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bushes.”
    Legros focused on the undergrowth near the elm. He noticed a white object. Hunkering down, he parted the foliage and retrieved a linen handkerchief. He dropped the evidence in his bag, and continued his search. A dark, familiar shape caught his eye. Reaching into the tangled underbrush, he retrieved a small, uncorked brown bottle. Legros sniffed the bottleneck. His eyes widened with recognition of a faint, cloying odor, like overripe fruit. “Chloroform?”
    Legros’s speculation was interrupted by a red-faced, panting gendarme. The man took a moment to catch his breath and then handed an envelope to Rodin. “Sergeant—M. Legros, I have an urgent message from Inspector Lefebvre.”

    Kadyshev had rented a room in a yellow-painted, four-story residence on the Rue des Saules across from the vineyard that had recently been decimated by phylloxera. This quiet neighborhood, known for its rural charm, had acquired a somber aspect, perched high above the city near the Butte’s summit and close to the rising white walls of Sacré-Coeur. The once-thriving vineyard had become a graveyard of the grape, its abundant vines had withered and grown moribund, denuded of their broad green leaves and succulent fruit.
    The arrival of three policemen on her doorstep shocked Mme Arnaud, the concierge. She knew Sergeant Rodin well and expressed her anxiety to him directly. “One of my tenants, murdered, M. Rodin? Such a thing is unthinkable. It will give the house a bad name.”
    Rodin’s familiarity and solicitous demeanor calmed her. Achille thought it best to question Mme Arnaud in Rodin’s presence, trusting Legros to conduct a thorough preliminary search of Kadyshev’s room. The concierge led the policemen into her tightly shuttered sitting room, where she settled her ample skirts onto a velvet-upholstered settee and offered Achille and Rodin a pair of lumpy, stiff leather chairs. After a tense moment, a tinkling silver bell and a plaintive meow initiated conversation. Achille was greeted by a cat rubbing its muzzle against his pant leg.
    Mme Arnaud’s eyes widened in surprise and a network of wrinkles spread across her face in reaction to the prodigious sight. “This is impossible, M. Lefebvre. Cyrano hates strangers. To be honest, he doesn’t much like people he knows, including me, not to mention other cats. But he absolutely loathes strange humans.”
    Madame’s wonder magnified when Achille scratched the old Siamese behind his ear. Cyrano responded by springing onto Achille’s lap, curling into a ball, and purring blithely while casually flipping his tail against Achille’s thigh.
    â€œI guess I have a way with cats, Mme Arnaud,” Achille remarked. He didn’t add that cats had a way with him, too. If he didn’t get on with his questioning, his eyes would begin to water, his throat would scratch, and he might be seized by a fit of sneezing.
    Rodin viewed the interchange among cat, concierge, and detective with a knowing grin. Good relations with a concierge could prove invaluable in police work. The ubiquitous Parisian gatekeepers tended to be more knowledgeable and reliable than the best-paid informers, at least when it came to the comings and goings of their tenants.
    â€œMy dear Mme Arnaud,” Rodin said, “in addition to his remarkable affinity for cats, M. Lefebvre is one of France’s most distinguished detectives. I vouch for him without reservation.”
    The old woman smiled fondly at Achille. “Since both Cyrano and my old friend Sergeant Rodin hold you in such high regard, I shall, of course, do whatever I can to assist in your investigation.”
    Achille smiled, thanked her, and began his polite interrogation. He continued gently stroking Cyrano’s neck and back, as if by doing so he could further ingratiate himself with both the cat and its mistress. “Mme Arnaud, how long have you known M.