“Of course, Chief, that’s why I want to redouble our efforts to obtain evidence for the juge d’instruction.”

Féraud displayed a little tic, an almost imperceptible “snick” at the corner of his mouth. “What does Rousseau think?”

This was a touchy subject. Achille’s confidence in the “old boy” was eroding, but he’d need to tread lightly when expressing such concerns to the chief.

“Rousseau seems fixated on Lautrec, and I fear this might be hampering the investigation. For example, he hasn’t detailed his best men to shadow Jojo, and I firmly believe the clown could lead us to the murderer. And as far as I’m concerned, the artist’s in the clear. A thorough search of his flat and studio turned up nothing. We’ve looked into his various haunts and habits, and can account for his whereabouts for almost all the time in question, enough to support an alibi. In other words, it appears he didn’t have the opportunity to commit the crime. As for the means, according to our foremost expert on the subject, only a doctor could have removed the uterus and cervix and then stitched her up so neatly. And her head and limbs weren’t hacked off; they were surgically amputated.

“There’s not much of a motive. He’s freely admitted to having been a jealous lover, but after questioning him I don’t believe he’s the sort of individual who could carry out such a cruel, premeditated murder over a mere disappointment in love. Moreover, he’s highly intelligent, so why would he conceive of, plan, and execute such a crime and then leave a trail of evidence ostensibly pointing back to him?

“Finally, we have fingerprints and the opium cigarettes. There are prints on the canvas and cigarette case that don’t match Lautrec’s, and we have no evidence of him being a habitual opium smoker. I believe—”

“Damn this case!” Féraud broke in. “No witnesses. The evidence is all circumstantial, and bloody thin at that. And your primary suspect is a foreigner, a well-heeled English gent who could bolt at any time.” For a couple of tense minutes the chief returned to his silent, meditative posture. Then: “All right, Achille. Where do we go from here?”

“I want to wire a trusted contact at Scotland Yard to see if they have anything on Sir Henry. It’ll be a routine, discreet inquiry. Next, I want to talk to the American artist, Marcia Brownlow. She knew the victim, and her companion has apparently formed an intimate acquaintance with Sir Henry. Moreover, I have reason to believe Mlle Brownlow may be one of Sir Henry’s patients. This will be very delicate; I’ll handle it myself, and I believe I can use Lautrec to make contact with Mlle Brownlow without tipping off the Englishman.

“Finally, I’ve got another way of nabbing Jojo, and it doesn’t involve Rousseau. In fact, I don’t want him to know about it.”

Féraud frowned, his face reddened, and the tic returned. “Do you realize what you’re saying? I’ve known Rousseau for twenty years. He’s built up our network of snoops and paid informers in the Montmartre-Pigalle district. I depend on him.”

Achille remained calm. “I understand, Chief, but there’s a serious conflict of interest. Jojo’s one of Rousseau’s informers. I think their relationship’s too close for comfort.”

“Listen, Achille, Jojo’s an ex-convict. He’s scum. If he farts in a public place, we’ll haul him in and put on the screws. If you have anything, I mean anything at all on that little shit, we’ll beat a confession out of him. But you must have something, and you’re telling me you don’t trust your brother officer, one of my veterans, to get it for you.” Féraud stared hard at Achille a moment before pursuing: “So let’s say you’re right. How would you go about it?”

“We have Delphine Lacroix, the victim’s best friend. I’ve been looking into her background. She worked for Jojo when she was a kid, and she was one of the girls he beat up. And she has reason to dislike Rousseau too; she won’t give anything up to him, or anyone working under him. But she has strong connections to the chiffoniers and zonards. She’s part of Jojo’s underworld. If he’s an accomplice as I think he is, I believe I can persuade her to inform on him, and then Jojo can lead us to the killer.”

Féraud smiled wryly and shook his head. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting into, my boy. You talk about an ‘underworld’, but you haven’t been there. You can’t know it the way Rousseau and I do. You have to live among these people, talk like them, act like them, stink like them, to even begin to understand them. That’s why I split the assignment the way I did.” The chief paused a moment for emphasis. Then: “But I have confidence in you, my boy. Rousseau will put in a few more years and retire. He’ll never rise any higher in the brigade. But some day you could occupy this office, and then perhaps even a higher position. You’re our future; the old boys and I are the past. So I’m going to back you up, at least for now. But I don’t want Rousseau to feel he’s being left out. Give him routine duties, enough to keep him busy. Agreed?”

Achille felt as though he’d crossed the Rubicon. Like Caesar, he’d confidently gambled on his future; there was no turning back. This case would make or break him. “Thank you, Chief. I agree.”

Marcia reclined on the drawing room settee, her back propped up by a velvet bolster. She wore a scarlet kimono; the luxuriant silk fabric, her long, lush auburn hair, and lively green eyes all in sharp contrast to her gaunt face, which seemed as if it were rendered in grisaille, a gray monochrome surrounded by an overabundance of color.

Arthur sat in close proximity to Marcia, his smiling face attentively inclined toward hers, his hands resting on kid gloves and stick. Sir Henry had deemed Marcia well enough to receive; Betsy and he were on another pleasant outing; the nurse was occupied running errands.

“I’m relieved to find you looking so well, my dear. Assuming a continuation of this fair weather, tomorrow you must come out with me to a café.”

She smiled at the suggestion. “That would be delightful, Arthur, provided my keeper gives me leave to go.”

The reference to Sir Henry as Marcia’s ‘keeper’ irked him, since under the circumstances the word had disturbing connotations. “You mustn’t allow yourself to remain under his thumb for too long. You had a shock recently; it affected your condition, but a diagnosis of ‘female hysteria’ is no joke, and frankly I don’t approve of Sir Henry’s treatments. I understand he’s prescribed a strong sedative.”

“I appreciate your concern, Arthur, and I share your misgivings about Sir Henry and his treatments. But his prescription helped me through a rough patch.” She smiled and took his hand before adding: “I promise you, I’m in no danger of addiction. As you recall, we both indulged in Aggie’s opium cigarettes without succumbing to the drug’s evil influence.”

He stroked her frail hand, leaned forward and kissed it gently. Arthur wanted to say something profound; to tell her he loved her and would care for her for as long as she lived. But like his protagonists he could not betray himself with such a commonplace declaration. Instead, he restricted himself to expressions of concern and friendly advice. “I fear there’s something louche about Sir Henry. Yesterday, I had a chance meeting with Lady Agatha at the Café Riche—”

“Aggie’s here, in Paris?” Marcia interrupted with a spark of piqued curiosity in her voice.

Arthur noticed Marcia’s interest with distaste. “I fear she’s in Queer Street and looking to flog off your Mark Brownlow portrait to the highest bidder. She’s approached me to negotiate with Betsy for the sale and she’s gone to Nice to spend some time with her friend, the count. You know the villa well, I believe?”