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the photograph and looked at Achille with eyes like windows with the blinds drawn—he could get nothing from them.
    â€œWho was he, Madame?” he asked in a quiet, sympathetic voice.
    After a moment, she said, “Lev Dmitryevich Kadyshev. He and my late husband met at the university in St. Petersburg; they studied medicine together. We left Russia for Switzerland about the same time, in 1881, and remained in contact when we immigrated to Paris. But I haven’t seen him since my husband died, more than a year ago.” She paused before asking, “But I assume you have a dossier on him?”
    Achille supposed Rousseau had a file, but he wanted Nazimova to believe he already had the information, or could easily obtain it. On the other hand, he needed to locate Kadyshev’s residence immediately. “Yes, Madame, but I must confirm his present address. It’s a matter of some urgency, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”
    She eyed him warily for an instant before answering. “As far as I know, he still rents—pardon me, rented—a room in a house on the Rue des Saules, near the vineyard on the Butte.”
    Achille took out his pencil and notepad. “Thank you, Madame.” Looking up from his note he added, “Do you know his occupation or place of work?”
    â€œWell, Inspector, as I said, it’s been more than a year. At any rate, since he couldn’t practice medicine in France, he worked in an apothecary shop on the Place du Tertre across from the new town hall. Is that helpful?”
    Achille smiled and returned the notepad and pencil to his breast pocket. “Thank you, Madame, and I won’t trouble you further—today. You’ve indeed been very helpful, but please understand that I may return for more questioning.”
    â€œI understand perfectly, Inspector. One might assume Kadyshev was under surveillance—to a greater or lesser extent, we all are. However, being constantly watched can get on one’s nerves. One longs to be free. Then, who is free in this world? Perhaps death is the only true liberation.”
    Achille nodded politely, but he had no time for gloomy philosophy. He bid Madame good day, dashed out of the shop, and walked rapidly up the boulevard and across the bridge. As soon as he reached his office, he telephoned the police station in Belleville with a message for Legros and Rodin: “Urgent. Have discovered victim’s name and residence. Break off search and meet me at the Montmartre station. Lefebvre.”

    â€œInspector Legros, over here—I’ve found something!”
    Legros and Rodin were standing on the path leading to the bridge. They supervised a detail of three policemen searching an area approximately ten meters from the site of the hanging. Having spent most of the day looking for evidence without success, the policeman’s summons was a welcome interruption.
    The men walked to a shady clearing a few meters from the footpath, where they came upon the young policeman, flushed with excitement and pointing toward his discovery. “It’s a man’s necktie and collar lying in the grass at the foot of that tree.”
    Legros crouched to examine the objects resting in a clump of grass between the thick, gnarled roots of a tall elm. He took out his evidence bag, put on a pair of gloves, and lifted the tie to get a better look. “Average quality silk, cut neatly with a razor or sharp knife,” he said to no one in particular. He deposited the necktie in the bag and turned his attention to the collar. “Appears to have been ripped off; the buttons popped. One’s over there in the grass.” He got up and turned to Rodin. “Let’s continue searching this area. And I want to send a message to Inspector Lefebvre.”
    â€œRight, Inspector,” the sergeant replied. Rodin scanned the area for a moment, then pointed and exclaimed, “Look, over there, in the