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

Автор книги: Gary Inbinder

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Arthur called the waiter and their drinks were brought presently. The aperitifs had a tongue-loosening effect. After exchanging a few pleasantries Arthur asked, “So what brings you to Paris?”

Aggie downed her drink and requested another before answering: “I won’t beat about the bush with an old friend. Frankly, I’m strapped for cash and selling artwork to raise capital. I’ve had some very good offers in London, but for certain pieces I might get a better price in Paris. And I have one item of particular interest to Betsy Endicott, my famous Mark Brownlow portrait. Someone—you’ll forgive me if I don’t reveal the name—has already offered me a thousand guineas.”

Arthur’s eyebrows lifted at the sum. “By Jove, a thousand you say? That’s quite a handsome offer, even for a modern masterpiece.”

The waiter interrupted with their drinks. Aggie took a sip and then fiddled with the liqueur, rolling the stem between her fingers, sloshing the drink, and spreading a green film on the inside of the glass. After a moment: “I expect Betsy would pay more than a thousand guineas, quite a bit more in fact. I know she and Marcia have a suite at the Grand Hotel, and you’re staying there as well. I’m afraid that’s a bit beyond my means these days. I was going to announce myself by leaving a card at the front desk, but I wonder if you’d do me a favor by sounding them out first?”

Aggie’s frank disclosure of her financial difficulties coupled with her expectations of significant gain from the sale of her portrait to Betsy raised Arthur’s suspicions. To his knowledge, only five people besides himself knew of the Mark Brownlow deception—Marcia, Betsy, Daisy Brewster, Princess Albertini, and Lady Agatha. Was Aggie’s situation so desperate that she might attempt blackmail? Such things were not unknown in society when creditors came banging at one’s door. The revelation that for more than two years Marcia had lived and painted as a man would be harmful to all concerned, including Arthur, who had acted as “Mark”’s agent and had promoted the young artist’s works aggressively among his many social contacts and friends.

Arthur tried to disguise his apprehension behind a smile. He was privy to some information that might extricate him from his dilemma. Betsy would pay a premium for Marcia’s work if she knew some of the money would be used for Marcia’s care. Arthur immediately conceived of a scheme that would benefit Marcia and at the same time help Aggie without her being tempted to resort to criminal tactics. “I’ll of course be glad to ‘sound them out.’ We’re old friends, after all. And I believe Betsy would indeed pay a fine price for your portrait, assuming you kept your demands within reason. By the way, did you know Betsy and Marcia were parting company?”

“No, I didn’t know that. Has Marcia’s illness anything to do with it?”

“Her illness—and other things. At any rate, she’s currently under the care of a noted physician, Sir Henry Collingwood. I believe you’re acquainted with the gentleman?”

Lady Agatha’s eyes narrowed, revealing a network of wrinkles through white face powder like the crazing on an old pottery glaze. “You needn’t be coy, Arthur. We’re not in a London drawing room. My former relationship with Sir Henry is quite well known.”

“Ah yes, but now it seems Sir Henry has turned his attention to Betsy, and that is one of the ‘other things’ I mentioned as the cause for separation.”

Lady Agatha laughed, but it sounded more like a rasping file than a tinkling bell. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll make a jolly pair.” She paused a moment and sipped some liqueur to clear her throat. She did not want to meet Sir Henry, a fact Arthur had counted on, and she made up an excuse which fit perfectly with Arthur’s off-the-cuff scheme. “I forgot to mention I’ve been invited to Nice, and must leave Paris presently. You remember my friend, the count? He was once a famous sportsman; I believe you did some shooting with him? Now he’s in his dotage, poor dear, almost blind, bound to a wheelchair, and his heirs hover round him like vultures. He can’t stand the sight or smell of them. At any rate, he remembers me as I was and enjoys my company immensely, so I must go to him when he calls. I provide diversion, and he rewards me with little tokens of his appreciation. C’est un prêté pour un rendu, n’est-ce pas?

