Pathway to Japanese Literature

Among these, he is particularly well-known for laying the groundwork for the arrest of "Bluebeard Landru," who during the First World War seduced 283 women and brutally murdered ten, by deriving a clue from a trivial symbol in a notebook.

“A certain criminologist has stated that all crimes from the time the Old Testament was written to the present day can be classified into twenty-six categories.” “Putting aside such classifications, it is a fact that there exists a kind of pattern—one might even call it a formula—in the planned murders humans commit,” Gorron states in the preface to his memoirs. “Of course, this is seen in hindsight, but even if one begins with the most meticulous conception—even if one attempts a method that appears unknowable and of utmost complexity at first glance—once the deed is done, the incident itself becomes so simplified that it ends up indistinguishable from an impulsive crime committed without a moment’s thought.” This fact drives home the realization that planned murder—setting aside seasoned practitioners who have had frequent opportunities to accumulate such experiences (though such cases are rare)—is, for inexperienced novices, an immensely difficult undertaking where even devoting all one’s wisdom and might still proves insufficient.

In my long career as a prosecutor, I encountered many bizarre cases, but I shall begin by recounting three incidents that share a common trait—what we collectively refer to as “disguised murder.” “By ‘disguise,’ we refer to the elaborate ruse of meticulously framing another for a murder one has committed—a framework of deception designed to shift blame entirely.”

A Masterful Confession

This elaborate murder occurred in July 1903—at the height of summer—in an antiquated standalone pavilion resembling a relic from the previous century, nestled deep within a cul-de-sac along Quai de Fleures on the Seine’s island, practically under the nose of the Prefecture of Police. Much like Paul Bourget had done when writing Le Disciple, this case too would inspire him to draw upon trial records and craft André Cornélis, a psychological novel dissecting the conventional cold psychology of the bourgeoisie.

This was indeed a “well-considered crime”—meticulously planned and executed with utmost cunning. Never before or since has there been an instance where killing a single human being required such intricate staging and grandiose methodology. Now, regarding that murder: a pair of tenacious brothers collaborated in close coordination, strained their intellects, and over nearly half a year—at no small expense—constructed a complete stage for their crime. They embarked on action with unshakable confidence that failure was impossible at this stage. Yet this intellectual crime, so meticulously devised and built, collapsed entirely in less than three weeks due to what might be called arrogant complacency (though we typically term it mental exhaustion). It was exposed effortlessly, without even a hint of resistance. The British often speak of a “Godlike strike”—a divine blow—and this case indeed felt precisely like that; even in its trivial conclusion, it remained an undeniably rare occurrence.

Léon Barthou, a lawyer and member of parliament elected from the Seine’s lower prefecture who was an expert in commercial litigation law, left his office (and residence) at 38 Vaugirard around 10:00 a.m. on July 10th but had not returned even after three days, prompting his wife to file a missing persons report with the Prefecture of Police.

The Criminal Investigation Bureau assigned two full-time investigators to conduct a routine investigation. From his home to Quai d’Orsay, there were several witnesses, but from there onward, his trail vanished completely. Five days had passed with no news, but as parliament was in session, they could no longer leave it unattended and decided to take the matter seriously.

They investigated whether there had been any grounds for enmity within political party connections but found no such traces. They reset the investigation to square one and began by gathering testimony regarding the circumstances leading up to the disappearance. Mr. Barthou’s wife was a twenty-six- or twenty-seven-year-old woman named Jeanne—a charming woman with a truly bright countenance.

On the evening of the ninth, Mr. Barthou returned from the lower house and,

“It seems I’ll be appointed legal counsel for A.M.S. of Australia (Australia-Malaya Steamship Company). “A company representative is supposed to come tomorrow.” He cheerfully announced. Mr. Barthou served as treasurer of the Central Party, but given that the election three years prior had been fiercely contested, he had always struggled to manage the party’s funds. Madame had no interest whatsoever in politics or law and had made it a point never to interfere in Mr. Barthou’s work, so

“That’s good to hear.” “That should make things a bit easier.”

At that point, she left it at that. The following morning (the 10th), there came a call from someone claiming to be a representative of the steamship company. Mr. Barthou himself answered the phone and spoke for about two minutes before declaring, “Since the other party has caught a cold and can’t come suddenly, I’ll go now to settle the matter.” Having said that, he left the house—or so it was reported. They already knew these basic facts from their inquiries, finding little new information. Yet as they continued speaking with her, they detected something abnormal. Madame spoke with cultured precision and clarity, but they noted an icy detachment in her references to Mr. Barthou. Though her spouse had been missing for nearly a week, she displayed neither anxiety nor grief. Her manner remained strictly procedural, offering only necessary responses in a dispassionate tone.

Having concluded their interview with Madame rather perfunctorily, they inquired with neighbors and the apartment concierge about Mr. Barthou’s domestic reputation—which turned out to be rather poor. They were said to be a bitterly estranged couple, constantly embroiled in some quarrel or another. When they summoned Louise the maid to clarify matters, they discovered the source of their marital strife. Louise appeared to hold particular goodwill toward Mr. Barthou, divulging information they hadn’t even thought to ask about.

Both Mr. Barthou and his wife Jeanne hailed from old families in Le Havre at the mouth of the Seine, and though both were devout Catholics to the point of strictness, their personalities and interests had become entrenched in areas that proved fundamentally incompatible. In photographs, Mr. Barthou appeared with a bull-like neck, broad shoulders, and a stubborn countenance—an accurate reflection of reality, as he indeed maintained no interests beyond law and politics, was quick-tempered and prone to anger, and occasionally behaved roughly toward his wife. Madame, for her part, possessed a timid and excessively gentle disposition, demonstrated skill at the piano, and held refined tastes in literary appreciation—traits that inevitably led them to clash repeatedly over various matters.

These clashes of temperament had existed since their marriage, but the particularly turbulent conflicts began when Senator Maurice Belaire started frequenting Mr. Barthou’s household. Belaire owned a manganese mine in Annam and would depart there annually for about a month. During one such absence, his two brothers André and Edmond found their company embroiled in a fraud lawsuit—a predicament from which they were rescued through Mr. Barthou’s efforts. Once the case was settled, he sent his two brothers to Annam until the commotion died down; it was through this connection that Belaire became close to Mr. Barthou.

Now, Belaire was an imposing figure of a man, reminiscent of Napoleon at his peak—a grand gentleman who conducted himself with flawless poise and courtesy while possessing a keen understanding of both music and literature. Needless to say, he had grown exceptionally close to Madame Jeanne. Mr. Barthou, as is typical of a husband unloved by his wife, grew suspicious that the two had become entangled in a special relationship, occasionally resorting to violent fits of jealousy.

