13

OCTOBER 21, MORNING, AFTERNOON, EVENING;

OCTOBER 22, MORNING

The abandoned mill about three hours before dawn: Jojo stared at a huge black spider dangling from an immense web overspreading a pair of rotting cogwheels. He marked the spider’s resemblance to the cloaked figure beckoning him from the shadows on the other side of the millstone.

The shady “spider” raised a silencing finger to his false-bearded lips and motioned for Jojo to approach, signaling halt with a raised hand when the clown had come within whispering distance. “You’ve been careless, Jojo,” he hissed.

“Careless, Monsieur? I don’t understand,” Jojo replied in a perplexed whisper.

The mask grinned sardonically. “You’ve seen the spider but you missed the two little flies.”

“Please Monsieur, you speak in riddles. Is there a problem?”

“There’s a problem, all right, but thankfully I have a solution. We’re being shadowed by a couple of rag-picking Jews. One follows me from the boulevard; the other tails you from your flat. I didn’t notice them until this morning. I don’t know who they’re working for, but my guess is it’s not Rousseau.”

Jojo’s eyes blazed. He reached into his pocket and flicked out a switch-blade. “I’ll fix the little rats here and now.”

The disguised man’s whisper hoarsened to an angry rasp. “Put away your stiletto and listen. Is the dumb flatfoot still watching your apartment?”

Jojo closed the blade, pocketed his knife, and nodded in the affirmative.

“Good. Tomorrow morning at three sneak out of your flat the usual way. The cop’ll keep his eyes glued to your window and the front door but one of the Jews will tail you up the Rue Lepic. Two blocks on there’s an alley. I’ll lose my shadow and wait for you with a cart, the kind the ragpickers use. The kids are both runts; in the dark you could pass for either of them. I’ll chloroform your shadow. Once he’s out, we’ll put him in the cart under a pile of rags. You take the cart back down the street and drop a little package in a dustbin right in front of the cop’s nose. You’ll be very sneaky looking but obvious, enough to catch the fool’s attention. You’ll continue to an alley where you’ll ditch the kid and the cart. There’ll be just enough time before he wakes up, and when he does he’ll be groggy and disoriented.”

“What about the other kid?”

“I’ll knock him out too. But I’ll add an injection that’ll keep him stupefied for an hour at least.”

Jojo grinned. “You’re going to frame up the Yids?”

“That’s right. The cops wouldn’t go after the son of a count, no matter how degenerate. But a rag-picking Jew from the Zone is the perfect suspect. And if what you’ve told me about your chum Rousseau is true, it’ll shake things up at the Sûreté when he takes our bait and openly turns against Lefebvre. Imagine how he’ll gloat when he cracks the case and shows up the professor.

“At any rate, I figure no one will help the Jew, especially when I set the rest of my plan in motion. But that’s none of your business. You just play your part as written. Now get out of here, and try not to let on that you know you’re being followed. I’ll wait awhile, and then give the other kid the slip. And here’s an incentive, a little something on account. Do this right, and there’ll be more.” He reached into his pocket, retrieved a few gold coins and dropped them into Jojo’s outstretched palm.

Jojo’s eyes gleamed at the sight of the gold pieces. “Don’t worry, Monsieur. It’s a cinch.”

“It had better be, my friend. Remember—three A.M. in the alley, and no slipups.”

“So your friend at Scotland Yard has something?” It was five A.M. sharp. Féraud stared across his desk at Achille, his interest piqued by the news.

“Yes, chief, I received a coded message by wire this morning. They have two recent cases involving the torsos of unidentified females. The Yard doesn’t think it’s the Ripper’s work, but the torso killer’s modus operandi does resemble that of the perpetrator in our case. And of course the English press is connecting the bodies to the Ripper murders. Without more evidence, that’s pure speculation.”

Féraud shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “Did your contact give you any more information concerning the status of their investigation?”

“I’m afraid this is all my friend’s willing to provide by cable, even in code. If we want more, I’ll have to go to London and get it in person.”

Féraud thought for a moment before replying. “I’d need to get authorization from high up for something like that. If word leaked out of what you were doing unofficially, things could get very sticky with the English. But you may share some information about the mutilated torsos through official channels without relating it to the Ripper. And you certainly don’t want to stir up a hornets’ nest with our own press. Now what else have you got planned for today?”

“I’m meeting M. Wolcott and Mlle Brownlow. The American woman might have important information about Virginie Ménard that I believe will point to Sir Henry. And M. Wolcott has a letter with Sir Henry’s handwriting and latent fingerprints. The handwriting could be very useful, and there’s a proven method for bringing out latent prints on paper. I can compare the prints to those on the cloth and cigarette case. If they match, he’s our suspect.

“After I’m done with that meeting, I’m going to interview Delphine Lacroix at Lautrec’s studio. She has important information about Jojo, and she may also provide more clues from her knowledge of the victim.”

Féraud nodded. He shuffled some paperwork and ruminated for a moment. Then: “All right. Carry on, and get back to me if or when you turn up anything significant. What I’d really like is one credible witness, a lead from a believable snitch, or at the very least some strong circumstantial evidence that’ll hold up in court. This fingerprint business is too experimental; it makes me nervous. What have you heard from Rousseau?”

Achille frowned. “Nothing, I’m afraid, and frankly I don’t expect much.”

Féraud shook his head and drummed his fingers in frustration. He stuck a cigar in his guillotine, lopped off the tip, and started chewing without smoking. “Very well, Achille,” he muttered with the unlit cigar shifting round in his mouth, “you may go.”

“How lovely,” Marcia had observed as Arthur helped her up into an open carriage. “I doubt we shall have many more such days.”

“A fine day indeed,” he replied. They were on their way to the café-bar to meet Achille. Arthur had his qualms about their rendezvous with a policeman, but he consoled himself with the thought that the inspector was a man of discretion, a gentleman. Considering her health, he would not press Marcia if he sensed his questions were too upsetting. And Marcia was enthusiastic; she wanted to help, if she could. At any rate, she had insisted on going out on the pretext of visiting the Louvre followed by some refreshment at a boulevard café and Sir Henry had not objected. It was as though he had lost interest in his patient (“She won’t survive the winter” was his undisclosed prognosis) and was now concentrating all his attention on Betsy.

Arthur had concluded his negotiations for the sale of Lady Agatha’s portrait. He had wired Betsy’s generous offer of seventeen-hundred guineas to Aggie, and she had replied immediately. He’d earn a handsome commission and use it all for Marcia’s care, though he would not tell her that. Arthur would let her believe his physician friend was providing services at a reduced rate out of gratitude and repayment for favors rendered.