“Would you be willing to act for me in my absence? Negotiate with Betsy for the purchase of my painting. I could make it worth your while if you get me the right price.”

Arthur smiled, but was careful not to seem overly eager. “Well, I don’t know, but perhaps I could. You’d have to give me a figure to work with.”

“I told you I was offered a thousand in London, but I think the painting’s worth fifteen hundred—that’s guineas, my dear, not pounds or dollars, and certainly not francs.”

Arthur whistled in feigned astonishment at her stated amount. “That’s a great deal of money, Aggie. Still, it might be done, but will you come down to, say, twelve-fifty? I might need some leeway to close the deal.”

Lady Agatha sighed. “Oh, all right, if necessary I’ll take twelve-fifty, but not a farthing less. And here’s an incentive. If you get me fifteen hundred or more, I’ll cut you in for a ten-percent commission.”

“That’s very generous of you, Aggie. I promise I’ll do my best. Now, I’ll need your address, a place I can wire.”

Lady Agatha opened her purse and withdrew a silver pencil and a little scented notepad. She scribbled a few lines and handed the ecru slip to Arthur. “Here’s my address in Paris. I’ll be leaving for Nice tomorrow and you may wire me there.” She glanced down at a small gold watch pinned to her breast. “Ah, this has been delightful, but I fear I must leave. I shan’t be gone long; a couple of days, no more, and I’d like this business concluded by then. It’s been lovely seeing you again. À bientôt!”

Arthur watched as she vanished into the crowd streaming up and down the boulevard. Contemptible hag. He ordered another coffee and aperitif, lit a cigarette, and returned to his newspaper. He’d get her price and more and use the commission to help defray the cost of Marcia’s care in England. I’ve become a regular Major Pendennis when it comes to squaring things and cleaning up after people. He turned to the article about the Exposition and for the sixth time read: The Exposition is an unprecedented success, presaging a new century of progress and enlightenment. “Rubbish!” he muttered, and then turned the page to read about an execution in Marseilles.

Jeanne sat up in bed and smiled at Achille. She had Adele’s bright green eyes and light brown hair, an adorable expression when she was pleased as she was now, and for the most part, a sweet temperament. He had just finished reading Beauty and the Beast.

“That’s my very favorite story, Papa,” she declared enthusiastically.

He put the book on the bedside table, turned down the lamp, leaned over, brushed away a few curls, and kissed her forehead. She smelled of clean fresh linen and scented soap. “Why is it your favorite, little one?” he whispered.

“Because the beast turns into a handsome prince, he marries Belle, and they live happily ever after.”

“But do you know why he became a handsome prince, and why Belle became his queen?”

Jeanne’s sweet, contented smile changed into a perplexed pout, a typical reaction to her papa’s questions that often seemed beyond her comprehension. She thought a moment, and then the smile returned with what she believed was the correct answer: “Because the good fairy made the beast into a handsome prince so he could marry Belle and be rich and happy!”

Achille tried to formulate a response his four-year-old daughter would understand. He gave her a quick, simple plot summary until he reached the moral of the story. “Belle was rewarded because, unlike her wicked sisters, she preferred virtue to wit and beauty. Appearances are deceiving, Jeanne; people are not always as they seem. Belle had a pure and virtuous heart, and that allowed her to look beyond the beast’s appearance, to see his noble soul, the handsome prince within. Now, do you know how to get a pure and virtuous heart?”

Jeanne looked very serious. “Will the good fairy give me one?”

Achille smiled and stroked her hair. “Perhaps she will, but I know a better way, and it’s not hard. All you have to do is say your prayers every day, be a good girl, and listen to mama and nanny. Do you think you can do that?”

She smiled and threw her arms around him. “Is that all? That’s so easy. I do that already.”

Achille lifted her out of bed and hugged her. “Of course you do, darling,” he whispered.

