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

Автор книги: Gary Inbinder

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

The Morgue attendant parked the meat wagon in a dark, narrow, cobblestoned passageway and unloaded the torso onto a trolley. He wheeled the corpse through a guarded back entrance closed to the public; Achille displayed his credentials and followed along with Gilles toting his camera and tripod. They passed through a murky corridor until they made a sharp right turn and entered a small, low-ceilinged dissection room.

The place reeked of carbolic disinfectant and formaldehyde. A bloodstained dissecting table stood in the middle of the room under a blazing gaslamp. Next to the table was a tray covered with neatly arranged scalpels, probes, forceps, clamps, and sutures. A mahogany and glass instrument cabinet occupied a corner of the drab, green-painted wall behind the dissection table. Two vividly colored folding anatomical charts with cutaway views—one male, one female—hung from the wall.

The gray-haired pathologist greeted them with a cold, bored stare. He had cut up too many corpses, a slave to routine like a factory worker who, over the years, had turned innumerable bolts on countless widgets. In contrast, Alphonse Bertillon was animated and enthusiastic.

Bertillon was an up-and-comer in his mid-thirties with a neatly trimmed beard, curious eyes, and a brisk manner. His brilliant career had begun ten years earlier, as a records clerk. Immediately recognizing the need for a better system of filing and organization, he pushed his new ideas on his superiors until they gave way from sheer exhaustion.

Young Bertillon was a force of nature, like a youthful Bonaparte telling old generals how to do their jobs. Having cleaned up the records system, he turned his attention to a better method of identification. Before long, the police had adopted his anthropometric system, incorporating multiple photographs, careful attention to features, and numerous, precise measurements. Now chief of the department of identification for the prefecture of the Seine, Bertillon was at the top of his profession, but he had not yet recognized the significance of fingerprints, a fact of which Achille was keenly aware.

His sleeves rolled up and ready to proceed, Bertillon smiled and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Inspector Lefebvre. I’m Bertillon. I’ve heard good things about you from your chief. You’ve brought me an interesting case—a very interesting case indeed.” Bertillon spoke rapidly, leaping from sentence to sentence and thought to thought with the agility of an intellectual acrobat.

Achille admired Bertillon; he shook his hand warmly. “I’m honored, Monsieur. As you say, it’s an interesting case, and a tough one to crack.”

“Well, perhaps we can simplify things. Let’s take a closer look at the corpse. We have a moment while your photographer sets up his equipment, and there are some observations I can make before the doctor opens her up.” Achille followed Bertillon to the dissecting table, where the chief began his remarks with a theatrical flourish. Pointing a finger at the torso, he declared, “Keen observation and clear thinking can solve any mystery. We don’t chase our tails, we don’t waste time. For example, certain things are obvious to the trained eye. Your chief questioned whether this might have been a prank; some tipsy medical students stuffing a cadaver in the cesspit. But cadavers are embalmed prior to dissection, and the embalming fluid causes a grayish discoloration. That is not present here. On the other hand, if you look closely, you’ll notice a slight greenish spot on the lower abdomen. That is the first sign of decomposition. By that spot alone, I can place the time of death from forty-eight to seventy-two hours ago, and further examination can confirm my hypothesis and perhaps narrow it down. Do you know how long she was in the pit?”

“About forty-eight hours at most, Monsieur; the time between collections.”

“Ah then, whomever left the corpse would have known the schedule. And we can estimate the interval between the time of death and deposit in the cesspit. Then we’ll posit as to how the corpse was transported and from whence it came.”

Achille took out a pencil and pad and began scribbling notes.

Bertillon smiled at his attentive pupil and continued: “There are no visible signs of exposure to the elements, animals, or insects. Her skin is smooth and quite lovely, even with the pallor of death. We must look for scars, moles, birthmarks, tattoos or other identifying marks. Hmmm, nothing on the front. Let’s turn her over, doctor.” Bertillon and the pathologist rolled the torso onto its stomach, and then examined the neck, shoulders, back, buttocks, and thighs. “One small mole on lower right buttock; one smaller mole inner lower left thigh. We’ll measure them, and you’ll note them in the photographs. All right, doctor, let’s turn her right side up.”

