Pathway to Japanese Literature

Among these cases, he remains particularly renowned for having established the investigative foundation leading to the arrest of "Bluebeard Landru"—who during the previous Great War seduced 283 women and brutally murdered ten—by deriving a crucial clue from trivial symbols found 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," Gorron stated in his memoir's preface, "it remains an undeniable fact that in planned murders committed by humans, there exists a certain discernible pattern." "Of course, this is observed in hindsight—but even if one begins with the most meticulous conception and attempts it through a method that initially appears unknowable and impossibly complex, once the act is committed, the incident itself becomes drastically simplified, transforming into something indistinguishable from an impulsive crime devoid of any deliberate thought." This fact convinces us that planned murder—more than being a matter of human intellectual capacity—is, setting aside seasoned practitioners who have had frequent opportunities to accumulate such experience (though such cases are rare), for inexperienced novices an immensely challenging undertaking where even dedicating all one's wisdom and power proves insufficient.

In our long career as a prosecutor, there were various peculiar cases; however, first and foremost, we wish to recount three incidents that we collectively term 'disguised murders'—cases sharing common characteristics. "Disguise" refers to a fabricated framework where one meticulously arranges to make it appear as though another committed the murder they themselves perpetrated.

A Masterful Confession

This elaborate murder occurred in July 1903 at the height of summer—in an antiquated standalone pavilion from the previous century, a relic-like structure (detached house) located deep within a cul-de-sac along Fleur Quay on Seine River's mid-island, practically within spitting distance of Paris Police Headquarters. Following Paul Bourget's approach when writing *Le Disciple*, this case too inspired a character-driven novel titled *André Cornélius*, which borrowed material from trial reports to explore the conventional cold psychology of the bourgeoisie.

This was indeed a "well-conceived crime"—the act meticulously planned with consummate skill, employing such intricate preparations and elaborate methods to kill a single person that there exists no comparable example before or since. Now, regarding this murder: two remarkably persistent brothers, through meticulously coordinated efforts and intellectual exertion over nearly half a year—expending no small expense to construct a flawless stage—had commenced their operation with unshakable confidence that failure at this stage would be impossible. Yet this intellectual crime they had so painstakingly architected saw its entire structure crumble within less than three weeks due to what might be called arrogance-induced complacency (though we typically term it mental enfeeblement). Without any trouble, it was discovered all too easily. The British often speak of a "Godlike Strike" (a divine blow), and this case truly felt like one—indeed a rare occurrence even in how trivial its conclusion proved to be.

Léon Barthou—a lawyer, member of parliament representing Seine's downstream prefecture, and renowned expert in commercial litigation law—left his office (residence) at 38 Vaugirard around 10:00 AM on July 10th but had not returned even after three days, prompting his wife to file a missing persons report with Police Headquarters.

The Investigative Bureau assigned two full-time investigators and had them conduct a routine investigation. There were several witnesses from his house to Orsée Quay, but beyond that point his trail vanished completely. Five days had passed with no news of his whereabouts when—as Parliament was in session—they could no longer leave matters unattended and resolved to launch a full-scale investigation. They scrutinized political party connections for potential grudge motives but found no such traces. They returned the investigation to its starting point and began gathering testimony about circumstances preceding the disappearance.

Mr. Barthou’s wife was named Jeanne—a charming woman of twenty-six or twenty-seven with a radiant countenance.

On the evening of the 9th, Mr. Barthou returned home from the Chamber of Deputies and, "It seems I'll be appointed legal consultant for A.M.S. (Australia-Malay Steamship Company) this time." "Tomorrow, a company representative is supposed to come visit." he cheerfully announced. Although Mr. Barthou served as the Central Party's finance director, the election three years prior had been fiercely contested, and he had always struggled with managing party funds. Since Mrs. Barthou had absolutely no interest in politics or law, she had made it a point never to interfere in Mr. Barthou's work,

“That’s good.” “That should make things a bit easier.” and kept her responses brief.

The next morning (the 10th), a telephone call came from someone claiming to be a representative of the steamship company. Mr. Barthou answered the phone himself and handled the call for about two minutes, but “They’ve apparently caught a cold and can’t come suddenly, so I’ll go now to settle the matter.” and with that, he left the house. They already knew this much from their inquiries and had little to gain from it, but as they discussed these matters, they sensed something unusual. Mrs. Barthou was cultured and spoke in a precise, articulate manner, but they noticed a markedly cold tone in her manner of speaking about Mr. Barthou. Even though her spouse had been missing for nearly a week, she showed neither signs of worry nor any semblance of grief. Her manner was extremely businesslike, confining herself to stating only what was necessary, with an air of complete disinterest.

Having concluded their interview with Mrs. Barthou rather perfunctorily, they inquired with neighbors and the building concierge about Mr. Barthou's domestic reputation—which proved far from favorable. They were said to be a bitterly estranged couple, perpetually embroiled in some manner of discord. When investigators summoned Louise the maid and pressed for details, they uncovered the root of these marital storms. Louise appeared to nurse particular affection for Mr. Barthou, divulging information beyond what had been solicited.

Both Mr. Barthou and his wife Jeanne hailed from old families in Le Havre at the mouth of the Seine, each strictly devout Catholics to the point of severity; yet their personalities and tastes had become firmly entrenched in realms utterly incompatible. The photograph showed Mr. Barthou with a bull neck and broad-shouldered frame that suggested stubbornness—a trait he indeed possessed in reality. He had no interests beyond law and politics, was short-tempered and prone to anger, and occasionally behaved roughly toward his wife. His wife, on the other hand, possessed a timid and overly gentle disposition; she played the piano skillfully and had refined tastes in literary appreciation—traits that frequently led to clashes over various matters.

Such clashes of temperament had persisted since their marriage, but the turmoil particularly began when Senator Maurice Belaire started frequenting the Barthou household. Belaire owned a manganese mine in Annam and would depart there annually for about a month; during one such absence, a company run by his two brothers—André and Edmond—was sued for fraud but saved through Mr. Barthou’s efforts. Once the case was settled, Belaire sent his two brothers to Annam until the commotion died down; it was through this connection that he became closely acquainted with Mr. Barthou.

