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

Автор книги: Gary Inbinder

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“As for surgery, it wasn’t all a matter of choice, my dear. My mother loved the arts; she taught me and encouraged me, but she died when I was very young. Father was a physician, and he tended to make my choices for me.”

Betsy could tell from his facial expression and tone of voice that he was reticent, yet curiosity moved her to press further. “Would you mind telling me more? I’d like very much to know about your mother.”

He stared at her; he had never discussed the subject with anyone, not even under duress. Packed off to school by his father shortly after his mother’s death, he had suffered the abuse of a brutal prefect who fagged him endlessly: “Collingwood, fetch water! Collingwood, black my boots! Collingwood, polish my silver!” The prefect used the slightest provocation, the merest failure in an assigned task, as pretext for a merciless caning. “Take down your trousers, Collingwood, bend over the back of that chair and prepare for six of the best.” Every beating was followed by an admonition: “There’s something about you I don’t like. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I shall surely beat it out of you before the end of term.”

Young Henry stoically endured the senior boy’s bullying until an incident occurred that might have changed the course of his life. Early on a winter morning Henry sat on a wooden bench in the corridor outside the prefect’s study. Dawn peeped through a frost covered windowpane. There, in half-darkness, he performed one of his routine chores, polishing his tormentor’s boots. Lonely and miserable, aching hands chilled to the bone, he paused for an instant, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a miniature portrait of his mother. The miniature had been painted as a memento of his mother’s eighteenth birthday, just prior to her wedding. Henry sighed, his warm breath forming a small, vaporous cloud in the unheated hallway. “Dearest, I miss you so. Why did you leave me?”

“Shirking again, Collingwood? We shall have to brisk you up.” The prefect emerged suddenly from his lair, gleefully grinning at the prospect of administering yet another beating to his chosen victim. “What have we here?” The bully snatched the portrait from Henry’s open hand and examined it with an odious leer. “Oh my, she’s a pretty one, ain’t she? Is she your sweetheart, boy?”

Henry fought back tears. “No sir,” he replied in a voice choked with emotion, “she’s my mother. Please give it back to me.”

The prefect laughed. “Your mother, indeed? So now I’ve discovered your secret. ‘Idle hands are the Devil’s playground.’ You’ve been avoiding useful work to indulge in incestuous fantasies. I shall flog you twice as hard for that, you filthy little beast.”

Henry exploded with pent up rage. The prefect was almost a foot taller and outweighed the younger boy by more than three stone, yet he was completely unprepared for what happened next. Henry leapt from the bench and, in a blur of violent motion, uncoiled like an overly taut spring. Releasing all the force of his small body, he slammed a fist into his tormentor’s groin. The prefect screamed, grabbed his crotch, and crumpled to his knees. But Henry did not stop there. He launched a second hard right aimed at the senior boy’s face that broke his nose with an audible crack.

The prefect writhed in agony on the floorboards, choking and gagging on his own blood. Henry sprang on top of him and continued his furious pummeling until several boys came and pulled him off. Had they not arrived promptly he might have killed the older boy, or at least have done him irreparable harm. As it was, the prefect spent a week in hospital, and Henry was permanently expelled from school. According to the headmaster, the boy was mentally and emotionally unstable. But Henry’s father was determined to get his only son into Oxford. He hired a tutor and, away from the society of other boys, young Henry proved himself an apt pupil. By the time he was ready for university, he was also better prepared to socialize with his peers.

“Henry, are you all right? You’ve been staring at me for the longest time.” Betsy had watched his blank face with amazement, as he appeared to have gone into a trance.

He shook his head and flushed with embarrassment, realizing that he had drifted off. He gazed into the eyes of the woman to whom he felt inextricably bound by fate, passion, and a secret that could destroy him, and perhaps her as well. “I’m sorry, my dear. I fear my mother’s a subject I—I never discuss with anyone. The memory’s too painful.” He paused a moment before adding: “But then, with you it’s different. Here, let me show you something.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a gold watch. Opening the case to a miniature portrait, he handed the watch to Betsy. “That was she at the time of her eighteenth birthday.”

Betsy studied the young woman’s portrait for a minute before returning the watch. “She was very beautiful. I’m sorry, darling. You must miss her awfully.”

He nodded sadly as he tucked the watch back into his pocket. Then, with a faint smile: “Yes, but now I’ve found someone to fill that void in my heart.” His words were spontaneous, and their sincerity surprised him even as he spoke. He continued without waiting for her reply. “She suffered, most particularly in her final year; my father and his colleagues could do little or nothing for her. Since it was my fate to become a doctor, I decided that I would devote my practice to women, to use the latest methods of medical science to preserve their health and alleviate their suffering.”

