Betsy’s reference to Marcia’s condition provided a welcome opening for Sir Henry. “Oh yes, poor Marcia. I’m afraid the news of that unfortunate young woman’s disappearance and suspected murder has given her quite a turn, which leads me to a delicate subject. We needn’t pursue this now, but some thought should be given to the disposal of Marcia’s estate. As I recall, she never married and has no children, immediate family, or close relations with a claim?”
The reference to her friend’s estate had a sobering effect. Betsy may have been slightly fuddled with Haut-Brion and taken with Sir Henry’s good looks, charm, and elegant manner. She enjoyed sparring with him, asserting herself as a free-thinking American woman. But she was never a fool when it came to money, and she replied cautiously. “Not that I know of; I’ve never given the matter much consideration.”
“I see. Do you know if she has a will, or insurance? I believe she’s left quite a few valuable art works at your home in San Francisco.”
Betsy sensed a significant shift in the tenor of the conversation; their pleasant dinner deluxe had begun to resemble a high stakes poker game. “Marcia has kept a studio in my home for several years. I’ve purchased many of her most important works, as have other American collectors. And she now has a contract with Goupil to represent her in Europe. Why do you ask?”
Sir Henry attuned himself to her shifting mood. He played his next card carefully. “I fear that in the near future Marcia’s condition might deteriorate such that she may no longer be competent to make decisions concerning her medical treatment or the management of her estate. I’ve had considerable experience with such cases. Has she left many works in her studio that remain unsold; any written instruction as to their disposition?”
Betsy knew of several oils, watercolors, and drawings in her possession that could fetch several thousand dollars in the American market. He might indeed be offering sound advice as a physician and friend; on that account, she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. But when it came to matters involving great sums of money, experience had taught her to play her cards close to her vest, even when you thought you were playing with friends. “Oh,” she remarked nonchalantly, “there might be a few, I suppose. I’ve never had them inventoried. At any rate, she’s going to England with Arthur. He’s always been savvy in business matters, and, should the need arise, I can easily put his solicitors in contact with mine.” She smiled disarmingly, and then casually placed a shot across his bow to keep him honest. “By the way, have you heard of Nellie Bly?”
He suspected a diversionary tactic. That was all right with Sir Henry; he’d play along—for the time being. “No, I haven’t. Sounds like a stage name. Is she an American actress?”
“Nellie Bly’s a nom de plume all right, but she’s not an actress. She’s a reporter for the New York World. Not long ago she went undercover, had herself committed, and wrote an exposé of the deplorable conditions at the Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell’s Island. Her article raised quite a fuss in the States. There was a thorough investigation followed by a shake-up in the hospital administration and vast improvements in the living conditions and treatment of the inmates. Considering your practice, I thought you might have heard of it?”
Sir Henry smiled coolly. He decided to pay her back in kind. “No, in my practice I’ve had very few patients who required commitment, and in those cases they received the best private care. I haven’t heard of this American matter, but I’m certainly glad to learn that the conditions at the asylum were improved and the lunatics afforded better treatment. By the by, I wonder what your survival of the fittest chaps would make of it?”
“Oh, I suppose they’d consider it a problem in public sanitation and waste disposal.” She took a sip of Haut-Brion and eyed him with a suggestive smile.
Sir Henry returned her smile and said nothing. But for a moment Betsy evoked in him the troublingly erotic image of a fractious mare that needed breaking.
Achille met Lautrec in a smoke-filled, murky boîte off the boulevard near the foot of the hill. The inspector tried to dress and act inconspicuously but the moment he crossed the threshold everyone smelled cop. Consequently, the regulars departed furtively in ones and twos until no one was left except for Achille and the artist.
The proprietor, a squat, black-bearded bulldog of a man, served them with icy politeness; he was angry over the loss in business, but under no circumstances would he betray his contempt nor dare ask an inspector of the Sûreté to take his business elsewhere. And there was another factor adding to the proprietor’s indignation. He was a snitch, another strand in Rousseau’s underworld spider web. Achille had ordered Rousseau to lift the tail from Lautrec and concentrate efforts in shadowing Jojo. Rousseau complied reluctantly, and the widening rift between the two inspectors had become known on the street.
The proprietor grinned acrimoniously as he filled the two glasses with cognac and left the bottle. He had served them what was by far the best liquor in his stock, and he’d charge accordingly to compensate for his loss in the evening’s trade.
Lautrec sniffed his glass, sipped, rolled the fiery liquid round his tongue, and then swallowed. He winced. “They label this stuff ‘cognac.’ As to its age, I believe it entered our world about the time the Fair opened. If I were rating swill, I’d place this cognac manqué in the superior category, fit for the most discriminating pig. Thank you for buying it, and I trust you’ll pay our host generously. I’m one of his regulars and would like to remain in his good graces. Your unwelcome presence has managed to clear the premises in record time. A raging fire or a swarm of plague rats could not have done a better job.”
Achille shook his head and grimaced. “Yes, apparently I’m not the master of disguise. The great Vidocq must be turning in his grave. On the other hand, my unwished for appearance in this establishment has provided us with an opportunity to speak freely, so perhaps my disgrace is not complete.”
“I assume you wish to discuss your case. Have you made any progress?”
Achille scanned the room before speaking. They were indeed alone except for the proprietor, who appeared to be out of earshot and preoccupied behind the bar with the rearrangement and cleaning of bottles and glasses. Nevertheless, Achille leaned forward and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “The investigation is ongoing. I’d like your assistance in arranging discreet, informal meetings with two persons acquainted with the victim whom I believe are known to you: Delphine Lacroix and Mademoiselle Brownlow, the American painter.”
Lautrec smiled shrewdly and rubbed his beard. “Delphine’s no problem. She models for me from time to time, and we can arrange a surreptitious tête-à-tête at my studio. Mlle Brownlow is a different matter. She’s quite ill, you know, and under Sir Henry Collingwood’s care. Her companion, Mlle Endicott, might prove to be an obstacle too. But there’s another way to approach her. She’s intimate with Arthur Wolcott, the American author. I’m acquainted with M. Wolcott and believe I can persuade him to act as go-between. Actually, he’s quite well known for his discretion in such matters. Is there a particular message you wish to convey to him?”
Achille thought a moment before replying. “Please tell him that it’s an urgent matter relating to my investigation. I’ll try not to impose too long on Mlle Brownlow. We should arrange to meet somewhere inconspicuous, away from the hotel, and without the knowledge of Sir Henry or Mlle Endicott.”