Now, Belaire was a magnificent figure reminiscent of Napoleon in his prime—an imposing man of stature whose demeanor was impeccable, courteous, and possessed a keen understanding of both music and literature. Needless to say, he became very close with 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 great commotion. Someone claimed to have seen Jeanne and Belaire going into the forest together, and upon returning home, he immediately began interrogating his wife. Around that time, a small restaurant called Maison de Rendez-vous (a "meeting house") had opened in Fontainebleau Forest, complete with special locked rooms, and was thriving quite successfully. In truth, whether such an incident had actually occurred remains unknown, but Mrs. Barthou,

“If you’re so suspicious, then let’s go to that house.” “The waiter will confirm it for us.” With that, she deftly brushed it aside. Mr. Barthou, still not appeased, summoned Belaire by telephone, verbally abused him in the vilest terms, and then forcibly dragged him out of the house. Such a violent scuffle occurred. The above was the maid Louise’s account. As for what became of the relationship between the three afterward—despite such turmoil, it had settled down unnoticed and continued uneventfully until shortly before Mr. Barthou’s disappearance. To lay bare the truth, Belaire was an immensely wealthy man who had always extended financial aid whenever Mr. Barthou faced economic difficulties; as for Mr. Barthou himself, he had deemed it disadvantageous to sever this irreplaceable lifeline through a momentary outburst of rage.

That year brought a heatwave unlike any seen in over a decade. After the Bastille Day celebrations on July 14th concluded, everyone departed for the seaside or mountains, leaving Paris utterly deserted. The Parliament had also adjourned, and the attacks on the investigation into Mr. Barthou had somewhat abated. Regardless of this development, they had exhausted every possible means at their disposal, yet even after three weeks, not a single trace of Mr. Barthou had surfaced. They had thoroughly investigated Mr. Barthou's network of grudges and favors, but contrary to expectations for a man so quick to quarrel, he proved surprisingly well-regarded across various circles, leaving no discernible grounds for resentment. Thus, only Belaire remained.

Though it seemed implausible he would harbor a six-month-old grievance and seek revenge now, as this remained their only lead, investigators examined his movements during the incident period—only to find their efforts completely futile. Belaire, having detested the Bastille Day commotion, had invited some four friends and retreated to his Brittany estate two days prior to the incident, remaining at the hunting lodge there until the 16th. With both his companions and hundreds of villagers corroborating this ironclad alibi, there remained no grounds whatsoever for suspicion.

Though humiliating, they were on the verge of suspending the investigation when—on July 30th—an odd letter bearing the Versailles postmark arrived at the Investigation Bureau.

"I was deeply troubled upon reading in today's Paris newspapers that Mr. Léon Barthou's whereabouts remain unknown. It is none other than I who caused Mr. Barthou's death. That was my first meeting with Mr. Barthou; there could have been no prior grudge between us. During our conversation, by chance, the topic of handguns arose, and I showed him a Bruné handgun I had recently acquired in London. Suddenly it discharged, and a single bullet penetrated Mr. Barthou's forehead.

Once I have settled my personal affairs, I intend to turn myself in and face lawful punishment, but the thought of Mr. Barthou’s remains rotting away in some unknown place is more than I can bear. Mr. Barthou’s remains are inside the building at No. 27 Ampass on Fleur Quay. I want them to collect it as soon as possible. Furthermore, I ask that you convey my heartfelt condolences to Mr. Barthou's bereaved family. James Haynes”

That was what the letter said. When such labyrinthine cases occur, there are often letters sent half in mockery. Assuming it was another such case, they paid it no mind, but when they handled it as a precautionary measure, the fact that Mr. Barthou's corpse was actually there suddenly changed the situation entirely.

The mid-river island in the Seine River was an area where many historic buildings remained, and this was one of them—surrounded by high stone walls on three sides, nestled deep within a quiet dead-end alley, an old single-story house with about six rooms.

Mr. Barthou was found dead in a chair in the guest room—a space adjoining a side chamber that had been remodeled to resemble an office—his chin resting on his chest. There was a gunshot wound that had passed through from the forehead to the back of the head, and the bullet had embedded itself shallowly in the rear wall. Before long, Dr. Perchon and a staff member from the Anthropometric Department (the term "forensics" did not yet exist at the time) arrived. The handgun had been fired at a distance of approximately one meter, with the angle of entry forming a perfect right angle to the forehead. From the corpse’s stable condition, it could be inferred that Mr. Barthou had died instantly without uttering a groan. That was all well and good, but there remained some suspicion regarding the circumstances. This house had reportedly been rented two weeks before the incident by a man calling himself James Haynes under a six-month contract and had undergone interior redecoration through a furniture store he summoned; yet on its windows, entrance door, and glass terrace doors hung excessively thick cora-weave curtains—three layers deep. Even considering winter preparations, it was far too unreasonable by any common standard.

“Dr. Perchon, the bullet’s entry seems too precise for an accidental discharge.” “It entered quite precisely.” “If this were an accidental discharge, such coincidence would occur perhaps once in a thousand cases.” “It does seem suspicious, doesn’t it?” “The curtain arrangement—one can only think they deliberately installed soundproofing.” Through accounts from the landlord and interior decorator, they ascertained the appearance of a man named James Haynes. He was said to be thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old, of average build and height, with a swarthy complexion, violently red hair grown long at the temples, a slender mustache, and the general appearance of a Brazilian at first glance.

His position as a representative of the Australian Steamship Company proved genuine. He stayed at first-class hotels in Genoa, Naples, Marseille and other cities, hosting extravagant banquets to promote new shipping routes. Though they requested an identity verification via undersea cable from Sydney police and circulated wanted notices across all European cities, they still couldn't comprehend the purpose behind the "letter" he had sent. While garnishing his language with talk of conscience and moral anguish, no trace of genuine torment could be detected. Moreover, had he truly intended to surrender eventually, there would have been no need to fret over whether the corpse decomposed or not. Most assailants labor to obliterate evidence—that a perpetrator would voluntarily disclose a body's location defied all logic.

“This is truly a bizarre letter.”

Then, the "Evening News" reporter who was there,

“Let’s make a photographic reproduction of this letter and try publishing it in the Evening News,” “under the guise of soliciting readers’ judgment.” With those words, they published a photograph of the letter in the newspaper, but there was an unexpected reaction. One of the victims from when Belaire’s brother had committed a fraud case in Paris declared that this was unmistakably Edmond Belaire’s handwriting and sent over an old letter of Edmond’s.

Edmond was apprehended at a hotel near Paris. That Edmond was one and the same as "James Haynes" became impossible to deny once evidence surfaced from a cosmetics shop in southern France's Nice where he had purchased a red wig and fake mustache. Edmond stated that he had exacted revenge because Barthou had conducted an unfair mediation in the previous year’s fraud case, but we investigated the possibility that the brothers had conspired.

