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

Автор книги: Gary Inbinder

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Lautrec smiled and shook his head. “No Inspector; I shall remain at your disposal.”

Achille took ink impressions of Lautrec’s fingerprints according to Galton’s method. Then he walked the artist to a cab. He thanked him again, adding “You have my card, Monsieur. If you have any further information regarding this case, please contact me immediately.”

“Of course, Inspector, and I apologize for my earlier rudeness. I understand your job is difficult and important; you serve the public interest. Good afternoon.”

He watched Lautrec enter the cab. Achille had already noticed how difficult it was for the artist to go up and down stairs or to step into or descend from a carriage on his stunted, misshapen legs. A man with such a disability could not have carried the body very far. As for his motive, jealousy, he made no attempt to conceal it. He did not behave like a guilty man. However, I can’t jump to conclusions; it would be a mistake to rule him out completely.

Achille took the fingerprint card to the evidence room, where he compared Lautrec’s prints to those on the cloth and the cigarette case. The difference between Lautrec’s prints and the prints on the canvas was obvious. The cigarette case was another matter. The graphite powder dusting had turned up more than one set of prints. He hypothesized that a very faint finger and thumbprint that he had not noticed on initial examination were Lautrec’s; he assumed the fresher prints belonged to one of the criminal accomplices.

On the way back to his office, Achille began mentally composing his report for Féraud. He believed he now had enough evidence to rule out Lautrec as a suspect. He would concentrate his attention on his two man theory, focusing on Sir Henry Collingwood and Joseph Rossini, aka Jojo the Clown, while keeping an open mind as to other possibilities.

10

OCTOBER 18

FOLLOWING THE LEADS

Scattered clouds drifted through a bright cerulean sky. A stand of rustling trees, shrubs, and reeds lined the muddy, sloping banks; forms shaded burnt umber, sienna, ochre, and verdigris cast their reflections in calm, silvery water. The slow-moving river forked round the island of Chatou; in the near distance a Paris-bound train trailing gray smoke rumbled across an iron bridge. A border of rolling hills appeared on the horizon; bright verdure darkened in purplish shadow.

The skiff made steady progress toward the dock; oars splashing rhythmically, stirring a mild wake. Adele, dressed in a light blue frock with lace collar, her pretty head adorned with a flower and ribbon-trimmed straw bonnet, sat in the stern and handled the tiller. She smiled at Achille, who sat facing her as he pulled at the oars. Adele admired her husband’s powerful bare arms glistening with a thin film of sweat, the muscular power of his broad chest and shoulders, the athletic grace of his stroke. The “professor” seemed like a different man when he took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and got into a boat. He had been rowing since he was a boy, and was an expert in a skiff or a one-man scull.

Achille savored the moment, the rural calm, the peace of the river, the ineffable charms of nature and his young wife. But the sound of a train rushing over a bridge reminded him that his office was only a half-hour away and a message from Féraud summoning him to duty was an unwelcome possibility. The fact of a vicious murderer on the loose was never far from his thoughts. If he pushed the case down for an instant, it always resurfaced, like a gas-bloated corpse breaching the surface of a placid stream.

A persistent chugging, mechanical throbbing, and the piercing cry of a whistle broke the silence. A small steam launch glided by, churning up a white wake that rocked the skiff. Aboard the launch, a party of swells laughed, waved, and lifted their glasses in salute to the boaters, then returned to their champagne and foie gras.

Adele made a funny face and laughed. “What a bunch of loafers. They ought to strip down and get some exercise.”

Achille grinned and shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’d love a steam launch, if we could afford it. We could take longer trips with the little one and your mother along for the excursion.”

The thought of her husband stuck in the close confines of a boat with her mother amused Adele. “Would you really like that, my dear? Perhaps when Féraud retires and your efforts are recognized with a promotion, then we might indulge in the extravagance of a launch. Mama would be so impressed. As for little Jeanne, I fear she might be out of short skirts by then.”

