The next morning a full and sensational account appeared in the newspapers. The dastardly Dr. Fleischer had struck once again, and more daring than ever, he had deposited not one but two severed limbs in the most impossible of places!

Even though the reporting style of each paper differed wildly, every account was identical in one particular: a direct appeal from Prefect of Police was printed underneath.  The message was direct: 

The Prefect of Police apologises for the conduct of her men towards the one known only as The Forever Pilot. She acknowledges his daring fight against evil, and humbly requests that The Pilot reports to the Prefecture De Police in Ombreville, to assist in the pursuit and arrest of the murderer who styles himself, Doctor Fleischer’.

So it was that at 1.45 p.m. on the very same day of the newspaper announcement, Janvier found herself face to face with The Forever Pilot.

The day was sweltering once again, and the mighty figure of The Pilot seemed to fill Janvier’s office like a hot black brick. He refused the chair she offered him and stood with his arms folded whilst he regarded Janvier with an inscrutable, tin gaze.

The awful heat was made even worse by the fact that, besides her invited guests, the room was crammed with officials.  A stenographer had squeezed himself into the corner between a row of filing cabinets and the green baize door that connected Janvier’s office with that of her squad.  

Baldon and Vigo, her deputies, leaned against the door, both nervously chain-smoking Gauloise.  The chief pathologist was perched stiffly on a hard-backed chair usually reserved for interrogations.  And finally, Madame Delouche, the examining magistrate sat at Janvier’s desk.  She had procured a desk fan from somewhere and was the only one in the room smiling, as the cool air dried the sweat at the margins of her dyed blond hair. 

The presence of so many people was not normal procedure, but then neither was a visit from The Forever Pilot.  And Janvier couldn’t help feeling that there was something of a side-show about the whole affair as if the examining magistrate and the others were simply there to ogle the mysterious Forever Pilot. 

The Pilot had not come alone; hovering at his side was a far less intimidating young man. He was dressed in the style of an aviator; heavy, thigh-length leather coat, canvas trousers, and bulky, fleece-lined leather boots. Like his friend, his identity was obscured by a mask; a pair of thick pilot’s goggles that gave him a faintly owlish air. This it appeared was ‘Maxim’.

‘At least he has the decency to sweat’, thought Janvier.

Meanwhile, The Pilot was addressing her.  “I’ve read of your discoveries with great interest Superintendent.” He spoke impeccable French Janvier noted; nevertheless, she was able to detect a faint English accent.

The Pilot continued: “I’d be delighted to assist you any way I can, although I must say that I’m surprised you resorted to such a public approach.” 

Janvier managed to imitate a nonchalant shrug.  “I’m nothing if not direct Monsieur Pilot. I felt that it might scare our murderous pal to know we were joining forces and the Prefect agreed with me.  “Besides, this cloak and dagger stuff -” She paused and indicated his saber with a nod, “- cloak and sword stuff, bores the hell out of me.”

The Pilot’s brow wrinkled in thought.  “Is that why you chose not to reveal that the two appendages in fact belong to two separate corpses?  Was that I wonder, making things direct?”

There was a pregnant silence as each of the judiciaries regarded each other. Their faces were clouded with suspicion. Someone had talked or else…

From the faint smile of amusement that flashed across his lips, it was obvious that The Pilot had understood the expressions of his audience all too well.

“My dear Inspector, ladies and gentlemen,” he raised his hands in a gesture of pacification, “I can assure you there is nothing sinister about my conclusions.  It is merely that, knowing the habits of Monsieur Fleischer as intimately as I do; I was able to deduce that separate corpses must be involved. Fleischer is nothing if not a creature of habit.

 “For instance, is it not the case that after a Fleischer murder only one limb is ever deposited in a public place?  Is it not also the case that the corpse is always found nearby?  It is therefore only the work of a moment to surmise that with two limbs and no public announcement of an accompanying corpse, one or possibly two corpses had yet to be found. The answer is obvious: although two appendages were found, each must belong to a separate murder.” 

