The Devil in Montmartre (34 page)

“Yes Chief Inspector. Aside from M. Duroc’s blunders, I’d say your bureau has performed splendidly.”

At that moment, both Rousseau and Duroc would have gladly slunk out the door on all fours. Achille felt sorry for them.

“Gentlemen,” Leblanc continued, “I’m going to issue a warrant for Collingwood’s arrest. However, before doing so I want to question Rossini. He might provide useful information if he thinks it will save his neck, and the prosecutor can use him as a witness against Sir Henry. Do we have Collingwood under surveillance?”

“Yes M. Leblanc,” Achille replied. “He’s registered at the Grand Hotel, but he’s currently staying at an
auberge
in Moret-sur-Loing. There’s an American woman with him, Mlle Endicott. I’ve wired the Prefecture of Police to keep an eye on them. We don’t believe she’s in danger, at least not yet. She’s very wealthy, and it’s likely Sir Henry intends to propose marriage. In my opinion, the suspect is more likely to choose his victims from among women without money, property, or social connections.”

The Magistrate shook his head and frowned. “Ah, the woman complicates things. You’ll need to be very careful when making the arrest. You and Chief Féraud should go there at once to supervise.”

“We’ve already made arrangements with the
gendarmerie
. The Chief and I will leave by special train as soon as you issue the warrant.”

“Very well; let’s bring in Rossini.” The Magistrate glared at Duroc. “Your presence is no longer required.” The chastened detective bowed curtly and left without a word. Duroc would spend the rest of the day exploring opportunities in the Colonial police. Then to Bertillon: “Chief Inspector Bertillon, I want to thank you and your department, for your expert services and advice in this case. I invite you to remain for the interrogation, unless you have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Thank you, M. Leblanc, I’ll stay. Jojo’s an interesting criminal type, a prime example of atavism, a primitive throwback to an earlier stage of human evolution. His measurements and photographs have already made a useful contribution to my rogues’ gallery.”

Leblanc nodded. “The rascal’s where he belongs—in a cage. At any rate, let’s see what the creature has to say for himself.”

A burly guard brought in the manacled prisoner followed by a clerk to record the proceedings in shorthand. The guard kept Jojo standing until the Magistrate gave him permission to be seated. Jojo shook visibly; sweat beaded on his forehead. His eyes shifted round the room from one stern face to the next. The inspectors reminded him of the witnesses to an execution; the
juge d’instruction
displayed the cool detachment, efficiency, and grim visage of the public executioner; the clerk seemed like the executioner’s assistant.

Leblanc’s deep, powerful voice echoed through the room as he summarized the evidence against the prisoner. Finally, in summation: “According to law, as an accomplice to murder you are equally guilty and subject to the same penalty as the perpetrator. Have you anything to say before I turn the case over to the prosecutor?”

Jojo’s lips moved but he couldn’t speak. His mouth dried; his throat constricted.

The Magistrate grinned triumphantly. “You seem to be having some difficulty speaking. Would you like a glass of water and a cigarette?”

Jojo nodded his head rapidly. Leblanc gestured to the guard, who poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the Magistrate’s desk and handed it to Jojo, who took it between his shackled hands. He gulped the water, coughed, cleared his throat, and drained the glass. “Thank you, Monsieur,” he grunted. The guard took the empty glass and produced a cigarette and a box of matches. He placed the cigarette between Jojo’s lips and gave him a light. Jojo inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.

“That’s better, eh? Now then, Rossini, is there something you want to say to me? Remember, my boy, confession’s good for the soul.” Leblanc gazed at Jojo with what might have easily been mistaken for a benign smile.

Jojo lifted his manacled hands and removed the cigarette. He had already decided that cooperation was the only way to save himself. “Yes, Monsieur Magistrate. I performed services for the American lady.”

There was a shocked silence in the room as the Inspectors and Magistrate stared in bewilderment at each other before focusing all their attention back on Jojo.

The Magistrate continued. “American lady, you say? Do you know her name?”

“No Monsieur, I do not, but Claude Duval, the night porter at the Grand Hotel, sent her to me. He might know. She wore a disguise, a false beard and glasses, but I could tell her nationality from the accent. As for her sex, let’s just say I could tell. But I played along with her. After all, she paid well and I had no reason to question her masquerade.”

“How and when did this woman first contact you?”

Jojo thought a moment before replying, “That was Sunday, the 11th of this month. She came to my flat in Montmartre.”