Achille regretted the turn in the conversation; on his day off he did not want to discuss his job, household finances, or speculate on his career prospects. Fortunately, they were nearing the wharf and turned their attention to mooring the skiff.

Once they had tied up at the dock, returned the boat, and settled with its proprietor, Achille escorted Adele up the wharf stairway to the restaurant terrace. The bright yellow inn stood amid a garden on a low rise overlooking the Seine. Several tables were set up under an awning surrounded by bushes, flowerbeds, and shade trees. A mild, refreshing breeze blew in from the river. A few lunchers were already enjoying wine and house specialties. The inn was a popular resort for boaters, and the pleasant ambience and picturesque environs attracted many painters, writers, and poets who regularly made the short trip from Paris.

The proprietress, a very attractive and friendly woman, greeted them by name—they were frequent guests—and led them to a favorite table with an excellent view. Achille ordered cheese, fruit, and rabbit pâté served with fresh bread and a house wine. After the proprietress left he commented on the excellence of the cuisine.

“Yes, dear, it’s almost as good as at home. But then, you’re rarely there. . . .”

Achille broke in with a laugh: “I know, I know, I’m rarely there to appreciate it.” He reached across the table and gently took her hands in his. “Darling, let’s make a pact for the remainder of the day; no more talk of work, home, or related mundane matters.”

“That rather limits our conversation, doesn’t it?”

“Not really; we could talk about your adorable bonnet, your sparkling emerald eyes, cute little nose, red lips, rosy cheeks. . . .”

Adele blushed. “Oh Achille, don’t be such a fool.”

He let go her hands and made a dramatic gesture with a sweep of his arm. “Are poets fools? Only a poet could do justice to your beauty, and some famous poets have been known to lunch here. Shall I compose a sonnet in your honor?”

She knitted her brow in mock severity. “You’re behaving more like a silly schoolboy than a senior inspector of the Sûreté.”

“Oh please, please, you wound me. For that, you shall pay the ultimate price—a recitation!” Achille began reciting Verlaine:

Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant

D’une femme inconnue, et que j’aime, et qui m’aime,

Et qui n’est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même

Ni tout à fait une autre, et m’aime et me comprend.

Adele giggled and slapped his hand playfully.” Stop it. People will think you’re drunk.”

Achille leaned over, and stroked her cheek. “Let them think what they want,” he whispered. “I’m drunk with your beauty.”

She smiled seductively. Then: “Will you look at that?” He turned his head and she jerked his hand. “No, no, I didn’t mean literally.” She was referring to a couple who had just entered the restaurant. “You keep looking straight at me and I’ll describe them for you. The woman is dressed to perfection, but much too perfect for this place. She’s wearing the latest Doucet dress, a magnificent hat with egret plumes, and her ears and throat are dripping with diamonds. How vulgar! She must be a wealthy American.”

He laughed. “I’ll bet her companion wears a shiny top hat, loud checked vest with eighteen carat watch chains dangling a rabbit’s foot and Masonic insignia, striped trousers and spats. There’s an immense diamond and gold nugget pin stuck in his necktie and he’s chewing a huge Havana cigar that he lights with dollar bills.”

“You’re not close to warm. He doesn’t look at all like an American. He’s elegantly dressed, but tastefully subtle. Savile Row tailoring, I believe. I’ll wager he’s an Englishman.”

Achille’s amused expression changed to a sober frown. He gave Adele a good portrait parlé of Sir Henry, right down to the monocle.

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “That’s uncanny, darling. You’ve described him perfectly.”

Achille glanced over his shoulder for confirmation. The man matched the description of Sir Henry provided by Péan’s clerk. Achille decided to take a closer look. He got up and mumbled, “Excuse me a moment.”

