“The police report said she told you two stories: first, that two other women were involved with the crime, secondly, that it was a man who planned it all. Which do you believe?”
“The first one. As I said, she thought her accomplices had betrayed her, so she told me the truth. When she changed her story the next day, the man was too much a creature of melodrama, the stock villain who leads innocent young girls to ruin.”
“Why do you think she changed her story?”
“Well, for one thing, the two women could not be found.” Tabernet set down his empty coffee cup and its saucer. “We could never even verify that they existed. However, besides her beauty, the thing that most struck me about Dujardin was her intelligence. She was smart enough to realize that if she could convince a jury that some older man had seduced and tricked her, they would be far more likely to let her off than if she had been part of a female conspiracy. Despite her humble origins, she was shrewd and clever. We could not catch her in any of our usual little traps. I said she was a woman, not a girl, and she had the brains of someone beyond her years.”
“Juvol said she had been to school.”
“Yes, a convent school. She had been a model pupil. Despite her humble origins, her father had grand expectations for her. She had moved from nearby countryside to the city and was working at the perfume counter in the most exclusive of the grands magasins, the store Au Printemps. She had told them she was two years older than her actual age, when they hired her. She was a very successful sales girl. They had only praise for her.” We had all finished our coffee. Tabernet rose slowly to his feet. “Would you gentlemen care for a cigar?”
“No thank you,” I said.
I could see Holmes briefly weigh the decision. Although there was nothing he cherished more than a good cigar, he despised their more common, inferior brethren. “Yes, thank you,” he said at last.
Tabernet went to the mantle over the fireplace, took down a thick cut-glass humidor and removed the metal top. He removed two cigars. He and Holmes went through the elaborate lighting ritual, first taking off the ends with cigar cutters, striking a match, inhaling, etc. Soon they were sitting back in their chairs, cigar in hand.
“A very good cigar,” Holmes said. I could see he was relieved. “Tell me more about her first account with the two women.”
“Well, the most striking thing was that the story did not involve the painting. Actually that was true for both stories. She always said they were only after money and jewels. When we found the frame atop the wardrobe, she wondered aloud where that old piece of wood had come from. When I told her about the painting, she stared at me as if I were mad, and when I told her it was worth thousands of francs, she did not at first believe me. She laughed and said I was trying to trick her. When I finally convinced her of the truth of the matter, her earlier fury returned.
“She claimed two other women were involved, Suzanne and Angélique. She had met the older woman, Suzanne, at the perfume counter, then later at a café, and they had struck up a friendship. Suzanne eventually admitted that she and her friend were courtesans who had been seeing a very wealthy man, a count. His wife was going to be away for a week or two, and he was interested in having a trio attend to his lustful desires at his home. She asked Dujardin if she would participate as the third. They were going to bind him—he was fond of tie-up games—then steal money and jewels. Supposedly Suzanne said nothing about murder.” Tabernet’s brief bitter smile made his opinion clear.
“You think that she knew murder was part of the plan?” I asked.
Tabernet shrugged. “Yes. I told you she was a woman not a girl, and a hard one at that. In my profession I saw many people murdered for a paltry sum. For the underworld of Paris, human life has no value. Perhaps as a doctor you see the better side of humanity, but I saw always the worst. No extreme of violence and brutality would surprise me.”
Holmes drew in thoughtfully on his cigar, then exhaled the smoke. “But she knew nothing about the painting. She did not see either of the women take it from the house?”
“No, but she said that Angélique became ill, and she had to leave first with her. Suzanne was to follow after she had searched for jewels and further loot. The three were to meet the next day to divide the spoils. Dujardin asked how she could be certain that Suzanne would not just keep everything, so Suzanne let her take the count’s diamond ring as proof she was willing to share the bounty.”
“But you received an anonymous note about Dujardin, and you found the frame and the ring in her room.”
“Yes. As I said, the frame was on top of the wardrobe, the ring hidden in a chink of the wall behind the bed. As I told you, the frame had her perplexed. The ring was a different matter. You could see her dismay.”
The long fingers of Holmes’s left hand drummed at the velvet chair arm. “It does appear that Dujardin was betrayed. Someone put a frame in her room knowing the police would find it. And Suzanne gave her the ring for the same reason. They also left a nightgown of Dujardin’s size in the count’s bedroom.”
Tabernet nodded. “My thought exactly. One could not prove the frame was actually from the painting, unlike the diamond ring, which was clearly the count’s. His valet and wife both recognized it and testified that he always wore it. However, despite all the efforts of my men and myself, we could never find a trace of the two women. We did ask at the café, and a waitress remembered Dujardin talking to another woman, but of course that is no real proof. Dujardin told us where they were supposed to live, but no one who fit their descriptions dwelt there.”
“How did she describe them?”
“Suzanne was in her late twenties, tall with dark auburn hair and brown eyes, quite beautiful. Angélique was a little younger, of medium height, plump in a sensual way, with pale skin, blond hair and blue eyes.”
“And later, when Dujardin changed her story, what was the man supposed to look like?”
“Tall, strong, with black hair and beard, black eyes, and a gruff voice.”
Holmes laughed. “He does sound like a stage villain.”
