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

Автор книги: Gary Inbinder

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“Don’t worry about it, Inspector. Péan’s a proud man and rightly so. Naturally, it troubles him to think that a member of his profession might have committed such a heinous crime, especially since our suspect might be a trusted colleague or friend. What’s more, he’s a man of spotless reputation. Imagine how it would look in the newspapers if our murderer turns out to be a well-regarded doctor of Péan’s acquaintance.”

Achille was well aware of the situation; he also knew that Bertillon’s late father had been a physician. This case could cast a shadow over the entire French medical profession. “That’s understandable, but the doctor’s professional opinion has put another twist to this convoluted case. So far, most of the evidence has pointed to Lautrec; now Péan seems to have exculpated him. Of course, we can’t go much further until we identify the woman.”

Bertillon scratched his beard. This matter was bewildering indeed. “Here’s another twist. We tested for alkaloids using the Stas-Otto method. I just received the results. There was a large amount of morphine in her system.”

Achille raised an eyebrow. “Enough morphine to have killed her?”

“I believe so. She appears to have been heavily drugged when the killer cut her up. She may have died under the knife, or from the overdose. That appears to rule out Jack the Ripper. Morphine was not part of his modus operandi. And to complicate matters, in addition to morphine, she may have been given chloroform or a chloroform derivative such as chloral hydrate. Unfortunately, we have no test to confirm that or rule it out. At any rate, I suggest you start checking with chemist’s shops in Montmartre and Pigalle to see who’s been buying the stuff. Your partner Rousseau probably has a list of known addicts, at least those who’ve had a run-in with the police. And you’ll need to check the hospitals and clinics to see if any drugs have been walking out the back door. We’ll look at records for reports of stolen opiates.”

Achille’s eyes widened. He stared at Bertillon for a moment, making a mental note. Could the morphine have been taken from Péan’s clinic? Then: “Do you think this could have been an experimental surgery gone wrong? And that—that the surgeon cut off her head and limbs and dumped the body to cover up his malpractice?”

Bertillon shook his head; the thought of surgical malpractice and criminal concealment was particularly disturbing to the son of a famous physician. “To my knowledge hysterectomies are performed for three reasons: to remove cancerous tumors, uterine fibroids, or in the treatment of female hysteria. Considering the general appearance of health in this individual we might consider the latter. It’s certainly possible, based on current practice. But Dr. Charcot at the Salpêtrière, our foremost authority, believes hysteria has nothing to do with the uterus; he treats it as a neurological disorder and does not approve of the operation.” Bertillon paused a moment, his frown an expression of concern as to where he feared this investigation might lead. Then he muttered, “But at this point I don’t know what to think.” He pulled out his watch and added impatiently: “Where is that photographer?”

At that very moment, like a genie conjured from a magic lamp, Gilles burst into the laboratory through the swinging double doors: “Good morning, gentlemen! Sorry I’m a bit late.”

As he approached, Gilles was greeted by two frowning faces. “Why so gloomy, my friends? Anyway, I’ve got something in this satchel that will cheer you up.” Gilles dropped a heavy leather satchel onto the desktop, stirring the pile of papers and raising a little dust cloud. He opened the flap and pulled out a brown paper envelope containing several photographs. “Take a look; I believe I’ve achieved excellent results.”

Achille immediately went to the photographs of the thumb and forefinger prints. Holding them up to the light, he pointed out the pattern to Bertillon. “You see the distinct whorl, Monsieur. I can now categorize these prints according to Galton’s method and present them as evidence. How did you enhance them, Gilles?”

“Oh, just a little photographic wizardry—the right lighting, shutter speed, lenses, filters, et voilà!”

Bertillon studied the prints for a moment. “This is very well done, Inspector. Now all you need are the suspects’ prints for comparison, and you might have something. But obtaining those prints could prove difficult without an arrest.”

Achille detected a hint of skepticism in Bertillon’s comments. Nevertheless he replied confidently: “Monsieur, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” To Gilles: “I want you to take a look at a gold cigarette case. Let’s see if you can work your wizardry on that.”

Achille and Gilles followed Bertillon to the evidence room where the cigarette case had been tagged, catalogued, and deposited. The guard retrieved the numbered evidence bag and then escorted the trio to a well-lit table where they could examine the case. “Of course,” Achille said to Gilles, “we’ll need identifying photographs highlighting the monogrammed coat of arms and the hallmarks. And I’ll need photographs of the cigarettes as well. But I want you to see something else.” Achille put on rubber gloves, held the case up to the light, and took out his magnifying glass. “These are latent prints. We’re damned lucky they’re still visible after lying in all that muck; you can barely make them out under magnification in a bright light. Is there any way you can enhance them photographically?”

