Madame smiled, displaying crooked yellowish teeth and spreading dozens of wrinkles through a layer of white powder round her eyes and rouged mouth. “I’m honored to have a son-in-law so devoted to his duty. It’s a shame you can’t turn your singular talents toward rooting out France’s real enemies rather than chasing common criminals through the gutters of Montmartre.”

Achille glanced at Adele with a wry smile before inquiring: “Oh, and who might these real enemies be, Madame?”

“Read Monsieur Drumont’s La France Juive and you will be enlightened, my boy.”

Adele interrupted judiciously: “We’re having veal chops with sorrel and an excellent Chateau Haut-Brion. I think you’ll prefer it to your usual sandwich and bottle of beer.”

Madame grimaced at the mention of her son-in-law’s common, workday supper. “Beer,” she muttered, “how disgusting.”

Achille laughed. “To what do we owe this feast? Is it some special occasion of which I’m unaware?”

“Yes, my dear,” Adele answered with a smile. “It’s to celebrate your dining at home.”

The dinner was superb, but after two hours of listening to Madame’s conspiracy theories, Achille was relieved to return to work. He sat at his desk bent over a typewriter, straining his eyes in the yellow glow of an oil lamp. Constantly referring to his notes and considering a number of leads developed from new evidence, he completed his report to Féraud.

In addition to the evidence he had discussed with Bertillon at the laboratory, he made two intriguing discoveries in records. First, a concierge on the Rue Lepic had reported a missing young woman, Virginie Ménard, and the police had questioned an artist named Émile Bernard who had been roaming Montmartre and Pigalle searching for the girl. The time of her disappearance and physical description matched what they knew from the corpse.

Second, he found a file on a dwarf, Joseph Rossini, aka Jojo the clown. Jojo was an ex-convict with a record of violence against women, a circus performer who rented a room on the Rue Lepic, not far from Virginie Ménard. His photographs looked like Lautrec’s twin, and his measurements matched the footprint cast and stride measured at the crime scene. Achille wondered what Rousseau’s investigation had turned up; at any rate, he’d know first thing in the morning. Achille finished typing, and turned his attention to the latent prints on the gold cigarette case.

In 1863, Paul-Jean Coulier, a chemistry professor, published his discovery that latent fingerprints could be developed on paper by iodine fuming. He also explained how to preserve the developed impression and mentioned the potential for identifying fingerprints by use of a magnifying glass. Achille had read Coulier’s paper. But without a credible classification system and a sound argument for the individuality of fingerprints that could be accepted as evidence in a court of law, there was no practical use for them in criminal identification. Galton had provided the supporting argument for individuality and the classification system, what was needed was a means of capturing the prints at the crime scene so they might be compared to the suspect’s fingerprints and presented to the court.

Achille knew that the prints on the cigarette case were impressions made by the oily residue and perspiration on the fingertips. What he needed was a reagent, the equivalent of Coulier’s iodine fumes that could sufficiently enhance the prints so they could be classified accurately, photographed, and compared to the prints on the canvas.

He yawned, removed his pince-nez, rubbed his bleary eyes, and then focused on the loudly ticking desk clock. Eleven P.M.; time for bed. Achille rose from his desk, stretched his weary arms and legs, and walked to the doorway that entered into a short corridor leading to the master bedroom. He had already removed his shoes and changed into slippers to keep the carpets clean and not make too much noise. The gas was off; he groped through the shadows, careful not to trip over toys Jeanne often left on the runner. When he reached the bedroom door, he knocked gently. Adele bid him enter.

He saw her seated at her dresser. She had changed into a nightdress. Her hair was down, and she slowly brushed the long, brown strands while gazing at her reflection in a lamp-lit mirror. Achille came up behind her, leaned down, brushed away some stray hairs and caressed her bare shoulder. She put down the hairbrush and accidentally knocked some face powder onto a silver box. “Oh,” she muttered. Then she bent over and blew away the powder.

The accident caught Achille’s attention. “Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “Don’t move; don’t touch anything.”

“What’s the matter, dear?” Adele turned around with a worried frown. But Achille was already out the door, sprinting up the corridor toward his study. She heard a crash and a cry of “Merde!” Achille had tripped over Jeanne’s toy duck, Oscar.

Presently he returned, limping and rubbing his knee with one hand and carrying his magnifying glass in the other. Scowling, he muttered, “Nanny must teach Jeanne not to leave her toys in the hallways, or at least pick up after her.”

“Yes, dear, I’ll speak to them. But what’s all the fuss? What are you doing with that glass?”

Achille forgot his throbbing knee. He bent over the dressing table and examined the silver box. “My dear, we’re conducting an important experiment in forensic science.”

He handed the glass to Adele. “Here, see for yourself.”

“Oh, very well,” she grumbled. “What am I looking at?”

“Your fingerprints enhanced with face powder.”

“How disgusting!” She handed back the magnifying glass with a peevish glare. “Why is it so important?”

Achille explained patiently. “Fingerprints might be significant to the solution of the mystery surrounding my case. They can provide the missing pieces to a puzzle that, when completed, could catch a dangerous criminal. But I’m breaking new ground, practically writing the book as I proceed.” He lowered his voice, smiled, and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry if my behavior seems peculiar at times, but I’m under pressure and it’s a matter of the utmost urgency. Your little accident put me on the right track, and I’m grateful. Now, I just need to find something, a fine dark powder that will increase the definition of the lines so they can be clearly identifiable and photographable as well.”

Adele grasped his hand and rose from her chair. She smiled, looked into Achille’s eyes and spoke softly: “I think I understand a little now. Perhaps it might help if you shared your work with me, from time to time. Not the grisly things, but your theories, your methods, your problems. I’ll help, if I can.”

He kissed her. “Thank you, I’d like that very much.”

“All right, it’s a bargain. And now, Inspector, I’m going to test your powers of observation further. Have you noticed anything different about me?”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see now. Does is it go with your new dress?”

“Good question; you’re warm.”

He sniffed her neck and bosom. “Ah, I detect a new fragrance.”

“Bravo! And you approve?”

Achille opened her night dress and caressed her breasts. “Yes,” he whispered. “It’s perfection.”

“Inspector Lefebvre, for your unerring skill as a detective, excellent taste in perfume, and unwavering devotion to duty, I award you the highest honor I can bestow.” She lifted his hand, smiled mischievously, and nibbled his fingers.

Achille laughed, swept Adele into his arms, and carried her off to bed.

Just before midnight a brilliant lightning flash lit the sky over Sacré-Cæur. Thunder rumbled, stirring memories of the Prussian Krupp guns that pounded Paris day and night during the siege of 1870-71. Wind-whipped rain battered shutters, poured through drainpipes into overflowing gutters, washed over twisting streets and alleyways down to the boulevard at the foot of the hill. Lautrec and a few others sought shelter in a small boîte in Pigalle. The artist sat alone at a small table, drinking absinthe while sketching a young woman seated at the other end of the bar. She appeared through a grayish haze of tobacco smoke tinged yellow by flickering candles and gaslights. The place reeked of fumes emanating from clay pipes and cheap cigarettes re-rolled from discarded butts, interfused with the odor of damp clothing clinging to infrequently washed bodies.