There was a knock on the door. Adele entered with Madame Berthier and the nanny, Suzanne, a dark-eyed, sprightly little spinster of thirty from Provence. Suzanne slept in a cot next to Jeanne’s bed.

Achille tucked Jeanne under the covers while Adele and Madame approached. Suzanne placed a candle on the dresser, and then turned her attention toward the family, silently observing their bedtime ritual with amused interest.

Adele bent over and kissed the child. “Did papa tell you a nice story?”

“Oh yes, mama, a lovely story. And he said if I get a pure and virtuous heart I can marry a handsome prince.”

“He did? Well, that’s very wise advice. Now kiss grandmamma and say good-night.”

Madame leaned over slowly and stiffly with aching joints and a loud creaking of whalebone stays. She touched her lips to the child’s forehead; Madame couldn’t quite reach the upturned little mouth. “Good-night, my pretty little cabbage.”

Jeanne smiled angelically. “Good-night, Grandmamma.”

Suzanne then bid them all good-night. The family filed out of the bedroom, Madame Berthier first, followed by Adele and Achille. Once in the hall and out of the earshot of Suzanne and Jeanne, Madame remarked: “She’s such a sweet child. You must give her a little brother or a sister at the very least. What are you waiting for?”

Achille stared at his slippers. Adele replied: “We’ll give you another grandchild soon enough, Mama.”

Madame frowned. “Remember Adele, you had two brothers and a sister. Only you and your eldest brother lived past twenty and he was killed in the Tonkin war. Now, you’re all I have left. Think about it. Good-night.” She turned, creaked and rustled down the hall to her suite.

Later in bed Achille whispered, “For once, your mother makes sense. We ought to try again; a boy or another little girl, it makes no difference to me.”

Adele smiled and stroked his cheek tenderly. “I agree, darling, but do you think you can, with this case on your mind day and night?”

He stared at her for a moment. “I’m sorry, you’re right. When this is over, I’ll demand a holiday. Féraud owes me. We’ll go somewhere romantic by the sea; perhaps Nice. It’ll be lovely, just you and I, as we were today at Chatou before the Englishman came.” In the dim light he could read the disappointment in her eyes, as though she had lost faith in his promises. “Good-night, dear.” He kissed her, rolled over, and put out the lamp.

Rousseau sat on the edge of the bed in a small Montmartre flat. Louise, his mistress of twenty years, knelt behind him. Her strong hands kneaded his shoulders; her pendulous breasts rubbed against his broad back.

“You’re so tense, my dear,” she whispered. “Your muscles are like knotted ropes.”

“It’s this damned case,” he muttered.

Louise kissed his hairy neck. “You’ve worked hundreds of cases. I’ve never known one to bother you like this.”

Rousseau closed his eyes and had a vision of Féraud and Achille. After all his years of service, he was being cut out. There seemed to be nothing left for him but retirement and the life of an aging pensioner. He spoke without looking at her: “You don’t understand, my dear. I’m coming to the end of the line and I want to go out in style. And I want to do it my way—the old way. But the professor’s running the show. Féraud’s backing him and his newfangled methods to the hilt.”

Louise laughed. “Is that all? Lefebvre’s green as grass; you said so yourself. You can brush him away like a fly.”

Rousseau got up and turned on her with a scowl. “Achille’s a good man—he’s clever, honest, and decent. I admire the bastard, yet I hate him for showing me up. And I hate myself for hating him. I’m in hell, Louise.”

“I’m sorry, darling. What are you going to do?” She left the bed and put her arms around him.

Rousseau groped the familiar flesh of her behind and thighs. “I don’t know; I can’t think straight. I won’t hurt Lefebvre, but I don’t have to be too helpful. Maybe I’ll leave him on his own, and crack the case myself.” He paused a moment. Then: “I need you again, but first a drink.”

She smiled and rested her head on his chest. “Of course, darling; you’ll work it out, somehow. You always do.”

