The Devil in Montmartre (21 page)

“I’m relieved to find you looking so well, my dear. Assuming a continuation of this fair weather, tomorrow you must come out with me to a café.”

She smiled at the suggestion. “That would be delightful, Arthur, provided my keeper gives me leave to go.”

The reference to Sir Henry as Marcia’s ‘keeper’ irked him, since under the circumstances the word had disturbing connotations. “You mustn’t allow yourself to remain under his thumb for too long. You had a shock recently; it affected your condition, but a diagnosis of ‘female hysteria’ is no joke, and frankly I don’t approve of Sir Henry’s treatments. I understand he’s prescribed a strong sedative.”

“I appreciate your concern, Arthur, and I share your misgivings about Sir Henry and his treatments. But his prescription helped me through a rough patch.” She smiled and took his hand before adding: “I promise you, I’m in no danger of addiction. As you recall, we both indulged in Aggie’s opium cigarettes without succumbing to the drug’s evil influence.”

He stroked her frail hand, leaned forward and kissed it gently. Arthur wanted to say something profound; to tell her he loved her and would care for her for as long as she lived. But like his protagonists he could not betray himself with such a commonplace declaration. Instead, he restricted himself to expressions of concern and friendly advice. “I fear there’s something
louche
about Sir Henry. Yesterday, I had a chance meeting with Lady Agatha at the Café Riche—”

“Aggie’s here, in Paris?” Marcia interrupted with a spark of piqued curiosity in her voice.

Arthur noticed Marcia’s interest with distaste. “I fear she’s in Queer Street and looking to flog off your Mark Brownlow portrait to the highest bidder. She’s approached me to negotiate with Betsy for the sale and she’s gone to Nice to spend some time with her friend, the count. You know the villa well, I believe?”

Marcia indeed recalled the villa; eleven years earlier she had spent a magical weekend there with Lady Agatha that had inspired the famous painting. “Poor Aggie,” she sighed. “If she’s that hard up, I’m surprised she hung on to the painting this long. I believe it meant a great deal to her.” Marcia could have added that it meant a great deal to her, too.

“I’m sure it does mean a lot to her, as it would anyone in the art market. Ruskin, Leighton, Sargent, and others have proclaimed it a modern masterpiece, a fact of which you should be justifiably proud. And it will certainly fetch a handsome price if I have anything to do with it. But I digress. When I met with Lady Agatha, I mentioned Sir Henry and his interest in Betsy. You should have seen the look on her face when I uttered his name; she winced as though she’d swallowed a glass of raw lemon juice. I won’t speculate as to the nature of their relationship, but I imagine it had its unpleasant aspect.”

Marcia laughed. “Knowing Aggie as I do, it must have involved some protracted examinations and treatments of a highly stimulating nature.”

Arthur frowned. “This is no joke, or rather, a diagnosis of hysteria is nothing to laugh at. In England, there’s a board in Chancery, made up of several gentleman holding the rather ludicrous title of Master in Lunacy. I’ve heard stories of independent, free-thinking women, no madder than you or I, who were diagnosed as hysterical, declared lunatics by the Masters, and then packed off to asylums for ‘treatment,’ leaving complete control of their persons and property to their husbands or guardians.

“Now, as American citizens, both you and Betsy would not normally come under the jurisdiction of English law. But that could change if Sir Henry and Betsy married and resided in England and you somehow came under his guardianship. I don’t want to alarm you, but I advise you to remain on your guard. I can hardly imagine how difficult this must be for you, but please don’t give in to narcotics, soothing words, and pampering. Assert yourself, but do it reasonably and with good humor. Tell Sir Henry and Betsy that you’re feeling much better, even if you aren’t. Then, if Sir Henry raises no professional objection, you’ll go out with me tomorrow. But if he does object, don’t argue too much, and for heaven’s sake, don’t become emotional. We’ll work something out, I’m sure.

“At any rate, I suggest you break with them as soon as possible and come to England with me. Besides, if you stay here much longer I suspect you’ll be questioned by the police concerning your relationship with Mademoiselle Ménard.”