“Certainly there was not the same descriptive detail as with the two women. She claimed she did not even know where he lived. She gave us the name of Jean Martin, of which there must be dozens in Paris. However, she stuck to her story about Martin before the jury, and as I said, we could not find the two women. That was true of the man as well, but in that case, I was not surprised.”
“Were you present for the entire trial?”
“Oh yes.”
“And Dujardin was… skillful?”
Tabernet laughed. “She should have been on the stage! I said she was a woman, not a girl, but she knew how to feign innocence and remorse. Her tears were especially convincing. She could turn on the water faucets at will. I thought she might actually get off with a year or two, or even only a warning, because of her age and her unblemished background. She said she had been madly in love and had made up a desperate story about the two women to protect Martin. He had not revealed that he planned to murder the count. He knew the count’s weakness for women, and she was to get into the house, then let him in. She claimed she was shocked when he stabbed the count and that he gave her the diamond ring to try to placate her before she fled in terror. Martin must have also planted the frame in advance to shift the blame to her.
“As I say, she was very good, but old Garmonte the prosecutor cross-examined her. He said the ring alone was enough to prove her guilt. Why had she kept it if she was so upset? Why had she not refused it, or thrown it aside, and why had she so carefully hidden it? True, she might look like an angel, but an angel would never have taken the ring from a dead man’s hand. She was not prepared for such an attack. She lost her temper. The jury caught a mere glimpse of the imperious fury that I had seen, and it did not fit with her story. That, in the end, was why she got the twenty years. She was convicted for grand theft, but not for murder. In my opinion, she was lucky. She deserved the guillotine.”
/> I stared at him. “Are you serious? An eighteen-year-old girl?”
Tabernet frowned. “Have you heard nothing I have said? Woman, not girl. True, the older woman may have struck the fatal blow, but they were all part of conspiracy to commit murder, and the penalty for that is death, regardless of one’s sex. If anything, a woman is more deserving of such a fate, because such an act is so aberrant a betrayal of their gentler sex. All three should have gone to the guillotine.”
I could see the logic of what he said, but the idea of a sharp blade slicing through a young woman’s slender neck and lopping off her head was so repellant that I could not conceal my discomfort.
“It was as you said earlier, monsieur,” Holmes said. “Henry is a doctor. His profession is saving lives, not taking them. His hesitation should not surprise you.”
“It does not.” Tabernet sighed. “I respect him for it. Even though I am retired, my forty years on the force have taken their toll. I often dream of crimes, of the villainous faces of men and women caught in their terrible acts, of the corpses of their victims, of the flash of the guillotine as it falls. Certain criminals appear again and again. Their crimes and their history are too familiar to me. I wish I had worked in a bank, a store, the railroad, or anywhere else.” He made a grimace of a smile. “I know some English, messieurs, and it is as Gilbert and Sullivan say in the operetta: ‘a policeman’s lot is not a happy one.’”
Holmes smiled. “Bravo, monsieur! All the same, I am sure Paris is a safer place because of your efforts.”
“I am not so sure. Often it seemed futile. As fast as we could lock them up, new criminals sprang up from the dark fertile earth of Paris to commit robbery, rape or murder. The cycle of evil goes on. I am glad to be away from it.”
Holmes looked grim. “I have often had similar reflections.” He pressed the small stub left of his cigar into the big crystal ashtray. “Thank you for taking the time to discuss the case.”
“It was my great pleasure. However, you have not said why you are interested in resurrecting this old business, Monsieur Holmes.”
Holmes shrugged. “I believe Juvol told you we may have found the missing painting. It might also have some bearing on a current investigation.”
Tabernet nodded. “Ah. Are you sure you would not care for another cigar?”
“No, no, we must be on our way.” He stood up. “Perhaps you might fetch your wife. I really must thank her personally for so exquisite a meal.”
After exchanging compliments with the old couple and shaking Tabernet’s hand, we stepped outside. The sky showing over the roofs was a dull gray, but the rain had stopped for the moment. “I believe we can find a cab on the corner a couple of blocks away. I wish we could linger for a while and take a walk, but we cannot.”
“What is the rush?”
“Can you have forgotten? We must find our Angèle, our Angélique, Madame Anne-Marie Varin.” He smiled grimly. “Someone with a sense of irony chose that name for her. No angels were a part of this black affair.” His gray eyes stared thoughtfully at me from under the brim of his black top hat. “It is generous of you to accompany me. This was a disturbing crime—and a squalid one. Taking advantage of a man’s sexual weaknesses to murder him…”
I sighed. “You are certain of that?”
“Yes, one way or another, I am certain. And you must not be too hard on old Tabernet. He spent his life working amidst the worst of human society. As he said, life is cheap in the underworld of Paris, and that attitude has had its effect on him. Little wonder he believes that convicted murderers deserve their fate.”
“And you?—do you also believe they deserve their fate, whether the noose in England or the guillotine in France?”
“Some crimes are so monstrous, the victims so numerous, that the answer seems obvious. However, in general I am not certain, Henry—and I prefer it that way. I try not to think too much about their ultimate fate. Regardless of what they deserve, murderers and thieves should not generally be loose in society. They are too dangerous.”
