The Devil in Montmartre (18 page)

A girl of about ten and a boy no more than eight-years-old scampered across Delphine’s path, stopped, turned round, and stared. They were ragged, dirty, and barefoot; their dark hair, brown eyes, and flat noses bore an uncanny resemblance to Delphine.

“Hey little one,” she called out to the girl, who was obviously older, bolder, and more forthcoming, “do you know where I can find Le Boudin?”

The child tugged at her torn sack of a dress, thought a moment and then, without speaking, pointed up the ridge toward a large shanty. Then she laughed, grabbed the boy by the hand and pulled him into the tall grass, where they began a tussle on the ground accompanied by screams, giggles, slaps, and curses.

Delphine continued up the path until she reached the shack. A few low steps led up to a shaded porch where an old, panting yellow dog lay on its side. As Delphine approached, the dog raised itself and confronted her with a low growl.

“Hey, Bazaine, old boy, don’t you know me? It’s Delphine.” She held out her hand toward the dog’s muzzle.

Bazaine was half-blind and nearly deaf. He sniffed a couple of times before licking her hand. Delphine smiled, rubbed his muzzle and patted his head. “Good old boy, good Bazaine,” she whispered and then walked through the open door.

The interior was dark, stuffy, and filled with the musty, corroded smell of old rags and scrap metal. A faint light streamed through the entrance and an unglazed window cut through the front wall. As Delphine entered she could see a large man seated on a stool behind a low wooden table. He bent over a pile of trinkets and was about to apply the acid test to one, which he had grasped with his hook.

Le Boudin looked up from his work and sang out a familiar greeting in a rough bass: “Hello, Mademoiselle. Are you buying or selling today?”

Delphine smiled and walked toward the table. “Don’t you remember me, Papa Le Boudin? It’s me, Delphine.”

He squinted at her and scratched his grizzled beard. “Delphine, eh? I once knew a girl who went by that name; a skinny, snot-nosed little ragamuffin.”

“That’s me, Papa. I grew up.”

Le Boudin smiled, showing his few remaining brown, tobacco stained teeth. “You call me ‘Papa’. Is that in honor of my great age?”

“No, Papa, it’s in honor of what my mother told me on her deathbed.”

“Folks say lots of things on their deathbeds. Don’t necessarily make them true.”

Delphine frowned and looked him straight in the eye. “I’ve no reason to think she was lying.”

Le Boudin stared back at her for a moment, and then gave a low, bitter laugh. “I remember your ma; she was Romany. You’ve got the same dark, wild look about you.”

“Considering my trade, it’s better for business that I look more like her than you.”

Le Boudin broke out in peals of laughter. After a while, he wiped his eyes and coughed. “That’s good. After that one, I need a drink. Pull up a chair and join me.”

He blew into two dusty glasses and wiped them on his shirt. Then he filled them with cheap red wine and handed one to Delphine. “Let’s drink to your ma, God rest her soul.”

They drained their glasses, and he poured another round. Then: “So what brings you back to the Zone? I heard you were making out all right, peddling your ass in Montmartre.”

Delphine ignored the insult. That was his manner, and it wouldn’t improve as he worked his way through the bottle. “Maybe you’ve heard about Virginie Ménard, the girl who was killed up in Montmartre?”

“Maybe I have. What of it?”

“She was my—best friend. I want you to help me find her killer. I’m not asking this as a favor; I can pay for information.”

Le Boudin glanced down for a moment and toyed with his glass. Then he looked back at her with a frown. “Sounds like you’re out for revenge.”

“Could be, Papa. Will you help me?”

Le Boudin scratched his nose with his hook. “I had a bellyful of killing in Mexico and Algeria. We shot at them, they shot back at us. Look what it got me. There’s an old saying: Revenge goes down sweet, but it comes back as bile.”

Delphine did not reply. She swung her legs to one side, lifted her skirts, and pulled out a pouch from under a garter. Goggle-eyed, Le Boudin leaned over to get a good look. She smoothed down her dress, turned round, and placed the pouch on the table. “Screw your eyes back into their sockets, old man, and take a look at this.” She upended the pouch, emptying a small pile of gold rings, bracelets, earrings, and broaches, all set with semi-precious stones and pearls.

Le Boudin’s eyes widened and he whistled. “Where the hell did you get all that?”