11

OCTOBER 19, MORNING, AFTERNOON, AND EVENING

About three hours before dawn. Jojo peered through the sooty window of his dark, fourth-floor garret. The moon was barely visible through a thick cloud cover; the only light source a flickering gas lamp on the other side of the narrow street. His sharp eyes scrutinized a cramped passageway between two buildings directly opposite, dimly lit by the lamp’s yellow glow. The snoop’s still there. I can smell your flat feet, you fool! Jojo had an appointment. He had some concern about the upcoming meeting, but little worry about shaking his too-conspicuous shadow.

Jojo opened the door and passed into the dank hallway, stepping lightly over the creaking, buckled floorboards. There was a rickety stepladder leaning against the damp, mold-splotched wall. The ladder led to a trapdoor that opened onto the roof. He scaled the ladder; his long arms pushed up on the door. The trap squeaked on rusty hinges; he propped it with a stick, swung up and popped through the tight opening with acrobatic ease.

Hunkering down, Jojo scampered across the iron roof to the cornice molding. He glanced back in the direction of the snoop, and then hauled himself over the cornice onto a ledge. Bracing himself, he took a deep breath before making a circus leap over the air space to the roof of the neighboring building, landing with a dull thud.

Grasping the tiles, he caught his breath, and then turned back toward the snoop. The detective half-emerged from his hiding place and looked up in the direction of the garret. Jojo grinned. He scuttled noiselessly to the other end of the roof. Grabbing hold of the guttering with his large, powerful hands, he went over the side, worked his way to the drainpipe, caught onto it and shinnied down to the alley below.

Dressed in black, lurking through shadows, he sneaked his way uphill along the byways and backstreets, climbing two steep stairways, until he reached an abandoned mill in a sparsely populated neighborhood hard by Sacré-Coeur at the summit of the butte. Jojo scurried round the back through a clump of tall weeds until he reached a boarded-up window. He gave a prearranged knock in code, and then waited until the board slid away.

The dirt-floored interior stank of rot and decaying rubbish, pitch dark except for a taper glimmering on a table on the other side of the millstone and cogwheels. Several dormant bats hung from the rafters.

“I trust you haven’t been followed?” The sotto voce question was posed by a man in a black cloak. A broad-brimmed slouch hat was pulled low over his forehead, and he concealed his identity behind a false beard and thick spectacles.

“No, monsieur. There’s a pig on my tail all right, but he’s an idiot. He’s picking his nose and staring up at my empty flat. But we do have a problem.”

“And what is that?”

“The cops picked up Lautrec, but they released him the same day. There’s been no arrest. And it appears I’m under suspicion.”

“That is a problem. And what do you hear from your friend, Inspector Rousseau?”

“Rousseau has nothing to say, and he isn’t running the investigation. He’s been put under Inspector Lefebvre. Lefebvre reports directly to Chief Féraud, and he’s as clean as they come. And he’s smart too; the cops call him ‘professor.’ But more than smart, they say he’s incorruptible.”

The cloaked man laughed; a dull, bitter rasp. “Incorruptible, eh? Just like old Robespierre, I suppose. Well, Jojo my lad, everyone’s got his price, but I’m not sure I’m willing to square the honorable Lefebvre; after all, there’s a limit to my resources. And how does Rousseau like working for this paragon of virtue?”

“Not at all. Rousseau’s been scrapping his way up for twenty years. Now he’s taking orders from a college boy.”

“Hmmm, I’m beginning to see a way of dealing with honest ‘professor’ pig.”

Jojo stared silently for a moment before asking: “What’s your plan, monsieur? If it involves my services, I’m afraid—”

“I know, I know,” he broke in,” you’ll be compensated. In the next day or two I’ll send you a message at the circus. Just keep cool and wait; that’s all you need to know for the present. Now, you best be off before the sun gets up.”

