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

Автор книги: Gary Inbinder

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

16

OCTOBER 22, EVENING

Féraud and Achille arrived at the Gare de Lyon shortly after sunset. They hustled through the crowded entrance hall to the train shed where the passengers queued. The inspectors officially jumped the queue, flashed their credentials, and moved on rapidly in the direction of a gated platform guarded by a brigadier. The guard saw them coming and looked up at the station clock. They were right on schedule. He checked their tricolor badges, saluted, opened the gate and passed them through.

A hissing, chuffing engine with one passenger car attached waited for them up the platform. An attendant spotted them and opened the compartment door. He handed a telegram to Féraud. “We just received a wire from the Prefecture of Police. You should arrive at the station in forty minutes. A brigadier will be there with a diligence to take you and Inspector Lefebvre into town.”

Féraud stuffed the envelope into his pocket and thanked the attendant. Then he and Achille stepped up into the compartment and took their seats opposite each other, the attendant locked the door, and signaled the engine driver with a wave. The engineer checked his pressure gauges, released the brake, opened the throttle, and gave a blast on the whistle. High above the platform, in the control tower, switches were thrown; the engine chugged and rumbled its way slowly up the siding, gaining speed as it entered the great iron spiderweb of rails and switches that shunted and shuttled trains into, out of, and around the enormous iron and glass shed.

As the train exited the station, Achille said, “This might seem odd, Chief, but all things considered I feel sorry for Rousseau. It’s too bad he couldn’t come with us and see the case through to the end.”

Féraud shook his head and smiled wryly. “You’re much too generous, Achille. I’ve known Rousseau for more than twenty years. He was a good detective, but this final blunder has ended his career. He’s off the case, and I expect to see his resignation on my desk when we return to headquarters. Rousseau let that little shit Jojo make a fool of him. I won’t be too hard on him for old times’ sake, but he’s lost face with the brigade; he’s finished, end of story.”

Achille glanced down at his folded hands. After a moment he looked up with a troubled frown. “I completely missed the woman, Chief. I must take blame for that, although I still doubt she’s a willing participant in the murder. Perhaps she’s just in love and covering up for her lover?”

Féraud laughed. “Cherchez la femme! You’re a romantic, Achille. At any rate, I guess that old adage will take on a new meaning for you after this case. Seriously my boy, you did splendid work. I’m proud of you, and it will be reflected in my report. After all, you were right about Jojo and Sir Henry. The clown is singing like a canary. We’ll pick up the Englishman and the American woman, turn them over to the Magistrate for questioning, and let him sort things out.”

Oblivious to the car’s lurching and noise, Féraud stretched out, yawned, and pulled his bowler down over his eyes. “I suggest you try to get forty winks. It may be your last chance for some time.” With that pithy remark the chief drifted off into oblivion. Like the Great Napoleon, the chief was famous for his anytime, anywhere cat naps.

How can he sleep at a time like this? Achille admired his chief’s sang-froid. What would I do in his position? Could he take on Féraud’s job? Could he manage the Sûreté or would he collapse under the pressure?

He worried about his family. Were they all right? Adele was still sleeping when he left the apartment at four A.M. He had sent a message telling her he would not be home that evening. It was not the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

The fact that his forensic investigation had focused his attention on Sir Henry and Jojo to the exclusion of other possibilities troubled him, despite the Chief’s reassuring words. Virginie died of a morphine overdose. But who administered the fatal injection? Sir Henry performed the operation and the post-mortem amputations, but was he the murderer? Mlle Endicott had a motive. She was jealous of what she believed was Virginie’s relationship with Marcia Brownlow and perhaps of her relationship with Sir Henry, too. And she could have had the opportunity when Virginie was lying helpless and already sedated. Why didn’t I question her? Was it some pre-conceived notion that women like her don’t commit such crimes? If so, it’s a flaw in my thinking that must be corrected if I’m to excel as a detective.

The whistle shrieked as the train entered a tunnel, the rumbling of steel wheels on rails at forty-five miles per hour echoing on brick walls, the incessant chugging, the pounding of pistons in cylinders, firebox flashing in the darkness, the rush and roar as the engine streaked out of the man-made cavern into a cutting. On and on they raced, beneath the streets of the brightly lit city, past the fortifications into the suburbs, across viaducts and embankments, into the dark, peaceful countryside of the Île-de-France, toward a rendezvous with a murderer. But who was the real killer? Were they accomplices in the killing, or did one commit the crime and the other merely act as an accessory in a coverup? There were still too many pieces missing from the puzzle; he would not jump to conclusions. As the Chief said, such vexing lacunae would be filled in during the interrogations. Or would they?

