The Devil in Montmartre (14 page)

The clerk smiled as he proudly extolled the clinic’s operations and its widespread reputation. “Sir Henry Collingwood is an eminent English physician and surgeon, a very affable gentleman. He’s on holiday in Paris, enjoying the Fair and the many attractions of our city. He takes a particular interest in gynecological surgery and therefore has come to our clinic to observe Dr. Péan’s world-renowned operations.”

“I see, so naturally I assume he would want to be present when Dr. Péan demonstrated a new and very important technique in his specialty?”

“Of course, Inspector. As I recall, Sir Henry was most keen to observe the vaginal hysterectomy.

Achille smiled amiably. “I assume you can provide me with a detailed description of the English gentleman?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Can you show me how many operations Sir Henry attended?”

“They’re all logged in the book. I believe the first was a few weeks ago.”

Achille examined the journal. It confirmed that Sir Henry had witnessed four gynecological surgeries: two abdominal hysterectomies (one with ovariotomy) and two mastectomies (one single, one double). Lautrec had also been present at these operations.

“I’m afraid I must take this journal to headquarters so the relevant pages can be copied. I apologize for the inconvenience. I’ll issue you a receipt and have the book returned by courier as soon as possible.”

“Oh very well, Inspector,” the clerk replied with an air of annoyance.

This peevishness irritated Achille; the clerk had a civic duty to cooperate. But he maintained his composure and congenial smile. He needed the clerk’s cooperation, and he understood how an investigation interfered with the ordinary citizen’s routine; unlike the “old boys” (Rousseau being a prime example), he rarely resorted to intimidation. “Now Monsieur, I have a question about the dispensary. Have you had any report of missing supplies, most particularly narcotics, sedatives, or anesthetics such as morphine, chloroform, or chloral hydrate?”

“No, Inspector; the apothecary keeps those items in a locked cabinet and maintains an inventory. Any suspected theft would have been reported to the police.”

“I see; does your apothecary replenish those items on a regular basis?”

“Of course; he orders them from a chemist. I can give you his name and address.”

Achille was pleased to note the clerk’s reversion to a more accommodating manner; his little snit appeared to have been temporary. “Thank you, Monsieur; you’ve been most helpful. Now, before I leave, I’ll need to interview all the doctors who assisted in the vaginal hysterectomy. If they’re unavailable today, I’ll require their addresses. I’ll also need contact information for the gentlemen who are listed in the journal, including Sir Henry.”

The clerk nodded. “I’ll do what I can to assist in your investigation.”

Achille trusted the offer of assistance was sincere. “Thank you, Monsieur. If anything turns up that you believe might be helpful, or you have any questions regarding this case, please don’t hesitate to contact me. You have my card.”

Arthur escorted Marcia to the Luxembourg gardens, where he hired a bath-chair and gallantly pushed her up and down, skirting puddles, fallen branches, and dead leaves scattered over the winding lanes. After a while, his increase in girth and years caught up with him. Puffing from unaccustomed exertion, he pulled to one side of a wide promenade, stopped, lifted his hat, and mopped his brow.

Marcia turned her head and looked up at him with a wistful smile. “Do you recognize this place?”

He gazed up the lane that forked round a fountain, with benches to the left, shrubbery and flowerbeds bordering the right. Beyond the fountain was a pair of statues in the Greco-Roman style, more benches, and an antique urn filled with bright red flowers. Further on, a staircase led to a white balustraded walkway fronting a stand of broad shade trees.

“By Jove, you painted this scene, didn’t you? As I recall, Betsy posed next to the fountain. She wore a bright yellow dress.”

“Your memory is sharp as a tack. That was eleven years ago when I was masquerading as Mark and Betsy fell in love with a man who never was.”

“Ah, yes,” Arthur sighed and said no more.

“Betsy and I lunched at a nice outdoor restaurant not far from here. A band was playing
Je suis Titania
. I wonder if it’s still there. The restaurant I mean.”

Arthur needed rest and refreshment and replied enthusiastically. “I know the place well. Shall we go there?”

