Marcia frowned; she stared at him for a moment before replying: “Are you referring to Sir Henry Collingwood?”

Arthur’s eyes darted furtively from Marcia to Achille, but he remained silent.

Achille responded cautiously but forthrightly. “Not necessarily, Mademoiselle, but to my knowledge he is the only physician practicing in that field who had made acquaintance with Mlle Ménard.”

Arthur instinctively held Marcia’s hand as though she needed reassurance and support, but she remained cool and composed. “Inspector, you are of course aware that I’m presently under Sir Henry’s care. You may also know that he is pursuing an intimacy with one of my dearest friends, Mlle Endicott.”

Arthur broke in: “Inspector Lefebvre, you assured me that these ladies were in no immediate danger or at least that there was no present need for concern.”

Achille nodded. “That is correct, M. Wolcott. At present, I have insufficient evidence to accuse anyone in this matter, but so far everything points to a doctor who had access to the victim, Mlle Ménard. You and Mlle Brownlow have provided me with useful information, for which I’m grateful. I have another appointment today, and some work to do at headquarters, after which I expect to be closer to solving the case. If I may ask, what are your plans for the next few days? Do you intend to remain in Paris?”

Arthur glanced at Marcia; she nodded as a sign, a tacit agreement that he could speak for her. “I have some business to conclude within the next two days, after which I intend to accompany Mlle Brownlow to England.”

“Very well, Monsieur. And do either of you know Mlle Endicott’s intentions?”

Marcia replied, “Betsy plans to stay for the closing ceremonies, and I assume she’ll attend them with Sir Henry. Afterward, they’ll both depart for London.”Marcia’s eyes widened with apprehension; she coughed into her handkerchief.

Arthur placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right, my dear?”

Marcia nodded and took a sip of wine before continuing. She looked directly at Achille. “Of course, Inspector, if you suspect Sir Henry—”

“Mlle Brownlow,” he broke in, “I have asked M. Wolcott to give his word of honor not to discuss this matter with anyone, and now I must ask the same of you. You may of course be concerned for your safety and that of your friend. Please be assured if I discover any further evidence against Sir Henry, I will see to it that you and Mlle Endicott are notified at once. Moreover, I’m going to request that Sir Henry be placed under surveillance, which will afford you and your friend additional protection. But I most urgently request that you not speak of this to Mlle Endicott or anyone else.”

“You have my word on that, Inspector,” she answered firmly.

Achille smiled, and he noticed more evidence of worry in Arthur’s expression than in Marcia’s. “Thank you, Mademoiselle. Now, I know you and M. Wolcott have other things to do, so I won’t detain you any longer. I appreciate your cooperation and please, if either of you have any further questions or concerns, contact me immediately.”

They parted amicably, but on the way back to the hotel Arthur muttered, “Don’t worry my dear. The French are always jumping to conclusions. I’ll be deuced if Sir Henry’s a murderer. After all, he’s a member of my club.”

Marcia smiled faintly. She knew the seemingly fatuous comment was Arthur’s way of putting her at ease. “I hope you’re right. At any rate, we both know Betsy’s quite capable of defending herself.”

Arthur nodded. “Ah, yes; her concealed pistols. I’ve heard she’s a regular Annie Oakley.”

Marcia recalled several demonstrations of Betsy’s marksmanship. “Yes, thank goodness she is,” she replied. Then she turned and tried to divert her attention away from Betsy by watching the multi-hued falling leaves floating gently in the breeze.

“These are quite interesting, M. Lautrec. I can learn a great deal about the subject from your sketches.” Achille occupied a chair in Toulouse-Lautrec’s studio. The artist had opened a portfolio, displaying several drawings of Virginie. He spread them out carefully on a long, narrow table near the center of the room. This area was bright and warm with sunshine flowing in through a large skylight.

The artist contemplated the policeman from a shadowy corner, his arms folded and his back resting on a shelf stacked with plaster casts. He reached into a vest pocket and pulled out his watch. “Delphine should be here shortly. Would you care for a drink?”

Achille looked up from a pastel he was admiring. “No thank you, Monsieur.”

Lautrec walked to a cabinet near the table and retrieved a bottle. “Well, I’m sure you won’t mind if I indulge. Let me know if you change your mind.” He pulled up a chair next to Achille, uncorked the bottle, filled a glass with brandy, and continued silently observing.

After a few minutes, Achille returned the drawings to the portfolio. “I feel as though I’m getting to know Mlle Ménard. That’s often important in my work, to understand the victim as well as the criminal.”

Lautrec took a drink before asking, “Why is that, Inspector?”

Achille was about to answer when they were interrupted by a knock on the door. “That must be Delphine,” Lautrec said. He got up from the table, walked to the entrance, opened the door and greeted her. Then he turned to Achille: “Inspector Lefebvre, this is Mademoiselle Lacroix.”

Achille rose and made a slight bow. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle.”

She nodded curtly and stared at him with wide brown eyes. Delphine was not timid, but the streets had taught her to fear the police. To her way of thinking, Achille’s customary politeness seemed like a ploy; it did not put her at ease. Nevertheless, after a moment of anxious silence, she replied, “Call me Delphine; everyone does.”

Achille smiled. He offered her a chair. “Please be seated, Delphine.” As she approached, he noticed her stiffness and hesitancy. He’d seen the same look and gait in prisoners on their way to interrogation. That gave him an idea. “M. Lautrec and I were about to have a drink. Will you join us?”

She sat and glanced up at him furtively. “Yes, thanks.”

Lautrec produced two more glasses and poured for all three. Then he took a seat next to Delphine.

Achille retrieved a packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket and offered her one. She accepted gratefully and held his hand to steady the match. After a few minutes of smoking, drinking, and small talk he decided things had loosened up enough to venture a question: “So Delphine, I understand you have some important information about Joseph Rossini. Will you please give me the details?”

She drained her glass and held it out to Lautrec for a refill. Then: “Yes, Inspector. Papa Le Boudin is having Jojo shadowed.”

“Excuse me, Delphine,” Achille broke in, “Who is Papa Le Boudin?”

She stared at him incredulously. “Why, everybody knows Le Boudin. He’s the King of the chiffoniers. Old clothes, pots and pans, scrap, junk, you name it. He’s the biggest dealer in Paris.”

“Pardon my ignorance, Delphine. I’d like to meet him some day. Anyway, please continue.”

For an instant, she eyed Achille suspiciously. He seemed on the level, although a bit green. Delphine remembered what Le Boudin had told her about going to Lefebvre; she had no alternative but to trust him. “All right, then. Le Boudin put two of his men, Moïse and Nathan Gunzberg, on Jojo’s tail. They shadowed him up to an old, abandoned mill on top of the Butte, near Sacré-Coeur. Jojo met some guy up there about three in the morning yesterday, and again this morning at the same time. Nathan followed the guy back downhill to the boulevard, but he lost him. The guy wears a disguise; Nathan can’t give a good description of him.