Lombroso, the celebrated Italian criminologist, believed the criminal was a definite anthropological type bearing physical and mental stigmata, the product of heredity, atavism, and degeneracy. Could you read evil in a face, a body, mannerisms, and gestures? Would the man Achille was looking for be simian and grotesque like Lautrec? Perhaps alienation from decent society had motivated him to destroy beauty in revenge for the rejection brought on by his deformity. Achille pondered another literary association, Hugo’s hideously deformed Quasimodo. According to Lombroso’s theory of criminal physiognomy, Quasimodo would have been a prime suspect in a Ripper-type murder investigation. Nevertheless, Hugo had portrayed the hunchback as a noble, self-sacrificing character who loved the beautiful Esmeralda. But then, Hugo was a great Romantic of the previous generation, not a modern scientist.

He recalled something from his religious instruction that had troubled him since his youth: Intra feces et urinas nominem natus est—Man is born between feces and urine. Achille thought that a singularly offensive way of saying we were born in sin and must be ritually cleansed by baptism. But he would not have dared express his opinion to the brother who had taught him the religious adage. At any rate, the odious quote brought to mind another literary association, again with Zola. Achille recalled a satirical cartoon reference to Nana, in which the author presented his protagonist as Venus rising from a chamber pot. The infamous courtesan had, like The Great Stink, arisen from the sewers of Paris. She was disease carrying excrement behind a façade of female beauty, polluting society and ultimately leading to the humiliating defeat of 1871. Achille remembered Zola’s metaphor, Nana’s horrible death from smallpox; corruption oozed from her countless festering sores while beneath her window jubilant soldiers on their way to the debacle marched past crowds cheering, “On to Berlin!”

“Monsieur, we’ve found something!”

Achille stopped pondering and ran to the vat. One of the workers had fished out a shiny object and set it on a table; Achille put on a pair of rubber gloves and examined it. It was a gold cigarette case, monogrammed with an ancient coat of arms. He opened the case, and found three cigarettes.

Toulouse-Lautrec? But this is too obvious. He might as well have left his carte-de-visite. Achille took out a magnifying glass and examined the surface of the cigarette case. There were barely visible fingerprints on both the front and back, and no one had touched the case since it had been dropped in the pit—at least not with their bare hands.

“The Devil!” he exclaimed. A common expression, but under the circumstances he might have meant it literally.

Dr. Péan completed his examination. He walked from the dissection table without uttering a word, and went straight to a washstand where he scrubbed his hands and forearms in chlorinated lime solution. Bertillon and Achille watched silently as the surgeon completed his ablutions with a vigorous application of the nail brush.

After inspecting his hands and fingernails carefully, Péan rolled down his sleeves, fastened his cuffs, and retrieved his frock coat from a peg on the wall. Then he turned to Bertillon and stated matter-of-factly: “Based on the pathologist’s report and my examination of the corpse, I conclude that a vaginal hysterectomy has been performed on this individual, and that the operation was done recently, perhaps within the past few days. Moreover, I concur with the pathologist’s conclusion that the head and limbs were surgically removed. However, I have no way of determining whether or not the hysterectomy contributed to the cause of death. For all we know, the operation might have been performed on a corpse.” Péan stood silently without a gesture, a twitch, or the slightest change in his stony expression.

Achille questioned: “Doctor, do you know of any other surgeon in Paris who performs the vaginal hysterectomy?”

“No, Inspector, to my knowledge I’m the first surgeon in Europe to have used this technique successfully. I have only done this once, and very recently at that. But I assure you, my patient is alive and recovering splendidly.” Péan paused. Then: “Am I under suspicion?”

The tension in the dissecting room was electric. Bertillon, as the senior man, answered immediately: “Of course not, Doctor Péan. However, we must ask questions, and we greatly appreciate your cooperation.”

Bertillon’s response eased the tension—somewhat. “I understand gentlemen, and I shall do what I can to assist in your investigation.”

“That is most kind of you, doctor,” Achille said respectfully. “You’ve indicated you performed this operation just once. Can you tell us when?”

“Yes, Inspector, I operated Wednesday afternoon, the 14th. It’s documented in the medical record.”

Achille did a quick mental calculation. According to the night soil collection schedule, the body must have been dumped in the pit between the early morning hours of the 13th and the 15th. That timeframe was consistent with Bertillon and the pathologist’s estimate of the time of death. Could the murderer have witnessed the operation on the afternoon of the 14th and then committed the crime sometime between that afternoon and the early morning hours of the following day? Based on the state of decomposition, death must have occurred on the early end of the scale, either shortly before or immediately after the operation. Then the body could have been disposed of several hours later, under the cover of darkness and at a time when the act was least likely to have been observed.

After a brief pause, Achille continued: “And I assume you also have a record of those attending the operation?”

“Of course, my assistants were in attendance, but I assure you they are young gentlemen of spotless reputation.”

Achille smiled in an attempt to put the surgeon at ease. “I have no reason to doubt that, doctor, but you do understand that I may want to ask them some routine questions?”

“Of course, Inspector, I shall provide you with their names and addresses, as well as the hours when they may be reached at the clinic.”

“Thank you, doctor. I believe there was also a small group of visitors who witnessed the operation?”

“Yes, a few of my trusted colleagues were present, and an artist, Monsieur de Toulouse-Lautrec. He made a sketch of the operation. The gentleman’s cousin is one of my assistants.”

“Do you have a list of the attendees?”

“Yes, Inspector; attendance is by invitation only. My clerk at the clinic keeps a journal containing the names and signatures of those present, the time they arrived as well as the time they signed out.”

“I would very much appreciate having a look at that journal.”

“Very well, you may contact my clerk,” Péan said with a hint of annoyance in his voice. “I’ll leave you a card with his name. Now, if you gentlemen are finished, I must go to the hospital. I have a very busy day ahead of me.”

“Thank you, doctor. I apologize for the inconvenience. I have one more question. In your professional opinion, do you think a layman who witnessed the operation could have performed the surgery?”

Péan’s face reddened; his hands shook visibly, as if the question were a gross insult. “Absolutely not! The amputation of the head and limbs was skilful enough, but the hysterectomy is a procedure of the utmost delicacy. Only the most proficient and experienced surgeons would attempt it.”

Achille was put off by the doctor’s reaction to a perfectly reasonable question. Nevertheless, he smiled and spoke very respectfully in an attempt to placate Péan. “Thank you so much, doctor. You have been most helpful.” He turned to Bertillon. “Do you have any questions for the doctor, Monsieur Bertillon?”