The First Fingerprint by Xavier-Marie Bonnot Page A

even found some tiny worms from the mediolittoral zone in her thoracic cage. Look at her hands—they were eaten by congers, morays or some other creatures, without big jaws … I can’t date the death accurately. But it was at least a month ago, and more likely a good forty days ago! In other words, around the end of November or the beginning of December. Not before.”
    De Palma jotted down the scientist’s conclusions. The date of death did not ring any bells. He would have to check the missing persons file.
    â€œThere’s something that bothers me,” Mattei went on.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œShe’d buttoned her anorak up wrongly. She’d put the first button in the second hole, and so on. I’ll show you later, in the photographs we took. And she had some pebbles in her right pocket. I put them in the jar over there. Go and have a look.”
    Mattei pointed toward a stainless steel table mounted on wheels. It was covered with small jars containing a variety of objects: sea worms, scraps of cloth, hair … In one of them, the Baron could see some small stones which were almost round and about two centimeters in diameter.
    â€œDo you know what she did for a living?”
    â€œNo. How should I?”
    â€œShe was a lecturer in prehistory, no less.”
    De Palma picked up the coastguard’s report and went through the pages one by one. Christine Autran had been found in almost the same place as the corpse of Franck Luccioni, a small-time thug. Below Le Torpilleur.
    â€œThat’s odd,” he said.
    â€œWhat is?” Mattei asked.
    â€œShe was found in the same place as Franck Luccioni. Do you remember that little crook?”
    â€œPerfectly. But his was an accidental death. There were no traces of any violence. Nothing at all. Drowning preceded by a serious decompression accident. I think he must have stayed on the seabed for too long. His cylinders were empty and he had to come back up too fast, without being able to respect the decompression stops. A classic accident that bad divers have. A good diver would never do that. Never.”

5.
    â€œI’m from the police, Madame,” the Baron called out. “It’s about your upstairs neighbor. Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”
    Yvonne Barbier had just come home from the market when de Palma rang on her doorbell. It took her an excessively long time to answer. He could sense her presence behind the door, peering through the spyhole. Then the door was opened on its nickel chain. De Palma saw the made-up face of an eighty-year-old woman, one of those grannies with real character who spend hours preening their seniority in chic boutiques in the city center. He produced his tricolor card and raised it to her eye-level.
    â€œCome in, come in …”
    In the huge, sumptuous flat dating from the late nineteenth century there hung a slight fragrance of ilang-ilang mingled with bergamot, marzipan and vetiver. It was the smell of dated opulence, with an acidic tinge of sweat and vegetable soup. Yvonne had been beautiful once and she still maintained that presence, those graceful gestures and the natural charm of an attractive person. Her faded, turquoise eyes gave her sharp stare an infinite depth, and there was something astonishingly young about them. With a broad smile, she showed the officer into the salon. He sat down on a pink velvet sofa, in front of the piano, a Pleyel mini grand, on which, in a silver frame, stood a photograph of a severe-looking man. The half-closed shutters let in two shafts of golden light which cut their way obliquely through the air. Several canvases by minor masters decorated the walls, which had the sheen of age. One of them, in strong red and black blocks, with no half-tones, depicted a corrida: a signature and a grandiloquent dedication, presumably from theartist, showed prominently in the bottom right-hand corner of the painting.
    Yvonne peered at her