About half a year earlier, there had been a huge uproar. Someone claimed to have seen Jeanne and Belaire going into the forest together, and upon returning home, he immediately began interrogating Madame. At that time, a small restaurant called Maison de Rendez-vous—“meeting place”—had opened in Fontaine Forest, featuring lockable private rooms and thriving quite well. In truth, whether such a thing had actually occurred remained unclear—but Madame deftly brushed it off: “If you doubt it that much, let’s go to that house. The waiter will vouch for us.”

With that, she deftly brushed it off.

Mr. Barthou, far from being appeased, summoned Belaire by telephone, hurled a stream of obscenities at him, and finally resorted to brute force to drag him out of the house. Such a dramatic scene had occurred. The above was the account of Louise, the maid. As for what became of the relationship between the three, even that considerable commotion had quietly subsided, and things continued without incident until shortly before Mr. Barthou’s disappearance. To lay bare the truth, Belaire was an immensely wealthy man who had always extended a lifeline whenever Mr. Barthou faced financial strain. For his part, Mr. Barthou had concluded that it would be disadvantageous to sever his own indispensable resource in a momentary fit of rage.

The year was marked by a heatwave unlike any seen in over a decade. Once the Bastille Day celebrations on July 14th concluded, everyone departed for the seaside or mountains, leaving Paris utterly deserted.

The Diet went into recess, and the attacks on the investigation into Mr. Barthou somewhat eased. Regardless of this, they did everything they could, but even after three weeks, not a single fragment of Mr. Barthou’s finger had surfaced. They thoroughly investigated Mr. Barthou’s personal grudges and favors, but despite his quarrelsome nature, he was surprisingly well-liked in all quarters and had no grounds for anyone to hold a grudge against him.

Thus, Belaire became the only remaining suspect. Though it seemed implausible he would reignite a six-month-old feud to exact revenge now, as he was their sole lead, they investigated his movements at the time of the incident—only to find their efforts utterly wasted. Belaire, having invited four companions to escape the Bastille Day bustle, had retreated to his Breton estate two days prior to the incident and remained at its hunting lodge until the 16th. With both his travel companions and hundreds of villagers corroborating his airtight alibi, there could be no grounds for suspicion.

Though it was disgraceful, they were on the verge of suspending the investigation at this point when, on July 30th, a strange letter bearing the Versailles Post Office postmark arrived at the Investigation Bureau.

“In today’s Parisian newspapers, I read an article stating that Mr. Léon Barthou’s whereabouts remained unknown, and I was deeply troubled.” “The one who caused Mr. Barthou’s death was none other than myself.” “With Mr. Barthou, that was our first meeting, and there could have been no prior grudge between us.” “During our conversation, the topic of pistols happened to come up, and I showed him a Brunel pistol I had recently acquired in London when suddenly it discharged, sending a bullet through Mr. Barthou’s forehead.”

Once I have settled my personal affairs, I intend to turn myself in and submit to lawful punishment, but the thought of Mr. Barthou’s corpse rotting away in some unknown place fills me with unbearable shame. Mr. Barthou’s corpse lies within the building at 27 Ampass on Fleur Quay. I request that it be collected at the earliest convenience. Furthermore, I ask that you convey my heartfelt condolences to Mr. Barthou’s bereaved family. “James Haynes”

Such was the content of the letter. When such labyrinthine cases occur, there are often those who send half-mocking letters. Assuming it was another such prank, they initially dismissed it, but as a precautionary measure—when they dispatched an assigned investigator—they discovered Mr. Barthou’s corpse, abruptly transforming the situation.

Nakajima Island in the Seine River was an area where many historic buildings remained, and this was one of them—a quiet, old single-story house with about six rooms, surrounded on three sides by high stone walls and located deep within a cul-de-sac.

Mr. Barthou was found dead in a chair in the guest room—adjoining a side chamber that had been converted to resemble a study—with his chin resting against his chest. There was a gunshot wound that had passed from his forehead through to the back of his head, and the bullet had lodged itself shallowly in the wall behind him.

Before long, Dr. Pertinax and staff from the Anthropometric Department (the term "forensics" did not yet exist at that time) arrived. The pistol had been fired at close range from approximately one meter away, with the bullet entering at a perfect right angle to the forehead. From the corpse’s undisturbed posture, it could be surmised that Mr. Barthou had died instantly without uttering a single groan. That much was clear—but there lingered something peculiar about the circumstances. The house had been rented two weeks prior to the incident by a man identifying himself as James Haynes under a six-month contract—a man who had called in furniture dealers to redecorate—yet absurdly thick cora fabric curtains hung in triple layers over every window, entrance door, and glass-paned terrace exit. However one might rationalize winter preparations, this defied all common sense.

“Dr. Pertinax, for an accidental discharge, the bullet’s entry seems a bit too perfect, don’t you think?”

“It’s entered quite neatly.” “If it were an accidental discharge, this kind of coincidence would be about one in a thousand cases.” “It does seem suspicious, doesn’t it?” “The way the curtains are arranged—it can only mean they were planned and installed as soundproofing, don’t you think?”

Through the accounts of the landlord and the interior decorator, they pieced together James Haynes' appearance—a man of thirty-seven or thirty-eight with medium build and swarthy complexion, sporting fiery red hair styled with long sideburns and a thin mustache that gave him a distinctly Brazilian air. His claim of being an Australian Steamship Company representative held truth; he had lodged at grand hotels from Genoa to Marseille while hosting lavish banquets promoting new routes. Authorities cabled Sydney for identity verification and circulated wanted notices across Europe, yet remained baffled by his letter's true intent behind its veneer of conscience-stricken remorse—a performance devoid of genuine anguish after all. If truly intending surrender eventually, why fret over corpse decomposition? Most perpetrators laboriously conceal evidence; one voluntarily disclosing a body's location defied all logic.

“This is truly a strange letter.”

Then, the Evening News reporter who was there,

“Let’s make a photographic plate of this letter and try publishing it in the Evening News under the guise of soliciting readers’ judgment.”

Following through on this, they published the photograph of the letter in the newspaper—but there was an unexpected reaction. One of the victims from when Belaire’s younger brother had committed a fraud incident in Paris sent over an old letter of Edmond Belaire’s, declaring there was no mistaking his handwriting.

Edmond was apprehended at a hotel near Paris. The fact that Edmond was the same person as “James Haynes” was proven by evidence from a cosmetics shop in Nice, southern France, where he had purchased a red wig and mustache, leaving him no way to explain it away. Edmond stated that he had avenged his grudge because Barthou had conducted biased mediation in the previous year’s fraud case, but we investigated under the assumption that the brothers had conspired in the matter.

