The Devil in Montmartre (28 page)

The stubby man trembled; little beads of sweat popped out on his splotchy, bald head. “We run a respectable establishment, Monsieur. Have you spoken to Inspector Rousseau? He’ll vouch for us. The license is in order, I assure you.”

Achille could guess at the man’s “arrangement” with Rousseau. “I work with Inspector Rousseau. I have some routine questions about the individual I mentioned. I trust you have a registration card for him?”

“A card? A card? But of course, Inspector.” The concierge mopped his brow with a handkerchief and then retrieved a lidded wooden box from a dusty shelf. He placed the box on the front desk, opened the lid with shaking hands, and retrieved the registration. “Here it is, Inspector.” He handed the card to Achille, adding: “You see, everything is filled out properly.”

Achille read the registration, Sir Henry Collingwood, London England, with five separate date entries, two indicating “and guests” and three indicating “and guest.” Achille smiled. “I presume, Monsieur, that all of the gentlemen’s ‘guests’ were ladies?”

Now shaking visibly, the man pleaded: “Please, Inspector, I’m a poor man with a large family: a wife, four young children, and an infirm mother. I’ve already squared everything with Inspector Rousseau. Please have pity, I beg you.”

“Calm yourself, Monsieur. I won’t threaten your livelihood, as long as you do as I say and answer my questions honestly. First, do you know the ladies’ names?”

The man took a few deep breaths before answering. “Two of them are locals: Delphine Lacroix and Virginie Ménard. The English gentleman brought them here twice, as you can see on the card. Then, he brought Mademoiselle Ménard alone, on two occasions. As for the lady today, I swear I don’t know her, but she isn’t French. From her accent I’d say she’s an American.”

“Did Inspector Rousseau ever question you concerning the gentleman’s relations with Mlle Ménard?”

The bug-eyes widened; he hesitated before answering, “I know there’s an investigation concerning the young woman’s disappearance, but Inspector Rousseau never asked me about it.”

Achille’s confidence in Rousseau was now fully eroded. “Very well, Monsieur. I’m taking this card as evidence. Do you keep duplicates?”

“No, Inspector, this is all I have.”

Achille frowned and put a hint of menace in his voice. “Now listen carefully. If you want to stay out of trouble and keep feeding that needy family of yours, say nothing about my inquiry to
anyone
, and that includes Inspector Rousseau. If the English gentleman returns, you’re to notify me at once. Do you understand?”

“Oh yes, Inspector, absolutely. You can count on me.” He continued bowing and repeating, “Thank you, thank you very much, Monsieur,” even as Achille turned and walked out the door.

“
The Devil in Montmartre
, eh? That’ll make a catchy headline all right, especially if you add an exclamation point. The writing’s not bad either, and the salacious stuff will surely entertain your readers.” Edouard Drumont, author of
La France Juive
and founder of the
Anti-Semitic League of France
smiled shrewdly. He smoothed his bushy beard and pushed his gold-rimmed spectacles back up his nose before advising his friend, M. Cauchon: “You understand that publication might cause some trouble with the police? After all, the letter contains a veiled reference to the Virginie Ménard case and it implies that the Sûreté is intentionally bungling the investigation because it’s been infiltrated and corrupted by the Jews.”

Pierre Cauchon, editor and publisher of
L’Antisémite
, sat across from Drumont at a sidewalk café table. Pink-faced, portly, with beady blue eyes, a fringe of graying blonde hair, twelve children, a long-suffering wife, and fifteen-year-old mistress, his enemies had nicknamed the anti-Semitic editor
le vieux Cochon
. Earlier that day, Cauchon had received a letter signed “Angelique” from an anonymous source. The mysterious missive had been dropped off at the newspaper’s office; there was no postmark or return address.

Angelique claimed to be a Catholic girl of eighteen, the eldest daughter of an old Provençal family that had been impoverished due to the machinations of a Jewish banker. While the banker occupied their foreclosed manor, Angelique, her parents, and two younger siblings were reduced to living in a peasant’s cottage on their former lands.

Angelique was pretty and the Jew took an immediate interest in her. He offered her employment as a maid; despite her misgivings and her parents’ entreaties, she accepted his offer to aid her starving family. At first she was well-treated and her employer made no unwelcome advances, thus creating in her a false sense of security. Then, one night as she slept, the Jew and his accomplices stole into her bedroom and chloroformed her. Bound, gagged, and stupefied with drugs, Angelique was transported to a secret location in Montmartre. Once there, she tried to resist her abductors, insisting that her parents would go to the police when they realized she was missing. The fiends laughed; her parents would be told she had run away, and if they went to the police no one would waste much time or energy looking for her. Angelique continued her resistance; she was starved, beaten, and thus forced into slavery as a temple prostitute for the Illuminati.

According to Angelique, the Illuminati were an international cabal of wealthy Jews and Freemasons who, through manipulation of currencies, financial markets, and political corruption, had conspired to rule the world from the shadows. The spider had spun an immense worldwide web, but the organization’s headquarters, commanded by a Sanhedrin of six Jewish High Priests of global finance, was located in Paris. There, they employed a system of bribery and extortion intended to gain influence, subvert, and manipulate the highest levels of government. Moreover, the Illuminati enticed and abducted innocent Catholic girls to be used as sex slaves in their satanic rituals.

