Текст книги "The Devil in Montmartre. A Mystery in Fin de Siecle Paris"

Автор книги: Gary Inbinder

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“Of course I know the risks of publication, M. Drumont. I believe it’s my duty to publish this letter as a service to France, but I intend to preface the article with a disclaimer.”

Drumont nodded. “A disclaimer is good. We must exercise some caution, since you can’t produce the girl as a witness. We should avoid embarrassment to the League, especially with all these foreigners in Paris for the Exposition. Of course, there’s no problem with credibility among our followers who’ll believe anything against the Jews, but we must remain plausible when going to print if we are to gain new adherents to our cause.

“The letter doesn’t name anyone specifically, and it makes no direct accusations except against a shadowy organization. Moreover, it does not blame the police directly for incompetence in the Ménard investigation. So I don’t think there’s danger of a suit for libel.

“You are publishing matters of public interest and concern so you can certainly rely on the Press Law of 1881 if the police clamp down. In my experience the present government respects our right to publish freely; they’ll leave you alone as long as you comply with the requirements of the law. When do you go to press?”

Cauchon smiled broadly. “Thank you for your advice and support, my friend. I’ve already given orders to set type. I intend to have a special edition ready for distribution by tomorrow morning.”

Drumont nodded affirmatively. “I hope Baron de Rothschild gets hold of a copy. I’d like to see the look on his face when he reads it. I’ll bet it makes him choke on his matzoth.”

The Jew-baiting journalists had a hearty laugh before settling the bill and parting company to embark on their next great crusade.

Achille bounded up three flights of steep stairs to Gilles’ studio and knocked impatiently on the door. He heard a faint “I’ll be with you in a moment” followed by a clatter of paraphernalia and the rapid clomping of footsteps on the bare wooden floor. Presently, the door opened a crack and a pair of excited eyes greeted him: “Ah, it’s you Inspector. You came at just the right time. There’s something here I must show you.” Before Achille could say “fingerprints,” Gilles was leading him to a work bench in a back corner of the loft, a shaded area away from the late afternoon sunshine flooding through an immense skylight.

The photographer halted abruptly and pointed to a small black box resting on the tabletop. “There it is, Inspector, an invention that will revolutionize photography. It’s just arrived from America.”

Achille was anxious to discuss the latent prints on Sir Henry’s letter, but his curiosity intervened. “What is it, Gilles?”

The photographer smiled proudly and presented the wonder to Achille for closer inspection. “It’s the new Kodak No. 1 box camera. It has the latest modifications, including an advanced shutter and celluloid roll film, an improvement over the paper stripper film. It’s light, hand-held, and simple to operate; perfect for detective work. And you don’t need to focus through a ground-glass. Do you see that “V” shaped device on top of the camera?”

Achille examined the object. “Yes, it looks like a sighting mechanism.”

“Exactly so; almost like you’d have on a firearm. Now please give me the camera and back up into the light.” Achille returned the Kodak and did as Gilles asked.

“There, that’s it. Perfect! Now, I set the shutter with this string, line you up in the sight, push the button, and voila! I’ve just taken your photograph in a matter of seconds; I wind this key and I’m ready for the next exposure, one hundred in all on a single roll of film.”

Achille immediately saw the camera’s potential. He approached to get a better look at the Kodak. “You’re right, Gilles. As long as you had enough available light, this would be perfect for surreptitiously photographing suspects.”

Gilles frowned and returned the camera to the work bench. “It would indeed be ideal for that purpose, but there is a major drawback. The new film and the method for developing and printing it are patented; the whole camera must be returned to the Eastman Company in Rochester, New York for processing and reloading. That might be all right for a detective in the eastern United States, but for us the time involved in shipping and handling makes it impractical.”

Achille pondered the problem for a moment. “Do you think the Eastman Company would be willing to negotiate a contract with our government to permit the processing of the film here, in Paris?”

Gilles rubbed his chin. “I don’t know, Inspector, but it might be worth pursuing.”

