Later that day, after a few hours' sleep, Janvier found herself wearily plodding through the vast Hall of Central Records on her way to the Pathology labs. All around her in the gloomy hall, an aquarium light flickered across hundreds of tabulator screens.  Row upon row of Sikorski Intelidesks filled the room, their delicate insect appendages clicking and flicking across rolls of paper as countless pieces of information were analysed.

As she hurried into the bare white laboratory, Janvier was addressed by a furious chief pathologist.

“Superintendent,” he spluttered, “I simply cannot continue my work with this … this person watching me!  I want him removed at once!” 

For a moment Janvier found herself blinking. After the gloom of the Hall of Records, it was difficult to adjust to the bright, antiseptic light of the laboratory.  The first thing she saw properly was The Pilot leaning insouciantly against the wall, a faintly apologetic smile playing across his lips.  Javet shook a finger at him and continued to rant.

“He keeps insisting we use something called an electron microscope and DNA something or other – as if such things exist!  Pure scientific fiction!”

The Pilot stopped lounging and went over to a nearby table loaded with equipment.  Maxim hovered at his side clutching a small metal box.

“Never mind,” The Pilot said.  “We will have to make do with the resources at hand.  Maxim, the slide.”  Maxim dutifully responded producing a small wedge of plastic.  “Come Inspector, what do you make of this?”

Janvier lumbered over to the table and squinted through the eyepiece of a microscope.  Maxim’s slide lay on the stage beneath.  The shapes she saw meant nothing to her.

“It’s cement powder.” The Pilot explained.  “Minute traces were found in Petersson’s hair.”

The chief pathologist gave a sigh that was as violent as a slap in the face. “All of which was in my report!”  Javet exclaimed.  “It leads me to believe the corpse was stored somewhere close to a bag or bags of cement.  Indeed from the traces found on his clothing, it is very probable that his corpse was actually stored in an empty cement sack."

“Is this going somewhere?” Janvier growled impatiently.

The Forever Pilot gave her a boyish smile and nodded to Maxim.  Another slide was conjured from his box.

“This slide was prepared from a sample of dust from the newspaper wrapping of Gaspard’s parcel.” Explained The Pilot.

Janvier repeated the exercise with the microscope.  All she saw were a number of pretty crystals.

“What you observe is a collection of raw materials.  Calcium carbonate, silica, alumina, and iron oxide; or putting it another way, particles of unrefined clay and limestone.  Mixed together with a dash of gypsum and you have the powder known as Portland cement.  A significant clue I trust you’ll agree.”

Janvier’s face remained doubtful.  “Well, I suppose so.  Though all my men have got instructions to be on the lookout for someone with bags of cement.  Possibly someone who might have had some work done at home, or even someone who deals in the stuff.  But other than that, I can’t really see…”  Her voice trailed off.

“You people,” laughed The Pilot, “I keep forgetting your limits.  On the one hand, you have technology that Jules Verne only dreamed of and on the other you use objects and procedures that might have come out of the Ark.”  The Pilot got up and headed for the door, closely followed as always by Maxim.  They paused in the doorway.

 “We shall leave you to work out the significance of the particles.  In the meantime Superintendent, if Maxim and I may be allowed open access to the Hall Of Records once again, we might be able to elucidate the matter even further.” With that, The Pilot and Maxim swept out of the door leaving Janvier puzzling in their wake.  What on earth had The Pilot meant?

It was the ever-dependable Baldon who put his finger on it later.  “I’ll bet you a hatpin to half a million francs that there’s something not right about those two.”

They were in Janvier’s office.  Janvier was seated in her usual place.  Baldon perched on the corner of her desk.  Janvier’s hands were clasped behind her head.  With a characteristic narrowing of her eyes, she regarded her assistant disdainfully.

“That’s not very helpful.  What exactly are you on about?”

Undeterred by his Superintendent’s annoyance, Baldon continued to voice his suspicions.  “Well, I reckon there’s just something that don’t add up.  I mean, all that guff about our technology coming out of the Ark. Why everyone knows that the French Police Force is the most scientific force outside of Russia.  But the way they was talking anyone would think we were all still in the Stone Age.  Why it’s almost as if …” His voice petered off as if he was suddenly embarrassed by his suspicions.

“Well, as if what?"

“Well, it’s almost as if they’re from the future or something.”  

Baldon tentatively raised his gaze from the scarred patch of desk he had been staring at.  His Chief’s face was cold and expressionless.  Baldon shrugged again. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.  