Belaire had been calmly observing the house search with a composed demeanor and a faint smile, but when investigators extracted from the wall above the fireplace mantel in the hall adjoining the hunting lodge the same handgun bullet that had pierced the unfortunate Mr. Barthou’s forehead, his face turned deathly pale. That was not the only evidence. A bundle of encrypted telegrams Edmond had sent from his location was discovered.

The telegram dated the ninth read:

“Kobako (code name for Mr. Barthou): Scheduled for acquisition by 10 AM tomorrow. Edmond.”

it read. Despite his elegant facade, Belaire was a vengeful and insidious man. It was Belaire who had planned this peculiar "disguised murder," meticulously considering every minute detail, manipulating Edmond from afar like a shogi player moving pieces. Belaire had been hopelessly infatuated with Madame Jeanne and sought to negotiate some exchange—whether money, status, or other terms—to make Mr. Barthou withdraw and reach the point of marriage. At that time, he hadn't yet contemplated murder, but when dragged out by the collar, he abruptly resolved to act. Upon returning, he attempted to dispatch a duel challenge but concluded that killing Mr. Barthou through such means—regardless of method—wouldn't serve his crucial purpose. Madame Jeanne, rigid in Old Catholic doctrine, would never remarry a man who killed her husband in a duel—however deeply she loved Belaire. He believed she would only accept a marriage formally recognized under Old Catholic canon law.

At that point, Belaire formulated an elaborate plan,

"A grave matter has occurred in the Belaire household." "You must execute every command from your elder brother without deviation or omission."

With this solemn opening phrase, he sent Command Letter No. 1 to Edmond in French Indochina. The letter had specified in precise detail everything from Edmond’s pretext for returning to France to the steamship he would board and the exact date of embarkation. According to these instructions, Edmond would board a German steamship departing Saigon on February 1st, transfer to a British vessel in Colombo, disembark at Naples after sunset on February 26th, and reunite with his elder brother—who had arrived earlier—at the Hotel Cardinale.

Edmond, deeming it a grave matter for the Belaire household, obeyed his elder brother’s commands without deviation, arrived in Naples on the scheduled day, and was informed of all circumstances by his brother. The brothers secluded themselves in a hotel room and discussed methods of murder over three days. Once their opinions had aligned and they had decided on their future communication method, Belaire returned to Paris. Edmond went to Nice in southern France as his elder brother had instructed, rented a daily-rental villa with a kitchen, and proceeded to the first phase of action. The idea was to materialize a man named James Haynes on European soil. Haynes was an executive of the A.M.S. Steamship Company residing in Sydney. It was an identity Belaire had selected from Sydney’s "Who’s Who" directory.

Nice, near Monaco, was in the very midst of its Carnival, where costumed men and women danced through the streets. There were numerous specialty shops selling disguise materials, making this line of work extremely convenient. Edmond bought a red wig and fake mustache, then went to a pharmacy to procure hair dye and pigment. According to Belaire’s instructions, he was supposed to be a British national, but considering the practicality of speaking French, he decided to present himself as a second-generation Argentine-British instead.

He dyed his complexion a tawny hue, fashioned long slicked-back hair and a mustache, and once he had fully disguised himself as a South American man, he burned everything he had been wearing thus far in the kitchen stove. With this, the existence known as 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 James Haynes—this fantastical fictional persona—commit murder, it became imperative to introduce him across multiple social spheres and thoroughly cement his existence as a tangible individual. Thus began their second operational phase. First, he brought Haynes to Naples. As an initial test, he lodged at Hotel Cardinale. When neither reception clerks nor waitstaff detected his disguise, his confidence solidified. The next day saw him relocate to a luxury hotel where he hosted a reception for developing new maritime routes. Through repeated maneuvers in Genoa and Marseille exceeding all expectations, he abruptly ascended as the celebrated centerpiece of newspaper society columns.

Over the course of about two months, while spending money like water through banquet revelries, this news reached Paris, resulting in inquiries pouring in from various quarters. Needless to say, he had been reporting these developments to Belaire on a daily basis. In early June came an order to go to London and collect silenced-handguns for delivery. He promptly went to London, purchased approximately seven types of handguns, and dispatched them to Paris. The handgun bullets embedded in the wall of Belaire’s hunting lodge hall remained as evidence from the sound tests conducted on those firearms.

In early July, a telegram arrived ordering him to come over, resulting in James Haynes's entry into Paris and bringing the plan to its conclusion as intended. Since Haynes was supposed to have a cold, he lowered the office curtains, darkened the room, and waited. With anyone else it might have been different, but when dealing with Mr. Barthou, there was a risk of the disguise being detected. At 10:10, Mr. Barthou arrived and pressed the doorbell. Haynes went out to greet him at the entrance, exchanged their first courtesies, then led the way into the darkened room. Mr. Barthou followed about three steps behind. Haynes spun around and fired the handgun at his forehead. Mr. Barthou fell forward onto the floor without a sound and lay motionless.

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 receded into the distant background, and Edmond Belaire—absent for some six months—returned with his former countenance.

The above constituted the gist of Edmond's interrogation, yet a critical flaw remained at its core. Edmond had confessed to firing the handgun at the room's entrance, causing Mr. Barthou to collapse face down on the floor, but according to our observations, the corpse had been found neatly seated on a chair. We recognized Edmond wasn't lying. While one might theorize that Mr. Barthou—who should have died instantly—had somehow revived, stood up, and seated himself posthumously, such a scenario defied all plausibility. If this discrepancy remained unaddressed, defense counsel would effortlessly overturn our case in court. We therefore devoted considerable effort to resolving this contradiction.

Belaire stubbornly refused to talk but ultimately relented. It had been Belaire who positioned the corpse on the chair. After reading the letter he sent to the investigative bureau, Belaire concluded that if the handgun had accidentally discharged during their conversation, the victim could not logically have remained seated. Edmond had sent that peculiar confession letter to divert the investigation toward a nonexistent perpetrator, but there had been another critical objective. Given the intense summer heat, prolonged undiscovery would render Mr. Barthou’s corpse unidentifiable. Under Catholic doctrine, mere disappearance did not permit remarriage—Jeanne would remain a widow indefinitely, and Belaire could never formally marry. They needed the body discovered and properly identified before significant decomposition occurred.