Achille made a mental note to raise the issue with Féraud and Bertillon. Then: “I’ve come to you on urgent business.” He pulled an envelope containing Sir Henry’s letter out of his breast pocket and handed it to Gilles. “This envelope contains a document with a suspect’s fingerprints. Please handle it with gloves or tweezers.”

Gilles smiled. “Ah, Inspector, this is another of your fingerprint experiments.”

“Yes it is, and at first I was going to perform it myself at the laboratory, but I believe the method used to develop the latent prints would be better suited to your skills.”

“Oh, and what may I ask is that method?”

Achille reached into another pocket, withdrew a notebook, and turned it over to the photographer. “I’ve written it down here. The process was discovered more than twenty years ago by the chemist, Coulier, but to my knowledge it’s never been used in forensics.”

Gilles studied the notes carefully for a few minutes. Then, muttering to himself: “This is interesting. Coulier used iodine fuming to bring out the prints. A small quantity of iodine is mixed with finely grained sand. The mixture is placed in a developing tray with the document fastened to a lid placed over the tray. The document is then exposed for a period of time to the iodine fumes. The fumes act as a reagent with the oil and sweat residue from the fingerprints. The latent images emerge and can be fixed with silver nitrate. This is all familiar to me; it’s a process similar to developing and fixing an image on a photographic plate. The trick is to get the iodine mixture and exposure time right.” He looked up at Achille. “Is this your only document with the suspect’s fingerprints?”

“At this time, that’s all I’ve got.”

“I see. Well, then, I’d like to run a couple of tests first, using my own prints. I don’t want to muck it up on the first try. And even if I get it right, some or even all your suspect’s prints might be blurred. It depends on how he handled the document.”

Achille nodded his understanding. “Very well, Gilles. Can you have your results at my office by tomorrow morning in time for my meeting with Féraud?”

Gilles winced. “At five A.M. inspector?”

Achille smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m afraid so.”

The photographer clapped the inspector’s shoulder. “That’s all right, my friend. I’ll do my best. No rest for the wicked, eh?”

Achille laughed. “Yes Gilles, Satan never sleeps and neither does the Sûreté.”

Shortly before three A.M., Jojo surfaced from the murky depths of a passageway sandwiched between two tenements. Emerging like a furtive cockroach from a cracked skirting board, he scurried onto the narrow, winding Rue Lepic. Pausing for an instant, he glanced back down the shadowy street in the direction of his flat; as usual, the unimaginative cop hadn’t stirred from his hidey-hole.

Pulling up his collar against the pre-dawn chill and misting drizzle, Jojo sneaked up the street on boots caked with mud from the passageway, toward his alley-way rendezvous. He sensed he was being tailed, but according to his instructions, having evaded the policeman’s notice, he acted as though he were now in the clear.

A thick cloud cover occluded the moon and stars; the pale glow of flickering gas lamps marked the way uphill with tiny points of light, growing smaller and dimmer in the distance until they merged near the summit in a dull, diminutive vanishing point. A few meters from his destination a yowling black cat leapt from its poubelle and scampered across his path. Startled, Jojo stopped and muttered a curse. A bad omen, he thought before walking on.

A few steps past his encounter with the foreboding feline, he turned into the alley. Several paces on, he heard a muffled hissing from a dark passageway. Approaching cautiously, he noticed his confederate’s eyes glowing beneath the pulled-down brim of his slouch hat. The man motioned for Jojo to join him in his hiding place.

“The kid’s right behind me,” Jojo whispered.

The man nodded. He clutched a bottle and a handkerchief in his gloved hands. “You grab him and I’ll chloroform him,” he murmured.

Moïse turned the corner, walked a few paces, and halted. Wary of danger, he stared up the dark alley. Seeing nothing, he sensed trouble. Damn! It’s a trap. He started to turn round, as if he were about to run back to the Rue Lepic.

“Now, before he bolts!” the man snarled.