“Either that,” he continued, “or from another planet, you know, one with better machines. Or maybe they’re from another dimension, a more advanced Earth?”

There was a moment’s embarrassed silence, and then Janvier leaned back in her chair and began to massage her tired eyes.

“I reckon you’ve been spending too long at the Kino old friend. Hasn’t it occurred to you that it’s just as likely that The Pilot is a clever criminal in cahoots with our old mate Fleischer?  Either that or a clever con-man.”

Baldon looked aghast.

“No, I think we’ll just forget those wild theories of yours and just concentrate on catching a killer.  And anyway, I don’t care if those two clowns are from Jupiter or your left nostril, just as long as they help us catch Fleischer!”

∞

Whatever his mysterious origins, The Pilot was certainly no liar.  Within a day, as promised, his strange theories and techniques had brought the investigation forward by a giant leap.

“You see Superintendent,” explained The Pilot cheerfully, “the traces from Gaspard’s parcel gave us a real clue to the whereabouts of our dear, murdering friend.” 

The Pilot was seated.  Unusually for him, he lounged on his chair and so it was easy to see that he felt pleased with himself.

He continued his explanation.  “The refined cement powder when put together with the base constituents found in your parcel gave me the idea that our friend could very well be involved in the process of cement production, which would match my theories about his academic or scientific background.  After that, Maxim and I did some cartographic tours of the area and came up with – Maxim?”

Maxim’s voice was youthful and a little high-pitched.  “The Hercules Cement Plant on the outskirts of Telmond, about three or four miles away from the city.” He announced.

“So?” exclaimed Janvier scornfully.

“So,” The Pilot picked up where Maxim had left off, “I believe you’ll find that our murderer is an employee with the Hercules Cement Plant.”

“Isn’t it more usual to find the bodies in cement rather than the murderers?” quipped Janvier.  Nevertheless, despite her air of levity. Janvier was on the phone to the examining magistrate in seconds, and an hour later a flotilla of Police vehicles was heading for the factory.

Janvier, Baldon, and Vigo traveled to the Hercules Cement Plant in an unmarked jet-car, whilst The Pilot and Maxim followed on their matching Norton Skyrangers.  Two jet-wagons filled with gendarmes completed the hastily assembled task force.

The flotilla landed in loose formation on the dusty fringe of a lime quarry.  On the other side of the manmade gorge, the aluminum turrets of the Hercules Cement Plant gleamed proudly against the cloudless sky.  

It was baking hot beneath the afternoon sun.  The policemen stood in dark-suited groups, waiting tensely for the search warrant to be telemessaged through.

Waiting with them, Janvier eyed her new colleague once again.  It must have been nearly ninety degrees and yet there stood The Pilot, still and impassive beneath the blazing midday sun.  In his heavy leather armour he must have been as hot as a furnace.  Yet he hardly moved, seemingly undisturbed by the intolerable heat that was beginning to make Janvier’s skin crawl.

Not for the first time since her discussion with Baldon, Janvier found herself wondering if The Pilot really was human after all.

“I doubt you’ll need all that manpower Inspector,” The Pilot motioned to the group of gendarmes.  

“It’s a big plant, it could take all day.”  Snapped Janvier testily.

“Oh, I doubt that you’ll have to look any further than the main building.”  The Pilot concluded.  

“Inspector, the warrant’s come through.”  Baldon jumped out of the jet-wagon and handed his boss a flimsy sheet of paper.

“Right then, let’s go.”  Janvier took a decisive step forward. Baldon followed close at her heels.

“Where shall we try first Chief?”  He asked.

Janvier looked straight into the expressionless tin eyes of The Pilot.  “Oh I dunno, why not the main building.”

The policemen clambered back into their vehicles.  In a cloud of dust, the engines screamed and whined, pushing the flotilla above the quarry and over to the main entrance of the Hercules Cement Factory.

Janvier leaped out of her van, glad to be in action at last.  She posted guards around the plant, and then swept through the revolving door of the office building into a marble and gold lobby.  A squat, middle-aged receptionist stood waiting.  She was flanked on either side by a group of tough-looking security guards.  Janvier waived the search warrant in the receptionist’s face, but the woman remained unmoved and continued to forbid their entry.  A noisy row ensued.

As the argument progressed, The Pilot detached himself from the main group and began to scan his surroundings with his cold, tin gaze.  Not an inch of marble and gold, not a face or figure that scurried in and out of the lobby could avoid that impersonal, inhuman scrutiny.  But still, no murderer was to be seen.

