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

by Gary Inbinder

  Virginie’s grave was located in a shady, crowded corner beneath the iron latticework viaduct over which the busy Rue Caulaincourt passes. Poets, artists, writers, actors, and musicians kept her company, their final resting place within walking distance of the Moulin Rouge. On this particularly bright blue autumn afternoon, a brisk wind stirred chestnuts and poplars, scattering leaves over the tombs and paved walkways.

  A small group of mourners attended the graveside ceremony. Among them were Virginie’s aunt and uncle from Rouen. They wore black, stood apart from the others, looked sad, spoke to no one except the priest, and put on airs as though they had paid for the funeral. Achille and Adele were there, along with Chief Inspector Féraud, Le Boudin, Marie, Delphine, the Gunzberg brothers, and the painters Lautrec and Bernard. Following the service they all sprinkled dirt on the casket and took a flower from a small display as a memento. The Merciers then made a hasty departure, as though fleeing from their unfortunate niece’s ghost.

  Le Boudin and his small entourage approached Achille, Adele, and Féraud. The tough old one-handed legionnaire wiped tears on his sleeve. He coughed into his hand and cleared his throat. Then, his voice still half-choked with emotion, he addressed Achille formally as though he were speaking to a superior officer. “Inspector Lefebvre, I, my family and friends owe you a debt of honor that can never be fully repaid. You pursued justice in an unjust world, you defended the rights of those who are rejected by society, outcasts who—” Le Boudin stopped and took a deep breath. Then: “I’m sorry, Monsieur. I prepared a fine speech for the occasion, but it makes me sound like a politician. What I really want to say is this. You’re a damn good man, and France could use more like you. If you ever need my help in future, you know where to find me. And I speak for the chiffoniers and most of the folks in the Zone.”

  Achille smiled and shook hands. “I ought to thank you, Monsieur. Without your help, and the assistance of Mlle Lacroix and the Gunzberg boys I couldn’t have cracked this case.” Then he turned to Delphine. He wanted to say something personal, but under the circumstances and considering the nature of the women’s relationship he had to choose his words carefully. He spoke gently, but appropriately. “I grieve for the loss of your friend, Mademoiselle. At least there was some justice for her; may she rest in peace.”

  Delphine nodded silently, turned and walked away; Le Boudin, Marie, and the Gunzbergs bowed politely and followed her.

  Émile Bernard seemed overcome with emotion; he did not linger. He returned to his studio where he had begun and rubbed out many sketches of Virginie, all drawn from an imperfect memory. Lautrec remained to pay his respects to Achille and Féraud. Achille introduced the artist to Adele.

  “Adele, this is M. de Toulouse-Lautrec, a fine artist. His studio’s not far from here.”

  Lautrec doffed his bowler, looked up at the handsome young woman and smiled. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mme. Lefebvre. I’m indebted to your husband. If it were not for his detective skills and dedication to the cause of justice I might now be languishing in prison. If there’s anything you want of me, I’m at your service.”

  Adele’s eyes lit up at the offer. “Oh Monsieur, we have a charming little daughter. Her fifth birthday’s not far off, and I’d so much like a portrait of her.”

  Achille frowned and half-whispered to Adele: “Really, my dear, you ask for too much.”

  Lautrec laughed. “Nonsense, Inspector; I’d be pleased to paint the child’s portrait. You may call upon me at my studio or contact me through Joyant’s gallery. We’ll set up an appointment for a sitting at your convenience. Now I must be off. Madame, I’m delighted to have made your acquaintance. Au revoir, Messrs.” The sometimes cynical and acerbic artist left them with a sunny smile and another polite tip of his hat.

  The other mourners having gone, Féraud turned his attention to Adele. He addressed her with a friendly tone and a fatherly grin. “Well, Madame, it seems your husband has become something of a celebrity. The newspapers are gushing praises for our brilliant young detective. Some have suggested that if Achille had been working for Scotland Yard they would have nabbed Jack the Ripper. There has even been speculation as to whether or not Collingwood was the Ripper.”

  Achille frowned. “Please, Chief,” he muttered, “the newspapers are full of rubbish. The Yard has nothing linking Collingwood to the Ripper murders or their unsolved torso killings. As for our case, we’ll never know if Collingwood and Mlle Endicott acted together in the murder, or if one killed Virginie and the other conspired afterwards with the murderer to cover up the crime. I wanted to bring them in alive for questioning; I wanted to know the truth.”