The couple were engaged in a lively conversation; they paid no attention to Achille as he casually approached their table while keeping his trained eye fixed on the gentleman. This scrutiny reinforced his first impression; he decided to make an inquiry to satisfy his curiosity. He turned, passed through a gate that separated the outdoor restaurant from the terrace garden, climbed a small brickwork stairway and strode rapidly up the gravel pathway toward the inn. He caught the proprietress’s attention near the entrance.

The woman was on her way to the kitchen. She stopped, smiled, and asked “May I help you, Inspector Lefebvre?”

“Yes, if you please Mademoiselle. A very well-dressed lady and gentleman were just seated in the terrace restaurant. Could you please give me their names?”

The woman’s friendly smile turned to a worried frown. “Is this an official matter, Inspector?”

Achille smiled to put her at ease. “No, not exactly. They’re such a distinguished couple. I thought I recognized them, but just couldn’t place their names.”

Having been relieved of her fear of a scandal, she replied, “I understand, Monsieur. The gentleman is Sir Henry Collingwood, a London physician, and the lady is Mlle Endicott, an American.”

Sir Henry and Betsy’s presence was fortuitous; Achille smiled and replied nonchalantly so as not to alarm the proprietress. “Ah yes, that’s what I thought. Thank you, Mademoiselle.” He came closer and lowered his voice to a near whisper: “Perhaps you could do me a little service, for which I’d gladly compensate you. I’d like to have the gentleman’s wine glass for my . . . uh . . . collection. But you must handle it carefully, with gloves or a towel. And whatever you do, don’t wipe it! Will you please oblige me?”

Her smile reverted to a frightened stare. “What are you saying, Inspector? Does the gentleman carry some loathsome disease? Or perhaps he’s a poisoner? God forbid I should harbor such a fiend in my restaurant!”

Achille feared a panic. He laughed reassuringly. “Have no fear, Mademoiselle, it’s nothing like that. I’m simply conducting a—an important experiment in forensic science. Should I succeed in this endeavor, my discoveries will most certainly contribute to the glory of France.”

Her alarm rapidly transformed to bewilderment followed by patriotic conviction and resolve. “I’ll be honored to assist you, Inspector. And please don’t worry about payment. After all, it’s for the honor of the Republic.”

“Bless you, Mademoiselle. And may I add, as always, your rabbit pâté is perfection itself.”

Achille returned to the terrace restaurant, glancing furtively at Sir Henry and Betsy as he passed by. In passing, he noticed a detail he had previously missed. Damn! He’s wearing gloves.

Adele immediately noticed the change in his mood and expression. “What was that all about? Are you all right? Is it something you ate—the rabbit pâté?”

Achille leaned across the table and filled her glass. “It’s nothing, dear. Here, your glass is almost empty. Let me pour you some wine.”

He filled Adele’s glass, and then drained his own and re-filled it. He began thinking of possible connections between the English doctor, the American women, and Virginie Ménard. Then: “Adele, without being conspicuous please have a good look at the English gentleman. Is he still wearing gloves?”

Her eyes lit up with curiosity. “Has this something to do with your case?”

Keeping his voice low, he replied, “Yes it does. Do you remember our experiment with your fingerprints?”

“Of course I do. Is the Englishman a suspect?”

“Not officially, at least not yet. And you mustn’t say anything to anyone, especially your mother. I need more evidence, and the fingerprints are crucial. Now, what about those gloves?”

“Well what do you know? He’s so handsome and distinguished; nothing like a criminal. Appearances are certainly deceiving. At any rate, I’ve been watching him all along. He hasn’t removed the gloves since they sat at the table.”

Achille sighed. “It’s a problem, my dear. I need to get his fingerprints without bringing him in for questioning. I’ll need to figure out something, a ruse perhaps. Or, I must get more evidence without the prints. Anyway, I apologize for spoiling our lunch.”

Her eyes sparkled; her face flushed with excitement. Adele spoke while keeping her eyes glued to Sir Henry. “You’ve spoiled nothing, darling. This is so fascinating. No wonder you like your job.”

