The Devil in Montmartre (32 page)

Aggie smiled and patted Marcia’s hand. “It’s awfully sweet to see you and Arthur together again. Just like old times. But what does Betsy think of that?”

“I fear Betsy’s so taken with Sir Henry Collingwood she thinks little of me, or not at all. They’re off together in the country, where I don’t know. I’m not sure I’ll see her again.”

Aggie frowned ominously. “I’m sorry to hear that, my dear. I’ll not mince words. Sir Henry’s a cad.”

Marcia fidgeted nervously with her teacup. Despite Achille’s assurance that the couple were under surveillance, she could not shake off the alarming thought that her companion and former lover might be intimate with a brutal murderer. “Do—do you know that from experience, or are you merely repeating gossip?”

“I was one of his patients, and a bit more than that I’m afraid. Have you submitted to one of his infamous
treatments
?”

“No, that is to say I haven’t—” Marcia caught herself. The thought of Sir Henry therapeutically manipulating Betsy and Aggie’s private parts made her gag. She coughed into her serviette.

“Are you all right? Perhaps you should drink some water, though Lord knows I never touch the filthy stuff. My father, God rest him, lived past eighty and he never drank anything but whiskey and good English beer. He used to say water makes frogs in one’s stomach.”

Marcia shook her head and cleared her throat. “Don’t worry; I’m fine.” She took a couple of deep breaths before continuing: “He did give me some medicine to help me through a rough patch.”

Lady Agatha nodded knowingly. “Ah, yes. Sir Henry’s medicine. As you know, I was already an opium smoker when I first consulted him. Aside from using my person shamefully, he introduced me to stronger drugs—much more potent than my tainted cigarettes.” She sighed before confessing: “I’m hopelessly addicted, my dear.”

Marcia looked down at her hands.
Poor Betsy
, she thought. Then, without looking up: “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Aggie laughed bitterly. “Don’t trouble yourself, Marcia. That’s all history. At any rate, I always keep a vial of the stuff in my handbag, a jolly mixture of morphine, cocaine, and chloral hydrate. Perhaps someday I’ll be careless and take a wee bit too much. ‘The thought of suicide is a great consolation: by means of it one gets successfully through many a bad night.’ That’s Nietzsche, a German philosopher.”

Marcia stared at Aggie with a puzzled expression. Her friend’s morose observation was shocking, but its source even more so. Society had attributed many qualities to Lady Agatha, but erudition had not been one of them. To avoid the unpleasant topics of suicide and drug addiction, Marcia resorted to a bland remark. “I didn’t know you read philosophy?”

Aggie smiled. “I don’t, my dear. I received that nugget of wisdom from our mutual friend, Arthur Wolcott.”

“Yes, that sounds like him. I’m afraid morbid German philosophy is Arthur’s forte, though I’ll admit he’s been awfully sweet to me of late.”

Aggie now regretted her gloomy tone. She did not want to burden Marcia with her own troubles. “And I’m glad of it, darling,” she said optimistically. “You’ll be quite happy together, I’m sure.” Then, on a more somber note: “I was sorry to part with your painting. I treasured it; I believe it’s the finest thing I’ll ever own. But I’ll confess that with the passing years I found it hard to look at. It reminded me of what once was and could never be again.

“I had everything, you see: youth, health, beauty, and wealth. The first three must go surely; such is life. But I thought I could at least hold on to my money. I married for advantage twice. The first time worked out wonderfully; within three years the old baronet went to his reward leaving me a title, property, and a handsome annuity. But the second time was a bust. How was I to know that Fitzroy was in so deep to the bookmakers? His credit was blown, and the bailiffs were at the door; they hounded him to his grave. And I had to use much of my own fortune to pay the lawyers and satisfy Fitzroy’s creditors. So you understand my dear, I simply had to sell your lovely painting. I didn’t want to but—but Betsy’s offer was so generous. . . .” Lady Agatha choked up. She opened her handbag, withdrew a lace handkerchief, and wiped a tear.

“Of course I understand, my dear. You did what anyone would do under the circumstances.”

Aggie blew her nose and returned the handkerchief to her purse. She smiled through the tears. “That’s frightfully good of you, my dear. But then, you were always so
sympathique
.” She sipped some tea; then pursued: “But I suppose you are concerned about Betsy now that she’s taken up with that bounder Sir Henry.”

Marcia thought a moment before replying. “I do worry, of course, but I guess I know Betsy better than anyone, having lived with her all these years. We got along, for the most part, because I rarely contradicted her and she never felt threatened by me. But there were tense moments, and some fearful rows, especially when we were drinking. She could be awfully jealous. In fact it was my interest. . . .” Marcia caught herself. She did not want to mention Virginie Ménard. “Rather, it was Betsy’s
misapprehension
of my interest in a model that caused our present rift and perhaps made her more susceptible to Sir Henry’s charms.

“At any rate, Betsy’s quite capable of taking care of herself. She’s a crack shot. I’ve seen her cut dead center on an Ace, five times out of six with a revolver at ten paces.”

“Why, she’s a regular Miss Annie Oakley!” Lady Agatha broke in.

Marcia smiled. “Not quite, perhaps, but she’s fearfully good. She carries a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson pocket revolver in her handbag, and on occasion she backs it up with a derringer concealed in a garter holster.”

“A pistol concealed in one’s garter? How exciting. I
must
get one of those. One never knows when it might come in handy.”

Marcia nodded. “And Betsy’s quite capable of using her firearms in a tight corner. On one particular occasion, her cool marksmanship may have saved our lives.”

Lady Aggie munched her muffin excitedly and washed it down with half a cup of tea. She patted her rouged lips with the serviette; her eyes lit up with anticipation. “Oh, do tell me what happened.”

