The Stain Of The Crimson Blood

‘It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.’—Edgar Allan Poe

The uniqueness of murder lies in its ability to manifest as a deceptive representation, seldom seen or often misconstrued as mere malice aforethought. The true mystery lies in the secret that remains concealed. It is a riddle that consumes the minds of those ensnared by its insoluble nature, embedded within the very thought of murder.

Is murder incompatible with a Machiavellian ruse, disregarded when the cause is not irrelevant to the inducement of that brazen subterfuge? The notion of the probability of such a concurrent event is unsettling—and real, for it bears witness to the exactitude of a maddening game of death that knows no boundary of principle.

Thus, it becomes a fascinating sequence of analytical prowess that is indisputable, between the sleuth and the criminal. An intriguing game of chess, where one plays until checkmate is conclusively effected. There is always a visible terror attached to the constant peril of any murder, but this unusual case, which required my immediate involvement, was telling in the astute nature of the duplicity employed. The memorable case I describe was known as ‘The Stain of the Crimson Blood’.

The year was 1893, and I was in the immemorial city of Paris, France, assisting my old friend and compeer Hugo Bonheur, the assiduous prefect of the Prefecture of Police. According to him, a series of murders had occurred that were both insoluble and inexplicable. I was an analytical and persevering inspector, by the name of Jack Cauvain, known for my impeccable reputation throughout Europe and abroad. I had been in Gibraltar working on a recent case, which was finally resolved in the city of Málaga in Spain, when I received the urgent letter from the prefect.

There were few details in the letter that provided sufficient information about the case, but I noted the tone of extreme concern regarding the growing impact of the murders on the city. I understood this grave preoccupation, having lived in a great metropolitan city myself.

Upon arriving in Paris, Bonheur was there to greet me kindly at Gare du Nord. It had been briefly raining when I discerned the troubled expression upon his circumspect countenance. At first, I was uncertain what to say to the amiable prefect. I recognised at once the familiar flat circular top of his kepi, his official cap. He had always addressed me by the title of ‘Inspector’ rather than ‘Detective’.

‘Good God, Bonheur, judging by the expression on your face, I would assume you have seen a living spectre!’ I exclaimed.

‘Inspector Cauvain, my old friend, you are ever difficult to fool, but I am very grateful that you came at once to Paris’, Bonheur replied.

‘Enough with idle talk. Let us now concentrate on the matter at hand’.

‘Where do we begin?’

‘Naturally, from the beginning’.

‘I shall tell you everything on the way to the latest crime scene, but first, we shall stop at the Hotel Terminus, where you will be staying’.

‘Good. I look forward to hearing what you have to disclose’.

From the hotel, we set off for the location of the crime scene—the National Museum of Natural History on Rue Cuvier, where the most recent murder had taken place. It was an eerie sight I witnessed upon arrival.

The body of the deceased had been discovered in the main gallery by the curator —headless. The victim, Monsieur Legrand, was a middle-aged man whose severed head had been removed entirely from the torso by the sharp blade of an authentic guillotine, one of the museum’s special attractions.

The gruesome nature of the act was magnified by the barbaric contrivance of the guillotine, so chillingly associated with the French Revolution. I had only seen depictions of beheadings in vivid book illustrations; never had I worked a case involving an actual instance.

Initially, I was uncertain what could have stirred an individual to commit such a cold-blooded act with such an archaic method of execution. Without delay, I began the initial process of deciphering the murder and the daring inducement behind it. My observation turned immediately to the blade of the guillotine.

‘I have only heard and read about the infamous contraption and its ghastly effects’, I said, ‘but seeing one in person is, indeed, impressive’.

Bonheur, ever attuned to my expressive mannerisms, spoke: ‘There is something you are contemplating. What is on your mind?’

‘The populace of Paris. If you must know, I was thinking of them—and the irony of the guillotine’.

