The Devil in Montmartre (13 page)

“What makes you think that?” the Chief asked.

“Although he lives like a bohemian, Lautrec’s an aristocratic intellectual with a fine sense of honor. He doesn’t seem the type to cut up a girl, dump the remains in the nearest hole, and leave a calling card.”

Rousseau smirked. “Aristocratic intellectual, eh? Sounds like the Marquis de Sade.”

Achille glared at his partner. “I wouldn’t compare M. Lautrec to Sade.”

“Have it your way, professor,” Rousseau grunted.

Féraud narrowed his eyes skeptically before asking, “You’re not completely ruling out Lautrec, are you?”

“No Chief, not completely,” Achille replied. “However, as I’ve already indicated, I believe only a surgeon would have had the skill to perform the hysterectomy and amputations so neatly. On the other hand, Lautrec knows anatomy, he’s observed operations, and by all accounts he’s highly intelligent with strength and manual dexterity much like that of the most skilled surgeons. So, for the time being I can’t rule him out as a suspect.”

Féraud leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and fiddled with his watch fob; a habit when confronted with a thorny issue. Rousseau turned to Achille, shrugged, and made a face as though he’d smelled a fart. After a moment, Féraud opened his eyes and said, “The accomplice makes sense if we accept Dr. Péan’s opinion. Do you have an individual in mind?”

“Searching the records I found a file on a circus performer, a dwarf named Joseph Rossini who lives near the victim.”

“Jojo the Clown?” Rousseau broke in. “I put him inside for pimping, awhile back. A mean little bastard; the girls hated him. He had a method for dealing with whores if he thought they weren’t handing over all their earnings. First offense, he’d strip the girl, tie her to a bed, and whip her ass with his belt. Second offense, he’d cut her with a stiletto. And if the bitch was stupid enough to cheat him a third time, well then he got
really
rough. Anyway, he’s got a job in a circus and a clean record since he was released from prison.” Rousseau turned to Achille with a grin. “And he’s proved to be a good snitch, on occasion.”

“Well,” Achille replied, “I think we list him as a possible suspect. We might want to shadow him, see if he can lead us to the killer. Which brings me back to Lautrec; I want to question him myself, but I don’t want to bring him in on a warrant. Despite the evidence, I’m not convinced he’s our man. So I want to lay my cards on the table. Instead of doing a warrantless search behind his back, I want to get his permission to search the studio and his apartment. I also—”

“Wait a minute,” Rousseau interrupted. “You want to tip him off?”

Achille turned to Féraud. “Chief, if he’s innocent, he’ll want to help us; he’ll have nothing to hide. And I was about to say that I’d also ask him to let me take his fingerprints to compare them with the prints on the cloth and the cigarette case. If he refuses my requests I’d take that as evidence of guilt, in which case we can get a warrant and turn him over to the magistrate for questioning.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Féraud muttered. “Rousseau, have you picked up anything from tailing Lautrec?”

“Not much, chief, except to confirm that our aristocratic painter’s a degenerate little monkey. He spends more time scribbling and daubing in the brothels, cabarets, dance halls, and
boîtes
than he does in his studio. Oh, last night he met up with an old acquaintance of mine, the victim’s girlfriend, Delphine Lacroix.”

Féraud’s brow knitted: “Oh really? And just how long have you known Lacroix?”

“A few years ago I put the screws on her for street-walking; I sent her man up for a nice, long vacation in
Le Bagne
.”

Féraud smiled at Rousseau’s reference to the infamous penal colony. “I suppose the young lady wouldn’t hold a warm and friendly opinion of you. Anyway, I see the logic of Achille’s approach. If Lautrec’s got nothing to hide, he ought to cooperate, and his knowledge of the victim could be useful in helping us catch the criminal—or criminals.” To Achille: “Have you anything else to tell me before I let you go?”

“Yes, chief. We’re going to track down the shop that sold the canvas the body was wrapped in. And I’ve located Lautrec’s tobacconist. I’m going to question him about the cigarettes found at the scene; they contain opium. If they’re Lautrec’s and they were stolen along with the cigarette case, that doesn’t tell us much one way or the other, except that he’s got a bad habit. On the other hand, if they aren’t his, and I can track down the real opium smoker, well then, we’ll have something.”

Féraud nodded and began fumbling with his paperwork. “Very well, boys, carry on.”

Betsy and Sir Henry had arrived early at the Javanese Village on the Esplanade des Invalides. Notwithstanding their timeliness, they were obliged to wait in line to enter the Pendopo, a columned, thatch-roofed, open-walled hall, where they would experience one of the Exhibitions’ most popular shows, the four lovely Javanese dancers accompanied by a gamelan orchestra.

They had an almost perfect day for attending the Fair—bright, clear, and pleasantly cool following the storm. However, the tempest had left its calling card in the form of fallen leaves, branches, and muddy puddles that threatened the dragging hemlines of the female fair-goers’ skirts.

Even in such conditions, Betsy was happy and content to wait. Sir Henry amused her with anecdotes and society gossip; when her mind wandered, she could breathe fresh, botanically perfumed air and drift off to faraway places conjured by the exotic surroundings. She consciously avoided a burgeoning subliminal desire to be freed from her invalid friend. But despite Betsy’s mental evasion, her repressed fear of death’s proximity emerged like drifting clouds, casting a guilty shadow over her sunniest moments.

