They sat clutching mugs of strong coffee in the small and calculatedly bright study across the corridor from the morgue building. Not so much a study as a retreat, an affirmation of his humanity, Joe thought, looking around with pleasure. And wouldn’t you need one! He’d sunk gratefully into the depths of one of a pair of old-fashioned armchairs piled with cushions and topped off with lace antimacassars. Thoughtfully, Moulin kicked up a footstool for him. The room had probably, in its first use, been some sort of torture chamber, Joe calculated, but no signs of a lugubrious past lingered after the determined application of rich lengths of drapery to the walls, Tiffany shades to the lamps, rows of books, and a gently puttering gas fire warming the room. On a desk and smiling out into the room, the silver-framed photograph of a very pretty dark-haired woman. The ticking of a deep-throated clock soothed Joe to a point where he had to shake himself awake and take a sip or two of his coffee.
Under the influence of the strong brew, the good company and fatigue, Joe recounted his day to a pair of willing ears. But the warm smile, the understanding comments and the ready humour dried up at the mention of Francine Raissac’s flight of fancy. Joe caught the sudden stillness.
‘Yes, that’s what I’ve come to ask. I try not to leave any accusation unchecked however ridiculous it sounds on first hearing. The girl’s theories began to sound less crazy when I heard – from another source – that her brother is a customer of yours. Filed away in a steel drawer, I should think? Fished out of the Canal St Martin.’
‘Alfred? Drawer number 32,’ said Moulin. ‘She hasn’t been in to identify him yet. Poor girl! It’s all deeply unpleasant, I’m afraid. I’ve taken the waxed cobbler’s twine out of the lips so it doesn’t look quite so frightful but I can’t obliterate the wound altogether. The lad was very young. But physically in rather bad shape. Emaciated. Taking drugs, I shouldn’t wonder. And are you saying you see a connection between this poor specimen of humanity and an organization run by some sort of super criminal? A Fantômas reborn?’ Dr Moulin laughed and pointed to a shelf of lurid novels over the desk. ‘I have the whole collection, you see! You’re very welcome to help yourself if you like.’
Joe shivered. ‘I gave up after the second book. Too utterly terrifying for a law enforcer like myself. Fantômas, if I remember rightly, never died,’ he explained. ‘He’s immortal – a god of Evil. Nightmare! But yes, I wouldn’t mind taking a look at the third one in your line-up. Le mort qui tue, I think it’s called.’
Moulin gave him a startled look and counted along the shelf, extracting the book he’d mentioned. ‘Here you are. I shall leave the gap there! I’m going to insist on having it back, then I can be sure you’ll come again and entertain me with a further episode in your horror story. Will you have a little brandy in your coffee? It can strike chill in here in spite of my efforts to dispel the gloom.’ He reached behind a row of leather-backed novels and found a bottle of cognac.
‘I think you can guess what I’m going to ask,’ said Joe seriously. ‘Inspectors each have their own case loads. Three corpses is what Bonnefoye’s got on his books at the moment. They may not have the time to exchange theories with each other, or see anything but their own narrow picture of crime in the city . . . You would see it. You examine all – very well, most – of the bodies. They pass through your morgue and under your scalpel for an hour or two – a day possibly – and you move on. But you see the wider landscape of murder . . .’
‘I know where you’re going with this. And I know you don’t want to wait while I dig out screeds of notes, sheets of records – all of which are available, by the way – so I’ll ask – will memory be a good enough guide? It will? Let me think then . . .’ He got up and wandered to his stove, pouring out more of the liquid inspiration.
‘Over the last four or five years? Is that enough? That’s as far back as my current appointment goes.’
Joe nodded, thankful that his notion hadn’t been dismissed out of hand with a pitying shake of the head.
And then he waited, unwilling to press Moulin, understanding that this was the doctor’s first and alarming overview of the crime pattern.
‘Like your Jack the Ripper – a killer in series – but yet quite unlike him. The victims in his case were all of the same profession, sex and situation. They – and the killer most probably – were living within a few doors of each other. The Paris corpses I have in mind are male and from varied backgrounds, they’re of different nationalities, killed over a period of years and in vastly different scenarios. No one would dream of linking them together as a group because apart from their being male – which the victims of violent death predominantly are – they have only one thing in common – a totally fanciful notion. In Francine Raissac’s head, in yours and now – in mine! Curse you! No, it won’t do, Sandilands.’ He shook his head in an attempt to dismiss ideas too shocking to entertain.