“But in this instance the perpetrator has condemned himself. By attempting a second diversion he has provided us with additional evidence that will convict him and send him to the guillotine. Following the trail of persuasive facts, and discounting the diversions, I conclude the perpetrator is Sir Henry Collingwood and Joseph Rossini is his accomplice.”

Féraud smiled broadly. “M. Leblanc, Chief Bertillon and I agree that much of the credit in this case should go to Inspector Lefebvre.”

“Yes Chief Inspector. Aside from M. Duroc’s blunders, I’d say your bureau has performed splendidly.”

At that moment, both Rousseau and Duroc would have gladly slunk out the door on all fours. Achille felt sorry for them.

“Gentlemen,” Leblanc continued, “I’m going to issue a warrant for Collingwood’s arrest. However, before doing so I want to question Rossini. He might provide useful information if he thinks it will save his neck, and the prosecutor can use him as a witness against Sir Henry. Do we have Collingwood under surveillance?”

“Yes M. Leblanc,” Achille replied. “He’s registered at the Grand Hotel, but he’s currently staying at an auberge in Moret-sur-Loing. There’s an American woman with him, Mlle Endicott. I’ve wired the Prefecture of Police to keep an eye on them. We don’t believe she’s in danger, at least not yet. She’s very wealthy, and it’s likely Sir Henry intends to propose marriage. In my opinion, the suspect is more likely to choose his victims from among women without money, property, or social connections.”

The Magistrate shook his head and frowned. “Ah, the woman complicates things. You’ll need to be very careful when making the arrest. You and Chief Féraud should go there at once to supervise.”

“We’ve already made arrangements with the gendarmerie. The Chief and I will leave by special train as soon as you issue the warrant.”

“Very well; let’s bring in Rossini.” The Magistrate glared at Duroc. “Your presence is no longer required.” The chastened detective bowed curtly and left without a word. Duroc would spend the rest of the day exploring opportunities in the Colonial police. Then to Bertillon: “Chief Inspector Bertillon, I want to thank you and your department, for your expert services and advice in this case. I invite you to remain for the interrogation, unless you have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Thank you, M. Leblanc, I’ll stay. Jojo’s an interesting criminal type, a prime example of atavism, a primitive throwback to an earlier stage of human evolution. His measurements and photographs have already made a useful contribution to my rogues’ gallery.”

Leblanc nodded. “The rascal’s where he belongs—in a cage. At any rate, let’s see what the creature has to say for himself.”

A burly guard brought in the manacled prisoner followed by a clerk to record the proceedings in shorthand. The guard kept Jojo standing until the Magistrate gave him permission to be seated. Jojo shook visibly; sweat beaded on his forehead. His eyes shifted round the room from one stern face to the next. The inspectors reminded him of the witnesses to an execution; the juge d’instruction displayed the cool detachment, efficiency, and grim visage of the public executioner; the clerk seemed like the executioner’s assistant.

Leblanc’s deep, powerful voice echoed through the room as he summarized the evidence against the prisoner. Finally, in summation: “According to law, as an accomplice to murder you are equally guilty and subject to the same penalty as the perpetrator. Have you anything to say before I turn the case over to the prosecutor?”

Jojo’s lips moved but he couldn’t speak. His mouth dried; his throat constricted.

The Magistrate grinned triumphantly. “You seem to be having some difficulty speaking. Would you like a glass of water and a cigarette?”

Jojo nodded his head rapidly. Leblanc gestured to the guard, who poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the Magistrate’s desk and handed it to Jojo, who took it between his shackled hands. He gulped the water, coughed, cleared his throat, and drained the glass. “Thank you, Monsieur,” he grunted. The guard took the empty glass and produced a cigarette and a box of matches. He placed the cigarette between Jojo’s lips and gave him a light. Jojo inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.

“That’s better, eh? Now then, Rossini, is there something you want to say to me? Remember, my boy, confession’s good for the soul.” Leblanc gazed at Jojo with what might have easily been mistaken for a benign smile.

Jojo lifted his manacled hands and removed the cigarette. He had already decided that cooperation was the only way to save himself. “Yes, Monsieur Magistrate. I performed services for the American lady.”

There was a shocked silence in the room as the Inspectors and Magistrate stared in bewilderment at each other before focusing all their attention back on Jojo.

The Magistrate continued. “American lady, you say? Do you know her name?”

“No Monsieur, I do not, but Claude Duval, the night porter at the Grand Hotel, sent her to me. He might know. She wore a disguise, a false beard and glasses, but I could tell her nationality from the accent. As for her sex, let’s just say I could tell. But I played along with her. After all, she paid well and I had no reason to question her masquerade.”

“How and when did this woman first contact you?”

Jojo thought a moment before replying, “That was Sunday, the 11th of this month. She came to my flat in Montmartre.”

“You mentioned ‘services.’ What was the nature of these ‘services’? Why would this woman come to you?”

Jojo took another drag on the cigarette before answering. “At first, nothing more than to locate a girl, Virginie Ménard. Then later, there were other things.” He looked down at his trembling hands.

“What were the ‘other things’?”

Without looking up, Jojo said, “On occasion I’ve been known to dispose of things people wanted to be rid of. The lady must have learned about my—disposal service.”

The guard suppressed a laugh and drew a reproving glare from the Magistrate.

Leblanc frowned; his eyes hardened, his voice regained its harshness. “The ‘things’ you disposed of were human bodies and body parts, including the torso and head of Virginie Ménard. When did you first perform that little service?”

“I put the headless torso in the cesspit early the morning of the 15th, before the night soil collectors made their rounds.”

“I see. And you left the torso in the cesspit along with a gold cigarette case you stole from M. de Toulouse-Lautrec in an attempt to fix the blame on him.”

Jojo looked up with alarm. “Oh no, Monsieur, I didn’t steal it. That was the Englishman’s job. I swear it!”

“What Englishman? Can you give me his name?”

“Sir Henry Collingwood. I believe he and the lady were . . . are intimate. Anyway, they both wanted to get rid of the . . . the body.”

The Magistrate stared at Jojo in stunned silence. Despite his many years of experience with criminals from all walks of life, he found it hard to believe that a wealthy socialite could be involved in such a brutal crime. Nevertheless, he would follow the evidence wherever it might lead. After a moment, he proceeded in a cold, accusatory tone. “Very well, Rossini, when that first scheme failed, you threw the victim’s head in a dust-bin and tried to frame Moïse Gunzberg as an agent of the Jews and Freemasons!”

Jojo’s eyes widened; his whole body shook and broke out in a sweat. “I swear before God, Monsieur, I had nothing to do with the girl’s death or the schemes! I just did as the lady told me. I . . . I disposed of things and. . . .”

The Magistrate’s eyes narrowed; his voice lowered to an audible whisper. “And what else, Jojo?”

Jojo looked down at his chained hands. “I . . . helped her ambush and chloroform the kid. Then I changed clothes with Gunzberg, put him in the ragman’s cart, and dumped the package in the poubelle to fool the cop watching my flat. And there was more.” Jojo glanced fearfully at Rousseau before continuing: “She told me to feed false information to Inspector Rousseau, to stir up trouble between him and Inspector Lefebvre.”