Belaire had been calmly observing the house search with a faint smirk, but when the pistol bullet that had pierced the unfortunate Mr. Barthou’s skull was extracted from the wall above the fireplace mantel in the hall adjoining the hunting lodge, his face turned ashen as though he were on the verge of death. But that was not the only evidence. A bundle of coded telegrams that Edmond had sent from his location was discovered.

In the telegram dated the 9th, "Kobun (slang term referring to Mr. Barthou) - plan to acquire tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. Edmond" it read.

Despite his elegant appearance, Belaire was a vengeful man with a sinister nature. It was Belaire who had devised this peculiar "disguised murder," meticulously planning every detail and manipulating Edmond from afar like a shogi player moving pieces. Belaire had grown so hopelessly infatuated with Madame Jeanne that he sought to negotiate terms—whether through money, status, or other incentives—to make Mr. Barthou relinquish his position and ultimately marry her. At that time, he hadn't yet contemplated murder, but when seized by the collar and dragged away, he abruptly resolved to act. Thus upon returning home, he attempted to dispatch a challenge for a duel, but concluded that even were he to eliminate Mr. Barthou, killing him in such combat would undermine his crucial objective. Madame Jeanne, rigidly adhering to Old Faith doctrine, would never remarry a man who had slain her husband in a duel—no matter how profoundly she loved Belaire. For he believed she would only accept a marriage formally recognized under the Old Faith's canon law.

At this point, Belaire formulated a grand plan, "A grave incident has occurred in the Belaire household." "You must carry out every single thing your older brother has ordered without deviation."

With this solemn opening phrase, he sent Edmond in French Indochina the first order letter.

The letter had specified everything in meticulous detail—from Edmond’s pretext for returning to France to the steamship he would board and even the exact departure date. According to its instructions, Edmond was to board a German steamship departing from Saigon on February 1st, transfer to a British vessel in Colombo, disembark in Naples after sunset on February 26th, and meet his brother—who would have arrived earlier—at the Hotel Cardinale. Citing an emergency in the Belaire household, Edmond obeyed his brother’s orders without deviation, arriving in Naples on schedule where his brother revealed all details of their scheme. The brothers sequestered themselves in a hotel room for three days deliberating murder methods. When their plans had aligned and they’d established future communication protocols, Belaire returned to Paris.

Edmond went to Nice in southern France as his brother had specified, rented a daily-rental villa with a kitchen, and moved into the first phase of action. The idea was to bring into existence a man named James Haynes on European soil. Haynes was an executive of the A.M.S. Steamship Company currently residing in Sydney. Belaire had selected it from Sydney’s "gentleman’s directory." Nice, near Monaco, was in the very midst of Carnival, with costumed men and women dancing through the streets. There were several specialty shops selling costumes and materials, making it extremely convenient for such work. Edmond bought a red wig and false mustache, and went to a drugstore to procure hair dye and pigments. According to Belaire’s instructions, he was supposed to be a British man, but considering the practicality of speaking French, he decided to present himself as a second-generation British man of Argentine descent.

Once he had dyed his complexion a tawny hue, fashioned long sideburns and a mustache, and transformed himself into a credible South American man, he burned everything he had been wearing up to that point in the kitchen stove. With this, the existence of Edmond Belaire ceased to be, and the persona of James Haynes was born anew. This disguise was not for Carnival. Since they intended to have the fantastical fictional character James Haynes commit murder, they had to introduce him in as many circles as possible and thoroughly establish his existence as a real person.

From here began the second stage of their endeavors. First, as a preliminary step, he took Haynes to Naples, Italy. He tentatively stayed at the Hotel Cardinale to test his disguise. Not a single person at the front desk or among the waitstaff had noticed his disguise, so he grew more confident. The next day, he moved to a first-class hotel and held a reception for a new shipping route development. While conducting similar attempts in Genoa and Marseille, he caused a greater sensation than anticipated and suddenly rose to become the star of the newspaper’s “Social Notes” column.

Over the course of roughly two months, while spending money like water on lavish banquets, this news reached Paris, and inquiries came from various quarters. Needless to say, he had been reporting these developments to Belaire on a daily basis. In early June, there came an order: go to London, collect pistols equipped with silencers, and send them. He promptly went to London, bought up about seven types of pistols, and sent them to Paris. The pistol bullets embedded in the wall of Belaire’s hunting lodge hall were remnants from those sound tests.

In early July, a telegram arrived ordering him to come here, leading to James Haynes’s entry into Paris and bringing the plan to its intended conclusion. Since Haynes was supposed to have a cold, he drew the office curtains and waited in the darkened room. If it had been anyone else, that would have been one thing, but since it was Mr. Barthou he was dealing with, there was also the fear that his disguise would be seen through. At 10:10, Mr. Barthou arrived and pressed the doorbell. Haynes went to the entrance to greet him, exchanged their first greetings, then led the way into the darkened room. Mr. Barthou followed from about three steps behind. Haynes turned around in one motion and fired the pistol at Barthou’s forehead. Barthou fell forward onto the floor without so much as a grunt and lay still.

After confirming he was completely dead, he hurriedly removed his disguise and burned everything he had been wearing, just as he had done in Nice. "The star of the shipping world" thus retreated into the distant background, and Edmond Belaire—who had been absent for about half a year—returned with his former face. The above constituted the gist of Edmond’s interrogation, but a critical flaw remained in the crucial details. Edmond confessed he had fired the pistol at the room’s entrance and that Mr. Barthou had fallen face down onto the floor, yet from our observations, Mr. Barthou’s corpse had been neatly seated in a chair. It was clear Edmond wasn’t lying. While one could imagine Mr. Barthou—supposedly killed instantly—reviving afterward, standing up on his own, and sitting in the chair, such a scenario seemed highly improbable. If this point remained unsteady, it would be effortlessly overturned by defense counsel in court. Therefore, determined to clarify this section, we exerted considerable effort.

Belaire stubbornly refused to talk but ultimately relented. It had been Belaire’s doing that positioned the corpse in the chair. After reading the letter sent to the investigative bureau, Belaire concluded that if the pistol had misfired during their conversation, the victim would naturally need to have been seated. Edmond had sent the bizarre confession letter not only to divert suspicion toward a non-existent perpetrator but also for another crucial purpose. Given the intense summer heat, leaving the corpse undiscovered too long would render identification as Mr. Barthou impossible. Catholic law prohibited remarriage based on disappearance alone—Jeanne would remain a widow perpetually, and Belaire could never legally wed her. They needed the body found promptly before decomposition advanced and its identity properly verified.