Bertillon continued: “She was very fair, Inspector, and beautifully proportioned. A little, blonde Venus de Milo. I’ll make careful measurements and extrapolate her height and weight. Considering her skin color and fine, fair vestigial hair she most probably had light blue eyes. Now here’s something of significance. Either she, or someone else, has shaved her armpits and pubic hair; there’s nothing but fair stubble. Generally speaking, women of the lower classes don’t shave their body hair, and few women of any class, with the exception of artists’ models, shave the mons pubis. Considering these facts, her symmetrical proportions and beautiful skin, one might conclude that this woman had been a model.” Bertillon paused a moment, as if for dramatic effect. Gazing intently at Achille, he added ominously: “But there’s another explanation for the shaved pubic hair, although it doesn’t necessarily negate my proposition that she was an artist’s model. The woman may have had an operation, and quite recently.”

That last remark got the blasé pathologist’s attention. He lowered his wire-rimmed spectacles, which until then had been pushed up onto his forehead, as if he anticipated viewing something of consequence.

Bertillon turned to the pathologist. “Doctor, will you please examine the vagina?”

The doctor put on a head mirror and spread the vulva; Bertillon and Achille leaned over for a closer look. The pathologist spoke first: “You see that, gentleman? A fresh surgical wound; a neat incision cleanly sutured.” He inserted a speculum and performed a pelvic examination.

“Doctor,” asked Bertillon, “do you know what sort of operation this was?”

The pathologist backed away from the corpse and wiped his hands with a towel. He eyed Bertillon and Achille with a worried frown. “I’d say it was a vaginal hysterectomy. I’ll confirm that for the record when I open her up. But—” The pathologist stopped speaking, and stared as if suddenly struck dumb.

Bertillon’s impatience was palpable. “But what, doctor? Please continue.”

The pathologist breathed deeply and exhaled slowly before continuing: “The uterus is usually removed through a large incision made in the lower abdomen just above the pubic bone. This operation through the vagina is rare. As far as I know, only one surgeon in Paris has performed it successfully—Péan.” The doctor lowered his eyes and stared at his hands.

Achille turned to Bertillon. “Péan? Is that possible, Monsieur? Could he be a—a suspect?”

“Péan—the great Péan? That’s unthinkable!” sputtered the pathologist.

“Please, gentleman,” Bertillon said calmly, “we must not jump to conclusions. Anything is possible, but to suspect Péan is, as the doctor puts it, unthinkable. Still, this is certainly a lead we must follow. I know Péan; he’s given lectures at the Morgue. He may provide us with information that is useful in solving the case. Now, Inspector, before we proceed is there anything else you want me to consider?”

“A couple of things, Monsieur. We’re going to search the contents of the cesspit. If I find anything of interest, I’ll bring it to you immediately.”

“Very well, Inspector. Anything else?”

“Yes, Monsieur. The torso was wrapped in a sheet smeared with what appear to be bloodstains. There are perceptible handprints and fingerprints; I want them photographed to see if they can be enhanced. They might prove useful.”

Bertillon’s eyes narrowed. “Fingerprints, eh? Of course you know we don’t use them in our system?”

Achille replied firmly, “I understand, but I believe in a matter like this we shouldn’t overlook anything that might help solve the case.”

Bertillon’s stare turned to a smile. He placed a hand on Achille’s shoulder. “I can see why your chief values you so highly. Very well. Have the cloth sent to my laboratory. I’ll examine the fabric and the prints as well. Your photographer can take before and after images for the file.”

Relieved, Achille smiled warmly. “Thank you, Monsieur. I look forward to working with you.”

Following the autopsy, Achille stopped at a café, purchased a bottle of beer and a sandwich, and returned to his office. He sent a message to his wife, Adele, and told her not to wait supper for him. He then typed his report for Féraud. The old boys hated the typewriter; they refused to use it, and the chief did not insist. But Achille had mastered the new machine, and he preferred its neatness and uniformity to the typical detective’s scrawl.

As he worked he could not shake the image of the torso on the dissection table. What sort of monster could have committed such a crime? It’s as though the Devil had come to Montmartre. Might the Devil have been a deformed, aristocratic painter, or France’s greatest surgeon? Could it be Jack the Ripper, as Rodin implied in his morbid joke? Don’t jump to conclusions. They knew so little, but hopefully in the coming days they would learn more. Could the murderer strike again? Scotland Yard’s failure in the Ripper murders loomed large.

Shortly after ten P.M., Achille finished typing his report, closed his file, rubbed his weary eyes, turned out the lights, and headed for home.

Achille, his wife Adele, their four-year-old daughter Jeanne, and Adele’s mother, Madame Berthier, lived in a spacious second-floor apartment in the 1st arrondissement, not far from Sûreté headquarters. The building was one of Baron Haussmann’s elegant modern creations, located on a quiet, tree-shaded avenue. The apartment belonged to Madame Berthier, widow of a much decorated cavalry colonel, a fervent Bonapartist and friend of General Boulanger.