Edmond’s letter did a good job, but it would have been even better had he taken slightly more care to alter his handwriting. Had that been done, this case would have remained a mystery. That winter, the brothers were sentenced to life imprisonment by the felony court and shortly thereafter were sent to Devil’s Island.

Blue hunting jacket

In the aforementioned case，the perpetrator manipulated a fictional character；here however，the perpetrator became one themselves． This occurred in 1913，the year before the Great War．

The Paris Métro's Line 3 departs from the old city gate in the northwest, passes underground through the central downtown area, and terminates at the old city gate in the northeast. On the afternoon of December 21st, with Christmas approaching, the 3:12 train arrived at the terminal platform. From around two to four o'clock was typically a quiet time for the subway, but since it was Sunday with government offices and companies closed, only a handful of passengers alighted.

As the train changed its destination display to return to its starting station, a station attendant walked along the platform peering into compartments to check for lost items when he noticed a woman remaining alone in a front seat of the first-class car. The station attendant knocked on the window to alert her, but she remained motionless with her head pressed against the glass. Thinking she must be asleep, he entered the compartment and found her eyes wide open. “Ma’am, this is the terminal station.” Even when he called out to her, she did not respond. A vertical wrinkle formed between her eyebrows as she stared unblinkingly at a fixed point in space with a rapt expression.

She was twenty-five or twenty-six. She had a face so beautiful it could be called stunning—well-proportioned and dignified—and was dressed in luxurious clothing. She appeared to have been about to take something out from her handbag; having removed her right glove, she was inserting her fingertips into the opening of the opened handbag. The station attendant stood beside her and watched her face for a while, but finding it truly peculiar, he gently touched her hand and found it 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 call the stationmaster.

Officials from the district police were dispatched, moved the first-class car to a siding, and conducted an investigation that lasted until evening. It was thought to be either cardiac arrest or an acute deterioration of pernicious anemia, but without conducting an autopsy, nothing definitive could be determined. As for the woman’s identity, inside the handbag were only items such as a ticket, a handkerchief, a mirror, a powder compact, and a small perfume bottle bearing the trademark “Sheeple”—there was nothing that could serve as a clue. So they moved the corpse to the morgue (corpse exhibition hall) and published a notice in the next morning’s newspaper.

From around noon, various people came to see [the corpse], but they all returned with disappointed looks.

Past eleven at night, a gentleman who appeared to be a businessman in his early forties came rushing in, clutching a newspaper. "I am Raoul Monnier who runs a land company on Wagram Street. My wife Lucie left home at noon and has not returned even at night." "I just read the morgue notice and, feeling anxious, rushed over." When taken to the mortuary chamber, his grim premonition proved correct—Mr. Monnier found himself confronted with the utterly transformed corpse of his wife.

Mr. Monnier was overcome with unbearable grief, but upon hearing the police doctor’s explanation, “My wife recently had a mild case of influenza, but she was usually so healthy it was almost excessive—I can’t believe she would die from a stroke or heart failure." “I believe there’s another cause of death—I want you to perform an autopsy.” He requested an autopsy and left. The next morning, they conducted a routine autopsy but found no abnormalities in the cardiac muscles nor any cerebral hemorrhage. Apart from elevated oxygen levels in the blood, no toxic substances capable of causing death were detected in either the stomach or liver. Though unable to determine the exact cause of death—given that this incident had unquestionably occurred in the subway—they sent Madame’s belongings to the forensic institute for testing regardless, where volatile cyanide was discovered inside the perfume bottle. It had become nearly certain she died from inhaling a highly toxic cyanide-like gas that impaired her respiratory center, causing tissue asphyxiation—what is commonly termed internal asphyxiation.

Since there were no signs of external coercion, by common sense reasoning, it was presumed to have likely been an act of her own volition. The newspapers had reported it as a "suicide" and closed the case, but given the peculiar circumstances, we could not simply settle the matter. Thus, we took responsibility and decided to probe further.

On the morning of the 24th, Mr. Monnier arrived looking severely haggard. When they asked whether he knew that "poison" had been inside the perfume bottle, “I read it in the newspaper,” he muttered.

“The newspapers are calling it a suicide, but I find that hard to accept… Though admittedly, she had seemed somewhat withdrawn lately—often lost in solitary contemplation—but nothing appeared grave enough to drive her to suicide.” “If we had known that, there would have been no need to inquire, but if she had indeed been withdrawn lately, there must have been some cause—anxiety, worry, or discomfort. Have there been any recent disputes?”

“I love my wife, and my wife loves me. Since our marriage, we have never even had so much as a quarrel.”

“Then, economic issues… any financial disturbances?” “My business has been proceeding smoothly, and my wife inherited her late father’s estate and possesses considerable assets, so there should have been no financial hardships in that regard.” “What about social relationships? Was there any instance where she suffered a psychological shock from someone? Or encountered something unpleasant?” “Neither I nor my wife had individual friends of our own. They are all friends common to both my wife and me, but I have no recollection of my wife alone encountering anything unpleasant.”

“Any particularly close friends?”

Mr. Monnier started to say something but hesitated; then, with a thoroughly troubled expression, he spoke.

“Max Renoir.” “What sort of person is that? What is his occupation?” “Max is the son of Renoir from ‘French Chemical Industries’ and has his own laboratory where he conducts chemical research.”

“What kind?” “Toxicology.” “He has writings titled *The Effects of Chloral* and *Poisoning by Carbon Oxides*.”

“I see. You mentioned being engaged in real estate brokerage—do you have such a hobby as well?” “I am entirely ignorant in that regard. Rather, it was my wife who—” “Toxicology?” “It is not toxicology. My late wife’s father was engaged in perfume manufacturing in Grasse in southern France, and because of that, my wife had continued blending and analyzing perfumes as a hobby.” “In other words, that’s the nature of your relationship with Mr. Renoir?”

“Yes. Max has been my close friend for many years, and I know him well—he has no connection to this case in any way. Though stating this may be of little use, I would ask that you at least remember I’ve said it.” He said something to that effect, but it gave us an odd impression. The fact that his wife had died from inhaling poison contained in a perfume bottle, coupled with his friend’s involvement in toxicology research, was certainly not something we could ignore. However, whether this Renoir character was connected to the case would be determined through interrogation—we couldn’t simply leap to conclusions based on such circumstances alone. For what purpose would this man act as such a front-runner? His reluctance to mention Renoir’s name seemed attributable to friendship, but it could also be considered that there was some deliberate intent.