‘What do you mean, inspector? I’m afraid I don’t quite understand’.

‘At times, the most obvious clue is not the most significant. The one thing that leads to the truth of any murder is the establishment of incontrovertible facts. We know the murder was cold-blooded, but also that the killer was extremely calculated in planning and audacity’.

‘I still don’t comprehend’.

‘Simple, Bonheur. The guillotine—though stationary and daunting—may be a ruse to deceive. Allow me to clarify. The killer wanted us to believe the victim was executed by the guillotine when, in fact, he was killed with a whetted dagger or knife’.

‘How can you be certain of such an assumption?’

I pointed to the wounds on the right side of the punctured kidney, where dried blood—markedly different in composition—had gathered. The blood from the neck was crimson, compared to the stammel hue of the kidney wound.

‘There is the obvious difference—the crimson blood’.

Still puzzled, Bonheur enquired, ‘You’re saying the victim was killed before being beheaded?’

‘Indeed. The killer most likely knew the museum’s hours and the layout of the building, complete with its splendid galleries and the people walking about Rue Cuvier at that late hour. He was also aware of the curator’s schedule. Therefore, he calculated the murder, but did not foresee the untimely presence of the curator, who had arrived earlier than expected’.

‘So, if I follow your logic, the murderer stabbed the victim to death, then was forced to improvise. Seeing the guillotine, he realised he could use it to dispose of the head—and confuse the nature of the crime’.

‘Precisely. That way, he would make us believe the poor victim died by decapitation, not by deliberate stabbing, as was the case’.

Despite the evidence the killer had left behind, there was not enough to conclude a decisive profile. Thus, we were forced to infer a theory based on the sequence of events and circumstantial deduction. I was convinced Monsieur Legrand had been stabbed to death with a sharp object. What I could not yet determine was the direction in which the murderer had absconded from the scene.

The Republican Guards were present and noticeable in the streets of Paris, their honorable duty commendable. They had been summoned to ensure protection amidst the sudden outbursts of anarchy stirred by fanatical anarchists, whose influence was unsettling the populace.

I had never seen Paris in such a frenzy. The usual rush of carriages, sluggish tramways, and bustling quadracycles had dominated the city, along with the abundance of taxicabs. Yet the familiar Parisian fragrance, so often in the air, was absent. Even the chic Frenchwomen of the Bon Marché seemed to have vanished.

These were precarious times for Paris. Crime was rampant, and Bonheur’s concern was evident. Though I felt no sense of delay, something odd was certainly happening in the city. I had noticed a distinct pattern with these murders, but I could not entirely dismiss the possibility that the anarchists were somehow involved.

At the time, I was unaware of the full extent of the killer’s motives or his agenda behind the recent deaths. However, I had considered the possible escape route of this ruthless criminal. When we spoke to the curator who discovered the body of Monsieur Legrand, he was understandably shaken by the grisly scene. Whilst his emotional state was of little interest to me, the practical details of his testimony were vital—anything that could give us insight into the events.

Unfortunately, the curator had not clearly seen the culprit nor provided any substantial details. Thus, there was little to glean from his statement. I suggested we head to the Prefecture of Police at Place Louis Lépine on the Île de la Cité for further investigation.

Bonheur agreed, and we left the museum. At the Prefecture, we discussed the complex details of the murders, including the most recent death. I tried to correlate the locations of the murders with the brutal execution methods used by the killer.

There had been four murders in total, each executed in a gruesome manner that reflected the murderer’s cruel indifference. This raised suspicions about the significance of the case. The key pieces of evidence were the missing heads of the victims and the bloodstained scenes.

The first murder occurred at the towering Eiffel Tower, where Monsieur Leduc’s body was found hanging upside down, lifeless. The second, Monsieur Chaveau, was discovered in the Seine, his throat cut before being discarded in the water. The third victim, Monsieur Picard, was found inside the Sainte-Chapelle, beaten to death with a heavy cudgel. The final victim, Monsieur Legrand, was discovered decapitated in the museum, his body lying under the sharp blade of a guillotine.

