The First Fingerprint by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

Some sinister rumors had been doing the rounds.
    Le Guen had been suspected of declaring his discovery only as a result of the deaths of the three men. De Palma had questioned him for a long time, and Le Guen had described the terrible dangers in the cave; he had made his discovery public so as to avoid any more such accidents.
    Le Guen then told him that he had shared his discovery with a few friends, and had asked them to keep it secret. But the news had spread through the small world of diving like a trail of gunpowder, sparking fits of jealousy among the divers. Le Guen’s version checked out, so de Palma had not proceeded any further, but he had kept copies of statements from this unusual case in his personal records.
    De Palma mentally traced an initial line: Le Guen’s Cave—diving—Luccioni—Autran—prehistory—negative hand. Luccioni’s name alone did not fit into the scenario.
    The telephone rang. It was Maistre.
    â€œBaron, I have to see you …”
    De Palma did not have time to respond before Jean-Louis hung up, which left him only a few minutes to get dressed and make more coffee.
    â€œAl seno d’un padre
    La figlia rendete
    Struggete le squadre
    Dei nostri oppressor!”
    Ten minutes later, Maistre was ringing his doorbell like crazy.
    â€œWhat’s up with you, Le Gros? Have you come to tell me more about the M.L.A.?”
    â€œIt’s no laughing matter … yesterday I got another message from that bunch of loonies.”
    â€œWhat did they want this time?”
    â€œThe same thing.”
    â€œAnd that’s why you’ve woken me up on a Sunday morning? Listen to what I bought yesterday.”
    â€œIs it ‘Aida’?”
    â€œWith Tebaldi and Bergonzi.”
    â€œThe older you get, the newer the recordings!”
    â€œPiss off, Le Gros.”
    â€œMarie phoned me up yesterday.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œWe spoke for two hours. You should go and see her. She misses you.”
    â€œNot yet. And anyway, I’ve got one hell of a case on my plate. I tell you, I’m in for some sleepless nights.”
    The Baron cut through the air with his right hand, then sat down and poured out some more coffee.
    â€œI sacri nomi di padre … d’amante
    Né profferir poss’io, né ricordar …
    Per l’un … Per l’altro … confusa … tremante …”
    â€œTell me, Le Gros, do you remember Le Guen’s Cave?”
    â€œWhat, that prehistoric site they found in the creeks? It’s at Sugiton, isn’t it? There were three deaths. Weren’t you on the case?”
    â€œYes, I was. I kept copies of the statements.”
    â€œWhy are you telling me about all this?”
    De Palma told him about the death of Christine Autran, the search of her flat, and his meeting with old Luccioni. He then mentioned the strange death of Hélène Weill and the negative hand found by the gendarmes. A hand drawn using a stencil, as they did in prehistoric times, in Le Guen’s Cave for example.
    Maistre looked at his old friend. He seemed tired, but the flame was still burning.
    â€œI don’t trust these kinds of connections,” he said. “Beware, Baron, many mistakes have been made by working like that. You think it all fits together, then you end up in a terrible mess … Just because two corpses are found in the same place five months apart, it doesn’t mean there’s any criminal link between them. As for the woman in Cadenet, that might just be a coincidence. The
modus operandi
wasn’t the same. Not even similar. Neither Autran nor Luccioni were sliced up by a lunatic. You know how serial killers work: always the same method!”
    De Palma disappeared into his bedroom without a word. Maistre heard him pull open a cupboard and rummage though his papers. Some time later, his friend returned holding a wad of documents as fine as cigarette papers. He passed half