Free The Devil in Montmartre by Gary Inbinder Page A

But then, Hugo was a great Romantic of the previous generation, not a modern scientist.
    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