The Devil in Montmartre (35 page)

The whistle shrieked as the train entered a tunnel, the rumbling of steel wheels on rails at forty-five miles per hour echoing on brick walls, the incessant chugging, the pounding of pistons in cylinders, firebox flashing in the darkness, the rush and roar as the engine streaked out of the man-made cavern into a cutting. On and on they raced, beneath the streets of the brightly lit city, past the fortifications into the suburbs, across viaducts and embankments, into the dark, peaceful countryside of the Île-de-France, toward a rendezvous with a murderer. But who was the real killer? Were they accomplices in the killing, or did one commit the crime and the other merely act as an accessory in a coverup? There were still too many pieces missing from the puzzle; he would not jump to conclusions. As the Chief said, such vexing lacunae would be filled in during the interrogations. Or would they?

Achille stared at his reflection in the car window. For a moment, he thought he saw Collingwood’s face gazing back at him with an enigmatic grin.
What did he do, and why did he do it? Why didn’t he run when he had the chance? Does he know he’s trapped? Could the woman have set him up for the fall?
Achille could not answer these questions. With Betsy entering the picture, Sir Henry’s motives were unclear. Achille turned away from the window, shook his head and rubbed his eyes; he was tired, his mind was wandering. He would have done better to have slept, like his chief. Since Achille could not nap, he thought about the best way to take Sir Henry and Betsy. The problem at hand was to effectuate an arrest without endangering the innocent.

An idea was forming in his head, but it would depend on the circumstances. He would know more when they made contact with the local police. Achille took his watch out of his pocket and held the dial up toward the ceiling lamp. They must have been in the vicinity of Fontainebleau. He glanced out the window into the darkness and could make out the shadowy forms of a dense thicket lining the railway embankment.

A few minutes later he sensed the slowing of the engine, the diminished thumping of pistons, felt a perceptible decline in the rocking and swaying of the car. Féraud noticed it too. He snorted, lifted his hat, rubbed his eyes, and scratched his head. The train switched onto a siding, chugged past a water tower, hissed and squealed up to the platform where it came chuffing to a halt with a bone-shaking jolt.

The chief yawned loudly, sat up, and consulted his watch. He smiled at Achille. “We made good time. I’m anxious to speak with the colonel, but I’m famished. I could do with a sandwich and a glass or two of good wine. How about you?”

“I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Anything would taste good right now. As for talking to the colonel, I’ve got an idea for making the arrest, assuming the circumstances are right.”

Féraud lifted his eyebrows. “An idea, eh? That’s my professor, always thinking, on or off the job. Well don’t keep it a secret.”

Before Achille could reply, the compartment door swung open. A spruce young
brigadier
with an enormous black handlebar moustache saluted smartly and greeted them. “Good evening Chief Inspector Féraud and Inspector Lefebvre. You’re right on time. The
diligence
is waiting to take you into town to meet with my colonel. It’s a short drive, a little less than two kilometers from the station.”

They stepped onto the platform and followed the
brigadier
down a path around the station to the parked
diligence
. The two draft horses pulling the coach turned toward them curiously, shook their heads, snorted, and exhaled steaming breath into the cold night air.

During the drive into town along a well-paved country road, the talkative
brigadier
provided them with useful information. “The suspects had an early supper after which they took a stroll around town. Then they returned to their room at the
auberge
, where at present they remain together. Looking up from the garden to their second floor bedroom window, you can see the light is out. The curtain is drawn but the shutters are half opened.” The handsome young policeman smiled slyly and winked. “According to the maid who tidies up and changes the bedclothes, the couple has, shall we say, been very—active.”

Féraud nodded curtly without cracking a smile. “I trust the proprietor has been informed and that men have been stationed discreetly within the house and around the grounds? We must take precautions for the safety of the other guests, and the staff.”

Chastened somewhat by the chief’s seriousness, the
brigadier
answered succinctly. “Of course, Chief Inspector. You may go over the details with my colonel.”

“Do you know when the suspects plan to leave?” Achille asked.

“Yes, Inspector. They’re supposed to be on the morning train to Paris. The
diligence
will come for them at nine
A.M.
That is to say, that’s the arrangement Sir Henry made with the
auberge
.”

Achille turned to Féraud. “Their plans fit in with my idea for the arrest.” Then to the policeman: “Is there any way out of the room besides the door and the window?”

“No, Inspector; they’re trapped. The door of their room opens onto the second floor landing and we have two men posted nearby. An acrobat or cat burglar might get to the roof from the window, but we’d spot them immediately from our positions in the garden. There’s no way up or down except the stairs, and no way out except through the doors. We have everything covered.”

Achille nodded. “I see. Let’s say they managed to evade or break through your cordon, what routes would provide their best chances of escape?”