Edmond’s letter had done good work, but it would have been better had he taken slightly more care to alter the handwriting. Had that been done, this case would have remained an unsolved mystery. That winter, the brothers were sentenced to life imprisonment by the criminal court and soon thereafter sent to Devil’s Island.

Blue hunting outfit

In the previous case, the perpetrator manipulated a fictional character, but here, the perpetrator became a fictional character.

This occurred in the year before the Great War, 1913.

The Paris Metro Line 3 starts from the northwest old city gate, passes underground through the central downtown area, and ends at the northeast old city gate. On the afternoon of December 21st—with Christmas soon approaching—the 3:12 PM train arrived at the terminal platform. The subway’s off-peak hours were from around two to four o'clock, but since it was Sunday and both government offices and companies were closed, only a handful of passengers got off.

As the train changed its destination display to return to its starting station, the station attendant—while walking along the platform and peering into the compartments to check for lost items—noticed a woman remaining alone in a seat at the front of the first-class car. He knocked on the windowpane to alert her, but she remained still with her head pressed against the glass. Thinking she must be asleep, he entered the compartment and looked—only to find her eyes wide open. “Madam, this is the terminal station.”

Even when he called out to her, she didn’t respond. A vertical crease formed between her eyebrows; with a vacant expression, she stared unblinkingly at a fixed point in space. Twenty-five or six. She had a face so well-formed it could be called beautiful, and was wearing luxurious clothes. It seemed she had been trying to take something out of her handbag; having removed her right glove, she had inserted her fingertips into its open mouth.

The station attendant stood beside her and gazed at her face for a moment, but finding her appearance utterly unnatural, he gingerly touched her hand—it was ice-cold. Startled, the station attendant locked the doors at both ends of the compartment, instructed the driver to wait before departing, and went to summon the stationmaster. An official from the district police was dispatched, moved the first-class car to a siding, and spent until evening conducting their investigation. They said it was probably cardiac arrest or a sudden onset of pernicious anemia, but without an autopsy, they couldn’t know for certain. As for the woman’s identity, her handbag contained only a ticket, handkerchief, mirror, powder compact, and a small perfume bottle bearing the brand name “Sheeple”—there was nothing that could serve as a clue. So they moved the corpse to the morgue and published a notice in the next morning’s newspaper.

From around noon, various people came to see it, but all returned with disappointed faces.

Around eleven o’clock at night, a gentleman who appeared to be a businessman in his early forties came rushing in, clutching a newspaper. “My name is Raoul Monier; I run a land company on Rue de Wagram. My wife Lucie left home at noon and still hasn’t returned by nightfall.” “I just read the morgue’s notice and became so anxious that I rushed here.” When they took him to the mortuary, his worst fears were confirmed—Mr. Monier ended up seeing his wife’s utterly disfigured corpse.

Mr. Monier was overcome with unbearable grief, but upon hearing the police doctor’s explanation,

“My wife recently had a mild case of influenza, but given that she was usually in exceedingly good health, I can’t believe she died of a stroke or heart attack. Because I believe there’s another cause of death, I want an autopsy performed.”

Having requested an autopsy, he left.

The next morning, they conducted the autopsy as per protocol, but found no abnormalities in the heart muscle and no cerebral hemorrhage. Apart from an elevated oxygen level in the blood, no substantial toxic substances that could have caused death were detected in either the stomach or liver. Though unable to determine the cause of death, since such an incident had indeed occurred in the subway, they sent Madame’s belongings to the forensic institute for testing—where a volatile cyanide compound was discovered inside the perfume bottle. It became nearly evident that she had died from internal asphyxiation—what’s commonly called tissue suffocation—caused by her respiratory center being compromised through inhalation of a highly toxic cyanide-like gas.

Since there were no signs of external coercion, it was considered—based on common sense—to have likely been a voluntary act. The newspapers reported it as a "suicide" and closed the case, but given the peculiar nature of the circumstances, we could not simply dismiss it as such. Thus, it was decided to establish responsibility and investigate thoroughly. On the morning of the 24th, Mr. Monier arrived looking severely haggard. When asked whether he knew about the “poison” contained in the perfume bottle,

“I read it in the newspaper,” he murmured.

“The newspapers are calling it a suicide, but I find that hard to accept… Though admittedly, she had been somewhat withdrawn lately—often lost in thought alone—it didn’t seem like she had troubles severe enough for suicide.” “Had we known that earlier, we wouldn’t need to ask you—but if she was indeed withdrawn lately, there must have been some cause: anxiety… worry… discomfort… something.” “Have there been any recent disputes involving you?”

“I love my wife dearly, and my wife loves me as well. Since our marriage, there has not been even a quarrel.” “Then, economic issues… something like financial troubles?”

“At present, my business is proceeding smoothly, and since my wife inherited her late father’s estate and possesses considerable assets, there should have been no hardship in that regard.” “What about her social connections?” “Had she suffered any psychological blows from someone?” “Or had she encountered something unpleasant?”

“Neither I nor my wife have any individual friends of our own. All are mutual friends of my wife and me, but I have no memory of my wife alone encountering anything unpleasant.” “Any particularly close friends?” Mr. Monier started to say something but hesitated each time; then, with an utterly troubled expression, he spoke.

“Max Lenoire.”

“What kind of person is he?” “Occupation?” “Max is the son of Lenoire from ‘French Chemical Industries,’ has his own laboratory, and conducts research in chemistry.” “What kind?” “It’s toxicology.” “There are writings titled ‘The Effects of Chloral’ and ‘Carbon Oxide Poisoning.’”

“I see.”

"You handle land and building brokerage—do you have such interests yourself?" "I have absolutely no knowledge in that area." "If anything, it would be my wife who—"

“Toxicology?” “It’s not toxicology. The father of my late wife was engaged in perfume manufacturing in Grasse in Southern France, and because of that, my wife continued blending and analyzing perfumes as a hobby.” “So, in other words, that’s the nature of your relationship with Mr. Lenoire?”

“That’s correct. Max is my old friend—I know him well—but he has nothing to do with this case in any way. Not that saying so will help matters, but I want you to at least remember that I said this.”

He said something to that effect, but it left us with a strange impression. The wife’s death was due to inhaling poison contained in a perfume bottle, and given that this friend was engaged in toxicology research, it went without saying that this could not be overlooked; whether this Lenoire was involved in the case would be determined through investigation, but one could not simply leap to conclusions based solely on such circumstances. Why would this man make such a hasty defense? His hesitation to mention Lenoire’s name could be attributed to friendship, but at the same time, it was not impossible to consider that there had been some intent involved.