Achille paid rent to Madame and she retained a commodious boudoir and an adjoining study. This arrangement allowed the family to live a very comfortable bourgeois life, much better than that of a typical civil servant of Achille’s rank. They could even afford a maid, a cook, and a nanny for the little girl.

Achille got along reasonably well with his mother-in-law, despite the fact that she disliked his chosen profession. She had formed an image of detectives from the first Sûreté chief, Vidocq, who employed reformed criminals like himself, on the theory that it takes a thief to catch a thief. She also railed against the government for its treatment of General Boulanger, looked forward to a war of revenge against Germany, and blamed the Germans, their Jewish bankers, Protestants, and Freemasons for all the evils of mankind. Achille found Madame’s politics and prejudices illogical and distasteful. But as a good husband and son-in-law he tried to maintain peace at home. Therefore, whenever in conversation with Madame Berthier, Achille avoided discussing his job, politics, or anything controversial; if she raised these matters he simply nodded sympathetically, tried to switch the subject, or if possible, politely excused himself.

When he arrived home that evening, his mother-in-law had already retired to her boudoir. Adele greeted him in the front hall, with a petulant frown:

“Cook made your favorite cassoulet for supper, and Jeanne wanted you to read her a story before she went to sleep. She cried when I told her you weren’t coming. Why can’t Féraud be more considerate? He works you like a slave.”

Achille’s eyes were sad and tired; the last thing he wanted was an argument. He smiled and stroked Adele’s soft cheek. Such bright green eyes; such warm red lips. How pretty she is, he thought. He noticed a change in her expression from mild vexation to deep concern. “Please my dear,” he whispered, “I’m dog-tired. Féraud’s assigned me to a case of the utmost importance and I must report to him at five A.M.”

She held his hand and kissed it softly. “I’m sorry, darling; how thoughtless of me. Go relax in the sitting-room, and I’ll join you. Would you like a cognac, or sherry?”

Achille smiled. “A cognac would be heaven.” Adele went to fetch the brandy. He wandered into the sitting room and collapsed in his favorite, well-stuffed armchair. Placing his aching feet on a footstool, he rubbed his eyes and yawned. Achille wanted to forget the case and get a good night’s sleep, but he knew he wouldn’t; it would occupy his thoughts, day and night, until the murderer was brought to justice.

Adele returned with a decanter and two glasses on a silver tray. Her husband did not seem to notice her; he was staring into the darkness like someone sleeping with his eyes open. She set down the tray on a small round table and then turned up the lamp. “It’s too dark in here.”

Achille murmured, “Huh,” as if coming out of a trance. Adele was about to sit next to him on a settee. He reached out, took her hand and pulled her onto his lap. She giggled as he nibbled her tiny earlobe and nuzzled her fragrant neck. 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

The 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 a look at that studio. Wouldn’t you, professor?” Rousseau grinned at Achille, a gleam in his piggish eyes.

“I would indeed, but we don’t have enough evidence for a warrant.”

Féraud leaned further over his desk and lowered his voice. “Listen, boys, what the juge d’instruction doesn’t know won’t hurt him. This is strictly between us. Within the next day or two, I want you to have a look at Lautrec’s studio—without a warrant. Rousseau, you know who to use on that job.”

“Right chief; just leave it to me.” He turned to Achille: “You O.K. with that, professor?”

Achille did not like the old extrajudicial methods, but he figured in a case like this the ends justified the means. And he was not about to harm his career by crossing Féraud. “As long as the chief approves, it’s fine with me.”

The stench of La Villette on an unseasonably warm autumn morning struck Achille like a punch to the gut. Home to the stockyards and great abattoirs that provided meat for the tables of two million Parisians, La Villette was also a hodgepodge of factories, warehouses, working class dwellings, boîtes, cafes, administrative buildings, and markets. Located in the northeastern corner of Paris, a district annexed during the reign of Napoleon III, the modern industrial site and docklands were built around a large basin and main canal that flowed into the Seine through a system of locks.

The main canal was itself fed by a network of smaller canals polluted with industrial waste and slaughterhouse effluent criss-crossed by iron footbridges and railway bridges. The emissions from hundreds of locomotives and factory chimneys enveloped the area in a yellowish-brown haze. A steel spiders-web overspread the vast acreage, traversed day and night by smoke-belching engines pulling long trains of cars loaded with lowing cattle, bleating sheep, grunting and squealing pigs, brought by the thousands to be offloaded into the slaughterhouse pens. Trains with ice-cooled boxcars conveyed the butchered product to the Paris markets.