He gazed at her fondly and with renewed interest. Apparently, his wife’s lovely surface concealed uncharted depths that enticed his further investigation. Surprised by his discovery, Achille would be an eager and willing explorer.

Delphine Lacroix passed through a barrier gate that led from the Rue Militaire to the Zone outside the fortified walls that had proved so ineffectual against the Germans in the Franco-Prussian war. This mile-wide strip of wasteland circumscribed by two fortified lines and penetrated by numerous barrier gates providing crossings for railway tracks, canals, and roads, was terra incognita to respectable Parisians and foreign visitors. While the berm, glacis, and rubbish-filled dry moat bordering the city’s outskirts had outlived its military usefulness, it remained as a dividing line between planned urbanization and refuse dump, a physical, psychological, and socio-economic barrier between the Parisians and the semi-visible outcasts of society.

Delphine had grown up in the Zone among the squatters, chiffoniers or ragpickers, junk dealers, street entertainers, Gypsies and mountebanks who had been displaced when Baron Haussmann tore down and cleared the ancient slums of central Paris. She had fled the Zone at the age of fourteen, vowing never to return, but now she had a compelling reason to re-enter the socio-cultural cesspit of her birth—the murder of her only true friend, Virginie Ménard.

Delphine crossed a rickety footbridge spanning a fetid, weed-clogged drainage ditch; on the other side she turned onto a steep, narrow dirt trail that snaked its way up a low ridge. In 1870 the Prussians had cleared the area to make way for their artillery and a field of fire. Nineteen years later, hardy poplars had sprung up amid the weeds and rubbish-strewn wild grasses.

She lifted her skirts, picking her way along the muddy path. Smoke rising from smoldering pits filled with burning trash and leaves made her cough; her eyes watered and her nose itched. Crows circled overhead, swooping down into the trash pits to do battle over the garbage with scurrying rats and cats.

As she neared the crest of the ridge she saw, rising above the scrub and weeds, a familiar compound of unpainted shacks, animal pens, and rubbish dumps. Delphine heard the bleating of goats, the cries of children, the rude shouts of men and women; she inhaled the stink of rotting garbage, human and animal waste. She was about to enter the domain of her putative father, a king among the ragpickers, known as Le Boudin.

The chiffonier had gotten his nickname from his service in the Legion; he had seen combat in Mexico and Algeria, where he had lost his left hand. A bear of a man, he had learned to use his government-issued hook to advantage in a brawl. He had spent years picking the streets of Paris, searching for marketable rejects, and had built a successful trade employing several licensed scavengers.

Delphine’s long-deceased mother had been one of Le Boudin’s many women; he was reputed to have fathered more than twenty children who in turn had born enough grandchildren to populate a village, but he rarely if ever acknowledged parentage.

A girl of about ten and a boy no more than eight-years-old scampered across Delphine’s path, stopped, turned round, and stared. They were ragged, dirty, and barefoot; their dark hair, brown eyes, and flat noses bore an uncanny resemblance to Delphine.

“Hey little one,” she called out to the girl, who was obviously older, bolder, and more forthcoming, “do you know where I can find Le Boudin?”

The child tugged at her torn sack of a dress, thought a moment and then, without speaking, pointed up the ridge toward a large shanty. Then she laughed, grabbed the boy by the hand and pulled him into the tall grass, where they began a tussle on the ground accompanied by screams, giggles, slaps, and curses.

Delphine continued up the path until she reached the shack. A few low steps led up to a shaded porch where an old, panting yellow dog lay on its side. As Delphine approached, the dog raised itself and confronted her with a low growl.

“Hey, Bazaine, old boy, don’t you know me? It’s Delphine.” She held out her hand toward the dog’s muzzle.

Bazaine was half-blind and nearly deaf. He sniffed a couple of times before licking her hand. Delphine smiled, rubbed his muzzle and patted his head. “Good old boy, good Bazaine,” she whispered and then walked through the open door.