Observing Mr. Monier’s appearance—though he wore luxurious clothes—one noticed a peculiar timidity, an overly rigid uprightness, and an inflexibility characteristic of those who had risen from the lower classes through hard work, all of which lent him an air of amiability. He did not appear to be the cunning sort of man who would weave schemes around such a complex case, yet there was certainly something lurking beneath the surface. With someone so timid, handling him clumsily would only make him wary and clam up completely, so

“Understood.” “I’ll keep that in mind.”

With only that said, he sent him home.

Given the circumstances at the time of the autopsy showing no signs of external coercion, our opinion had largely leaned toward the suicide theory; but if such a connection existed, we needed to fundamentally rethink our approach. We therefore decided to run a large photograph of Madame Monier in the newspapers and solicit information from witnesses who had shared Line 3's subway car with her around 2:00 PM on the 21st.

Then, in the afternoon, a summons came from the director: “Come immediately—there’s something I want to discuss.” When I entered the director’s office, he was conversing with the head of the Forensic Research Institute—but abruptly,

“Regarding the subway suicide case—it’s turned into a bit of a mess!” he said. The head of the Forensic Research Institute took over and explained.

“The Chemical Research Institute issued a report stating that the poison in the perfume bottle was a cyanide compound, but it wasn’t something that straightforward.” “They say she inhaled cyanide gas, but cyanide compounds of the hydrocyanic acid type don’t become gaseous unless heated above twenty-seven degrees Celsius, you see.”

“So what was it then?” “To put it plainly—it wasn’t poison at all. A type of weapon. And not just any weapon—an unreleased scientific device classified as state secrets.”

The head pulled a piece of paper closer, wrote “CoCl₂” on it with a pencil to show us, then lit a match and burned it. “What kind of substance is that?” “The military refers to it by the codename ‘Colongite,’ but it’s actually phosgene gas—an asphyxiant—which makes this a serious matter.” “Even at the Army’s Scientific Research Institute, only a handful of personnel involved are aware of it.” “First off, it’s not the kind of substance that can be easily taken outside.” “And another thing—though it may seem trivial—storing gas in such a small perfume bottle is a feat impossible unless one has handled phosgene extensively for a considerable length of time.”

When the Director asked how far along the interrogation had progressed, I explained the developments up to that point. The head of the Forensic Research Institute declared simply: “I know Max Lenoire…” “He may call himself an amateur chemist, but at heart, he’s just a common womanizer.” “How could a man like him manage such a complicated task?”

Given the nature of the case, it naturally fell under matters covered by the National Security Law and required immediate reporting to the Army Minister. However, since this was no longer an incident that the Metropolitan Police Department could handle independently, the director issued new instructions: investigations were to be suspended until the military authorities established their investigative policy, and an attitude of absolute secrecy toward the press was to be strictly maintained.

The investigation came to an abrupt halt there, but the case refused to pause; it moved forward on its own, slipping into a new phase. Two informants who claimed to have witnessed Madame Monier appeared.

Since the investigation couldn’t exactly be called suspended, they met with and questioned both individuals. A man named Léon Bouclé and a man named René Piron. Both were stockbrokers who owned small shops near the exchange.

Bouclé’s account.

Bouclé jumped into the subway around 2:00 PM that day to rush to the exchange where a major fluctuation had occurred. It was a day when Indian cotton stocks surged dramatically and Westphalian mining stocks plummeted, and Bouclé was frantically glaring at the stock price charts in the business newspaper.

At the fourth station from the starting point, a beautiful woman in her mid-twenties boarded and settled into a seat on the opposite front side. There were no other passengers; inside the car, there were only Bouclé and that woman—just the two of them. At the fourth station from there, someone finally boarded. He was a gentleman of thirty-seven or thirty-eight wearing a sky-blue hunting jacket resembling a military uniform and a plaid hunting cap; apparently an acquaintance of the woman’s, he went over and took a seat facing her. The woman widened her eyes in apparent surprise before laughing brightly. The two chattered incessantly—the woman spoke with particular fervor, her occasional laughter leaving an impression—but that was all; he hadn’t caught a word of their conversation. He had become utterly fixated on the numbers in the stock price charts and was in no state to pay attention to such things.

As the train arrived at Bourse Station, Bouclé stood up, and the gentleman also rose from his seat,

“Well, see you tonight.” “Don’t forget our promise.”

After saying something to that effect, he exited the car as though he couldn’t wait for the doors to open. Bouclé followed him down to the platform and had a chance encounter with his partner (co-investor), Piron. The gentleman in the blue hunting jacket exited through the ticket gate during that time.

Piron’s account. Piron had been waiting at the shop for Bouclé until two o’clock, but when he didn’t show up, he reluctantly left the store. He had business to attend to—obtaining his clients’ approval regarding that day’s market fluctuations. While waiting for the subway, Bouclé conveniently descended behind the gentleman in the sky-blue hunting jacket, so they finished handing over work through a standing conversation on the platform. He started toward the front seats but, finding a woman already sitting there, took a seat opposite. Piron, too, was in a situation where even a single second counted. Because he needed to organize those troublesome numbers before meeting with his clients, he didn’t want distractions. Piron took out his notebook and began calculating. Aside from the woman, there were no other passengers—and she herself remained motionless, her head resting against the windowpane as if asleep. For that reason, he was able to immerse himself in calculations undisturbed until arriving at his destination station.

At the fourth station from Bourse, Piron got off. Before stepping onto the platform, he glanced toward the woman—she remained still, maintaining the same posture. Looking back later, it became clear she had maintained that posture from when she first boarded and glanced around until the very end. As for the gentleman in the blue hunting jacket, the two men’s accounts nearly matched entirely. Piron had only casually glimpsed the gentleman alighting from the train yet conveyed a remarkably precise impression. He was somewhat tall but not exceptionally so. His mustache was brown; his hair chestnut. His movements were brisk yet methodical. It was said his gestures carried the polish of one accustomed to navigating high society.

Bouclé had observed the "gentleman in the blue hunting jacket" from the moment he boarded until he alighted, but during that entire time, the gentleman had not once displayed any rough behavior or threatening attitude toward the lady. Far from it—since the gentleman had been cheerfully conversing until he rose from his seat, the period in question could be considered entirely unrelated to either suicide or murder.

Piron boarded the train just before departure and immediately went straight to the front seats where he noticed the lady sitting there. From that moment until he alighted, she remained completely still—not moving a muscle. Even if it had been phosgene gas, its inhalation would have caused an immediate violent shock—something Piron couldn’t have failed to notice given his proximity. Ultimately concluding her death was suicide—quietly executed during that minute-long station stop in an otherwise empty subway car—one must ask: What abrupt shift in mindset could have driven her to commit such an unnatural act so suddenly? She who had been in such high spirits until then?

