Read Online The Devil in Montmartre by Gary Inbinder - Free Book Online

artist’s model. The woman may have had an operation, and quite recently.”
    That last remark got the blasé pathologist’s attention. He lowered his wire-rimmed spectacles, which until then had been pushed up onto his forehead, as if he anticipated viewing something of consequence.
    Bertillon turned to the pathologist. “Doctor, will you please examine the vagina?”
    The doctor put on a head mirror and spread the vulva; Bertillon and Achille leaned over for a closer look. The pathologist spoke first: “You see that, gentleman? A fresh surgical wound; a neat incision cleanly sutured.” He inserted a speculum and performed a pelvic examination.
    “Doctor,” asked Bertillon, “do you know what sort of operation this was?”
    The pathologist backed away from the corpse and wiped his hands with a towel. He eyed Bertillon and Achille with a worried frown. “I’d say it was a vaginal hysterectomy. I’ll confirm that for the record when I open her up. But—” The pathologist stopped speaking, and stared as if suddenly struck dumb.
    Bertillon’s impatience was palpable. “But what, doctor? Please continue.”
    The pathologist breathed deeply and exhaled slowly before continuing: “The uterus is usually removed through a large incision made in the lower abdomen just above the pubic bone. This operation through the vagina is rare. As far as I know, only one surgeon in Paris has performed it successfully—Péan.” The doctor lowered his eyes and stared at his hands.
    Achille turned to Bertillon. “Péan? Is that possible, Monsieur? Could he be a—a suspect?”
    “Péan—the great Péan? That’s unthinkable!” sputtered the pathologist.
    “Please, gentleman,” Bertillon said calmly, “we must not jump to conclusions. Anything is possible , but to suspect Péan is, as the doctor puts it, unthinkable. Still, this is certainly a lead we must follow. I know Péan; he’s given lectures at the Morgue. He may provide us with information that is useful in solving the case. Now, Inspector, before we proceed is there anything else you want me to consider?”
    “A couple of things, Monsieur. We’re going to search the contents of the cesspit. If I find anything of interest, I’ll bring it to you immediately.”
    “Very well, Inspector. Anything else?”
    “Yes, Monsieur. The torso was wrapped in a sheet smeared with what appear to be bloodstains. There are perceptible handprints and fingerprints; I want them photographed to see if they can be enhanced. They might prove useful.”
    Bertillon’s eyes narrowed. “Fingerprints, eh? Of course you know we don’t use them in our system?”
    Achille replied firmly, “I understand, but I believe in a matter like this we shouldn’t overlook anything that might help solve the case.”
    Bertillon’s stare turned to a smile. He placed a hand on Achille’s shoulder. “I can see why your chief values you so highly. Very well. Have the cloth sent to my laboratory. I’ll examine the fabric and the prints as well. Your photographer can take before and after images for the file.”
    Relieved, Achille smiled warmly. “Thank you, Monsieur. I look forward to working with you.”

    Following the autopsy, Achille stopped at a café, purchased a bottle of beer and a sandwich, and returned to his office. He sent a message to his wife, Adele, and told her not to wait supper for him. He then typed his report for Féraud. The old boys hated the typewriter; they refused to use it, and the chief did not insist. But Achille had mastered the new machine, and he preferred its neatness and uniformity to the typical detective’s scrawl.
    As he worked he could not shake the image of the torso on the dissection table. What sort of monster could have committed such a crime? It’s as though the Devil had come to Montmartre. Might the Devil have been a deformed, aristocratic painter, or France’s greatest surgeon? Could it be Jack the Ripper, as Rodin implied in his morbid joke? Don’t jump