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

Автор книги: Gary Inbinder

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Marcia thought a moment and took a sip of wine before answering. “No, I’d say he’s quite professional and he does have an excellent bedside manner. But then, my illness does not fall within his peculiar specialty. On the other hand, he might see Betsy as a subject ripe for his nostrums. She’s moody and unpredictable, especially when she drinks. What’s more, she’s past thirty and hasn’t been under the influence or domination of a man since she came of age. And of course, there’s her considerable fortune.”

Arthur sighed. “You paint a bleak picture. However, if Sir Henry were a bounder I doubt he’d be able to maintain such a sterling reputation and lucrative practice. People talk in London society, as you well know, and you can’t keep objectionable behavior covert for too long. People won’t know you; they’ll cut you dead in public.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Marcia sighed and turned to gaze at a stand of gently rustling beech trees.

Arthur hesitated; he wondered if Marcia’s worries were more the consequence of jealous envy than concern for her friend. Considering the hopelessness of her condition, he opted for the latter. “You might speak to Aggie Fitzroy. She was one of Sir Henry’s patients.”

Aggie Fitzroy, formerly Lady Agatha Clifford, was one of the great society beauties of the previous decade. As Mark Brownlow, Marcia had painted a portrait of Lady Agatha that caused a sensation and, for a brief time, they had been lovers. Marcia’s ears pricked up and her eyes widened at the mention of the name. “How is Aggie? I haven’t seen her in ages.”

Arthur already regretted mentioning Agatha, but he answered forthrightly. “She’s seen better days, I’m afraid. When she married Colonel Fitzroy she had quite a fortune from her first marriage, and she believed the Colonel was flush as well. After all, he had Brodemeade, a fine manor and lands. Everything looked beautiful on the surface, but was mortgaged to the hilt; Aggie didn’t learn the worst of it until four years ago when the colonel died. The whole kit and caboodle had to be sold to satisfy creditors; Aggie was lucky to keep some of her separate property. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Her health and looks declined along with her fortune. That’s why she consulted with Sir Henry. Now, she’s no longer welcomed in the best society, and from all accounts lives a sad and lonely life.”

“Poor Aggie,” Marcia murmured. “Où sont la neiges d’antan? She was once my ideal of the sublime and the beautiful. I’m afraid I’ve misspent my brief career chasing aesthetic butterflies.” She paused a moment; then: “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to the Atelier Cormon to ask about a model, Virginie Ménard. She may have inspired me to use what time I have left to do something important.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Could she be another of your ‘aesthetic butterflies’?”

Marcia laughed. “You’ll never change. Always ready with a caustic observation. But I know your secret, my old friend. Beneath that sardonic exterior beats a kind and generous heart. You’re just ashamed to show it.”

9

OCTOBER 17, MORNING, AFTERNOON AND EVENING

AN INTERVIEW

Your graphite powder has done the trick, Inspector. The lines on the fingerprints are as sharp and clear as can be.”

Gilles displayed his photographs with pride. He and Achille studied the results of their experiment aided by the bright morning light streaming through the windows in Bertillon’s laboratory. The photographs of the cigarette case with enhanced latent fingerprints had been set next to the photos of the stained cloth for comparison. After a minute of careful examination, Achille smiled.

Pointing first to the cigarette case and then to the cloth, Achille said, “You see the difference, Gilles? It’s most obvious in the thumbs. One has what’s called an ulnar loop; the other doesn’t. I’m certain these are the fingerprints of two different individuals.”

Gilles looked carefully and nodded. “I see, Inspector, but how does this aid your investigation?”

He replied cautiously. The new method of identification might be viewed as a radical challenge to Bertillon’s established system, though that was not what Achille intended. Rather, he conceived of fingerprinting as a supplement to the portrait parlé and anthropometrical method. But means of enhancing the prints and “lifting” images at the crime scene needed to be developed before the widespread fingerprinting of suspects became practical. Premature advocacy for the new system might subject Achille to ridicule, not to mention Chief Bertillon’s ire for poaching on his preserve. At this point, fingerprints might be useful, but only on a case-by-case basis. “If I can fingerprint a suspect and compare his prints to these photographs, I’ll either have evidence of criminal activity to support an accusation or exculpatory evidence to rule out that suspect. Either way, it’s a step forward in the investigative process.”

“I see, so all you need to do is haul in a suspect or two and fingerprint them.”

Achille smiled wryly. “Yes my friend, it’s as simple as that.”