Observing Mr. Monnier’s appearance, he wore luxurious clothes, yet one could see that oddly fidgety, overly scrupulous, and inflexible amiability common among those who had arduously risen from the lower classes. He didn’t seem like a cunning man who would devise schemes around such a complex case, but there was certainly something behind it. With this timid type of person, if handled clumsily, he became guarded and stopped talking altogether, so

“Understood. I will make a note of it.”

Having said only that, he sent him away. At the time of the autopsy investigation, since there were no signs of external coercion, our opinion had generally leaned toward the suicide theory; however, given this new connection, we would have to change our approach. Therefore, we decided to publish Madame Monnier’s photograph prominently in the newspapers and solicit information from witnesses who had been on Line 3 of the subway with her around 2:00 PM on the 21st.

Then, in the afternoon, a summons came from the chief—he wanted to consult about something and demanded our immediate presence. When we arrived at the chief’s office, he was speaking with the director of the Forensic Research Institute, but abruptly—

“The subway suicide case has become rather troublesome.” —he said abruptly. The director took over and explained. “The Chemical Research Institute reported that the poison in the perfume bottle was a cyanide compound, but it wasn’t something that simple.” “They say she inhaled cyan gas, but cyanide-based compounds don’t become gaseous unless heated above 27 degrees Celsius.” “So what was it then?”

“To put it plainly, this isn’t mere poison.” “It’s a category of armament.” “Specifically, an unpublished scientific weapon classified as state secrets.”

The director pulled a scrap of paper closer, wrote "COCl₂" with a pencil to show it, then lit it with a match and burned it. “What kind of substance is that?” “The military refers to it under the codename ‘Coronjite,’ but it’s actually asphyxiating phosgene gas—which makes this a serious matter.” "Even at the Army’s Scientific Research Institute, only a few personnel involved are aware of it." "First off, it’s not something that can be easily taken outside." "And another thing—though it may seem trivial—storing that gas in such a small perfume bottle is a feat that would be utterly impossible for anyone not thoroughly accustomed to handling phosgene over a long period."

When the chief asked how far along the interrogation had progressed, we explained the developments up to that point. The director,

“Max Renoir… I know him.” “He may style himself an amateur chemist, but fundamentally he’s just another commonplace womanizer.” “That sort of man couldn’t possibly execute such a delicate operation.” The director delivered this verdict with finality. Given the case’s nature—automatically falling under the National Security Act’s jurisdiction—an immediate report to the Minister of War became imperative. Since this now transcended the Metropolitan Police Department’s purview, fresh instructions came down from the bureau chief: all investigations would remain suspended until military authorities formulated their strategy, while absolute confidentiality must be enforced regarding press relations.

The investigation came to a complete halt there, but the case refused to stop; it moved forward on its own accord, slipping into a new phase. Two individuals claiming to have witnessed Madame Monnier came forward. Since we couldn’t exactly say the investigation was suspended, we met with and questioned the two. A man named Léon Bouclé and a man named René Piron. Both were stockbrokers who ran small shops near the exchange.

Bouclé's account. Bouclé jumped into the subway to rush to the exchange where a major fluctuation had occurred around 2:00 PM that day. It was a day when Indian cotton stocks had surged dramatically and Westphalian mining stocks had plummeted, and Bouclé was frantically glaring at the stock price tables in the business newspaper. At the fourth station from the departure point, a beautiful woman of twenty-six or twenty-seven boarded and settled into a seat on the opposite front side. There were no other passengers; inside the car, only Bouclé and the woman remained alone. At the fourth station from there, someone finally boarded. A thirty-seven or thirty-eight-year-old gentleman wearing a military-style sky-blue hunting jacket and checkered hunting cap—apparently acquainted with the woman—approached and took a seat facing her. The woman widened her eyes in apparent surprise before laughing cheerfully. The two conversed animatedly, with the woman speaking particularly enthusiastically and occasionally laughing—a detail that stuck—though he hadn't heard a word of their actual conversation. He had become utterly possessed by the numbers in the stock price tables, leaving him in no state to pay attention.

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

“Well then, tonight. Don’t forget the promise.”

He said something along those lines and exited the car as if unable to wait for the doors to open. Bouclé followed him down to the platform and ran into 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. This was because there was a matter requiring approval from clients regarding today’s fluctuations. As he waited for the subway, Bouclé conveniently arrived behind a gentleman in a sky-blue hunting jacket. After finishing the work handover through a standing conversation on the platform, he started toward the front seats but, finding a woman already sitting there alone, took a seat on the opposite side. Piron, too, was pressed for even a second of time. Before heading to the client’s place, he needed to sort out the complicated figures, because he didn’t want to lose focus. Piron took out a notebook and began calculating. Apart from the woman, there were no other passengers; she herself remained motionless—perhaps asleep—with her head resting against the windowpane. Thus, he was able to devote himself to his calculations undisturbed until reaching his destination station.

At the fourth station from Exchange Front, Piron got off. Before stepping onto the platform, he glanced toward the woman and saw that she remained in the same position. In hindsight, she had maintained the same appearance from the moment she boarded the train—when he first glanced at her—all the way to the end.

As for the gentleman in the blue hunting jacket, the two men's accounts were nearly consistent. As for Piron, though he had only casually glimpsed the gentleman alighting from the car, he managed to convey a rather accurate impression. Slightly tall in stature, but not exceptionally so. His mustache was chestnut-brown, his hair chestnut-colored. His movements were nimble yet methodical. His gestures had the polished demeanor of someone well-acquainted with high society. Bouclé had observed the "gentleman in the blue hunting jacket" from the moment he boarded until he alighted, but during that time, the gentleman had never once displayed any rough behavior or threatening attitude toward the woman. On the contrary, since they had been conversing cheerfully until the gentleman rose from his seat, it could be concluded that this period had no bearing whatsoever on either suicide or murder.

Piron had jumped into the car just before departure, gone straight to the front seats, and noticed the woman sitting there; from that moment until he alighted, she had remained completely motionless. Even phosgene gas would have caused an immediate, severe shock upon inhalation, so Piron—sitting right beside her—could not have failed to notice. In the end, the cause of the woman’s death was indeed suicide—likely carried out quietly in the otherwise empty train compartment during the approximately one-minute station stop—but what sudden change of heart could have compelled her, who had been in such high spirits until then, to abruptly commit suicide in such an unnatural setting?