The interior was dark, stuffy, and filled with the musty, corroded smell of old rags and scrap metal. A faint light streamed through the entrance and an unglazed window cut through the front wall. As Delphine entered she could see a large man seated on a stool behind a low wooden table. He bent over a pile of trinkets and was about to apply the acid test to one, which he had grasped with his hook.

Le Boudin looked up from his work and sang out a familiar greeting in a rough bass: “Hello, Mademoiselle. Are you buying or selling today?”

Delphine smiled and walked toward the table. “Don’t you remember me, Papa Le Boudin? It’s me, Delphine.”

He squinted at her and scratched his grizzled beard. “Delphine, eh? I once knew a girl who went by that name; a skinny, snot-nosed little ragamuffin.”

“That’s me, Papa. I grew up.”

Le Boudin smiled, showing his few remaining brown, tobacco stained teeth. “You call me ‘Papa’. Is that in honor of my great age?”

“No, Papa, it’s in honor of what my mother told me on her deathbed.”

“Folks say lots of things on their deathbeds. Don’t necessarily make them true.”

Delphine frowned and looked him straight in the eye. “I’ve no reason to think she was lying.”

Le Boudin stared back at her for a moment, and then gave a low, bitter laugh. “I remember your ma; she was Romany. You’ve got the same dark, wild look about you.”

“Considering my trade, it’s better for business that I look more like her than you.”

Le Boudin broke out in peals of laughter. After a while, he wiped his eyes and coughed. “That’s good. After that one, I need a drink. Pull up a chair and join me.”

He blew into two dusty glasses and wiped them on his shirt. Then he filled them with cheap red wine and handed one to Delphine. “Let’s drink to your ma, God rest her soul.”

They drained their glasses, and he poured another round. Then: “So what brings you back to the Zone? I heard you were making out all right, peddling your ass in Montmartre.”

Delphine ignored the insult. That was his manner, and it wouldn’t improve as he worked his way through the bottle. “Maybe you’ve heard about Virginie Ménard, the girl who was killed up in Montmartre?”

“Maybe I have. What of it?”

“She was my—best friend. I want you to help me find her killer. I’m not asking this as a favor; I can pay for information.”

Le Boudin glanced down for a moment and toyed with his glass. Then he looked back at her with a frown. “Sounds like you’re out for revenge.”

“Could be, Papa. Will you help me?”

Le Boudin scratched his nose with his hook. “I had a bellyful of killing in Mexico and Algeria. We shot at them, they shot back at us. Look what it got me. There’s an old saying: Revenge goes down sweet, but it comes back as bile.”

Delphine did not reply. She swung her legs to one side, lifted her skirts, and pulled out a pouch from under a garter. Goggle-eyed, Le Boudin leaned over to get a good look. She smoothed down her dress, turned round, and placed the pouch on the table. “Screw your eyes back into their sockets, old man, and take a look at this.” She upended the pouch, emptying a small pile of gold rings, bracelets, earrings, and broaches, all set with semi-precious stones and pearls.

Le Boudin’s eyes widened and he whistled. “Where the hell did you get all that?”

“Don’t worry Papa, they aren’t hot. They’re tokens of appreciation from gentlemen, and a few ladies too. My life savings.”

Le Boudin stared at the jewelry for a while, then shook his head. “I can’t take it from you, my girl. In a few years you’ll need it all, believe me. You don’t want to end up here, lifting your dress in a stinking alley, selling yourself for a crust of bread, a bottle of cheap wine, and a flop for the night.”

“Then you won’t help me?” For all her streetwise toughness, there was a plaintive tone in her voice and a wistful sadness in her eyes; she reminded him of a little girl on his knee, begging for favors.

“I didn’t say that. I might help you for—for your mother’s sake, but on one condition. Promise me you won’t act outside the law.”

