Her smile reverted to a frightened stare. “What are you saying, Inspector? Does the gentleman carry some loathsome disease? Or perhaps he’s a poisoner? God forbid I should harbor such a fiend in my restaurant!”

Achille feared a panic. He laughed reassuringly. “Have no fear, Mademoiselle, it’s nothing like that. I’m simply conducting a—an important experiment in forensic science. Should I succeed in this endeavor, my discoveries will most certainly contribute to the glory of France.”

Her alarm rapidly transformed to bewilderment followed by patriotic conviction and resolve. “I’ll be honored to assist you, Inspector. And please don’t worry about payment. After all, it’s for the honor of the Republic.”

“Bless you, Mademoiselle. And may I add, as always, your rabbit pâté is perfection itself.”

Achille returned to the terrace restaurant, glancing furtively at Sir Henry and Betsy as he passed by. In passing, he noticed a detail he had previously missed. Damn! He’s wearing gloves.

Adele immediately noticed the change in his mood and expression. “What was that all about? Are you all right? Is it something you ate—the rabbit pâté?”

Achille leaned across the table and filled her glass. “It’s nothing, dear. Here, your glass is almost empty. Let me pour you some wine.”

He filled Adele’s glass, and then drained his own and re-filled it. He began thinking of possible connections between the English doctor, the American women, and Virginie Ménard. Then: “Adele, without being conspicuous please have a good look at the English gentleman. Is he still wearing gloves?”

Her eyes lit up with curiosity. “Has this something to do with your case?”

Keeping his voice low, he replied, “Yes it does. Do you remember our experiment with your fingerprints?”

“Of course I do. Is the Englishman a suspect?”

“Not officially, at least not yet. And you mustn’t say anything to anyone, especially your mother. I need more evidence, and the fingerprints are crucial. Now, what about those gloves?”

“Well what do you know? He’s so handsome and distinguished; nothing like a criminal. Appearances are certainly deceiving. At any rate, I’ve been watching him all along. He hasn’t removed the gloves since they sat at the table.”

Achille sighed. “It’s a problem, my dear. I need to get his fingerprints without bringing him in for questioning. I’ll need to figure out something, a ruse perhaps. Or, I must get more evidence without the prints. Anyway, I apologize for spoiling our lunch.”

Her eyes sparkled; her face flushed with excitement. Adele spoke while keeping her eyes glued to Sir Henry. “You’ve spoiled nothing, darling. This is so fascinating. No wonder you like your job.”

He gazed at her fondly and with renewed interest. Apparently, his wife’s lovely surface concealed uncharted depths that enticed his further investigation. Surprised by his discovery, Achille would be an eager and willing explorer.

Delphine Lacroix passed through a barrier gate that led from the Rue Militaire to the Zone outside the fortified walls that had proved so ineffectual against the Germans in the Franco-Prussian war. This mile-wide strip of wasteland circumscribed by two fortified lines and penetrated by numerous barrier gates providing crossings for railway tracks, canals, and roads, was terra incognita to respectable Parisians and foreign visitors. While the berm, glacis, and rubbish-filled dry moat bordering the city’s outskirts had outlived its military usefulness, it remained as a dividing line between planned urbanization and refuse dump, a physical, psychological, and socio-economic barrier between the Parisians and the semi-visible outcasts of society.

Delphine had grown up in the Zone among the squatters, chiffoniers or ragpickers, junk dealers, street entertainers, Gypsies and mountebanks who had been displaced when Baron Haussmann tore down and cleared the ancient slums of central Paris. She had fled the Zone at the age of fourteen, vowing never to return, but now she had a compelling reason to re-enter the socio-cultural cesspit of her birth—the murder of her only true friend, Virginie Ménard.

Delphine crossed a rickety footbridge spanning a fetid, weed-clogged drainage ditch; on the other side she turned onto a steep, narrow dirt trail that snaked its way up a low ridge. In 1870 the Prussians had cleared the area to make way for their artillery and a field of fire. Nineteen years later, hardy poplars had sprung up amid the weeds and rubbish-strewn wild grasses.

She lifted her skirts, picking her way along the muddy path. Smoke rising from smoldering pits filled with burning trash and leaves made her cough; her eyes watered and her nose itched. Crows circled overhead, swooping down into the trash pits to do battle over the garbage with scurrying rats and cats.

As she neared the crest of the ridge she saw, rising above the scrub and weeds, a familiar compound of unpainted shacks, animal pens, and rubbish dumps. Delphine heard the bleating of goats, the cries of children, the rude shouts of men and women; she inhaled the stink of rotting garbage, human and animal waste. She was about to enter the domain of her putative father, a king among the ragpickers, known as Le Boudin.

The chiffonier had gotten his nickname from his service in the Legion; he had seen combat in Mexico and Algeria, where he had lost his left hand. A bear of a man, he had learned to use his government-issued hook to advantage in a brawl. He had spent years picking the streets of Paris, searching for marketable rejects, and had built a successful trade employing several licensed scavengers.

Delphine’s long-deceased mother had been one of Le Boudin’s many women; he was reputed to have fathered more than twenty children who in turn had born enough grandchildren to populate a village, but he rarely if ever acknowledged parentage.

A girl of about ten and a boy no more than eight-years-old scampered across Delphine’s path, stopped, turned round, and stared. They were ragged, dirty, and barefoot; their dark hair, brown eyes, and flat noses bore an uncanny resemblance to Delphine.

“Hey little one,” she called out to the girl, who was obviously older, bolder, and more forthcoming, “do you know where I can find Le Boudin?”

The child tugged at her torn sack of a dress, thought a moment and then, without speaking, pointed up the ridge toward a large shanty. Then she laughed, grabbed the boy by the hand and pulled him into the tall grass, where they began a tussle on the ground accompanied by screams, giggles, slaps, and curses.

Delphine continued up the path until she reached the shack. A few low steps led up to a shaded porch where an old, panting yellow dog lay on its side. As Delphine approached, the dog raised itself and confronted her with a low growl.

“Hey, Bazaine, old boy, don’t you know me? It’s Delphine.” She held out her hand toward the dog’s muzzle.

Bazaine was half-blind and nearly deaf. He sniffed a couple of times before licking her hand. Delphine smiled, rubbed his muzzle and patted his head. “Good old boy, good Bazaine,” she whispered and then walked through the open door.

The interior was dark, stuffy, and filled with the musty, corroded smell of old rags and scrap metal. A faint light streamed through the entrance and an unglazed window cut through the front wall. As Delphine entered she could see a large man seated on a stool behind a low wooden table. He bent over a pile of trinkets and was about to apply the acid test to one, which he had grasped with his hook.

Le Boudin looked up from his work and sang out a familiar greeting in a rough bass: “Hello, Mademoiselle. Are you buying or selling today?”