If the identity of the gentleman in the blue hunting jacket could be ascertained, the hidden circumstances surrounding that matter might become clear. So first, they went to Mr. Monier’s house and tried asking the maid about the lady’s state that day.

The maid’s account. The lady was a cheerful person who could sometimes be quite lively. That day was no exception; she had lunch alone in good spirits and left home, saying she was going to a fitting at a dress shop called Rex near the Opera House. In truth, she had been supposed to go in the morning, but since Mr. Lenoire came over, it was postponed to the afternoon. The two of them had been discussing going to see a play that evening. When Mr. Lenoire was leaving, the lady saw him off at the entrance, saying, “Well, see you tonight.”

Bouclé testified that the gentleman in the blue hunting jacket had said to the lady, “Don’t forget our promise tonight.” If we considered only these facts, the gentleman increasingly resembled Lenoire, and a subtle shadow began to fall over the cause of the lady’s death—previously thought to be suicide. For example: had Lenoire said, “I managed to get my hands on this perfume. I was planning to give it to you,” and handed it over with some such explanation before immediately exiting the car? The lady might have opened her handbag while twisting the bottle’s stopper slightly to hold it to her nose. In an instant struck by shock, she could have let it slip from her hand—the perfume bottle dropping straight into the handbag—before suffering violent internal asphyxiation and dying with her head pressed against the windowpane.

Then Piron enters... If this assumption holds true, this would not be suicide but a cleverly disguised murder made to look like one. Lenoire was a devoted disciple of science yet simultaneously a hedonistic spendthrift—a man who constantly stirred up trouble through his entanglements with women. The hundred thousand shares of *French Chemical Industries* inherited from his late father had passed into others' hands within a short span, leaving him to receive only nominal dividends under the title of auditor. He had recently become engaged to some millionaire's daughter but committed the eccentric act of sending identical breakup letters to every former girlfriend without exception. For Lenoire—desperate to secure this engagement by any means—we surmised he had resorted to such drastic measures when cornered by Madame Monier's unresolved situation.

Three weeks after the incident, once the military and Metropolitan Police Department had established an investigative coordination protocol, they went to arrest him with a warrant—only to find Lenoire had left his home on Christmas Eve and disappeared without a trace. The 24th was the day Madame Monier’s photograph was featured prominently in the newspaper.

When they conducted a house search, a sky-blue hunting jacket and a coarse-checkered hunting cap emerged from the wardrobe. When shown to Bouclé and Piron, they testified, “I do believe this was indeed the clothing.”

Lenoire was arrested in Bordeaux before boarding a steamship bound for South America. Lenoire claimed he had intended to live in South America for two or three years to sever ties with his past entanglements before marrying, but to us, it seemed nothing more than a premeditated escape.

If there had been a solid alibi—but Lenoire— “After visiting Madame at eleven o’clock that morning, I did not meet her in the afternoon.” he merely repeated the same statement. “Then prove where you were during those ‘twenty minutes’ when the crime was committed—from 2:50 PM to 3:10 PM.” When told that, he couldn’t do it. This was a kind of divine punishment—for a man like Lenoire, who spent his days drifting idly through the streets of Paris, the “twenty minutes” on that afternoon three weeks prior... Even though he wanted to prove where he had been, he simply couldn’t recall.

Given all the conditions, it was evident that Lenoire was the perpetrator, and if they were to confront him with the two witnesses, his guilt would be irrefutably established. If Lenoire had been involved in the theft of classified weapons, under the Military Secrets Protection Act, execution by firing squad would have been unavoidable. For Lenoire and for us, it had been an exceedingly perilous situation, but just before his guilt could be conclusively established, the truth came to light. Lenoire had no connection to this incident. The "gentleman in the blue hunting jacket" had never existed from the very beginning. He was a completely fictional character—a collaborative creation of Bouclé and Piron.

Madame Monier, knowing that Lenoire’s recent engagement had aimed at securing a dowry—whether out of friendship or romantic attachment—had resolved to provide him financial backing to annul this unwanted marriage. Under the guidance of a friend well-versed in such matters, she had secretly attempted bold speculative ventures at Bouclé’s shop without Mr. Monier’s knowledge.

Until mid-December, she had maintained balanced results, but three days before the incident—that is, on the morning of the 18th—after obtaining reliable information from a certain source, Bouclé had called to request that she sell off the Westphalian mining shares and buy up Indian cotton shares in full.

On the morning of the 21st, mining shares plummeted and cotton shares skyrocketed. In that single day, Madame’s assets had more than doubled, and even after setting aside her own portion, she could now furnish Lenoire with close to a million francs. That morning, Madame had been in high spirits, bustling about cheerfully before leaving home at two o’clock. While en route to the stock exchange via subway, she happened upon Bouclé and Piron boarding the same car. Madame,

“A great victory, isn’t it? Thank you for your hard work.”

She offered a handshake, but the two men broke into a sweat and retreated. Despite Madame’s request, Bouclé and Piron pursued their own schemes; clinging tenaciously to the mining shares caused them to miss the once-in-a-lifetime surge in cotton prices, and with their holdings plummeting, they lost everything.

Bouclé and Piron bowed low and tried to explain themselves, but Madame maintained a stony expression and did not respond. Then she took out something like a perfume bottle from her handbag and pressed it to her nose. Her face convulsed, and in an instant, she was dead. The two were astonished, and at the next station where the train stopped, they fled without looking back, leaving Madame’s corpse behind.

The reason they had introduced a non-existent figure like the gentleman in the blue suit was simply because they feared that otherwise, being unable to cover their financial losses, they would be suspected of having killed Madame. According to their calculations, since it was a product of pure imagination from the start, even the police couldn't grasp something like wind or air. They thought they could disrupt the investigation's direction and obscure everything.

The two had no knowledge of this Lenoire person and had never even dreamed of framing him as the perpetrator. It had been a plan born purely from cowardice, so when they realized Lenoire might face execution, they panicked and confessed everything. As for how the phosgene in the perfume bottle was taken out, we have not been informed at all. Twenty years had passed since then, during which two great wars occurred. Since those involved at the time had likely all perished in the wars, it would probably remain an eternal secret.

The end of the long journey. As a disguised murder, this was of the simplest type—a shallow attempt, an unimaginative crime that betrayed the perpetrators' intellectual limits—yet through chance's divine protection, it had been elevated into a sort of mysterious incident. "It is not uncommon for 'chance' to either aid investigations or become unforeseen obstacles, but never before or since has 'chance' overlapped so delicately and plunged a case into such confusion."

