The Devil in Montmartre (36 page)

In the early morning on October 11, Virginie left a note for her concierge. She would be out of town on business for three days, returning on the 14th, providing adequate time for recovery before returning to her flat.

Henry operated brilliantly. The procedure was a complete success and he had the satisfaction of knowing that his new technique for vaginal hysterectomy had preceded the great Péan by three days. Respecting his patient’s need for privacy, he felt honor bound never to reveal his surgical triumph. But he didn’t mind the constraints of secrecy; knowing that he had succeeded where others had failed was sufficient compensation. Then Betsy Endicott entered the scene.

On the day he had planned to take Virginie back to her flat, he was shocked to find Betsy, disguised as a man, standing at the bedside. She told him a story he never really believed. Betsy had hired Jojo to locate Virginie. She wanted to bribe the girl to keep her away from Marcia, and she used a disguise to avoid scandal. When she arrived at the flat she found Virginie sound asleep. Betsy noticed a bottle of morphine and hypodermic kit on the bedside table and assumed the girl was heavily sedated. She was about to leave when Henry returned from witnessing the operation at Péan’s clinic. Henry examined Virginie immediately. She was dead, apparently from a fatal overdose.

Did he inadvertently administer the overdose earlier that day, or did Betsy intervene with malicious intent? He would never know for certain. Regardless, the operation had been a success but the patient was dead. Under the circumstances, he feared a scandal that would ruin his career. But worse than the charge of medical malpractice was the possibility of criminal charges, up to and including murder. Betsy offered him a way out of his dilemma. Jojo would dispose of the body; they could frame up someone else for the crime. She had it all worked out beautifully. And there were added incentives for going along with her scheme. There was Betsy, marriage, and a share in her fortune.

Sir Henry kept staring at Betsy as she slept peacefully in their bed. He smiled resignedly and shook his head.
The goddess of fortune’s a capricious whore
, he thought.

He remembered the story Betsy had told him about the two Barbary Coast thugs she had shot in self defense.
Is the revolver in her handbag?
Sir Henry crept noiselessly to the chair where she had left her things. He opened her purse and felt for the weapon. Immediately recognizing the smooth ivory grip, the cool nickel-plated cylinder, barrel, and frame, he removed the revolver.
The gun and Betsy could be my ticket out of here
, he thought.

He dressed quickly, then struck a match and lit a candle on the dresser. In the dim golden light he opened the revolver to check the cylinder.
Fully loaded, just as I expected; she’s a smart girl to be prepared.
Smiling at the sight of five brass cartridges, he closed the top-break revolver with a loud metallic snap.

Betsy moaned and stirred under the sheets. Sir Henry walked to the bed, sat on the edge of the mattress, and gently placed his left hand over her mouth while the right gripped the Smith & Wesson. Her eyelids fluttered and then opened wide; the sharp gray eyes stared at him questioningly.

“Hush darling,” he whispered. “We’re in a bit of a tight corner, I’m afraid. We’ll have to leave at once.”

Her eyes glared at him, and she noticed the gun. He withdrew his hand and she hissed, “What the devil’s going on?”

Her petulance excited him. For an instant he wondered if he could have her once more before they left. He shook his head. “Sorry, my dear; I’m afraid the police have us surrounded. My guess is they picked up Jojo and made him talk.” He got up from the mattress and pointed the pistol at her. “Please get dressed now, and make as little noise as possible.”

Glaring at him, she whipped away the covers angrily, flashing a full view of her naked body. The sight of her firm, rosy-nippled breasts, flat stomach, round hips, long legs, and brown-tufted mons Veneris glowing with perspiration, coupled with the looming specter of violent death, aroused and stimulated his senses like an intra-venous injection of cocaine.

He leered at her as she slid off the bed and slinked to the chair by the dresser. She slithered into her Victorian outer layer of linen, lace, and silk, slowly and suggestively, while her smoldering eyes fixed on his. Betsy’s erotic movements and gestures were a calculated distraction. Thrilled by her performance, Sir Henry failed to notice as she palmed the hidden Derringer from its garter holster, executing this feat with all the deceptive skill of a magician or a Barbary Coast gambler dealing seconds.

As she finished dressing, he walked to the window, intermittently glancing back to keep an eye on her. He peered through the closed pane and the shutter slats. A couple of pinpoints of light glimmered behind the acacias.
They’re out there, all right. I’ve always thought the police were an assortment of unimaginative plodders and dimwitted thugs, but apparently the French have a clever detective.

