“Under normal conditions, it would take Ménard about thirty minutes to walk to her flat. She tipped the concierge to wait up for her, and the woman was concerned when Ménard didn’t arrive on time. The concierge waited about one half-hour before checking the front door. She found a note in the girl’s handwriting indicating she would be out of town for three days, but there was no indication of where she had gone or for what purpose.

“After three days had passed the concierge became suspicious and reported the missing girl to the police. The report was considered routine until the body was discovered in the cesspit. Sergeant Rodin notified us immediately and Rousseau questioned the concierge. She told him that Ménard was a ‘good girl’ with regular habits; she also provided information about Mlle Ménard’s relatives in Rouen.

“I contacted the Rouen police to see if they could locate Mlle Ménard. They made inquiries, but turned up nothing. However, they did provide some interesting information about her relationship with her aunt and uncle. According to the locals, the Merciers abused the girl and treated her like a servant. Moreover, there’s a neighborhood rumor that the aunt and uncle cheated their niece out of a small inheritance, and that she discovered their malfeasance and threatened legal action.”

“Ah, they had a motive!” Féraud broke in.

Achille shrugged. “Perhaps, but further inquiry traced the rumor to a former employee of the Merciers who bore them a grudge.”

The Chief nodded knowingly and said, “I see; please continue.”

“The Merciers are butchers, so initially I thought they might have had the skill to cut her up. And they were out of town around the time the victim died.”

The Chief’s eyes widened. “Now you may be on to something!”

Achille frowned and shook his head. “They have an alibi. They went to Louviers to visit relatives. There are plenty of witnesses to confirm that. Further, considering the results of the post-mortem, I believe the victim’s wounds are more likely the work of a surgeon rather than mere butchery.”

The Chief sighed and leaned back in his chair. “All right, Achille. So it looks like the aunt and uncle are in the clear. What else have you got?”

“After her benefactor M. Ménard died, there was only one man in her life, Toulouse-Lautrec—”

There was a loud knock; Rousseau entered. “Good morning, Chief, professor. Sorry I’m late. That was one hell of a storm last night. Water and fallen branches all over the place. A bloody mess.”

“Yes,” Féraud replied. “The sewers in my neighborhood backed up; my damned cellar’s flooded. Anyway, Achille’s been briefing me about Virginie Ménard. We’re concentrating our attention on her as the probable victim.”

Rousseau walked round the easel and stood next to Achille. “That’s right, Chief. If you ask me, it’s Ménard for sure.”

Achille addressed his partner. “We need to question everyone on her route. Even at two A.M. it’s likely someone saw, or at least heard something.”

“Right, professor. I’m on it.”

Turning back to Féraud: “We believe she died during the afternoon or evening of the 14th and the body was dumped in the cesspit during the early morning hours of the following day. That means she lived at least three days after the disappearance. We know she was heavily drugged when she died. But we don’t know where the death occurred, and we’re still searching for her head and limbs.

“I’m going to check the records at Doctor Péan’s’ clinic, most particularly those relating to a vaginal hysterectomy performed the afternoon of the 14th. Lautrec was there, but I’m looking for a doctor who was present and might have a connection with Virginie Menard. I’m also going to check to see if there are any drugs missing from the dispensary. Which brings me to the subject of Péan’s opinion regarding the mutilation: he thinks only a surgeon would have had the skill to cut her up that way.”

“So, you think we’re looking for a runty sawbones?” Rousseau interjected.

“I thought of that, but no. I believe we’re looking for two individuals; a doctor and his stunted accomplice. What’s more, despite the location of the body, the cigarette case, and Mlle Ménard’s relationship with Lautrec, I think the accomplice is a short individual who a witness could mistake for Lautrec. In other words, I think the case was stolen and planted in the cesspit with the body by someone with a strong motive to pin the crime on the artist.”

“What makes you think that?” the Chief asked.

“Although he lives like a bohemian, Lautrec’s an aristocratic intellectual with a fine sense of honor. He doesn’t seem the type to cut up a girl, dump the remains in the nearest hole, and leave a calling card.”

Rousseau smirked. “Aristocratic intellectual, eh? Sounds like the Marquis de Sade.”

Achille glared at his partner. “I wouldn’t compare M. Lautrec to Sade.”

“Have it your way, professor,” Rousseau grunted.

Féraud narrowed his eyes skeptically before asking, “You’re not completely ruling out Lautrec, are you?”

“No Chief, not completely,” Achille replied. “However, as I’ve already indicated, I believe only a surgeon would have had the skill to perform the hysterectomy and amputations so neatly. On the other hand, Lautrec knows anatomy, he’s observed operations, and by all accounts he’s highly intelligent with strength and manual dexterity much like that of the most skilled surgeons. So, for the time being I can’t rule him out as a suspect.”

Féraud leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and fiddled with his watch fob; a habit when confronted with a thorny issue. Rousseau turned to Achille, shrugged, and made a face as though he’d smelled a fart. After a moment, Féraud opened his eyes and said, “The accomplice makes sense if we accept Dr. Péan’s opinion. Do you have an individual in mind?”

“Searching the records I found a file on a circus performer, a dwarf named Joseph Rossini who lives near the victim.”

“Jojo the Clown?” Rousseau broke in. “I put him inside for pimping, awhile back. A mean little bastard; the girls hated him. He had a method for dealing with whores if he thought they weren’t handing over all their earnings. First offense, he’d strip the girl, tie her to a bed, and whip her ass with his belt. Second offense, he’d cut her with a stiletto. And if the bitch was stupid enough to cheat him a third time, well then he got really rough. Anyway, he’s got a job in a circus and a clean record since he was released from prison.” Rousseau turned to Achille with a grin. “And he’s proved to be a good snitch, on occasion.”

“Well,” Achille replied, “I think we list him as a possible suspect. We might want to shadow him, see if he can lead us to the killer. Which brings me back to Lautrec; I want to question him myself, but I don’t want to bring him in on a warrant. Despite the evidence, I’m not convinced he’s our man. So I want to lay my cards on the table. Instead of doing a warrantless search behind his back, I want to get his permission to search the studio and his apartment. I also—”

“Wait a minute,” Rousseau interrupted. “You want to tip him off?”

Achille turned to Féraud. “Chief, if he’s innocent, he’ll want to help us; he’ll have nothing to hide. And I was about to say that I’d also ask him to let me take his fingerprints to compare them with the prints on the cloth and the cigarette case. If he refuses my requests I’d take that as evidence of guilt, in which case we can get a warrant and turn him over to the magistrate for questioning.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Féraud muttered. “Rousseau, have you picked up anything from tailing Lautrec?”

“Not much, chief, except to confirm that our aristocratic painter’s a degenerate little monkey. He spends more time scribbling and daubing in the brothels, cabarets, dance halls, and boîtes than he does in his studio. Oh, last night he met up with an old acquaintance of mine, the victim’s girlfriend, Delphine Lacroix.”