  Féraud put his hand on Achille’s shoulder. “What is truth? This is all we know; they were both guilty of a crime, they executed each other, our justice is satisfied and the case is closed. The rest can be left to God. At any rate, from my perspective, things worked out all right. You’re entitled to bask in the glory of the moment. When he was considering a young officer for promotion, the Emperor Napoleon said, ‘Yes, I know he’s brilliant, but is he lucky?’ In my opinion, you are both brilliant and lucky, and, as you well know, I’m stingy with compliments.” Then to Adele: “Madame, I believe you and your husband are due for a nice holiday. Please give it some thought.” With that, the Chief bid them good-day.

  Achille and Adele took a cab back to their apartment. On the way he remarked, “I’m glad you’ve smoothed things over with your mother.”

  Adele sighed and looked down at her hands. “After our harsh words, I doubt we’ll ever be fully reconciled. Formal mutual apologies are one thing, true forgiveness is something else. At least we can remain together as a family, although I still worry that her prejudices might infect our daughter.” She turned to Achille with sad eyes. “The spirit of the Exposition was so hopeful, so forward looking. We’ve made such remarkable progress in science and industry, but I wonder if we’ll ever change for the better as human beings? Do you remember that day at the Fair when we heard the choir singing Gounod: Lovely appear over the mountains: The feet of them that preach, and bring good news of peace. . . . Will such a time of peace and love come in our lifetime, or Jeanne’s?”

  Achille shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We can’t overcome human nature. People prefer self-serving lies to unflattering truths and blame others for their own faults. We’ll have technological progress all right. The times change, but people will remain the same.” Noticing the sadness in her eyes and thinking the conversation had turned too gloomy, he smiled, put his arm around her, and whispered in her ear: “Besides, Mme. Lefebvre, in a perfect world I’d be out of a job.”

  Adele pulled away from him. “Don’t be cynical, Achille. It doesn’t suit you.”

  Realizing that his attempt to lighten their dialogue had fallen flat, he asked, “What would you have me say?”

  She smiled, gently stroked his cheek and noticed an unaccustomed roughness. “Didn’t you shave this morning?”

  He rubbed his chin. “No, I’ve decided to grow a beard. Now that I’ve become Chief Féraud’s heir apparent I thought it would make me look older and more suited to the position.” Then he took her hand in his and kissed it. “So, Madame, I’ll repeat my question: What would you have me say?”

  She gazed at him fondly for a moment. Then: “Simply this, my love. Even though we know it won’t come in our lifetime, or the next generation, or the one after that, we should hope for an era of love and peace, we should strive for it.”

  “Of course, Adele, but until that time I’ll settle for just laws and honest, capable, and compassionate people to enforce them.”

  “Honest, capable, and compassionate; that’s you my dear. That’s why I love you so.” She kissed him and rested in his arms.

  Horse hooves clip-clopped, coach wheels rumbled over the cobblestones. After awhile Achille said, “Your mother was right about one thing. We ought to give Jeanne a little brother or sister.”

  “I agree, darling. Féraud
said we’re due for a holiday. There’ll be plenty of time for. . . .”

  She didn’t finish the sentence. His mouth covered her lips.

  A crisp autumn breeze rustled the branches of tall elms and oaks; sudden gusts rattled yews, pines, and stout shrubbery. Gold, brown, and russet leaves stirred on the garden path, took to the air, and drifted for a time before falling back to earth. Some of the scattered leaves floated on the surface of a small, mirror-like pond crossed by a weathered footbridge.

  Wrapped in a warm, brown cloak, a broad-brimmed straw hat pinned securely to her thickly coiled auburn hair, Marcia Brownlow sat on a camp stool on the edge of the path near the footbridge. A pochade box rested on her lap as she captured the scene in watercolor. With an unerring eye and deft hand she carefully limned the garden view; washes of autumnal earth tones, bright pastels covered over with a shimmering haze that hovered over the reflecting pond, glimmering highlights and subtle shading, all materialized in recognizable forms and shapes on white sized paper. Marcia was so engrossed in her work that she failed to notice the sound of boots crunching on the leaf-strewn pathway.

  “It’s a bit brisk out here. I think you’d better come inside.”

  She set down her brush on the portable easel, turned her head and looked up. “Oh Arthur; you startled me.”

  He smiled and rested his hand lightly on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, my dear. I was watching you from my study window and I was worried. The wind’s kicking up and the barometer’s dropped. There may be a storm coming in from the sea.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. At any rate, I’m almost finished; I can add the final touches in my studio.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Of course you may, but please be careful. It’s still damp.”