Jojo sprang from his hole, ran a step or two, tackled Moïse from behind, and threw him to the ground. Straddling the youth’s back, Jojo grabbed him by the chin hairs and yanked his head up. His partner covered the squirming boy’s face with the chloroform-soaked handkerchief. Moïse struggled for less than half a minute. His eyes closed, his body grew limp, and then lay still.

“He’ll be out for at least ten minutes. Quickly now, put on his jacket and hat, and then we’ll throw him into the cart.”

Jojo switched clothes. He lifted Moïse under the arms while his partner grasped the boy by the ankles. They carried him to the chiffonier’s cart and hid him under a bunch of rags. Jojo threw his jacket on top of the pile. The man handed Jojo a round, cloth-wrapped package. Jojo gripped it with hands muddied from his scuffle in the unpaved alley.

“You haven’t much time ‘til the kid comes round.”

“What about the other one?”

“Don’t bother about him. He’s sleeping it off in a passage down near the boulevard. Remember what I told you. Drop the package in a poubelle near your flat so the cop can see. Then go down the street to the next alley, change back to your jacket, ditch the kid and the cart.”

“And the rest of my money, Monsieur?”

The man glared at him. “You’ll get it soon enough,” he growled. “I’ll send you a message. Now go!”

Jojo nodded with a sly grin, grabbed the cart handles with his powerful hands, and pulled his burden back out onto the street. Iron-shod wooden wheels rattled and rumbled on the cobblestones, announcing the ragman’s approach to the sleeping neighborhood. As he neared his flat, he spotted a poubelle within the shadowing flatfoot’s line of sight.

He stopped, lifted the cart’s handles, tilting it back gradually so as not to upset his unconscious freight onto the pavement, and then took out the package. Jojo casually walked over to a poubelle, opened the lid, and dumped the object into the rubbish. Then he returned to the cart and continued rattling and rumbling down the street.

The covert policeman’s eyes followed Jojo until he disappeared from view. Now why would a rag-picker dump something into a poubelle? That puzzling thought rattled round his stolid brain for a couple of hours while his feet barely shuffled and his eyes remained dutifully glued to Jojo’s flat.

14

OCTOBER 22, MORNING

THE MAGISTRATE’S SWORD

You see, Chief, these are the patterns Galton identified and categorized. All fingerprints fit within one of five types, but according to Galton’s calculations, the odds against two persons having the exact same lines are so overwhelming we can say duplication is impossible.” Achille pointed to a fingerprint chart set on a table in Féraud’s office, next to Gilles’s photographs. They viewed the evidence by gaslight supplemented by the illumination of two kerosene lamps and reflectors. “On each finger there are many lines organized in patterns around a nucleus, and over that central point are one or two secondary points. Following Galton’s method, I’ve identified two distinctive types found at the crime scene. Gilles did a fine job photographing the prints on the cloth and the enhanced latent prints on the cigarette case.”

Féraud examined the photographs under a magnifying glass. “Yes, Achille, I can see how one set of prints matches.”

“Now, please look at the prints on Sir Henry Collingwood’s letter and compare them to the prints on the cloth, cigarettes, and cigarette case.”

Féraud spent a few minutes examining the fingerprints. Finally, he put down the magnifying glass and looked at Achille. “I can see how the prints on the letter match the prints on the opium cigarettes and the blood-spattered cloth. And there’s clearly a different set on the case.”

Achille nodded confidently. “That’s right, Chief. I believe the other fingerprints are those of Sir Henry’s accomplice, an individual of short stature who would match the shoeprints I found at the scene. Lautrec has been ruled out; I believe Joseph Rossini’s our second man.”

Féraud gestured to Achille and returned to his desk. Once seated, he said, “Let’s review what you’ve got on Sir Henry and Jojo.”

Achille took his seat across from the chief and began his summary of the evidence. “First, there’s the victim’s body. According to Dr. Péan, the pathologist, and Chief Bertillon, the suspect was a physician of considerable skill. The head and limbs were surgically amputated, and the uterus removed by a rarely used technique. In fact, our foremost gynecological surgeon, Dr. Péan, has only performed the operation twice. Sir Henry witnessed one of the operations, and he specializes in gynecology.

