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.”