Joe went to fetch a chair, placed it at the foot of the marble slab and sat down on it. ‘Doctor, would you mime the action of the killer as you judge it to have been carried out? I’ll be the victim.’
‘Of course. And, in the pursuit of authenticity – a moment – I’ll just fetch the weapon.’
Moulin bustled away into his office, returning with a cardboard box filled with material conserved from the corpse. ‘We’re holding all this until the police and the magistrate are satisfied. You know the routine?’ He waited for Joe’s nod and went on: ‘The personal effects will be returned to the next of kin. Not sure they’ll want to keep this as a souvenir though,’ he said, producing from a paper bag a dagger with an eight-inch blade and a carved ivory hilt.
‘I’d like the lady to take a look, if she can bear it,’ Joe said. ‘Just in case she can identify it as her husband’s own property.’
‘You can take hold of it,’ said Moulin, offering it by the point of the blade. ‘It’s been tested for fingerprints and cleaned up. No prints, by the way. It had been wiped clean – just some unusable smears left.’
Joe took the object with distaste. ‘Afghan.’ He turned the blade flat and slid it over the back of his hand, slicing through a few hairs. ‘Sharp as a razor.’
‘It would need to be to go quickly through such an amount of muscle and gristle. The throat is not an easy option. But it is quick and sure. Think of pig-killing. In my village they always go for the throat. And a pig’s flesh has more or less the same density and resilience as a man’s. This knife went upstairs to the laboratory for inspection. Under the microscope you can see the signs of the use of a sharpening implement on the blade. Very recent sharpening was done. Perhaps with the killing in mind?’
‘Ah? A workmanlike tool. Not a cheap blade but not lavishly produced for display, I’d say. It’s not as ornate as many I’ve seen. An inch or so shorter than most. Discreet. An efficient killing blade.’
‘Indeed. Now this is what I think happened. For the record – I’m five foot eight inches tall, so we’re possibly looking for someone two to four inches taller. And almost certainly more powerfully built.’ The doctor took the knife in his right hand. He mimed taking off his cloak and hanging it up then he moved silently behind Joe who leaned slightly forward in the attitude of someone engrossed in the performance on the stage below.
‘Ah! In the dark and with your head tilted forward like that it’s not so easy to get a hand around your mouth. I’m going to change my plan slightly,’ said Moulin.
He grasped Joe by the hair and pulled his head back, applying the dagger blade to his exposed throat. Joe could not repress a shudder as the cold steel gently touched the skin behind his left ear.
‘Yes, that’s how it would have been done!’
‘What about the noise, doctor? Would he have had time to let out a scream?’
‘Oh yes. Think of any pig you’ve ever heard being slaughtered. They manage a few seconds of hideous squealing before their voice box is cut. It must have been done at a moment of intense surrounding noise.’
‘I agree. The finale?’
‘Yes. Clapping and cheering and, these days, with such a large foreign element in the audience, you tend to hear whistles and squeals of a very un-French nature. And that theatre is the largest in Paris. There must have been close on two thousand people creating a din. Now, if his companion for the evening had been there during the murder she would have been an accomplice or – if a witness – would have been, I presume, made off with – eliminated? – by the guilty party. In some other place, at some other time, as there were no signs of further violence in the box, I understand. I would fear for the young lady’s safety, wouldn’t you?’
‘Accomplice? Witness? Not necessarily,’ said Joe. ‘She might have been the killer. What would you say?’
‘A woman?’ The doctor was taken aback. ‘Physically it’s certainly possible, I suppose . . . if she approached him from behind as I’ve demonstrated. You’d need a considerable rush of energy – determination, hatred . . .’ His voice tailed off doubtfully.
‘You don’t like the theory?’
Moulin smiled. ‘No more than I observe you do, Commander! We both know this is not a woman’s method.’
‘True. In my experience, when women plan a murder – and from whatever rank of society they come – they choose more subtle methods. Poison and the like. Anything from rat poison to laudanum. When the killing is done on the spot and the result of an overriding urge, or a desperate attempt at self-protection, they use the nearest weapon to hand – usually a domestic tool which, depending on their circumstances, may be a frying pan . . . a silver sconce . . .’