“Second, Sir Henry is the only physician attending Dr. Péan’s clinic who had relations with the victim. That relationship has been confirmed by Delphine Lacroix. Moreover, I have evidence that Sir Henry met with the victim at a hotel in Montmartre the day before she disappeared.

“Third, according to Mlle Lacroix, the Gunzberg brothers, chiffoniers who work for Le Boudin, have been shadowing Jojo. They’ve. . . ”

Féraud raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t tell me that,” he interrupted.

“No Chief, I just found out about it when I interviewed Mlle Lacroix. I want them to continue the surveillance and report directly to me. The man Rousseau put on Jojo’s tail is incompetent.”

Féraud eyed him with a skeptical squint. “What makes you think that?”

“According to Mlle Lacroix, the Gunzbergs shadowed Jojo to an abandoned mill near the summit of the Butte. He meets an individual there, and they pass notes to each other at the Circus Fernando and a tobacconist’s shop near the corner of Rue Lepic and the boulevard. The chiffoniers can’t identify the man, at least not yet, but I believe he’s Sir Henry Collingwood. It fits with my theory.”

Féraud smiled wryly. “Yes Achille, your theory. So to make the evidence support your theory you’ll take the word of a slut and a pair of ragpickers over that of a brother officer?”

“Remember, Chief, Jojo’s an acrobat. He could easily evade an inattentive detective by climbing to the roof, leaping to the next building, and then shinnying down a drainpipe. I recall that happening in another case involving a trapeze artist.”

Féraud shook his head. “Yes, I remember the case well. But you’re forgetting something. Delphine has a grudge against Jojo. After all, he was her pimp and he beat her up.”

Achille replied firmly. “I found her credible, Chief. I believe she wants justice for her friend, and is willing to assist in our investigation.”

Féraud leaned back in his chair while weighing the pros and cons of using the ragpickers for surveillance. He had always trusted Achille’s judgment, but he worried that the young inspector was too committed to his theory and may have been overly influenced by Delphine Lacroix. Finally he said, “I think your evidence against Sir Henry is compelling, though I don’t know what the juge d’instruction will make of the fingerprints. Still, all things considered, I’m willing to bring the Englishman in for questioning. Do you have any suggestions?”

Achille had a plan, but he knew it was a gamble. “Chief, we’d have a stronger case if we could get a confession from Jojo. He’d lead us to Sir Henry in exchange for a reduced sentence. I’m sure he’d cooperate if he thought he was facing the guillotine or life in Le Bagne.”

Féraud grunted in frustration. “But what have you got on him besides conjecture?”

Achille replied patiently. “First, we have the shoeprints. They’re a close match to the measurements in Jojo’s records. We could bring him in for questioning on that alone, measure his feet and his gait and make the comparison; I believe Chief Bertillon would back me up. In addition we have fingerprints taken at the scene, his evasion of our surveillance, and eyewitnesses to the suspicious meetings at the old mill. If the fingerprints and shoeprints match, he’s the accomplice, and I believe he’ll crack under pressure.”

Féraud frowned and began a washing motion with his hands, usually a bad sign. “You’re counting on Jojo’s fingerprints and shoeprints matching what you got at the crime scene. As for the meetings at the mill, you have the word of two ragpickers by way of Delphine Lacroix, which directly contradicts one of our men’s eyewitness reports.”

The telephone rang. Féraud lifted the receiver. “Chief Inspector Féraud.” He listened for a moment, then: “Yes; yes; I see.” He glanced at Achille with a worried frown. “Yes, Inspector Lefebvre is here in my office. I’ll send him out directly with the photographer. Have you set up a barricade? Good.” Féraud hung up. “That was Sergeant Rodin. Rousseau’s man found a neatly severed female head wrapped in a muddy cloth. At about three A.M. this morning a ragpicker dumped the head in a poubelle on the Rue Lepic, near Jojo’s flat. They suspect Moïse Gunzberg; Rousseau’s already working with the police to track him down. Well Achille, I guess that blows a hole in your theory?”

