Quai des Orfèvres = home of the Paris Prefecture of Police
Garde des Sceaux = Ministry of Justice
Les Halles = Paris central fresh food market
commissaire = superintendent
brigadier = sergeant
police judiciaire = detective division
médecin légiste = medical examiner
mairie = town hall
Monsieur de Paris = the nickname given to Charles-Henri Sanson, a famous executioner
FIRST PART
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TWELVE CRIMES
(Editor’s account)
I
NANCY-DIJON – TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE
Wednesday, November 10
In that beginning of November 19.., in the east of France, the winter began prematurely to chase away the autumn, which did not give in without a struggle. Dark, ice-cold days, shivering under a sombre sky, were succeeded, increasingly rarely, by warm hours, gilded by a sun too low in the sky, and too rapid a sunset. The leaves, more rust-coloured every day, clung desperately to the branches.
The town of Nancy, despite its slightly affected languor, could not ignore the all too predictable outcome.
M. Berger, examining magistrate , warming his numb fingers in front of the office radiator, was giving vent to his clerk with bleak comments that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the overly-slow progress of the matters in hand. The magistrate blamed fate for having brought him to this town to prosecute boring little crimes. Until the most recent one....
His clerk, a small man of indeterminate age with white hairs sprouting under a long nose, eyes blinking behind metal spectacles, and a rounded back, was busy recopying an interrogation. The sound of the telephone ringing interrupted the diatribe. Holding back a sigh of relief with great effort, the clerk picked up the receiver.
‘M. Belhomme, juge d’instruction for Dijon wishes to speak to you.’
Looking bewildered, the Nancy magistrate began a conversation, limited on his side to monosyllables.
After he hung up, M. Berger, who was consumed by a perpetual need to talk about his acts, his words and even his thoughts, explained:
‘It’s really strange that my colleague from Le Parquet de Dijon should call me just as... In a word, the day before yesterday they had
a crime which, in many respects, was just like ours. I mean the Eberhardt case. As far as I can make out, the facts are the same and the similarity struck my colleague. I shall be getting his report, but, as of now, I know that their victim also died from a bullet to the heart. Obviously we need to check, and M. Belhomme asked if his expert, in conjunction with ours, could compare the two projectiles.’
The prospects of success were so discouraging that our magistrate could see nothing but good in handing the case over, even partially. Few cases looked as bleak: no clues, no obvious motive, and therefore every chance of failure. And, in the unlikely event of success, no benefit to be derived. The crime was not of the kind to attract journalistic attention or pique the public’s curiosity.
On that last point he was wrong. To be fair, he could not have anticipated the avalanche of events which would follow this seemingly non-descript, everyday murder. He could not have foreseen that, over the coming months, the public would become engrossed by the battle being fought by society against a super-criminal who seemed to kill at random, without reason, and for his own pleasure. Or that the lure of mystery would change, first into obsession, then fear; that panic would grip the public and their emotion would intensify until it reached a paroxysm unequalled in history, to the point that even the insitutions themselves would be threatened.
The previous Thursday, November 4, 19.., after a dismal day under a grey sky, snow had appeared at a twilight rendered even darker by contrast with the white. The fine flakes, driven by the wind from the east, lashed the passers-by furiously as they hastened back to their homes and their steaming-hot meals. Away from the town centre with its brasseries and cafes, lit by signs and window displays, the town quickly went to sleep, huddling under the white blanket. The storm lasted three hours.
At the far end of Faubourg Saint-Jean, between Rue Mon-Désert and Rue de Villers, a normally quiet area, silence descended early, punctuated only by the occasional barking of guard dogs.
The next morning, autumn having temporarily regained the upper hand, the dawn was glorious. In a clear blue sky, with but a trace of mist, the sun rose bright red. The passers-by, barely awake and with cheeks rosy from the glare, went about their business with their overcoat collars up to their ears. The commercial vehicles delivering bread or milk to distant customers made a deadened sound on the muffled roads. The snow, knowing its existence would be brief, quickly became iridescent with the warm tones, rose or blue, which Ivan Choultsé had captured so well with the tip of his paintbrush.
It was in these pristine surroundings that the drama occurred. Just as he did every day, the baker sounded his horn loudly to summon the dishevelled housewives with curlers in their hair, their dressing gowns carelessly tied around their too-long nightdresses, and their stockings down around their worn-out slippers.
Tired of waiting in front of No. 39, he got out to ring the bell at the front gate. At the back of a garden filled with few flowers and many vegetables stood a small house with another gate, painted green, in front of it. A path lined with bushes connected the two. Snow covered everything in a white blanket.
On the path, midway between the two gates, lay a black bundle. A cursory glance convinced the baker that it was the body of an inanimate male.
The superintendent was soon there with a locksmith. Once the front gate was open he approached the body, avoiding treading on