For a moment, Delphine stared at him, perplexed by his reference to the law. After all, the cops stayed out of the Zone; it was like a tiny foreign country outside French jurisdiction. But then, she realized that Le Boudin and his chiffoniers worked on the streets of Paris; they were licensed and didn’t want any trouble with the police. “All right, Papa, I promise.”

Le Boudin smiled. He figured he could trust her, or at least he was willing to take a risk. But business was business, and he wanted security. “Here’s what I’ll do. Tell me what you want. If I think I can help, I’ll hang on to your trinkets as a pledge. If you keep your word, I’ll return them when the transaction’s completed.”

“Fair enough. I think Jojo’s mixed up in it. I know some of your men scavenge Montmartre. I want—”

“Wait a minute, girl,” Le Boudin broke in. “You’re going too fast. Do you mean Jojo the Clown?”

Delphine nodded.

Le Boudin laughed and shook his head. “That ugly runt? He’s a real zonard, a tough little shit. But I thought he went straight after he got outside? Has a job clowning at the Circus Fernando, as I recall.”

She frowned. “Jojo’s a bastard. Throw him a crooked centime, he’ll jump at it. There’s an artist in Montmartre named Toulouse-Lautrec who looks like Jojo’s twin brother. I think Jojo tried to frame Lautrec, pin Virginie’s murder on him. Anyway, the cops are chasing their tails, and that fat pig Rousseau’s working on the case; I don’t trust him. But his partner Lefebvre’s all right, and I think he’s been put over Rousseau.

“Your men go picking in Montmartre. It’s possible one of them might have seen Jojo dump the body, but so far he’s keeping his mouth shut. Maybe he’s been bribed or threatened. I want you and your men to help me find out who killed Virginie. It may be Jojo, or he may be working for somebody. Whoever it is, I want revenge, but I’m willing to go to Lefebvre rather than take it on myself.”

Le Boudin drank some wine; then he scratched his beard and knitted his brow. “You’re asking a lot, my girl. Some of my boys are Rousseau’s snitches.”

Delphine’s eyes flashed and her voice hardened: “Who do they work for, you or Rousseau?”

Le Boudin grunted, drank another glass and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “A dog works for the man who feeds him.”

They were interrupted by the little girl Delphine had seen outside. She walked to the center of the room, stood still, and started chewing on a fingernail.

Le Boudin glared at her. “Hey girl,” he snarled, “I told you not to bother me when I’m doing business. Now get out before I tan your ass.”

The girl spat a tiny scrap of chewed fingernail on the floor. “I’m hungry, Grandpapa,” she whined without looking up.

“Well then, go find your ma and tell her to feed you.”

The girl rocked back and forth on her filthy bare feet. “Don’t know where Ma is. Ain’t seen her all day.”

Le Boudin grimaced. “Oh, all right.” He reached into a barrel and pulled out an apple. “Here you go, little one.” He lobbed the apple; the girl caught it deftly in one hand, took a bite, chewed and grinned. Then she turned her curious gaze on Delphine. Her mouth half-full, she mumbled, “Who’s she?”

Le Boudin gave the girl a mock frown and waved his hook menacingly. “She’s your Aunt Delphine. Show some manners, you little demon, and then scram.”

The child giggled, turned her back on Delphine and ran out the door.

“A wild one,” Le Boudin muttered, “just like you. Anyway, I’ll talk to the boys and see what they can find out. I’ll put up some trinket as a reward—at my expense, not yours. You mind what I said about your savings. And remember, if the dirt we dig up leads to Jojo or anyone else you take it to that inspector—what’s his name?”

“Lefebvre.”

“Yeah, you take it to him and don’t mess with it yourself. You ain’t as tough as you think. Now, it’s been nice seeing you after all these years, but I’ve got a business to run.”

Delphine laughed. “I know, Papa. Guess I better scram too.”

Le Boudin raised his bulk from the stool and lumbered round the table. He lifted Delphine out of her chair ’til her feet dangled a foot above the floor, and gave her a bear hug. “You take care of yourself, my girl,” he whispered huskily.

