Not, if her testimony is to be credited, the Baroness. Conversations with the dead man's neighbors turn up little in the way of close friends or even regular acquaintances. Leblanc was, by habit and nature, a solitary man: light with drink, frugal with talk. Somehow, through all of his years of living, he contrived to leave the smallest possible indentation in Paris's envelope.

Undaunted, Vidocq makes the rounds of the dead man's neighborhood-cafes, wineshops, barbershops, tailors' shops-asking if anyone is keeping mail for a certain gentleman answering to this description. Again and again, he comes away empty.

Then, one afternoon, he is refreshing himself with wine and cutlets at an outdoor table of the Trois Freres when his eye is arrested by something on the far side of the street.

A mannequin, nothing more. Headless and voluptuous, holding court from the damask vacancy of a shop window.

In this instant, the mind of Chretien Leblanc opens before Vidocq, like a book of spells. Here is the one place that no one would ever connect to an elderly and unattached man.

Madame Sophie's

Gowns and Frocks a la Mode for Paris's Most Beautiful Ladies

Boldly he sallies through the half-open door. Madame Sophie is away on errands, but a milliner named emilie rises from behind the counter. A brunette, of round and comely figure, with long eyelashes that suggest a heart easily inf lamed. When Vidocq announces he has come to pick up a package for his uncle Chretien, these same eyelashes jerk up like awnings.

Oh, she doesn't think she can help, she says, folding down her lip. She wasn't to mention them to anyone.

"Ah, but don't you see, Mademoiselle? He sent me here, didn't he ? How else should I have known to come?"

Mm . . . well, if he puts it like that. Oh, but she hasn't received any packages in-dear me, it's been two weeks.

"Well, no matter. Uncle's off taking the waters at Bad Em, and he asked me if I might look in. You-you're a good friend of my uncle's?"

Oh, no, Monsieur! Why, she never laid eyes on him until three months ago. He simply came in one morning and asked if he could engage her to keep packages for him, as he was on the road so often. He told her she need only hide them behind the counter, where they won't get in anyone's way and where Madame Sophie won't notice. He said he'd pay her two hundred sous on each package.

"Ah yes. That sounds like Uncle Chretien, all right. Such a strange, secretive old turtle. Ha! My sister and I think he must be receiving billets-doux from a young mistress. His step is so light these days. . . ."

But how silly! interrupts emilie. These aren't letters!

Instantly conscious of her transgression, she hastens with burning cheeks to assure Monsieur that she would never betray his uncle's confidences by opening the packages. It happened once, no more, and only because a burlap corner came loose and she was in the act of resealing it when the thing actually fell out! What could she do? She had to look at it.

"Of course, my pet. Was this by any chance the most recent package?"

Yes .

"Oho! I know exactly what it was, then. A gold ring, eh? So wide?"

Indeed it was, Monsieur! (The final battlement of her resistance falls.) And the strangest sort of ring, too, with all manner of scratches and marks. Why, you'd be lucky to get three francs for it at Les Halles. And if it belongs to your uncle's love, she must have fingers as big as knockwurst!

"Is it this?"

As luck would have it, the article in question is sitting in his watch pocket.

That's it! cries emilie. Oh, it's frightful, isn't it?

"Yes, indeed," he agrees. "Why, even Uncle Chretien wants no more of it. Do you know, just as he was leaving town, he asked if I might return it to its original owner? Which I'm only too happy to do, but damn me, I've lost the address. What a wretch I am! "

Well, ventures emilie, if it's the same person who's been sending him those packages, then it must be from . . .

And out comes the name of a place. A city no more than an hour's coach ride from Paris.

"Why, of course! " he answers, rapping himself on the temple. "I knew it had something holy in it. Now then, if I can just recall the good lady's last name, I won't even need the street number."

And from the eternally charming emilie, a name f lies forth.

H ou rs and hou rs of searching, Vidocq will think afterward. And all the while, the answers were waiting on this young woman's fruited lips.

In a fit of ardor-or through the coolest possible calculation-he applies to these lips the unguent of his own. She omits the customary ritual of slapping him, which raises her even further in his estimation. He asks if Madame is due back within the next hour. She says no. He asks if he might turn the closed sign on the window. She says yes. He asks if he might lower the blinds.

No, she says, taking him aback with her self-possession. I' ll do that.

Th at ve ry af te rnoon, one of Vidocq's men travels to the jurisdiction identified by emilie and returns with an address to attach to the name. The game has begun. Aube, after studying a few samples of Leblanc's penmanship, scratches out the following note: Awaiting further instructions The note is dispatched by courier to the party in question. Two days later, as emilie is only too happy to report, another of Uncle Chretien's packages arrives. A simple note, reading only: Your bundle is ready "Arrived yesterday by special post," Vidocq tells me now, striding round his office. "We're closing in now, Hector."

"But when are we to go there?" I ask.

"When? Why, this very minute."

"I'll need to pack . . ."

"Screw that. I've got clothes ready for you."

"I'll need to-"

Tell Mother.