The extrinsic elements of the case had to be considered. We had yet to determine the killer’s origin or his motivations. Was he French or foreign? A few witnesses claimed to have seen a stranger near the crime scenes—some said he looked German, others French, or even African. While this was not definitive, it gave us an intriguing clue about the criminal’s profile.

I instructed Bonheur to have the gendarmes inquire about any known anarchists—foreign or domestic—whilst we searched the center for reliable leads. As we walked, a young flower seller caught our attention. She had bright titian curls and a retroussé nose, pulling a small cart down Rue Montorgueil.

'Messieurs, will you buy a flower? I am a poor widow with child', she said.

'Not now, mademoiselle,” Bonheur replied curtly. 'We have no time for idle chatter. We’re dealing with official matters'.

'Yes, Monsieur, but I believe I saw the killer', she interrupted, her voice shaking.

'What are you saying?' Bonheur demanded, surprised.

'Yes!' The flower seller insisted.

'Where?' I asked, intrigued.

'At Rue Saint-Denis!' She exclaimed.

I wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth or simply trying to waste our time. 'Rue Saint-Denis, you say? When exactly?'

'Impossible,” Bonheur interjected. 'The gendarmes and Republican Guards are patrolling the area, seeking anarchists'.

'True, Monsieur, but there are streets where criminals can hide', the flower seller persisted.

Bonheur remained skeptical. 'You expect me to believe you, mademoiselle, knowing that you are speaking to the Prefect of the Prefecture of Police?'

'There's no need for smugness, Bonheur. We must remain open to all possible clues', I said, stepping in.

I turned back to the flower seller. 'Mademoiselle, tell me—at what hour did you see this man fleeing? And where did he go?'

'I didn’t have a watch, but I saw the time when I passed a shop at Rue Saint-Denis. It was around eleven o’clock', she replied.

'And how much time passed between seeing the hour and noticing the man?' I pressed.

'Not much, perhaps five minutes', she said, her voice trembling.

'Where did he go next?' Bonheur asked.

'To the Boulevard de Bonne Nouvelle, I think. It was dark and misty', she answered.

Bonheur remained unconvinced. 'How could you be sure he went there?'

'I only tell you what I saw,” she replied. “It’s up to you to decide whether you believe me'.

'What did he look like?'

'Swarthy, like an African', she said.

'An African?' Bonheur repeated, raising an eyebrow. 'Are you saying the man you saw was black? Did you hear him speak?'

'Not a word', she muttered.

I stepped in to ease the growing tension. 'That will be all for now, mademoiselle. If you remember anything else, please come to the Prefecture or notify one of the gendarmes. Is that understood?'

'Yes!' She said quickly, before walking away.

Bonheur, ever the professional, was not entirely convinced by her account. But from my own observations, I knew Rue Saint-Denis stretched from Victoria Avenue to Boulevard de Sébastopol. It was entirely possible the killer had escaped through the area, aided by the trees and poor visibility due to the weather.

Whilst Bonheur remained focused on the anarchists and the growing unrest in Paris, I reflected on the flower seller’s words. Perhaps there was something more to the killer’s identity than we had yet uncovered.

As evening descended, I was back at the hotel when a sudden explosion shattered the stillness. I rushed to the street, where I saw numerous gendarmes and Republican Guards racing towards the area near the Restaurant Vèry, close to the Louvre in the Le Grand Véfour neighborhood.

I was immediately met by Bonheur, who had arrived at the crime scene from the Prefecture of Police. His unsettling expression reflected both disgust and anxiety. There were dead bodies scattered across the ground—I counted at least fifteen individuals, with another twenty badly wounded amidst the panicked crowd.

'Good God, Bonheur! What has happened here? I heard an explosive noise from the hotel that shook the entire building!' I exclaimed.