“Don’t worry Papa, they aren’t hot. They’re tokens of appreciation from gentlemen, and a few ladies too. My life savings.”

Le Boudin stared at the jewelry for a while, then shook his head. “I can’t take it from you, my girl. In a few years you’ll need it all, believe me. You don’t want to end up here, lifting your dress in a stinking alley, selling yourself for a crust of bread, a bottle of cheap wine, and a flop for the night.”

“Then you won’t help me?” For all her streetwise toughness, there was a plaintive tone in her voice and a wistful sadness in her eyes; she reminded him of a little girl on his knee, begging for favors.

“I didn’t say that. I
might
help you for—for your mother’s sake, but on one condition. Promise me you won’t act outside the law.”

For a moment, Delphine stared at him, perplexed by his reference to the law. After all, the cops stayed out of the Zone; it was like a tiny foreign country outside French jurisdiction. But then, she realized that Le Boudin and his
chiffoniers
worked on the streets of Paris; they were licensed and didn’t want any trouble with the police. “All right, Papa, I promise.”

Le Boudin smiled. He figured he could trust her, or at least he was willing to take a risk. But business was business, and he wanted security. “Here’s what I’ll do. Tell me what you want. If I think I can help, I’ll hang on to your trinkets as a pledge. If you keep your word, I’ll return them when the transaction’s completed.”

“Fair enough. I think Jojo’s mixed up in it. I know some of your men scavenge Montmartre. I want—”

“Wait a minute, girl,” Le Boudin broke in. “You’re going too fast. Do you mean Jojo the Clown?”

Delphine nodded.

Le Boudin laughed and shook his head. “That ugly runt? He’s a real
zonard
, a tough little shit. But I thought he went straight after he got outside? Has a job clowning at the Circus Fernando, as I recall.”

She frowned. “Jojo’s a bastard. Throw him a crooked centime, he’ll jump at it. There’s an artist in Montmartre named Toulouse-Lautrec who looks like Jojo’s twin brother. I think Jojo tried to frame Lautrec, pin Virginie’s murder on him. Anyway, the cops are chasing their tails, and that fat pig Rousseau’s working on the case; I don’t trust him. But his partner Lefebvre’s all right, and I think he’s been put over Rousseau.

“Your men go picking in Montmartre. It’s possible one of them might have seen Jojo dump the body, but so far he’s keeping his mouth shut. Maybe he’s been bribed or threatened. I want you and your men to help me find out who killed Virginie. It may be Jojo, or he may be working for somebody. Whoever it is, I want revenge, but I’m willing to go to Lefebvre rather than take it on myself.”

Le Boudin drank some wine; then he scratched his beard and knitted his brow. “You’re asking a lot, my girl. Some of my boys are Rousseau’s snitches.”

Delphine’s eyes flashed and her voice hardened: “Who do they work for, you or Rousseau?”

Le Boudin grunted, drank another glass and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “A dog works for the man who feeds him.”

They were interrupted by the little girl Delphine had seen outside. She walked to the center of the room, stood still, and started chewing on a fingernail.

Le Boudin glared at her. “Hey girl,” he snarled, “I told you not to bother me when I’m doing business. Now get out before I tan your ass.”

The girl spat a tiny scrap of chewed fingernail on the floor. “I’m hungry, Grandpapa,” she whined without looking up.

“Well then, go find your ma and tell her to feed you.”

The girl rocked back and forth on her filthy bare feet. “Don’t know where Ma is. Ain’t seen her all day.”

Le Boudin grimaced. “Oh, all right.” He reached into a barrel and pulled out an apple. “Here you go, little one.” He lobbed the apple; the girl caught it deftly in one hand, took a bite, chewed and grinned. Then she turned her curious gaze on Delphine. Her mouth half-full, she mumbled, “Who’s she?”

Le Boudin gave the girl a mock frown and waved his hook menacingly. “She’s your Aunt Delphine. Show some manners, you little demon, and then scram.”

The child giggled, turned her back on Delphine and ran out the door.

“A wild one,” Le Boudin muttered, “just like you. Anyway, I’ll talk to the boys and see what they can find out. I’ll put up some trinket as a reward—at
my
expense, not yours. You mind what I said about your savings. And remember, if the dirt we dig up leads to Jojo or anyone else you take it to that inspector—what’s his name?”