He returned to his small corner office on the same floor as Féraud’s. Achille’s cubbyhole was in stark contrast to the chief’s cluttered workspace: neat, spotless, and well-organized, with little personalization and nothing whimsical or macabre. The only items that proclaimed his “ownership” were a nameplate and desk photographs of Adele and Jeanne. Otherwise, the place could have been exchanged with any other inspector assigned to the case.

Achille sipped lukewarm, black coffee and nibbled a stale brioche while reviewing his file and planning the rest of his day. Féraud had assigned him more detectives; he was pushing for results. He most particularly feared a surge of “Ripper mania” in the newspapers. Reporters were snooping round Montmartre, searching out every gossip and crackpot with a theory of the case. If the penny-a-liners couldn’t find anything sensational enough to satisfy their editors, they would surely make it up.

As for the leads, none of the hospitals had recently reported thefts of narcotics or anesthetics; the chemists and apothecaries provided lists of hundreds of Parisian doctors who routinely used the drugs in their practice, but so far they hadn’t turned up anyone connected to Virginie Ménard.

Lautrec’s tobacconist examined the cigarettes; he recognized the paper and the Turkish tobacco, but he swore he didn’t use opium in his blends. However, he did refer to tobacconists who included the drug for special customers, but further investigation hadn’t yet uncovered anything of interest.

The search through the art supply shops had also proved fruitless. There were more painters in Paris that used the particular type of canvas in which the torso was wrapped than doctors who administered narcotics and anesthetics. The old cliché applied; it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Tomorrow was Sunday, a day off, and Féraud was impatient. He wanted an arrest before another body turned up and made more of a stink in the newspapers. Rousseau was itching to arrest Lautrec. But the chief backed Achille, partly because he hesitated to accuse a descendant of Raymond, the great crusader. Not that Féraud gave a damn about nobility, but he was very sensitive when it came to the nation’s history and the honor of France.

Achille doubted they were dealing with Jack the Ripper, or another criminal in that vein. And he also believed that the fingerprints, along with a search of his studio and apartment, would exculpate Lautrec. Much of Achille’s thinking along these lines was intuitive; Lautrec seemed too obvious a suspect, as was often the case with a frame-up. As for the Ripper, the surgery in this case was too neat and clinical, whereas the Ripper’s victims had been savagely butchered. Yet he feared that some failure on his part, a missed clue or inadequately investigated lead, might result in another woman’s death.

Achille finished his coffee and dumped the unappetizing remains of the brioche in the wastebasket. He would have worked all day Sunday if he thought it would help the case. But he’d promised Adele a day in the country at a quiet auberge only twenty minutes from central Paris by train. They’d leave Jeanne with Madame Berthier and nanny. Madame will enjoy that. More time to infect my child with her grandmamma’s prejudices. There was no telephone at the inn, but the station was nearby; if a telegram came from headquarters Achille would return immediately.

He lit a cigar, packed his briefcase, pocketed his credentials and service revolver, and prepared to leave. He was about to confront Toulouse-Lautrec. There was a risk in asking the artist to cooperate voluntarily without a warrant, but Achille thought it was worth it. If possible, he wanted to know the man, to gain his confidence and assistance in cracking the case. He checked his watch; two detectives would meet him outside Lautrec’s apartment. Two others were detailed to the studio; they waited at the local station with Sergeant Rodin. They would begin the search as soon as Achille issued the order by telephone. It was time to go.

Established in Montmartre near the foot of the hill, the Atelier Cormon was located in a spacious workroom with large exposed wooden beams, unpainted walls, and immense glass windows, lamps, and reflectors suspended from rafters to provide the desired lighting. High shelves stacked with white plaster casts of nymphs, Caesars, gods, and goddesses lined the unpainted walls, and there was a centrally situated dais for models. A sharply distinctive, but not unpleasant odor of linseed oil and turpentine permeated the atmosphere; several students seated themselves at easels surrounding the dais, concentrating their attention on a dark, young woman posing nude, in a semi-reclining position. Marcia immediately recognized her as Virginie’s friend, Delphine Lacroix.

Arthur held Marcia’s arm as she scanned the premises, searching for the maître. But Cormon was not there; he only attended once a week to provide friendly critiques, suggestions for improvement, and encouragement where it was due. She saw Émile Bernard and waved to catch his eye. A young man working next to Bernard spotted her first. Recognizing the noted American artist, he leaned over and nudged his friend.