Achille remained cool; he spoke calmly and met Féraud’s piercing eyes with a steady gaze. “Not necessarily, chief. I’ll fetch Gilles and get to the scene as soon as possible. When I’m done, I’ll take the head to the Morgue for identification. We should know soon enough if it’s Virginie Menard. If it’s another woman—” Achille checked himself. “Please notify Chief Bertillon.”

Féraud shook his head and muttered, “This is the devil of a case.” Then: “I’ll do that, and report back to me immediately when you’ve finished with Bertillon.” As Achille opened the door, the chief added: “If it’s a second murder, the press will be screaming ‘Ripper’. If that happens, we’ll be up to our necks in shit.”

Achille glanced back at Féraud, replied with a determined nod, turned, and walked out into the hallway.

Shortly after dawn, Achille and Gilles met Sergeant Rodin and the Morgue attendant at the crime scene barricade. The cloth-wrapped head had been left on the pavement near the poubelle in front of Jojo’s flat. Achille knelt by the dust-bin; he examined the muddy fingerprints on the cloth and a faint trail of shoeprints. He looked up at Rodin: “They were clumsier this time, sergeant.”

“They, Inspector? You don’t think Gunzberg was alone?”

Achille rose to face Rodin. While dusting some dirt off his jacket he replied, “I don’t suspect Moïse Gunzberg. I believe he was set up. What do you know about him?”

The sergeant pursed his lips and scratched his beard as he pondered the question. “Not a bad kid, really. There was some trouble with his license a couple of years ago, but Le Boudin squared it all right. Anyway, Gunzberg works this street regularly, and your man shadowing Jojo is a witness. Rousseau plans to question everyone on this block, including Jojo.”

Achille nodded, inwardly wincing at the thought of Jojo as witness. He caught the sergeant’s attention with a sweeping gesture. “Do you see the muddy shoeprints?”

Rodin glanced round. “Yes, quite a trail of them. You really can see them clearly since the sun came up.”

“Yes, and there’re muddy handprints on the cloth. The stuff’s quite sticky and it dried nicely. Where in this neighborhood would someone pick up all that mud?”

“Oh, there are plenty of unpaved alleys and passages hereabouts.”

Gilles joined them. He smiled at Rodin. “Excuse me, Sergeant.” Then to Achille: “I’ve got some good photographs, Inspector. Your suspect tracked plenty of mud around the scene, that’s for sure.”

“If I can locate where he stepped in that muck maybe I can get a good cast of the impression. Anyway, please tell the attendant he can take the head now. We’ve got some more work to do around here, and then we’ll follow him to the Morgue.”

Gilles nodded. “All right, Inspector. I suppose you got a good look at her forehead?”

“Yes, Gilles, I did. I’ll discuss that with Chief Bertillon at the Morgue.”

Gilles understood from the inspector’s terse reply that the mark on the forehead was something not to be bandied about. He changed the subject. “So where do you want me to photograph next?”

Achille glanced up at the garret window. Is Jojo watching us? Achille looked back at Gilles. “Gather your equipment and follow me.” Then to Rodin: “Sergeant, I’d like you to accompany us.”

As soon as Gilles returned with his camera, tripod, and plates, he and Sergeant Rodin followed Achille into the narrow passage between Jojo’s tenement and the next building. A few paces in, Achille halted and motioned toward the rooftops. “Have you seen Jojo perform at the circus, Sergeant?”

“Indeed I have, Inspector.”

“Do you think he’s capable of making the leap from the roof of his tenement and then catching hold onto the roof of the adjacent building?”

Rodin looked up four stories, raising his right hand to shade his eyes from the early morning sun. “I believe he could do it easily, Inspector.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if we found some shoeprints up there. We’ll check later.”

