Bertie and the Crime of Passion, page 15
She paused for a breath and I seized my chance. “Would you be good enough to let Rosine know that we are here? She may rally a little at the news, I fancy.”
“What news?” she said, her eyes the size of donkey droppings.
“The news that we are here.”
The droppings shrank to rabbit size. “Oh, I thought you were going to say that Morgan had confessed. The sooner he does, the better for us all, including Rosine. How can I persuade her that this parasite she calls her friend is utterly without morals, capable of absolutely anything? He would have seduced her. That was the only thing he had in mind, you know. That was why he was lurking about the estate for months on end like some horrible tomcat. I’m sorry to sound indelicate, Madame Bernhardt, but this is the reality we had to face. The guillotine is too quick for a man like that. He deserves a lingering death, like being eaten alive by crabs.”
“So far as we know, Madame la Comtesse, the worst he is guilty of is a few stolen kisses,” said Bernhardt with such scathing hostility that my own skin prickled.
“He’s under arrest, isn’t he?” said Juliette. “You don’t get arrested for kissing. He’s a murderer. No one else had any reason to shoot poor Maurice. Well, did they? Did they?”
“Juliette, kindly be so good as to let Rosine know that we are here,” I repeated before Bernhardt got another word in.
“She won’t come down,” our hostess stated as if it was carved in stone.
“I am not insisting that she comes down.”
“Very well.” She rang for a servant and started up again before either of us opened our mouths to speak. “What exactly is your interest in this dreadful business? This is the third time to my certain knowledge that you have visited Montroger in as many days. Jules said something about your wanting to solve the mystery, but the Sûreté have solved it.”
“Not to our satisfaction,” said Bernhardt.
With nice timing, a manservant answered the summons and prevented Juliette from launching into another tirade. She instructed him to convey our message to Rosine.
Precisely as he closed the door, I said, “To answer your question, Juliette, I like to think of myself as a friend of the Agincourt family, and I would be a poor friend if I failed to apply my deductive talents, such as they are, to unraveling the mystery. Sarah has generously agreed to join me in the quest. Up to the present, we are far from satisfied that the truth of this matter has been revealed. In fact, it would oblige us greatly if you would answer some questions.”
She made her most unlikely statement so far. “I’m sure I can add nothing to what you have been told already.” And immediately she contradicted herself with another outpouring of words. “If you want to know about poor Maurice, rest his soul, I would have welcomed him as a second son. He would have been perfect for Rosine—amusing, handsome, sophisticated, and with a private fortune. From an old French family, properly educated, completed his military service with distinction, a most able sportsman—what else could one look for in a potential husband? Naturally Jules and I urged Rosine not to miss her opportunity. The silly minx took her time deciding, but girls do sometimes, and she had this loathsome person Morgan doing his best to distract her. She has always had a wild streak and anything vaguely bohemian holds a fascination for her. Gypsy violins, circuses, and sensational novels. When she was just a child she wrote a love letter to a Bretonne onion seller. What I’m saying is that we had to steer her gently in the right direction.”
“From what I heard, you had to wrestle with the tiller,” said I, “and there were rough seas, too.”
“She told you that? She dramatizes everything. What she needs, as I pointed out so often, is a husband who will steady her, not some vagrant painter hoping to live off her money.”
“Does she have money?”
“Eighty thousand francs in trust from her late grandfather. She’ll inherit on her next birthday. I kept telling her, if Morgan wasn’t out to seduce her, he was certainly a fortune hunter.”
Bernhardt opened her mouth to speak up for Morgan, but I preempted her, enunciating my words with an emphasis that brooked no interference. “Perhaps you will give us your account of the events leading up to the murder.”
“It was supposed to be a celebration,” Juliette recalled. “The betrothal was announced on the Saturday after Jules gave his consent. On the Wednesday, the happy couple dined with Maurice’s parents at the château and on the Friday we took them to Magny’s and the Moulin Rouge. That was at Rosine’s insistence—her bohemian streak. I’m sure Maurice would have preferred something more conservative, like a visit to the opera. Our willful daughter had her way, and how calamitous it was!”
“At the beginning, was it an agreeable party?” I asked.
“Perfectly.”
“Rosine—”
“Behaved impeccably,” said Juliette. “All the tantrums were behind us. She was charming to Maurice and took his arm. I really believed that evening that we could all forget Morgan. It was a blissfully happy family occasion. Tristan was with us, being unusually sociable. Whatever we may say about our son and his moods, he adores his sister. Always has done. And of course it was a great thrill for a boy of his age to be taken to the Moulin Rouge.”
“He’s a boy no longer,” I pointed out.
“To his mother, he is,” said she.
“Do you recall any of the conversation over dinner?” said I, knowing that she had dominated it.
“I think we discussed the wedding and what we would all wear. I told them about our own wedding in Nantes Cathedral, waiting behind the beadle in his cocked hat and red sash while he knocked three times with his staff at the great west door and then following him up the aisle to the wedding march from Lohengrin. I was dressed in ivory-colored silk with—”
“Was there agreement about the engagement—Rosine’s, I mean?”
