The Devil in Montmartre (17 page)

Achille savored the moment, the rural calm, the peace of the river, the ineffable charms of nature and his young wife. But the sound of a train rushing over a bridge reminded him that his office was only a half-hour away and a message from Féraud summoning him to duty was an unwelcome possibility. The fact of a vicious murderer on the loose was never far from his thoughts. If he pushed the case down for an instant, it always resurfaced, like a gas-bloated corpse breaching the surface of a placid stream.

A persistent chugging, mechanical throbbing, and the piercing cry of a whistle broke the silence. A small steam launch glided by, churning up a white wake that rocked the skiff. Aboard the launch, a party of swells laughed, waved, and lifted their glasses in salute to the boaters, then returned to their champagne and foie gras.

Adele made a funny face and laughed. “What a bunch of loafers. They ought to strip down and get some exercise.”

Achille grinned and shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’d love a steam launch, if we could afford it. We could take longer trips with the little one and your mother along for the excursion.”

The thought of her husband stuck in the close confines of a boat with her mother amused Adele. “Would you
really
like that, my dear? Perhaps when Féraud retires and your efforts are recognized with a promotion, then we might indulge in the extravagance of a launch. Mama would be
so
impressed. As for little Jeanne, I fear she might be out of short skirts by then.”

Achille regretted the turn in the conversation; on his day off he did not want to discuss his job, household finances, or speculate on his career prospects. Fortunately, they were nearing the wharf and turned their attention to mooring the skiff.

Once they had tied up at the dock, returned the boat, and settled with its proprietor, Achille escorted Adele up the wharf stairway to the restaurant terrace. The bright yellow inn stood amid a garden on a low rise overlooking the Seine. Several tables were set up under an awning surrounded by bushes, flowerbeds, and shade trees. A mild, refreshing breeze blew in from the river. A few lunchers were already enjoying wine and house specialties. The inn was a popular resort for boaters, and the pleasant ambience and picturesque environs attracted many painters, writers, and poets who regularly made the short trip from Paris.

The proprietress, a very attractive and friendly woman, greeted them by name—they were frequent guests—and led them to a favorite table with an excellent view. Achille ordered cheese, fruit, and rabbit pâté served with fresh bread and a house wine. After the proprietress left he commented on the excellence of the cuisine.

“Yes, dear, it’s almost as good as at home. But then, you’re rarely there. . . .”

Achille broke in with a laugh: “I know, I know, I’m rarely there to appreciate it.” He reached across the table and gently took her hands in his. “Darling, let’s make a pact for the remainder of the day; no more talk of work, home, or related mundane matters.”

“That rather limits our conversation, doesn’t it?”

“Not really; we could talk about your adorable bonnet, your sparkling emerald eyes, cute little nose, red lips, rosy cheeks. . . .”

Adele blushed. “Oh Achille, don’t be such a fool.”

He let go her hands and made a dramatic gesture with a sweep of his arm. “Are poets fools? Only a poet could do justice to your beauty, and some famous poets have been known to lunch here. Shall I compose a sonnet in your honor?”

She knitted her brow in mock severity. “You’re behaving more like a silly schoolboy than a senior inspector of the Sûreté.”

“Oh please, please, you wound me. For that, you shall pay the ultimate price—a recitation!” Achille began reciting Verlaine:

Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant

D’une femme inconnue, et que j’aime, et qui m’aime,

Et qui n’est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même

Ni tout à fait une autre, et m’aime et me comprend.

Adele giggled and slapped his hand playfully.” Stop it. People will think you’re drunk.”

Achille leaned over, and stroked her cheek. “Let them think what they want,” he whispered. “I’m drunk with your beauty.”

She smiled seductively. Then: “Will you look at that?” He turned his head and she jerked his hand. “No, no, I didn’t mean
literally
.” She was referring to a couple who had just entered the restaurant. “You keep looking straight at me and I’ll describe them for you. The woman is dressed to perfection, but
much too
perfect for this place. She’s wearing the latest Doucet dress, a magnificent hat with egret plumes, and her ears and throat are dripping with diamonds. How vulgar! She
must
be a wealthy American.”

