She replied with a cold, hard edge to her voice. “You’re wrong, Henry. A standoff implies equality, and there’s nothing equal about our present situation. I’m ready and aimed; at this distance I can’t miss. You, on the other hand, have my revolver at your side. I could drop you before you leveled your weapon and got off a shot.”

“Ah, but you have one bullet to my five. That little pop-gun might misfire or jam. They often do, you know.”

“This is a Remington Double Derringer, two shots instead of one. It’s quite reliable and I maintain my firearms in good order. After all, a woman must protect herself from all the predators prowling this wicked planet. You killed Virginie Ménard with an overdose of morphine. I did my best to help you. But now it appears the game’s up and the police are after you. All the evidence points to you. I made sure of that. Even if Jojo talks, he can’t identify me. I made sure of that, too.”

He sighed. “You can’t be absolutely certain, my dear. I’d say we’re in this together, right to the end.”

“No Henry, I wouldn’t say that. At the very worst they might charge me as an accessory after-the-fact. If that happens, I’ll hire the best lawyers and cooperate with the authorities. I can play your victim convincingly. I’m sure the French judges will sympathize with a woman in my position.”

Sir Henry laughed bitterly. “I always suspected you gave Virginie the overdose and set me up for the fall, but it may surprise you to learn I don’t care. I love you, Betsy. If you come with me, I shan’t harm you. I need you to evade the police. When we were walking about town I noticed some boats at a secluded landing. I handle a boat quite well. I rowed at Oxford, you know. Help me escape and we can remain together, or you can leave me at your first opportunity. You may keep the Derringer for insurance.”

“You’ll never get out of France. I doubt you’ll get much further than the front gate, with me or not. At any rate, I’m not going with you. You’re on your own. And I’ll thank you to leave my revolver on the bed. You might shoot someone, and I won’t have that on my conscience.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed; his tone hardened. “I’ll go it alone then, but I’ll take your gun. Without it I’d be as defenseless as a creature in the jungle without its fangs and claws.”

Betsy’s features transformed into an inscrutable mask. “Then you’ll be as vulnerable as the women you suckered with your ‘treatments’. I don’t pity you.We had an amusing fling, Henry, but I never trusted you. Put the revolver on the bed now, or you won’t leave this room alive.”

He shook his head with resolve. “No, I’m taking the pistol. If you intend to kill me, you’ll have to shoot me in the back. Good-bye, my dear. Remember I loved you.”

He turned and walked toward the door. As he grasped the brass doorknob, Betsy aimed at the back of his head and squeezed the trigger. The Derringer flashed and popped like a firecracker; black powder from the expended .41 caliber cartridge emerged from the barrel in a plume of grey smoke, filling the small room with its acrid stench. The bullet grazed his left temple and spent itself on the oak door.

Sir Henry wiped the wound with his left hand, glared at the blood, spun round and leveled the revolver at Betsy. “You bloody bitch!”

She did not hesitate. Betsy aimed and fired the second barrel. The bullet punched a gaping hole in Sir Henry’s forehead, lodging itself deep within his brain. He squeezed the Smith & Wesson’s trigger in a reflex action, firing a shot that struck her chest and entered the heart. Bulging eyes staring into the void, blood streaming down his once handsome face, he staggered two steps, slumped to his knees, and fell forward unconscious at her feet. Betsy collapsed and lay prone by his side.

Two brigadiers with drawn revolvers burst into the room, followed by Achille and Féraud. The dark room blazed with light from the policemen’s lanterns. Betsy and Sir Henry sprawled together on the floor, unconscious and dying in a pool of commingled blood.

Achille examined the bodies and frowned. He felt cheated, somehow. Their last willful actions had thwarted his fine sense of justice. I wanted to bring them in for questioning. Now, the missing pieces to this puzzle will remain lost. He glanced up at Féraud.“They’re both mortally wounded. We should call a surgeon, though nothing short of a miracle could save them. I guess he’ll just go through the formalities, pronounce them dead and sign the certificates.”

Chief Féraud shrugged, lit a cigar, and took a couple of puffs before saying, “Case closed, Achille. At least they spared us the trouble and expense of a trial.”

17

AFTERMATH

Anima ejus, et ánimæ ómnium fidélium defunctórum, per

misericórdiam Dei requiéscant in pace.

Amen.

Following Jojo’s instructions, the police discovered Virginie Ménard’s arms and legs buried in the abandoned windmill. Her remains were gathered together at the Morgue and then transported to Montmartre, where Toulouse-Lautrec had anonymously arranged for a modest funeral service and internment in the cemetery. Arthur and Marcia cabled their condolences from England.

Virginie’s grave was located in a shady, crowded corner beneath the iron latticework viaduct over which the busy Rue Caulaincourt passes. Poets, artists, writers, actors, and musicians kept her company, their final resting place within walking distance of the Moulin Rouge. On this particularly bright blue autumn afternoon, a brisk wind stirred chestnuts and poplars, scattering leaves over the tombs and paved walkways.

A small group of mourners attended the graveside ceremony. Among them were Virginie’s aunt and uncle from Rouen. They wore black, stood apart from the others, looked sad, spoke to no one except the priest, and put on airs as though they had paid for the funeral. Achille and Adele were there, along with Chief Inspector Féraud, Le Boudin, Marie, Delphine, the Gunzberg brothers, and the painters Lautrec and Bernard. Following the service they all sprinkled dirt on the casket and took a flower from a small display as a memento. The Merciers then made a hasty departure, as though fleeing from their unfortunate niece’s ghost.

Le Boudin and his small entourage approached Achille, Adele, and Féraud. The tough old one-handed legionnaire wiped tears on his sleeve. He coughed into his hand and cleared his throat. Then, his voice still half-choked with emotion, he addressed Achille formally as though he were speaking to a superior officer. “Inspector Lefebvre, I, my family and friends owe you a debt of honor that can never be fully repaid. You pursued justice in an unjust world, you defended the rights of those who are rejected by society, outcasts who—” Le Boudin stopped and took a deep breath. Then: “I’m sorry, Monsieur. I prepared a fine speech for the occasion, but it makes me sound like a politician. What I really want to say is this. You’re a damn good man, and France could use more like you. If you ever need my help in future, you know where to find me. And I speak for the chiffoniers and most of the folks in the Zone.”

Achille smiled and shook hands. “I ought to thank you, Monsieur. Without your help, and the assistance of Mlle Lacroix and the Gunzberg boys I couldn’t have cracked this case.” Then he turned to Delphine. He wanted to say something personal, but under the circumstances and considering the nature of the women’s relationship he had to choose his words carefully. He spoke gently, but appropriately. “I grieve for the loss of your friend, Mademoiselle. At least there was some justice for her; may she rest in peace.”

Delphine nodded silently, turned and walked away; Le Boudin, Marie, and the Gunzbergs bowed politely and followed her.