She smiled in response. The story of his mother had touched her deeply. But she was skeptical by nature, and did not altogether trust him. Without comment, she turned to gaze at the river, listening to its rippling as it flowed beneath the arches and round ancient piers.

Henry moved closer to her. He put his arm round her waist and stared silently into the distance. We’re adrift in a sea of lies, he thought. But at that moment he was certain of one thing; he would propose marriage to Betsy Endicott; the only question was where and when.

The loudly ticking wall clock produced the only audible sound in Magistrate Leblanc’s office. Light streamed through tall windows opening onto the courtyard of the Palais de Justice. The Magistrate, a stout, gray, grandfatherly man in his sixties, with antennae-like brows and mutton-chop side-whiskers spreading beneath his temples down to the jaw line, sat hunched over a great mahogany desk stacked high with documents, photographs, and files. Above and behind him on gray painted walls hung the symbols of the Republic, the Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité motto beneath a profile of Marianne surrounded by the tricolor. The wall also displayed a portrait of President Carnot on its otherwise bare surface.

The Magistrate’s brow furrowed and his thin lips pursed as he examined Gilles’s photographs of Virginie Ménard’s head, taken that morning at the crime scene and the Morgue. Tugging his whiskers nervously, he concentrated on the odd insignia tattooed on the decomposing forehead, a Masonic compass and square superimposed over a Star of David. “What sort of monster could have done this?” he muttered under his breath, though loudly enough to be heard clearly by the officers assembled before him. As his slightly trembling left hand held the photographs up for closer scrutiny, his right descended from his whiskers to the large Masonic symbol dangling from his gold watch chain.

The Magistrate set down the pictures. His sharp blue eyes darted behind his spectacles, looking from one stiff, silent officer to the next: Chiefs Féraud and Bertillon, Inspectors Lefebvre, Rousseau, and Duroc, the hapless detective detailed to shadow Jojo the Clown. The questioning eyes finally came to rest on Achille. “I commend you, Inspector Lefebvre, for your skill in marshalling evidence in this case. You are also to be commended for bringing in the Gunzberg brothers as witnesses. Their testimony backed by your forensic evidence will prove invaluable at trial.” He paused a moment before admonishing: “But in future I trust you’ll inform your chief and me before permitting untrained boys to traipse around Paris playing detective.”

“Yes, Monsieur Magistrate,” Achille replied respectfully.

Leblanc then turned to Rousseau’s man, Duroc. “As for you, M. Duroc, I hope you improve your powers of observation prior to undertaking another such assignment.”

Duroc glanced at Rousseau and was met with a scowl. He did not dare look at Chief Féraud. Hanging his head like a whipped schoolboy, he answered, “Yes, Monsieur Magistrate.”

The juge d’instruction grunted an acknowledgement and then shuffled through his papers, focusing on Sir Henry Collingwood’s letter and a document recently obtained by warrant from the editor of L’Antisémite. “M. Bertillon, in your opinion as one of our leading graphologists, were these two documents written by the same person?”

“I’ve made a careful analysis of the handwriting on both documents, M. Leblanc, and I’m convinced the authors are one in the same.”

“That’s good enough for me, M. Bertillon.” Then to Achille: “I find your fingerprint evidence compelling, Inspector. However, it remains a novel concept, untested at trial, and by itself would be insufficient to send the case to the prosecutor. Fortunately, I believe you’ve uncovered sufficient evidence aside from the fingerprints to support your theory of the case.

“Moreover, I agree with your conclusions concerning the tattoo on the victim’s forehead and The Devil in Montmartre. They are fabrications intended to confuse the public, confound the police, and frame an innocent boy. The perpetrator committed an atrocious crime. First he tried to fix blame on M. de Toulouse-Lautrec. Thanks to your excellent detective work, the initial ruse failed. The perpetrator then resorted to another deception. In doing so, he relied upon a common human weakness, a tendency to ignore facts when they conflict with our deeply rooted prejudices or preconceived notions.

“But in this instance the perpetrator has condemned himself. By attempting a second diversion he has provided us with additional evidence that will convict him and send him to the guillotine. Following the trail of persuasive facts, and discounting the diversions, I conclude the perpetrator is Sir Henry Collingwood and Joseph Rossini is his accomplice.”

Féraud smiled broadly. “M. Leblanc, Chief Bertillon and I agree that much of the credit in this case should go to Inspector Lefebvre.”

“Yes Chief Inspector. Aside from M. Duroc’s blunders, I’d say your bureau has performed splendidly.”