Jojo returned to his flat by a circuitous route varying from the one he had taken to the abandoned building. He lowered himself through the trapdoor and entered the hall outside his garret before first light. Once in his room he checked the window; the snoop hadn’t moved an inch. As stiff as a palace guard, and twice as stupid. Jojo laughed until he noticed a chiffonier working his way up the street, stopping and picking through the overflowing poubelles. Did he see me? He worried for just an instant, before answering himself with a shrug: Well, what if he did?

“Did you and the wife have a pleasant Sunday, rowing at Chatou? You certainly had perfect weather for it.”

“Thank you Chief; we did. And I also had an interesting encounter with the English doctor, Sir Henry Collingwood. He happened to be at the restaurant with Mlle Endicott, the rich American art collector.”

They had an early morning meeting in Féraud’s office. The chief seemed to be in a good mood, but he frowned at Achille’s reference to the Englishman and his wealthy, American companion. He leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling, and began fiddling with his death’s-head charm. “So tell me more about this ‘encounter’.”

Achille communicated the details concisely, focusing on how his attempt to get an impression of Sir Henry’s fingerprints had been thwarted by the Englishman’s gloves. He was beginning to relate his plan to obtain the prints when the chief interrupted:

“We have no legal basis for holding Sir Henry. He’s a British subject, and could hop on the boat train for Dover any time he pleased.” The chief leaned forward, planted his arms on the desk, and looked Achille in the eye.

“Of course, Chief, that’s why I want to redouble our efforts to obtain evidence for the juge d’instruction.”

Féraud displayed a little tic, an almost imperceptible “snick” at the corner of his mouth. “What does Rousseau think?”

This was a touchy subject. Achille’s confidence in the “old boy” was eroding, but he’d need to tread lightly when expressing such concerns to the chief.

“Rousseau seems fixated on Lautrec, and I fear this might be hampering the investigation. For example, he hasn’t detailed his best men to shadow Jojo, and I firmly believe the clown could lead us to the murderer. And as far as I’m concerned, the artist’s in the clear. A thorough search of his flat and studio turned up nothing. We’ve looked into his various haunts and habits, and can account for his whereabouts for almost all the time in question, enough to support an alibi. In other words, it appears he didn’t have the opportunity to commit the crime. As for the means, according to our foremost expert on the subject, only a doctor could have removed the uterus and cervix and then stitched her up so neatly. And her head and limbs weren’t hacked off; they were surgically amputated.

“There’s not much of a motive. He’s freely admitted to having been a jealous lover, but after questioning him I don’t believe he’s the sort of individual who could carry out such a cruel, premeditated murder over a mere disappointment in love. Moreover, he’s highly intelligent, so why would he conceive of, plan, and execute such a crime and then leave a trail of evidence ostensibly pointing back to him?

“Finally, we have fingerprints and the opium cigarettes. There are prints on the canvas and cigarette case that don’t match Lautrec’s, and we have no evidence of him being a habitual opium smoker. I believe—”

“Damn this case!” Féraud broke in. “No witnesses. The evidence is all circumstantial, and bloody thin at that. And your primary suspect is a foreigner, a well-heeled English gent who could bolt at any time.” For a couple of tense minutes the chief returned to his silent, meditative posture. Then: “All right, Achille. Where do we go from here?”

“I want to wire a trusted contact at Scotland Yard to see if they have anything on Sir Henry. It’ll be a routine, discreet inquiry. Next, I want to talk to the American artist, Marcia Brownlow. She knew the victim, and her companion has apparently formed an intimate acquaintance with Sir Henry. Moreover, I have reason to believe Mlle Brownlow may be one of Sir Henry’s patients. This will be very delicate; I’ll handle it myself, and I believe I can use Lautrec to make contact with Mlle Brownlow without tipping off the Englishman.

“Finally, I’ve got another way of nabbing Jojo, and it doesn’t involve Rousseau. In fact, I don’t want him to know about it.”