Achille stared at his reflection in the car window. For a moment, he thought he saw Collingwood’s face gazing back at him with an enigmatic grin. What did he do, and why did he do it? Why didn’t he run when he had the chance? Does he know he’s trapped? Could the woman have set him up for the fall? Achille could not answer these questions. With Betsy entering the picture, Sir Henry’s motives were unclear. Achille turned away from the window, shook his head and rubbed his eyes; he was tired, his mind was wandering. He would have done better to have slept, like his chief. Since Achille could not nap, he thought about the best way to take Sir Henry and Betsy. The problem at hand was to effectuate an arrest without endangering the innocent.

An idea was forming in his head, but it would depend on the circumstances. He would know more when they made contact with the local police. Achille took his watch out of his pocket and held the dial up toward the ceiling lamp. They must have been in the vicinity of Fontainebleau. He glanced out the window into the darkness and could make out the shadowy forms of a dense thicket lining the railway embankment.

A few minutes later he sensed the slowing of the engine, the diminished thumping of pistons, felt a perceptible decline in the rocking and swaying of the car. Féraud noticed it too. He snorted, lifted his hat, rubbed his eyes, and scratched his head. The train switched onto a siding, chugged past a water tower, hissed and squealed up to the platform where it came chuffing to a halt with a bone-shaking jolt.

The chief yawned loudly, sat up, and consulted his watch. He smiled at Achille. “We made good time. I’m anxious to speak with the colonel, but I’m famished. I could do with a sandwich and a glass or two of good wine. How about you?”

“I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Anything would taste good right now. As for talking to the colonel, I’ve got an idea for making the arrest, assuming the circumstances are right.”

Féraud lifted his eyebrows. “An idea, eh? That’s my professor, always thinking, on or off the job. Well don’t keep it a secret.”

Before Achille could reply, the compartment door swung open. A spruce young brigadier with an enormous black handlebar moustache saluted smartly and greeted them. “Good evening Chief Inspector Féraud and Inspector Lefebvre. You’re right on time. The diligence is waiting to take you into town to meet with my colonel. It’s a short drive, a little less than two kilometers from the station.”

They stepped onto the platform and followed the brigadier down a path around the station to the parked diligence. The two draft horses pulling the coach turned toward them curiously, shook their heads, snorted, and exhaled steaming breath into the cold night air.

During the drive into town along a well-paved country road, the talkative brigadier provided them with useful information. “The suspects had an early supper after which they took a stroll around town. Then they returned to their room at the auberge, where at present they remain together. Looking up from the garden to their second floor bedroom window, you can see the light is out. The curtain is drawn but the shutters are half opened.” The handsome young policeman smiled slyly and winked. “According to the maid who tidies up and changes the bedclothes, the couple has, shall we say, been very—active.”

Féraud nodded curtly without cracking a smile. “I trust the proprietor has been informed and that men have been stationed discreetly within the house and around the grounds? We must take precautions for the safety of the other guests, and the staff.”

Chastened somewhat by the chief’s seriousness, the brigadier answered succinctly. “Of course, Chief Inspector. You may go over the details with my colonel.”

“Do you know when the suspects plan to leave?” Achille asked.

“Yes, Inspector. They’re supposed to be on the morning train to Paris. The diligence will come for them at nine A.M. That is to say, that’s the arrangement Sir Henry made with the auberge.”

Achille turned to Féraud. “Their plans fit in with my idea for the arrest.” Then to the policeman: “Is there any way out of the room besides the door and the window?”

“No, Inspector; they’re trapped. The door of their room opens onto the second floor landing and we have two men posted nearby. An acrobat or cat burglar might get to the roof from the window, but we’d spot them immediately from our positions in the garden. There’s no way up or down except the stairs, and no way out except through the doors. We have everything covered.”

Achille nodded. “I see. Let’s say they managed to evade or break through your cordon, what routes would provide their best chances of escape?”

The brigadier replied confidently: “We’ve guarded the railway station, the roads, and the river landings. They could try to make a break for it cross-country, but I doubt they’d get far.”

Achille paused a moment before asking, “Do you know if they’re armed?”

A hint of apprehension crept into the brigadier’s voice. “No Inspector, we don’t.”

“Do you think it’s possible they might know the police are watching them?”

