The Devil in Montmartre (9 page)

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?”

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.”