Skeleton Dance

Joly plucked a shred of tobacco from his lips and leaned back in his chair. “Let me show you something.” From the inside pocket of his suit jacket he took an unsealed white envelope. Inside were three black-and-white photographs of the same object that he laid out side by side on the tablecloth. He waited for their response.

'A rusty trowel,” Julie said after a moment.

'Lying on the ground,” said Gideon.

'Keenly observed,” said Joly. “It was found by one of my officers in the brush about twenty-five meters from the entrance to the abri in which we were this afternoon. Now look at this one, the enlargement. What do you see burned into the handle?'

Gideon turned the photo to read the letters. “Initials . . . I.P.” He glanced back up at Joly. “Meaning?'

'Institut de Prehistoire!” Julie said.

'Very good, madame—ah, Julie. So I also concluded. And when I took it there, Monsieur Beaupierre took one look at it and identified it as having originally come from their tool bin.” He turned to Gideon. “There's your connection, my friend.'

Gideon let this sink in for a moment. “Twenty-five meters away. You can't exactly call that the scene of the crime.'

'Approximately eighty feet,” Joly said. “About as far, wouldn't you say, as a man might be expected to throw it, if he had just come out of the cave and wished to get rid of it at once?'

Gideon shook his head. “Sorry, Lucien, I think you're reaching. These people have run digs all over the place around here. Archaeologists are always leaving stuff like this behind, or having it ripped off, or just losing it.” He gathered up the photographs and handed them back to the inspector. “My guess is that what you've got here is a simple coincidence.'

'Good,” said Joly, pocketing the envelope. “Excellent. I love simple coincidences. I delight in simple coincidences. Whenever I see a simple coincidence I smell a commendation in the offing.'

For a few minutes they all digested quietly, Joly smoking and Julie and Gideon sipping wine, all three ruminating over their thoughts. The tray of cheeses was removed, the demitasse cups brought.

'I've been thinking a-bout the issues we were discussing earlier,” Joly said. “Was Neanderthal a human being? Was he not a human being?” He followed this with one of his elaborate Gallic shrugs—eyebrows, chin, and shoulders all going up at the same time, mouth going down. “Forgive me, but there have been no Neanderthals for tens of thousands of years, what does it matter?” He ground out his cigarette, already smoked two-thirds of the way down. “To speak frankly, it hardly seems something that sensible people would quarrel over.'

'Sensible people, no,” Julie said, “but we're talking about Paleolithic archaeologists. It's against their principles to agree with each other.'

Gideon laughed along with her. “She's right, they get nervous when everybody has the same theory. They haven't even agreed on whether ‘Neanderthal’ should have an ‘h’ in it or not; there are the old-guard pro-'h’ and the radical anti-'h’ camps. You know, the institute's holding a public symposium at the community lecture hall tomorrow, Lucien. Why don't you come to it? You'll get some idea.'

'What is the subject?'

'It's called ‘Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon: Differences and Similarities.’ Could get pretty lively.'

Joly pursed his narrow lips. “'Neanderthal’ with or without the ‘h'?'

'With, I think. They're traditionalists on that point.'

'Even so, I'm sorry to say I have other business.” His eyes lit up. “Ah, dessert. Prepare yourselves.'

* * * *

The market town of Les Eyzies winds for half-a-mile along the east bank of the green, slow-flowing river Vezere, prettily situated at the base of an undulating, three-hundred-foot-high wall of honey-colored limestone cliffs. In the Middle Ages it had been little more than an unwelcoming cluster of mean stone houses huddled beneath the great, brooding chateau of the barons of Beynac, built into the very face of the cliffside, but today, with the lords long gone, the village hums with activity. Visitors come because of the region's celebrated prehistoric finds, the local gourmet shops and restaurants, and the refreshing mixture of commercial bustle and open-faced country simplicity that is the essence of village life.

Charming in the daytime, it is spine-tinglingly evocative at night, when the modern shops and cafes are dark, but the ancient, cobbled streets are lamplit, and strategically placed floodlights illuminate the bony ruins of the chateau on its rock-cut terrace, the medieval stone houses that still remain around it, and above, all, the dramatic cliffs themselves that rear up only a few yards from the main street, brilliantly lit at their base but disappearing into blackness above.

It had been light when they went into the restaurant; it was dark when they came out, and for a few minutes the three of them stood in the parking lot without speaking, their faces turned up to the light-bathed curves and hollows of the cliffs. Gideon and Julie turned down Joly's offer of a lift back to the Hotel Cro-Magnon, preferring to walk the quarter-mile, and started slowly on their way.

'Lucien speaks better English than I do,” Julie said after a while. “It hardly seems fair.'

'Well, his father worked for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Lucien spent most of his adolescence in London. “

'Ah.'

'He sure knows how to order a meal too, doesn't he?'

'It was wonderful, but my God, I don't think I'll ever be able to eat again. Look at me, I'm waddling, not walking. You know, this answers a question I've had for years.'

Gideon cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?'

'Well, I couldn't help wondering why your on-site research has always focused on early man in Europe,