“This is extraordinary,” he remarked. Then: “What’s this?” He took out his pince-nez, adjusted the spectacles on his nose, and examined the watercolor more closely. On the opposite bank, the figure of a woman in white emerged from the mist beneath a stand of trees. “You’ve put someone in the picture. Was it for effect?”

Marcia smiled enigmatically. “Perhaps it was for effect. She just seemed to insinuate herself into the composition like one of the ghosts in your story.”

Arthur frowned and scratched his beard. Was the woman Virginie Ménard? That was a morbid thought. Or perhaps it was Betsy. That was more than morbid; it was downright sinister. To sound Marcia out on the subject, he decided to make an inquiry about her late companion. “You had a letter from Betsy Endicott’s lawyers recently. I don’t mean to pry, but was it of any importance?” After a tense moment in which she did not reply, and fearing he might have upset her, he added considerately: “Of course, if it’s something you’d rather not discuss, I apologize for asking. I won’t mention it again.”

Marcia finished packing away her watercolors and brushes before answering. “Will you please help with my paraphernalia and the camp stool? I’ll tell you about the letter on the way back to the house.”

“Of course,” he replied. He folded the camp stool, took it in one hand, and carried the pochade box in the other with the portfolio tucked under his arm. They strolled up the leaf-strewn path toward the garden gate.

Marcia spoke without looking at Arthur. “I was waiting for the right time to tell you, but I suppose now is as good a time as any. Betsy left me her entire fortune.”

Arthur stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to her with a wide-eyed look that was so comical it made her laugh. “Good Lord, “he sputtered, “she’s made you immensely rich.”

“Yes she has, Arthur,” she replied calmly after getting over her little fit of laughter. “And I intend to do the same for you. You shall have half the fortune, and the rest shall go to charity, a shelter for indigent and abused girls and women. I think Betsy would have approved.”

For once in his life, Arthur Wolcott was speechless. He continued staring at Marcia in stunned silence.

She took his hand in hers and smiled. “I owe it to you, Arthur. You were the first to recognize my art and make it known to the world. You’ve cared for me and supported me in my time of need.” She paused a moment before adding with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, “I certainly fooled you back when I was Mark.”

Arthur did not need the money, but he was profoundly touched by her gesture. They walked along the path, Marcia clearly pleased with herself. Once he got over the shock, he was happy to see a change in her mood, and he decided to play along. “Yes, I certainly was fooled, and that was very naughty of you. Mark was a clever fellow all right, but I much prefer you as you really are. Now let’s put away all gloomy thoughts, and think of sunny Italy and seeing old friends again. As for the fortune, my main object in life will be to use it to make you happy. We’ll drink to it when we get back to the house, though you mustn’t have more than one.”

Marcia smiled; she reached up and stroked his beard. “Arthur, I’ve never told you this, but I do love you.”

Arthur coughed; his lips trembled. He sniffed a couple of times, put down the pochade box, removed his pince-nez, and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. After awhile, he picked up the box and started walking again. “Blasted wind,” he muttered. “It must have blown dust in my eyes.”

Marcia took him by the arm and walked on. “Yes darling, it is awfully brisk out here,” she replied.

END

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks to friends and fellow authors who read early drafts of this novel. I am grateful to Donald P. Webb, Dana M. Paramskas, Bill Bowler, and Marina Julia Neary. Their insightful comments and suggestions were most helpful in developing a raw manuscript into an almost finished book.

Many thanks to my agent, Philip Spitzer, for his courtesy, unerring judgment, persistence and expert representation, and to his associates Lukas Ortiz and Luc Hunt for their efficiency and kind assistance.

Finally, my thanks to Claiborne Hancock and his staff at Pegasus, most particularly my editor Maia Larson for her patience, understanding and professional expertise.

THE DEVIL IN MONTMARTRE

Pegasus Books LLC

80 Broad Street, 5th Floor

New York, NY 10004

Copyright © 2014 by GARY INBINDER

First Pegasus Books cloth edition December 2014

Interior design by Maria Fernandez

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-60598-647-0

ISBN: 978-1-60598-731-6 (e-book)

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