Aggie Fitzroy, formerly Lady Agatha Clifford, was one of the great society beauties of the previous decade. As Mark Brownlow, Marcia had painted a portrait of Lady Agatha that caused a sensation and, for a brief time, they had been lovers. Marcia’s ears pricked up and her eyes widened at the mention of the name. “How is Aggie? I haven’t seen her in ages.”
Arthur already regretted mentioning Agatha, but he answered forthrightly. “She’s seen better days, I’m afraid. When she married Colonel Fitzroy she had quite a fortune from her first marriage, and she believed the Colonel was flush as well. After all, he had Brodemeade, a fine manor and lands. Everything looked beautiful on the surface, but was mortgaged to the hilt; Aggie didn’t learn the worst of it until four years ago when the colonel died. The whole kit and caboodle had to be sold to satisfy creditors; Aggie was lucky to keep some of her separate property. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Her health and looks declined along with her fortune. That’s why she consulted with Sir Henry. Now, she’s no longer welcomed in the best society, and from all accounts lives a sad and lonely life.”
“Poor Aggie,” Marcia murmured. “Où sont la neiges d’antan? She was once my ideal of the sublime and the beautiful. I’m afraid I’ve misspent my brief career chasing aesthetic butterflies.” She paused a moment; then: “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to the Atelier Cormon to ask about a model, Virginie Ménard. She may have inspired me to use what time I have left to do something important.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Could she be another of your ‘aesthetic butterflies’?”
Marcia laughed. “You’ll never change. Always ready with a caustic observation. But I know your secret, my old friend. Beneath that sardonic exterior beats a kind and generous heart. You’re just ashamed to show it.”
9
OCTOBER 17, MORNING, AFTERNOON AND EVENING
AN INTERVIEW
Your graphite powder has done the trick, Inspector. The lines on the fingerprints are as sharp and clear as can be.”
Gilles displayed his photographs with pride. He and Achille studied the results of their experiment aided by the bright morning light streaming through the windows in Bertillon’s laboratory. The photographs of the cigarette case with enhanced latent fingerprints had been set next to the photos of the stained cloth for comparison. After a minute of careful examination, Achille smiled.
Pointing first to the cigarette case and then to the cloth, Achille said, “You see the difference, Gilles? It’s most obvious in the thumbs. One has what’s called an ulnar loop; the other doesn’t. I’m certain these are the fingerprints of two different individuals.”
Gilles looked carefully and nodded. “I see, Inspector, but how does this aid your investigation?”
He replied cautiously. The new method of identification might be viewed as a radical challenge to Bertillon’s established system, though that was not what Achille intended. Rather, he conceived of fingerprinting as a supplement to the portrait parlé and anthropometrical method. But means of enhancing the prints and “lifting” images at the crime scene needed to be developed before the widespread fingerprinting of suspects became practical. Premature advocacy for the new system might subject Achille to ridicule, not to mention Chief Bertillon’s ire for poaching on his preserve. At this point, fingerprints might be useful, but only on a case-by-case basis. “If I can fingerprint a suspect and compare his prints to these photographs, I’ll either have evidence of criminal activity to support an accusation or exculpatory evidence to rule out that suspect. Either way, it’s a step forward in the investigative process.”
“I see, so all you need to do is haul in a suspect or two and fingerprint them.”
Achille smiled wryly. “Yes my friend, it’s as simple as that.”
He returned to his small corner office on the same floor as Féraud’s. Achille’s cubbyhole was in stark contrast to the chief’s cluttered workspace: neat, spotless, and well-organized, with little personalization and nothing whimsical or macabre. The only items that proclaimed his “ownership” were a nameplate and desk photographs of Adele and Jeanne. Otherwise, the place could have been exchanged with any other inspector assigned to the case.
Achille sipped lukewarm, black coffee and nibbled a stale brioche while reviewing his file and planning the rest of his day. Féraud had assigned him more detectives; he was pushing for results. He most particularly feared a surge of “Ripper mania” in the newspapers. Reporters were snooping round Montmartre, searching out every gossip and crackpot with a theory of the case. If the penny-a-liners couldn’t find anything sensational enough to satisfy their editors, they would surely make it up.
As for the leads, none of the hospitals had recently reported thefts of narcotics or anesthetics; the chemists and apothecaries provided lists of hundreds of Parisian doctors who routinely used the drugs in their practice, but so far they hadn’t turned up anyone connected to Virginie Ménard.
Lautrec’s tobacconist examined the cigarettes; he recognized the paper and the Turkish tobacco, but he swore he didn’t use opium in his blends. However, he did refer to tobacconists who included the drug for special customers, but further investigation hadn’t yet uncovered anything of interest.
The search through the art supply shops had also proved fruitless. There were more painters in Paris that used the particular type of canvas in which the torso was wrapped than doctors who administered narcotics and anesthetics. The old cliché applied; it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Tomorrow was Sunday, a day off, and Féraud was impatient. He wanted an arrest before another body turned up and made more of a stink in the newspapers. Rousseau was itching to arrest Lautrec. But the chief backed Achille, partly because he hesitated to accuse a descendant of Raymond, the great crusader. Not that Féraud gave a damn about nobility, but he was very sensitive when it came to the nation’s history and the honor of France.
Achille doubted they were dealing with Jack the Ripper, or another criminal in that vein. And he also believed that the fingerprints, along with a search of his studio and apartment, would exculpate Lautrec. Much of Achille’s thinking along these lines was intuitive; Lautrec seemed too obvious a suspect, as was often the case with a frame-up. As for the Ripper, the surgery in this case was too neat and clinical, whereas the Ripper’s victims had been savagely butchered. Yet he feared that some failure on his part, a missed clue or inadequately investigated lead, might result in another woman’s death.
Achille finished his coffee and dumped the unappetizing remains of the brioche in the wastebasket. He would have worked all day Sunday if he thought it would help the case. But he’d promised Adele a day in the country at a quiet auberge only twenty minutes from central Paris by train. They’d leave Jeanne with Madame Berthier and nanny. Madame will enjoy that. More time to infect my child with her grandmamma’s prejudices. There was no telephone at the inn, but the station was nearby; if a telegram came from headquarters Achille would return immediately.
He lit a cigar, packed his briefcase, pocketed his credentials and service revolver, and prepared to leave. He was about to confront Toulouse-Lautrec. There was a risk in asking the artist to cooperate voluntarily without a warrant, but Achille thought it was worth it. If possible, he wanted to know the man, to gain his confidence and assistance in cracking the case. He checked his watch; two detectives would meet him outside Lautrec’s apartment. Two others were detailed to the studio; they waited at the local station with Sergeant Rodin. They would begin the search as soon as Achille issued the order by telephone. It was time to go.