“You mentioned ‘services.’ What was the nature of these ‘services’? Why would this woman come to you?”

Jojo took another drag on the cigarette before answering. “At first, nothing more than to locate a girl, Virginie Ménard. Then later, there were other things.” He looked down at his trembling hands.

“What were the ‘other things’?”

Without looking up, Jojo said, “On occasion I’ve been known to dispose of things people wanted to be rid of. The lady must have learned about my—disposal service.”

The guard suppressed a laugh and drew a reproving glare from the Magistrate.

Leblanc frowned; his eyes hardened, his voice regained its harshness. “The ‘things’ you disposed of were human bodies and body parts, including the torso and head of Virginie Ménard. When did you first perform that little service?”

“I put the headless torso in the cesspit early the morning of the 15th, before the night soil collectors made their rounds.”

“I see. And you left the torso in the cesspit along with a gold cigarette case you stole from M. de Toulouse-Lautrec in an attempt to fix the blame on him.”

Jojo looked up with alarm. “Oh no, Monsieur, I didn’t steal it. That was the Englishman’s job. I swear it!”

“What Englishman? Can you give me his name?”

“Sir Henry Collingwood. I believe he and the lady were . . . are intimate. Anyway, they both wanted to get rid of the . . . the body.”

The Magistrate stared at Jojo in stunned silence. Despite his many years of experience with criminals from all walks of life, he found it hard to believe that a wealthy socialite could be involved in such a brutal crime. Nevertheless, he would follow the evidence wherever it might lead. After a moment, he proceeded in a cold, accusatory tone. “Very well, Rossini, when that first scheme failed, you threw the victim’s head in a dust-bin and tried to frame Moïse Gunzberg as an agent of the Jews and Freemasons!”

Jojo’s eyes widened; his whole body shook and broke out in a sweat. “I swear before God, Monsieur, I had nothing to do with the girl’s death or the schemes! I just did as the lady told me. I . . . I disposed of things and. . . .”

The Magistrate’s eyes narrowed; his voice lowered to an audible whisper. “And what else, Jojo?”

Jojo looked down at his chained hands. “I . . . helped her ambush and chloroform the kid. Then I changed clothes with Gunzberg, put him in the ragman’s cart, and dumped the package in the
poubelle
to fool the cop watching my flat. And there was more.” Jojo glanced fearfully at Rousseau before continuing: “She told me to feed false information to Inspector Rousseau, to stir up trouble between him and Inspector Lefebvre.”

Rousseau clenched his fists and glared at Jojo. “You little rat!” he growled.

“Control yourself, Inspector,” the Magistrate admonished.

Rousseau stared at his shoes and mumbled an apology. “Pardon me, Monsieur Magistrate.” The room was silent except for the ticking of the clock. Then the Magistrate ordered: “Look at me, Rossini.”

Jojo raised his head slowly. There were tears in his eyes.

“Do you think you could identify the woman?”

“I . . . I’d recognize her voice, Monsieur Magistrate.”

“What if you heard her speak and she were dressed in her disguise?”

“Yes Monsieur; I’m sure I could identify her.”

Leblanc nodded. Then: “Guard, you may return the prisoner to his cell.” He waited for Jojo, the guard, and the clerk to leave before addressing Chief Bertillon. “M. Bertillon, is it possible you made a mistake in identifying the handwriting on the letter to the newspaper?”

His customary self-confidence shaken for the moment, Bertillon replied, “It’s possible, M. Leblanc. The woman might have done a good job copying Collingwood’s handwriting. It’s happened before.”

He turned next to Achille. “Inspector Lefebvre, did you have any reason to suspect a woman was actively involved in this case?”

Achille frowned and shook his head. “No, Monsieur, I did not. I was aware that a wealthy American woman, Mlle Endicott, had formed a relationship with Sir Henry, but my chief concern was for her safety. Frankly, I was shocked when Jojo implicated her in the crime. Even now, I’m not convinced she’s a willing participant. Perhaps Sir Henry has coerced her into criminal complicity?”

A wry smile spread over Rousseau’s fleshy lips. He remained prudently silent while thinking,
A nice excuse for missing a suspect. So the professor’s not perfect, after all.

The Chief noticed Rousseau’s knowing smirk and sensed Achille’s discomfort. He immediately intervened on behalf of his favorite detective. “Gentlemen, this new twist in the case has taken us all by surprise. I say we bring them both in for questioning. At the very least, the woman could be a key witness in our case against Sir Henry. Anyway, the Magistrate will soon get to the bottom of it.”

