“Yes, Monsieur, my partner Rousseau’s handling that end of the investigation, along with his search for witnesses.”

“Very well, Inspector; I wish you luck. Now, a few things before we go to records. We tested the cloth fibers; it’s a high quality canvas, the sort a well-heeled artist would use. You can find out where Lautrec buys his supplies, see if they carry this particular canvas, and determine if he’s made a recent purchase. As for the cigarettes, they’re an expensive Turkish blend, rolled in high quality paper—a gentleman’s smoke no doubt. And we did find a small amount of opium, which might be of interest in light of the morphine in the body. On the other hand, most of these bohemian types indulge in drugs. You might trace them to Lautrec’s tobacconist, and I’ll bet the cigarettes in the case match the butt. Finally, I took a look at your cast of the shoeprint and the measurements you made of the stride. They appear to belong to a small individual, about 147 cm in height and proportionate weight. By the way, my congratulations for spotting the print and getting an excellent cast from a horse dropping.”

Achille smiled grimly. “More evidence pointing to Lautrec—or perhaps a well-planned frame-up?”

Bertillon rubbed his chin and squinted. Turning from the light, he muttered, “Well then, you may look for someone who had a motive to murder this as yet-unidentified young woman, mutilate her body, and pin it on Lautrec.” He pulled out his watch. “I’m running late, Inspector. Let’s go to records; then I must bid you good-day.”

7

OCTOBER 16, AFTERNOON & EVENING

REUNION

Marcia rested on a drawing room settee in the hotel suite, her back propped up on a velvet bolster. Sir Henry and Betsy had gone on a shopping excursion to the Rue de la Paix. The doctor had recommended she remain in the suite and rest. Marcia acquiesced, but in her mind she questioned Sir Henry’s motives. She wondered if his advice was based less on his professional concern for her health and more on his desire to have Betsy all to himself. What difference did it make? Love had long since departed their relationship; what remained was loyalty and memories of better times. And Betsy seemed infatuated with the handsome, gentlemanly physician, so much so that she might be eager to see the back of her consumptive companion.

Marcia sighed and reached for her sketchbook, which she had set down on a nearby coffee table. She opened the book to a pastel drawing of Virginie Ménard. She had drawn the portrait from memory based upon her vision during the ride in the Bois, but the work did not completely satisfy her. It looks too much like Lautrec’s portrait. I must go to Cormon’s Atelier to draw her from life. What’s more, I must talk to her, get to know her better. She put down the book and gazed at the ceiling.

Marcia had a practical side. She had not yet told Betsy of her desire to remain in Paris for an obvious reason—money. She had a few thousand dollars in a San Francisco bank, the proceeds from the sale of her artwork. And Theo Van Gogh of Goupil & Co. had made her an offer; his clients were very interested in her Silver Medal landscape. He said he could get her a handsome price for the painting and for any new work as well. Of course, she had serious doubts she’d live long enough to finish anything new—the projected venture into social realism was perhaps nothing more than a valetudinarian dream—but she did not say that to Theo.

She probably had enough to last the brief remainder of her life, but she feared dying alone in a foreign city, and she especially dreaded the time when she could no longer care for herself.

A ringing telephone interrupted. Marcia swung her thin legs over the edge of the settee, took hold of an armrest and raised herself with a grunt. She walked slowly to the telephone table, paused to catch her breath, then lifted the earpiece and raised the transmitter to her mouth. The voice on the other end surprised her. “Arthur, is that really you?”

“Yes, my dear, it is I in the flesh! I’ve crossed the channel to see some old friends, visit the Fair, and witness the closing ceremonies. Imagine my delight when I discovered that you and Betsy were staying at this very hotel.”

“This is a pleasant surprise. I would very much like to see you, talk of old times, and catch up on things. I’ve read your latest writings with great admiration.”

“Splendid! How about we pop over to the Café Riche? If Betsy’s around, she may certainly join us.”

“There’s nothing I’d like better, but I fear I’m a bit fragile right now.”

There was a pause—then: “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Are you well enough to receive?”

“Of course, my dear; they haven’t buried me yet.”

“All right, then, how about this afternoon? Let’s say in one hour?”

“Bless you Arthur; that would be lovely!”

It wasn’t until she had left the telephone that Marcia realized the extent of her loneliness.

Arthur Wolcott, the famous American expatriate author, sat across the tea table from Marcia, fine china cup in hand. Arthur had changed since their last meeting. Gray whiskers streaked his dark brown beard, his hair had thinned to a fringe, and his waist had expanded to prosperous bourgeois proportions that could not be completely concealed by his expert Savile Row tailors. Now fully acculturated to the style and manner of an English gentleman, he affected a monocle that would have been mocked in Boston and New York; his rough Yankee twang had been polished smooth and coated with a thick upper-class Anglophone varnish.

“I say Marcia,” he remarked with his characteristically affable smile, “I’m awfully pleased to find you looking so well. You seem to have exaggerated your illness.” This was a polite, well-intentioned lie.

Marcia smiled wanly. “That’s kind of you, Arthur, but no need for pretense between old friends. Fact is, I look frightful, and for the most part I feel worse than I look. But your appearance has had a tonic effect. And I’m very glad to see you’ve harbored no grudge against me for my deception all those years ago.” Her green eyes sparkled as she sipped her tea and nibbled at a brioche.

“Oh, that’s all water under the bridge; long since forgotten. ‘Mark’ Brownlow was a great artist and a friend, and that artistic greatness and cherished friendship continues in you, his female alter-ego.” Arthur put down his cup and wiped his hands on the serviette. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a cigarette case. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Please do.”

Arthur took out a cigarette, tamped it on the case, and then offered one to Marcia.

“Sorry, Arthur, I’d like to join you, but my new doctor forbids it.”

He lit his cigarette, took a puff and blew a smoke ring. Then he leaned back and hooked a thumb in his waistcoat pocket. “Sorry to hear that. I suppose longevity requires giving up life’s pleasures, one by one, until there’s nothing left. By the way, who is your physician?”

“Sir Henry Collingwood. Do you know him? I hear he has a very successful practice in Harley Street.”

Arthur rested his cigarette in an ashtray and leaned forward as though he were about to reveal a confidence. “Indeed I do know of him, and I’ve met him socially on more than one occasion. He’s good looking with an excellent manner, a clever fellow, and a fine amateur water-colorist. He’s also quite successful, welcomed in the best society, and he limits his practice to ladies of quality.”

“Oh, really? I find that fascinating. Please do tell me more.”

Arthur’s sunny expression darkened to a worried frown, as though he already had said too much and did not want to proceed. “It’s really a delicate subject, or rather indelicate, if you follow my meaning.”