Take Aube. The fellow in the yellow cap. Renowned forger in his day, specializing in royal writs and church encyclicals. Never met a signature he couldn't make his own. And that bull in the woman's blouse? Fouche. Went to prison at age sixteen for armed robbery. The only one who looks he's on the right side of the law is Ronquetti-still lounging in last night's evening clothes-a confidence artist who set himself up for a time as the Duke of Modena, with an Italian mistress and a blackamoor servant.

And behind the unmarked pair of doors at the end of the hall: CocoLacour. Grew up in a brothel. Did most of his schooling in prison. Likes to ply whores with trinkets he's fished out of the Seine. He's now Vidocq's personal secretary.

"Dr. Carpentier, is it?" A good third of Coco-Lacour's teeth are missing, but he smiles as if he had garnets in his gums. "The chief will be with you soon. May I fetch you some coffee, perhaps?"

"Send him in already!"

The voice comes roaring from the adjoining room. Coco-Lacour leans into it without blanching.

"Won't you please follow me, Doctor?"

The elegance of the office takes me aback. Bookshelves, framed etchings, a black marble fireplace with an ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, white cotton gloves on a mahogany table. And, seated in a black leather armchair behind a massive fruitwood desk: Vidocq, every bit as massive, every bit as elegant, in a black suit with yellow tulips tucked in the lapel. Today's issue of the Independent lies before him, turned open to the theater page.

"Sit down, Hector."

And if some small part of me has been toying with the notion of withholding my news, that part gives way utterly in this moment. For in the act of planting me so squarely in his official circumference, Vidocq has enrolled me in the same freemasonry that binds Ronquetti, Aube, Fouche, and Coco-Lacour. I'm one of his now.

It's the most natural thing in the world, then, to tell him everything I've learned from Father Time-and for him to take it in like a confessor, threading his hands under his chin, grunting occasionally over some detail. When I'm finished, he tips his head back, as if he were pouring the whole tale straight into his skull.

"Well, that's very interesting, Hector. I bet you never dreamed you had such an illustrious papa. Mine was a baker. Bastard, that was his real trade. Used to thrash me every chance he got. In all fairness," he adds, "I stole from his till every chance I got. On the scales of justice, we'll have to call it a draw."

A wizard's cackle f lies from his chest. His gray eyes brighten into a noonday blue.

"Shall I tell you what I've been up to, Hector?"

"If you like," I answer, faintly.

"Ah, you're too kind." Cocking his shoulders, he turns toward the window, where Sainte-Chapelle lies framed: sun-sanded and immaculate. "You recall, I hope, the dying words of Monsieur Leblanc."

"He's here."

"Exactly. He's . . . here. The he part, well, we've at least got our mitts on that one, but what about that here business, eh? Such a simple word, and look how it wriggles when you try to grasp it. Does it mean here on the very street where Leblanc died? Not very likely. Does it mean Paris itself? I confess I thought it did. If you're some kind of idiot impostor king and you want to keep yourself hidden, you could do much worse than Paris. Here, you can make yourself scarce for years on end, and don't I know it?

"Ah, but then I started looking at it from the perspective of the-the deeply loyal Monsieur Leblanc. And the damned word started shifting on me again! Because to someone like Leblanc-someone who's been waiting his whole life for Louis the Seventeenth to come back-that word here could mean simply"-he extends his arms-"France. The native land. Crying out for its savior. Are you with me so far?"

"Of course."

"Well, now, if here extends as far as the nation's boundaries, we're in for quite a search, I'm afraid. But it must be because we're such good Christians, Hector, because God throws us a bone. Whoever was communicating with the lamented Monsieur Leblanc"-a lewd wink-"doesn't know he's dead."

"The newspapers reported it, surely."

"Ah, well, I called in some favors. A few free-market exchanges, and voila ! Nothing in the 'Local Notices' column. No memorial services, either. The body's still where you and I left it. Other than the Baroness, the only people who know he's dead are his creditors, and they're not likely to squawk. Bad for their reputations." Smiling, he folds his hock-arms against his belly. "Maybe you can guess why I've denied Monsieur Leblanc's corpse the customary Christian rites."

"To see if the parties in question attempted to contact him again?"

"Score one for you! " he bellows. "Oh, but Hector! You are not looking well, my friend."

"I don't-I don't feel-"

"No, don't argue with me. There's only one possible treatment for what you have. A change of air."

"Change of-"

"Climate, too, you're absolutely right. A day or two, you'll be back in the oats."

"Please, I don't-I haven't a clue what you're saying."

Grinning, he f lings up his hands like a symphony conductor.

"We're going on a trip, Hector! "

CHAPTE R 17.

The Case of the Headless Woman I'd resolved ne ve r to ask Vidocq where we're going. And because I'm a man of my word, more or less, all I can ask him on this occasion is: "How do you know where to go?"

H e wa lks me back then to a point early in his investigation. Chretien Leblanc has been dead only three days. The dead man's apartment has been searched, crevice by crevice, for correspondence with unknown parties. The only items that have turned up are a saucer, a shuttlecock, a single yellow glove, and a program from the Jardin des Plantes, all encased in years of dust. Day after day, officers of the Surete sift through Leblanc's incoming post for telltale envelopes- nothing but tradesmen's bills, still waiting to be paid.

Did Leblanc choose some other means of corresponding? The old man was a cautious fish, after all. He might have had a trusted confederate, who could keep the messages close at hand and yield them up when needed. But who?