Текст книги "The Devil in Montmartre. A Mystery in Fin de Siecle Paris"

Автор книги: Gary Inbinder

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Arthur glanced at Marcia; she nodded as a sign, a tacit agreement that he could speak for her. “I have some business to conclude within the next two days, after which I intend to accompany Mlle Brownlow to England.”

“Very well, Monsieur. And do either of you know Mlle Endicott’s intentions?”

Marcia replied, “Betsy plans to stay for the closing ceremonies, and I assume she’ll attend them with Sir Henry. Afterward, they’ll both depart for London.”Marcia’s eyes widened with apprehension; she coughed into her handkerchief.

Arthur placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right, my dear?”

Marcia nodded and took a sip of wine before continuing. She looked directly at Achille. “Of course, Inspector, if you suspect Sir Henry—”

“Mlle Brownlow,” he broke in, “I have asked M. Wolcott to give his word of honor not to discuss this matter with anyone, and now I must ask the same of you. You may of course be concerned for your safety and that of your friend. Please be assured if I discover any further evidence against Sir Henry, I will see to it that you and Mlle Endicott are notified at once. Moreover, I’m going to request that Sir Henry be placed under surveillance, which will afford you and your friend additional protection. But I most urgently request that you not speak of this to Mlle Endicott or anyone else.”

“You have my word on that, Inspector,” she answered firmly.

Achille smiled, and he noticed more evidence of worry in Arthur’s expression than in Marcia’s. “Thank you, Mademoiselle. Now, I know you and M. Wolcott have other things to do, so I won’t detain you any longer. I appreciate your cooperation and please, if either of you have any further questions or concerns, contact me immediately.”

They parted amicably, but on the way back to the hotel Arthur muttered, “Don’t worry my dear. The French are always jumping to conclusions. I’ll be deuced if Sir Henry’s a murderer. After all, he’s a member of my club.”

Marcia smiled faintly. She knew the seemingly fatuous comment was Arthur’s way of putting her at ease. “I hope you’re right. At any rate, we both know Betsy’s quite capable of defending herself.”

Arthur nodded. “Ah, yes; her concealed pistols. I’ve heard she’s a regular Annie Oakley.”

Marcia recalled several demonstrations of Betsy’s marksmanship. “Yes, thank goodness she is,” she replied. Then she turned and tried to divert her attention away from Betsy by watching the multi-hued falling leaves floating gently in the breeze.

“These are quite interesting, M. Lautrec. I can learn a great deal about the subject from your sketches.” Achille occupied a chair in Toulouse-Lautrec’s studio. The artist had opened a portfolio, displaying several drawings of Virginie. He spread them out carefully on a long, narrow table near the center of the room. This area was bright and warm with sunshine flowing in through a large skylight.

The artist contemplated the policeman from a shadowy corner, his arms folded and his back resting on a shelf stacked with plaster casts. He reached into a vest pocket and pulled out his watch. “Delphine should be here shortly. Would you care for a drink?”

Achille looked up from a pastel he was admiring. “No thank you, Monsieur.”

Lautrec walked to a cabinet near the table and retrieved a bottle. “Well, I’m sure you won’t mind if I indulge. Let me know if you change your mind.” He pulled up a chair next to Achille, uncorked the bottle, filled a glass with brandy, and continued silently observing.

After a few minutes, Achille returned the drawings to the portfolio. “I feel as though I’m getting to know Mlle Ménard. That’s often important in my work, to understand the victim as well as the criminal.”

Lautrec took a drink before asking, “Why is that, Inspector?”

Achille was about to answer when they were interrupted by a knock on the door. “That must be Delphine,” Lautrec said. He got up from the table, walked to the entrance, opened the door and greeted her. Then he turned to Achille: “Inspector Lefebvre, this is Mademoiselle Lacroix.”

Achille rose and made a slight bow. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle.”

She nodded curtly and stared at him with wide brown eyes. Delphine was not timid, but the streets had taught her to fear the police. To her way of thinking, Achille’s customary politeness seemed like a ploy; it did not put her at ease. Nevertheless, after a moment of anxious silence, she replied, “Call me Delphine; everyone does.”

