The Devil in Montmartre (20 page)

Rousseau got up and turned on her with a scowl. “Achille’s a good man—he’s clever, honest, and decent. I admire the bastard, yet I hate him for showing me up. And I hate myself for hating him. I’m in hell, Louise.”

“I’m sorry, darling. What are you going to do?” She left the bed and put her arms around him.

Rousseau groped the familiar flesh of her behind and thighs. “I don’t know; I can’t think straight. I won’t hurt Lefebvre, but I don’t have to be too helpful. Maybe I’ll leave him on his own, and crack the case myself.” He paused a moment. Then: “I need you again, but first a drink.”

She smiled and rested her head on his chest. “Of course, darling; you’ll work it out, somehow. You always do.”

11

OCTOBER 19, MORNING, AFTERNOON, AND EVENING

A
bout three hours before dawn. Jojo peered through the sooty window of his dark, fourth-floor garret. The moon was barely visible through a thick cloud cover; the only light source a flickering gas lamp on the other side of the narrow street. His sharp eyes scrutinized a cramped passageway between two buildings directly opposite, dimly lit by the lamp’s yellow glow.
The snoop’s still there. I can smell your flat feet, you fool!
Jojo had an appointment. He had some concern about the upcoming meeting, but little worry about shaking his too-conspicuous shadow.

Jojo opened the door and passed into the dank hallway, stepping lightly over the creaking, buckled floorboards. There was a rickety stepladder leaning against the damp, mold-splotched wall. The ladder led to a trapdoor that opened onto the roof. He scaled the ladder; his long arms pushed up on the door. The trap squeaked on rusty hinges; he propped it with a stick, swung up and popped through the tight opening with acrobatic ease.

Hunkering down, Jojo scampered across the iron roof to the cornice molding. He glanced back in the direction of the snoop, and then hauled himself over the cornice onto a ledge. Bracing himself, he took a deep breath before making a circus leap over the air space to the roof of the neighboring building, landing with a dull thud.

Grasping the tiles, he caught his breath, and then turned back toward the snoop. The detective half-emerged from his hiding place and looked up in the direction of the garret. Jojo grinned. He scuttled noiselessly to the other end of the roof. Grabbing hold of the guttering with his large, powerful hands, he went over the side, worked his way to the drainpipe, caught onto it and shinnied down to the alley below.

Dressed in black, lurking through shadows, he sneaked his way uphill along the byways and backstreets, climbing two steep stairways, until he reached an abandoned mill in a sparsely populated neighborhood hard by Sacré-Coeur at the summit of the butte. Jojo scurried round the back through a clump of tall weeds until he reached a boarded-up window. He gave a prearranged knock in code, and then waited until the board slid away.

The dirt-floored interior stank of rot and decaying rubbish, pitch dark except for a taper glimmering on a table on the other side of the millstone and cogwheels. Several dormant bats hung from the rafters.

“I trust you haven’t been followed?” The
sotto voce
question was posed by a man in a black cloak. A broad-brimmed slouch hat was pulled low over his forehead, and he concealed his identity behind a false beard and thick spectacles.

“No, monsieur. There’s a pig on my tail all right, but he’s an idiot. He’s picking his nose and staring up at my empty flat. But we do have a problem.”

“And what is that?”

“The cops picked up Lautrec, but they released him the same day. There’s been no arrest. And it appears I’m under suspicion.”

“That is a problem. And what do you hear from your friend, Inspector Rousseau?”

“Rousseau has nothing to say, and he isn’t running the investigation. He’s been put under Inspector Lefebvre. Lefebvre reports directly to Chief Féraud, and he’s as clean as they come. And he’s smart too; the cops call him ‘professor.’ But more than smart, they say he’s incorruptible.”

The cloaked man laughed; a dull, bitter rasp. “
Incorruptible
, eh? Just like old Robespierre, I suppose. Well, Jojo my lad, everyone’s got his price, but I’m not sure I’m willing to square the honorable Lefebvre; after all, there’s a limit to my resources. And how does Rousseau like working for this paragon of virtue?”

“Not at all. Rousseau’s been scrapping his way up for twenty years. Now he’s taking orders from a college boy.”

“Hmmm, I’m beginning to see a way of dealing with honest ‘professor’ pig.”

Jojo stared silently for a moment before asking: “What’s your plan, monsieur? If it involves my services, I’m afraid—”

“I know, I know,” he broke in,” you’ll be compensated. In the next day or two I’ll send you a message at the circus. Just keep cool and wait; that’s all you need to know for the present. Now, you best be off before the sun gets up.”

Jojo returned to his flat by a circuitous route varying from the one he had taken to the abandoned building. He lowered himself through the trapdoor and entered the hall outside his garret before first light. Once in his room he checked the window; the snoop hadn’t moved an inch.
As stiff as a palace guard, and twice as stupid.
Jojo laughed until he noticed a
chiffonier
working his way up the street, stopping and picking through the overflowing
poubelles
.
Did he see me?
He worried for just an instant, before answering himself with a shrug:
Well, what if he did?

“Did you and the wife have a pleasant Sunday, rowing at Chatou? You certainly had perfect weather for it.”

“Thank you Chief; we did. And I also had an interesting encounter with the English doctor, Sir Henry Collingwood. He happened to be at the restaurant with Mlle Endicott, the rich American art collector.”

They had an early morning meeting in Féraud’s office. The chief seemed to be in a good mood, but he frowned at Achille’s reference to the Englishman and his wealthy, American companion. He leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling, and began fiddling with his death’s-head charm. “So tell me more about this ‘encounter’.”