The brigadier couldn’t be sure of his answer but he tried to hide his worries behind a smile. “I doubt it, M. Lefebvre. We’ve been cautious, and from our surveillance it appears that their attention is focused on each other, which isn’t surprising. They’re quite an attractive couple, you know.”

Achille frowned. He expressed his concerns to Féraud. “I think I know something about Sir Henry’s psychology. I doubt he’ll go peacefully, and the more trapped and hopeless he feels the more desperate and dangerous he’ll be. He might try to use Mlle Endicott as a shield, and if he has a firearm he could take hostages from among the guests and the staff.

“On the other hand, for all we know the lady might be the instigator of the crime and the deadlier of the pair. All things considered, I don’t recommend entering the room to make the arrest. We can’t assume they’re asleep. They might be waiting for us. At any rate, it seems too risky, and we don’t know how they’ll react. Instead, I propose my playing the part of the coachman come to take Sir Henry and Mlle Endicott to the station tomorrow morning. On the way to the diligence someone will divert Mademoiselle’s attention; perhaps a messenger telling her she has an urgent telegram from Paris. The point is to separate the lady from Sir Henry long enough for me, along with a couple of discreetly hidden brigadiers, to make the arrests.”

The young brigadier smiled broadly and stroked his moustache. “I’d gladly volunteer to be one of those assisting you, Inspector.”

“Thank you, brigadier,” Achille replied. Then to Féraud: “What do you think, Chief?”

Féraud nodded his assent. “It’s a good plan, Achille. We can discuss it further with the colonel—over supper, I hope.” A loud internal gurgling punctuated his statement. “Excuse me, gentlemen. My poor stomach’s groaning ‘feed me,’” he added with a sheepish grin.

Sir Henry couldn’t sleep. Around midnight he lay on his back under the covers, staring at shadows on the ceiling. Betsy nestled beside him, warm and inviting even as she slept. He glanced at her, recalling an afternoon and evening of uninhibited sex. Is she dreaming of our passion? What lustful visions are running through her unfathomable mind?

The sleeping woman seemed so innocent and peaceful, like a schoolboy’s fantasy image of a lovely girl on the verge of womanhood. But Betsy was hardly that. Sir Henry had unleashed a tigress; his body bore the scratches and bite marks to prove it. But there was something other than Betsy’s furious lovemaking troubling him. Earlier, during their supper at the auberge and their postprandial stroll, he had noticed an unusual number of gendarmes about town. At first he thought nothing of it, but now upon reflection in the lonely moments of a still night, with nothing and no one to distract him, he worried. What’s happening with Jojo and our scheme? Are the police getting wise to us? Have we stumbled into a trap?

He craved a cigarette. Careful not to disturb Betsy, he lifted the covers on his side of the bed, swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and quietly set his feet on the hardwood floor. Gooseflesh covered his naked body. Sir Henry glanced toward the window. The sash had been left up a few inches, admitting the chilly night air. Pale moonlight streamed through half-opened shutters, lighting a small corner of the room. Forgetting about his smoke, he walked toward the other end of the bedroom, intending to lower the sash. As he neared the window he thought he heard the faint murmuring of voices coming from the garden below. Looking out through the pane he saw a flash of light coming from behind a stand of acacias. Is it a lantern? Could it be the police?

He considered the possibility with fatalistic calm.

A pair of gendarmes, watching from behind the trees, glimpsed Sir Henry at the window. One leaned over and whispered to his comrade, “So he’s up and about, eh? Look, he’s closing the window and shutters. It must be getting cold up there.”

“He’s cold? At least the bastard’s got something nice to keep him warm in bed,” the other answered with a smirk.

Sir Henry glanced back at the sleeping woman. I suppose I ought to have stayed in Paris or, better yet, quit the country. But these last two days have made it worthwhile. She’s an extraordinary woman. Father always said I’d come to a sticky end. At any rate, a short exciting life’s better than one that’s long and dull. I’m not afraid to die, but I prefer to choose the time, place, and manner of departure.

Within the span of two short weeks, fate had entered his world in the form of two women, altering the course of his life forever. Virginie came first. She had agreed to a radical operation, to be performed in secret. There was a social stigma attached to a hysterectomy; she would submit to the surgery only under conditions of strict confidentiality. Using an assumed name, Henry rented a small apartment in Montmartre. He scrubbed and disinfected the place scrupulously and brought in several kerosene lamps and a reflecting mirror so he could operate in the pre-dawn darkness.

