Read Online The Devil in Montmartre by Gary Inbinder - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gary Inbinder
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Achille wanted her; he needed to forget his job, to erase the horror of it from his mind. His hands cupped the soft material over her breasts. She sighed, and his mouth covered hers, his tongue making a gentle entrance into her sweet mouth. He closed his eyes and started lifting her dress until the naked torso on the dissection table broke into his mind like a thief in the night. Achille shuddered, and then pulled away from her gently. Smiling nervously, he muttered, “You see how much I’ve missed you? Anyway, I’m ready for that brandy.”
Adele frowned with disappointment, but she poured the drinks without complaint.
6
OCTOBER 16, MORNING
T he regulator clock on the wall facing Féraud’s desk registered five A.M. On the walls and ceiling, gas jets hissed and glowed greenish yellow. The chief sprang the guillotine; the blade clipped the tip of his cigar neatly. Féraud plucked the severed “head” from a little basket and dumped it into the ashtray. He struck a match, lit up, and took a few deep, satisfying puffs.
Fat Rousseau mopped sweat from his low forehead. The chief had an old-fashioned aversion to night vapors and kept the windows shut tightly until dawn. Achille sat next to his partner across from the chief, nervously anticipating Féraud’s response to his report. Rousseau turned to Achille and gave him a furtive wink, as if to say: Don’t worry professor, we’ve got it covered.
Féraud closed the file, rested his cigar in the ashtray, and leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes as if in deep concentration and fiddled with a charm on his watch chain, a golden skull with glowing ruby eyes. After a tense moment, he leaned forward, stared at his subordinates, and cracked a smile. “Good work, men.”
Achille and Rousseau breathed sighs of relief.
Féraud continued: “Achille, you’re going directly to La Villette to sift through the muck?”
“Yes, sir. The cesspit contents are being held in a shed near the quay. When I’m finished, I’m returning to the Morgue to meet with Chief Bertillon and Dr. Péan.”
Rousseau laughed. “I pity you, professor. From the slaughterhouse and shit barges of La Villette to the putrefying stiffs. You’ll need to bathe in perfume before you go home.”
Achille tried to smile in response to his partner’s crude humor, but it came off looking like a wince of pain. He continued with his itinerary. “Following the meeting, I’ll go to Bertillon’s laboratory to pick up a copy of the pathologist’s report, a chemical analysis, and some information concerning the cloth, the footprints, and the cigarette butt. All we’ve got so far is a headless torso. Bertillon will provide an estimate of the woman’s height, weight, and physical appearance, including the distinguishing marks. From there, I’ll go to records to check the missing persons’ reports.” Achille paused a moment; then: “I assume you don’t want to put the cadaver on display?”
“Hell no!” Féraud growled. “No need to stir up a hornet’s nest, at least not yet.” Then to Rousseau: “What’s your plan for today?”
“Follow up on my leads, chief. I’ve interviewed several people on the Rue Tourlaque and Rue Caulaincourt; no eyewitnesses, so far. I heard some gossip about Toulouse-Lautrec and his lorettes . Drunken brawls and late night shouting matches; that sort of thing. Evidence of jealous rage—one of the oldest homicide motives in the book. But you wonder why any girl would take up with a monkey like that; money and title, I suppose. Anyway, I’ve got my snoops in Montmartre and Pigalle keeping their ears open for chatter about missing girls, especially models. Do you want me to interview Lautrec?”
Féraud frowned and shook his head. “No, not yet. He’s the son of a count, not an apache . But I want him tailed. Pick your two best men, and put them on twelve-hour shifts. Include their findings in your daily reports.”
“Right, chief. And I’d sure like to get
Adele frowned with disappointment, but she poured the drinks without complaint.
6
OCTOBER 16, MORNING
T he regulator clock on the wall facing Féraud’s desk registered five A.M. On the walls and ceiling, gas jets hissed and glowed greenish yellow. The chief sprang the guillotine; the blade clipped the tip of his cigar neatly. Féraud plucked the severed “head” from a little basket and dumped it into the ashtray. He struck a match, lit up, and took a few deep, satisfying puffs.
Fat Rousseau mopped sweat from his low forehead. The chief had an old-fashioned aversion to night vapors and kept the windows shut tightly until dawn. Achille sat next to his partner across from the chief, nervously anticipating Féraud’s response to his report. Rousseau turned to Achille and gave him a furtive wink, as if to say: Don’t worry professor, we’ve got it covered.
Féraud closed the file, rested his cigar in the ashtray, and leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes as if in deep concentration and fiddled with a charm on his watch chain, a golden skull with glowing ruby eyes. After a tense moment, he leaned forward, stared at his subordinates, and cracked a smile. “Good work, men.”
Achille and Rousseau breathed sighs of relief.
Féraud continued: “Achille, you’re going directly to La Villette to sift through the muck?”
“Yes, sir. The cesspit contents are being held in a shed near the quay. When I’m finished, I’m returning to the Morgue to meet with Chief Bertillon and Dr. Péan.”
Rousseau laughed. “I pity you, professor. From the slaughterhouse and shit barges of La Villette to the putrefying stiffs. You’ll need to bathe in perfume before you go home.”
Achille tried to smile in response to his partner’s crude humor, but it came off looking like a wince of pain. He continued with his itinerary. “Following the meeting, I’ll go to Bertillon’s laboratory to pick up a copy of the pathologist’s report, a chemical analysis, and some information concerning the cloth, the footprints, and the cigarette butt. All we’ve got so far is a headless torso. Bertillon will provide an estimate of the woman’s height, weight, and physical appearance, including the distinguishing marks. From there, I’ll go to records to check the missing persons’ reports.” Achille paused a moment; then: “I assume you don’t want to put the cadaver on display?”
“Hell no!” Féraud growled. “No need to stir up a hornet’s nest, at least not yet.” Then to Rousseau: “What’s your plan for today?”
“Follow up on my leads, chief. I’ve interviewed several people on the Rue Tourlaque and Rue Caulaincourt; no eyewitnesses, so far. I heard some gossip about Toulouse-Lautrec and his lorettes . Drunken brawls and late night shouting matches; that sort of thing. Evidence of jealous rage—one of the oldest homicide motives in the book. But you wonder why any girl would take up with a monkey like that; money and title, I suppose. Anyway, I’ve got my snoops in Montmartre and Pigalle keeping their ears open for chatter about missing girls, especially models. Do you want me to interview Lautrec?”
Féraud frowned and shook his head. “No, not yet. He’s the son of a count, not an apache . But I want him tailed. Pick your two best men, and put them on twelve-hour shifts. Include their findings in your daily reports.”
“Right, chief. And I’d sure like to get
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