evidence in a criminal case. But he had read a recently published paper by the English anthropologist Sir Francis Galton which made a persuasive argument for the unique individuality of prints and set forth a method for categorizing them that could prove useful in criminal cases. Achille lowered his glass, turned and looked up at Gilles. “Can you get a sharp image of the fingerprints?”
Gilles shook his head. “That’d be awfully tricky out here. I might do better back at headquarters with a change of lenses, faster plates, filters, and flash powder.”
“Very well, please do that.” Achille got up and circled the manhole cover. Something half-hidden by the cover caught his eye. Crouching, he spotted a cigarette butt smoked almost out of existence. “Gilles,” he cried, “Have you been smoking?”
“Of course not, Inspector; I know better than that.”
Achille lifted the butt with tweezers. He sniffed and eyed it carefully. “No, this was smoked some time ago. If it was the gendarme there’ll be hell to pay. Where’s Rodin?”
“Over there, by the meat wagon, talking to Rousseau and the Morgue attendant.”
Achille whistled to get the sergeant’s attention and then gestured for him to come over. “Hey Rodin, look at this cigarette butt. Have any of your men smoked around the barricade?”
“No Inspector, they’re under strict orders not to.”
“Do you think one of the night soil collectors could have dropped it?”
Rodin shook his head. “No, that’s a gentleman’s smoke. The ladies like them too.”
Achille smiled at the sergeant. “That’s very perceptive, Rodin. Have you ever thought of coming to work for us?”
The sergeant smiled broadly. “That’s kind of you Monsieur, but I’m quite happy where I am.”
“Well, that’s our loss, I guess.” Achille had learned that it paid to be friendly with the gendarmerie. They did their duty, but they would go the extra mile for an Inspector they liked. “Could you please ask Inspector Rousseau to come over here?” Rodin went to fetch Achille’s partner.
Achille dropped the cigarette butt in an evidence bag. He made a final inspection of the area. As he walked the perimeter of the barricade, he noticed a small pile of dung near the curb. It was not fresh and he had noticed it before, but now he suddenly realized he had missed something. One of the droppings had been flattened, or squashed. He knelt down, and almost stuck his nose in it.
“What’s the matter, professor, aren’t they feeding you enough at home?”
Achille turned and looked up at Rousseau’s grinning moon face. “Don’t you see it, Rousseau?”
“Yes, professor, I see it. It’s a pile of horseshit. Lots of them just like it on the streets of Paris.”
Achille sighed in exasperation. “It’s a shoeprint! My God, how could we have missed it?”
Rousseau lowered his bulk to a squat. “Damn it, you’re right.” Then he sprang up and pointed to a few prints on the pavement. “Look here and here, and then they stop; but all in the direction of the cesspit.”
“We have something, Rousseau. Our man left the sidewalk here, carrying the body. He stepped in the dung, stopped to scrape off the sole, and then continued on to the cesspit. Look, I can draw a line from here to where I picked up the cigarette butt.”
Thoughts whirled round Achille’s brain: Did he carry the body from one of these houses or did he use a vehicle of some sort? He couldn’t have carried it far; someone would have noticed. But there are no more footprints, and if he used a cart or wagon there are no marks, nothing discernible on the pavement.
Achille pulled out a ruler and measured the shoeprint and the length of the stride. They belonged to a very small individual. But the handprints were large, and he would have been strong enough to carry the torso, lift the manhole cover, and stuff the remains into the cesspit. Achille remembered the sergeant’s description of Toulouse-Lautrec:
Gilles shook his head. “That’d be awfully tricky out here. I might do better back at headquarters with a change of lenses, faster plates, filters, and flash powder.”
“Very well, please do that.” Achille got up and circled the manhole cover. Something half-hidden by the cover caught his eye. Crouching, he spotted a cigarette butt smoked almost out of existence. “Gilles,” he cried, “Have you been smoking?”
“Of course not, Inspector; I know better than that.”
Achille lifted the butt with tweezers. He sniffed and eyed it carefully. “No, this was smoked some time ago. If it was the gendarme there’ll be hell to pay. Where’s Rodin?”
“Over there, by the meat wagon, talking to Rousseau and the Morgue attendant.”
Achille whistled to get the sergeant’s attention and then gestured for him to come over. “Hey Rodin, look at this cigarette butt. Have any of your men smoked around the barricade?”
“No Inspector, they’re under strict orders not to.”
“Do you think one of the night soil collectors could have dropped it?”
Rodin shook his head. “No, that’s a gentleman’s smoke. The ladies like them too.”
Achille smiled at the sergeant. “That’s very perceptive, Rodin. Have you ever thought of coming to work for us?”
The sergeant smiled broadly. “That’s kind of you Monsieur, but I’m quite happy where I am.”
“Well, that’s our loss, I guess.” Achille had learned that it paid to be friendly with the gendarmerie. They did their duty, but they would go the extra mile for an Inspector they liked. “Could you please ask Inspector Rousseau to come over here?” Rodin went to fetch Achille’s partner.
Achille dropped the cigarette butt in an evidence bag. He made a final inspection of the area. As he walked the perimeter of the barricade, he noticed a small pile of dung near the curb. It was not fresh and he had noticed it before, but now he suddenly realized he had missed something. One of the droppings had been flattened, or squashed. He knelt down, and almost stuck his nose in it.
“What’s the matter, professor, aren’t they feeding you enough at home?”
Achille turned and looked up at Rousseau’s grinning moon face. “Don’t you see it, Rousseau?”
“Yes, professor, I see it. It’s a pile of horseshit. Lots of them just like it on the streets of Paris.”
Achille sighed in exasperation. “It’s a shoeprint! My God, how could we have missed it?”
Rousseau lowered his bulk to a squat. “Damn it, you’re right.” Then he sprang up and pointed to a few prints on the pavement. “Look here and here, and then they stop; but all in the direction of the cesspit.”
“We have something, Rousseau. Our man left the sidewalk here, carrying the body. He stepped in the dung, stopped to scrape off the sole, and then continued on to the cesspit. Look, I can draw a line from here to where I picked up the cigarette butt.”
Thoughts whirled round Achille’s brain: Did he carry the body from one of these houses or did he use a vehicle of some sort? He couldn’t have carried it far; someone would have noticed. But there are no more footprints, and if he used a cart or wagon there are no marks, nothing discernible on the pavement.
Achille pulled out a ruler and measured the shoeprint and the length of the stride. They belonged to a very small individual. But the handprints were large, and he would have been strong enough to carry the torso, lift the manhole cover, and stuff the remains into the cesspit. Achille remembered the sergeant’s description of Toulouse-Lautrec:
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