In the beginning of April 1901, a report of robbery and murder was received from the police of the 16th arrondissement.

At 18 Passy, a luxurious apartment building, a widow named Berrison and her live-in maid Isabelle were hacked to death with a meat cleaver, while 20,000 francs in cash from the safe and a jewel case containing personal ornaments were stolen. The scene lay in utter disarray—as if a tempest had torn through—with every object overturned. Blood-soaked shoe prints scarred the floorboards, while palm prints smeared in gore clung to the walls like grotesque frescoes. Additionally, two stiffly starched cuffs (detachable shirt sleeves; such cuffs could be put on and removed in those days) sat neatly aligned upon the mantelpiece, and near the maid’s corpse lay a leather belt inscribed with the name Georges Granville.

The perpetrator, finding the stiff cuffs inconvenient, had removed them and placed them there before commencing the crime. As for the leather belt, it had likely been intended to bind the maid and be done with it, but she struggled too violently; finding it too troublesome, he ended up slashing her to death. That much was understandable, but leaving such items behind so carelessly defied all reason. Whether he had panicked or acted with calculated boldness, either way, it exceeded all bounds—enough to confound our common sense.

In time, from Madame’s writing desk drawer emerged a letter signed "Granville," containing roughly three lines that read: “I have settled in comfortably but will call upon you shortly.”

A letter signed "Granville"—scribbling about three lines to that effect—was found. According to this, Granville was a man with a close relationship to Madame, and on the night he visited her, it became almost certain that he had committed the crime. Meanwhile, the following afternoon, the 10th District Police contacted us: a man named Louis Granville, who had stayed at a hotel in front of North Station, had left his suitcase behind on the morning of the incident and departed, and had not returned even by that day. They informed us that he appeared to match the description of the wanted individual.

Granville’s physical description had been ascertained in detail: a man of twenty-seven or twenty-eight with a slender build; blond hair, no beard; possessing a slight squint and missing two upper incisors. He had such distinctive features that one could hardly ask for more when preparing a wanted poster.

What had been left in the room was a cheap cloth suitcase, its contents as follows.

1. A sample catalog from “Müller,” a tobacco company with branches in major German and Austrian cities. 2. Two dress shirts with the initials G.G. 3. Brussels-based “Lermonde Shirt Company” of Belgium Three detachable collars manufactured.

1. A single photograph of an elderly woman around sixty years old. 1. One copy of the electoral roll for Montreal, Canada.

When we added the cuffs, leather belt, and signature on the letter found at the crime scene to this list, there was no longer any shortage of evidence. Shortly after distributing wanted posters with an inventory of stolen items, part of the loot resurfaced at a municipal pawnshop in Marseille. The man who had pawned them—a Spaniard going by Signoret—was swiftly arrested and remanded to the investigative bureau.

The Marseille police had claimed to have apprehended Granville, but upon seeing the man, his features did not match. He was tall but broad-shouldered and sturdy—a middle-aged man with neither missing teeth nor a squint. However, since he possessed Madame Berrison’s jewels, he couldn’t possibly be unrelated; thus they conducted a thorough interrogation, but— “I found the suitcase abandoned in the park with everything still inside. I don’t know any woman named Berrison.”

He stubbornly refused to talk.

The Marseille police authorities did not abandon their view that Signoret was the perpetrator of Madame Berrison’s murder. The G.G. who had vanished from the hotel in front of North Station was, by coincidence, an unrelated individual bearing the same name; had Signoret not been the true culprit, he should have invoked Granville’s name to evade suspicion—and the fact that he had attempted suicide in his cell on the night of his arrest was, they argued, irrefutable proof of his guilt. Whether Signoret was the true culprit or not could not be determined unless they caught a man named Granville who had vanished from the hotel in front of North Station on the morning of the incident.

At the time, I had just been promoted to inspector at the Investigation Bureau when, through some twist of fate, I ended up being assigned to this case.

The story had gotten ahead of itself, but Marquis de Châlons, the uncle of Madame Berrison, offered a daring reward to console the spirit of his unfortunate niece. 100,000 francs for the arrest of the culprit. Advertisements featuring Madame’s photograph—offering a 30,000-franc reward for information leading to the culprit’s whereabouts—had been placed in every major newspaper across European cities. But it was not until early June that a credible tip arrived from Valencia, Spain.

Valencia was a port that serviced steamships on South American routes, and there, a certain woman living in the city encountered a lanky, squinting young man at the outer harbor pier who bore a striking resemblance to the Granville described in the newspaper’s wanted poster. However, his hair appeared dyed and was strikingly red. He was in a pitiable state without even a coat and, claiming to have been bitten by a dog, was bleeding from his left hand. “I’m sorry, but could you bind this with the handkerchief?”

So she tore the handkerchief and bandaged his hand. The young man was extremely grateful and offered a jewel as thanks, but she refused, saying such a gesture was unnecessary. At that moment, she had kept the remaining handkerchief without a second thought—but embroidered on it in blue thread were the initials G.G.... Upon receiving this valuable tip, we immediately rushed to Valencia.

This marked the beginning of a two-and-a-half-year-long, interminable, tedious, and relentless odyssey—but when we visited the woman and inspected the so-called handkerchief, only to find it bore not G.G. but C.C., we were left utterly speechless.

It was utterly trivial, so I had intended to return straight to Paris—but seeing that he possessed items like the tobacco sample catalog, it occurred to me that he might have been a salesman for "Müller." From there I went to Austria, visiting every branch location in Graz, Leoben, Vienna, and Linz; entered Germany; toured through Bavaria and Saxony; and finally extended my reach as far as Berlin. Yet this proved entirely fruitless labor, yielding nothing of value.

Thus, the year came to a close, and in early February 1902, a report arrived from the Delft police in Holland: a man claiming to be Granville had left his suitcase at a hotel and fled without paying the lodging fee. Upon inquiring, it closely resembled the method used at the hotel in front of Paris's North Station. Believing they had finally cornered him this time, I hurried to Holland. Indeed, there was a suitcase left behind containing a photograph of its owner—a man around fifty who bore no resemblance whatsoever to the Granville who had fled Paris. Since the guest register had revealed his identity, I took a four-hour train ride to Holland's northern frontier where I found a forgotten village housing the Granville family. They were an old Norman noble family that had fled France long ago; the head had gone to Delft not as a missing person but on provincial travels, with plans to return to his hotel that very day. I inquired about Madame Berrison, but no one knew her. In France and among its people, there had been no trace to grasp for decades—no memory of her existence left to recall.