The Magistrate nodded his agreement. “Very well; I’m issuing a warrant for Sir Henry Collingwood’s arrest. The sooner he’s locked up and questioned the better. I’ll also issue a warrant for Mlle Endicott. And pick up Claude Duval, the night porter at the hotel who allegedly referred her to Jojo. If both he and Jojo identify Mlle Endicott as this mysterious woman posing as a man—” The Magistrate paused a moment before continuing: “Well then, gentlemen, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

16

OCTOBER 22, EVENING

F
éraud and Achille arrived at the Gare de Lyon shortly after sunset. They hustled through the crowded entrance hall to the train shed where the passengers queued. The inspectors officially jumped the queue, flashed their credentials, and moved on rapidly in the direction of a gated platform guarded by a
brigadier
. The guard saw them coming and looked up at the station clock. They were right on schedule. He checked their tricolor badges, saluted, opened the gate and passed them through.

A hissing, chuffing engine with one passenger car attached waited for them up the platform. An attendant spotted them and opened the compartment door. He handed a telegram to Féraud. “We just received a wire from the Prefecture of Police. You should arrive at the station in forty minutes. A
brigadier
will be there with a
diligence
to take you and Inspector Lefebvre into town.”

Féraud stuffed the envelope into his pocket and thanked the attendant. Then he and Achille stepped up into the compartment and took their seats opposite each other, the attendant locked the door, and signaled the engine driver with a wave. The engineer checked his pressure gauges, released the brake, opened the throttle, and gave a blast on the whistle. High above the platform, in the control tower, switches were thrown; the engine chugged and rumbled its way slowly up the siding, gaining speed as it entered the great iron spiderweb of rails and switches that shunted and shuttled trains into, out of, and around the enormous iron and glass shed.

As the train exited the station, Achille said, “This might seem odd, Chief, but all things considered I feel sorry for Rousseau. It’s too bad he couldn’t come with us and see the case through to the end.”

Féraud shook his head and smiled wryly. “You’re much too generous, Achille. I’ve known Rousseau for more than twenty years. He was a good detective, but this final blunder has ended his career. He’s off the case, and I expect to see his resignation on my desk when we return to headquarters. Rousseau let that little shit Jojo make a fool of him. I won’t be too hard on him for old times’ sake, but he’s lost face with the brigade; he’s finished, end of story.”

Achille glanced down at his folded hands. After a moment he looked up with a troubled frown. “I completely missed the woman, Chief. I must take blame for that, although I still doubt she’s a willing participant in the murder. Perhaps she’s just in love and covering up for her lover?”

Féraud laughed.
“Cherchez la femme!
You’re a romantic, Achille. At any rate, I guess that old adage will take on a new meaning for you after this case. Seriously my boy, you did splendid work. I’m proud of you, and it will be reflected in my report. After all, you
were
right about Jojo and Sir Henry. The clown is singing like a canary. We’ll pick up the Englishman and the American woman, turn them over to the Magistrate for questioning, and let him sort things out.”

Oblivious to the car’s lurching and noise, Féraud stretched out, yawned, and pulled his bowler down over his eyes. “I suggest you try to get forty winks. It may be your last chance for some time.” With that pithy remark the chief drifted off into oblivion. Like the Great Napoleon, the chief was famous for his anytime, anywhere cat naps.

How can he sleep at a time like this?
Achille admired his chief’s sang-froid.
What would I do in his position?
Could he take on Féraud’s job? Could he manage the Sûreté or would he collapse under the pressure?

He worried about his family. Were they all right? Adele was still sleeping when he left the apartment at four
A.M.
He had sent a message telling her he would not be home that evening. It was not the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

The fact that his forensic investigation had focused his attention on Sir Henry and Jojo to the exclusion of other possibilities troubled him, despite the Chief’s reassuring words.
Virginie died of a morphine overdose. But who administered the fatal injection? Sir Henry performed the operation and the post-mortem amputations, but was he the murderer? Mlle Endicott had a motive. She was jealous of what she believed was Virginie’s relationship with Marcia Brownlow and perhaps of her relationship with Sir Henry, too. And she could have had the opportunity when Virginie was lying helpless and already sedated. Why didn’t I question her? Was it some pre-conceived notion that women like her don’t commit such crimes? If so, it’s a flaw in my thinking that must be corrected if I’m to excel as a detective.