Gilles shook his head. “That’s impossible, Inspector. Unless you can bring out the lines on the case to at least the definition we have on the cloth, I can do nothing with them.”

Bertillon smiled wryly. “Seems to be another bridge for you to cross, eh Inspector?”

“Difficult, but not impossible,” Achille replied.

Bertillon and Achille checked out the evidence bag and took it to the laboratory; Gilles went to his van for his camera and equipment. While they waited for the photographer, Bertillon provided his estimate of the woman’s appearance: early twenties; fair skinned Caucasian; straight light-yellow hair; pale blue eyes; height 163 cm; weight 54 kg; well-proportioned; firm musculature; two small moles in intimate places not visible to the public. “She appears to have been well fed and in good health. Unless her face was disfigured by accident or inflicted injury, I’d deduce she was quite pretty. She was also very fit. She might have been an artists’ model, a dancer, actress, or circus performer. Without the head or the limbs, that’s the best I can do. I assume you’re searching for the rest of her?”

“Yes, Monsieur, my partner Rousseau’s handling that end of the investigation, along with his search for witnesses.”

“Very well, Inspector; I wish you luck. Now, a few things before we go to records. We tested the cloth fibers; it’s a high quality canvas, the sort a well-heeled artist would use. You can find out where Lautrec buys his supplies, see if they carry this particular canvas, and determine if he’s made a recent purchase. As for the cigarettes, they’re an expensive Turkish blend, rolled in high quality paper—a gentleman’s smoke no doubt. And we did find a small amount of opium, which might be of interest in light of the morphine in the body. On the other hand, most of these bohemian types indulge in drugs. You might trace them to Lautrec’s tobacconist, and I’ll bet the cigarettes in the case match the butt. Finally, I took a look at your cast of the shoeprint and the measurements you made of the stride. They appear to belong to a small individual, about 147 cm in height and proportionate weight. By the way, my congratulations for spotting the print and getting an excellent cast from a horse dropping.”

Achille smiled grimly. “More evidence pointing to Lautrec—or perhaps a well-planned frame-up?”

Bertillon rubbed his chin and squinted. Turning from the light, he muttered, “Well then, you may look for someone who had a motive to murder this as yet-unidentified young woman, mutilate her body, and pin it on Lautrec.” He pulled out his watch. “I’m running late, Inspector. Let’s go to records; then I must bid you good-day.”

7

OCTOBER 16, AFTERNOON & EVENING

REUNION

Marcia rested on a drawing room settee in the hotel suite, her back propped up on a velvet bolster. Sir Henry and Betsy had gone on a shopping excursion to the Rue de la Paix. The doctor had recommended she remain in the suite and rest. Marcia acquiesced, but in her mind she questioned Sir Henry’s motives. She wondered if his advice was based less on his professional concern for her health and more on his desire to have Betsy all to himself. What difference did it make? Love had long since departed their relationship; what remained was loyalty and memories of better times. And Betsy seemed infatuated with the handsome, gentlemanly physician, so much so that she might be eager to see the back of her consumptive companion.

Marcia sighed and reached for her sketchbook, which she had set down on a nearby coffee table. She opened the book to a pastel drawing of Virginie Ménard. She had drawn the portrait from memory based upon her vision during the ride in the Bois, but the work did not completely satisfy her. It looks too much like Lautrec’s portrait. I must go to Cormon’s Atelier to draw her from life. What’s more, I must talk to her, get to know her better. She put down the book and gazed at the ceiling.

Marcia had a practical side. She had not yet told Betsy of her desire to remain in Paris for an obvious reason—money. She had a few thousand dollars in a San Francisco bank, the proceeds from the sale of her artwork. And Theo Van Gogh of Goupil & Co. had made her an offer; his clients were very interested in her Silver Medal landscape. He said he could get her a handsome price for the painting and for any new work as well. Of course, she had serious doubts she’d live long enough to finish anything new—the projected venture into social realism was perhaps nothing more than a valetudinarian dream—but she did not say that to Theo.

She probably had enough to last the brief remainder of her life, but she feared dying alone in a foreign city, and she especially dreaded the time when she could no longer care for herself.