Féraud frowned, his face reddened, and the tic returned. “Do you realize what you’re saying? I’ve known Rousseau for twenty years. He’s built up our network of snoops and paid informers in the Montmartre-Pigalle district. I depend on him.”

Achille remained calm. “I understand, Chief, but there’s a serious conflict of interest. Jojo’s one of Rousseau’s informers. I think their relationship’s too close for comfort.”

“Listen, Achille, Jojo’s an ex-convict. He’s scum. If he farts in a public place, we’ll haul him in and put on the screws. If you have anything, I mean anything at all on that little shit, we’ll beat a confession out of him. But you must have something, and you’re telling me you don’t trust your brother officer, one of my veterans, to get it for you.” Féraud stared hard at Achille a moment before pursuing: “So let’s say you’re right. How would you go about it?”

“We have Delphine Lacroix, the victim’s best friend. I’ve been looking into her background. She worked for Jojo when she was a kid, and she was one of the girls he beat up. And she has reason to dislike Rousseau too; she won’t give anything up to him, or anyone working under him. But she has strong connections to the chiffoniers and zonards. She’s part of Jojo’s underworld. If he’s an accomplice as I think he is, I believe I can persuade her to inform on him, and then Jojo can lead us to the killer.”

Féraud smiled wryly and shook his head. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting into, my boy. You talk about an ‘underworld’, but you haven’t been there. You can’t know it the way Rousseau and I do. You have to live among these people, talk like them, act like them, stink like them, to even begin to understand them. That’s why I split the assignment the way I did.” The chief paused a moment for emphasis. Then: “But I have confidence in you, my boy. Rousseau will put in a few more years and retire. He’ll never rise any higher in the brigade. But some day you could occupy this office, and then perhaps even a higher position. You’re our future; the old boys and I are the past. So I’m going to back you up, at least for now. But I don’t want Rousseau to feel he’s being left out. Give him routine duties, enough to keep him busy. Agreed?”

Achille felt as though he’d crossed the Rubicon. Like Caesar, he’d confidently gambled on his future; there was no turning back. This case would make or break him. “Thank you, Chief. I agree.”

Marcia reclined on the drawing room settee, her back propped up by a velvet bolster. She wore a scarlet kimono; the luxuriant silk fabric, her long, lush auburn hair, and lively green eyes all in sharp contrast to her gaunt face, which seemed as if it were rendered in grisaille, a gray monochrome surrounded by an overabundance of color.

Arthur sat in close proximity to Marcia, his smiling face attentively inclined toward hers, his hands resting on kid gloves and stick. Sir Henry had deemed Marcia well enough to receive; Betsy and he were on another pleasant outing; the nurse was occupied running errands.

“I’m relieved to find you looking so well, my dear. Assuming a continuation of this fair weather, tomorrow you must come out with me to a café.”

She smiled at the suggestion. “That would be delightful, Arthur, provided my keeper gives me leave to go.”

The reference to Sir Henry as Marcia’s ‘keeper’ irked him, since under the circumstances the word had disturbing connotations. “You mustn’t allow yourself to remain under his thumb for too long. You had a shock recently; it affected your condition, but a diagnosis of ‘female hysteria’ is no joke, and frankly I don’t approve of Sir Henry’s treatments. I understand he’s prescribed a strong sedative.”

“I appreciate your concern, Arthur, and I share your misgivings about Sir Henry and his treatments. But his prescription helped me through a rough patch.” She smiled and took his hand before adding: “I promise you, I’m in no danger of addiction. As you recall, we both indulged in Aggie’s opium cigarettes without succumbing to the drug’s evil influence.”