Gilles sighed audibly.

They followed the passage until it ended in a cramped, unpaved back alley, its borders demarcated by the rear of the building and a high wooden fence. Achille pointed up to the guttering. “Can you see how someone with Jojo’s skill could work his way round to the drainpipe without being observed from the street?”

“Of course,” the sergeant replied. “That’s a typical cat burglar’s trick.”

Achille appreciated Rodin’s perspicacious response. “Too bad Rousseau’s man lacks your perception and experience, Sergeant.” They turned right into the alley, Achille cautioning Rodin and Gilles to be careful not to step on shoeprints. As they walked up the path, a large watchdog started barking, growling, and thumping its bulk against the other side of the fence.

“That’ll get the neighbors waked up,” the sergeant observed.

Bringing up the rear, Gilles cursed under the burden of his equipment and almost stumbled as he skirted round a bloated rat carcass crawling with maggots. The muddy alley was littered with rubble, rubbish, and rank with weeds. Flies swarmed and buzzed; the sharp stench of backed-up sewage and rotting trash permeated the stagnant air. “My God, the stink,” Gilles muttered. “It’s like an open sewer running through a graveyard; makes you want to puke. I wouldn’t be surprised if we discovered a decomposing body or two.”

Presently, Achille raised his right hand. They stopped near the drainpipe that emptied into the alley. “Just as I thought. Look at these shoeprints.” He approached cautiously and crouched beside the prints. “Nice, deep, dry impressions. I’m going to set up a boundary line for a casting.” Achille reached into a shoulder satchel and pulled out a few wooden stakes, twine, and a mallet. He pounded the stakes firmly into the ground and strung the twine as Gilles set up his camera.

“I can see they’re the prints of a small man, Inspector. Just like the casting you got from the horse turd near the cesspit.”

Achille glanced up from his work with a satisfied smile. “I believe so, Sergeant.” When he had finished staking out the boundary Achille said, “Sergeant, I’m going to return to make my plaster cast. Please have this alley barricaded and detail a couple of men to guard it day and night.” This would certainly tip off Jojo that the police were on to his game, but it didn’t matter, since Achille expected the magistrate to issue a warrant for Jojo’s arrest by the end of this day, or the next at the latest.

Sargent Rodin agreed to extend the barricade and assign men to guard it; Gilles photographed the area. Achille got up and dusted off his trousers and jacket as best he could. “Very well, gentlemen, let’s follow the shoeprints and see where they lead.”

Gilles was packing his equipment. He shot a look at Achille and muttered: “Oh yes, by all means ‘let’s follow the shoeprints,’ even unto the ends of the earth. Be thankful you don’t have to lug all this equipment around, Monsieur.”

Rodin laughed. “You’re a very amusing fellow, Gilles.”

He nodded grumpily as he folded his tripod. “Rodin, my friend, one must have a sense of humor to do this bloody job.”

Achille smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Gilles. I don’t think we have much farther to go.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” the photographer grunted as he hoisted his heavy gear onto his back and prepared to continue their forensic expedition.

Achille led them through another unpaved passage back onto the street, his eyes glued to the pavement. After a few steps he halted. “You see that, gentlemen? Two faint, but distinctly different sets of prints. I deduce from the evidence that this is where Moïse Gunzberg began tailing Jojo.” They followed the tracks up the street; as they neared the next alley the shoeprints faded until they were barely perceptible. Achille stopped again when they reached the entrance. He approached the passageway where the pavement ended, his keen eyes scanning the unpaved area thoroughly. Then he gestured to delineate the crime scene. “It’s as I suspected. You see three sets of prints, clear impressions in the mud and dirt. And there’s a larger impression, evidence of a struggle. Let’s enter, but be very careful to go round the area I indicated.”

Rodin and Gilles followed him, stepping gingerly to avoid the impressions. After a few paces they stopped and Gilles asked: “Shall I set up my camera here?”