If we could ascertain the identity of the gentleman in the blue hunting jacket, we might uncover the hidden circumstances surrounding this matter. So first, we went to Mr. Monnier’s house and tried asking the maid about the wife’s condition that day.

The maid’s account.

Madame was a cheerful person who could get quite lively at times. That day had been no different—she ate lunch alone in good spirits and left home, saying she would have a fitting at a women's clothing store called Rex near the Opera House. She had actually meant to go that morning, but Mr. Renoir's visit had postponed it to the afternoon. The two had been discussing plans to attend a play that evening. When Mr. Renoir departed, Madame saw him off at the entrance with a cheerful "Well then—until tonight!"

Bouclé testified that the gentleman in the blue hunting jacket had told Madame, “Don’t forget our promise tonight.” If we consider only these facts, the gentleman in blue hunting jacket increasingly resembled Renoir, while a subtle shadow fell over what had been deemed Madame’s suicidal cause of death. For example, Renoir— “I obtained this perfume. “I had been intending to present it to you.”

He handed it to Madame with some such explanation and immediately got out of the car. Madame opened the mouth of her handbag and, while doing so, twisted the bottle’s stopper and brought it to her nose. In an instant, she was struck by a shock and released it from her hand. The perfume bottle fell into the handbag just as it was. Madame suffered severe internal asphyxiation and died with her head resting against the windowpane. Then Piron entered... If this assumption held true, it became not a suicide but an elaborate murder disguised as suicide.

Renoir was a devoted apprentice of science but also a prodigal playboy—a man constantly causing problems through his entanglements with female companions. The 100,000 shares of 'French Chemical Industries' inherited from his deceased father had passed into others' hands within a short span, receiving nominal dividends under his auditor title. Recently engaged to a certain millionaire's daughter, he reportedly performed the eccentric act of sending identical severance letters to every former lover without exception. For Renoir—facing this do-or-die situation where he absolutely had to secure the engagement—our assumption held that desperate measures to eliminate Madame Monnier had driven him to such extremes.

Three weeks after the incident, once the military and Metropolitan Police Department had established procedures for coordinating their investigations, we went to arrest Renoir with a warrant—only to find he had left home on Christmas Eve and vanished without a trace. Speaking of the 24th, it was the day the wife's photograph was prominently featured in the newspapers. When we conducted a house search, a sky-blue hunting jacket and a coarse checkered hunting cap emerged from the wardrobe. When we showed them to Bouclé and Piron, they testified, "We do believe these were the clothes."

Renoir was arrested in Bordeaux before boarding a steamship bound for South America. Renoir claimed he had intended to live in South America for two or three years to sever ties from his past before marriage, but to us, it seemed nothing more than preparations for escape. If there had been a solid alibi—but Renoir, “I visited Madame at 11 AM that day and did not meet her in the afternoon.”

he merely repeated. “Now then, prove where you were during those ‘twenty minutes’ when the crime occurred—from 2:50 PM to 3:10 PM.” When told this, he could not do so. This was a form of divine punishment—for a man like Renoir, who spent his days idly drifting through the streets of Paris, could not possibly recall where he had been during those “twenty minutes” of an afternoon three weeks prior. He wanted to prove where he had been, but he simply could not recall.

From all conditions considered, it was evident that Renoir was the perpetrator; if we were to confront him with the two eyewitnesses, his guilt would be irrefutably established. If Renoir had been involved in the theft of confidential weapons, under Military Secrets Protection Law, he would almost certainly not have escaped execution by firing squad.

For Renoir and for us, it had been an extremely dangerous position, but just before the charges were finalized, the truth was exposed. Renoir had no connection whatsoever to this incident. "The gentleman in the blue hunting jacket" had never existed from the beginning. He was a completely fictional character that had been the joint creation of Bouclé and Piron.

Madame Monnier, knowing that Renoir's current engagement aimed solely at securing a dowry, sought—whether out of friendship or romantic attachment—to provide him financial backing and have him call off this loveless marriage. Under the guidance of a friend skilled in such matters, she had been attempting bold speculative ventures at Bouclé's shop, all concealed from Mr. Monnier. Until mid-December, she had maintained roughly break-even results, but three days before the incident—that is, on the morning of the 18th—having obtained reliable information from a certain source, she had instructed Bouclé by telephone to sell off the Westphalian mining stocks and purchase Indian cotton shares in full.

On the morning of the 21st, mining stocks crashed and cotton shares skyrocketed. In that single day, Madame’s assets more than doubled, and even after setting aside her own portion, she found herself able to secure nearly a million francs for Renoir. Madame spent the morning in buoyant spirits, bustling about before leaving home at two in the afternoon. While heading to the stock exchange via subway, she happened upon Bouclé and Piron boarding the same carriage. Madame declared, “A splendid victory. Your hard work bore fruit.”

She offered a handshake, but the two stepped back, sweating. Despite Madame's explicit request, Bouclé and Piron—precisely because they had stubbornly clung to the mining stocks while pursuing their own schemes—missed riding the once-in-a-lifetime surge in cotton shares, ultimately losing both principal and profit in the catastrophic crash of their holdings.

Bouclé and Piron prostrated themselves and endeavored to explain, but Madame remained stone-faced and did not respond. Before long, she took out something resembling a perfume bottle from her handbag and pressed it to her nose—then her face convulsed, and she died in the blink of an eye. The two were stunned; at the next station where it stopped, they abandoned Madame’s corpse and fled without a backward glance. The reason they had introduced a nonexistent figure like the gentleman in the blue hunting jacket was that they had been desperately afraid that unless they did so, they would be unable to cover their losses and would fall under suspicion of having killed Madame. In the two men’s estimation, since it was purely a product of imagination, even the police couldn’t grasp something as intangible as wind or air. They thought they could confuse the investigative direction and obscure everything into ambiguity.

The two had no knowledge of this "Renoir" character and had never even dreamed of attributing the perpetrator role to him. It was something they had conceived out of sheer cowardice, so when they realized Renoir might face execution, they were shocked into confessing everything. As for how the phosgene in the perfume bottle had been removed, we were never informed at all.

Twenty years had passed since then, during which two great wars occurred. Given that all those involved at the time had likely perished in the wars, this would probably remain an eternal secret.

The End of a Long Journey

As a disguised murder, this represented the most elementary type—a shallow attempt betraying the perpetrator's limited intellect, an utterly artless crime—yet through coincidence's divine patronage, it had been transfigured into something mysteriously profound. While instances where "coincidence" either aids investigations or becomes an unforeseen impediment are hardly rare, never before or since has this force so intricately interlaced to cast a case into such profound disarray.