At that moment, both Rousseau and Duroc would have gladly slunk out the door on all fours. Achille felt sorry for them.

“Gentlemen,” Leblanc continued, “I’m going to issue a warrant for Collingwood’s arrest. However, before doing so I want to question Rossini. He might provide useful information if he thinks it will save his neck, and the prosecutor can use him as a witness against Sir Henry. Do we have Collingwood under surveillance?”

“Yes M. Leblanc,” Achille replied. “He’s registered at the Grand Hotel, but he’s currently staying at an auberge in Moret-sur-Loing. There’s an American woman with him, Mlle Endicott. I’ve wired the Prefecture of Police to keep an eye on them. We don’t believe she’s in danger, at least not yet. She’s very wealthy, and it’s likely Sir Henry intends to propose marriage. In my opinion, the suspect is more likely to choose his victims from among women without money, property, or social connections.”

The Magistrate shook his head and frowned. “Ah, the woman complicates things. You’ll need to be very careful when making the arrest. You and Chief Féraud should go there at once to supervise.”

“We’ve already made arrangements with the gendarmerie. The Chief and I will leave by special train as soon as you issue the warrant.”

“Very well; let’s bring in Rossini.” The Magistrate glared at Duroc. “Your presence is no longer required.” The chastened detective bowed curtly and left without a word. Duroc would spend the rest of the day exploring opportunities in the Colonial police. Then to Bertillon: “Chief Inspector Bertillon, I want to thank you and your department, for your expert services and advice in this case. I invite you to remain for the interrogation, unless you have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Thank you, M. Leblanc, I’ll stay. Jojo’s an interesting criminal type, a prime example of atavism, a primitive throwback to an earlier stage of human evolution. His measurements and photographs have already made a useful contribution to my rogues’ gallery.”

Leblanc nodded. “The rascal’s where he belongs—in a cage. At any rate, let’s see what the creature has to say for himself.”

A burly guard brought in the manacled prisoner followed by a clerk to record the proceedings in shorthand. The guard kept Jojo standing until the Magistrate gave him permission to be seated. Jojo shook visibly; sweat beaded on his forehead. His eyes shifted round the room from one stern face to the next. The inspectors reminded him of the witnesses to an execution; the juge d’instruction displayed the cool detachment, efficiency, and grim visage of the public executioner; the clerk seemed like the executioner’s assistant.

Leblanc’s deep, powerful voice echoed through the room as he summarized the evidence against the prisoner. Finally, in summation: “According to law, as an accomplice to murder you are equally guilty and subject to the same penalty as the perpetrator. Have you anything to say before I turn the case over to the prosecutor?”

Jojo’s lips moved but he couldn’t speak. His mouth dried; his throat constricted.

The Magistrate grinned triumphantly. “You seem to be having some difficulty speaking. Would you like a glass of water and a cigarette?”

Jojo nodded his head rapidly. Leblanc gestured to the guard, who poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the Magistrate’s desk and handed it to Jojo, who took it between his shackled hands. He gulped the water, coughed, cleared his throat, and drained the glass. “Thank you, Monsieur,” he grunted. The guard took the empty glass and produced a cigarette and a box of matches. He placed the cigarette between Jojo’s lips and gave him a light. Jojo inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.

“That’s better, eh? Now then, Rossini, is there something you want to say to me? Remember, my boy, confession’s good for the soul.” Leblanc gazed at Jojo with what might have easily been mistaken for a benign smile.

Jojo lifted his manacled hands and removed the cigarette. He had already decided that cooperation was the only way to save himself. “Yes, Monsieur Magistrate. I performed services for the American lady.”

There was a shocked silence in the room as the Inspectors and Magistrate stared in bewilderment at each other before focusing all their attention back on Jojo.

The Magistrate continued. “American lady, you say? Do you know her name?”

“No Monsieur, I do not, but Claude Duval, the night porter at the Grand Hotel, sent her to me. He might know. She wore a disguise, a false beard and glasses, but I could tell her nationality from the accent. As for her sex, let’s just say I could tell. But I played along with her. After all, she paid well and I had no reason to question her masquerade.”

“How and when did this woman first contact you?”

Jojo thought a moment before replying, “That was Sunday, the 11th of this month. She came to my flat in Montmartre.”

“You mentioned ‘services.’ What was the nature of these ‘services’? Why would this woman come to you?”

Jojo took another drag on the cigarette before answering. “At first, nothing more than to locate a girl, Virginie Ménard. Then later, there were other things.” He looked down at his trembling hands.

“What were the ‘other things’?”

Without looking up, Jojo said, “On occasion I’ve been known to dispose of things people wanted to be rid of. The lady must have learned about my—disposal service.”

