Bertillon frowned and shook his head. “No, that will be all for today.” Smiling sheepishly he turned to the fuming Péan: “Thank you, doctor, for your cooperation. This is a difficult case, and we very much appreciate your assistance. I would ask that you do not discuss this matter with anyone. If your colleagues or employees have questions, you may refer them to Inspector Lefebvre or to me. We will be discreet in our questioning, and would like to keep this matter out of the newspapers for as long as possible.”
“That goes without saying, Monsieur Bertillon. Nobody wants the press poking round in his business. At any rate, I knew your father well; a fine physician. Now I must be off.” Péan turned abruptly to Achille. He pulled out a card and a pencil, scribbled his clerk’s name, and handed it to Achille. “Good-day, Inspector.” Then he grabbed his hat from a rack and left before Achille could reply.
Bertillon’s laboratory was located at the top of a dark, secluded stairway in the Palais de Justice, a grand white marble Second Empire edifice not far from the Morgue. Pale light flooded in through large, grimy rectangular windows; natural light was supplemented by several large, overhead brass gas jets. Long wooden tables in the center of the room were covered in paraphernalia: microscopes, test tubes, alembics, and retorts. Achille and Bertillon conferred in a corner, where they stood next to a cluttered desk and a row of dusty filing cabinets. For the moment, they were alone. Gilles was to meet them shortly to present his photographs of the prints on the cloth.
“I’m afraid Dr. Péan didn’t like my question about a layman performing the surgery. Nevertheless, it’s a question that had to be asked.” Achille frowned.
“Don’t worry about it, Inspector. Péan’s a proud man and rightly so. Naturally, it troubles him to think that a member of his profession might have committed such a heinous crime, especially since our suspect might be a trusted colleague or friend. What’s more, he’s a man of spotless reputation. Imagine how it would look in the newspapers if our murderer turns out to be a well-regarded doctor of Péan’s acquaintance.”
Achille was well aware of the situation; he also knew that Bertillon’s late father had been a physician. This case could cast a shadow over the entire French medical profession. “That’s understandable, but the doctor’s professional opinion has put another twist to this convoluted case. So far, most of the evidence has pointed to Lautrec; now Péan seems to have exculpated him. Of course, we can’t go much further until we identify the woman.”
Bertillon scratched his beard. This matter was bewildering indeed. “Here’s another twist. We tested for alkaloids using the Stas-Otto method. I just received the results. There was a large amount of morphine in her system.”
Achille raised an eyebrow. “Enough morphine to have killed her?”
“I believe so. She appears to have been heavily drugged when the killer cut her up. She may have died under the knife, or from the overdose. That appears to rule out Jack the Ripper. Morphine was not part of his modus operandi. And to complicate matters, in addition to morphine, she may have been given chloroform or a chloroform derivative such as chloral hydrate. Unfortunately, we have no test to confirm that or rule it out. At any rate, I suggest you start checking with chemist’s shops in Montmartre and Pigalle to see who’s been buying the stuff. Your partner Rousseau probably has a list of known addicts, at least those who’ve had a run-in with the police. And you’ll need to check the hospitals and clinics to see if any drugs have been walking out the back door. We’ll look at records for reports of stolen opiates.”
Achille’s eyes widened. He stared at Bertillon for a moment, making a mental note. Could the morphine have been taken from Péan’s clinic? Then: “Do you think this could have been an experimental surgery gone wrong? And that—that the surgeon cut off her head and limbs and dumped the body to cover up his malpractice?”
Bertillon shook his head; the thought of surgical malpractice and criminal concealment was particularly disturbing to the son of a famous physician. “To my knowledge hysterectomies are performed for three reasons: to remove cancerous tumors, uterine fibroids, or in the treatment of female hysteria. Considering the general appearance of health in this individual we might consider the latter. It’s certainly possible, based on current practice. But Dr. Charcot at the Salpêtrière, our foremost authority, believes hysteria has nothing to do with the uterus; he treats it as a neurological disorder and does not approve of the operation.” Bertillon paused a moment, his frown an expression of concern as to where he feared this investigation might lead. Then he muttered, “But at this point I don’t know what to think.” He pulled out his watch and added impatiently: “Where is that photographer?”
At that very moment, like a genie conjured from a magic lamp, Gilles burst into the laboratory through the swinging double doors: “Good morning, gentlemen! Sorry I’m a bit late.”
As he approached, Gilles was greeted by two frowning faces. “Why so gloomy, my friends? Anyway, I’ve got something in this satchel that will cheer you up.” Gilles dropped a heavy leather satchel onto the desktop, stirring the pile of papers and raising a little dust cloud. He opened the flap and pulled out a brown paper envelope containing several photographs. “Take a look; I believe I’ve achieved excellent results.”
Achille immediately went to the photographs of the thumb and forefinger prints. Holding them up to the light, he pointed out the pattern to Bertillon. “You see the distinct whorl, Monsieur. I can now categorize these prints according to Galton’s method and present them as evidence. How did you enhance them, Gilles?”
“Oh, just a little photographic wizardry—the right lighting, shutter speed, lenses, filters, et voilà!”
Bertillon studied the prints for a moment. “This is very well done, Inspector. Now all you need are the suspects’ prints for comparison, and you might have something. But obtaining those prints could prove difficult without an arrest.”
Achille detected a hint of skepticism in Bertillon’s comments. Nevertheless he replied confidently: “Monsieur, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” To Gilles: “I want you to take a look at a gold cigarette case. Let’s see if you can work your wizardry on that.”
Achille and Gilles followed Bertillon to the evidence room where the cigarette case had been tagged, catalogued, and deposited. The guard retrieved the numbered evidence bag and then escorted the trio to a well-lit table where they could examine the case. “Of course,” Achille said to Gilles, “we’ll need identifying photographs highlighting the monogrammed coat of arms and the hallmarks. And I’ll need photographs of the cigarettes as well. But I want you to see something else.” Achille put on rubber gloves, held the case up to the light, and took out his magnifying glass. “These are latent prints. We’re damned lucky they’re still visible after lying in all that muck; you can barely make them out under magnification in a bright light. Is there any way you can enhance them photographically?”
Gilles shook his head. “That’s impossible, Inspector. Unless you can bring out the lines on the case to at least the definition we have on the cloth, I can do nothing with them.”
Bertillon smiled wryly. “Seems to be another bridge for you to cross, eh Inspector?”
“Difficult, but not impossible,” Achille replied.
Bertillon and Achille checked out the evidence bag and took it to the laboratory; Gilles went to his van for his camera and equipment. While they waited for the photographer, Bertillon provided his estimate of the woman’s appearance: early twenties; fair skinned Caucasian; straight light-yellow hair; pale blue eyes; height 163 cm; weight 54 kg; well-proportioned; firm musculature; two small moles in intimate places not visible to the public. “She appears to have been well fed and in good health. Unless her face was disfigured by accident or inflicted injury, I’d deduce she was quite pretty. She was also very fit. She might have been an artists’ model, a dancer, actress, or circus performer. Without the head or the limbs, that’s the best I can do. I assume you’re searching for the rest of her?”