“Oh yes, that would be lovely.”

They found a table under a breeze-ruffled awning where several floating leaves had settled. The band wasn’t playing; the only sounds were the distant shouts and laughter of children playing with hoops and balls, the trickle of a nearby fountain, chattering birds perched in tall, denuded branches, and the polite murmuring of their fellow lunchers.

Marcia picked at her roast chicken, but she enjoyed her wine. They made pleasant small talk, until she turned to the subject of Betsy. “This place brings back memories, Arthur. Now, I feel like a pentimento in her portrait; a ghostly, over-painted figure watching from a balcony while Betsy and Sir Henry make love in the garden below.”

For a moment, Arthur was at a loss for words. Then: “I realize this is difficult for you, but you’ve already indicated your intentions. A clean, amicable break seems best. And, by all accounts Sir Henry is a decent fellow.”

Marcia smiled wryly. “As an independent, freethinking woman I fear I must question his ‘decency.’ In my humble opinion, the diagnosis and treatment of ‘female hysteria’ is a medical dodge, a pseudo-scientific means of keeping us in our place. When one of our sex asserts herself, demands her right to vote and full equality under the law, and then reacts to all the abuse, ridicule, and scorn directed at her, it’s all too easy to say she’s ‘hysterical’ or suffering from ‘female troubles’ and prescribe treatments that range from the demeaning and humiliating to the brutal and cruel.”

Arthur found the subject awkward and embarrassing, but he had written about the inequality of women and was not unsympathetic to their plight. Nevertheless, he tried to divert the unwelcome drift with a question: “Have you found Sir Henry’s treatment unsatisfactory?”

Marcia thought a moment and took a sip of wine before answering. “No, I’d say he’s quite professional and he does have an excellent bedside manner. But then, my illness does not fall within his peculiar specialty. On the other hand, he might see Betsy as a subject ripe for his nostrums. She’s moody and unpredictable, especially when she drinks. What’s more, she’s past thirty and hasn’t been under the influence or domination of a man since she came of age. And of course, there’s her considerable fortune.”

Arthur sighed. “You paint a bleak picture. However, if Sir Henry were a bounder I doubt he’d be able to maintain such a sterling reputation and lucrative practice. People talk in London society, as you well know, and you can’t keep objectionable behavior covert for too long. People won’t know you; they’ll cut you dead in public.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Marcia sighed and turned to gaze at a stand of gently rustling beech trees.

Arthur hesitated; he wondered if Marcia’s worries were more the consequence of jealous envy than concern for her friend. Considering the hopelessness of her condition, he opted for the latter. “You might speak to Aggie Fitzroy. She was one of Sir Henry’s patients.”

Aggie Fitzroy, formerly Lady Agatha Clifford, was one of the great society beauties of the previous decade. As Mark Brownlow, Marcia had painted a portrait of Lady Agatha that caused a sensation and, for a brief time, they had been lovers. Marcia’s ears pricked up and her eyes widened at the mention of the name. “How is Aggie? I haven’t seen her in ages.”

Arthur already regretted mentioning Agatha, but he answered forthrightly. “She’s seen better days, I’m afraid. When she married Colonel Fitzroy she had quite a fortune from her first marriage, and she believed the Colonel was flush as well. After all, he had Brodemeade, a fine manor and lands. Everything looked beautiful on the surface, but was mortgaged to the hilt; Aggie didn’t learn the worst of it until four years ago when the colonel died. The whole kit and caboodle had to be sold to satisfy creditors; Aggie was lucky to keep some of her separate property. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Her health and looks declined along with her fortune. That’s why she consulted with Sir Henry. Now, she’s no longer welcomed in the best society, and from all accounts lives a sad and lonely life.”

“Poor Aggie,” Marcia murmured. “
Où sont la neiges d’antan?
She was once my ideal of the sublime and the beautiful. I’m afraid I’ve misspent my brief career chasing aesthetic butterflies.” She paused a moment; then: “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to the
Atelier
Cormon to ask about a model, Virginie Ménard. She may have inspired me to use what time I have left to do something important.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Could she be another of your ‘aesthetic butterflies’?”

