Féraud leaned back in his chair while weighing the pros and cons of using the ragpickers for surveillance. He had always trusted Achille’s judgment, but he worried that the young inspector was too committed to his theory and may have been overly influenced by Delphine Lacroix. Finally he said, “I think your evidence against Sir Henry is compelling, though I don’t know what the juge d’instruction will make of the fingerprints. Still, all things considered, I’m willing to bring the Englishman in for questioning. Do you have any suggestions?”

Achille had a plan, but he knew it was a gamble. “Chief, we’d have a stronger case if we could get a confession from Jojo. He’d lead us to Sir Henry in exchange for a reduced sentence. I’m sure he’d cooperate if he thought he was facing the guillotine or life in Le Bagne.”

Féraud grunted in frustration. “But what have you got on him besides conjecture?”

Achille replied patiently. “First, we have the shoeprints. They’re a close match to the measurements in Jojo’s records. We could bring him in for questioning on that alone, measure his feet and his gait and make the comparison; I believe Chief Bertillon would back me up. In addition we have fingerprints taken at the scene, his evasion of our surveillance, and eyewitnesses to the suspicious meetings at the old mill. If the fingerprints and shoeprints match, he’s the accomplice, and I believe he’ll crack under pressure.”

Féraud frowned and began a washing motion with his hands, usually a bad sign. “You’re counting on Jojo’s fingerprints and shoeprints matching what you got at the crime scene. As for the meetings at the mill, you have the word of two ragpickers by way of Delphine Lacroix, which directly contradicts one of our men’s eyewitness reports.”

The telephone rang. Féraud lifted the receiver. “Chief Inspector Féraud.” He listened for a moment, then: “Yes; yes; I see.” He glanced at Achille with a worried frown. “Yes, Inspector Lefebvre is here in my office. I’ll send him out directly with the photographer. Have you set up a barricade? Good.” Féraud hung up. “That was Sergeant Rodin. Rousseau’s man found a neatly severed female head wrapped in a muddy cloth. At about three A.M. this morning a ragpicker dumped the head in a poubelle on the Rue Lepic, near Jojo’s flat. They suspect Moïse Gunzberg; Rousseau’s already working with the police to track him down. Well Achille, I guess that blows a hole in your theory?”

Achille remained cool; he spoke calmly and met Féraud’s piercing eyes with a steady gaze. “Not necessarily, chief. I’ll fetch Gilles and get to the scene as soon as possible. When I’m done, I’ll take the head to the Morgue for identification. We should know soon enough if it’s Virginie Menard. If it’s another woman—” Achille checked himself. “Please notify Chief Bertillon.”

Féraud shook his head and muttered, “This is the devil of a case.” Then: “I’ll do that, and report back to me immediately when you’ve finished with Bertillon.” As Achille opened the door, the chief added: “If it’s a second murder, the press will be screaming ‘Ripper’. If that happens, we’ll be up to our necks in shit.”

Achille glanced back at Féraud, replied with a determined nod, turned, and walked out into the hallway.

Shortly after dawn, Achille and Gilles met Sergeant Rodin and the Morgue attendant at the crime scene barricade. The cloth-wrapped head had been left on the pavement near the poubelle in front of Jojo’s flat. Achille knelt by the dust-bin; he examined the muddy fingerprints on the cloth and a faint trail of shoeprints. He looked up at Rodin: “They were clumsier this time, sergeant.”

“They, Inspector? You don’t think Gunzberg was alone?”

Achille rose to face Rodin. While dusting some dirt off his jacket he replied, “I don’t suspect Moïse Gunzberg. I believe he was set up. What do you know about him?”

The sergeant pursed his lips and scratched his beard as he pondered the question. “Not a bad kid, really. There was some trouble with his license a couple of years ago, but Le Boudin squared it all right. Anyway, Gunzberg works this street regularly, and your man shadowing Jojo is a witness. Rousseau plans to question everyone on this block, including Jojo.”

Achille nodded, inwardly wincing at the thought of Jojo as witness. He caught the sergeant’s attention with a sweeping gesture. “Do you see the muddy shoeprints?”

Rodin glanced round. “Yes, quite a trail of them. You really can see them clearly since the sun came up.”

“Yes, and there’re muddy handprints on the cloth. The stuff’s quite sticky and it dried nicely. Where in this neighborhood would someone pick up all that mud?”

“Oh, there are plenty of unpaved alleys and passages hereabouts.”

Gilles joined them. He smiled at Rodin. “Excuse me, Sergeant.” Then to Achille: “I’ve got some good photographs, Inspector. Your suspect tracked plenty of mud around the scene, that’s for sure.”

“If I can locate where he stepped in that muck maybe I can get a good cast of the impression. Anyway, please tell the attendant he can take the head now. We’ve got some more work to do around here, and then we’ll follow him to the Morgue.”

Gilles nodded. “All right, Inspector. I suppose you got a good look at her forehead?”

“Yes, Gilles, I did. I’ll discuss that with Chief Bertillon at the Morgue.”

Gilles understood from the inspector’s terse reply that the mark on the forehead was something not to be bandied about. He changed the subject. “So where do you want me to photograph next?”

Achille glanced up at the garret window. Is Jojo watching us? Achille looked back at Gilles. “Gather your equipment and follow me.” Then to Rodin: “Sergeant, I’d like you to accompany us.”

As soon as Gilles returned with his camera, tripod, and plates, he and Sergeant Rodin followed Achille into the narrow passage between Jojo’s tenement and the next building. A few paces in, Achille halted and motioned toward the rooftops. “Have you seen Jojo perform at the circus, Sergeant?”

“Indeed I have, Inspector.”

“Do you think he’s capable of making the leap from the roof of his tenement and then catching hold onto the roof of the adjacent building?”

Rodin looked up four stories, raising his right hand to shade his eyes from the early morning sun. “I believe he could do it easily, Inspector.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if we found some shoeprints up there. We’ll check later.”

Gilles sighed audibly.

They followed the passage until it ended in a cramped, unpaved back alley, its borders demarcated by the rear of the building and a high wooden fence. Achille pointed up to the guttering. “Can you see how someone with Jojo’s skill could work his way round to the drainpipe without being observed from the street?”

“Of course,” the sergeant replied. “That’s a typical cat burglar’s trick.”

Achille appreciated Rodin’s perspicacious response. “Too bad Rousseau’s man lacks your perception and experience, Sergeant.” They turned right into the alley, Achille cautioning Rodin and Gilles to be careful not to step on shoeprints. As they walked up the path, a large watchdog started barking, growling, and thumping its bulk against the other side of the fence.

“That’ll get the neighbors waked up,” the sergeant observed.

Bringing up the rear, Gilles cursed under the burden of his equipment and almost stumbled as he skirted round a bloated rat carcass crawling with maggots. The muddy alley was littered with rubble, rubbish, and rank with weeds. Flies swarmed and buzzed; the sharp stench of backed-up sewage and rotting trash permeated the stagnant air. “My God, the stink,” Gilles muttered. “It’s like an open sewer running through a graveyard; makes you want to puke. I wouldn’t be surprised if we discovered a decomposing body or two.”