He turned toward Betsy and saw her standing with the Derringer aimed at him. She had stealthily advanced a few paces while his back was turned, to close the range and make sure of her shot.

He smiled with admiration.
She is indeed extraordinary. I’ll never find another like her.
“Well my dear,” he said, “I believe this is what your American dime novels call a standoff.”

She replied with a cold, hard edge to her voice. “You’re wrong, Henry. A standoff implies equality, and there’s nothing equal about our present situation. I’m ready and aimed; at this distance I can’t miss. You, on the other hand, have my revolver at your side. I could drop you before you leveled your weapon and got off a shot.”

“Ah, but you have one bullet to my five. That little pop-gun might misfire or jam. They often do, you know.”

“This is a Remington Double Derringer, two shots instead of one. It’s quite reliable and I maintain my firearms in good order. After all, a woman must protect herself from all the predators prowling this wicked planet. You killed Virginie Ménard with an overdose of morphine. I did my best to help you. But now it appears the game’s up and the police are after
you
. All the evidence points to you. I made sure of that. Even if Jojo talks, he can’t identify me. I made sure of that, too.”

He sighed. “You can’t be absolutely certain, my dear. I’d say we’re in this together, right to the end.”

“No Henry, I wouldn’t say that. At the very worst they might charge me as an accessory after-the-fact. If that happens, I’ll hire the best lawyers and cooperate with the authorities. I can play your victim convincingly. I’m sure the French judges will sympathize with a woman in my position.”

Sir Henry laughed bitterly. “I always suspected you gave Virginie the overdose and set me up for the fall, but it may surprise you to learn I don’t care. I love you, Betsy. If you come with me, I shan’t harm you. I need you to evade the police. When we were walking about town I noticed some boats at a secluded landing. I handle a boat quite well. I rowed at Oxford, you know. Help me escape and we can remain together, or you can leave me at your first opportunity. You may keep the Derringer for insurance.”

“You’ll never get out of France. I doubt you’ll get much further than the front gate, with me or not. At any rate, I’m not going with you. You’re on your own. And I’ll thank you to leave my revolver on the bed. You might shoot someone, and I won’t have that on my conscience.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed; his tone hardened. “I’ll go it alone then, but I’ll take your gun. Without it I’d be as defenseless as a creature in the jungle without its fangs and claws.”

Betsy’s features transformed into an inscrutable mask. “Then you’ll be as vulnerable as the women you suckered with your ‘treatments’. I don’t pity you.We had an amusing fling, Henry, but I never trusted you. Put the revolver on the bed now, or you won’t leave this room alive.”

He shook his head with resolve. “No, I’m taking the pistol. If you intend to kill me, you’ll have to shoot me in the back. Good-bye, my dear. Remember I loved you.”

He turned and walked toward the door. As he grasped the brass doorknob, Betsy aimed at the back of his head and squeezed the trigger. The Derringer flashed and popped like a firecracker; black powder from the expended .41 caliber cartridge emerged from the barrel in a plume of grey smoke, filling the small room with its acrid stench. The bullet grazed his left temple and spent itself on the oak door.

Sir Henry wiped the wound with his left hand, glared at the blood, spun round and leveled the revolver at Betsy. “You bloody bitch!”

She did not hesitate. Betsy aimed and fired the second barrel. The bullet punched a gaping hole in Sir Henry’s forehead, lodging itself deep within his brain. He squeezed the Smith & Wesson’s trigger in a reflex action, firing a shot that struck her chest and entered the heart. Bulging eyes staring into the void, blood streaming down his once handsome face, he staggered two steps, slumped to his knees, and fell forward unconscious at her feet. Betsy collapsed and lay prone by his side.

Two
brigadiers
with drawn revolvers burst into the room, followed by Achille and Féraud. The dark room blazed with light from the policemen’s lanterns. Betsy and Sir Henry sprawled together on the floor, unconscious and dying in a pool of commingled blood.

Achille examined the bodies and frowned. He felt cheated, somehow. Their last willful actions had thwarted his fine sense of justice.
I wanted to bring them in for questioning. Now, the missing pieces to this puzzle will remain lost.
He glanced up at Féraud.“They’re both mortally wounded. We should call a surgeon, though nothing short of a miracle could save them. I guess he’ll just go through the formalities, pronounce them dead and sign the certificates.”