La Villette was also a collection point for sewage pumped from the Paris cesspools. In the early morning hours, hundreds of wagons filled with human waste lined up on the quayside, waiting to pour out their cargo into tanker-barges bound for the suburban sewage farms. Achille supervised two workers in a dark shed near the quay as they raked and sifted through excrement removed from the cess-pit where the torso was found, looking for clues. The foul sludge had been pumped into a galvanized iron vat and sprayed with disinfectant, but the odor in the stuffy shed was still overwhelming.

Does filth breed crime? Achille pondered this question as he anxiously awaited a discovery that might shed light on his case. He had read Zola and was familiar with the author’s literary theory of naturalism, according to which character was formed by a combination of social conditions, heredity, and environment. That might hold true for the common criminal, but would it apply to a monster that could murder and horribly mutilate a woman? Try as he might, Achille could not picture the individual who committed the crime.

Lombroso, the celebrated Italian criminologist, believed the criminal was a definite anthropological type bearing physical and mental stigmata, the product of heredity, atavism, and degeneracy. Could you read evil in a face, a body, mannerisms, and gestures? Would the man Achille was looking for be simian and grotesque like Lautrec? Perhaps alienation from decent society had motivated him to destroy beauty in revenge for the rejection brought on by his deformity. Achille pondered another literary association, Hugo’s hideously deformed Quasimodo. According to Lombroso’s theory of criminal physiognomy, Quasimodo would have been a prime suspect in a Ripper-type murder investigation. Nevertheless, Hugo had portrayed the hunchback as a noble, self-sacrificing character who loved the beautiful Esmeralda. But then, Hugo was a great Romantic of the previous generation, not a modern scientist.

He recalled something from his religious instruction that had troubled him since his youth: Intra feces et urinas nominem natus est—Man is born between feces and urine. Achille thought that a singularly offensive way of saying we were born in sin and must be ritually cleansed by baptism. But he would not have dared express his opinion to the brother who had taught him the religious adage. At any rate, the odious quote brought to mind another literary association, again with Zola. Achille recalled a satirical cartoon reference to Nana, in which the author presented his protagonist as Venus rising from a chamber pot. The infamous courtesan had, like The Great Stink, arisen from the sewers of Paris. She was disease carrying excrement behind a façade of female beauty, polluting society and ultimately leading to the humiliating defeat of 1871. Achille remembered Zola’s metaphor, Nana’s horrible death from smallpox; corruption oozed from her countless festering sores while beneath her window jubilant soldiers on their way to the debacle marched past crowds cheering, “On to Berlin!”

“Monsieur, we’ve found something!”

Achille stopped pondering and ran to the vat. One of the workers had fished out a shiny object and set it on a table; Achille put on a pair of rubber gloves and examined it. It was a gold cigarette case, monogrammed with an ancient coat of arms. He opened the case, and found three cigarettes.

Toulouse-Lautrec? But this is too obvious. He might as well have left his carte-de-visite. Achille took out a magnifying glass and examined the surface of the cigarette case. There were barely visible fingerprints on both the front and back, and no one had touched the case since it had been dropped in the pit—at least not with their bare hands.

“The Devil!” he exclaimed. A common expression, but under the circumstances he might have meant it literally.

Dr. Péan completed his examination. He walked from the dissection table without uttering a word, and went straight to a washstand where he scrubbed his hands and forearms in chlorinated lime solution. Bertillon and Achille watched silently as the surgeon completed his ablutions with a vigorous application of the nail brush.

After inspecting his hands and fingernails carefully, Péan rolled down his sleeves, fastened his cuffs, and retrieved his frock coat from a peg on the wall. Then he turned to Bertillon and stated matter-of-factly: “Based on the pathologist’s report and my examination of the corpse, I conclude that a vaginal hysterectomy has been performed on this individual, and that the operation was done recently, perhaps within the past few days. Moreover, I concur with the pathologist’s conclusion that the head and limbs were surgically removed. However, I have no way of determining whether or not the hysterectomy contributed to the cause of death. For all we know, the operation might have been performed on a corpse.” Péan stood silently without a gesture, a twitch, or the slightest change in his stony expression.

Achille questioned: “Doctor, do you know of any other surgeon in Paris who performs the vaginal hysterectomy?”

“No, Inspector, to my knowledge I’m the first surgeon in Europe to have used this technique successfully. I have only done this once, and very recently at that. But I assure you, my patient is alive and recovering splendidly.” Péan paused. Then: “Am I under suspicion?”