“Hey, Émile, you see that woman standing near the entrance, next to the gentleman? I believe she’s waving at you. That’s Mademoiselle Brownlow, isn’t it? Her landscape won a Silver Medal at the Fair.”

Bernard put down his brush and looked up. Surprised, he replied to Marcia’s friendly greeting with a curt nod. Then he got up from his chair and picked his way gingerly around the sketching and painting students.

Marcia greeted Émile with a handshake and introduced him to Arthur. “Good-day, Monsieur Bernard; I don’t believe you know my friend, Arthur Wolcott?”

Bernard shook Arthur’s hand and greeted him: “I’m honored, Monsieur Wolcott. I’ve read and enjoyed many of your novels and stories.”

Arthur smiled warmly. “Thank you, Monsieur. That’s very kind of you. And Miss Brownlow has recommended your work to me on several occasions.” That was a courteous deception. Marcia had said little to Arthur about Bernard, and what she had said was indifferent at best. But the polite deceit ran both ways; Émile had read little of Arthur’s writing.

Bernard turned to Marcia with a curious look in his eye: “What brings you to the Atelier, Mademoiselle?”

“I was looking for Virginie Ménard, but I see she’s not here. I’d like her to model for me, privately. Do you know how I might get in touch with her?”

Bernard’s mildly questioning expression transformed into a bewildered stare. “You haven’t heard, Mademoiselle? No one’s seen Virginie for days. Now the police are going round asking questions of everyone who knew her. They suspect foul play. But perhaps you haven’t read the newspapers about the unidentified woman’s body found on the Rue Tourlaque?”

Marcia said nothing. Her eyes registered shock; she fixed her gaze on Émile, but did not see him. Instead, she had a vision of Virginie’s corpse laid out on a slab in the Morgue. Arthur immediately sensed something was wrong. He put his arms around Marcia to prevent her from collapsing, and spoke to Bernard in a hoarse, urgent whisper: “Please Monsieur, would you kindly fetch a chair for Mademoiselle?”

Bernard ran to the nearest empty seat and returned shortly. Arthur thanked him, and helped Marcia into the chair. By now, almost all the students had abandoned their work to observe the drama; Delphine broke her pose, twisting her head round to see what the fuss was about.

“May I get you a restorative, Mademoiselle? I’m sure someone has a flask of brandy.”

Marcia shook her head. “Please don’t trouble yourself, Émile. I’m all right; I apologize for disrupting the class. Your news came as quite a shock. You see, Virginie had inspired me to conceive something new, something different in my art. I was hoping—” She caught herself mid-sentence and paused a moment before continuing: “But of course, my art means nothing now. It’s Virginie I’m worried about.”

Bernard took her frail hand and smiled sympathetically. “Please don’t reproach yourself. She has affected us that way. I too had a glimmer of hope for something new, but now. . . .” He sighed and shook his head. “But now, I’m at a loss. There’s nothing we can do for her. It’s in God’s hands—God and the Sûreté.”

Marcia stared out the window as the cab rolled along the boulevard. Her painter’s eye acquired an impression of a city under a grayish-blue sky; cloud-diffused light glanced off slate roofs, gray stone walls, and shaded windows; russet leaves rustled gently in a mild breeze, purple shadows danced on the pavement. As she took in the scene visually she listened to an accompaniment, the steady, rhythmic clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the rumbling wheels. She swayed with the incessant rocking of the carriage, which had a calming, almost hypnotic effect.

Arthur sat across from her, worried that the day’s events and revelations had been too much of a strain; they’d taken a toll. He would normally attempt an amusing quip, but he doubted whether anything he could say would cheer her up. Finally, he ventured a hopeful comment if only to break the uneasy silence:

“It’s sad news about the girl. But perhaps she’ll show up.”

Marcia turned away from the window and regarded him wistfully. “Do you remember our early days in Florence when we used to discuss problems of perception, the difference between appearances and reality?”

Arthur smiled. “Yes, I recall some of our metaphysical chit-chat. I was playing the Socratic schoolmaster; I could be awfully pretentious in those days.”

“No Arthur, it wasn’t pretense. You’ve always been perceptive, well-read, and worldly-wise; I’ve benefitted from all you’ve taught me. We live in a world of illusions; little or nothing is certain. We presume probable truths are certainties, until someone clearly rebuts our presumption. As for our will and freedom to choose, in most cases it seems our choice is limited to those falsehoods we wish to believe. I’ve always preferred beautiful lies to ugly ones. Perhaps I also prefer a beautiful lie to an ugly truth.

“Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my life and career. At some point I made a crucial decision. Putting up all my talent and skill as collateral, I borrowed beauty from nature and invested her precious treasure in my art. For a time, I reaped a rich reward. But the market for beauty—at least my stock of beauty—has dropped of late. Now all my capital’s spent; my credit’s blown. Virginie Ménard appeared like a rich new resource to draw upon, a life-saving bank of beauty. But she’s gone, most likely the victim of a brutal crime. The damnable thing for me is that, deep down, I mourn my own loss from her absence more than I care for her suffering and death. I’m guilty in a moral sense; I’m little better than her murderer.”

Arthur stared at her for a moment. Then, his voice choked with emotion, he replied, “No, my dear. You’re tired and you’ve had a shock. I believe you loved the girl, as you loved Betsy and Aggie Fitzroy. I think I know you as well as anyone. You’ve given far more to the world through your art, than you ever took in return.”

Arthur crossed over to the opposite seat and put his arm around her. Marcia laid her head on his shoulder and wept.

Achille puffed nervously on a small cigar as he waited in a cab outside Toulouse-Lautrec’s apartment. The two detectives were stationed on either side of the street, ready in case he tried to make a run for it. Not that Achille expected a son of the Count of Toulouse to bolt like a common criminal; it was simply a routine precaution.

He glanced at his watch, leaned out the window, and pitched his half-smoked, half-chewed cigar into the gutter. Lautrec was coming up the sidewalk. Achille signaled his men and exited the cab. He approached the artist, flashed his credentials, and introduced himself: “Monsieur de Toulouse-Lautrec, I am Inspector Achille Lefebvre of the Sûreté. If you please, I’d like you to accompany me to headquarters where you may be of assistance in an important investigation. I apologize for the inconvenience, and I promise not to detain you any longer than is necessary.”

Lautrec looked up at Achille’s slate-colored chin and black nostrils; the bright sunshine made him squint and he shaded his eyes with a hand. “Inconvenience, you say? It’s a damned liberty, accosting me this way. Have you a warrant for my arrest? If so, please state the charge.”

Achille smiled and spoke calmly. “No charge and no warrant, at present, Monsieur. However, if you insist, I can obtain one. But I do have some property that belongs to you, a gold cigarette case.”

Lautrec raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, you’ve found my cigarette case? It’s quite valuable. I’ve been searching for it for days. But why couldn’t the police notify me rather than approach me in such melodramatic fashion?”

Achille noticed Lautrec’s response; his attitude and tone of voice in expressing his primary concern for lost property reinforced Achille’s belief in the artist’s innocence. “The cigarette case was discovered at a crime scene, and is being held in evidence. If you’ll kindly accompany me, I’ll explain the matter on the way to headquarters. My cab is waiting up the street.”

“All right, Inspector, if you insist. Lead on, and I’ll follow.”

Lautrec accepted Achille’s “invitation” to wait at headquarters while the detectives searched his studio and apartment. Achille detailed a promising young man, Inspector Legros, to head up the search. Legros was one of the “new men,” a recent polytechnic graduate skilled in Bertillon’s methods. Achille left Rousseau to his specialty, working the dragnet with the aid of his network of snoops and snitches. But there was something else to Achille’s thinking besides assigning the man best suited to a specific job; in his opinion Rousseau seemed much too eager to have access to the artist’s premises where he might make a brilliant “discovery” that established Lautrec’s guilt, QED. It wasn’t that Achille didn’t trust his partner; he just preferred not to lead him into temptation.

To gain Lautrec’s confidence and kill time, Achille took the artist on a Cook’s tour of the Palais de Justice before returning to his office for questioning. Achille and Lautrec sat facing one another across the desk. He offered the artist a cigarette, which he declined, preferring to smoke his own brand.

Lautrec struck a match, took a few puffs, leaned back and observed Achille with a shrewd smile. “Thank you, Inspector, for that delightful excursion through the bowels of our justice system. I found it most edifying, like the popular tour of our sewers and catacombs, or a charming day at the Morgue. Now I am in your debt and completely at your mercy. You may commence with the thumb-screw and rack.”

Achille laughed. “You are a wit, Monsieur, but a poor public servant is hardly a worthy target for your rapier thrusts. At any rate, my men are very efficient.” He glanced at the wall clock. “They should finish their work presently, so you needn’t be bored much longer.” He opened a drawer, retrieved an evidence bag and a pair of gloves, and carefully displayed the cigarette case on his desk. “Can you identify this object? But please be so good as not to touch it.”