Chief Féraud shrugged, lit a cigar, and took a couple of puffs before saying, “Case closed, Achille. At least they spared us the trouble and expense of a trial.”

17

AFTERMATH

Anima ejus, et ánimæ ómnium fidélium defunctórum, per
misericórdiam Dei requiéscant in pace.

Amen.

F
ollowing Jojo’s instructions, the police discovered Virginie Ménard’s arms and legs buried in the abandoned windmill. Her remains were gathered together at the Morgue and then transported to Montmartre, where Toulouse-Lautrec had anonymously arranged for a modest funeral service and internment in the cemetery. Arthur and Marcia cabled their condolences from England.

Virginie’s grave was located in a shady, crowded corner beneath the iron latticework viaduct over which the busy Rue Caulaincourt passes. Poets, artists, writers, actors, and musicians kept her company, their final resting place within walking distance of the Moulin Rouge. On this particularly bright blue autumn afternoon, a brisk wind stirred chestnuts and poplars, scattering leaves over the tombs and paved walkways.

A small group of mourners attended the graveside ceremony. Among them were Virginie’s aunt and uncle from Rouen. They wore black, stood apart from the others, looked sad, spoke to no one except the priest, and put on airs as though they had paid for the funeral. Achille and Adele were there, along with Chief Inspector Féraud, Le Boudin, Marie, Delphine, the Gunzberg brothers, and the painters Lautrec and Bernard. Following the service they all sprinkled dirt on the casket and took a flower from a small display as a memento. The Merciers then made a hasty departure, as though fleeing from their unfortunate niece’s ghost.

Le Boudin and his small entourage approached Achille, Adele, and Féraud. The tough old one-handed legionnaire wiped tears on his sleeve. He coughed into his hand and cleared his throat. Then, his voice still half-choked with emotion, he addressed Achille formally as though he were speaking to a superior officer. “Inspector Lefebvre, I, my family and friends owe you a debt of honor that can never be fully repaid. You pursued justice in an unjust world, you defended the rights of those who are rejected by society, outcasts who—” Le Boudin stopped and took a deep breath. Then: “I’m sorry, Monsieur. I prepared a fine speech for the occasion, but it makes me sound like a politician. What I really want to say is this. You’re a damn good man, and France could use more like you. If you ever need my help in future, you know where to find me. And I speak for the
chiffoniers
and most of the folks in the Zone.”

Achille smiled and shook hands. “I ought to thank
you
, Monsieur. Without your help, and the assistance of Mlle Lacroix and the Gunzberg boys I couldn’t have cracked this case.” Then he turned to Delphine. He wanted to say something personal, but under the circumstances and considering the nature of the women’s relationship he had to choose his words carefully. He spoke gently, but appropriately. “I grieve for the loss of your friend, Mademoiselle. At least there was some justice for her; may she rest in peace.”

Delphine nodded silently, turned and walked away; Le Boudin, Marie, and the Gunzbergs bowed politely and followed her.

Émile Bernard seemed overcome with emotion; he did not linger. He returned to his studio where he had begun and rubbed out many sketches of Virginie, all drawn from an imperfect memory. Lautrec remained to pay his respects to Achille and Féraud. Achille introduced the artist to Adele.

“Adele, this is M. de Toulouse-Lautrec, a fine artist. His studio’s not far from here.”

Lautrec doffed his bowler, looked up at the handsome young woman and smiled. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mme. Lefebvre. I’m indebted to your husband. If it were not for his detective skills and dedication to the cause of justice I might now be languishing in prison. If there’s anything you want of me, I’m at your service.”

Adele’s eyes lit up at the offer. “Oh Monsieur, we have a charming little daughter. Her fifth birthday’s not far off, and I’d so much like a portrait of her.”

Achille frowned and half-whispered to Adele: “Really, my dear, you ask for too much.”

Lautrec laughed. “Nonsense, Inspector; I’d be pleased to paint the child’s portrait. You may call upon me at my studio or contact me through Joyant’s gallery. We’ll set up an appointment for a sitting at your convenience. Now I must be off. Madame, I’m delighted to have made your acquaintance.
Au revoir
, Messrs.” The sometimes cynical and acerbic artist left them with a sunny smile and another polite tip of his hat.