The Devil in Montmartre (27 page)

“She followed Madame Mercier to the shed. They entered through a creaking, rusty-hinged back door. Pale light streamed in through the open gated doorway leading to the chute and the pigpen. Virginie could hear her ‘friends’ grunting and squealing in the background.

“Madame Mercier left Virginie in the middle of the shed near the butcher’s block. ‘Stay here, watch but don’t move,’ Madame ordered. Then she grabbed a heavy mallet from the block and walked toward the gate. Virginie’s eyes scanned the scene: the heavy wooden block with its assortment of knives and saws laid out like surgical instruments prior to an operation; the large iron pulley, block and tackle suspended from a ceiling beam; the zinc basins, buckets, barrels, and a wooden rack. These were unfamiliar to her, but she imagined what they might be used for. Her stomach knotted and her throat dried; her hands sweated and trembled.

“The gate swung open; Monsieur Mercier prodded the grunting pig one last time. It lurched forward into the shed and Virginie’s eyes widened in recognition. ‘It’s Buttercup! Please, please don’t hurt her!’ she cried, just as her aunt brought the mallet crashing down on the animal’s head. Stunned, Buttercup collapsed in a heap onto the sawdust-spread planking. Virginie ran to the pig and tried to help it onto its feet.

“Madame Mercier was a big, tough woman of thirty-five, twenty years younger than her husband. She dropped her mallet, grabbed Virginie by the shoulder, pulled her away from the pig, and spun her round. Then, with her other hand, Madame slapped the child’s face so hard it made her ears ring and her eyes see stars. A trickle of blood ran down Virginie’s cut lip.

“‘If you dare do that again,’ growled Madame, ‘I’ll give you such a hiding you won’t sit down for a week. Now shut up, stop sniveling, and watch!’

“Still half-dizzy from the blow, Virginie backed away and watched her aunt and uncle slaughter the pig. Madame tied one of Buttercup’s back feet to the block and tackle and hoisted her off the floor while Monsieur ran to the butcher’s block, grabbed a long, sharp knife, and then hustled back to the dangling pig. Virginie watched in silence as her uncle made a deep thrust into the center of the neck in front of the breastbone. Buttercup squealed and wriggled as her blood spurted and streamed into the collection vat, some of the fluid slopping over onto the sawdust-covered floor. After a few moments the pig lost consciousness and died.

“They forced her to watch and help in the butchering: scalding in a boiling vat, scraping, singeing and more scraping, skinning, gutting, removal of bladder and sex organs, the sawing, splitting and dressing, the racking and drying of offal. The stink of blood, guts, burned hair, shit, and piss, stuck in her nostrils and her memory. And as she worked, a hatred of her aunt and uncle grew inside her like a cancer, and that hatred made her stubborn. She would not slaughter and butcher pigs; she would not eat sausage, ham, or the Mercier’s special delicacy, pork pâté.

“Virginie paid a price for her stubbornness which her aunt tried to cure with constant scolding, slaps, starvation, and beatings on the bare backside with a birch. That would be tough on any kid, even someone like me who grew up on the streets. But Virginie was delicate, sensitive. She needed a protector. Monsieur was an old monkey of a man. He was afraid of Madame, and wouldn’t lift a finger to help his niece. When Ménard came along, Virginie was happy to run off with him to Paris. She would have done anything, short of murder, to get away from that place.”

Delphine stopped; she shuddered, as if she’d been speaking of her own suffering.

Achille put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Delphine, I know how difficult this is for you.” He paused a moment before pursuing: “Did Virginie know Sir Henry Collingwood?”

Both Delphine and Lautrec stared at Achille. Delphine spoke first: “She posed for him at the
Atelier
Cormon, Inspector. And on occasion, we posed together for him in private.”

“I didn’t know that,” Lautrec exclaimed.

Delphine eyed him coolly. “Yes, Monsieur, there are many things about Virginie you didn’t know.”

Achille followed up immediately. “Delphine, where did you and Virginie pose for Sir Henry? Can you give me the address?”

“Yes, Inspector. He rented a room in a cheap hotel here in Montmartre. If you have a pencil and paper, I’ll give you the address.”

Achille took down the address, and made a note to question the proprietor. Then: “You needn’t go into detail, but was there anything about these modeling sessions of which Virginie might have been—ashamed?”

Delphine looked at him directly. “We posed together nude and in each others arms. Perhaps you think that’s shameful?”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Lautrec muttered.

Achille shook his head. “I’m not here to pronounce moral judgment on you or Virginie. My purpose is to catch those responsible for her death and bring them to justice. Now, please think carefully. Can you recall any instances of private meetings between Virginie and Sir Henry?”

She thought a moment before answering, “I don’t know, Inspector. And you mentioned shame. Virginie did things she was ashamed of, and she suffered for it. I know she hadn’t gone to confession for some time. If she had met with Sir Henry she might have been ashamed to say anything about it—even to me.” She paused, glanced at Lautrec, and then looked back at Achille. “Do you think the guy Jojo meets at the old mill could be Sir Henry?”

“I’m considering the possibility, Delphine. I’ll need more evidence to prove it.”

“The filthy swine,” Lautrec muttered before downing another glass of brandy.

Achille decided he had enough information from Delphine, at least for the time being, and he was anxious to take the letter to the laboratory and make inquiries at the hotel. “You’ve been very helpful, Delphine. Unless there’s something else you want to tell me, I’ll let you go, but please keep in contact. M. Lautrec can act as go-between.”

The artist put down his drink and nodded his agreement.

“Nothing else, Monsieur,” she replied. “I’ll keep in touch.”