A ringing telephone interrupted. Marcia swung her thin legs over the edge of the settee, took hold of an armrest and raised herself with a grunt. She walked slowly to the telephone table, paused to catch her breath, then lifted the earpiece and raised the transmitter to her mouth. The voice on the other end surprised her. “Arthur, is that really you?”

“Yes, my dear, it is I in the flesh! I’ve crossed the channel to see some old friends, visit the Fair, and witness the closing ceremonies. Imagine my delight when I discovered that you and Betsy were staying at this very hotel.”

“This is a pleasant surprise. I would very much like to see you, talk of old times, and catch up on things. I’ve read your latest writings with great admiration.”

“Splendid! How about we pop over to the Café Riche? If Betsy’s around, she may certainly join us.”

“There’s nothing I’d like better, but I fear I’m a bit fragile right now.”

There was a pause—then: “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Are you well enough to receive?”

“Of course, my dear; they haven’t buried me yet.”

“All right, then, how about this afternoon? Let’s say in one hour?”

“Bless you Arthur; that would be lovely!”

It wasn’t until she had left the telephone that Marcia realized the extent of her loneliness.

Arthur Wolcott, the famous American expatriate author, sat across the tea table from Marcia, fine china cup in hand. Arthur had changed since their last meeting. Gray whiskers streaked his dark brown beard, his hair had thinned to a fringe, and his waist had expanded to prosperous bourgeois proportions that could not be completely concealed by his expert Savile Row tailors. Now fully acculturated to the style and manner of an English gentleman, he affected a monocle that would have been mocked in Boston and New York; his rough Yankee twang had been polished smooth and coated with a thick upper-class Anglophone varnish.

“I say Marcia,” he remarked with his characteristically affable smile, “I’m awfully pleased to find you looking so well. You seem to have exaggerated your illness.” This was a polite, well-intentioned lie.

Marcia smiled wanly. “That’s kind of you, Arthur, but no need for pretense between old friends. Fact is, I look frightful, and for the most part I feel worse than I look. But your appearance has had a tonic effect. And I’m very glad to see you’ve harbored no grudge against me for my deception all those years ago.” Her green eyes sparkled as she sipped her tea and nibbled at a brioche.

“Oh, that’s all water under the bridge; long since forgotten. ‘Mark’ Brownlow was a great artist and a friend, and that artistic greatness and cherished friendship continues in you, his female alter-ego.” Arthur put down his cup and wiped his hands on the serviette. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a cigarette case. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Please do.”

Arthur took out a cigarette, tamped it on the case, and then offered one to Marcia.

“Sorry, Arthur, I’d like to join you, but my new doctor forbids it.”

He lit his cigarette, took a puff and blew a smoke ring. Then he leaned back and hooked a thumb in his waistcoat pocket. “Sorry to hear that. I suppose longevity requires giving up life’s pleasures, one by one, until there’s nothing left. By the way, who is your physician?”

“Sir Henry Collingwood. Do you know him? I hear he has a very successful practice in Harley Street.”

Arthur rested his cigarette in an ashtray and leaned forward as though he were about to reveal a confidence. “Indeed I do know of him, and I’ve met him socially on more than one occasion. He’s good looking with an excellent manner, a clever fellow, and a fine amateur water-colorist. He’s also quite successful, welcomed in the best society, and he limits his practice to ladies of quality.”

“Oh, really? I find that fascinating. Please do tell me more.”

Arthur’s sunny expression darkened to a worried frown, as though he already had said too much and did not want to proceed. “It’s really a delicate subject, or rather indelicate, if you follow my meaning.”

“Arthur,” she said with impatience, “the man’s my doctor. What’s more, he’s been playing up to Betsy; I think she’s sweet on him. If you know something about him, please tell me. I promise I won’t be shocked. Just pretend you’re speaking man to man with your old chum Mark.”

“All right, since you put it that way, here’s what I know. Sir Henry specializes in treating female problems, most particularly cases of hysteria. His treatments are—of a very intimate nature.”

“Treatments of a very intimate nature, you say? For a famous author, your description lacks information.”

“Very well, Marcia, since you require me to spell it out, I’ll tell you what I’ve heard on good authority. Sir Henry treats hysteria by massaging and manipulating the—uh, female parts. He also provides the ladies with vibrating—uh, implements that they may use in the privacy of their homes. Finally, he prescribes strong sedatives to help them through their, uh, uh. . . .”