He laughed. “I’ll bet her companion wears a shiny top hat, loud checked vest with eighteen carat watch chains dangling a rabbit’s foot and Masonic insignia, striped trousers and spats. There’s an immense diamond and gold nugget pin stuck in his necktie and he’s chewing a huge Havana cigar that he lights with dollar bills.”

“You’re not close to warm. He doesn’t look at all like an American. He’s elegantly dressed, but tastefully subtle. Savile Row tailoring, I believe. I’ll wager he’s an Englishman.”

Achille’s amused expression changed to a sober frown. He gave Adele a good
portrait parlé
of Sir Henry, right down to the monocle.

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “That’s uncanny, darling. You’ve described him perfectly.”

Achille glanced over his shoulder for confirmation. The man matched the description of Sir Henry provided by Péan’s clerk. Achille decided to take a closer look. He got up and mumbled, “Excuse me a moment.”

The couple were engaged in a lively conversation; they paid no attention to Achille as he casually approached their table while keeping his trained eye fixed on the gentleman. This scrutiny reinforced his first impression; he decided to make an inquiry to satisfy his curiosity. He turned, passed through a gate that separated the outdoor restaurant from the terrace garden, climbed a small brickwork stairway and strode rapidly up the gravel pathway toward the inn. He caught the proprietress’s attention near the entrance.

The woman was on her way to the kitchen. She stopped, smiled, and asked “May I help you, Inspector Lefebvre?”

“Yes, if you please Mademoiselle. A very well-dressed lady and gentleman were just seated in the terrace restaurant. Could you please give me their names?”

The woman’s friendly smile turned to a worried frown. “Is this an official matter, Inspector?”

Achille smiled to put her at ease. “No, not
exactly
. They’re such a distinguished couple. I thought I recognized them, but just couldn’t place their names.”

Having been relieved of her fear of a scandal, she replied, “I understand, Monsieur. The gentleman is Sir Henry Collingwood, a London physician, and the lady is Mlle Endicott, an American.”

Sir Henry and Betsy’s presence was fortuitous; Achille smiled and replied nonchalantly so as not to alarm the proprietress. “Ah yes, that’s what I thought. Thank you, Mademoiselle.” He came closer and lowered his voice to a near whisper: “Perhaps you could do me a little service, for which I’d gladly compensate you. I’d like to have the gentleman’s wine glass for my . . . uh . . . collection. But you must handle it carefully, with gloves or a towel. And whatever you do, don’t wipe it! Will you please oblige me?”

Her smile reverted to a frightened stare. “What are you saying, Inspector? Does the gentleman carry some loathsome disease? Or perhaps he’s a poisoner? God forbid I should harbor such a fiend in my restaurant!”

Achille feared a panic. He laughed reassuringly. “Have no fear, Mademoiselle, it’s nothing like that. I’m simply conducting a—an important experiment in forensic science. Should I succeed in this endeavor, my discoveries will most certainly contribute to the glory of France.”

Her alarm rapidly transformed to bewilderment followed by patriotic conviction and resolve. “I’ll be honored to assist you, Inspector. And please don’t worry about payment. After all, it’s for the honor of the Republic.”

“Bless you, Mademoiselle. And may I add, as always, your rabbit pâté is perfection itself.”

Achille returned to the terrace restaurant, glancing furtively at Sir Henry and Betsy as he passed by. In passing, he noticed a detail he had previously missed.
Damn! He’s wearing gloves.

Adele immediately noticed the change in his mood and expression. “What was that all about? Are you all right? Is it something you ate—the rabbit pâté?”

Achille leaned across the table and filled her glass. “It’s nothing, dear. Here, your glass is almost empty. Let me pour you some wine.”