Sir Henry pointed his stick at a tiny creature slowly wending its way up the muddy trail. “I wonder which will reach its destination first, this queue or that snail. Will you give me odds if I take the snail?”

Betsy laughed. “Oh Sir Henry, I think I should have the odds if I take the queue!”

Sir Henry smiled and stroked his moustache. “At any rate, I hear the show’s worth it. The exotic, Oriental music and dance have had their impact on our young musicians. It may be a subtle form of colonial retribution. We’ve taken their lands by force of arms, imposed our religion, laws, and social values. Now they’re paying us back with attractive novelties that insinuate themselves into our culture. Thus, the conquerors shall be ingeniously subverted and transformed by the conquered. You mark my words, Miss Endicott, within a generation instead of waltzing to the melodious strains of Strauss we shall gyrate to heathen yammering and the banging of pots and pans.”

Betsy smiled in response to Sir Henry’s fanciful prognostication. “You forget that we Americans are former colonials. Do you think our rough frontier ways will undermine the foundations of Western Civilization?”

“You Americans are transplanted English who have strayed from the fold. Nevertheless, we forgive you. After all, our differences are political but our culture remains the same.”

“Don’t be so sure of that, Sir Henry. You haven’t experienced our Wild West.”

Sir Henry screwed in his monocle, as if to get a better look at her. “Cowboys, Indians, and buffalo herds; should be jolly fun. I look forward to it.”

Betsy laughed, but her expression changed suddenly. “I’m afraid you may not see it. When I last spoke to her about a sanatorium, Marcia seemed to have changed her mind.”

He dropped his flippant manner, altering his demeanor with the alacrity of a chameleon to match her changed mood. “It appears we’re moving, at last. We’ll speak of this matter later, over luncheon.”

After the dance, they lunched at the Anglo-American Bar on the first level of the Eiffel Tower. From their vantage point they could look out through plate glass windows and admire the panoramic view of the fairgrounds on the Champ de Mars. Many of the structures were ephemeral, but the great iron tower was there to stay. To some it was an eyesore, an ugly, brutal symbol of industrialization, but to most it was emblematic of French ingenuity and progress. Love it or hate it, the tower asserted itself magnificently as a prime attraction, a landmark and nascent cultural icon implanting the idea of Paris in the popular imagination.

Sir Henry studied Betsy’s fine features as she sipped a light, white wine and stared into space. A large, garishly decorated red, white and blue balloon floated across her field of vision; Betsy’s eyes focused on it and followed its progress. Her consciousness seemed to imitate the soaring object, drifting away from her troubles, at least for the moment.

“The dance was lovely, wasn’t it?” he remarked quietly, as if to bring her imagination back to earth with a gentle tug on the tether. “Much better than I’d expected.”

She turned her attention to Sir Henry. “Yes, I was thinking how much Marcia would have loved it. She would have sketched—” Betsy lifted a handkerchief to her eyes; she sobbed softly for a moment, and then controlled herself. “Forgive me, Sir Henry, I’m making a spectacle of myself.”

He reached across the table and touched her gloved hand gently. “Think nothing of it. I understand your feelings, but you have no reason to reproach yourself. Marcia Brownlow’s a great painter; she’s devoted her life to art. If she wants to complete her work outside a sanatorium, there’s nothing either of us can do. You must stop worrying about her, and start thinking more of yourself.”

“I—I know you’re right, but the past eleven years have meant a great deal to me. I’ll see to it that’s she’s properly cared for. She’s been discussing plans with an old mutual friend, Arthur Wolcott. She told me Arthur invited her to stay with him at his country home in England. If she doesn’t return to America, I’ll do what I can for her whether she remains in Paris, or goes to live with Arthur.”

Sir Henry seized an opportunity. “Ah, you think she might go with Arthur? All things considered, it might be best for her.”

Betsy’s eyes widened. “Do you really think so? I know she and Arthur get along, and she’d love the countryside and the society.”

“Yes, and since she doesn’t want to go to a sanatorium, I think it’s a splendid alternative. And here’s another idea. You might consider taking up residence in London, for a while, that is. You could visit her regularly; it’s not far by train.” He paused a moment and smiled. “Of course, I can’t claim to be disinterested. After all, if you
were
in London, I should have the hope of enjoying more of your company.”

Betsy blushed and said nothing; but she did nod her head agreeably. She continued gazing fondly at the handsome physician, as though he were the answer to her prayers.

Péan’s clerk was a well-dressed, well-groomed, middle-aged, officious little man with a high-pitched voice and meticulously waxed
impériale
, making him appear like an actor impersonating the late Emperor. He opened a leather-bound journal on a lectern near the entrance to the operating theater and flipped the pages to October 14, 1889. “Here we are Inspector, a list of the gentlemen who witnessed the vaginal hysterectomy.”

Achille went through the list, six witnesses in all. Four were well-known physicians and surgeons with practices in Paris. The fifth was Toulouse-Lautrec, and the sixth appeared to be an Englishman. “Who is Sir Henry Collingwood?”