The tension in the dissecting room was electric. Bertillon, as the senior man, answered immediately: “Of course not, Doctor Péan. However, we must ask questions, and we greatly appreciate your cooperation.”

Bertillon’s response eased the tension—somewhat. “I understand gentlemen, and I shall do what I can to assist in your investigation.”

“That is most kind of you, doctor,” Achille said respectfully. “You’ve indicated you performed this operation just once. Can you tell us when?”

“Yes, Inspector, I operated Wednesday afternoon, the 14th. It’s documented in the medical record.”

Achille did a quick mental calculation. According to the night soil collection schedule, the body must have been dumped in the pit between the early morning hours of the 13th and the 15th. That timeframe was consistent with Bertillon and the pathologist’s estimate of the time of death. Could the murderer have witnessed the operation on the afternoon of the 14th and then committed the crime sometime between that afternoon and the early morning hours of the following day? Based on the state of decomposition, death must have occurred on the early end of the scale, either shortly before or immediately after the operation. Then the body could have been disposed of several hours later, under the cover of darkness and at a time when the act was least likely to have been observed.

After a brief pause, Achille continued: “And I assume you also have a record of those attending the operation?”

“Of course, my assistants were in attendance, but I assure you they are young gentlemen of spotless reputation.”

Achille smiled in an attempt to put the surgeon at ease. “I have no reason to doubt that, doctor, but you do understand that I may want to ask them some routine questions?”

“Of course, Inspector, I shall provide you with their names and addresses, as well as the hours when they may be reached at the clinic.”

“Thank you, doctor. I believe there was also a small group of visitors who witnessed the operation?”

“Yes, a few of my trusted colleagues were present, and an artist, Monsieur de Toulouse-Lautrec. He made a sketch of the operation. The gentleman’s cousin is one of my assistants.”

“Do you have a list of the attendees?”

“Yes, Inspector; attendance is by invitation only. My clerk at the clinic keeps a journal containing the names and signatures of those present, the time they arrived as well as the time they signed out.”

“I would very much appreciate having a look at that journal.”

“Very well, you may contact my clerk,” Péan said with a hint of annoyance in his voice. “I’ll leave you a card with his name. Now, if you gentlemen are finished, I must go to the hospital. I have a very busy day ahead of me.”

“Thank you, doctor. I apologize for the inconvenience. I have one more question. In your professional opinion, do you think a layman who witnessed the operation could have performed the surgery?”

Péan’s face reddened; his hands shook visibly, as if the question were a gross insult. “Absolutely not! The amputation of the head and limbs was skilful enough, but the hysterectomy is a procedure of the utmost delicacy. Only the most proficient and experienced surgeons would attempt it.”

Achille was put off by the doctor’s reaction to a perfectly reasonable question. Nevertheless, he smiled and spoke very respectfully in an attempt to placate Péan. “Thank you so much, doctor. You have been most helpful.” He turned to Bertillon. “Do you have any questions for the doctor, Monsieur Bertillon?”

Bertillon frowned and shook his head. “No, that will be all for today.” Smiling sheepishly he turned to the fuming Péan: “Thank you, doctor, for your cooperation. This is a difficult case, and we very much appreciate your assistance. I would ask that you do not discuss this matter with anyone. If your colleagues or employees have questions, you may refer them to Inspector Lefebvre or to me. We will be discreet in our questioning, and would like to keep this matter out of the newspapers for as long as possible.”

“That goes without saying, Monsieur Bertillon. Nobody wants the press poking round in his business. At any rate, I knew your father well; a fine physician. Now I must be off.” Péan turned abruptly to Achille. He pulled out a card and a pencil, scribbled his clerk’s name, and handed it to Achille. “Good-day, Inspector.” Then he grabbed his hat from a rack and left before Achille could reply.

Bertillon’s laboratory was located at the top of a dark, secluded stairway in the Palais de Justice, a grand white marble Second Empire edifice not far from the Morgue. Pale light flooded in through large, grimy rectangular windows; natural light was supplemented by several large, overhead brass gas jets. Long wooden tables in the center of the room were covered in paraphernalia: microscopes, test tubes, alembics, and retorts. Achille and Bertillon conferred in a corner, where they stood next to a cluttered desk and a row of dusty filing cabinets. For the moment, they were alone. Gilles was to meet them shortly to present his photographs of the prints on the cloth.

“I’m afraid Dr. Péan didn’t like my question about a layman performing the surgery. Nevertheless, it’s a question that had to be asked.” Achille frowned.