“Of course. I told you it was harmony from beginning to end.”
“No disagreements over anything?”
“None whatsoever. Bertie, I don’t know why you keep hinting at misunderstandings. There were none. We all left Magny’s together and took a four-wheeler to the Moulin Rouge—a place I shall never set foot in again. I could hardly hear myself speak for the band, and there were scarlet women at the entrance.”
“Nonetheless, you went in.”
“If it had been up to me, we wouldn’t have. What could one say? This was the engagement party. To have objected would have soured the whole occasion. I caught a glance from Jules and I knew he was shocked, but, yes, we refrained from saying anything. Inside, it was pandemonium. So many people of all classes. The dust, the noise, the smell of cheap scent, the drinking. Quite revolting. The whole thing was a terrible mistake, a nightmare.”
“You were given a table?”
“Yes, actually on the dance floor at the edge. I made a show of enjoying myself. I’m not in your class as an actress, Madame Bernhardt, but I can put on an act when necessary. I danced a waltz with Jules—in our coats, if you please, because it was so cold in that barn of a place—and I also took the floor with Maurice. Tristan wouldn’t dance—he’s at a sensitive age, so I didn’t press him. At some point, there was a fanfare or a drumroll or something and the cabaret was announced. I remember thinking, thank the Lord for that, because when it’s over we can all go home. Everyone got up and formed ranks around a small space in the center of the floor. We wouldn’t have seen a thing if we’d remained at our table, so we were obliged to join in.”
“Now, this is important,” said I. “How precisely were you standing in relation to one another?”
“‘Precisely’ doesn’t come into it,” said Juliette. “We were in a seething mob. I’ve never been so frightened. If I could have escaped, I would have done so at once, but there were people on every side of us. It was vile, finding oneself cheek by jowl with total strangers.”
“Where was Rosine?” I persevered.
“Somewhere to the right of me, beside Maurice. I tried to keep hold of her arm, but we got detached in the crush when the dancers appeared.”
“And Jules and your son—where were they?”
“On Maurice’s other side.”
“So you and Rosine were to his left and the two men were to his right?”
“More or less.”
“Did you spot Morgan?”
“If I had, I wouldn’t have known. I’ve never met the man. He must have come from behind us. It was all too simple in the melee. That grotesque dancer, the one they call La Goulue, appeared and there was a surge from behind. The next thing, there were two loud bangs and poor Maurice had been shot in the back. After some confusion, the crowd parted enough for it to be obvious that he was collapsing. Jules and another man were holding him up. The dancing stopped and a doctor was found and Maurice was carried to the dressing room, but he was already with his Maker, poor boy.”
“Do you remember who was there—in the dressing room?”
“Apart from ourselves, do you mean? The doctor, of course, and a lady I presume was his wife. A disgustingly fat man I took to be the manager. I couldn’t tell you his name.”
Bernhardt supplied it. “Martineau.”
“It means nothing to me. Two policemen arrived and asked us no end of questions. And some of the performers came in to collect their clothes.”
“How did your daughter receive the news that her fiancé was dead?”
“Bravely. She went pale, uncommonly pale, but she didn’t weep at all. She conducted herself with dignity, as she did at the funeral.”
“The funeral? When did it take place?”
“It was on the Monday after he was shot.”
“Was there no postmortem examination?”
“That was on the Saturday morning. They verified that he died from bullet wounds—as if we didn’t know!”
“And the funeral?”
“A modest ceremony at the church where the Letissiers worshiped and where the couple would have been married in a few weeks. So tragic!”
“Did Maurice live at the château?”
“No, I believe most of his time was spent in Paris. He had an apartment.”
We both hesitated, disturbed by the sound of some creaks as someone descended the stairs and then the rustle of skirts outside the door.
“Do you happen to have the late Monsieur Letissier’s address?” I asked Juliette.
“There’s no point in going there now. It’s probably let to someone else. Good apartments are much sought after.”
“Yes, but do you have the address?” My patience was at snapping point.
She went to a writing cabinet, sifted through some papers, and produced a calling card bearing Maurice Letissier’s name and an address in the rue Tronchet.
“I am obliged to you, Juliette,” I said graciously, “and, unless I am mistaken, your daughter is waiting outside the door to see us. We shall not detain you any longer.”
“Oh, I’m quite content to remain,” she offered.
“We’ll call you back if we require another consultation,” I countered.
“Don’t you want me here?”
I said, “Juliette, my dear, you and I have known each other long enough to be frank without giving offense.”
“You don’t want me here.” She turned scarlet and left the room.
I looked across at Bernhardt. She went to the door and admitted Rosine, still in mourning, in a bombazine dress that made her face appear quite spectral.
“Did you see Glyn?” she asked. “Are they going to release him?”
“We saw him,” said I.
“And he will not be released,” Bernhardt quickly added, sparing her nothing. “The Sûreté are confident that he will confess.”