The tension had been punctured, but the faces of The Pilot’s audience still held the faint traces of suspicion.  It was a clever answer, but just a little too clever for their liking.

“Very well Monsieur Pilot,” the magistrate’ drawled, her cultured voice a distinct contrast to Janvier’s uncultured growl.  “I can’t see that it will do any harm to let you in on the secret.   The limbs were indeed from two separate corpses.  Both had been severed ‘post-mortem’, though in the way this was achieved, each differs considerably.  The hand that Janvier received had been very neatly removed.  The second limb, the foot in Vernet’s soup tureen, looks as though it had been hacked off in a considerable hurry.”

“Which also might suggest two separate murderers?”

The examining magistrate frowned at The Pilot’s suggestion.  Clearly, she had made up her mind and wouldn’t be persuaded to change it again.

“It is one way of looking at it, certainly.”  She replied.  “However, it may also be possible that on the second occasion, the good doctor was merely in a hurry.”

“Very well,” The Pilot continued, “and the owners of the severed limbs, what can you tell me about them?”

“The owner of the hand has been identified as one William Petersson, a Danish accountant.  His corpse was found in one of our garages, in an off-duty jet-patrol-car as a matter of fact.  His throat had been neatly cut.  I believe it was done with surgical precision.”

The chief pathologist concurred in a supercilious tone: “The jugular and carotid arteries were severed by a single incision from a small, extremely sharp instrument, undoubtedly a scalpel.  It was in my opinion a very professional incision.  I doubt I could have done any better.” 

The examining magistrate continued the report.  “Gaspard the butcher’s boy could tell us very little about how he received the parcel.  Apparently, he was jostled on his way here, dropped his parcels, and a stranger whose face Gaspard absolutely cannot remember handed back Janvier’s parcel.  He then hurried away and Gaspard continued here."

"As to the owner of the hand, well, there’s nothing remotely unusual or untoward about him, in fact, Petersson seems a very boring fellow.  Fat, avuncular, the sort of loud obnoxious bore whom everyone despises but is quite content to receive drinks from.  He was here with his boss to finalise some export deal or other.  He spent his spare time either in the hotel bar or getting his face slapped by the hotel maids."

“The only remotely interesting point I can see in connection with this case is that he was staying at the Metropole, the venue for Inspector Vernet’s retirement party.  You of course know about the other - ahem -connection.”

The Pilot gave a mock bow in commemoration of the police bullets that had almost ended his career.  “And the other corpse?” he asked.

“It remains undiscovered.  We are of course endeavouring to find it.  I believe the Superintendent’s men have been working round the clock.  Is that not so Inspector?”

Janvier frowned and agreed that it was so.  “After the city morgue and the hospitals,” she growled, “the Metropole looked like a good place to concentrate on.  My men have interviewed all the staff and guests.  So far we’ve narrowed it down to two possibles: two members of staff who’ve been reported missing.  The first is Claude Robichaux, 29, native of Ombreville, a cashier by trade, although quite well-connected.  His father owns a string of haberdashers.  Booted the son out because of his wayward habits, that sort of thing."

"The second possible victim is Paul Benjamin, 41, British born, a waiter.  Like with Petersson there doesn’t seem anything exciting about these two, except they’ve both got form.  Robichaux got a suspended sentence for conspiring to pervert the course of justice.  Apparently, he took the blame for a hit-and-run, then changed his mind during the trial and admitted he was only the passenger.  At the time there were whispers that it really was Robichaux who had driven the car, but he was the son of a rich man who hired expensive lawyers and well - the usual story."

"Benjamin on the other hand is a bit more of a pro.  Ran with the English gang known as the ‘Firm’, came over here as some sort of liaison with a local branch, involved in a murder that was never proved, did some time in stir for running an illegal book.  Nothing major, but significant all the same.”

