A thick cloud cover occluded the moon and stars; the pale glow of flickering gas lamps marked the way uphill with tiny points of light, growing smaller and dimmer in the distance until they merged near the summit in a dull, diminutive vanishing point. A few meters from his destination a yowling black cat leapt from its poubelle and scampered across his path. Startled, Jojo stopped and muttered a curse. A bad omen, he thought before walking on.

A few steps past his encounter with the foreboding feline, he turned into the alley. Several paces on, he heard a muffled hissing from a dark passageway. Approaching cautiously, he noticed his confederate’s eyes glowing beneath the pulled-down brim of his slouch hat. The man motioned for Jojo to join him in his hiding place.

“The kid’s right behind me,” Jojo whispered.

The man nodded. He clutched a bottle and a handkerchief in his gloved hands. “You grab him and I’ll chloroform him,” he murmured.

Moïse turned the corner, walked a few paces, and halted. Wary of danger, he stared up the dark alley. Seeing nothing, he sensed trouble. Damn! It’s a trap. He started to turn round, as if he were about to run back to the Rue Lepic.

“Now, before he bolts!” the man snarled.

Jojo sprang from his hole, ran a step or two, tackled Moïse from behind, and threw him to the ground. Straddling the youth’s back, Jojo grabbed him by the chin hairs and yanked his head up. His partner covered the squirming boy’s face with the chloroform-soaked handkerchief. Moïse struggled for less than half a minute. His eyes closed, his body grew limp, and then lay still.

“He’ll be out for at least ten minutes. Quickly now, put on his jacket and hat, and then we’ll throw him into the cart.”

Jojo switched clothes. He lifted Moïse under the arms while his partner grasped the boy by the ankles. They carried him to the chiffonier’s cart and hid him under a bunch of rags. Jojo threw his jacket on top of the pile. The man handed Jojo a round, cloth-wrapped package. Jojo gripped it with hands muddied from his scuffle in the unpaved alley.

“You haven’t much time ‘til the kid comes round.”

“What about the other one?”

“Don’t bother about him. He’s sleeping it off in a passage down near the boulevard. Remember what I told you. Drop the package in a poubelle near your flat so the cop can see. Then go down the street to the next alley, change back to your jacket, ditch the kid and the cart.”

“And the rest of my money, Monsieur?”

The man glared at him. “You’ll get it soon enough,” he growled. “I’ll send you a message. Now go!”

Jojo nodded with a sly grin, grabbed the cart handles with his powerful hands, and pulled his burden back out onto the street. Iron-shod wooden wheels rattled and rumbled on the cobblestones, announcing the ragman’s approach to the sleeping neighborhood. As he neared his flat, he spotted a poubelle within the shadowing flatfoot’s line of sight.

He stopped, lifted the cart’s handles, tilting it back gradually so as not to upset his unconscious freight onto the pavement, and then took out the package. Jojo casually walked over to a poubelle, opened the lid, and dumped the object into the rubbish. Then he returned to the cart and continued rattling and rumbling down the street.

The covert policeman’s eyes followed Jojo until he disappeared from view. Now why would a rag-picker dump something into a poubelle? That puzzling thought rattled round his stolid brain for a couple of hours while his feet barely shuffled and his eyes remained dutifully glued to Jojo’s flat.

14

OCTOBER 22, MORNING

THE MAGISTRATE’S SWORD

You see, Chief, these are the patterns Galton identified and categorized. All fingerprints fit within one of five types, but according to Galton’s calculations, the odds against two persons having the exact same lines are so overwhelming we can say duplication is impossible.” Achille pointed to a fingerprint chart set on a table in Féraud’s office, next to Gilles’s photographs. They viewed the evidence by gaslight supplemented by the illumination of two kerosene lamps and reflectors. “On each finger there are many lines organized in patterns around a nucleus, and over that central point are one or two secondary points. Following Galton’s method, I’ve identified two distinctive types found at the crime scene. Gilles did a fine job photographing the prints on the cloth and the enhanced latent prints on the cigarette case.”

Féraud examined the photographs under a magnifying glass. “Yes, Achille, I can see how one set of prints matches.”

“Now, please look at the prints on Sir Henry Collingwood’s letter and compare them to the prints on the cloth, cigarettes, and cigarette case.”

Féraud spent a few minutes examining the fingerprints. Finally, he put down the magnifying glass and looked at Achille. “I can see how the prints on the letter match the prints on the opium cigarettes and the blood-spattered cloth. And there’s clearly a different set on the case.”

Achille nodded confidently. “That’s right, Chief. I believe the other fingerprints are those of Sir Henry’s accomplice, an individual of short stature who would match the shoeprints I found at the scene. Lautrec has been ruled out; I believe Joseph Rossini’s our second man.”

Féraud gestured to Achille and returned to his desk. Once seated, he said, “Let’s review what you’ve got on Sir Henry and Jojo.”

Achille took his seat across from the chief and began his summary of the evidence. “First, there’s the victim’s body. According to Dr. Péan, the pathologist, and Chief Bertillon, the suspect was a physician of considerable skill. The head and limbs were surgically amputated, and the uterus removed by a rarely used technique. In fact, our foremost gynecological surgeon, Dr. Péan, has only performed the operation twice. Sir Henry witnessed one of the operations, and he specializes in gynecology.

“Second, Sir Henry is the only physician attending Dr. Péan’s clinic who had relations with the victim. That relationship has been confirmed by Delphine Lacroix. Moreover, I have evidence that Sir Henry met with the victim at a hotel in Montmartre the day before she disappeared.

“Third, according to Mlle Lacroix, the Gunzberg brothers, chiffoniers who work for Le Boudin, have been shadowing Jojo. They’ve. . . ”

Féraud raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t tell me that,” he interrupted.

“No Chief, I just found out about it when I interviewed Mlle Lacroix. I want them to continue the surveillance and report directly to me. The man Rousseau put on Jojo’s tail is incompetent.”

Féraud eyed him with a skeptical squint. “What makes you think that?”

“According to Mlle Lacroix, the Gunzbergs shadowed Jojo to an abandoned mill near the summit of the Butte. He meets an individual there, and they pass notes to each other at the Circus Fernando and a tobacconist’s shop near the corner of Rue Lepic and the boulevard. The chiffoniers can’t identify the man, at least not yet, but I believe he’s Sir Henry Collingwood. It fits with my theory.”

Féraud smiled wryly. “Yes Achille, your theory. So to make the evidence support your theory you’ll take the word of a slut and a pair of ragpickers over that of a brother officer?”

“Remember, Chief, Jojo’s an acrobat. He could easily evade an inattentive detective by climbing to the roof, leaping to the next building, and then shinnying down a drainpipe. I recall that happening in another case involving a trapeze artist.”

Féraud shook his head. “Yes, I remember the case well. But you’re forgetting something. Delphine has a grudge against Jojo. After all, he was her pimp and he beat her up.”

Achille replied firmly. “I found her credible, Chief. I believe she wants justice for her friend, and is willing to assist in our investigation.”