The young woman sang in a husky mezzo-soprano about her life on the streets to the accompaniment of an old man fingering a wheezing, out-of-tune concertina. The working-class patrons paid little or no attention to her; a couple of men played draughts while another watched, one in a dark corner behind Lautrec laid his head on his arms and snored, another plied his woman with liquor while groping her under the table, the few remaining men and women smoked, drank, stared into space, and grumbled about the weather, work, politics, and life in general.

Lautrec recognized his subject; she was Delphine, a dancer at the Moulin Rouge. Too hard-boiled and streetwise to be called pretty, there was still something attractive about her; dark hair and eyes, dusky skin, flat nose, thick sensual lips, large, even white teeth, perhaps all evidence of her mixed blood. He rendered her honestly with a facial expression reflecting the worldly resignation of her lyrics.

Delphine finished her song, turned toward Lautrec, and stared defiantly. He responded with a casual smile and a tip of his black bowler. She sauntered to his table, placed her hands on her hips, and said, “I know you, Monsieur. You’re the artist who hangs round the Moulin. Buy me a drink?” The ultimate phrase of her greeting might have been a command rather than a request, had it not been for a questioning upturn to her inflection and a curious aspect in her large brown eyes.

Lautrec had already made a quick study of her gestures, mannerisms, shabby dress, poor but proud demeanor. He immediately replied, “But of course, Mademoiselle. Name your poison,” and beckoned the bartender.

Delphine ordered absinthe. The bartender brought her drink; she took a swig, then for a while said nothing while Lautrec finished his drawing. Then: “I’m a good friend of Virginie Ménard; did you know that?”

Lautrec put down his charcoal and looked up at Delphine. “Yes Mademoiselle, I recall her mentioning you on occasion.”

“Oh, really? And I suppose you know that she’s gone missing. No one’s seen or heard from her for almost a week.”

“Yes, Mademoiselle, I have already been informed of that fact.” Lautrec exaggerated his toffee-nosed accent and continued smiling as though he were baiting her. He enjoyed picking fights; it broke the monotony and this woman looked tough enough to make it interesting.

Delphine drank some absinthe; her hand trembled and there was a noticeable quaver in her voice. She put down her glass and glared at Lautrec. “Have you also been informed of the fact that a woman’s body was found stuffed in a shit-hole on the street in front of your studio?”

“Yes, my landlady has told me as much.” He glanced at her empty glass. “Would you care for another absinthe?”

Delphine leaned over the table; her hand gripped a bag containing a razor. Her husky voice deepened and hardened into a sotto voce snarl: “If I thought—if I believed you had done anything to harm Virginie, I’d slit your ugly throat, here and now.”

Without a flinch or the slightest change of expression, he replied, “You might try to slit my throat, Delphine, but I’m quite capable of stopping you. I fear you’d be seriously injured in the process. So for both our sakes, please don’t think of trying. Nevertheless, I assure you I’ve not harmed Virginie, nor do I know her whereabouts. As for the unfortunate young woman in the cesspool, I know nothing about her either, and I wouldn’t jump to conclusions by assuming she’s Virginie. At any rate, this is a matter for the police. Have you gone to them with your concerns?”

Delphine backed off; she sighed and shook her head. “Monsieur Lautrec, people like me don’t go to the police; they come to us.” She paused a moment to calm down; then: “May I have another drink?”

He signaled for the bartender. The woman’s passionate concern for her friend had an effect on Lautrec. He dropped the sarcasm and tried to put her at ease. “Maybe she suddenly took off from Paris for some good reason. Perhaps she went to Rouen? I believe she has relatives there.”

Delphine shook her head. “She’d never go back there; she hates it. I know you were close to her, Monsieur. Didn’t she tell you about her aunt?”

Lautrec looked down at his sketch; for a moment he was at a loss for words. Virginie had tried to tell him about her life, the abuse, her fears, her nightmares, but he would not listen. As usual, he had cut her off with sarcasm; it was his defense mechanism. He had enough trouble struggling with his own monsters. Finally, he looked up with sad eyes: “I’m sorry, Delphine. I hope she’s all right but there’s nothing—nothing I can do.”

“I understand, Monsieur.” She turned her attention to the sketch. “May I see it?”

“Of course you may.” He handed her the drawing.

She studied it for a while before pronouncing: “It’s really good. Is it—is it worth something?”

Lautrec smiled. “If I may?” She returned the sketch and he signed it. “There, Mademoiselle, you may have it as a memento of our meeting on this stormy midnight in a dingy boîte. As for its value, depending on the laws of supply and demand, in a few years it might indeed be worth something. On the other hand, if you’re not inclined to wait for an upswing in the market for my work you may take it to Salis, the proprietor of Le Chat Noir. Tell him Henri said it was worth free drinks for a week, no less.”

“Thank you Monsieur.” She crooked a finger as if to return the favor by taking him into her confidence. He leaned forward, and she whispered: “Watch out for Rousseau.”

“Who is Rousseau?”

“A fat pig, Monsieur. One of the inspectors running the investigation. His paid snoops and snitches are crawling all over Montmartre and Pigalle. He’s already questioned me, and your friend Bernard. His partner, Lefebvre is all right, but Rousseau’s a bastard. If he thinks you’re guilty, he’ll stop at nothing. He planted evidence on a friend of mine and got him twenty years transportation to Guiana.”

“Thank you, Delphine. I’ll be on my guard.”

They sat together for a while, smoked, made small talk, and finished their drinks. The rain let up and the boîte emptied. Delphine and Lautrec were among the last to leave. The sleeping man in the corner watched them go, making a mental note of the hour. With a half-opened eye and keen ear, he had been watching and listening all along.

8

OCTOBER 17

A THEORY OF THE CASE

So Achille, you think Virginie Ménard’s our victim?”

“Given what we’ve got, she’s our best likelihood,” Achille replied. “I base my conclusion on the post-mortem examination, Chief Bertillon’s identification analysis, the missing persons’ report, and Inspector Rousseau’s inquiries.

“Mlle Ménard’s from Rouen; she’s an orphan, born Virginie Mercier, raised by her uncle and aunt. Ménard’s a stage name, taken from her former employer and benefactor, now deceased. Assuming we’ve identified the victim, I’ve developed a plan for proceeding with the investigation. Do you want to wait for Rousseau? He’ll be here shortly.”

“No, I have his report. Let’s start without him.”

They held their early meeting in Féraud’s office. Achille had prepared a chart with a map of Montmartre indicating Virginie’s route from the Moulin Rouge to her flat, including a timeline. He’d set the chart on an easel, and referred to it with a pointer.

“To my knowledge, no one has seen or heard from Mlle Ménard since Sunday the 11th at approximately two A.M. The last person to speak to her was a friend, a dancer at the Moulin Rouge, Delphine Lacroix. According to Rousseau’s interview with Lacroix, Ménard did not feel threatened by anyone, nor did she express any specific concern about her safety at the time. But she had in the past expressed her fear of walking the streets unescorted at that hour, which of course is understandable. Following Lacroix’s advice, she carried a razor in her purse for self-defense.