Marcia interrupted to spare him further embarrassment. “That’s enough, thank you, Arthur. I get the picture. No wonder he’s so popular. Anyway, I’m a woman and familiar with what you call female problems. And I assure you Sir Henry has used none of these techniques on me. It would surely be a stretch to think them helpful to a consumptive, though Lord knows but some desperate woman in my condition might submit to such treatment if she were convinced it would do her good. I just hope Betsy doesn’t—” Marcia stopped short. She coughed lightly into her serviette, and took a sip of tea.

Arthur tried to reassure her. “Betsy’s always been sensible; I doubt she’d—but you did say she’s sweet on him?”

Marcia nodded. “I’ve lived with Betsy for almost eleven years; she’s not always so sensible, especially when she drinks, as you well know. I’m worried, Arthur.”

Arthur reached over the table and held her thin, cold hand. “Don’t worry, dear, you must think of your health. Betsy can take care of herself.” He gazed at her fondly before proceeding: “I’ve purchased a fine Georgian manor near Rye in East Sussex. It’s a lovely place, not far from the sea. There’s a perfect English garden; you should see it when the roses are in bloom. I could have a studio fixed up for you, just like in the old days. There’s plenty of room. I entertain frequently, and you’d like the society: English, Americans, Europeans, writers, artists, theater people, intellectuals, and a sprinkling of swells, a jolly crew on all occasions. And our old friend Sargent’s in London. He’s doing quite well since he left Paris following the Madame X portrait scandal. What do you say?”

Marcia looked down at their intertwined hands. “It sounds lovely, Arthur, but—” She paused for a moment, eyeing him sadly. “Would you want to burden yourself with a sick woman?”

“Stuff and nonsense! We’ll have you up and about in no time. What you need is work, my girl; a new project, a painting for the ages, something to equal or surpass the best of the Mark Brownlow oeuvre.”

She stared at him with tear-moistened eyes. “I do have an idea, Arthur. Let me show you.” She got up and walked to the coffee table with more vigor than she had shown in days. After fetching her sketchbook, she returned to the tea table. Marcia opened the book to her drawing of Virginie and handed it to Arthur. “Tell me what you think.”

Arthur examined the pastel sketch. “It’s beautiful, Marcia. But then, you always had a knack for portraiture. Who is she?”

“A model I met at Cormon’s Atelier. I want to use her for a painting with strong social commentary, something along the lines of Luke Fildes.”

Arthur had his doubts about the project, but he did not let that dampen his enthusiasm. “I think that’s a splendid concept, and you can bring it to fruition in Rye as well as anywhere else. You might also receive Fildes’s blessing; we’re still on quite good terms and he might be flattered by your emulation.”

“Oh Arthur, I think it might work. But how would I break it to Betsy?”

Ever the pragmatist, he asked, “How are you fixed financially?”

“I have a few thousand in a San Francisco bank, and Van Gogh thinks I can get another thousand—that’s dollars, not francs—for my Silver Medal landscape. And Goupil will represent my new work in their gallery, too.”

Arthur smiled. “That’s more than enough, and of course you’ll be staying with me rent free and meals gratis. And I’m good friends with an excellent doctor who lives nearby.” He approached Marcia, took her hand, and gave sensible advice as gently as possible. “If what you say about Betsy and Sir Henry is true, perhaps a break is best for all concerned.”

Marcia stared at him for a moment. Then: “I’m inclined to agree, Arthur; but it’s much easier said than done.”

“Papa’s home! Papa’s home!” The little girl broke free from her nanny and scampered in a flurry of curls, ribbons, and lace through the front hall to Achille. He swept her into his arms, kissed her rosebud mouth, and hugged and squeezed her until she giggled. “I miss you, Papa. Why are you never here?”

Achille stroked her silky golden hair. “I’m sorry, little one. Papa’s very busy keeping Paris safe from wicked people.”

“Wicked people? Do you mean the Germans, the Jews, and the Freemasons?”

Achille stared over the child’s shoulder at Adele; she looked away and fussed with some frills on her dress. Jeanne had obviously been listening to her grandmother. He looked back at his daughter and smiled. “No, my angel, I mean the wicked people who break the laws of the Republic.”

Confused, Jeanne pouted and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Achille put her down and handed her back to the nanny. He waited until they were out of earshot before speaking to Adele:

“I wish your mother wouldn’t fill the child’s head with reactionary rubbish.”

Adele pouted like her little girl. “I’m sorry, Achille. I can’t correct Mama.”