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

At 18 Rue de Passy in a luxurious residential apartment, the widow Berrichon and her live-in maid Isabelle had been hacked to pieces with a meat cleaver, while 20,000 francs in cash from the safe and a jewelry box containing accessories had been stolen. The scene lay as though ravaged by a tempest—everything overturned, with blood-drenched footprints staining the floor and blood-smeared palm prints adhering to the walls like grotesque patterns. Additionally, two stiffly starched cuffs (shirt sleeves; at that time, cuffs were detachable) lay neatly arranged atop the mantelpiece, while beside the maid’s corpse lay a leather belt inscribed with the name George Granville.

The perpetrator， finding the stiff cuffs bothersome， removed them and placed them there before commencing the crime． As for the leather belt—it seems he had initially intended to simply bind the maid with it， but when she struggled too violently， growing annoyed， he ended up cutting her down instead． That we could understand—but leaving such things behind so nonchalantly was far too careless by any measure． Whether he was flustered or boldly composed himself， either way it was so extreme that it thoroughly baffled our common sense．

Before long, from Madame’s writing desk drawer— "I have settled in but shall call on you shortly."

A letter signed by Granville—containing about three lines to that effect—was found. According to this, Granville was a man closely acquainted with Madame, and it became nearly certain that he had committed the crime on the night he visited her.

Now then, the following afternoon, the 10th District Police contacted us regarding a man named Louis Granville who had stayed at a hotel in front of North Station—he had left his suitcase behind when departing on the morning of the incident and had not returned even by today. As he appeared to match the wanted suspect, they informed us. Granville's physical description had been fully ascertained. A slender man of twenty-seven or eight. Blond hair. No beard. He had a slight squint and was missing two upper incisors. He possessed such distinctive features that one could ask for nothing more when creating a wanted poster.

What remained in the room was an inexpensive cloth suitcase containing the following items. 1. A sample catalog from Müller, a tobacco company with branches in major cities across Germany and Austria. 1. Two dress shirts bearing the initials G.G. 1. "Lermond Shirt Company" in Brussels, Belgium Three collars manufactured by Lermond Shirt Company. 1. One photograph of a woman approximately sixty years old.

1. One copy of the electoral roll for Montreal, Canada. When we added the cuffs found at the crime scene, the leather belt, and the letter signature to this evidence, there could no longer be any doubt about its sufficiency. Shortly after distributing wanted posters bearing facial descriptions alongside an inventory of stolen goods, part of the loot resurfaced at Marseille's municipal pawnshop. The individual who had pawned these items was a Spaniard calling himself Signoret; he was promptly arrested and remanded to the Investigative Bureau. The Marseille police had insisted they'd captured Granville, but upon seeing the man firsthand, his features proved mismatched. He stood tall—a broad-shouldered, robust middle-aged man lacking both dental gaps and ocular misalignment. Yet since he held Madame Berrichon's jewels in his possession—rendering any claim of noninvolvement implausible—they subjected him to relentless interrogation, but

“I found the suitcase abandoned in the park as it was, so I know nothing of any Madame Berrichon.” He stubbornly refused to talk. The Marseille police authorities did not abandon their view that Signoret was Madame Berrichon’s assailant. G.G., who had disappeared from the hotel in front of North Station, was coincidentally an unrelated person sharing the same name, and had Signoret not been the true culprit, they should have presented Granville’s name to avoid suspicion; the fact that he attempted suicide in his cell on the night of his arrest was, they asserted, the most damning evidence.

Whether Signoret was the true culprit could not be determined unless they captured the man named Granville who had disappeared from the North Station Hotel on the morning of the incident. At the time, I had only recently been promoted to police inspector at the Investigative Bureau when, through some twist of fate, I ended up being assigned to this case. To backtrack slightly, Madame Berrichon’s uncle, the Marquis de Chalon, had offered a substantial reward to console the spirit of his unfortunate niece. A reward of 100,000 francs for whoever arrests the criminal. We had placed advertisements featuring Madame’s photograph in every major newspaper across European cities—offering a 30,000-franc reward for information on the criminal’s whereabouts—when in early June, a credible tip arrived from Valencia City, Spain.

Valencia was a port that handled South American steamship routes, where a local woman had encountered a lanky, squinting young man at the outer harbor's pier who bore an exact resemblance to the Granville described in the newspaper's wanted poster. However, his hair appeared dyed a striking red. He stood in pitiful condition without an overcoat, claiming to have been bitten by a dog as blood flowed from his left hand. "Sorry, but could you bind this with the handkerchief?"

So she tore the handkerchief and bandaged him. The young man was extremely grateful and offered a jewel in thanks, but she declined, saying such a reward was unnecessary for something so trivial. At that time, she had kept the remaining handkerchief without much thought, but since it had G.G. embroidered in blue thread... this being valuable information, we immediately rushed to Valencia. This marked the beginning of a long, tedious, and tenacious odyssey spanning two and a half years—but when we visited the woman and requested to examine the handkerchief, we found ourselves utterly dumbfounded: instead of G.G., it bore C.C., a mistake so glaring it defied comprehension.

Finding it utterly fruitless, they had intended to return directly to Paris, but upon noting the presence of the tobacco sample catalog, they thought he might perhaps have been a Müller sales agent. From there they went to Austria—inquiring at every branch in Graz, Leoben, Vienna, and Linz—then entered Germany, traveling through Bavaria and Saxony until finally reaching Berlin. Yet this proved a completely wasted effort from which they gained nothing.

Thus, as that year drew to a close and early February 1902 arrived, a report came from the Delft police in the Netherlands: a man identifying himself as Granville had left his suitcase at a hotel and fled without paying his bill. Upon inquiry, it closely resembled the method employed at the hotel in front of Paris’s North Station.

Seeming to have cornered him at last this time, they hurried to the Netherlands. Indeed, there was a suitcase left behind, containing a photograph of the man—a man around fifty years old who bore no resemblance whatsoever to the Granville who had fled Paris. Since the guest register had revealed his identity, they took a train for about four hours from there to the northern edge of the Netherlands. In a forgotten little village, they found Granville’s family residing. They were an old Norman aristocratic family that had fled from France long ago; the current head had gone to Delft, but he hadn’t actually disappeared—he was merely traveling through neighboring regions and was expected to return to the hotel around today. They inquired about Madame Berrichon, but no one knew her. For decades, they had neither ties to France nor connections with French people—a story without even an island to cling to.

