THE DEVIL IN

MONTMARTRE

A MYSTERY IN FIN-DE-SIÈCLE PARIS

GARY INBINDER

PEGASUS CRIME

NEW YORK  LONDON

In memory of my parents, Eli and Loretta

THE DEVIL IN

MONTMARTRE

1

PARIS

OCTOBER 10, 1889

A NIGHT AT THE MOULIN ROUGE

A chattering crowd bustled along the sidewalk on the Boulevard de Clichy; cabs and carriages rumbled up the damp street in a long procession at the foot of Montmartre hill. A steady, chilling, autumn rain had engulfed Paris for most of the day. Now in the evening hours the downpour had turned to drizzle pattering in the gutters and pooling on the pavement.

Pedestrians approaching their destination shook out the droplets and closed their umbrellas. They swarmed toward a beacon of modernity, a man-made radiance beaming from dozens of Edison’s electric bulbs glimmering like fireflies in the misty Paris night.

With its electrically illuminated rotating blades, The Red Mill advertised its presence in the Jardin de Paris. Brainchild of a pair of savvy entrepreneurs, Joseph Oller and his manager, Charles Zidler, the sensational new music hall had opened just in time to haul in thousands of well-heeled tourists flocking to Paris during the waning days of the great Universal Exposition. Among them were two elegant women riding in a closed cab. The driver pulled up to the front entrance. An attendant holding an umbrella opened the door and helped the women out of the carriage. The first was tall, fair-skinned and handsome. In her late thirties, she was fashionably dressed in an emerald green Doucet dress. She stepped down to the sidewalk and turned to assist her friend, a gaunt woman of the same age, an inch shorter than her companion and similarly attired in burgundy silk.

As the women entered the dance hall, the reverberating jabber of patrons and the shuffling of their shoes on wooden floors was drowned out by an orchestra playing a quadrille at breakneck speed. Occasionally, a high-stepping dancer would show all of her legs and more, crying, “Hoop-la,” to be followed by shouts and applause from an appreciative audience. The Moulin Rouge had quickly gained a reputation—it was a place to ogle the provocative dancers, get roaring drunk, and pick up girls. No one raised an eyebrow at the presence of two women without gentlemen escorts. Such things were frowned upon elsewhere, but after all, this was Montmartre, where the catchphrase was à chacun son goût. Most everything was tolerated, as long as you paid up at the end of an evening.

The two women flowed with the crowd through a gallery, its walls lined with posters, paintings, and photographs evocative of modern Paris, including Monsieur Eiffel’s controversial tower, then paused on a raised walkway near the long bar, its mirrors reflecting dozens of bottles and sparkling glasses. They found a little corner where they could observe the scene while avoiding collision with bustling waiters bearing refreshment to the multitude of thirsty patrons standing and seated round the mezzanine, main floor, and balcony.

Marcia Brownlow, the frail woman dressed in burgundy silk, took everything in with cool detachment and the keen eye of an artist. She was a noted painter, the founder of a school of West Coast American Impressionists, who had exhibited and won a Silver Medal at the Universal Exposition. Her sparkling green eyes darted round behind a mask of powder and rouge framed by auburn hair swept up in a pompadour. The illness that ate at her lungs had given her a macabre beauty; on first sight she gave the impression of a pretty corpse on display in its silk-lined coffin.

The hall was vast, the ceiling high and vaulted, like a temple devoted to the gods and goddesses of amusement and pleasure. Marcia drank in the colors, the shapes, and inhaled the smells; the greenish-golden glow of hundreds of electric bulbs and gas jets, filtered through smoky haze from countless cigarettes and cigars. Red, white, and blue bunting draped the balconies; dancers kicked and whirled, displaying flashes of white, lace-trimmed linen and black stockings. The odor was a potpourri of tobacco, perfume, rain-dampened clothing, and sweat. She stored each fleeting sense impression, like photographs and sachets in a dresser drawer, wondering: Can I paint it? Will I have time, or will the memory fade and die with me?

Betsy Endicott, heiress to a railroad fortune, patroness of the arts, and Marcia’s companion for more than a decade, contemplated her friend with worried eyes: How long can she last in this place? Can I get her back to California before Paris kills her?

A couple of toffs in evening dress interrupted: “Will you ladies join us for a drink?”

Marcia and Betsy had inadvertently paused in a prime area for pickups. Betsy blushed and squeezed Marcia’s hand protectively. “I’m sorry,” she replied with a hint of annoyance, “we’re meeting friends.” She then pulled Marcia away into the stream of humanity flowing in the direction of the dance floor.

Gazing after the elegantly dressed pair as they merged with and vanished among the throng, one of the toffs nudged his companion in the ribs and remarked, “I guess we’re not their type.” His companion grinned and nodded knowingly and the two continued their hunt, setting their sights on more promising quarry.

The two women jostled their way to the end of the bar. Marcia stopped abruptly near a narrow stairway leading down to the dance floor and drew her friend’s attention to a man seated at a round table set on the main floor’s perimeter. “That’s the artist who painted the portrait we admired in Joyant’s gallery.”

Betsy observed a well-dressed young man with a thick black beard and dark, intense eyes peering through a pince-nez. Despite his impeccably tailored clothes, there was something simian about his physiognomy. She also noticed a short cane, suitable for a dwarf, hanging from the back of his chair. The artist concentrated on the dancers while drawing in a sketchbook, his hand moving swiftly and efficiently in concert with his darting eyes. He occasionally put down his charcoal stick, took a draft of cognac, and then continued sketching furiously where he had left off.

Marcia smiled and tugged at her companion’s hand. “Come on, Betsy, I’ll introduce you.”

Betsy turned to Marcia with a quizzical squint. “You’ve made that gentleman’s acquaintance, dear?”

“Oh yes, in the American Gallery at the Fair. You weren’t there that day, I’m afraid. At any rate, he liked my paintings. Come on, you’ll find him clever, and we can talk to him about that portrait.”

Marcia yanked Betsy onward, and it was as though the consumptive had been wonderfully reinvigorated by the sight of her fellow painter. They arrived presently at his table, blocking the artist’s line of sight.