“Lefebvre.”

“Yeah, you take it to him and don’t mess with it yourself. You ain’t as tough as you think. Now, it’s been nice seeing you after all these years, but I’ve got a business to run.”

Delphine laughed. “I know, Papa. Guess I better scram too.”

Le Boudin raised his bulk from the stool and lumbered round the table. He lifted Delphine out of her chair ’til her feet dangled a foot above the floor, and gave her a bear hug. “You take care of yourself, my girl,” he whispered huskily.

“You too, Papa,” she replied.

Arthur Wolcott occupied a marble-topped table on the sidewalk fronting a popular café on the fashionable Boulevard des Italiens. He experienced the clear, fresh autumn afternoon, his coffee and cigarette, his desultory reading of a newspaper article reporting President Carnot’s latest remarks on the Exposition’s success, the rumbling of cabs and omnibuses, the bustle and chatter of well-dressed boulevardiers, the sparrows flitting among the shedding branches, russet leaves floating in a mild breeze, a large, high-soaring red, white, and blue balloon advertising the Fair, the countless congenial impressions summing up a pleasant afternoon in the city. But whenever his mind tried to anchor itself in a sheltering harbor, a place of agreeable repose, it soon broke from its mooring and drifted back into a rough sea of consternation and doubt.

Earlier, he had called upon Marcia to invite her out for some refreshment, thinking such an outing would be a sovereign remedy for what ailed her, but she had taken to her bed. Following the shocking news of Virginie Ménard’s apparent abduction and murder, Marcia had suffered a mild relapse, not from her consumption but rather from what Sir Henry diagnosed as “female hysteria.” The doctor had prescribed a sedative and obtained the services of a nurse. Having thus quieted his patient and provided for her care, he had no qualms about spending the day at Chatou with Betsy Endicott.

The Exposition is an unprecedented success, presaging a new century of progress and enlightenment.
He read that line for the fifth time, and then lost it amid his recurring concerns about Marcia’s mental and physical decline, Betsy’s seeming indifference, and Sir Henry’s increasing detachment from, and questionable treatment of, his patient.
He doesn’t give a damn about Marcia; it’s Betsy he’s after, and she seems infatuated with him.

Arthur put down his paper, stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette, and habitually lit another.
We’ve all bought our one-way ticket to the slaughterhouse.
Arthur had written that line in a play, and then judiciously scratched it out as too dismal and disturbing for his audience. But eliding such comments on the human condition from his work did not keep them from repeatedly nettling his conscience.

“Well this is certainly a chance meeting. Good afternoon, Arthur.”

He looked up with a start into the veiled face of the onetime Venus of Belgravia. Lady Agatha Fitzroy smiled slyly at her old friend’s wide-eyed look of astonishment at her sudden appearance.

“My goodness, Arthur, do I look as bad as all that? You stare at me as though I were one of the ghosts in that deliciously wicked story of yours.”

He rose from the table, tipped his hat, and made a slight bow. “Pardon me, Lady Agatha, I was preoccupied and you came up so—so unexpectedly. Of course, you’re looking splendid, as always, and I’m both delighted and surprised to see you.”

She laughed at his formal flattery, laughter that he had once compared to that of a tinkling silver bell, demanding one’s attention in a manner that was both charming and intrusive. “Why are you so stiff? I’m the same Aggie you’ve known these past ten years and more. Now, will you
permit
me to join you, or should I just plop down and impose myself like a fellow American?”

“Oh, please do be seated, Aggie. I’ll call the waiter. I’d like another coffee and an aperitif. Will you join me?”

“Thank you, Arthur; that would be delightful.” Aggie sat across from him and lifted her veil. Venus had certainly withered, but she had not yet quite decomposed. Lady Agatha looked like a tastefully wrapped mummy of a type Arthur often encountered in society, a once-beautiful woman now well past her prime who tried to conceal her wrinkles, warts, and age spots beneath a layer of paint, powder, and rouge. Typically, such relics had been belles coming out early in the reign of Queen Victoria and at the court of Louis Philippe. But those beauties of yesteryear were in their sixties; Aggie was barely thirty-nine. Years of casual promiscuity, drinking, and opium smoking had taken their toll.