boundary Achille said, “Sergeant, I’m going to return to make my plaster cast. Please have this alley barricaded and detail a couple of men to guard it day and night.” This would certainly tip off Jojo that the police were on to his game, but it didn’t matter, since Achille expected the magistrate to issue a warrant for Jojo’s arrest by the end of this day, or the next at the latest.

  Sargent Rodin agreed to extend the barricade and assign men to guard it; Gilles photographed the area. Achille got up and dusted off his trousers and jacket as best he could. “Very well, gentlemen, let’s follow the shoeprints and see where they lead.”

  Gilles was packing his equipment. He shot a look at Achille and muttered: “Oh yes, by all means ‘let’s follow the shoeprints,’ even unto the ends of the earth. Be thankful you don’t have to lug all this equipment around, Monsieur.”

  Rodin laughed. “You’re a very amusing fellow, Gilles.”

  He nodded grumpily as he folded his tripod. “Rodin, my friend, one must have a sense of humor to do this bloody job.”

  Achille smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Gilles. I don’t think we have much farther to go.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” the photographer grunted as he hoisted his heavy gear onto his back and prepared to continue their forensic expedition.

  Achille led them through another unpaved passage back onto the street, his eyes glued to the pavement. After a few steps he halted. “You see that, gentlemen? Two faint, but distinctly different sets of prints. I deduce from the evidence that this is where Moïse Gunzberg began tailing Jojo.” They followed the tracks up the street; as they neared the next alley the shoeprints faded until they were barely perceptible. Achille stopped again when they reached the entrance. He approached the passageway where the pavement ended, his keen eyes scanning the unpaved area thoroughly. Then he gestured to delineate the crime scene. “It’s as I suspected. You see three sets of prints, clear impressions in the mud and dirt. And there’s a larger impression, evidence of a struggle. Let’s enter, but be very careful to go round the area I indicated.”

  Rodin and Gilles followed him, stepping gingerly to avoid the impressions. After a few paces they stopped and Gilles asked: “Shall I set up my camera here?”

  “Yes, I want this area photographed and I’m going to erect another barrier for casting.” Then to Rodin: “Sergeant, do you see how two sets of prints emerge from that small passage near the back stairway?”

  “Yes, Inspector. It’s obvious.”

  “Very good, Sergeant. That’s where Jojo and his confederate hid, waiting in ambush for Moïse. You can also see where the boy entered the alley, stopped, and then tried to double back onto the street when he sensed trouble.”

  Rodin nodded his agreement.

  “Now, please concentrate on where the scuffle occurred.” He approached the scene and crouched. Then he looked back at his companions and pointed to wheel tracks. “You see the tracks? I believe they were made by a ragpicker’s cart.”

  “The tracks are plain enough, Inspector. There are two sets; one runs out to Rue Lepic, and the other goes up the alley toward the north exit,” Rodin replied.

  Achille nodded his agreement. “Excellent, Sergeant. Jojo’s pal wheeled the cart in from the north, and we should be able to follow his shoeprints up to the next street.” He rose to his feet and turned back toward Gilles and Rodin: “Here’s my scenario, gentlemen. The confederate wheeled the cart into this alley and waited for Jojo. Jojo entered the alley and joined his partner in crime in the hiding place, with Moïse not far behind.

  “The boy entered cautiously, walked a few paces, and halted. Smelling danger, he turned to flee, but the two jumped him before he got more than a step or two back toward the street. There was a struggle and they knocked him out, probably with a strong drug, most likely chloroform. Then they dumped him into the cart, and Jojo proceeded up the street to the poubelle, where he ditched the head. I imagine he exchanged some clothes with the kid to fool Rousseau’s man, who I’m sorry to say is not among the most observant on the force.”

  Sergeant Rodin snorted. “Pardon me, Inspector. With all due respect to the Sûreté, I always thought that fellow was an ass.”

  Achille shook his head. “I must regretfully agree with your assessment of the man’s capabilities, Sergeant.” Then to Gilles: “We’ve got a lot of work before we finish up here and go to the Morgue. First, I want to have a look at the tenement roof. I bet we’ll find more muddy shoeprints leading down to the landing and right up to Jojo’s doorway. I must telephone Chief Bertillon to say I’ll be delayed. He’ll understand when I tell him what we’ve discovered. I also need to contact Chief Féraud.” He turned to Rodin: “Sergeant, I’m going to request a warrant for the arrest of Joseph Rossini. I want your men to keep an eye on him. Don’t let him leave his flat. If he demands to know the grounds for his detention, tell him he’s being held under suspicion of murder in the case of Virginie Ménard. Let him sweat.”