In the midst of these efforts, summer arrived. We had not been idly wasting time; during that period, we had made several short trips and taken measures in every possible direction, yet Granville’s whereabouts remained unknown.

Signoret’s prison sentence was set to conclude that October, and he would be quietly released. Wanting to bring some resolution before that deadline, I packed all of Granville’s left-behind items into a suitcase and made my first stop in Belgium. At Lermond Shirt Company, when I showed them the collars and cuffs, they explained they shipped hundreds of such items daily—tracking individual sales was impossible. This response matched my expectations, but for thoroughness’ sake, I produced the dress shirts embroidered with G.G. initials. They insisted their establishment never dealt in such low-quality merchandise—undoubtedly Belgian-made, they conceded, but likely from workshops around Liège or Namur.

Carrying the G.G. dress shirts, I followed the instructions and inquired at each small factory in Liège and Namur one by one, only to end up at the port of Antwerp. Since there were such factories there as well, while repeating the exceedingly tedious task, by the third one I somehow began to feel I had reached my mark. A man who appeared to be the shop clerk was examining the accounts ledger.

“These dress shirts with weaving flaws—we sold several dozen of them to a man named Granville some years ago.”

he said. Before I knew it, I let out a cry. When I had the city office investigate, it turned out there were fifty-three residents named Granville in the city alone. Even if fifty-three houses became five thousand three hundred fifty, there was nothing to do but carry on with what I'd started. I noted down the fifty-three addresses in my notebook and began with the nearest ones. I had only one thing to say. I showed the dress shirt to the household's residents, "Do you recognize this?"

This was how I conducted my inquiries.

I forgot how many dozens of houses it was. As usual, I showed the shirt and received a curt "No, not at all," but at that moment, suddenly remembering, I took out the elderly woman's photograph from Granville's suitcase and showed it,

“As for this Granville, the entire family moved to Montreal, Canada just last year,” they informed me. Montreal, Canada!

Though Antwerp’s harbor waters might stretch directly to Canada’s shores, they lay twelve hundred miles distant. Clutching worn shirts after an arduous storm-ridden voyage, he finally reached the Granville family’s front entrance in Montreal. Emerging into the parlor was the elderly woman from the photograph—Granville’s mother—who caressed his dress shirt like a sacred relic as she spoke.

“Ever since junior high school, that one was an uncontrollable layabout—he barely set foot at home, didn’t even come to see us off when we moved here.” “They say he went off to Paris afterward, but I’ve no notion what he’s been doing to keep himself alive.” “There’s some cousin of his living in a place like Halifax over yonder—letters turn up there now and again, so if you want particulars, best go ask them yourself.”

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

I took the train to Halifax, met the man who was his cousin, and gave a general explanation of the circumstances up to that point. Then the cousin:

“You just called him Georges, but his real name is Guillaume. In Paris, I hear he goes by Louis or such names—a man utterly unbound who casually uses aliases without hesitation. Last spring, he was finally arrested for theft or similar charges, and now they say he’s in Santoine Prison outside Paris.”

he said something unexpected. After spending two years chasing him across all of Europe and even to the distant reaches of Canada, there could hardly be anyone who wouldn't have their legs give out upon hearing that the man in question was in a prison just outside Paris.

Dejectedly boarding a steamship, I returned to Paris and went to Santoine Prison—there, Guillaume Granville, who had stayed at the hotel in front of North Station under the name Louis, was indeed serving his sentence. On the morning of the day when the crime occurred at No. 18 in Passy, Granville left the hotel, took a train to the suburbs, and broke into a villa he had long had his eye on—only to be apprehended by a rural guard, summarily sentenced to one year and eight months by the misdemeanor court, and immediately sent to Santoine Prison.

That year came to an end, and 1903 began.

In early spring, information came in that there was a man named Georges Granville working as the manager of a certain hotel in Cairo, Egypt. This time, surely—with this resolve, we eagerly rushed to Cairo. The manager was none other than Georges Granville, but as we discussed various matters, all the accumulated mysteries were resolved at once. We asserted that the criminal of Passy No. 18 was none other than Alcazar, who had been employed as the hotel doorman about five years prior.

Alcazar was a man of fine appearance, fluent not only in four languages—English, French, German, and Spanish—but also versed in African dialects. He possessed the strange skill of altering his handwriting in about five distinct styles. Though he appeared honest at first glance, a flaw in his character led him to brazenly steal customers' belongings, resulting in his prompt dismissal. However, Alcazar bore a grudge over this and went on to commit fraud under the name Georges Granville wherever he went. We were exasperated by having to deal with the aftermath each time. In Madame Berrichon’s case as well, we concluded he had likely employed his usual method.

When we inquired about the man’s features, they turned out to be identical to those of "Signoret," who had been arrested in Marseille the previous spring. It was on that day two years later that Signoret was finally confirmed as Madame Berrichon’s assailant.

Now, as for Signoret himself—having completed his sentence last autumn in October and been released on sworn parole—his current whereabouts remained unknown. If we had been just six months earlier, we could have laid hands on Signoret merely by opening his prison cell door. While one might call it fate’s jest, it had all been executed with such excessive thoroughness that I couldn’t even muster the energy for anger. Signoret was posing as a waiter at a Swiss hotel while working a summer job—we managed to track him down in July. Signoret stubbornly resisted as usual, but when confronted with the real Granville, he capitulated without uttering a word. The leather belt left at the crime scene had been stolen beforehand in preparation for some grand scheme.

Signoret's life was a remarkable history of ceaseless wandering. Born in Alexandria to Spanish parents, his linguistic talent ensured he never struggled to find employment wherever he went. Over ten years, he changed occupations fifty-seven times, eventually working as a pottery restorer when he reached Paris. His skillful restoration of antique ceramics and artworks earned recognition among connoisseurs, bringing commissions from upper-class households. Two years prior, he had accepted Madame Berrichon's request to repair old Sèvres porcelain, though the work remained unfinished. That evening, when he happened to visit to collect the items, seeing two women living in luxury alone stirred malicious intent within him—prompting him to commit the crime.

The reason this utterly simple case became so convoluted lay in the whims of coincidence—men—both real and fabricated—bearing the initials G.G., up to four in total, becoming entangled in the case's vortex. Had Louis Guillaume Granville not fled the hotel on the morning of the crime—or rather, had the manager of the Cairo hotel not borne that name—this case would never have taken on such a mystifying aspect.