His patience wearing thin, he replied harshly: “Well, perhaps it’s time someone did. I won’t have my four-year-old daughter’s mind polluted with extremist propaganda.”

Adele’s face reddened; she was on the verge of tears. “You finally come home at a decent hour, and the first thing you do is criticize mother and pick a quarrel over nothing. You didn’t even notice my new dress. It’s your favorite color; or at least you used to say it was your favorite.”

Achille calmed himself. He took a moment to admire the green silk gown trimmed with lace ruches. His voice softened. “It’s very pretty; the fabric matches your emerald eyes, it brings out their luster.” He walked to her, put his hands on her shoulders and smiled. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m tired. I just wish your mother would be more careful about expressing such controversial views around Jeanne.”

Adele had the pleased look of a wife who had won yet another minor skirmish with her husband. “Well, since you liked my dress and apologized nicely I’ll permit you to kiss me.”

He kissed her lips and held her tightly until he heard a familiar rustle of silk, creaking of stays, and smelled the sharp odor of camphor transfused with sweet overtones of attar of roses. Madame Berthier entered the hallway. A dumpy woman in her fifties with a vestige of prettiness around her hazel eyes and full red lips, Madame looked like a Gallic Queen Victoria dressed in old-fashioned black bombazine crinoline and white widow’s cap. “Good evening, Achille. It was most kind of Chief Inspector Féraud to permit you an evening with your family.”

“Good evening, Madame.” Achille walked to his mother-in-law, bent down, and kissed her proffered cheek. “I have the pleasure of dining en famille this evening, but I’m afraid I must retire to my study immediately after dinner. I must finish my report for tomorrow morning.”

Madame smiled, displaying crooked yellowish teeth and spreading dozens of wrinkles through a layer of white powder round her eyes and rouged mouth. “I’m honored to have a son-in-law so devoted to his duty. It’s a shame you can’t turn your singular talents toward rooting out France’s real enemies rather than chasing common criminals through the gutters of Montmartre.”

Achille glanced at Adele with a wry smile before inquiring: “Oh, and who might these real enemies be, Madame?”

“Read Monsieur Drumont’s La France Juive and you will be enlightened, my boy.”

Adele interrupted judiciously: “We’re having veal chops with sorrel and an excellent Chateau Haut-Brion. I think you’ll prefer it to your usual sandwich and bottle of beer.”

Madame grimaced at the mention of her son-in-law’s common, workday supper. “Beer,” she muttered, “how disgusting.”

Achille laughed. “To what do we owe this feast? Is it some special occasion of which I’m unaware?”

“Yes, my dear,” Adele answered with a smile. “It’s to celebrate your dining at home.”

The dinner was superb, but after two hours of listening to Madame’s conspiracy theories, Achille was relieved to return to work. He sat at his desk bent over a typewriter, straining his eyes in the yellow glow of an oil lamp. Constantly referring to his notes and considering a number of leads developed from new evidence, he completed his report to Féraud.

In addition to the evidence he had discussed with Bertillon at the laboratory, he made two intriguing discoveries in records. First, a concierge on the Rue Lepic had reported a missing young woman, Virginie Ménard, and the police had questioned an artist named Émile Bernard who had been roaming Montmartre and Pigalle searching for the girl. The time of her disappearance and physical description matched what they knew from the corpse.

Second, he found a file on a dwarf, Joseph Rossini, aka Jojo the clown. Jojo was an ex-convict with a record of violence against women, a circus performer who rented a room on the Rue Lepic, not far from Virginie Ménard. His photographs looked like Lautrec’s twin, and his measurements matched the footprint cast and stride measured at the crime scene. Achille wondered what Rousseau’s investigation had turned up; at any rate, he’d know first thing in the morning. Achille finished typing, and turned his attention to the latent prints on the gold cigarette case.

In 1863, Paul-Jean Coulier, a chemistry professor, published his discovery that latent fingerprints could be developed on paper by iodine fuming. He also explained how to preserve the developed impression and mentioned the potential for identifying fingerprints by use of a magnifying glass. Achille had read Coulier’s paper. But without a credible classification system and a sound argument for the individuality of fingerprints that could be accepted as evidence in a court of law, there was no practical use for them in criminal identification. Galton had provided the supporting argument for individuality and the classification system, what was needed was a means of capturing the prints at the crime scene so they might be compared to the suspect’s fingerprints and presented to the court.