In the early morning on October 11, Virginie left a note for her concierge. She would be out of town on business for three days, returning on the 14th, providing adequate time for recovery before returning to her flat.

Henry operated brilliantly. The procedure was a complete success and he had the satisfaction of knowing that his new technique for vaginal hysterectomy had preceded the great Péan by three days. Respecting his patient’s need for privacy, he felt honor bound never to reveal his surgical triumph. But he didn’t mind the constraints of secrecy; knowing that he had succeeded where others had failed was sufficient compensation. Then Betsy Endicott entered the scene.

On the day he had planned to take Virginie back to her flat, he was shocked to find Betsy, disguised as a man, standing at the bedside. She told him a story he never really believed. Betsy had hired Jojo to locate Virginie. She wanted to bribe the girl to keep her away from Marcia, and she used a disguise to avoid scandal. When she arrived at the flat she found Virginie sound asleep. Betsy noticed a bottle of morphine and hypodermic kit on the bedside table and assumed the girl was heavily sedated. She was about to leave when Henry returned from witnessing the operation at Péan’s clinic. Henry examined Virginie immediately. She was dead, apparently from a fatal overdose.

Did he inadvertently administer the overdose earlier that day, or did Betsy intervene with malicious intent? He would never know for certain. Regardless, the operation had been a success but the patient was dead. Under the circumstances, he feared a scandal that would ruin his career. But worse than the charge of medical malpractice was the possibility of criminal charges, up to and including murder. Betsy offered him a way out of his dilemma. Jojo would dispose of the body; they could frame up someone else for the crime. She had it all worked out beautifully. And there were added incentives for going along with her scheme. There was Betsy, marriage, and a share in her fortune.

Sir Henry kept staring at Betsy as she slept peacefully in their bed. He smiled resignedly and shook his head. The goddess of fortune’s a capricious whore, he thought.

He remembered the story Betsy had told him about the two Barbary Coast thugs she had shot in self defense. Is the revolver in her handbag? Sir Henry crept noiselessly to the chair where she had left her things. He opened her purse and felt for the weapon. Immediately recognizing the smooth ivory grip, the cool nickel-plated cylinder, barrel, and frame, he removed the revolver. The gun and Betsy could be my ticket out of here, he thought.

He dressed quickly, then struck a match and lit a candle on the dresser. In the dim golden light he opened the revolver to check the cylinder. Fully loaded, just as I expected; she’s a smart girl to be prepared. Smiling at the sight of five brass cartridges, he closed the top-break revolver with a loud metallic snap.

Betsy moaned and stirred under the sheets. Sir Henry walked to the bed, sat on the edge of the mattress, and gently placed his left hand over her mouth while the right gripped the Smith & Wesson. Her eyelids fluttered and then opened wide; the sharp gray eyes stared at him questioningly.

“Hush darling,” he whispered. “We’re in a bit of a tight corner, I’m afraid. We’ll have to leave at once.”

Her eyes glared at him, and she noticed the gun. He withdrew his hand and she hissed, “What the devil’s going on?”

Her petulance excited him. For an instant he wondered if he could have her once more before they left. He shook his head. “Sorry, my dear; I’m afraid the police have us surrounded. My guess is they picked up Jojo and made him talk.” He got up from the mattress and pointed the pistol at her. “Please get dressed now, and make as little noise as possible.”

Glaring at him, she whipped away the covers angrily, flashing a full view of her naked body. The sight of her firm, rosy-nippled breasts, flat stomach, round hips, long legs, and brown-tufted mons Veneris glowing with perspiration, coupled with the looming specter of violent death, aroused and stimulated his senses like an intra-venous injection of cocaine.

He leered at her as she slid off the bed and slinked to the chair by the dresser. She slithered into her Victorian outer layer of linen, lace, and silk, slowly and suggestively, while her smoldering eyes fixed on his. Betsy’s erotic movements and gestures were a calculated distraction. Thrilled by her performance, Sir Henry failed to notice as she palmed the hidden Derringer from its garter holster, executing this feat with all the deceptive skill of a magician or a Barbary Coast gambler dealing seconds.

As she finished dressing, he walked to the window, intermittently glancing back to keep an eye on her. He peered through the closed pane and the shutter slats. A couple of pinpoints of light glimmered behind the acacias. They’re out there, all right. I’ve always thought the police were an assortment of unimaginative plodders and dimwitted thugs, but apparently the French have a clever detective.

