“Very well, Inspector; I’ll do what I can. Delphine’s dancing tomorrow evening at the Moulin Rouge. I’ll make arrangements for a meeting the following day. And I’ll get a message to M. Wolcott at his hotel. How shall I communicate with you? I fear if we keep meeting like this we’ll put the boîte out of business.”

“Have you access to a telephone?”

Lautrec laughed. “I’m afraid not, Inspector. I also lack the means of flying round the Eiffel Tower.”

Achille smiled, but in fact the issue of discreet and efficient communication was no joke. The proprietor would most likely report this meeting to Rousseau, especially if he thought there was something in it for him. That would alert Rousseau, leading him to believe that he was being excluded from an important part of the investigation; he might then put another tail on Lautrec, despite Achille’s orders to the contrary. He sipped brandy and gave the problem some thought. This clandestine meeting would be reported to Rousseau, but he did have a means of discreet communication going forward. Achille could trust Sergeant Rodin to convey a message without leaking its contents. At any rate, he was willing to take the risk. “Do you know Sergeant Rodin?”

“I’ve come across him a few times. Not a bad fellow, for a cop.”

“Very well, Monsieur. Pass all your messages through Rodin, but make it clear that they are for my eyes or ears only. I’ll contact the sergeant and explain the situation beforehand.”

Lautrec eyed Achille with a knowing grin. “Pardon me, Inspector, but might one infer from your precautions that there’s dissension in your ranks?”

Achille frowned. “It’s dangerous, Monsieur, to make such inferences based on insufficient knowledge of the facts.”

Lautrec nodded and adopted a more serious tone and demeanor. “Perhaps you’re right, Inspector. Nevertheless, if there is an individual involved in the investigation who happens to be the cause of your concern for security, and that certain individual also happens to be someone very well-known in these precincts, you should know that many of my local acquaintances would gladly come to your assistance.”

Achille had no doubt Lautrec had referred to Rousseau. For an instant, he did not know how to reply. Then: “Thank you, Monsieur. I’ll keep that in mind.”

12

OCTOBER 20

CONSPIRACY

THE DEVIL IN MONTMARTRE

Jojo’s up to something, all right.” In the early morning hours, Le Boudin sat at the table in his “shop” across from Moïse, one of his most trusted men. A light rain pattered on the roof shingles, dripping here and there through the open slats. Out back, a rooster perched on a fence near the henhouse crowed, as if in response to Le Boudin’s suspicious declaration; goats stirred and bleated in their pen.

Tallow from a guttering taper flowed down the sides of its brown bottle holder, forming a little waxen pool on the tabletop. The flickering candle revealed the young chiffonier’s face in chiaroscuro, sharply contrasting highlights and shadows, like a Rembrandt. Long, oily locks framed Moïse’s lean, hawk-like face; the beginnings of a black beard shaded the youth’s upper lip and jaw line; shrewd dark brown eyes gazed at Le Boudin directly.

“It was hard work shadowing him, that’s for sure. Jojo was shaking some dumb flatfoot, one of Rousseau’s men. Nathan and me tailed the clown all the way up the hill, twisting and turning, like chasing a friggin’ monkey through the jungle. He met someone in an old mill up by the big church at the top of the butte. Nathan hung round and followed the other guy while I clung to Jojo’s tail, all the way back to his digs. Nathan says the other guy was tricked out like an actor: cloak, slouch hat, fake beard, and spectacles. Nathan says the bloke ran like a bat out of hell, all the way downhill to the boulevard where a coach was waiting.”

Le Boudin’s eyes narrowed. “And Nathan lost him?”

“Yeah, he tried to jump on the back of the coach, but it pulled away too fast.”

“The guy didn’t suspect Nathan was shadowing him, did he?”

Moïse shook his head confidently. “No, boss, Nathan’s too sharp for that.”

“Hmmm, I guess so, but it’s too bad he couldn’t keep up the tail.” Le Boudin looked down and drummed his fingers for a moment. Then: “Did you boys pick up anything else on Jojo or the mysterious bloke?”

Moïse scratched his fuzzy cheek and thought a moment. “Yeah, the clown’s been living it up the last week or so, spreading his gelt round the boîtes and whore houses, more than he could earn at the circus, that’s for sure. He’s probably done a job for that shady cove. But so far, nobody’s seen or heard of Jojo’s new pal. Anyway, it’s a good bet he ain’t from Montmartre or Pigalle.”

Le Boudin pulled out a purse, opened it, and emptied a few silver coins onto the table. “That’s for you and your brother. Keep shadowing Jojo and see what you can find out about the other guy. And get word to Delphine. I want to see her here today if possible, or tomorrow for sure. But not a word to her or anyone else about what you’ve found out. You boys keep your traps shut. And watch out for Rousseau. If the cops pick you up, you don’t know nothing. If they put the screws on, tell them you’ll talk to Inspector Lefebvre, and no one else. You follow?”

Moïse smiled, scooped up the coins and shoved them into his pocket. “Don’t worry, boss; Nathan and me, we’ve dealt with the cops before. We know the ropes. And we’ve heard Lefebvre’s a square guy.”

Le Boudin’s brow knitted. “It ain’t you boys I’m worried about, it’s Delphine. She’s got a hot temper and sometimes she acts before she thinks. She’s a tough girl, all right, but she ain’t a match for Jojo.” A few dim morning rays seeped into the shed through the cracks and unglazed windows, striking Le Boudin’s face. His hard-boiled features glowed like a savage mask in firelight. He recalled the beating Delphine had taken from Jojo and imagined what had been done to her friend, Virginie.

Le Boudin balled his one huge hand into a hammer-like fist and rested it on the table next to his hook; looking down at these two weapons he swore an oath: “Moïse, I’ve killed men in battle under the French flag, but I’ve never committed murder. But as God is my witness, if that bastard ever hurts my girl again, I’ll gut him with my hook, rip out his evil heart, and feed it to the crows.”

Arthur and Achille sat at a window table in one of the quieter, less conspicuous café-bars, not far from the Quai des Orfèvres. Rain beat down steadily on the pavement, driving the sidewalk trade indoors. Still, the place was not crowded and the two could speak freely. Arthur had contacted Achille’s office that morning and set up the appointment. He would have included Marcia, but the inclement weather had kept her at the hotel.

Achille admired the author; he had read some of his stories in English and decided to take some time to get to know the man better. He hoped that by establishing a good rapport with Wolcott he would gain Marcia’s confidence and thereby obtain something he needed desperately, an object with Sir Henry’s fingerprints.

Arthur seemed tense; he fidgeted with his gloves and kept glancing out the window, as if he were being followed. Achille tried to put the author at ease with small talk. “The coffee and pastries are quite good, don’t you agree?”

Arthur turned to Achille with a surprised look. “Oh—yes, of course, Inspector. Rather good, and reasonably priced too.”

“I’m glad you agree. I come here often when I’m deeply involved in a case, and want a quick meal. It’s a short walk from headquarters. The beer and sandwiches are pretty good too.”