“But Arthur, I
do
want to talk to the police. I must, if there’s anything I can do to assist in the investigation. Surely, you understand.”

He thought for a moment. If Marcia believed she was helping the police in their effort to locate the killer, it might put her mind at ease. Then he could negotiate the sale of the painting, settle up with Betsy and Lady Agatha, bid farewell to Sir Henry Collingwood, and get Marcia on the boat train to Dover. “You’re right, my dear. Let me handle this. I’ll find out who’s in charge of the investigation and set up a clandestine meeting. You surely don’t want any publicity. We can do it on the pretext of an outing to the Luxembourg Gardens, or some such thing. And I think it best to keep Betsy and Sir Henry out of it.”

She responded to his suggestion with a warm smile. “Thank you, dear. As one of your English chums might say, you’ve been a brick. Now, why don’t you ring for tea?”

Marcia contemplated Arthur wistfully as he walked to the service bell. She sometimes wondered if he had loved Mark, Marcia, or both? But she would not embarrass him to satisfy her curiosity; the question would remain unasked.

“Is it true this is the toniest restaurant in Paris?” Betsy put the question to Sir Henry as they dined on Tournedos Rossini accompanied by an excellent Château Haut-Brion at the Maison Dorée. Immense chandeliers blazed with light; gilt cornices sparkled; Aubusson carpets cushioned the steps of modishly shod feet; salon paintings of gods, goddesses, fauns, and nymphs decorated richly papered walls; tables covered in crisp, dazzlingly white linen, set with the finest silver service, china, and crystal, displayed haute cuisine, the creations of master chefs served with the choicest wines from one of the world’s premier cellars. The terrace dining room was a study in Gilded Age opulence; the perfect setting for showing off Betsy’s Parisian haute couture and diamonds from the Rue de la Paix.

“Yes, it’s rather smart, isn’t it?” Sir Henry replied as he savored his Haut-Brion. “And you haven’t seen the private dining rooms, reserved for royalty, nobility, and the immensely rich.” His monocle magnified the wicked gleam in his eye as he pursued the subject in an insinuatingly hushed voice: “They’re the perfect venue for a discreet tête-à-tête between an emperor, king, or magnate and his paramour.”

Betsy picked insouciantly at her foie gras. “I’ll admit it’s impressive, but I wouldn’t put it above Delmonico’s or Sherry’s.”

Sir Henry laughed. “Do I detect a hint of Yankee pride?”

Betsy’s face glowed through her powder and her inhibitions had been lowered by three glasses of Haut-Brion. “I guess you do. Frankly, there’s nothing you have over here that, given time, we can’t equal or excel. Take my father, for example. We come from an old New England family, Mayflower genealogy and all. But we don’t rest on the laurels of our ancestors. Each generation made their own distinct contribution to the family fortune. My father gambled on railroads; he had a good turn of luck on Wall Street, and he never stood pat. When the bubble burst in the ’70s he sold short and doubled his fortune. Now I collect art, and my purchases have all appreciated in value.

“Marcia comes from a similar background, but her father wasn’t as shrewd or lucky as mine. He went under in the crash and subsequent depression. Fortunately, she possesses a singular talent that’s enabled her to climb to the top rung of her profession. But that’s just the marketplace acting according to the scientific rules of evolution set down by Darwin and Spencer—survival of the fittest.”

Sir Henry was taken aback; he was not accustomed to women injecting market economics and Darwinism into a politely intimate conversation, at least not in such a bluntly provocative manner. “I see your point, but isn’t that an awfully harsh way of viewing the world?”

Betsy smiled tipsily in a way that was both enticing and subtly calculated to put him off guard. Her words were ironic and an intended challenge to Sir Henry’s complacency. She might have viewed him as one of Oscar Wilde’s Liberals who counted among the Tories because he dined with them. “Oh it’s harsh, all right, but realistic and in some circles considered progressive. That’s why
we
dine at the Maison Dorée while others root through dustbins for a crust of stale bread or a scrap of rotten cheese.”