He turned toward Betsy and saw her standing with the Derringer aimed at him. She had stealthily advanced a few paces while his back was turned, to close the range and make sure of her shot.

He smiled with admiration. She is indeed extraordinary. I’ll never find another like her. “Well my dear,” he said, “I believe this is what your American dime novels call a standoff.”

She replied with a cold, hard edge to her voice. “You’re wrong, Henry. A standoff implies equality, and there’s nothing equal about our present situation. I’m ready and aimed; at this distance I can’t miss. You, on the other hand, have my revolver at your side. I could drop you before you leveled your weapon and got off a shot.”

“Ah, but you have one bullet to my five. That little pop-gun might misfire or jam. They often do, you know.”

“This is a Remington Double Derringer, two shots instead of one. It’s quite reliable and I maintain my firearms in good order. After all, a woman must protect herself from all the predators prowling this wicked planet. You killed Virginie Ménard with an overdose of morphine. I did my best to help you. But now it appears the game’s up and the police are after you. All the evidence points to you. I made sure of that. Even if Jojo talks, he can’t identify me. I made sure of that, too.”

He sighed. “You can’t be absolutely certain, my dear. I’d say we’re in this together, right to the end.”

“No Henry, I wouldn’t say that. At the very worst they might charge me as an accessory after-the-fact. If that happens, I’ll hire the best lawyers and cooperate with the authorities. I can play your victim convincingly. I’m sure the French judges will sympathize with a woman in my position.”

Sir Henry laughed bitterly. “I always suspected you gave Virginie the overdose and set me up for the fall, but it may surprise you to learn I don’t care. I love you, Betsy. If you come with me, I shan’t harm you. I need you to evade the police. When we were walking about town I noticed some boats at a secluded landing. I handle a boat quite well. I rowed at Oxford, you know. Help me escape and we can remain together, or you can leave me at your first opportunity. You may keep the Derringer for insurance.”

“You’ll never get out of France. I doubt you’ll get much further than the front gate, with me or not. At any rate, I’m not going with you. You’re on your own. And I’ll thank you to leave my revolver on the bed. You might shoot someone, and I won’t have that on my conscience.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed; his tone hardened. “I’ll go it alone then, but I’ll take your gun. Without it I’d be as defenseless as a creature in the jungle without its fangs and claws.”

Betsy’s features transformed into an inscrutable mask. “Then you’ll be as vulnerable as the women you suckered with your ‘treatments’. I don’t pity you.We had an amusing fling, Henry, but I never trusted you. Put the revolver on the bed now, or you won’t leave this room alive.”

He shook his head with resolve. “No, I’m taking the pistol. If you intend to kill me, you’ll have to shoot me in the back. Good-bye, my dear. Remember I loved you.”

He turned and walked toward the door. As he grasped the brass doorknob, Betsy aimed at the back of his head and squeezed the trigger. The Derringer flashed and popped like a firecracker; black powder from the expended .41 caliber cartridge emerged from the barrel in a plume of grey smoke, filling the small room with its acrid stench. The bullet grazed his left temple and spent itself on the oak door.

Sir Henry wiped the wound with his left hand, glared at the blood, spun round and leveled the revolver at Betsy. “You bloody bitch!”

She did not hesitate. Betsy aimed and fired the second barrel. The bullet punched a gaping hole in Sir Henry’s forehead, lodging itself deep within his brain. He squeezed the Smith & Wesson’s trigger in a reflex action, firing a shot that struck her chest and entered the heart. Bulging eyes staring into the void, blood streaming down his once handsome face, he staggered two steps, slumped to his knees, and fell forward unconscious at her feet. Betsy collapsed and lay prone by his side.

Two brigadiers with drawn revolvers burst into the room, followed by Achille and Féraud. The dark room blazed with light from the policemen’s lanterns. Betsy and Sir Henry sprawled together on the floor, unconscious and dying in a pool of commingled blood.

Achille examined the bodies and frowned. He felt cheated, somehow. Their last willful actions had thwarted his fine sense of justice. I wanted to bring them in for questioning. Now, the missing pieces to this puzzle will remain lost. He glanced up at Féraud.“They’re both mortally wounded. We should call a surgeon, though nothing short of a miracle could save them. I guess he’ll just go through the formalities, pronounce them dead and sign the certificates.”

Chief Féraud shrugged, lit a cigar, and took a couple of puffs before saying, “Case closed, Achille. At least they spared us the trouble and expense of a trial.”