Achille smiled. He offered her a chair. “Please be seated, Delphine.” As she approached, he noticed her stiffness and hesitancy. He’d seen the same look and gait in prisoners on their way to interrogation. That gave him an idea. “M. Lautrec and I were about to have a drink. Will you join us?”

She sat and glanced up at him furtively. “Yes, thanks.”

Lautrec produced two more glasses and poured for all three. Then he took a seat next to Delphine.

Achille retrieved a packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket and offered her one. She accepted gratefully and held his hand to steady the match. After a few minutes of smoking, drinking, and small talk he decided things had loosened up enough to venture a question: “So Delphine, I understand you have some important information about Joseph Rossini. Will you please give me the details?”

She drained her glass and held it out to Lautrec for a refill. Then: “Yes, Inspector. Papa Le Boudin is having Jojo shadowed.”

“Excuse me, Delphine,” Achille broke in, “Who is Papa Le Boudin?”

She stared at him incredulously. “Why, everybody knows Le Boudin. He’s the King of the chiffoniers. Old clothes, pots and pans, scrap, junk, you name it. He’s the biggest dealer in Paris.”

“Pardon my ignorance, Delphine. I’d like to meet him some day. Anyway, please continue.”

For an instant, she eyed Achille suspiciously. He seemed on the level, although a bit green. Delphine remembered what Le Boudin had told her about going to Lefebvre; she had no alternative but to trust him. “All right, then. Le Boudin put two of his men, Moïse and Nathan Gunzberg, on Jojo’s tail. They shadowed him up to an old, abandoned mill on top of the Butte, near Sacré-Coeur. Jojo met some guy up there about three in the morning yesterday, and again this morning at the same time. Nathan followed the guy back downhill to the boulevard, but he lost him. The guy wears a disguise; Nathan can’t give a good description of him.

“Jojo and his pal pass notes to each other. Jojo gets his messages at the Circus Fernando and the guy picks up his at a tobacconist on the Boulevard de Clichy near the corner of the Rue Lepic. You can bet they’re up to no good. As for the cop watching Jojo. . . ” She caught herself on the verge of saying something disparaging about the police.

“Please go on, Delphine.”

She stared at her hands, her fear returning like a sharp shaft of light cutting through the amiable fog of brandy, cigarettes, and Achille’s good manners. Finally, and without looking up she replied, “Well, Inspector, he just hangs around doing—nothing.”

“I see. Thank you for your honesty. Now, is there anything else you want to tell me about Jojo and this man he meets?”

She shook her head. “The Gunzberg boys are still on the lookout, that’s all.”

Achille took a moment to digest her information. If the fingerprints on the letter matched one of the sets of prints he’d obtained at the crime scene, he could assume the man Jojo met at the mill was his suspected partner in crime, Sir Henry. A matching set of Jojo’s prints could complete the connection. He would test the letter in Bertillon’s laboratory later that afternoon. He decided to change the subject to Virginie. “Delphine, I’d like to ask you a few questions about Mlle Ménard. According to your initial statement to the police, you said that as far as you knew she did not feel threatened by any particular individual. Do you know if she was being helped by someone?”

Her brow knitted and she eyed him curiously. “What do you mean by ‘helped’?”

“I’ve heard that Mlle Ménard was a troubled young woman and that she’d found someone who was assisting her with her troubles, a doctor perhaps. If that were indeed the case, I believe she would have said something to you. After all, you were quite close to her, weren’t you?”

She glared at Lautrec, as if he were the source of the information. He responded with a shrug. He was itching for charcoal and paper so he could record the expression on Delphine’s face, which he found most interesting. But to have done so would have been outré; instead he scratched his itch with another drink.