“Very well,” Achille said. “There is one more thing before you go. I’d like to meet with Le Boudin as soon as possible. I want the Gunzberg boys to keep watching Jojo and his partner, but I want them to report directly to me. Can you arrange the meeting?”

“Yes, Inspector, but you’ll have to accompany me to the Zone, and if possible try not to look and act like a cop when you get there.”

He smiled warmly. “Thanks for the tip, Delphine. I’ll do my best.”

She said good-bye to Lautrec, who mumbled something in return, got up wobbly, made a perfunctory bow, and then staggered to the cabinet to retrieve another bottle.

Achille accompanied Delphine to the door. As she was leaving, he said, “I’m going to do everything in my power to see that justice is done.”

She turned and looked up at him with a sad smile. “There’s little justice in this world for the likes of Virginie and me, but I believe you’ll do what you can. Good-day, Monsieur Lefebvre.”

Sir Henry leaned over a porcelain basin while vigorously scrubbing his hands in chlorinated lime solution. Following his ablutions he examined his fingers, paying special attention to the nails, bringing them up close to eye level for a meticulous inspection. The sun shone brightly outside, but the one window in the small room was tightly shuttered. A pair of candles glowed yellow on either side of the mahogany washstand mirror. After toweling his hands dry, he rolled down his sleeves, fastened his cuffs, and put on a pair of spotless white cotton gloves.

Betsy rested on her back; she lay nude and semi-conscious on sweat-dampened, rumpled sheets. He turned to admire the body he had so recently explored, focusing first on the silkily tufted pubic region he had massaged to orgasm. He smiled as his eyes wandered over Betsy’s firm, glowing flesh, so youthful, he thought, for a woman in her late thirties. He admired her small, shapely feet, long beautifully-formed legs and thighs, flat stomach, and classically proportioned, rosy-nippled breasts.
Very handsome, sexually unfulfilled, in need of my professional skills, and immensely rich; I could not have wished for more.

He went to the bed, sat next to her, reached over and stroked the long un-pinned hair flowing over her shoulders and breasts. Her head turned on the pillow to face him; she sighed as if in the midst of an erotic dream. Sir Henry covered her with the sheet before whispering, “Be a good girl and wake up. It’s time to go.”

She responded with an incoherent moan, and then rolled over on her side with her back to him. Now impatient, he stroked a temptingly rounded buttock with his gloved hand before giving it a hard pinch.

“Ouch!” Betsy’s eyes opened. She grimaced, rubbed her backside, and then turned round toward Sir Henry.

He grinned wickedly. “I see that got your attention. I was afraid I’d have to resort to smelling-salts to wake you up. We need to check out of the room.”

Her hand went from her smarting behind to her forehead. “I’m groggy, like I’ve had too much to drink. What did you give me?”

He held her hand and kissed it. Then: “Just a little something to help you relax and get more benefit from my treatment, that’s all. It’s nothing to worry about. Now, take hold of my arm. I’m going to help you up slowly so you can swing your legs over the mattress and sit on the edge of the bed. Then I’ll fetch the wash basin so I can sponge bathe and dry you before helping you dress. You’re awfully damp.”

Betsy rubbed her eyes and then felt her forehead. She sniffed something pungent and worried it might be her own odor. “I’m very warm; it’s stuffy in here.” He helped her to the side of the bed, keeping her half-draped with the sheet. She felt woozy as she put her feet on the floor and tried to sit up straight. After a moment, she said, “I’m better now. I think I can dress myself.”

Sir Henry fetched the basin, a sponge, a towel, a bottle of eau de cologne, and a tin of violet powder. He got down on his knees by the bedside and placed the basin and toiletries at her feet. Taking one foot in his hand, he nibbled her toes and tickled the sole.

“Oh,” she giggled, “stop that!”

Sir Henry laughed. “Indulge me, my dear. I enjoy playing with you, and pampering you as well.”

The drug’s residual effect had lifted her inhibitions, just enough so as to leave her susceptible to what upon sober reflection she would have considered his “foolishness.” Betsy looked down at his handsome face, reached out and tousled his hair. “Silly boy,” she sighed.

He replied by dipping the sponge in fresh water, sprinkling it with cologne, and then slowly sliding it up her ankle, leg, and thigh.

Achille’s cab turned a corner onto the Rue des Abbesses. He leaned out the window and glanced up the street in the direction of a narrow, dun-colored two-story building with an arched entrance. He noticed a well-dressed lady and gentleman exiting down a low step to the pavement where a carriage was waiting. They seemed out of place in such a seedy neighborhood.

Achille signaled his coachman to pull over to the curb and wait. The driver reined in his horse and the cab halted. Achille watched as the couple entered their brougham and continued up the street. Further scrutiny confirmed his first impression; the chic pair was none other than Sir Henry Collingwood and Betsy Endicott. He left the cab and walked up the block to the hotel.

He passed through a squeaky-hinged door with a tinkling bell attached, into a dimly lit lobby that reeked of stale cabbage. A threadbare runner covered a long, narrow hallway leading to a back door barely visible in the shadows; to the right a stairway rose to the second floor; to the left there was a desk behind which sat an individual reading a newspaper by the light of a green-shaded kerosene lamp.

Upon hearing the doorbell, the concierge looked up, scrutinizing Achille with bug-eyes peering through thick spectacles. He put down his paper, rose to his feet, and croaked a greeting: “Good afternoon, Monsieur. How may I help you ?”

Achille approached the desk and pulled out his tricolor badge. “I’m Inspector Achille Lefebvre of the Sûreté. I have some questions about one of your guests, the gentleman who just left with the lady.”