“Of course I know the risks of publication, M. Drumont. I believe it’s my duty to publish this letter as a service to France, but I intend to preface the article with a disclaimer.”

Drumont nodded. “A disclaimer is good. We must exercise some caution, since you can’t produce the girl as a witness. We should avoid embarrassment to the League, especially with all these foreigners in Paris for the Exposition. Of course, there’s no problem with credibility among our followers who’ll believe anything against the Jews, but we must remain plausible when going to print if we are to gain new adherents to our cause.

“The letter doesn’t name anyone specifically, and it makes no direct accusations except against a shadowy organization. Moreover, it does not blame the police directly for incompetence in the Ménard investigation. So I don’t think there’s danger of a suit for libel.

“You are publishing matters of public interest and concern so you can certainly rely on the Press Law of 1881 if the police clamp down. In my experience the present government respects our right to publish freely; they’ll leave you alone as long as you comply with the requirements of the law. When do you go to press?”

Cauchon smiled broadly. “Thank you for your advice and support, my friend. I’ve already given orders to set type. I intend to have a special edition ready for distribution by tomorrow morning.”

Drumont nodded affirmatively. “I hope Baron de Rothschild gets hold of a copy. I’d like to see the look on his face when he reads it. I’ll bet it makes him choke on his matzoth.”

The Jew-baiting journalists had a hearty laugh before settling the bill and parting company to embark on their next great crusade.

Achille bounded up three flights of steep stairs to Gilles’ studio and knocked impatiently on the door. He heard a faint “I’ll be with you in a moment” followed by a clatter of paraphernalia and the rapid clomping of footsteps on the bare wooden floor. Presently, the door opened a crack and a pair of excited eyes greeted him: “Ah, it’s you Inspector. You came at just the right time. There’s something here I must show you.” Before Achille could say “fingerprints,” Gilles was leading him to a work bench in a back corner of the loft, a shaded area away from the late afternoon sunshine flooding through an immense skylight.

The photographer halted abruptly and pointed to a small black box resting on the tabletop. “There it is, Inspector, an invention that will revolutionize photography. It’s just arrived from America.”

Achille was anxious to discuss the latent prints on Sir Henry’s letter, but his curiosity intervened. “What is it, Gilles?”

The photographer smiled proudly and presented the wonder to Achille for closer inspection. “It’s the new Kodak No. 1 box camera. It has the latest modifications, including an advanced shutter and celluloid roll film, an improvement over the paper stripper film. It’s light, hand-held, and simple to operate; perfect for detective work. And you don’t need to focus through a ground-glass. Do you see that “V” shaped device on top of the camera?”

Achille examined the object. “Yes, it looks like a sighting mechanism.”

“Exactly so; almost like you’d have on a firearm. Now please give me the camera and back up into the light.” Achille returned the Kodak and did as Gilles asked.

“There, that’s it. Perfect! Now, I set the shutter with this string, line you up in the sight, push the button, and voila! I’ve just taken your photograph in a matter of seconds; I wind this key and I’m ready for the next exposure, one hundred in all on a single roll of film.”

Achille immediately saw the camera’s potential. He approached to get a better look at the Kodak. “You’re right, Gilles. As long as you had enough available light, this would be perfect for surreptitiously photographing suspects.”

Gilles frowned and returned the camera to the work bench. “It would indeed be ideal for that purpose, but there is a major drawback. The new film and the method for developing and printing it are patented; the whole camera must be returned to the Eastman Company in Rochester, New York for processing and reloading. That might be all right for a detective in the eastern United States, but for us the time involved in shipping and handling makes it impractical.”

Achille pondered the problem for a moment. “Do you think the Eastman Company would be willing to negotiate a contract with our government to permit the processing of the film here, in Paris?”

Gilles rubbed his chin. “I don’t know, Inspector, but it might be worth pursuing.”

Achille made a mental note to raise the issue with Féraud and Bertillon. Then: “I’ve come to you on urgent business.” He pulled an envelope containing Sir Henry’s letter out of his breast pocket and handed it to Gilles. “This envelope contains a document with a suspect’s fingerprints. Please handle it with gloves or tweezers.”

Gilles smiled. “Ah, Inspector, this is another of your fingerprint experiments.”

“Yes it is, and at first I was going to perform it myself at the laboratory, but I believe the method used to develop the latent prints would be better suited to your skills.”

“Oh, and what may I ask is that method?”

Achille reached into another pocket, withdrew a notebook, and turned it over to the photographer. “I’ve written it down here. The process was discovered more than twenty years ago by the chemist, Coulier, but to my knowledge it’s never been used in forensics.”

Gilles studied the notes carefully for a few minutes. Then, muttering to himself: “This is interesting. Coulier used iodine fuming to bring out the prints. A small quantity of iodine is mixed with finely grained sand. The mixture is placed in a developing tray with the document fastened to a lid placed over the tray. The document is then exposed for a period of time to the iodine fumes. The fumes act as a reagent with the oil and sweat residue from the fingerprints. The latent images emerge and can be fixed with silver nitrate. This is all familiar to me; it’s a process similar to developing and fixing an image on a photographic plate. The trick is to get the iodine mixture and exposure time right.” He looked up at Achille. “Is this your only document with the suspect’s fingerprints?”

“At this time, that’s all I’ve got.”

“I see. Well, then, I’d like to run a couple of tests first, using my own prints. I don’t want to muck it up on the first try. And even if I get it right, some or even all your suspect’s prints might be blurred. It depends on how he handled the document.”

Achille nodded his understanding. “Very well, Gilles. Can you have your results at my office by tomorrow morning in time for my meeting with Féraud?”

Gilles winced. “At five A.M. inspector?”

Achille smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m afraid so.”

The photographer clapped the inspector’s shoulder. “That’s all right, my friend. I’ll do my best. No rest for the wicked, eh?”

Achille laughed. “Yes Gilles, Satan never sleeps and neither does the Sûreté.”

Shortly before three A.M., Jojo surfaced from the murky depths of a passageway sandwiched between two tenements. Emerging like a furtive cockroach from a cracked skirting board, he scurried onto the narrow, winding Rue Lepic. Pausing for an instant, he glanced back down the shadowy street in the direction of his flat; as usual, the unimaginative cop hadn’t stirred from his hidey-hole.

Pulling up his collar against the pre-dawn chill and misting drizzle, Jojo sneaked up the street on boots caked with mud from the passageway, toward his alley-way rendezvous. He sensed he was being tailed, but according to his instructions, having evaded the policeman’s notice, he acted as though he were now in the clear.