Achille’s cab turned a corner onto the Rue des Abbesses. He leaned out the window and glanced up the street in the direction of a narrow, dun-colored two-story building with an arched entrance. He noticed a well-dressed lady and gentleman exiting down a low step to the pavement where a carriage was waiting. They seemed out of place in such a seedy neighborhood.

Achille signaled his coachman to pull over to the curb and wait. The driver reined in his horse and the cab halted. Achille watched as the couple entered their brougham and continued up the street. Further scrutiny confirmed his first impression; the chic pair was none other than Sir Henry Collingwood and Betsy Endicott. He left the cab and walked up the block to the hotel.

He passed through a squeaky-hinged door with a tinkling bell attached, into a dimly lit lobby that reeked of stale cabbage. A threadbare runner covered a long, narrow hallway leading to a back door barely visible in the shadows; to the right a stairway rose to the second floor; to the left there was a desk behind which sat an individual reading a newspaper by the light of a green-shaded kerosene lamp.

Upon hearing the doorbell, the concierge looked up, scrutinizing Achille with bug-eyes peering through thick spectacles. He put down his paper, rose to his feet, and croaked a greeting: “Good afternoon, Monsieur. How may I help you ?”

Achille approached the desk and pulled out his tricolor badge. “I’m Inspector Achille Lefebvre of the Sûreté. I have some questions about one of your guests, the gentleman who just left with the lady.”

The stubby man trembled; little beads of sweat popped out on his splotchy, bald head. “We run a respectable establishment, Monsieur. Have you spoken to Inspector Rousseau? He’ll vouch for us. The license is in order, I assure you.”

Achille could guess at the man’s “arrangement” with Rousseau. “I work with Inspector Rousseau. I have some routine questions about the individual I mentioned. I trust you have a registration card for him?”

“A card? A card? But of course, Inspector.” The concierge mopped his brow with a handkerchief and then retrieved a lidded wooden box from a dusty shelf. He placed the box on the front desk, opened the lid with shaking hands, and retrieved the registration. “Here it is, Inspector.” He handed the card to Achille, adding: “You see, everything is filled out properly.”

Achille read the registration, Sir Henry Collingwood, London England, with five separate date entries, two indicating “and guests” and three indicating “and guest.” Achille smiled. “I presume, Monsieur, that all of the gentlemen’s ‘guests’ were ladies?”

Now shaking visibly, the man pleaded: “Please, Inspector, I’m a poor man with a large family: a wife, four young children, and an infirm mother. I’ve already squared everything with Inspector Rousseau. Please have pity, I beg you.”

“Calm yourself, Monsieur. I won’t threaten your livelihood, as long as you do as I say and answer my questions honestly. First, do you know the ladies’ names?”

The man took a few deep breaths before answering. “Two of them are locals: Delphine Lacroix and Virginie Ménard. The English gentleman brought them here twice, as you can see on the card. Then, he brought Mademoiselle Ménard alone, on two occasions. As for the lady today, I swear I don’t know her, but she isn’t French. From her accent I’d say she’s an American.”

“Did Inspector Rousseau ever question you concerning the gentleman’s relations with Mlle Ménard?”

The bug-eyes widened; he hesitated before answering, “I know there’s an investigation concerning the young woman’s disappearance, but Inspector Rousseau never asked me about it.”

Achille’s confidence in Rousseau was now fully eroded. “Very well, Monsieur. I’m taking this card as evidence. Do you keep duplicates?”

“No, Inspector, this is all I have.”

Achille frowned and put a hint of menace in his voice. “Now listen carefully. If you want to stay out of trouble and keep feeding that needy family of yours, say nothing about my inquiry to anyone, and that includes Inspector Rousseau. If the English gentleman returns, you’re to notify me at once. Do you understand?”

“Oh yes, Inspector, absolutely. You can count on me.” He continued bowing and repeating, “Thank you, thank you very much, Monsieur,” even as Achille turned and walked out the door.

“The Devil in Montmartre, eh? That’ll make a catchy headline all right, especially if you add an exclamation point. The writing’s not bad either, and the salacious stuff will surely entertain your readers.” Edouard Drumont, author of La France Juive and founder of the Anti-Semitic League of France smiled shrewdly. He smoothed his bushy beard and pushed his gold-rimmed spectacles back up his nose before advising his friend, M. Cauchon: “You understand that publication might cause some trouble with the police? After all, the letter contains a veiled reference to the Virginie Ménard case and it implies that the Sûreté is intentionally bungling the investigation because it’s been infiltrated and corrupted by the Jews.”

Pierre Cauchon, editor and publisher of L’Antisémite, sat across from Drumont at a sidewalk café table. Pink-faced, portly, with beady blue eyes, a fringe of graying blonde hair, twelve children, a long-suffering wife, and fifteen-year-old mistress, his enemies had nicknamed the anti-Semitic editor le vieux Cochon. Earlier that day, Cauchon had received a letter signed “Angelique” from an anonymous source. The mysterious missive had been dropped off at the newspaper’s office; there was no postmark or return address.

Angelique claimed to be a Catholic girl of eighteen, the eldest daughter of an old Provençal family that had been impoverished due to the machinations of a Jewish banker. While the banker occupied their foreclosed manor, Angelique, her parents, and two younger siblings were reduced to living in a peasant’s cottage on their former lands.

Angelique was pretty and the Jew took an immediate interest in her. He offered her employment as a maid; despite her misgivings and her parents’ entreaties, she accepted his offer to aid her starving family. At first she was well-treated and her employer made no unwelcome advances, thus creating in her a false sense of security. Then, one night as she slept, the Jew and his accomplices stole into her bedroom and chloroformed her. Bound, gagged, and stupefied with drugs, Angelique was transported to a secret location in Montmartre. Once there, she tried to resist her abductors, insisting that her parents would go to the police when they realized she was missing. The fiends laughed; her parents would be told she had run away, and if they went to the police no one would waste much time or energy looking for her. Angelique continued her resistance; she was starved, beaten, and thus forced into slavery as a temple prostitute for the Illuminati.

According to Angelique, the Illuminati were an international cabal of wealthy Jews and Freemasons who, through manipulation of currencies, financial markets, and political corruption, had conspired to rule the world from the shadows. The spider had spun an immense worldwide web, but the organization’s headquarters, commanded by a Sanhedrin of six Jewish High Priests of global finance, was located in Paris. There, they employed a system of bribery and extortion intended to gain influence, subvert, and manipulate the highest levels of government. Moreover, the Illuminati enticed and abducted innocent Catholic girls to be used as sex slaves in their satanic rituals.

Angelique had escaped her tormentors, but another young woman who had fallen into the spider’s web had not been so fortunate. Having been lured into performing a Can-Can at one of their Baphometic orgies by promises of an enormous fee, Virginie Ménard fled the Illuminati and threatened to expose their foul practices. The following evening, she was abducted and ritually slaughtered by a shohet (kosher butcher) to silence her permanently and as a warning to others.