had changed into a nightdress. Her hair was down, and she slowly brushed the long, brown strands while gazing at her reflection in a lamp-lit mirror. Achille came up behind her, leaned down, brushed away some stray hairs and caressed her bare shoulder. She put down the hairbrush and accidentally knocked some face powder onto a silver box. “Oh,” she muttered. Then she bent over and blew away the powder.
The accident caught Achille’s attention. “Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “Don’t move; don’t touch anything.”
“What’s the matter, dear?” Adele turned around with a worried frown. But Achille was already out the door, sprinting up the corridor toward his study. She heard a crash and a cry of “ Merde !” Achille had tripped over Jeanne’s toy duck, Oscar.
Presently he returned, limping and rubbing his knee with one hand and carrying his magnifying glass in the other. Scowling, he muttered, “Nanny must teach Jeanne not to leave her toys in the hallways, or at least pick up after her.”
“Yes, dear, I’ll speak to them. But what’s all the fuss? What are you doing with that glass?”
Achille forgot his throbbing knee. He bent over the dressing table and examined the silver box. “My dear, we’re conducting an important experiment in forensic science.”
He handed the glass to Adele. “Here, see for yourself.”
“Oh, very well,” she grumbled. “What am I looking at?”
“Your fingerprints enhanced with face powder.”
“How disgusting!” She handed back the magnifying glass with a peevish glare. “Why is it so important?”
Achille explained patiently. “Fingerprints might be significant to the solution of the mystery surrounding my case. They can provide the missing pieces to a puzzle that, when completed, could catch a dangerous criminal. But I’m breaking new ground, practically writing the book as I proceed.” He lowered his voice, smiled, and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry if my behavior seems peculiar at times, but I’m under pressure and it’s a matter of the utmost urgency. Your little accident put me on the right track, and I’m grateful. Now, I just need to find something, a fine dark powder that will increase the definition of the lines so they can be clearly identifiable and photographable as well.”
Adele grasped his hand and rose from her chair. She smiled, looked into Achille’s eyes and spoke softly: “I think I understand a little now. Perhaps it might help if you shared your work with me, from time to time. Not the grisly things, but your theories, your methods, your problems. I’ll help, if I can.”
He kissed her. “Thank you, I’d like that very much.”
“All right, it’s a bargain. And now, Inspector, I’m going to test your powers of observation further. Have you noticed anything different about me?”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see now. Does is it go with your new dress?”
“Good question; you’re warm.”
He sniffed her neck and bosom. “Ah, I detect a new fragrance.”
“Bravo! And you approve?”
Achille opened her night dress and caressed her breasts. “Yes,” he whispered. “It’s perfection.”
“Inspector Lefebvre, for your unerring skill as a detective, excellent taste in perfume, and unwavering devotion to duty, I award you the highest honor I can bestow.” She lifted his hand, smiled mischievously, and nibbled his fingers.
Achille laughed, swept Adele into his arms, and carried her off to bed.
Just before midnight a brilliant lightning flash lit the sky over Sacré-Cæur. Thunder rumbled, stirring memories of the Prussian Krupp guns that pounded Paris day and night during the siege of 1870-71. Wind-whipped rain battered shutters, poured through drainpipes into overflowing gutters, washed over twisting streets and alleyways down to the boulevard at the foot of the hill. Lautrec and a few others sought shelter in a small boîte in Pigalle. The artist sat alone at a small table, drinking
The accident caught Achille’s attention. “Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “Don’t move; don’t touch anything.”
“What’s the matter, dear?” Adele turned around with a worried frown. But Achille was already out the door, sprinting up the corridor toward his study. She heard a crash and a cry of “ Merde !” Achille had tripped over Jeanne’s toy duck, Oscar.
Presently he returned, limping and rubbing his knee with one hand and carrying his magnifying glass in the other. Scowling, he muttered, “Nanny must teach Jeanne not to leave her toys in the hallways, or at least pick up after her.”
“Yes, dear, I’ll speak to them. But what’s all the fuss? What are you doing with that glass?”
Achille forgot his throbbing knee. He bent over the dressing table and examined the silver box. “My dear, we’re conducting an important experiment in forensic science.”
He handed the glass to Adele. “Here, see for yourself.”
“Oh, very well,” she grumbled. “What am I looking at?”
“Your fingerprints enhanced with face powder.”
“How disgusting!” She handed back the magnifying glass with a peevish glare. “Why is it so important?”
Achille explained patiently. “Fingerprints might be significant to the solution of the mystery surrounding my case. They can provide the missing pieces to a puzzle that, when completed, could catch a dangerous criminal. But I’m breaking new ground, practically writing the book as I proceed.” He lowered his voice, smiled, and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry if my behavior seems peculiar at times, but I’m under pressure and it’s a matter of the utmost urgency. Your little accident put me on the right track, and I’m grateful. Now, I just need to find something, a fine dark powder that will increase the definition of the lines so they can be clearly identifiable and photographable as well.”
Adele grasped his hand and rose from her chair. She smiled, looked into Achille’s eyes and spoke softly: “I think I understand a little now. Perhaps it might help if you shared your work with me, from time to time. Not the grisly things, but your theories, your methods, your problems. I’ll help, if I can.”
He kissed her. “Thank you, I’d like that very much.”
“All right, it’s a bargain. And now, Inspector, I’m going to test your powers of observation further. Have you noticed anything different about me?”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see now. Does is it go with your new dress?”
“Good question; you’re warm.”
He sniffed her neck and bosom. “Ah, I detect a new fragrance.”
“Bravo! And you approve?”
Achille opened her night dress and caressed her breasts. “Yes,” he whispered. “It’s perfection.”
“Inspector Lefebvre, for your unerring skill as a detective, excellent taste in perfume, and unwavering devotion to duty, I award you the highest honor I can bestow.” She lifted his hand, smiled mischievously, and nibbled his fingers.
Achille laughed, swept Adele into his arms, and carried her off to bed.
Just before midnight a brilliant lightning flash lit the sky over Sacré-Cæur. Thunder rumbled, stirring memories of the Prussian Krupp guns that pounded Paris day and night during the siege of 1870-71. Wind-whipped rain battered shutters, poured through drainpipes into overflowing gutters, washed over twisting streets and alleyways down to the boulevard at the foot of the hill. Lautrec and a few others sought shelter in a small boîte in Pigalle. The artist sat alone at a small table, drinking
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