The Devil in Montmartre (11 page)

“Stuff and nonsense! We’ll have you up and about in no time. What you need is work, my girl; a new project, a painting for the ages, something to equal or surpass the best of the Mark Brownlow
oeuvre
.”

She stared at him with tear-moistened eyes. “I do have an idea, Arthur. Let me show you.” She got up and walked to the coffee table with more vigor than she had shown in days. After fetching her sketchbook, she returned to the tea table. Marcia opened the book to her drawing of Virginie and handed it to Arthur. “Tell me what you think.”

Arthur examined the pastel sketch. “It’s beautiful, Marcia. But then, you always had a knack for portraiture. Who is she?”

“A model I met at Cormon’s
Atelier
. I want to use her for a painting with strong social commentary, something along the lines of Luke Fildes.”

Arthur had his doubts about the project, but he did not let that dampen his enthusiasm. “I think that’s a splendid concept, and you can bring it to fruition in Rye as well as anywhere else. You might also receive Fildes’s blessing; we’re still on quite good terms and he might be flattered by your emulation.”

“Oh Arthur, I think it might work. But how would I break it to Betsy?”

Ever the pragmatist, he asked, “How are you fixed financially?”

“I have a few thousand in a San Francisco bank, and Van Gogh thinks I can get another thousand—that’s dollars, not francs—for my Silver Medal landscape. And Goupil will represent my new work in their gallery, too.”

Arthur smiled. “That’s more than enough, and of course you’ll be staying with me rent free and meals
gratis
. And I’m good friends with an excellent doctor who lives nearby.” He approached Marcia, took her hand, and gave sensible advice as gently as possible. “If what you say about Betsy and Sir Henry is true, perhaps a break is best for all concerned.”

Marcia stared at him for a moment. Then: “I’m inclined to agree, Arthur; but it’s much easier said than done.”

“Papa’s home! Papa’s home!” The little girl broke free from her nanny and scampered in a flurry of curls, ribbons, and lace through the front hall to Achille. He swept her into his arms, kissed her rosebud mouth, and hugged and squeezed her until she giggled. “I miss you, Papa. Why are you never here?”

Achille stroked her silky golden hair. “I’m sorry, little one. Papa’s very busy keeping Paris safe from wicked people.”

“Wicked people? Do you mean the Germans, the Jews, and the Freemasons?”

Achille stared over the child’s shoulder at Adele; she looked away and fussed with some frills on her dress. Jeanne had obviously been listening to her grandmother. He looked back at his daughter and smiled. “No, my angel, I mean the wicked people who break the laws of the Republic.”

Confused, Jeanne pouted and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Achille put her down and handed her back to the nanny. He waited until they were out of earshot before speaking to Adele:

“I wish your mother wouldn’t fill the child’s head with reactionary rubbish.”

Adele pouted like her little girl. “I’m sorry, Achille. I can’t correct Mama.”

His patience wearing thin, he replied harshly: “Well, perhaps it’s time someone did. I won’t have my four-year-old daughter’s mind polluted with extremist propaganda.”

Adele’s face reddened; she was on the verge of tears. “You
finally
come home at a decent hour, and the first thing you do is criticize mother and pick a quarrel over nothing. You didn’t even notice my new dress. It’s your favorite color; or at least you used to
say
it was your favorite.”

Achille calmed himself. He took a moment to admire the green silk gown trimmed with lace ruches. His voice softened. “It’s very pretty; the fabric matches your emerald eyes, it brings out their luster.” He walked to her, put his hands on her shoulders and smiled. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m tired. I just wish your mother would be more careful about expressing such controversial views around Jeanne.”

Adele had the pleased look of a wife who had won yet another minor skirmish with her husband. “Well, since you liked my dress and apologized nicely I’ll permit you to kiss me.”

He kissed her lips and held her tightly until he heard a familiar rustle of silk, creaking of stays, and smelled the sharp odor of camphor transfused with sweet overtones of attar of roses. Madame Berthier entered the hallway. A dumpy woman in her fifties with a vestige of prettiness around her hazel eyes and full red lips, Madame looked like a Gallic Queen Victoria dressed in old-fashioned black bombazine crinoline and white widow’s cap. “Good evening, Achille. It was most kind of Chief Inspector Féraud to permit you an evening with your family.”

“Good evening, Madame.” Achille walked to his mother-in-law, bent down, and kissed her proffered cheek. “I have the pleasure of dining
en famille
this evening, but I’m afraid I must retire to my study immediately after dinner. I must finish my report for tomorrow morning.”

Madame smiled, displaying crooked yellowish teeth and spreading dozens of wrinkles through a layer of white powder round her eyes and rouged mouth. “I’m honored to have a son-in-law so devoted to his duty. It’s a shame you can’t turn your singular talents toward rooting out France’s
real
enemies rather than chasing common criminals through the gutters of Montmartre.”

Achille glanced at Adele with a wry smile before inquiring: “Oh, and who might these
real enemies
be, Madame?”

“Read Monsieur Drumont’s
La France Juive
and you will be enlightened, my boy.”

Adele interrupted judiciously: “We’re having veal chops with sorrel and an excellent Chateau Haut-Brion. I think you’ll prefer it to your usual sandwich and bottle of beer.”

Madame grimaced at the mention of her son-in-law’s common, workday supper. “Beer,” she muttered, “how disgusting.”

Achille laughed. “To what do we owe this feast? Is it some special occasion of which I’m unaware?”

