Rousseau clenched his fists and glared at Jojo. “You little rat!” he growled.

“Control yourself, Inspector,” the Magistrate admonished.

Rousseau stared at his shoes and mumbled an apology. “Pardon me, Monsieur Magistrate.” The room was silent except for the ticking of the clock. Then the Magistrate ordered: “Look at me, Rossini.”

Jojo raised his head slowly. There were tears in his eyes.

“Do you think you could identify the woman?”

“I . . . I’d recognize her voice, Monsieur Magistrate.”

“What if you heard her speak and she were dressed in her disguise?”

“Yes Monsieur; I’m sure I could identify her.”

Leblanc nodded. Then: “Guard, you may return the prisoner to his cell.” He waited for Jojo, the guard, and the clerk to leave before addressing Chief Bertillon. “M. Bertillon, is it possible you made a mistake in identifying the handwriting on the letter to the newspaper?”

His customary self-confidence shaken for the moment, Bertillon replied, “It’s possible, M. Leblanc. The woman might have done a good job copying Collingwood’s handwriting. It’s happened before.”

He turned next to Achille. “Inspector Lefebvre, did you have any reason to suspect a woman was actively involved in this case?”

Achille frowned and shook his head. “No, Monsieur, I did not. I was aware that a wealthy American woman, Mlle Endicott, had formed a relationship with Sir Henry, but my chief concern was for her safety. Frankly, I was shocked when Jojo implicated her in the crime. Even now, I’m not convinced she’s a willing participant. Perhaps Sir Henry has coerced her into criminal complicity?”

A wry smile spread over Rousseau’s fleshy lips. He remained prudently silent while thinking, A nice excuse for missing a suspect. So the professor’s not perfect, after all.

The Chief noticed Rousseau’s knowing smirk and sensed Achille’s discomfort. He immediately intervened on behalf of his favorite detective. “Gentlemen, this new twist in the case has taken us all by surprise. I say we bring them both in for questioning. At the very least, the woman could be a key witness in our case against Sir Henry. Anyway, the Magistrate will soon get to the bottom of it.”

The Magistrate nodded his agreement. “Very well; I’m issuing a warrant for Sir Henry Collingwood’s arrest. The sooner he’s locked up and questioned the better. I’ll also issue a warrant for Mlle Endicott. And pick up Claude Duval, the night porter at the hotel who allegedly referred her to Jojo. If both he and Jojo identify Mlle Endicott as this mysterious woman posing as a man—” The Magistrate paused a moment before continuing: “Well then, gentlemen, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

16

OCTOBER 22, EVENING

Féraud and Achille arrived at the Gare de Lyon shortly after sunset. They hustled through the crowded entrance hall to the train shed where the passengers queued. The inspectors officially jumped the queue, flashed their credentials, and moved on rapidly in the direction of a gated platform guarded by a brigadier. The guard saw them coming and looked up at the station clock. They were right on schedule. He checked their tricolor badges, saluted, opened the gate and passed them through.

A hissing, chuffing engine with one passenger car attached waited for them up the platform. An attendant spotted them and opened the compartment door. He handed a telegram to Féraud. “We just received a wire from the Prefecture of Police. You should arrive at the station in forty minutes. A brigadier will be there with a diligence to take you and Inspector Lefebvre into town.”

Féraud stuffed the envelope into his pocket and thanked the attendant. Then he and Achille stepped up into the compartment and took their seats opposite each other, the attendant locked the door, and signaled the engine driver with a wave. The engineer checked his pressure gauges, released the brake, opened the throttle, and gave a blast on the whistle. High above the platform, in the control tower, switches were thrown; the engine chugged and rumbled its way slowly up the siding, gaining speed as it entered the great iron spiderweb of rails and switches that shunted and shuttled trains into, out of, and around the enormous iron and glass shed.

As the train exited the station, Achille said, “This might seem odd, Chief, but all things considered I feel sorry for Rousseau. It’s too bad he couldn’t come with us and see the case through to the end.”

Féraud shook his head and smiled wryly. “You’re much too generous, Achille. I’ve known Rousseau for more than twenty years. He was a good detective, but this final blunder has ended his career. He’s off the case, and I expect to see his resignation on my desk when we return to headquarters. Rousseau let that little shit Jojo make a fool of him. I won’t be too hard on him for old times’ sake, but he’s lost face with the brigade; he’s finished, end of story.”

Achille glanced down at his folded hands. After a moment he looked up with a troubled frown. “I completely missed the woman, Chief. I must take blame for that, although I still doubt she’s a willing participant in the murder. Perhaps she’s just in love and covering up for her lover?”

Féraud laughed. “Cherchez la femme! You’re a romantic, Achille. At any rate, I guess that old adage will take on a new meaning for you after this case. Seriously my boy, you did splendid work. I’m proud of you, and it will be reflected in my report. After all, you were right about Jojo and Sir Henry. The clown is singing like a canary. We’ll pick up the Englishman and the American woman, turn them over to the Magistrate for questioning, and let him sort things out.”

Oblivious to the car’s lurching and noise, Féraud stretched out, yawned, and pulled his bowler down over his eyes. “I suggest you try to get forty winks. It may be your last chance for some time.” With that pithy remark the chief drifted off into oblivion. Like the Great Napoleon, the chief was famous for his anytime, anywhere cat naps.

How can he sleep at a time like this? Achille admired his chief’s sang-froid. What would I do in his position? Could he take on Féraud’s job? Could he manage the Sûreté or would he collapse under the pressure?

He worried about his family. Were they all right? Adele was still sleeping when he left the apartment at four A.M. He had sent a message telling her he would not be home that evening. It was not the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

The fact that his forensic investigation had focused his attention on Sir Henry and Jojo to the exclusion of other possibilities troubled him, despite the Chief’s reassuring words. Virginie died of a morphine overdose. But who administered the fatal injection? Sir Henry performed the operation and the post-mortem amputations, but was he the murderer? Mlle Endicott had a motive. She was jealous of what she believed was Virginie’s relationship with Marcia Brownlow and perhaps of her relationship with Sir Henry, too. And she could have had the opportunity when Virginie was lying helpless and already sedated. Why didn’t I question her? Was it some pre-conceived notion that women like her don’t commit such crimes? If so, it’s a flaw in my thinking that must be corrected if I’m to excel as a detective.

The whistle shrieked as the train entered a tunnel, the rumbling of steel wheels on rails at forty-five miles per hour echoing on brick walls, the incessant chugging, the pounding of pistons in cylinders, firebox flashing in the darkness, the rush and roar as the engine streaked out of the man-made cavern into a cutting. On and on they raced, beneath the streets of the brightly lit city, past the fortifications into the suburbs, across viaducts and embankments, into the dark, peaceful countryside of the Île-de-France, toward a rendezvous with a murderer. But who was the real killer? Were they accomplices in the killing, or did one commit the crime and the other merely act as an accessory in a coverup? There were still too many pieces missing from the puzzle; he would not jump to conclusions. As the Chief said, such vexing lacunae would be filled in during the interrogations. Or would they?