He found this discussion distasteful and at the same time disturbingly stimulating. Sir Henry felt a sudden urge to carry her off to one of the private rooms. He wanted to change the subject to regain his equilibrium, but he couldn’t help making an observation. “I think we’d better make some provision for those scrounging unfortunates. As Dickens warned, we oughtn’t to behave like bad old Scrooge prior to his Christmas conversion. Otherwise, those who, according to Mr. Spencer and others, are less fit to survive might rise up and cart off their betters to the guillotine. Remember, the Universal Exposition celebrates the Revolution’s centennial; Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, and all that.”

“Ah, I’d almost forgotten the Fair’s historical reference to a utopian ideal. I was much more impressed by the exhibits of progress, the Tour Eiffel, the focus on improvements in hygiene and public sanitation, and especially the new wonders of our industrial age. Take the Daimler, for example. The automobile’s in its infancy, like the locomotive sixty years ago. That little motor car is a seed that will sprout and grow until it spreads out and towers like one of our giant California Sequoias. By the way, Marcia told me she’d love to ride in an automobile before she dies. Poor dear, I doubt she’ll get her wish.”

Betsy’s reference to Marcia’s condition provided a welcome opening for Sir Henry. “Oh yes, poor Marcia. I’m afraid the news of that unfortunate young woman’s disappearance and suspected murder has given her quite a turn, which leads me to a delicate subject. We needn’t pursue this now, but some thought should be given to the disposal of Marcia’s estate. As I recall, she never married and has no children, immediate family, or close relations with a claim?”

The reference to her friend’s estate had a sobering effect. Betsy may have been slightly fuddled with Haut-Brion and taken with Sir Henry’s good looks, charm, and elegant manner. She enjoyed sparring with him, asserting herself as a free-thinking American woman. But she was never a fool when it came to money, and she replied cautiously. “Not that I know of; I’ve never given the matter much consideration.”

“I see. Do you know if she has a will, or insurance? I believe she’s left quite a few valuable art works at your home in San Francisco.”

Betsy sensed a significant shift in the tenor of the conversation; their pleasant dinner deluxe had begun to resemble a high stakes poker game. “Marcia has kept a studio in my home for several years. I’ve purchased many of her most important works, as have other American collectors. And she now has a contract with Goupil to represent her in Europe. Why do you ask?”

Sir Henry attuned himself to her shifting mood. He played his next card carefully. “I fear that in the near future Marcia’s condition might deteriorate such that she may no longer be competent to make decisions concerning her medical treatment or the management of her estate. I’ve had considerable experience with such cases. Has she left many works in her studio that remain unsold; any written instruction as to their disposition?”

Betsy knew of several oils, watercolors, and drawings in her possession that could fetch several thousand dollars in the American market. He might indeed be offering sound advice as a physician and friend; on that account, she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. But when it came to matters involving great sums of money, experience had taught her to play her cards close to her vest, even when you thought you were playing with friends. “Oh,” she remarked nonchalantly, “there might be a few, I suppose. I’ve never had them inventoried. At any rate, she’s going to England with Arthur. He’s always been savvy in business matters, and, should the need arise, I can easily put his solicitors in contact with mine.” She smiled disarmingly, and then casually placed a shot across his bow to keep him honest. “By the way, have you heard of Nellie Bly?”

He suspected a diversionary tactic. That was all right with Sir Henry; he’d play along—for the time being. “No, I haven’t. Sounds like a stage name. Is she an American actress?”

“Nellie Bly’s a nom de plume all right, but she’s not an actress. She’s a reporter for the New York World. Not long ago she went undercover, had herself committed, and wrote an exposé of the deplorable conditions at the Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell’s Island. Her article raised quite a fuss in the States. There was a thorough investigation followed by a shake-up in the hospital administration and vast improvements in the living conditions and treatment of the inmates. Considering your practice, I thought you might have heard of it?”