Achille knew that the prints on the cigarette case were impressions made by the oily residue and perspiration on the fingertips. What he needed was a reagent, the equivalent of Coulier’s iodine fumes that could sufficiently enhance the prints so they could be classified accurately, photographed, and compared to the prints on the canvas.

He yawned, removed his pince-nez, rubbed his bleary eyes, and then focused on the loudly ticking desk clock. Eleven P.M.; time for bed. Achille rose from his desk, stretched his weary arms and legs, and walked to the doorway that entered into a short corridor leading to the master bedroom. He had already removed his shoes and changed into slippers to keep the carpets clean and not make too much noise. The gas was off; he groped through the shadows, careful not to trip over toys Jeanne often left on the runner. When he reached the bedroom door, he knocked gently. Adele bid him enter.

He saw her seated at her dresser. She had changed into a nightdress. Her hair was down, and she slowly brushed the long, brown strands while gazing at her reflection in a lamp-lit mirror. Achille came up behind her, leaned down, brushed away some stray hairs and caressed her bare shoulder. She put down the hairbrush and accidentally knocked some face powder onto a silver box. “Oh,” she muttered. Then she bent over and blew away the powder.

The accident caught Achille’s attention. “Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “Don’t move; don’t touch anything.”

“What’s the matter, dear?” Adele turned around with a worried frown. But Achille was already out the door, sprinting up the corridor toward his study. She heard a crash and a cry of “Merde!” Achille had tripped over Jeanne’s toy duck, Oscar.

Presently he returned, limping and rubbing his knee with one hand and carrying his magnifying glass in the other. Scowling, he muttered, “Nanny must teach Jeanne not to leave her toys in the hallways, or at least pick up after her.”

“Yes, dear, I’ll speak to them. But what’s all the fuss? What are you doing with that glass?”

Achille forgot his throbbing knee. He bent over the dressing table and examined the silver box. “My dear, we’re conducting an important experiment in forensic science.”

He handed the glass to Adele. “Here, see for yourself.”

“Oh, very well,” she grumbled. “What am I looking at?”

“Your fingerprints enhanced with face powder.”

“How disgusting!” She handed back the magnifying glass with a peevish glare. “Why is it so important?”

Achille explained patiently. “Fingerprints might be significant to the solution of the mystery surrounding my case. They can provide the missing pieces to a puzzle that, when completed, could catch a dangerous criminal. But I’m breaking new ground, practically writing the book as I proceed.” He lowered his voice, smiled, and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry if my behavior seems peculiar at times, but I’m under pressure and it’s a matter of the utmost urgency. Your little accident put me on the right track, and I’m grateful. Now, I just need to find something, a fine dark powder that will increase the definition of the lines so they can be clearly identifiable and photographable as well.”

Adele grasped his hand and rose from her chair. She smiled, looked into Achille’s eyes and spoke softly: “I think I understand a little now. Perhaps it might help if you shared your work with me, from time to time. Not the grisly things, but your theories, your methods, your problems. I’ll help, if I can.”

He kissed her. “Thank you, I’d like that very much.”

“All right, it’s a bargain. And now, Inspector, I’m going to test your powers of observation further. Have you noticed anything different about me?”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see now. Does is it go with your new dress?”

“Good question; you’re warm.”

He sniffed her neck and bosom. “Ah, I detect a new fragrance.”

“Bravo! And you approve?”

Achille opened her night dress and caressed her breasts. “Yes,” he whispered. “It’s perfection.”

“Inspector Lefebvre, for your unerring skill as a detective, excellent taste in perfume, and unwavering devotion to duty, I award you the highest honor I can bestow.” She lifted his hand, smiled mischievously, and nibbled his fingers.

Achille laughed, swept Adele into his arms, and carried her off to bed.

Just before midnight a brilliant lightning flash lit the sky over Sacré-Cæur. Thunder rumbled, stirring memories of the Prussian Krupp guns that pounded Paris day and night during the siege of 1870-71. Wind-whipped rain battered shutters, poured through drainpipes into overflowing gutters, washed over twisting streets and alleyways down to the boulevard at the foot of the hill. Lautrec and a few others sought shelter in a small boîte in Pigalle. The artist sat alone at a small table, drinking absinthe while sketching a young woman seated at the other end of the bar. She appeared through a grayish haze of tobacco smoke tinged yellow by flickering candles and gaslights. The place reeked of fumes emanating from clay pipes and cheap cigarettes re-rolled from discarded butts, interfused with the odor of damp clothing clinging to infrequently washed bodies.