Delphine ignored the artist and replied to Achille. “We were very close, Inspector. Virginie was troubled, that’s true. We all are, I suppose. But perhaps her troubles were worse than most. You see, Virginie was full of hate, but all she ever wanted was love. She hated those who had hurt her, and she hated herself for hating. This is hard to explain, but I think when people hate themselves as she did, they feel that no one can love them. So when the wrong person comes along they’re—oh, I can’t find the right word—”

“Vulnerable?” offered Lautrec.

She glanced at him and then looked back at Achille. “Maybe that’s the word I was looking for. I don’t know, Inspector. I’m an uneducated woman.”

“I believe vulnerable is the right word, Delphine. The unscrupulous among us mark such people; they take advantage of their vulnerability. And sometimes the victims love their tormentors no matter how badly they are abused. Can you please tell me more? Who hurt her? What was the source of her troubles?”

Delphine looked down and silently nodded her head in agreement. She recalled how she had fallen for Jojo and the way he had mistreated her when she was barely fourteen. After a moment, Delphine related the story Virginie had told her about her childhood in Rouen.

“Virginie came to Paris at the age of eighteen. She was kept by a rich silk merchant who died last year. He left her a little money, but she supported herself by modeling and dancing at the Moulin. She took the merchant’s name, Ménard, as her stage name. She was an orphan, raised in Rouen by Monsieur Mercier, her father’s eldest brother, and his wife. The Merciers were butchers and charcutiers. They had no children of their own and agreed to care for Virginie with the understanding that she would help around the house and shop and learn the trade.

“Virginie was immediately put to work. At first she was grateful for the food, clothing, and shelter her aunt and uncle provided. But memories of that childhood in Rouen haunted her, especially a nightmare of the Merciers slaughtering and butchering her pet pig.

“When she was a girl she avoided the slaughterhouse, an outbuilding behind the shop that was connected to the pigpen by a gated chute. On certain days Uncle Mercier would select a pig, open the gate, and drive it toward the shed with slaps and prods to its backside.

“Feeding the pigs was one of Virginie’s chores, and she didn’t mind it. She liked the animals and named them; there was fat Alphonse, greedy Gaston, and her favorite, little Buttercup. ‘You’re such a pretty little piggy,’ she would say as she patted Buttercup’s snout. The bigger, stronger pigs were always pushing Buttercup away from the feeding trough but Virginie saw to it that her friend always got her share.

“One morning, Virginie had begun her daily work as usual by sweeping out the store. Her aunt came up and tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Put down your broom and come with me. This morning you’ll learn an important part of our trade.’

“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.”

The stubby man trembled; little beads of sweat popped out on his splotchy, bald head. “We run a respectable establishment, Monsieur. Have you spoken to Inspector Rousseau? He’ll vouch for us. The license is in order, I assure you.”

Achille could guess at the man’s “arrangement” with Rousseau. “I work with Inspector Rousseau. I have some routine questions about the individual I mentioned. I trust you have a registration card for him?”

“A card? A card? But of course, Inspector.” The concierge mopped his brow with a handkerchief and then retrieved a lidded wooden box from a dusty shelf. He placed the box on the front desk, opened the lid with shaking hands, and retrieved the registration. “Here it is, Inspector.” He handed the card to Achille, adding: “You see, everything is filled out properly.”

Achille read the registration, Sir Henry Collingwood, London England, with five separate date entries, two indicating “and guests” and three indicating “and guest.” Achille smiled. “I presume, Monsieur, that all of the gentlemen’s ‘guests’ were ladies?”

Now shaking visibly, the man pleaded: “Please, Inspector, I’m a poor man with a large family: a wife, four young children, and an infirm mother. I’ve already squared everything with Inspector Rousseau. Please have pity, I beg you.”

“Calm yourself, Monsieur. I won’t threaten your livelihood, as long as you do as I say and answer my questions honestly. First, do you know the ladies’ names?”

The man took a few deep breaths before answering. “Two of them are locals: Delphine Lacroix and Virginie Ménard. The English gentleman brought them here twice, as you can see on the card. Then, he brought Mademoiselle Ménard alone, on two occasions. As for the lady today, I swear I don’t know her, but she isn’t French. From her accent I’d say she’s an American.”