The guard suppressed a laugh and drew a reproving glare from the Magistrate.

Leblanc frowned; his eyes hardened, his voice regained its harshness. “The ‘things’ you disposed of were human bodies and body parts, including the torso and head of Virginie Ménard. When did you first perform that little service?”

“I put the headless torso in the cesspit early the morning of the 15th, before the night soil collectors made their rounds.”

“I see. And you left the torso in the cesspit along with a gold cigarette case you stole from M. de Toulouse-Lautrec in an attempt to fix the blame on him.”

Jojo looked up with alarm. “Oh no, Monsieur, I didn’t steal it. That was the Englishman’s job. I swear it!”

“What Englishman? Can you give me his name?”

“Sir Henry Collingwood. I believe he and the lady were . . . are intimate. Anyway, they both wanted to get rid of the . . . the body.”

The Magistrate stared at Jojo in stunned silence. Despite his many years of experience with criminals from all walks of life, he found it hard to believe that a wealthy socialite could be involved in such a brutal crime. Nevertheless, he would follow the evidence wherever it might lead. After a moment, he proceeded in a cold, accusatory tone. “Very well, Rossini, when that first scheme failed, you threw the victim’s head in a dust-bin and tried to frame Moïse Gunzberg as an agent of the Jews and Freemasons!”

Jojo’s eyes widened; his whole body shook and broke out in a sweat. “I swear before God, Monsieur, I had nothing to do with the girl’s death or the schemes! I just did as the lady told me. I . . . I disposed of things and. . . .”

The Magistrate’s eyes narrowed; his voice lowered to an audible whisper. “And what else, Jojo?”

Jojo looked down at his chained hands. “I . . . helped her ambush and chloroform the kid. Then I changed clothes with Gunzberg, put him in the ragman’s cart, and dumped the package in the poubelle to fool the cop watching my flat. And there was more.” Jojo glanced fearfully at Rousseau before continuing: “She told me to feed false information to Inspector Rousseau, to stir up trouble between him and Inspector Lefebvre.”

Rousseau clenched his fists and glared at Jojo. “You little rat!” he growled.

“Control yourself, Inspector,” the Magistrate admonished.

Rousseau stared at his shoes and mumbled an apology. “Pardon me, Monsieur Magistrate.” The room was silent except for the ticking of the clock. Then the Magistrate ordered: “Look at me, Rossini.”

Jojo raised his head slowly. There were tears in his eyes.

“Do you think you could identify the woman?”

“I . . . I’d recognize her voice, Monsieur Magistrate.”

“What if you heard her speak and she were dressed in her disguise?”

“Yes Monsieur; I’m sure I could identify her.”

Leblanc nodded. Then: “Guard, you may return the prisoner to his cell.” He waited for Jojo, the guard, and the clerk to leave before addressing Chief Bertillon. “M. Bertillon, is it possible you made a mistake in identifying the handwriting on the letter to the newspaper?”

His customary self-confidence shaken for the moment, Bertillon replied, “It’s possible, M. Leblanc. The woman might have done a good job copying Collingwood’s handwriting. It’s happened before.”

He turned next to Achille. “Inspector Lefebvre, did you have any reason to suspect a woman was actively involved in this case?”

Achille frowned and shook his head. “No, Monsieur, I did not. I was aware that a wealthy American woman, Mlle Endicott, had formed a relationship with Sir Henry, but my chief concern was for her safety. Frankly, I was shocked when Jojo implicated her in the crime. Even now, I’m not convinced she’s a willing participant. Perhaps Sir Henry has coerced her into criminal complicity?”

A wry smile spread over Rousseau’s fleshy lips. He remained prudently silent while thinking, A nice excuse for missing a suspect. So the professor’s not perfect, after all.

The Chief noticed Rousseau’s knowing smirk and sensed Achille’s discomfort. He immediately intervened on behalf of his favorite detective. “Gentlemen, this new twist in the case has taken us all by surprise. I say we bring them both in for questioning. At the very least, the woman could be a key witness in our case against Sir Henry. Anyway, the Magistrate will soon get to the bottom of it.”

The Magistrate nodded his agreement. “Very well; I’m issuing a warrant for Sir Henry Collingwood’s arrest. The sooner he’s locked up and questioned the better. I’ll also issue a warrant for Mlle Endicott. And pick up Claude Duval, the night porter at the hotel who allegedly referred her to Jojo. If both he and Jojo identify Mlle Endicott as this mysterious woman posing as a man—” The Magistrate paused a moment before continuing: “Well then, gentlemen, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”