“Yes, my dear,” Adele answered with a smile. “It’s to celebrate your dining at home.”

The dinner was superb, but after two hours of listening to Madame’s conspiracy theories, Achille was relieved to return to work. He sat at his desk bent over a typewriter, straining his eyes in the yellow glow of an oil lamp. Constantly referring to his notes and considering a number of leads developed from new evidence, he completed his report to Féraud.

In addition to the evidence he had discussed with Bertillon at the laboratory, he made two intriguing discoveries in records. First, a concierge on the Rue Lepic had reported a missing young woman, Virginie Ménard, and the police had questioned an artist named Émile Bernard who had been roaming Montmartre and Pigalle searching for the girl. The time of her disappearance and physical description matched what they knew from the corpse.

Second, he found a file on a dwarf, Joseph Rossini, aka Jojo the clown. Jojo was an ex-convict with a record of violence against women, a circus performer who rented a room on the Rue Lepic, not far from Virginie Ménard. His photographs looked like Lautrec’s twin, and his measurements matched the footprint cast and stride measured at the crime scene. Achille wondered what Rousseau’s investigation had turned up; at any rate, he’d know first thing in the morning. Achille finished typing, and turned his attention to the latent prints on the gold cigarette case.

In 1863, Paul-Jean Coulier, a chemistry professor, published his discovery that latent fingerprints could be developed on paper by iodine fuming. He also explained how to preserve the developed impression and mentioned the potential for identifying fingerprints by use of a magnifying glass. Achille had read Coulier’s paper. But without a credible classification system and a sound argument for the individuality of fingerprints that could be accepted as evidence in a court of law, there was no practical use for them in criminal identification. Galton had provided the supporting argument for individuality and the classification system, what was needed was a means of capturing the prints at the crime scene so they might be compared to the suspect’s fingerprints and presented to the court.

Achille knew that the prints on the cigarette case were impressions made by the oily residue and perspiration on the fingertips. What he needed was a reagent, the equivalent of Coulier’s iodine fumes that could sufficiently enhance the prints so they could be classified accurately, photographed, and compared to the prints on the canvas.

He yawned, removed his pince-nez, rubbed his bleary eyes, and then focused on the loudly ticking desk clock. Eleven
P.M.
; time for bed. Achille rose from his desk, stretched his weary arms and legs, and walked to the doorway that entered into a short corridor leading to the master bedroom. He had already removed his shoes and changed into slippers to keep the carpets clean and not make too much noise. The gas was off; he groped through the shadows, careful not to trip over toys Jeanne often left on the runner. When he reached the bedroom door, he knocked gently. Adele bid him enter.

He saw her seated at her dresser. She had changed into a nightdress. Her hair was down, and she slowly brushed the long, brown strands while gazing at her reflection in a lamp-lit mirror. Achille came up behind her, leaned down, brushed away some stray hairs and caressed her bare shoulder. She put down the hairbrush and accidentally knocked some face powder onto a silver box. “Oh,” she muttered. Then she bent over and blew away the powder.

The accident caught Achille’s attention. “Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “Don’t move; don’t touch anything.”

“What’s the matter, dear?” Adele turned around with a worried frown. But Achille was already out the door, sprinting up the corridor toward his study. She heard a crash and a cry of “
Merde
!” Achille had tripped over Jeanne’s toy duck, Oscar.

Presently he returned, limping and rubbing his knee with one hand and carrying his magnifying glass in the other. Scowling, he muttered, “Nanny must teach Jeanne not to leave her toys in the hallways, or at least pick up after her.”

“Yes, dear, I’ll speak to them. But what’s all the fuss? What are you doing with that glass?”

Achille forgot his throbbing knee. He bent over the dressing table and examined the silver box. “My dear, we’re conducting an important experiment in forensic science.”

He handed the glass to Adele. “Here, see for yourself.”

“Oh, very well,” she grumbled. “What am I looking at?”

“Your fingerprints enhanced with face powder.”

“How disgusting!” She handed back the magnifying glass with a peevish glare. “Why is it so important?”

Achille explained patiently. “Fingerprints might be significant to the solution of the mystery surrounding my case. They can provide the missing pieces to a puzzle that, when completed, could catch a dangerous criminal. But I’m breaking new ground, practically writing the book as I proceed.” He lowered his voice, smiled, and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry if my behavior seems peculiar at times, but I’m under pressure and it’s a matter of the utmost urgency. Your little accident put me on the right track, and I’m grateful. Now, I just need to find something, a fine dark powder that will increase the definition of the lines so they can be clearly identifiable and photographable as well.”

Adele grasped his hand and rose from her chair. She smiled, looked into Achille’s eyes and spoke softly: “I think I understand a little now. Perhaps it might help if you shared your work with me, from time to time. Not the grisly things, but your theories, your methods, your problems. I’ll help, if I can.”

He kissed her. “Thank you, I’d like that very much.”

“All right, it’s a bargain. And now, Inspector, I’m going to test your powers of observation further. Have you noticed anything different about me?”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see now. Does is it go with your new dress?”

“Good question; you’re warm.”

He sniffed her neck and bosom. “Ah, I detect a new fragrance.”

“Bravo! And you approve?”

Achille opened her night dress and caressed her breasts. “Yes,” he whispered. “It’s perfection.”

“Inspector Lefebvre, for your unerring skill as a detective, excellent taste in perfume, and unwavering devotion to duty, I award you the highest honor I can bestow.” She lifted his hand, smiled mischievously, and nibbled his fingers.