“You too, Papa,” she replied.

Arthur Wolcott occupied a marble-topped table on the sidewalk fronting a popular café on the fashionable Boulevard des Italiens. He experienced the clear, fresh autumn afternoon, his coffee and cigarette, his desultory reading of a newspaper article reporting President Carnot’s latest remarks on the Exposition’s success, the rumbling of cabs and omnibuses, the bustle and chatter of well-dressed boulevardiers, the sparrows flitting among the shedding branches, russet leaves floating in a mild breeze, a large, high-soaring red, white, and blue balloon advertising the Fair, the countless congenial impressions summing up a pleasant afternoon in the city. But whenever his mind tried to anchor itself in a sheltering harbor, a place of agreeable repose, it soon broke from its mooring and drifted back into a rough sea of consternation and doubt.

Earlier, he had called upon Marcia to invite her out for some refreshment, thinking such an outing would be a sovereign remedy for what ailed her, but she had taken to her bed. Following the shocking news of Virginie Ménard’s apparent abduction and murder, Marcia had suffered a mild relapse, not from her consumption but rather from what Sir Henry diagnosed as “female hysteria.” The doctor had prescribed a sedative and obtained the services of a nurse. Having thus quieted his patient and provided for her care, he had no qualms about spending the day at Chatou with Betsy Endicott.

The Exposition is an unprecedented success, presaging a new century of progress and enlightenment. He read that line for the fifth time, and then lost it amid his recurring concerns about Marcia’s mental and physical decline, Betsy’s seeming indifference, and Sir Henry’s increasing detachment from, and questionable treatment of, his patient. He doesn’t give a damn about Marcia; it’s Betsy he’s after, and she seems infatuated with him.

Arthur put down his paper, stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette, and habitually lit another. We’ve all bought our one-way ticket to the slaughterhouse. Arthur had written that line in a play, and then judiciously scratched it out as too dismal and disturbing for his audience. But eliding such comments on the human condition from his work did not keep them from repeatedly nettling his conscience.

“Well this is certainly a chance meeting. Good afternoon, Arthur.”

He looked up with a start into the veiled face of the onetime Venus of Belgravia. Lady Agatha Fitzroy smiled slyly at her old friend’s wide-eyed look of astonishment at her sudden appearance.

“My goodness, Arthur, do I look as bad as all that? You stare at me as though I were one of the ghosts in that deliciously wicked story of yours.”

He rose from the table, tipped his hat, and made a slight bow. “Pardon me, Lady Agatha, I was preoccupied and you came up so—so unexpectedly. Of course, you’re looking splendid, as always, and I’m both delighted and surprised to see you.”

She laughed at his formal flattery, laughter that he had once compared to that of a tinkling silver bell, demanding one’s attention in a manner that was both charming and intrusive. “Why are you so stiff? I’m the same Aggie you’ve known these past ten years and more. Now, will you permit me to join you, or should I just plop down and impose myself like a fellow American?”

“Oh, please do be seated, Aggie. I’ll call the waiter. I’d like another coffee and an aperitif. Will you join me?”

“Thank you, Arthur; that would be delightful.” Aggie sat across from him and lifted her veil. Venus had certainly withered, but she had not yet quite decomposed. Lady Agatha looked like a tastefully wrapped mummy of a type Arthur often encountered in society, a once-beautiful woman now well past her prime who tried to conceal her wrinkles, warts, and age spots beneath a layer of paint, powder, and rouge. Typically, such relics had been belles coming out early in the reign of Queen Victoria and at the court of Louis Philippe. But those beauties of yesteryear were in their sixties; Aggie was barely thirty-nine. Years of casual promiscuity, drinking, and opium smoking had taken their toll.

Arthur offered her a cigarette. She accepted and leaned forward as he struck a match. He noticed the slight tremor in her gloved hand as she held his to steady the light.