Angelique had escaped her tormentors, but another young woman who had fallen into the spider’s web had not been so fortunate. Having been lured into performing a Can-Can at one of their Baphometic orgies by promises of an enormous fee, Virginie Ménard fled the Illuminati and threatened to expose their foul practices. The following evening, she was abducted and ritually slaughtered by a shohet (kosher butcher) to silence her permanently and as a warning to others.

“Of course I know the risks of publication, M. Drumont. I believe it’s my duty to publish this letter as a service to France, but I intend to preface the article with a disclaimer.”

Drumont nodded. “A disclaimer is good. We must exercise some caution, since you can’t produce the girl as a witness. We should avoid embarrassment to the League, especially with all these foreigners in Paris for the Exposition. Of course, there’s no problem with credibility among our followers who’ll believe anything against the Jews, but we must remain plausible when going to print if we are to gain new adherents to our cause.

“The letter doesn’t name anyone specifically, and it makes no direct accusations except against a shadowy organization. Moreover, it does not blame the police directly for incompetence in the Ménard investigation. So I don’t think there’s danger of a suit for libel.

“You are publishing matters of public interest and concern so you can certainly rely on the Press Law of 1881 if the police clamp down. In my experience the present government respects our right to publish freely; they’ll leave you alone as long as you comply with the requirements of the law. When do you go to press?”

Cauchon smiled broadly. “Thank you for your advice and support, my friend. I’ve already given orders to set type. I intend to have a special edition ready for distribution by tomorrow morning.”

Drumont nodded affirmatively. “I hope Baron de Rothschild gets hold of a copy. I’d like to see the look on his face when he reads it. I’ll bet it makes him choke on his matzoth.”

The Jew-baiting journalists had a hearty laugh before settling the bill and parting company to embark on their next great crusade.

Achille bounded up three flights of steep stairs to Gilles’ studio and knocked impatiently on the door. He heard a faint “I’ll be with you in a moment” followed by a clatter of paraphernalia and the rapid clomping of footsteps on the bare wooden floor. Presently, the door opened a crack and a pair of excited eyes greeted him: “Ah, it’s you Inspector. You came at just the right time. There’s something here I must show you.” Before Achille could say “fingerprints,” Gilles was leading him to a work bench in a back corner of the loft, a shaded area away from the late afternoon sunshine flooding through an immense skylight.

The photographer halted abruptly and pointed to a small black box resting on the tabletop. “There it is, Inspector, an invention that will revolutionize photography. It’s just arrived from America.”

Achille was anxious to discuss the latent prints on Sir Henry’s letter, but his curiosity intervened. “What is it, Gilles?”

The photographer smiled proudly and presented the wonder to Achille for closer inspection. “It’s the new Kodak No. 1 box camera. It has the latest modifications, including an advanced shutter and celluloid roll film, an improvement over the paper stripper film. It’s light, hand-held, and simple to operate; perfect for detective work. And you don’t need to focus through a ground-glass. Do you see that “V” shaped device on top of the camera?”

Achille examined the object. “Yes, it looks like a sighting mechanism.”

“Exactly so; almost like you’d have on a firearm. Now please give me the camera and back up into the light.” Achille returned the Kodak and did as Gilles asked.

“There, that’s it. Perfect! Now, I set the shutter with this string, line you up in the sight, push the button, and
voila!
I’ve just taken your photograph in a matter of seconds; I wind this key and I’m ready for the next exposure, one hundred in all on a single roll of film.”

Achille immediately saw the camera’s potential. He approached to get a better look at the Kodak. “You’re right, Gilles. As long as you had enough available light, this would be perfect for surreptitiously photographing suspects.”

Gilles frowned and returned the camera to the work bench. “It would indeed be ideal for that purpose, but there is a major drawback. The new film and the method for developing and printing it are patented; the whole camera must be returned to the Eastman Company in Rochester, New York for processing and reloading. That might be all right for a detective in the eastern United States, but for us the time involved in shipping and handling makes it impractical.”

Achille pondered the problem for a moment. “Do you think the Eastman Company would be willing to negotiate a contract with our government to permit the processing of the film here, in Paris?”

Gilles rubbed his chin. “I don’t know, Inspector, but it might be worth pursuing.”

Achille made a mental note to raise the issue with Féraud and Bertillon. Then: “I’ve come to you on urgent business.” He pulled an envelope containing Sir Henry’s letter out of his breast pocket and handed it to Gilles. “This envelope contains a document with a suspect’s fingerprints. Please handle it with gloves or tweezers.”

Gilles smiled. “Ah, Inspector, this is another of your fingerprint experiments.”

“Yes it is, and at first I was going to perform it myself at the laboratory, but I believe the method used to develop the latent prints would be better suited to your skills.”

“Oh, and what may I ask is that method?”

Achille reached into another pocket, withdrew a notebook, and turned it over to the photographer. “I’ve written it down here. The process was discovered more than twenty years ago by the chemist, Coulier, but to my knowledge it’s never been used in forensics.”

Gilles studied the notes carefully for a few minutes. Then, muttering to himself: “This is interesting. Coulier used iodine fuming to bring out the prints. A small quantity of iodine is mixed with finely grained sand. The mixture is placed in a developing tray with the document fastened to a lid placed over the tray. The document is then exposed for a period of time to the iodine fumes. The fumes act as a reagent with the oil and sweat residue from the fingerprints. The latent images emerge and can be fixed with silver nitrate. This is all familiar to me; it’s a process similar to developing and fixing an image on a photographic plate. The trick is to get the iodine mixture and exposure time right.” He looked up at Achille. “Is this your only document with the suspect’s fingerprints?”