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liberty to express them freely, as long as they didn’t cross the line into criminal activity.
    Kadyshev and Boguslavsky had known each other for more than two decades, and for the past nine years, despite ideological disagreements, they had met regularly to play chess and discuss politics. What had changed in their relationship? What might have caused Boguslavsky to turn on Kadyshev and participate in his murder? Where was Boguslavsky? What more could Achille get out of Nazimova? Could he trust Rousseau?
    Achille rose from his chair, and a sudden dizziness made his legs buckle. He braced himself against the edge of the desk. While shaking his head to regain his senses, it occurred to him that working seventeen hours on coffee, cigarettes, and a croque monsieur was not such a good idea.
    Achille picked his way gingerly through the dark corridor that led to the master bedroom. The hallway was little Jeanne’s favorite “play place” and, despite Adele’s scolding, the child persisted in leaving her toys on the runner. At times, Achille wondered if his daughter were playing a game with him by mischievously obstructing the passageway with obstacles for her near-sighted father. Bleary-eyed as he was, Achille navigated the minefield without tripping over Oscar the Duck.
    A warm golden light streamed through the cracks separating doorframe from bedroom door. He knocked softly and entered. Adele was sitting up against a bolster as she read by the glow of a bedside lamp. She glanced up from her reading, smiled, and returned to her book without speaking.
    Achille went straight to the armoire and changed into a clean linen nightshirt. Adele’s eyes darted furtively from the page to her naked husband; after seven years of marriage, she still admired the “Professor’s” lean athletic body. But when he sat on the edge of the bed, she took no notice and appeared engrossed in her book.
    â€œWhat are you reading, my dear?”
    â€œMaupassant’s The Flayed Hand ,” she replied, without looking up.
    Achille shook his head, smiling, and tugged at the book gently. “You shouldn’t read something like that before you go to sleep. It’ll give you nightmares.”
    Adele closed the book and set it down on the bedside table. She gazed up at him, her green eyes sparkling, her red lips parted. Placing her hands on his shoulders she whispered, “I shan’t be afraid with my big, strong man in bed to protect me.”
    Achille was dog-tired, but he wasn’t dead. He undid the ribbons of her nightgown, pulling the soft garment down over her shoulders and breasts. Leaning over, he caressed an erect pink nipple with his tongue.
    A piercing cry came from the nursery. “Oh, dear, it’s Olivier,” she exclaimed. “He’s been colicky today.” Adele pushed her husband away and did up her bodice.
    He took her gently by the wrist. “Please, don’t go. Nanny will see to him.”
    She frowned; the sparkling emerald eyes grew cold as ice. “Nonsense. What do you know of these things? He wants his mother. Since you’re so tired, you needn’t wait up for me.” She got out from under the covers, put on her slippers, and left him, aroused and unsatisfied.
    Achille leaned back on the bolster and contemplated the shadows on the ceiling. “Merde alors!” he muttered. Then he picked up The Flayed Hand and flipped through a few pages. “Ah, M. Maupassant,” he sighed. “Reality is much scarier than fiction.”

    In the early morning hours, raindrops pummeled the pavement on the Boulevard de Clichy. Rousseau stepped out of the darkness and passed through the jaws of hell. The gatekeeper greeted him satanically: “Enter, and be damned.”
    A crooked grin creased the hulking detective’s face. He lifted his bowler and shook out the brim. Rousseau examined the soggy felt hat for a moment, and then held it by his side as it