He stroked her frail hand, leaned forward and kissed it gently. Arthur wanted to say something profound; to tell her he loved her and would care for her for as long as she lived. But like his protagonists he could not betray himself with such a commonplace declaration. Instead, he restricted himself to expressions of concern and friendly advice. “I fear there’s something louche about Sir Henry. Yesterday, I had a chance meeting with Lady Agatha at the Café Riche—”

“Aggie’s here, in Paris?” Marcia interrupted with a spark of piqued curiosity in her voice.

Arthur noticed Marcia’s interest with distaste. “I fear she’s in Queer Street and looking to flog off your Mark Brownlow portrait to the highest bidder. She’s approached me to negotiate with Betsy for the sale and she’s gone to Nice to spend some time with her friend, the count. You know the villa well, I believe?”

Marcia indeed recalled the villa; eleven years earlier she had spent a magical weekend there with Lady Agatha that had inspired the famous painting. “Poor Aggie,” she sighed. “If she’s that hard up, I’m surprised she hung on to the painting this long. I believe it meant a great deal to her.” Marcia could have added that it meant a great deal to her, too.

“I’m sure it does mean a lot to her, as it would anyone in the art market. Ruskin, Leighton, Sargent, and others have proclaimed it a modern masterpiece, a fact of which you should be justifiably proud. And it will certainly fetch a handsome price if I have anything to do with it. But I digress. When I met with Lady Agatha, I mentioned Sir Henry and his interest in Betsy. You should have seen the look on her face when I uttered his name; she winced as though she’d swallowed a glass of raw lemon juice. I won’t speculate as to the nature of their relationship, but I imagine it had its unpleasant aspect.”

Marcia laughed. “Knowing Aggie as I do, it must have involved some protracted examinations and treatments of a highly stimulating nature.”

Arthur frowned. “This is no joke, or rather, a diagnosis of hysteria is nothing to laugh at. In England, there’s a board in Chancery, made up of several gentleman holding the rather ludicrous title of Master in Lunacy. I’ve heard stories of independent, free-thinking women, no madder than you or I, who were diagnosed as hysterical, declared lunatics by the Masters, and then packed off to asylums for ‘treatment,’ leaving complete control of their persons and property to their husbands or guardians.

“Now, as American citizens, both you and Betsy would not normally come under the jurisdiction of English law. But that could change if Sir Henry and Betsy married and resided in England and you somehow came under his guardianship. I don’t want to alarm you, but I advise you to remain on your guard. I can hardly imagine how difficult this must be for you, but please don’t give in to narcotics, soothing words, and pampering. Assert yourself, but do it reasonably and with good humor. Tell Sir Henry and Betsy that you’re feeling much better, even if you aren’t. Then, if Sir Henry raises no professional objection, you’ll go out with me tomorrow. But if he does object, don’t argue too much, and for heaven’s sake, don’t become emotional. We’ll work something out, I’m sure.

“At any rate, I suggest you break with them as soon as possible and come to England with me. Besides, if you stay here much longer I suspect you’ll be questioned by the police concerning your relationship with Mademoiselle Ménard.”

“But Arthur, I do want to talk to the police. I must, if there’s anything I can do to assist in the investigation. Surely, you understand.”

He thought for a moment. If Marcia believed she was helping the police in their effort to locate the killer, it might put her mind at ease. Then he could negotiate the sale of the painting, settle up with Betsy and Lady Agatha, bid farewell to Sir Henry Collingwood, and get Marcia on the boat train to Dover. “You’re right, my dear. Let me handle this. I’ll find out who’s in charge of the investigation and set up a clandestine meeting. You surely don’t want any publicity. We can do it on the pretext of an outing to the Luxembourg Gardens, or some such thing. And I think it best to keep Betsy and Sir Henry out of it.”

She responded to his suggestion with a warm smile. “Thank you, dear. As one of your English chums might say, you’ve been a brick. Now, why don’t you ring for tea?”

Marcia contemplated Arthur wistfully as he walked to the service bell. She sometimes wondered if he had loved Mark, Marcia, or both? But she would not embarrass him to satisfy her curiosity; the question would remain unasked.