Lautrec leaned forward and examined the cigarette case. “That’s mine all right. But why do you handle it so gingerly, and with gloves?”

Achille returned the case to the bag, put it back in the drawer, and removed his gloves. “I’m preserving the fingerprints. It’s a new technique, an experiment in forensic science.”

“Oh, that interests me, Inspector. It appears you’re very progressive and well-educated—for a policeman. Now I just happen to be a good Cartesian.”

Achille smiled broadly; he saw an opening. “A good Cartesian, you say? Is that why you enjoy observing surgical operations?”

“That’s a clever comment, Inspector. I thought you were going to refer to Cartesian rationalism, his a priori reasoning, and forget the empirical side, such as his dissection of animals to discover how they work. Break things down to their simplest components. After all, we must use some induction to set up our hypotheses before we proceed to our deductions.

“Yes, I do enjoy watching people being cut up. Surgery is like my art. I probe for the truth; I apply scientific method, dicing things down and then reassembling them on paper and canvas.

“I study facial expressions, gestures, physical attributes, and the underlying anatomical structure, physiology, and psychology to get an impression of character types; I can draw on this bank of knowledge to relate the individual subject of a portrait to a known category.”

Achille looked Lautrec directly in the eye before pursuing: “I see, Monsieur. Do you apply your method to your intimate relationships?”

Lautrec winced; he clearly found the question offensive. He took a last puff, and then vigorously stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray. “I’m not sure I follow your meaning, Inspector,” he muttered. “Unless you’re referring to a syllogism based on the major premise, all whores fuck for money.”

Achille remained calm but firm, like a physician sounding his patient. “Tell me about Virginie Ménard. First, I’d like to know when, where, and how you met her.”

Lautrec paused a moment to regain his composure before answering. “I met her about one year ago, at the Atelier Cormon. She was modeling, and she interested me. I’d already heard of her from a friend, Vincent Van Gogh. At the time, she lived near him and his brother Theo, on the Rue Lepic. He got her to pose a couple of times.”

“Excuse me, Monsieur. Do you know where I can find Vincent Van Gogh?”

“Yes Inspector; he’s locked up in the asylum at St. Rémy. He hasn’t been in Paris for more than a year.”

“I see; please continue.”

“Well, there isn’t much to tell. Our relationship began professionally and developed into something more. But it ended in argument and recrimination. That was about a month ago.”

“What was the ultimate cause of the break up?”

Lautrec laughed sardonically. He held out his hands in a mocking gesture. “Clap me in manacles and convey me to the dungeon. I’ll admit my guilt, Inspector. I was a jealous lover.”

Achille ignored the sarcasm. “Of whom were you jealous, Monsieur? Can you give me a name, or names?”

Lautrec shook his head. “That’s the devil of it; she never told me, no matter how hard I tried to pry it out of her. Instead she made up excuses for her long absences, prevarications that wouldn’t have fooled a simple child. She insulted my intelligence.”

Achille noted that the relationship had left wounds that had not yet healed. “A moment ago, you said she ‘interested’ you. Could you be specific?”

Lautrec sighed deeply. “You’ve probably heard that she was a great beauty. Well, I don’t require beauty in a model or a lover—or rather a sexual partner. What really interests me is the facial expression, in a model that is. I don’t copulate with the face.

“In Virginie’s case, she could convey a sense of suffering, sadness, and even madness; at other times she could express joy and unbridled ecstasy. And it all seemed natural; not like what you see on stage or in sentimental art. I’ll admit she fascinated me. But living with her was difficult. She was plagued by nightmares, demons from her childhood that drove her to hysterics. I wanted her and hated the idea of sharing her with anyone. On the other hand, living with her could be hell, and I felt relieved when she left me.”

“I appreciate your candor, Monsieur. Do you know of any other artists or individuals who took a particular interest in Mlle Ménard?”

Lautrec thought for a moment. “My friend Émile Bernard wanted to use her for a new painting; he saw something spiritual in her. But I understand you’ve already talked to him. He couldn’t hurt a fly. And there is an American woman, Marcia Brownlow, a well-regarded painter. She seemed to like my portrait of Virginie and urged her friend, a wealthy collector, to buy it. But she made an odd comment. It could have been a compliment or an insult; I still don’t know quite what to make of it. At any rate, they’ve yet to make an offer.”