The
brigadier
replied confidently: “We’ve guarded the railway station, the roads, and the river landings. They could try to make a break for it cross-country, but I doubt they’d get far.”

Achille paused a moment before asking, “Do you know if they’re armed?”

A hint of apprehension crept into the
brigadier
’s voice. “No Inspector, we don’t.”

“Do you think it’s possible they might know the police are watching them?”

The
brigadier
couldn’t be sure of his answer but he tried to hide his worries behind a smile. “I doubt it, M. Lefebvre. We’ve been cautious, and from our surveillance it appears that their attention is focused on each other, which isn’t surprising. They’re quite an attractive couple, you know.”

Achille frowned. He expressed his concerns to Féraud. “I think I know something about Sir Henry’s psychology. I doubt he’ll go peacefully, and the more trapped and hopeless he feels the more desperate and dangerous he’ll be. He might try to use Mlle Endicott as a shield, and if he has a firearm he could take hostages from among the guests and the staff.

“On the other hand, for all we know the lady might be the instigator of the crime and the deadlier of the pair. All things considered, I don’t recommend entering the room to make the arrest. We can’t assume they’re asleep. They might be waiting for us. At any rate, it seems too risky, and we don’t know how they’ll react. Instead, I propose my playing the part of the coachman come to take Sir Henry and Mlle Endicott to the station tomorrow morning. On the way to the
diligence
someone will divert Mademoiselle’s attention; perhaps a messenger telling her she has an urgent telegram from Paris. The point is to separate the lady from Sir Henry long enough for me, along with a couple of discreetly hidden
brigadiers
, to make the arrests.”

The young
brigadier
smiled broadly and stroked his moustache. “I’d gladly volunteer to be one of those assisting you, Inspector.”

“Thank you,
brigadier
,” Achille replied. Then to Féraud: “What do you think, Chief?”

Féraud nodded his assent. “It’s a good plan, Achille. We can discuss it further with the colonel—over supper, I hope.” A loud internal gurgling punctuated his statement. “Excuse me, gentlemen. My poor stomach’s groaning ‘feed me,’” he added with a sheepish grin.

Sir Henry couldn’t sleep. Around midnight he lay on his back under the covers, staring at shadows on the ceiling. Betsy nestled beside him, warm and inviting even as she slept. He glanced at her, recalling an afternoon and evening of uninhibited sex.
Is she dreaming of our passion? What lustful visions are running through her unfathomable mind?

The sleeping woman seemed so innocent and peaceful, like a schoolboy’s fantasy image of a lovely girl on the verge of womanhood. But Betsy was hardly that. Sir Henry had unleashed a tigress; his body bore the scratches and bite marks to prove it. But there was something other than Betsy’s furious lovemaking troubling him. Earlier, during their supper at the
auberge
and their postprandial stroll, he had noticed an unusual number of
gendarmes
about town. At first he thought nothing of it, but now upon reflection in the lonely moments of a still night, with nothing and no one to distract him, he worried.
What’s happening with Jojo and our scheme? Are the police getting wise to us? Have we stumbled into a trap?

He craved a cigarette. Careful not to disturb Betsy, he lifted the covers on his side of the bed, swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and quietly set his feet on the hardwood floor. Gooseflesh covered his naked body. Sir Henry glanced toward the window. The sash had been left up a few inches, admitting the chilly night air. Pale moonlight streamed through half-opened shutters, lighting a small corner of the room. Forgetting about his smoke, he walked toward the other end of the bedroom, intending to lower the sash. As he neared the window he thought he heard the faint murmuring of voices coming from the garden below. Looking out through the pane he saw a flash of light coming from behind a stand of acacias.
Is it a lantern? Could it be the police?

He considered the possibility with fatalistic calm.

A pair of
gendarmes
, watching from behind the trees, glimpsed Sir Henry at the window. One leaned over and whispered to his comrade, “So he’s up and about, eh? Look, he’s closing the window and shutters. It must be getting cold up there.”

“
He’s
cold? At least the bastard’s got something nice to keep him warm in bed,” the other answered with a smirk.

Sir Henry glanced back at the sleeping woman.
I suppose I ought to have stayed in Paris or, better yet, quit the country. But these last two days have made it worthwhile. She’s an extraordinary woman. Father always said I’d come to a sticky end. At any rate, a short exciting life’s better than one that’s long and dull. I’m not afraid to die, but I prefer to choose the time, place, and manner of departure.

Within the span of two short weeks, fate had entered his world in the form of two women, altering the course of his life forever. Virginie came first. She had agreed to a radical operation, to be performed in secret. There was a social stigma attached to a hysterectomy; she would submit to the surgery only under conditions of strict confidentiality. Using an assumed name, Henry rented a small apartment in Montmartre. He scrubbed and disinfected the place scrupulously and brought in several kerosene lamps and a reflecting mirror so he could operate in the pre-dawn darkness.