  Arthur bent over her shoulder and studied the watercolor. His eyes widened with admiration. There wasn’t the least hint of decline in her work; if anything it had improved. If only she could have more time. He had consulted with doctors; they recommended taking her to Italy before the cold, heavy rains of late autumn and the first snows of winter.

  “This is extraordinary,” he remarked. Then: “What’s this?” He took out his pince-nez, adjusted the spectacles on his nose, and examined the watercolor more closely. On the opposite bank, the figure of a woman in white emerged from the mist beneath a stand of trees. “You’ve put someone in the picture. Was it for effect?”

  Marcia smiled enigmatically. “Perhaps it was for effect. She just seemed to insinuate herself into the composition like one of the ghosts in your story.”

  Arthur frowned and scratched his beard. Was the woman Virginie Ménard? That was a morbid thought. Or perhaps it was Betsy. That was more than morbid; it was downright sinister. To sound Marcia out on the subject, he decided to make an inquiry about her late companion. “You had a letter from Betsy Endicott’s lawyers recently. I don’t mean to pry, but was it of any importance?” After a tense moment in which she did not reply, and fearing he might have upset her, he added considerately: “Of course, if it’s something you’d rather not discuss, I apologize for asking. I won’t mention it again.”

  Marcia finished packing away her watercolors and brushes before answering. “Will you please help with my paraphernalia and the camp stool? I’ll tell you about the letter on the way back to the house.”

  “Of course,” he replied. He folded the camp stool, took it in one hand, and carried the pochade box in the other with the portfolio tucked under his arm. They strolled up the leaf-strewn path toward the garden gate.

  Marcia spoke without looking at Arthur. “I was waiting for the right time to tell you, but I suppose now is as good a time as any. Betsy left me her entire fortune.”

  Arthur stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to her with a wide-eyed look that was so comical it made her laugh. “Good Lord, “he sputtered, “she’s made you immensely rich.”

  “Yes she has, Arthur,” she replied calmly after getting over her little fit of laughter. “And I intend to do the same for you. You shall have half the fortune, and the rest shall go to charity, a shelter for indigent and abused girls and women. I think Betsy would have approved.”

  For once in his life, Arthur Wolcott was speechless. He continued staring at Marcia in stunned silence.

  She took his hand in hers and smiled. “I owe it to you, Arthur. You were the first to recognize my art and make it known to the world. You’ve cared for me and supported me in my time of need.” She paused a moment before adding with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, “I certainly fooled you back when I was Mark.”

  Arthur did not need the money, but he was profoundly touched by her gesture. They walked along the path, Marcia clearly pleased with herself. Once he got over the shock, he was happy to see a change in her mood, and he decided to play along. “Yes, I certainly was fooled, and that was very naughty of you. Mark was a clever fellow all right, but I much prefer you as you really are. Now let’s put away all gloomy thoughts, and think of sunny Italy and seeing old friends again. As for the fortune, my main object in life will be to use it to make you happy. We’ll drink to it when we get back to the house, though you mustn’t have more than one.”

  Marcia smiled; she reached up and stroked his beard. “Arthur, I’ve never told you this, but I do love you.”

  Arthur coughed; his lips trembled. He sniffed a couple of times, put down the pochade box, removed his pince-nez, and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. After awhile, he picked up the box and started walking again. “Blasted wind,” he muttered. “It must have blown dust in my eyes.”

  Marcia took him by the arm and walked on. “Yes darling, it is awfully brisk out here,” she replied.

  END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to friends and fellow authors who read early drafts of this novel. I am grateful to Donald P. Webb, Dana M. Paramskas, Bill Bowler, and Marina Julia Neary. Their insightful comments and suggestions were most helpful in developing a raw manuscript into an almost finished book.

  Many thanks to my agent, Philip Spitzer, for his courtesy, unerring judgment, persistence and expert representation, and to his associates Lukas Ortiz and Luc Hunt for their efficiency and kind assistance.

  Finally, my thanks to Claiborne Hancock and his staff at Pegasus, most particularly my editor Maia Larson for her patience, understanding and professional expertise.

  THE DEVIL IN MONTMARTRE

  Pegasus Books LLC

  80 Broad Street, 5th Floor

  New York, NY 10004

  Copyright © 2014 by GARY INBINDER

  First Pegasus Books cloth edition December 2014

  Interior design by Maria Fernandez

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-60598-647-0

  ISBN: 978-1-60598-731-6 (e-book)

  Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.