“Do you know where I can contact Mlle Brownlow and her friend?”

“Yes, they’re staying at the Grand Hotel.”

“Can you tell me what was so odd about her comment?”

“She distinguished my portrait of Virginie from my other work by reference to its ‘prettiness.’ Mlle Brownlow is known and much admired for her vivid landscapes and portraits of beautiful women. She’s one of those aesthetic painters who get inspiration from nature’s ‘beauty.’ I’m not such an artist. To call one of my paintings ‘pretty’ is damning it with faint praise.”

Achille nodded without comment. Then: “Can you think of anyone else who might have taken an interest in Mlle Ménard, perhaps a doctor who paints for a hobby?”

Lautrec looked away for a moment, as if searching his memory. “Well, there’s Sir Henry Collingwood, an English doctor visiting Paris on holiday. He attended the life drawing classes at the Atelier. I know he made sketches of Virginie, but I don’t recall him showing any particular interest in her.”

Achille had anticipated the answer. He pursued: “Do you recall seeing this English doctor at Péan’s clinic?”

“Yes, on a few occasions.”

“How about at the vaginal hysterectomy Dr. Péan performed on Wednesday the 14th?”

Lautrec narrowed his eyes. “It’s strange you should mention that. I don’t recall seeing Sir Henry there, but he did turn up at Le Chat Noir that evening. He mentioned attending the operation. Of course, I could have missed him. I was concentrating on the procedure and my sketch.”

“Do you recall any details of the conversation?”

“Not much, except that Bernard was there. He’d been looking for Virginie and was concerned that he couldn’t find her.”

“Did you and Sir Henry share his concern?”

“No, I thought she’d turn up sooner or later. Sir Henry agreed, but then he didn’t know her. Or at least, I didn’t think—” Lautrec stopped and looked down at his hands. For the first time that day he appeared worried. The sarcasm and flippant manner disappeared. He looked back at Achille with a troubled expression: “Inspector, do you think Sir Henry had anything to do with Virginie’s disappearance?”

Achille noticed the sudden change in demeanor. “I don’t know, Monsieur. You said Mlle Ménard had, on occasion, behaved hysterically. Did you know that Sir Henry specializes in the treatment of female hysteria?”

Lautrec shook his head. “No Inspector, I didn’t know that.”

The telephone rang. Achille lifted the earpiece and transmitter. It was Inspector Legros. The detectives had completed their search of Lautrec’s studio and apartment; they found nothing suspicious, and were returning to headquarters.

For a moment, Achille wondered if he should tell Lautrec the outcome of the search. Under these circumstances, other detectives might have tried to trap a suspect and trick him into a confession. But he decided that dealing forthrightly with this man would achieve the best results. “The search is completed, Monsieur. I’m pleased to inform you the detectives found nothing incriminating.”

Lautrec smiled with relief. “Then I’m free to go?”

“I can’t legally hold you, Monsieur Lautrec. But I do have a couple of questions and the fingerprinting to complete. If you please, it won’t take much time.”

“I’ll do what I can, Inspector. If anyone’s harmed Virginie I—I want to help catch the criminal.”

“Thank you. Do you recall the last time you saw Mlle Ménard?”

“After midnight last Sunday morning at the Moulin Rouge; I sketched her dancing, but I didn’t speak to her.”

“Did you speak or socialize with anyone else?”

“I spoke briefly to a couple of people, Zidler the Moulin’s manager and the gallery owner Joyant—just small talk and business. But I did spend some time with the American women, Mlle Brownlow and Mlle uh—Endicott I believe was her name.”

“And you discussed Mlle Ménard?”

“Yes, we spoke about my portrait of Virginie.”

Achille returned to the subject of the cigarette case. “Did you smoke?”

“Yes, I smoked and offered them cigarettes.”

“Did you have your cigarette case at that time?”

Lautrec thought a moment, frowned and shook his head. “I believe so, but I can’t be sure. I’m afraid my memory of the occasion is a bit foggy.”

“Do you recall noticing anyone suspicious at the time, someone who might have taken the case?”

“Inspector, have you been to the Moulin Rouge on a Saturday evening? The place is packed to the rafters, especially with all the tourists here for the Exposition. Thieves could easily work the Moulin unnoticed.”

Achille nodded while making a mental note: We’ll need to question the manager and the staff, and the American women too. “Thank you, Monsieur; we’ll end the questioning here. I trust you don’t plan to leave Paris in the near future?”