  “You can count on me and my men, Inspector. What about Rousseau? He’s called out the dragnet for Moïse Gunzberg.”

  “If you see or hear from Rousseau, tell him to report directly to me. I’m going to speak to Féraud about Moïse. I believe I can bring him in voluntarily as a witness for the prosecution.”

  A wide grin spread across Rodin’s prodigiously bearded mouth. “Now we’re getting somewhere, Inspector.”

  As was her custom, Mme Berthier accompanied cook on her early morning marketing. They were out at the crack of dawn when the stalls were well-stocked with the freshest and choicest comestibles. Immense wicker baskets dangling from their arms, the two women circled the marketplace like vultures before swooping down on the vendors advertising the best priced items for the family’s table. But no matter how fair the posted prices might be, Mme Berthier was determined to beat them down.

  The sellers knew Madame well and many cringed at the familiar rustling of her black widow’s weeds signaling her approach, because she had gained a reputation for tenacious and obstreperous haggling. When she was unable to negotiate what she considered a fair price, Madame loudly condemned the quality of the merchandise, the sanitary conditions of the stall, and the merchant’s honesty, patriotism, and moral character. She would then turn her back and start marching toward a competitor. Nine times out of ten the mortified vendor would call her back and agree to her price. Upon seeing her, one old fruit-seller lamented, “I’d rather have a tooth pulled than bargain with that penny-pinching old witch.”

  Nevertheless, she was not without friends at the market, most particularly old Mme Gros, who was renowned for the quality of her cabbages and the ardor of her rightist sympathies. She was also a purveyor of Cauchon’s L’Antisémite.

  Mme Gros greeted Mme Berthier with a wrinkled, toothless grin. “Good-morning, Madame. How nice to see you again. As always, I have the loveliest and freshest cabbages at the best price, just for you.” She winked, lowered her voice, and beckoned. As Mme Berthier leaned over the stand and drew nearer, the vendor whispered: “That’s not all I have, Madame.” She pulled a copy of L’Antisémite from her apron. “Here’s a special edition hot off the press, all about the Judeo-Masonic conspiracy and the ghastly murder of that poor young girl up in Montmartre.”

  Mme Berthier grasped the newspaper, read the headline, and murmured with keen interest, The Devil in Montmartre! Intrigued and eager to finish marketing so she could
run home to read the article, Mme decided to dispense with her customary haggling. “Thank you, Madame, this is indeed most interesting. And since you’re the fairest vendor in this market, I’ll not dicker. You may give me two of your freshest, finest cabbages at the advertised price—provided you include this copy of L’Antisémite at no additional charge.”

  Mme Gros smiled broadly. “Bless you, Madame. It’s an honor and pleasure to do business with the distinguished widow of one of France’s heroes, the late Colonel; God rest his soul.”

  “You’re most kind, Mme Gros.” Mme Berthier stuffed the proffered cabbages into her basket along with the newspaper and then addressed cook with urgency: “All right, let’s finish our marketing. I’m in a hurry to return to the apartment.”

  Immediately upon arrival, Madame handed her basket to cook and rushed off to her boudoir with the newspaper. She did not as much as bother to stop by the nursery to greet Adele and Jeanne.

  Closeted in her sanctum Madame loosened her stays, removed her boots, rubbed her aching feet, and reclined on a settee. She took her spectacles from a case, adjusted them on her aquiline nose, struck a match, and lit a table lamp. Now comfortable and with adequate reading light, she devoured every word of The Devil in Montmartre! in record time. As the narrative unfolded, she clicked her tongue, gasped, shook her head, and muttered, “Poor thing,” and “it’s just as I suspected” at each gruesome detail and awful revelation.

  At last, Madame set the newspaper down on a side table. She sighed deeply, leaned back on the bolster, and stared at the ceiling in the direction of heaven. Her lips moved in hushed prayer: “We renounce the devil and all his works and all his ways.”

  There was a gentle knock on the door. “Mama, are you all right? May I come in?”

  “Just a moment, Adele,” Madame replied. She sat up slowly and swung her legs over the side of the settee. Bending over with a grunt, she lifted her voluminous skirts, stepped into her boots, and laced them. Then, puffing from exertion, she said, “You may enter.”