Achille communicated the details concisely, focusing on how his attempt to get an impression of Sir Henry’s fingerprints had been thwarted by the Englishman’s gloves. He was beginning to relate his plan to obtain the prints when the chief interrupted:

“We have no legal basis for holding Sir Henry. He’s a British subject, and could hop on the boat train for Dover any time he pleased.” The chief leaned forward, planted his arms on the desk, and looked Achille in the eye.

“Of course, Chief, that’s why I want to redouble our efforts to obtain evidence for the
juge d’instruction
.”

Féraud displayed a little tic, an almost imperceptible “snick” at the corner of his mouth. “What does Rousseau think?”

This was a touchy subject. Achille’s confidence in the “old boy” was eroding, but he’d need to tread lightly when expressing such concerns to the chief.

“Rousseau seems fixated on Lautrec, and I fear this might be hampering the investigation. For example, he hasn’t detailed his best men to shadow Jojo, and I firmly believe the clown could lead us to the murderer. And as far as I’m concerned, the artist’s in the clear. A thorough search of his flat and studio turned up nothing. We’ve looked into his various haunts and habits, and can account for his whereabouts for almost all the time in question, enough to support an alibi. In other words, it appears he didn’t have the opportunity to commit the crime. As for the means, according to our foremost expert on the subject, only a doctor could have removed the uterus and cervix and then stitched her up so neatly. And her head and limbs weren’t hacked off; they were surgically amputated.

“There’s not much of a motive. He’s freely admitted to having been a jealous lover, but after questioning him I don’t believe he’s the sort of individual who could carry out such a cruel, premeditated murder over a mere disappointment in love. Moreover, he’s highly intelligent, so why would he conceive of, plan, and execute such a crime and then leave a trail of evidence ostensibly pointing back to him?

“Finally, we have fingerprints and the opium cigarettes. There are prints on the canvas and cigarette case that don’t match Lautrec’s, and we have no evidence of him being a habitual opium smoker. I believe—”

“Damn this case!” Féraud broke in. “No witnesses. The evidence is
all
circumstantial, and bloody thin at that. And your primary suspect is a foreigner, a well-heeled English gent who could bolt at any time.” For a couple of tense minutes the chief returned to his silent, meditative posture. Then: “All right, Achille. Where do we go from here?”

“I want to wire a trusted contact at Scotland Yard to see if they have anything on Sir Henry. It’ll be a routine, discreet inquiry. Next, I want to talk to the American artist, Marcia Brownlow. She knew the victim, and her companion has apparently formed an intimate acquaintance with Sir Henry. Moreover, I have reason to believe Mlle Brownlow may be one of Sir Henry’s patients. This will be very delicate; I’ll handle it myself, and I believe I can use Lautrec to make contact with Mlle Brownlow without tipping off the Englishman.

“Finally, I’ve got another way of nabbing Jojo, and it doesn’t involve Rousseau. In fact, I don’t want him to know about it.”

Féraud frowned, his face reddened, and the tic returned. “Do you realize what you’re saying? I’ve known Rousseau for twenty years. He’s built up our network of snoops and paid informers in the Montmartre-Pigalle district. I depend on him.”

Achille remained calm. “I understand, Chief, but there’s a serious conflict of interest. Jojo’s one of Rousseau’s informers. I think their relationship’s too close for comfort.”

“Listen, Achille, Jojo’s an ex-convict. He’s scum. If he farts in a public place, we’ll haul him in and put on the screws. If you have anything, I mean
anything
at all on that little shit, we’ll beat a confession out of him. But you must have
something
, and you’re telling me you don’t trust your brother officer, one of my veterans, to get it for you.” Féraud stared hard at Achille a moment before pursuing: “So let’s say you’re right. How would you go about it?”

“We have Delphine Lacroix, the victim’s best friend. I’ve been looking into her background. She worked for Jojo when she was a kid, and she was one of the girls he beat up. And she has reason to dislike Rousseau too; she won’t give anything up to him, or anyone working under him. But she has strong connections to the
chiffoniers
and
zonards
. She’s part of Jojo’s underworld. If he’s an accomplice as I think he is, I believe I can persuade her to inform on him, and then Jojo can lead us to the killer.”

Féraud smiled wryly and shook his head. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting into, my boy. You talk about an ‘underworld’, but you haven’t been there. You can’t know it the way Rousseau and I do. You have to live among these people, talk like them, act like them, stink like them, to even begin to understand them. That’s why I split the assignment the way I did.” The chief paused a moment for emphasis. Then: “But I have confidence in you, my boy. Rousseau will put in a few more years and retire. He’ll never rise any higher in the brigade. But some day you could occupy this office, and then perhaps even a higher position. You’re our future; the old boys and I are the past. So I’m going to back you up, at least for now. But I don’t want Rousseau to feel he’s being left out. Give him routine duties, enough to keep him busy. Agreed?”

Achille felt as though he’d crossed the Rubicon. Like Caesar, he’d confidently gambled on his future; there was no turning back. This case would make or break him. “Thank you, Chief. I agree.”

Marcia reclined on the drawing room settee, her back propped up by a velvet bolster. She wore a scarlet kimono; the luxuriant silk fabric, her long, lush auburn hair, and lively green eyes all in sharp contrast to her gaunt face, which seemed as if it were rendered in grisaille, a gray monochrome surrounded by an overabundance of color.

Arthur sat in close proximity to Marcia, his smiling face attentively inclined toward hers, his hands resting on kid gloves and stick. Sir Henry had deemed Marcia well enough to receive; Betsy and he were on another pleasant outing; the nurse was occupied running errands.