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Authors: Gary Inbinder
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to conclusions. They knew so little, but hopefully in the coming days they would learn more. Could the murderer strike again? Scotland Yard’s failure in the Ripper murders loomed large.
Shortly after ten P.M. , Achille finished typing his report, closed his file, rubbed his weary eyes, turned out the lights, and headed for home.
Achille, his wife Adele, their four-year-old daughter Jeanne, and Adele’s mother, Madame Berthier, lived in a spacious second-floor apartment in the 1st arrondissement , not far from Sûreté headquarters. The building was one of Baron Haussmann’s elegant modern creations, located on a quiet, tree-shaded avenue. The apartment belonged to Madame Berthier, widow of a much decorated cavalry colonel, a fervent Bonapartist and friend of General Boulanger.
Achille paid rent to Madame and she retained a commodious boudoir and an adjoining study. This arrangement allowed the family to live a very comfortable bourgeois life, much better than that of a typical civil servant of Achille’s rank. They could even afford a maid, a cook, and a nanny for the little girl.
Achille got along reasonably well with his mother-in-law, despite the fact that she disliked his chosen profession. She had formed an image of detectives from the first Sûreté chief, Vidocq, who employed reformed criminals like himself, on the theory that it takes a thief to catch a thief. She also railed against the government for its treatment of General Boulanger, looked forward to a war of revenge against Germany, and blamed the Germans, their Jewish bankers, Protestants, and Freemasons for all the evils of mankind. Achille found Madame’s politics and prejudices illogical and distasteful. But as a good husband and son-in-law he tried to maintain peace at home. Therefore, whenever in conversation with Madame Berthier, Achille avoided discussing his job, politics, or anything controversial; if she raised these matters he simply nodded sympathetically, tried to switch the subject, or if possible, politely excused himself.
When he arrived home that evening, his mother-in-law had already retired to her boudoir. Adele greeted him in the front hall, with a petulant frown:
“Cook made your favorite cassoulet for supper, and Jeanne wanted you to read her a story before she went to sleep. She cried when I told her you weren’t coming. Why can’t Féraud be more considerate? He works you like a slave.”
Achille’s eyes were sad and tired; the last thing he wanted was an argument. He smiled and stroked Adele’s soft cheek. Such bright green eyes; such warm red lips. How pretty she is , he thought. He noticed a change in her expression from mild vexation to deep concern. “Please my dear,” he whispered, “I’m dog-tired. Féraud’s assigned me to a case of the utmost importance and I must report to him at five A.M. ”
She held his hand and kissed it softly. “I’m sorry, darling; how thoughtless of me. Go relax in the sitting-room, and I’ll join you. Would you like a cognac, or sherry?”
Achille smiled. “A cognac would be heaven.” Adele went to fetch the brandy. He wandered into the sitting room and collapsed in his favorite, well-stuffed armchair. Placing his aching feet on a footstool, he rubbed his eyes and yawned. Achille wanted to forget the case and get a good night’s sleep, but he knew he wouldn’t; it would occupy his thoughts, day and night, until the murderer was brought to justice.
Adele returned with a decanter and two glasses on a silver tray. Her husband did not seem to notice her; he was staring into the darkness like someone sleeping with his eyes open. She set down the tray on a small round table and then turned up the lamp. “It’s too dark in here.”
Achille murmured, “Huh,” as if coming out of a trance. Adele was about to sit next to him on a settee. He reached out, took her hand and pulled her onto his lap. She giggled as he nibbled her tiny earlobe and nuzzled her fragrant neck.
Shortly after ten P.M. , Achille finished typing his report, closed his file, rubbed his weary eyes, turned out the lights, and headed for home.
Achille, his wife Adele, their four-year-old daughter Jeanne, and Adele’s mother, Madame Berthier, lived in a spacious second-floor apartment in the 1st arrondissement , not far from Sûreté headquarters. The building was one of Baron Haussmann’s elegant modern creations, located on a quiet, tree-shaded avenue. The apartment belonged to Madame Berthier, widow of a much decorated cavalry colonel, a fervent Bonapartist and friend of General Boulanger.
Achille paid rent to Madame and she retained a commodious boudoir and an adjoining study. This arrangement allowed the family to live a very comfortable bourgeois life, much better than that of a typical civil servant of Achille’s rank. They could even afford a maid, a cook, and a nanny for the little girl.
Achille got along reasonably well with his mother-in-law, despite the fact that she disliked his chosen profession. She had formed an image of detectives from the first Sûreté chief, Vidocq, who employed reformed criminals like himself, on the theory that it takes a thief to catch a thief. She also railed against the government for its treatment of General Boulanger, looked forward to a war of revenge against Germany, and blamed the Germans, their Jewish bankers, Protestants, and Freemasons for all the evils of mankind. Achille found Madame’s politics and prejudices illogical and distasteful. But as a good husband and son-in-law he tried to maintain peace at home. Therefore, whenever in conversation with Madame Berthier, Achille avoided discussing his job, politics, or anything controversial; if she raised these matters he simply nodded sympathetically, tried to switch the subject, or if possible, politely excused himself.
When he arrived home that evening, his mother-in-law had already retired to her boudoir. Adele greeted him in the front hall, with a petulant frown:
“Cook made your favorite cassoulet for supper, and Jeanne wanted you to read her a story before she went to sleep. She cried when I told her you weren’t coming. Why can’t Féraud be more considerate? He works you like a slave.”
Achille’s eyes were sad and tired; the last thing he wanted was an argument. He smiled and stroked Adele’s soft cheek. Such bright green eyes; such warm red lips. How pretty she is , he thought. He noticed a change in her expression from mild vexation to deep concern. “Please my dear,” he whispered, “I’m dog-tired. Féraud’s assigned me to a case of the utmost importance and I must report to him at five A.M. ”
She held his hand and kissed it softly. “I’m sorry, darling; how thoughtless of me. Go relax in the sitting-room, and I’ll join you. Would you like a cognac, or sherry?”
Achille smiled. “A cognac would be heaven.” Adele went to fetch the brandy. He wandered into the sitting room and collapsed in his favorite, well-stuffed armchair. Placing his aching feet on a footstool, he rubbed his eyes and yawned. Achille wanted to forget the case and get a good night’s sleep, but he knew he wouldn’t; it would occupy his thoughts, day and night, until the murderer was brought to justice.
Adele returned with a decanter and two glasses on a silver tray. Her husband did not seem to notice her; he was staring into the darkness like someone sleeping with his eyes open. She set down the tray on a small round table and then turned up the lamp. “It’s too dark in here.”
Achille murmured, “Huh,” as if coming out of a trance. Adele was about to sit next to him on a settee. He reached out, took her hand and pulled her onto his lap. She giggled as he nibbled her tiny earlobe and nuzzled her fragrant neck.
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