In the meantime, summer arrived. I had not been idly wasting time—having made several short trips during that period and taken measures in every possible direction—yet Granville’s whereabouts remained unknown.

Signoret’s prison sentence was set to conclude this October, and he would be released without complication. Wanting to somehow bring things to a conclusion before then, I packed all of Granville’s belongings into a suitcase and first headed to Belgium. When I went to Lermonde Shirt Company and showed them the collars and cuffs, they said they shipped hundreds of dozens of such items every day, so there was no way to determine who had purchased them. I had anticipated this response from the start, but just to be thorough, I showed them the white shirt embroidered with G.G.’s initials. When asked about it, they replied, “We have never handled such cheap products at our establishment.” It was undoubtedly Belgian-made, but they said it was likely a product from a factory in the Liège or Namur area.

Carrying the G.G. shirts, as instructed, I went around inquiring at each small factory in Liège and Namur, and before I knew it, I had ended up at the port of Antwerp. Since there was said to be such a factory here as well, as I repeated the exceedingly tedious task, by the third shop, I began to feel as though I had finally arrived. A man who appeared to be the shop clerk was looking through the account book, but— “These white shirts with weaving flaws—we sold several dozen of them some years ago to a man named Granville.”

he said.

Involuntarily, I let out a loud cry.

When I had the city office investigate, they informed me that there were fifty-three residents named Granville within the city alone. Even if fifty-three houses turn into five thousand three hundred and fifty, what’s begun must be finished. I noted down the addresses of fifty-three houses in my notebook and started with the nearest ones. There was only one question to ask. I showed the white shirt to the household’s resident, “Do you recognize this?”

This was how I posed the question.

I forgot how many dozens of houses it was. As usual, I showed the shirt and received a curt refusal of "I’m afraid not at all." But then, suddenly remembering, I took out the photograph of the elderly woman from Granville’s suitcase and showed it—

“This Granville emigrated to Montreal, Canada with his entire family just last year,” they informed me. Canada’s Montreal! Even though Antwerp’s harbor waters connected directly to Canada’s shores, they lay twelve hundred miles away. Carrying old shirts after a difficult voyage through continuous storms, he arrived at the Granville family’s doorstep in Montreal. The one who came out to the parlor was the elderly woman in the photograph—Granville’s mother—who, while handling Granville’s white shirt as if it were a memento, said the following.

“Ever since middle school, he was an unmanageable loafer who hardly ever stayed home—he didn’t even come to see us off when we moved here. I heard he went to Paris after that, but I’ve no idea what he’s been doing to make a living. There’s a cousin of his living in a place like Halifax—letters apparently arrive there from time to time. If you wish to learn more, go there and ask.”

With that, she wrote down the address and handed it over.

By train, he went to Halifax, met the man who was said to be the cousin, and gave a general account of the circumstances up to that point. Then the man:

“It seems you just referred to him as Georges, but his real name is Guillaume. In Paris, I hear he goes by Louis or some such name—a man utterly unbound, using aliases without hesitation. Last spring, he was finally arrested for theft or some such crime and is now in Sainte-Anne Prison outside Paris.”

he said something entirely unexpected. After two years of scouring all of Europe and pursuing him all the way to remote Canada, only to hear that the man himself was in Sainte-Anne Prison outside Paris—there was hardly a soul who wouldn’t have been stunned. Dejectedly boarding a steamship, he returned to Paris and went to Sainte-Anne Prison, where Guillaume Granville—who had stayed at the hotel in front of North Station under the alias Louis—was indeed serving his sentence.

On the morning of the day when the crime occurred at No. 18 Passy, Granville left his hotel and took a train to the outskirts. As he broke into a villa he had long been eyeing for burglary, he was apprehended by a rural guard. Through summary judgment by the misdemeanor court, he was sentenced to one year and eight months' imprisonment and immediately sent off to Sainte-Anne Prison.

The year came to a close, and 1903 began.

In early spring, the manager of a certain hotel in Cairo, Egypt received information that there was a man named Georges Granville. Determined that this time would yield results, he eagerly rushed to Cairo. The manager was none other than Georges Granville himself, but as they spoke at length about various matters, all lingering mysteries unraveled at once. He asserted that the perpetrator of the Passy No. 18 incident was undoubtedly Alcazar, who had been employed as a hotel doorman roughly five years prior.

Alcazar was a striking man fluent in four languages—English, French, German, and Spanish—alongside several African dialects, and had the uncanny ability to alter his handwriting in five distinct styles. He appeared earnest at first glance but harbored a character flaw; since he stole from guests without compunction, they soon dismissed him. Alcazar nevertheless nursed this dismissal as a grudge, subsequently committing fraud under Georges Granville’s name wherever he went. They were exasperated by constantly cleaning up his messes. He stated that Alcazar had likely employed his signature method in Mrs. Berrison’s case as well.

When they inquired into the man’s appearance, he turned out to be identical to “Signoret,” who had been arrested in Marseille the previous spring. It was on that day two years later that Signoret was finally confirmed as Mrs. Berrison’s assailant. Now, Signoret himself had completed his prison term last October and been released on sworn parole—his current whereabouts unknown. If it had been just half a year earlier, they could have placed a hand on Signoret’s shoulder with nothing more than opening his prison cell door. Though one might call it fate’s jest, it was all too meticulously arranged—so much so that anger felt impossible to summon.

Signoret was discovered in July posing as a waiter at a Swiss hotel where he had been working through the summer season. Signoret resisted stubbornly as was his custom, but when made to face the genuine Granville, he surrendered without uttering a word. The leather belt left at the scene of the crime was something he had stolen beforehand in preparation for some grand scheme. Signoret’s life formed a masterful chronicle of restless wandering and perpetual drift. Born in Alexandria to Spanish parents, his gift for languages ensured he never wanted for employment wherever he went. Over roughly ten years, he changed occupations fifty-seven times, and when he last went to Paris, he had taken up repairing broken pottery. His skillful restoration of antique ceramics and artworks brought him recognition among connoisseurs, earning him commissions from affluent households. Two years prior, he had accepted Mrs. Berrison’s request to restore antique Sèvres porcelain but had allowed the work to drag on indefinitely. That evening, having chanced to visit to collect the repaired items, he was struck by malicious intent upon finding two women living in luxury alone—and so resorted to violence.

That such a supremely simple case had become so entangled was due to the mischief of “coincidence”—men bearing the initials G.G., both real and imagined, with up to four individuals becoming ensnared in the vortex of the incident. If Louis Guillaume Granville had not fled his hotel on the morning of the crime—or rather, if the Cairo hotel manager had not been named Granville—this case would never have taken on such a mystifying aspect.