“Several years ago, when it seemed that I’d fully recovered from my illness, we were on the spree in one of the less reputable districts of San Francisco, a place where ladies never ventured unescorted during the day, let alone at night. Before long, we were accosted by a couple of bully boys exiting a saloon, a pair of ugly, cigar-chomping mugs with black derbies tilted askew and turtleneck sweaters bulging with muscles.

“They blocked our path on the sidewalk. Grinning like an ape, one demanded, ‘You gals is on the wrong side of town, ain’t ya? Anyways, you’ll pay us a toll to walk our streets, or you’ll lift yer skirts for us in that there alley.’ He pointed a thumb toward a dark, evil smelling passageway behind the saloon. Betsy calmly replied, ‘You’ll have neither our money nor our bodies. Now I advise you to let us pass.’

“The mugs nearly doubled over with laughter. The meaner-looking of the pair whipped out a large knife and waved it menacingly. ‘Sister, yer a card. I think I’ll carve a heart on yer pretty little ass, somethin’ to remember me by.’

“I was trembling, perspiring, and felt as though I were about to faint. In a moment, I would have dropped to my knees and begged for mercy. Still cool, Betsy said, ‘Since you put it that way, I suppose I have no choice but to pay you.’ The bully-boy grinned. ‘Now yer actin’ wise, sister.’

“The rest happened so quickly, but I recall every detail as if time had slowed somehow. Betsy opened her purse as if to pull out a wallet. Instead, she drew the Smith & Wesson and shot the knife-wielding thug directly between the eyes. He keeled over onto the boardwalk like a poleaxed ox in a slaughterhouse. The other man stood frozen, stiff as a cigar store Indian. Betsy aimed and pulled the trigger; he joined his companion, face down in a pool of blood.”

“How absolutely ripping!” Lady Agatha interjected.

Marcia nodded. “I was shaking; I felt my gorge rise. Doubling over, I vomited down my dress. Having heard the shots, a murmuring crowd streamed out of the saloon to see what had happened. I heard Betsy mutter, ‘Calm yourself. Don’t let them see you’re afraid.’ The crowd milled round the bodies. Betsy, smoking revolver in hand, shouted above the commotion to a burly bouncer: ‘Will you please call a policeman? We shall wait right here until he arrives.’ We didn’t have to wait long. The cop on the beat had been at the bar all the while, partaking of free beer and sandwiches.

“Of course, it was self-defense, no charges were filed, and Betsy became something of a heroine in the local press. She was even commended by the mayor for her bravery and skill with a pistol.”

Lady Agatha’s face flushed with excitement, her breast heaved and she breathed heavily. Presently she sputtered, “What a fabulous story. And I had no idea what a remarkable girl she was. How I wish I’d been there. At any rate, it seems Betsy should have nothing to fear from that rotter, Sir Henry.”

Marcia stared pensively for a moment before answering: “I certainly hope that’s the case, Aggie.” Then she poured more tea and buttered another muffin, adding a large dollop of refreshing raspberry jam.

Based upon Achille’s evidence, and with the backing of Chiefs Féraud and Bertillon, the
juge d’instruction
, Magistrate Leblanc, issued a warrant for Jojo’s arrest and an order for his investigative detention in
La Conciergerie
. The infamous prison adjacent to the
Palais de Justice
, formerly referred to as the “antechamber to the guillotine,” had been rebuilt during the Second Empire. Following the reconstruction, the mostly modern structure had retained the forbidding aspect of a medieval fortress along with its grim reputation. Deep in the bowels of that dreaded prison, its slate towers looming over the banks of the Seine as a warning to all criminals, Joseph Rossini,
aka
Jojo the Clown, sat despondently on a hard, narrow wooden bench in a dank cell. He stared at the stone walls and iron bars like an animal in the slaughterhouse pen. But unlike a dumb beast Jojo had a guilty conscience, and that sharp human knowledge of guilt tormented him with images of swift justice and harsh retribution.

Jojo rested his elbows on his knees, closed his eyes, and covered his face with his hands.
Why did I do it? I was making good money at the circus. I was popular, a featured act.
The answer of course was gold, and he hadn’t been paid for the last job, the one that had got him caught.
It isn’t fair.
Jojo recalled a life of neglect and cruelty. He blamed his deformity for his misfortunes, and he had taken out his resentment on those weaker than himself, most particularly the young girls who had worked the streets for him. But now all his pent up rage and bitterness against an unjust world was turned on his employer.
Why should I take the fall? I didn’t harm the girl. I was nothing but an errand boy, and an ill-used one at that.

Thumping boots echoing down the arched corridor, the clicking of a key turning the lock, the sliding of a bolt and the creak of a heavy iron door swinging on its hinges interrupted Jojo’s ruminations. “C’mon Jojo, my lad” barked the guard, “it’s time for a friendly chat with the Magistrate.”

Sir Henry and Betsy exited the
auberge
and proceeded down a gravel path winding through the acacias until they reached a gateway that opened onto a narrow cobblestoned street. Betsy wore a gray traveling coat, a jaunty little veiled black hat and scarf, and she carried an umbrella. The air had a singular freshness to it, a crisp autumnal bite and unmistakable fragrance that betokened rain. A bracing breeze stirred, scattering un-raked leaves, rattling semi-nude branches, and fluttering her scarf and the black-ribbon furbelow on her coat. Sir Henry was elegantly turned out in a Savile Row suit and bowler hat. He took her arm possessively as he escorted her through town in the direction of the old bridge.

As they passed by bright yellow- and white-walled shops and stalls, many of the townspeople took a moment from their occupation to admire the handsome couple; but they didn’t gape or let the visitors’ presence overly distract them; they were used to well-heeled tourists down from Paris for a day or two’s sightseeing.