“Did Inspector Rousseau ever question you concerning the gentleman’s relations with Mlle Ménard?”

The bug-eyes widened; he hesitated before answering, “I know there’s an investigation concerning the young woman’s disappearance, but Inspector Rousseau never asked me about it.”

Achille’s confidence in Rousseau was now fully eroded. “Very well, Monsieur. I’m taking this card as evidence. Do you keep duplicates?”

“No, Inspector, this is all I have.”

Achille frowned and put a hint of menace in his voice. “Now listen carefully. If you want to stay out of trouble and keep feeding that needy family of yours, say nothing about my inquiry to anyone, and that includes Inspector Rousseau. If the English gentleman returns, you’re to notify me at once. Do you understand?”

“Oh yes, Inspector, absolutely. You can count on me.” He continued bowing and repeating, “Thank you, thank you very much, Monsieur,” even as Achille turned and walked out the door.

“The Devil in Montmartre, eh? That’ll make a catchy headline all right, especially if you add an exclamation point. The writing’s not bad either, and the salacious stuff will surely entertain your readers.” Edouard Drumont, author of La France Juive and founder of the Anti-Semitic League of France smiled shrewdly. He smoothed his bushy beard and pushed his gold-rimmed spectacles back up his nose before advising his friend, M. Cauchon: “You understand that publication might cause some trouble with the police? After all, the letter contains a veiled reference to the Virginie Ménard case and it implies that the Sûreté is intentionally bungling the investigation because it’s been infiltrated and corrupted by the Jews.”

Pierre Cauchon, editor and publisher of L’Antisémite, sat across from Drumont at a sidewalk café table. Pink-faced, portly, with beady blue eyes, a fringe of graying blonde hair, twelve children, a long-suffering wife, and fifteen-year-old mistress, his enemies had nicknamed the anti-Semitic editor le vieux Cochon. Earlier that day, Cauchon had received a letter signed “Angelique” from an anonymous source. The mysterious missive had been dropped off at the newspaper’s office; there was no postmark or return address.

Angelique claimed to be a Catholic girl of eighteen, the eldest daughter of an old Provençal family that had been impoverished due to the machinations of a Jewish banker. While the banker occupied their foreclosed manor, Angelique, her parents, and two younger siblings were reduced to living in a peasant’s cottage on their former lands.

Angelique was pretty and the Jew took an immediate interest in her. He offered her employment as a maid; despite her misgivings and her parents’ entreaties, she accepted his offer to aid her starving family. At first she was well-treated and her employer made no unwelcome advances, thus creating in her a false sense of security. Then, one night as she slept, the Jew and his accomplices stole into her bedroom and chloroformed her. Bound, gagged, and stupefied with drugs, Angelique was transported to a secret location in Montmartre. Once there, she tried to resist her abductors, insisting that her parents would go to the police when they realized she was missing. The fiends laughed; her parents would be told she had run away, and if they went to the police no one would waste much time or energy looking for her. Angelique continued her resistance; she was starved, beaten, and thus forced into slavery as a temple prostitute for the Illuminati.

According to Angelique, the Illuminati were an international cabal of wealthy Jews and Freemasons who, through manipulation of currencies, financial markets, and political corruption, had conspired to rule the world from the shadows. The spider had spun an immense worldwide web, but the organization’s headquarters, commanded by a Sanhedrin of six Jewish High Priests of global finance, was located in Paris. There, they employed a system of bribery and extortion intended to gain influence, subvert, and manipulate the highest levels of government. Moreover, the Illuminati enticed and abducted innocent Catholic girls to be used as sex slaves in their satanic rituals.

Angelique had escaped her tormentors, but another young woman who had fallen into the spider’s web had not been so fortunate. Having been lured into performing a Can-Can at one of their Baphometic orgies by promises of an enormous fee, Virginie Ménard fled the Illuminati and threatened to expose their foul practices. The following evening, she was abducted and ritually slaughtered by a shohet (kosher butcher) to silence her permanently and as a warning to others.