He filled Adele’s glass, and then drained his own and re-filled it. He began thinking of possible connections between the English doctor, the American women, and Virginie Ménard. Then: “Adele, without being conspicuous please have a good look at the English gentleman. Is he still wearing gloves?”

Her eyes lit up with curiosity. “Has this something to do with your case?”

Keeping his voice low, he replied, “Yes it does. Do you remember our experiment with your fingerprints?”

“Of course I do. Is the Englishman a suspect?”

“Not officially, at least not yet. And you mustn’t say anything to anyone,
especially
your mother. I need more evidence, and the fingerprints are crucial. Now, what about those gloves?”

“Well what do you know? He’s so handsome and distinguished; nothing like a criminal. Appearances are certainly deceiving. At any rate, I’ve been watching him all along. He hasn’t removed the gloves since they sat at the table.”

Achille sighed. “It’s a problem, my dear. I need to get his fingerprints without bringing him in for questioning. I’ll need to figure out something, a ruse perhaps. Or, I must get more evidence without the prints. Anyway, I apologize for spoiling our lunch.”

Her eyes sparkled; her face flushed with excitement. Adele spoke while keeping her eyes glued to Sir Henry. “You’ve spoiled nothing, darling. This is so
fascinating
. No wonder you like your job.”

He gazed at her fondly and with renewed interest. Apparently, his wife’s lovely surface concealed uncharted depths that enticed his further investigation. Surprised by his discovery, Achille would be an eager and willing explorer.

Delphine Lacroix passed through a barrier gate that led from the Rue Militaire to the Zone outside the fortified walls that had proved so ineffectual against the Germans in the Franco-Prussian war. This mile-wide strip of wasteland circumscribed by two fortified lines and penetrated by numerous barrier gates providing crossings for railway tracks, canals, and roads, was
terra incognita
to respectable Parisians and foreign visitors. While the berm, glacis, and rubbish-filled dry moat bordering the city’s outskirts had outlived its military usefulness, it remained as a dividing line between planned urbanization and refuse dump, a physical, psychological, and socio-economic barrier between the Parisians and the semi-visible outcasts of society.

Delphine had grown up in the Zone among the squatters,
chiffoniers
or ragpickers, junk dealers, street entertainers, Gypsies and mountebanks who had been displaced when Baron Haussmann tore down and cleared the ancient slums of central Paris. She had fled the Zone at the age of fourteen, vowing never to return, but now she had a compelling reason to re-enter the socio-cultural cesspit of her birth—the murder of her only true friend, Virginie Ménard.

Delphine crossed a rickety footbridge spanning a fetid, weed-clogged drainage ditch; on the other side she turned onto a steep, narrow dirt trail that snaked its way up a low ridge. In 1870 the Prussians had cleared the area to make way for their artillery and a field of fire. Nineteen years later, hardy poplars had sprung up amid the weeds and rubbish-strewn wild grasses.

She lifted her skirts, picking her way along the muddy path. Smoke rising from smoldering pits filled with burning trash and leaves made her cough; her eyes watered and her nose itched. Crows circled overhead, swooping down into the trash pits to do battle over the garbage with scurrying rats and cats.

As she neared the crest of the ridge she saw, rising above the scrub and weeds, a familiar compound of unpainted shacks, animal pens, and rubbish dumps. Delphine heard the bleating of goats, the cries of children, the rude shouts of men and women; she inhaled the stink of rotting garbage, human and animal waste. She was about to enter the domain of her putative father, a king among the ragpickers, known as Le Boudin.

The
chiffonier
had gotten his nickname from his service in the Legion; he had seen combat in Mexico and Algeria, where he had lost his left hand. A bear of a man, he had learned to use his government-issued hook to advantage in a brawl. He had spent years picking the streets of Paris, searching for marketable rejects, and had built a successful trade employing several licensed scavengers.

Delphine’s long-deceased mother had been one of Le Boudin’s many women; he was reputed to have fathered more than twenty children who in turn had born enough grandchildren to populate a village, but he rarely if ever acknowledged parentage.