“But if someone made a mistake in their youth and has truly repented…?”
“How to be the judge of that, Henry? That is why we have courts of law and trial by jury.”
We walked in silence for a while. The ferrule of Holmes’s stick struck the pavement regularly. I felt restless and unsettled. We passed several small brick houses like Tabernet’s, then went round a boulangerie. Ahead of us, the French of equivalent of a hansom— two large wheels, a single horse, driver up top—was parked alongside the street.
Soon we were in the carriage making our way downhill and south toward the Faubourg de Saint-Antoine. On the way, we passed the Père Lachaise Cemetery, the most famous in Paris. To our left was the old mottled stone wall, a good ten feet high, and behind it rose the small ornate roofs of the tombs and monuments, and the barren branches of the trees. Holmes stared silently at the wall.
“The cemetery is actually a rather pleasant place on a warm sunny day in June when the trees have leafed out,” I said, “but it must certainly be cold and desolate now.”
“I believe the Count de Laval is buried there. I wonder…” Holmes’s laugh was bitter. “I’ll wager Lupin ended up there as well. Perhaps they are even neighbors now.” He laughed again, and I shook my head in dismay. I was glad when the long stretch of wall was behind us.
The Faubourg de Saint-Antoine was one of the older suburbs of Paris, far from the wide, grand boulevards of the city, forming something of a labyrinth of narrow cobbled streets and alleys, with various workshops and large dilapidated-looking buildings converted to apartments. We got out at the address Moullet had given us, and Holmes gave the driver a coin.
Holmes pulled open a tall wooden door which had not aged well and stepped into the dark interior. To the right was a door split horizontally, the top half swung open. Seated inside on a rickety chair where she could see anyone coming or going was an old woman knitting. Without a doubt she was the concierge, guardian of the domicile. One seeking a model for the sinister Madame Defarge from Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities need look no further. This woman’s dark eyes, her stringy white hair showing under an ancient bonnet, her thin lips set in a cruel hard line, her enormous bosom and rotund body (somehow thin concierges were a rare species), even her somber dress with a strange floral print, all made her a formidable presence indeed.
“Good day, madame,” Holmes said. “We wish to see Madame Varin.”
Taking in our appearance, she gave us a puzzled look. “Not the usual sort that comes calling. She’s in room four on the second floor, but I think she is indisposed.”
Holmes winced slightly. “How do you know that?”
“When I knocked at the door this morning to give her a letter, she didn’t answer.”
“And when was the last time she had visitors?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“A woman?”
The old woman had piercing eyes which were fixed on Holmes. “Yes.”
“Describe her.”
You could see her debate whether to answer, but Holmes in his black top hat and black frock coat was also an imposing presence. “Short, red-headed, a plain sort of muslin dress. Hard to say if she was a lady or not.”
Holmes drew in his breath slowly, then muttered, “Damnation.” He strode off toward the stairs, and I followed, a whisper of dread constricting my chest. The circular stairway was one of those classical old French ones spiraling around and upward: wrought-iron vertical bars, a worn oaken railing and steps. We went up two floors, and Holmes knocked at the door with its bronze four which was the first in the hallway. No one answered. He took his stick and hammered loudly at the door. “Madame Varin—Madame Varin— ouvrez, s’il vous plaît!” He shook his head. “It is as I feared. Come.” He whirled about and started back down the stairs. I followed.
“Madame,” he said to the concierge, “I must ask you to open Madame Varin’s door. I fear she is… unwell.”
The w
oman gave him a wary look. “I can’t just go opening the door for anyone.”
Holmes took out his card and gave it to her, then withdrew the envelope with the letter from the prefect of police. The concierge put on some spectacles, balancing the lenses at the end of her long nose, then glanced down, first at the card, then at the letter. She gave a weary sigh. “No help for it, I suppose.” She stood up, seized a big ring with keys on it and opened the bottom half of the door. She listed slightly to the left with each step, the effect more noticeable as we mounted the stairs. Her left hand clutched tightly at the railing, while the keys in her right jingled slightly.
She paused before the door. “Madame Varin!” she bellowed, the thunder of her voice a surprise. “Oh well.” She selected a key and put it into the lock, while the other hand grasped the doorknob, turning it. She pushed opened the door. She stepped into the room, quickly turned and stepped out again. “God protect us!” she exclaimed.
Holmes slipped past her, and I followed. The curtains were drawn so the room was dim, but we could see the figure resembling that of a dummy hanging from the nearby bracket of a light fixture. “Lord!” I exclaimed. One glance of the grayish face and the protruding dark tongue was enough. I quickly looked away and seized Holmes’s arm. “We must cut her down! We must—”
“No, Henry, it is far too late for that. Best to leave things as they are until the police arrive.” He looked about, noticed a piece of paper lying on the floor and picked it up. He stepped out into the hall to read it, and I followed. “Oh very good,” he muttered. Only three words were scrawled in block letters: LE DIABLE GAGNE.
“The Devil wins,” I murmured in English.
The concierge made a quick sign of the cross, her big fingers touching forehead, belly, left shoulder, right.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 11