Finally, the detectives were grudgingly allowed to enter.  The manager, a soft, unctuous man was summoned and trembling beneath the wrath of Janvier, waived the policemen through into the rest of the building.

Whilst Janvier and her men began to gather the staff for questioning, the Forever Pilot and Maxim stayed behind in the manager’s office.  They had requested a copy of the personnel list had soon became engrossed in it.  It didn’t take them long to find what they were looking for.

“Inspector, here’s your man!” shouted Maxim.

The young woman, who Janvier had been interviewing when Maxim burst in, blanched visibly at the sight of such an oddly dressed man.  Janvier ignored the girl and snatched a page of printout from Maxim’s outstretched hand.  She stared at the name that had been underlined, almost as if she might discern the murder’s face from the plain black type.

“Professor Emile Thierrot, M.S.C., P.H.D., F.R.S.  Second Assistant Director of Experimental Research.  This is your man?”  Asked Janvier in disbelief.  “A respectable fifty-year-old research chemist?”

“Who trained to be a Doctor of medicine before he switched to Chemistry, who’s married with no children, who’s fluent in Russian, English and German, who’s also a member of the League Against Pollution! Don’t you remember, they were in attendance at the hotel on the night of the murders?”

But Maxim’s words fell only on the ears of the pale woman, Janvier had been interviewing.

As Janvier ran toward the research section, pelting down endless blank corridors, she rounded a corner and collided with Vigo. 

“Chief, our man got away.”  Vigo managed to breathlessly inform her.  “He jumped out a back window while The Pilot was trying to get past his assistant.  Baldon took off after him.”

Just as Vigo was speaking, there came a timpani rumble of jet engines from outside.  The two police inspectors ran to the window and saw a delivery truck roaring off into the sky. A few seconds later it was closely followed by the gnat-like figure of The Pilot on his Norton.

When the two detectives got outside they found Baldon lying in the bleached dust of the courtyard.  A gendarme was helping him to his feet.

Baldon’s usually slick hair stood on end; his clothes were torn and covered with dust.  Janvier also noticed that his left arm was hanging limply at his side and that his face was almost as white as the dust covering his clothes.  Despite this, Baldon still managed a rueful grin.

“Took off after him,” he managed to gasp.  “Got onto the running board but he did some sort of waggle, flipped me off.  Think it broke my arm.  Sorry boss.”

Janvier dismissed his apologies and then looked up at the empty blue sky.  The Pilot and Thierrot were nowhere in sight, should she round up her men and follow?

As if he could read her thoughts, Maxim gave her an answer.

“Don’t worry Superintendent, the Chief’ll take care of Fleischer.  He’s spent too long on his trail to let him get away now.”  

Over the horizon, Maxim’s reassuring words were being put to the test.

As The Pilot manoeuvred himself into position, ready to leap aboard the truck, he just had time to glimpse the muzzle of a revolver poking out of the driver’s side window.  Then a hail of bullets rattled out towards him.

With lightning reflexes, The Pilot pushed down hard on the bike’s accelerator pedal. Instantly he was propelled a couple of feet past the truck, missing the bullets by a whisker.  Now it was his turn to lead the strange aerial ballet.

With split-second timing, The Pilot clicked the bike onto auto-pilot and leaped backward off his bike. Twisting his body in mid-air so that he was facing the truck’s cabin, he landed with a thump on its bonnet. 

Now, as the slipstream whipped and slashed at his face, he could see the astonished face of Thierrot staring back at him through the windscreen.  

Seen close-up, the terrible Doctor Fleischer was a very unprepossessing figure.  A pale man with a neat, grey, goatee beard, a pair of pince-nez balanced precariously on the bridge of his nose, which gave him a fussy, old-womanish appearance.  Over his normal suit, he wore a white lab coat, something which at least bore a passing resemblance to the one sported by Dr. Fleischer.  But The Pilot had no more time to study his adversary.

 Thierrot was out of bullets.  Furious at his own lack of foresight he hurled the pistol at the windscreen in disgust.  The heavy gun shattered and hurtled towards The Pilot like a brick.  Undismayed, The Pilot leaped over the missile as agilely as a champion hurdler and before the doctor had time to throw anything else, The Pilot’s boot crashed in through the gaping hole in the windscreen, clipping the doctor neatly on the jaw.

A few minutes later, when Janvier’s jet-car eventually caught up with the hovering truck, she saw The Pilot sitting calmly at the wheel, whilst beside him, slumped on the passenger seat was an unconscious Thierrot.

∞