“Yes, I want this area photographed and I’m going to erect another barrier for casting.” Then to Rodin: “Sergeant, do you see how two sets of prints emerge from that small passage near the back stairway?”

“Yes, Inspector. It’s obvious.”

“Very good, Sergeant. That’s where Jojo and his confederate hid, waiting in ambush for Moïse. You can also see where the boy entered the alley, stopped, and then tried to double back onto the street when he sensed trouble.”

Rodin nodded his agreement.

“Now, please concentrate on where the scuffle occurred.” He approached the scene and crouched. Then he looked back at his companions and pointed to wheel tracks. “You see the tracks? I believe they were made by a ragpicker’s cart.”

“The tracks are plain enough, Inspector. There are two sets; one runs out to Rue Lepic, and the other goes up the alley toward the north exit,” Rodin replied.

Achille nodded his agreement. “Excellent, Sergeant. Jojo’s pal wheeled the cart in from the north, and we should be able to follow his shoeprints up to the next street.” He rose to his feet and turned back toward Gilles and Rodin: “Here’s my scenario, gentlemen. The confederate wheeled the cart into this alley and waited for Jojo. Jojo entered the alley and joined his partner in crime in the hiding place, with Moïse not far behind.

“The boy entered cautiously, walked a few paces, and halted. Smelling danger, he turned to flee, but the two jumped him before he got more than a step or two back toward the street. There was a struggle and they knocked him out, probably with a strong drug, most likely chloroform. Then they dumped him into the cart, and Jojo proceeded up the street to the poubelle, where he ditched the head. I imagine he exchanged some clothes with the kid to fool Rousseau’s man, who I’m sorry to say is not among the most observant on the force.”

Sergeant Rodin snorted. “Pardon me, Inspector. With all due respect to the Sûreté, I always thought that fellow was an ass.”

Achille shook his head. “I must regretfully agree with your assessment of the man’s capabilities, Sergeant.” Then to Gilles: “We’ve got a lot of work before we finish up here and go to the Morgue. First, I want to have a look at the tenement roof. I bet we’ll find more muddy shoeprints leading down to the landing and right up to Jojo’s doorway. I must telephone Chief Bertillon to say I’ll be delayed. He’ll understand when I tell him what we’ve discovered. I also need to contact Chief Féraud.” He turned to Rodin: “Sergeant, I’m going to request a warrant for the arrest of Joseph Rossini. I want your men to keep an eye on him. Don’t let him leave his flat. If he demands to know the grounds for his detention, tell him he’s being held under suspicion of murder in the case of Virginie Ménard. Let him sweat.”

“You can count on me and my men, Inspector. What about Rousseau? He’s called out the dragnet for Moïse Gunzberg.”

“If you see or hear from Rousseau, tell him to report directly to me. I’m going to speak to Féraud about Moïse. I believe I can bring him in voluntarily as a witness for the prosecution.”

A wide grin spread across Rodin’s prodigiously bearded mouth. “Now we’re getting somewhere, Inspector.”

As was her custom, Mme Berthier accompanied cook on her early morning marketing. They were out at the crack of dawn when the stalls were well-stocked with the freshest and choicest comestibles. Immense wicker baskets dangling from their arms, the two women circled the marketplace like vultures before swooping down on the vendors advertising the best priced items for the family’s table. But no matter how fair the posted prices might be, Mme Berthier was determined to beat them down.

The sellers knew Madame well and many cringed at the familiar rustling of her black widow’s weeds signaling her approach, because she had gained a reputation for tenacious and obstreperous haggling. When she was unable to negotiate what she considered a fair price, Madame loudly condemned the quality of the merchandise, the sanitary conditions of the stall, and the merchant’s honesty, patriotism, and moral character. She would then turn her back and start marching toward a competitor. Nine times out of ten the mortified vendor would call her back and agree to her price. Upon seeing her, one old fruit-seller lamented, “I’d rather have a tooth pulled than bargain with that penny-pinching old witch.”