Marcia laughed. “You’ll never change. Always ready with a caustic observation. But I know your secret, my old friend. Beneath that sardonic exterior beats a kind and generous heart. You’re just ashamed to show it.”

9

OCTOBER 17, MORNING, AFTERNOON AND EVENING

AN INTERVIEW

Y
our graphite powder has done the trick, Inspector. The lines on the fingerprints are as sharp and clear as can be.”

Gilles displayed his photographs with pride. He and Achille studied the results of their experiment aided by the bright morning light streaming through the windows in Bertillon’s laboratory. The photographs of the cigarette case with enhanced latent fingerprints had been set next to the photos of the stained cloth for comparison. After a minute of careful examination, Achille smiled.

Pointing first to the cigarette case and then to the cloth, Achille said, “You see the difference, Gilles? It’s most obvious in the thumbs. One has what’s called an ulnar loop; the other doesn’t. I’m certain these are the fingerprints of two different individuals.”

Gilles looked carefully and nodded. “I see, Inspector, but how does this aid your investigation?”

He replied cautiously. The new method of identification might be viewed as a radical challenge to Bertillon’s established system, though that was not what Achille intended. Rather, he conceived of fingerprinting as a supplement to the
portrait parlé
and anthropometrical method. But means of enhancing the prints and “lifting” images at the crime scene needed to be developed before the widespread fingerprinting of suspects became practical. Premature advocacy for the new system might subject Achille to ridicule, not to mention Chief Bertillon’s ire for poaching on his preserve. At this point, fingerprints might be useful, but only on a case-by-case basis. “If I can fingerprint a suspect and compare his prints to these photographs, I’ll either have evidence of criminal activity to support an accusation or exculpatory evidence to rule out that suspect. Either way, it’s a step forward in the investigative process.”

“I see, so all you need to do is haul in a suspect or two and fingerprint them.”

Achille smiled wryly. “Yes my friend, it’s as
simple
as that.”

He returned to his small corner office on the same floor as Féraud’s. Achille’s cubbyhole was in stark contrast to the chief’s cluttered workspace: neat, spotless, and well-organized, with little personalization and nothing whimsical or macabre. The only items that proclaimed his “ownership” were a nameplate and desk photographs of Adele and Jeanne. Otherwise, the place could have been exchanged with any other inspector assigned to the case.

Achille sipped lukewarm, black coffee and nibbled a stale brioche while reviewing his file and planning the rest of his day. Féraud had assigned him more detectives; he was pushing for results. He most particularly feared a surge of “Ripper mania” in the newspapers. Reporters were snooping round Montmartre, searching out every gossip and crackpot with a theory of the case. If the penny-a-liners couldn’t find anything sensational enough to satisfy their editors, they would surely make it up.

As for the leads, none of the hospitals had recently reported thefts of narcotics or anesthetics; the chemists and apothecaries provided lists of hundreds of Parisian doctors who routinely used the drugs in their practice, but so far they hadn’t turned up anyone connected to Virginie Ménard.

Lautrec’s tobacconist examined the cigarettes; he recognized the paper and the Turkish tobacco, but he swore he didn’t use opium in his blends. However, he did refer to tobacconists who included the drug for special customers, but further investigation hadn’t yet uncovered anything of interest.

The search through the art supply shops had also proved fruitless. There were more painters in Paris that used the particular type of canvas in which the torso was wrapped than doctors who administered narcotics and anesthetics. The old cliché applied; it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Tomorrow was Sunday, a day off, and Féraud was impatient. He wanted an arrest before another body turned up and made more of a stink in the newspapers. Rousseau was itching to arrest Lautrec. But the chief backed Achille, partly because he hesitated to accuse a descendant of Raymond, the great crusader. Not that Féraud gave a damn about nobility, but he was very sensitive when it came to the nation’s history and the honor of France.