The Pilot pursed his lips and tapped them thoughtfully with a pale forefinger. “The past misdemeanours of both men provide a possible alternative as to a motive and murderer.  With Robichaux, if he really was the driver of the car, it could be a matter of revenge.  Whereas if Benjamin should prove the second victim, then it could well be a gang-related murder, made to look like the work of Fleischer.” 

The examining magistrate gave The Pilot a tight, unfriendly smile.  “It’s funny you should mention that.  I have been informed that the catering company booked for Vernet’s party, is in fact an offshoot of the Firm.  Is that not so Baldon?”

Janvier’s tough deputy cringed like a child and hung his head in shame.

“Despite his extensive knowledge of the Ombreville criminal class, Inspector Baldon was, of course, unaware of this fact at the time,” continued the magistrate sarcastically, “knowing nothing of cuisine he was forced to rely on the recommendation of a friend.  I suggest next time he throws a party he consults the etherphone directory.”

A soft groan escaped Baldon’s lips.

The Pilot frowned with impatience.  “That’s all very well, but I am still interested in other connections the possible victims may have.”  He gestured toward Janvier. “The two men’s files, you have them there?”

Janvier handed them over.

After a moment of intense study, The Pilot tossed the flimsy sheets back to Janvier.  She struggled to catch them.

“I notice that Vernet was the arresting officer in both cases” observed The Pilot.

After all the scurrying about, Janvier was in no mood for unpleasant speculations.  Her face went crimson with sudden uncontrollable anger.

“Are you suggesting that one of my longest serving men…?”

The Pilot disregarded Janvier’s outburst: “I also see that Baldon assisted on the Robicheaux arrest.”

“So what?” barked Baldon, clearly tired of being a scapegoat.  “It was back when I was a rookie.  I’ve arrested a lot of people over the years, that’s why they made me an Inspector.”

“Yes, yes,” snapped the examining magistrate.  “And I was the prosecuting magistrate on both cases, long ago when I was just a junior.  Mere coincidence; the Ombreville underworld is not so very large after all.  So let us not be too hasty.  Leaving aside tenuous connections with the local judiciary and regardless of whether or not there are two murderers or simply one, the most imperative task facing us is the capture of Fleischer.”

The Pilot smiled.  “Is it not also the most political and publicly acceptable course?”

The magistrate did not answer.  Instead she studied her well-manicured nails intently. 

The Pilot addressed Janvier again.  “What about the hotel guests?  Where have your interviews led you?”

Janvier exchanged a look of annoyance with her deputies and sighed.  “Not very far.  If you only knew how many things were going on that night.  Besides Vernet’s party, there was a wedding function, two birthday parties, a presentation for the Ombreville Philanthropists Action Committee, and the closing banquet for a conference of the League Against Pollution...”

A sharp yelp, not unlike a cry of pain, interrupted Janvier’s explanation. Almost at once, all eyes turned to the chief pathologist who had uttered the cry.  He had turned a deep shade of crimson and was staring at his shoes in embarrassment.

“Well Doctor Javet, you have something to add?” asked the examining magistrate irritably.  

Doctor Javet continued to stare at his shoes.  “I … I would prefer to discuss it later, in private.” He stammered weakly.

Madame Delouche blew out her cheeks in a gesture of frustration.  “What the chief pathologist is now so tactfully avoiding, is that I myself am a member of the L.A.P., along with most of Ombreville’s other prominent members of society.  On the night in question, however, I was elsewhere and I have an alibi to prove it.”   She sighed heavily, all her former serenity wiped away by the unexpected turn of events.

“You see where your needless conjectures have got us Monsieur Pilot.”  She continued angrily.  “They have us all suspecting each other, that’s where!  I want this absurd notion of suspecting each other forgotten once and for all.  Instead, I want you tolook for Fleischer amongst the people out there!” 

The Pilot smiled enigmatically “Well, Superintendent, examining magistrate, gentlemen; I can assure you that whether we are dealing with two criminals or one, I will have them safely behind bars for you within the week!”

∞