The rigor of this announcement startled me. I knew that Bernhardt now regarded Rosine as the chief suspect, but the way she said it was almost triumphal. The so-called frail sex can be ruthless with each other when an opportunity beckons.
Understandably, Rosine turned to me, her young face contorted with despair. “Sir, didn’t you tell Monsieur Goron that Glyn had no reason to murder Maurice? Didn’t you tell him that Glyn doesn’t believe in marriage?”
“That was made abundantly clear to Monsieur Goron,” I assured her.
Bernhardt said, “Goron has enough evidence to sink a battleship—the proof that Morgan was there: a sketch of him standing beside you after the fatal shots were fired.”
“That doesn’t prove that Glyn fired them,” Rosine protested.
“He found Morgan in possession of a gun from the gun room here and he has proof that the murder weapon belonged to the Agincourt family. And if that isn’t enough, he is able to demonstrate from a scientific study of criminal anthropology that Morgan has the classic features of a murderer. He showed us Professor Lombroso’s book and the resemblance is extraordinary.”
Tears streamed from Rosine’s eyes. “I don’t understand. He’s a peaceful man, not a murderer.”
“This evidence was not entirely conclusive, my dear,” said I, trying to offer some consolation.
Which Bernhardt capped by saying, “But the confession will seal it. The guillotine awaits him.”
Rosine covered her face and sobbed. The reason for Bernhardt’s pitiless treatment of the young girl was of course apparent to me. She wanted to provoke a confession. But I don’t think she is aware that her training for the stage has given her such a devastating force of utterance.
After a while, Rosine managed to say between sobs, “He would have told me if he’d done it. He’s completely honest. I’ve never known anyone so truthful.”
“You value the truth, do you?” said Bernhardt, resuming the inquisition. “Are you truthful yourself?”
“I try to be.”
“And do you believe in God?”
“Of course.”
“Then would you swear before God that you didn’t kill Maurice Letissier?”
CHAPTER 12
All the way back to Paris, I had to listen to a tirade against Rosine d’Agincourt, for, in spite of the repeated denials we had just heard, Sarah Bernhardt remained convinced that we had just been talking to a murderess. The Divine Sarah would blithely have applied the thumbscrews to extract a confession. Call me a cynic if you wish, but I think there was more to this hostility than mere certainty of murder. I couldn’t help noting that Bernhardt had lost all sympathy for Rosine since the night we had discovered that winsome young lady in my hotel suite.
“Good Lord, it’s almost six already. I’ll get you back directly to the boulevard Pereire,” I offered, to give myself some respite. “Why don’t you join me later for dinner at the Bristol?”
“A night in prison has more to recommend it,” said she unkindly, but we were at cross-purposes; she was still proposing ways of persuading Rosine to confess.
I repeated my invitation.
She heard it this time, thanked me, and explained that she was compelled to devote the evening to preparations for her world tour. She said she had never relied so much on her domestic staff as this week.
“May I assist?”
“I’m grateful, Bertie, but packing a trunk requires absolute concentration, don’t you find?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever packed a trunk myself,” I confessed.
“As I thought,” said she, smiling in a superior way. “Perhaps we may meet tomorrow.”
“Just as you wish,” said I indifferently, and shouted the instruction I had long ago discovered was understood by any cabman in Paris. “Chez Sarah, s’il vous plaît. And after that, the rue Tronchet.”
Bernhardt swung around to face me accusingly. “You’re going there tonight—to Letissier’s lodging?”
“I can’t put it off. Not while that poor wretch Morgan is freezing to death in a dungeon.”
“Then I shall come with you.”
I revised the cabman’s instruction.
The rue Tronchet runs between the boulevard Haussmann and the Madeleine, a good address, convenient for the Champs-Elysées and the Opéra and free of the crowds who throng the boulevards. Already the lamplighter had been by and it was becoming obvious that the brass fittings on most of the doors had been polished that day. As is customary in Paris, we let ourselves in and entered the hall. There was an aroma of dried lavender. The concierge, a small, beak-nosed, bespectacled lady in the black merino dress so favored by elderly Parisiennes, came swiftly to inspect us. In no way intimidated when we introduced ourselves, she informed us tartly that she disliked the theater and disapproved of tides.
For this impertinence, Bernhardt was very abrupt with her, but she seemed almost to expect it. These widows who scrape a living by guarding apartment houses are a despised species. You see, the concierge takes in the post and receives visitors and watches the comings and goings of the residents. In short, she knows too much for anyone’s comfort except her own. She is a potential spy and informer.
Mindful that we needed the woman’s cooperation, I pointed out jovially that at least we weren’t hawking matches or onions. We were calling merely to inquire about her former tenant Monsieur Letissier.
“He is gone,” she said.
“We know,” said I. “We wish to speak to you, madame.”
She melted at the madame (I think she did have a sneaking respect for rank) and actually invited us through a door, divided like a stable door, to her personal domain, a tiny room equipped with strategically placed mirrors, a single armchair, a reading lamp, a stack of newspapers, and two linnets in a cage. Bernhardt squeezed in there somehow and I remained in the doorway.