'Oui, inspector. You are correct. I’m afraid the cowardly anarchists have struck again!' Bonheur replied.

'Any witnesses or suspects?'

'Oui! More importantly, the criminal was captured!' Bonheur said with a hint of relief.

'Good. Do we know his name?'

'Oui. His name is Didier Dufour. His blackened fingers were clear evidence of his participation in the crime'.

'Where is he now?'

'He is at the Prefecture of Police'.

'Good. We shall go there immediately. But tell me, were any clues found?'

'Only shrapnel,' Bonheur replied grimly.

After examining the crime scene, I noticed footprints left by someone fleeing the area. I pointed them out to Bonheur. 'Look at those footprints! They’re going in the opposite direction! This suggests the killer had an accomplice'.

'I’ll have the gendarmes make ichnograms of this valuable clue', Bonheur said, his focus sharp.

The bombing had caused me to reevaluate my thoughts, and I was led to a thorough reconsideration of the murders. My instinct told me that the anarchists weren’t solely responsible for the killings in Paris; there was something deeper—perhaps a secret society or a cult involved.

This new incident complicated the case further, and the involvement of anarchists had begun to stoke public unrest. The newspapers, especially Le Petit Parisien, one of the city’s most influential papers, had not only reported the bombing but also implied that the anarchists were behind the unsolved murders we had been investigating.

This was far from ideal. The public should not be swayed so easily without solid evidence. I had become accustomed to the sharp criticisms and sensationalism of the English press, and I was prepared for this inevitable distraction. Bonheur, however, was flustered by the growing tide of misinformation. The case’s prolongation was wearing him down, and he seemed ever more determined to solve the mystery.

We left the crime scene and headed to the Prefecture of Police to speak with the suspect who had been apprehended. Once there, I requested to assist Bonheur in the interrogation, which he reluctantly agreed to.

The suspect, Mr. Dufour, was less than forthcoming. He admitted to his participation in the crime and expressed his anarchistic views, but refused to reveal his accomplices or the organisation to which he belonged. Dufour seemed resolute, convinced of his cause.

What little was known about him suggested he was a French national, living in one of Paris's notorious slums. To Bonheur, Dufour was a bitter criminal who deserved the ultimate punishment under French law—the guillotine. Despite his grim future, Dufour remained defiant, showing no sign of breaking.

Bonheur, unwavering in his resolve, attempted to break Dufour’s composure with direct questioning. I respected Bonheur’s authority, but I doubted that intimidation would yield results. I did not wish to oppose his methods, but I felt it was important to maintain a calm, measured approach. We needed to keep our wits sharp and not become distracted by the suspect’s stubbornness.

Whilst Bonheur was focused on extracting information from Dufour, I concentrated on the clues that were still operative in the case. I was acutely aware of the stakes—our failure to act swiftly could allow the criminal or criminals to slip through our fingers.

I recalled the young flower seller we had spoken to earlier. I didn’t know where she lived, but I retraced my steps to the street where we had met her. She was not there, but a scruffy peddler informed me that Mademoiselle Chaumette lived in the Montmartre district, a slum bordering Belleville. I made my way to the edge of her home.

'Mademoiselle Chaumette', I called as I approached.

'Inspector Cauvain? What brings you here, Monsieur?' She asked, her surprise evident.

'I didn’t mean to disturb you, Mademoiselle, but I was wondering if you could answer a few more questions about the African man you mentioned earlier. You said he fled towards the Bonne Nouvelle from Rue Saint-Denis. Did he head towards Victoria Avenue or Boulevard de Sébastopol?'

'Perhaps it was Boulevard de Sébastopol, but it was very misty, and I couldn’t see clearly', she replied.

'Well enough to know which direction he came from and the colour of his skin, even in the darkness?' I pressed.

'He was African. Of that, I am certain!' She affirmed.

'I didn’t come here to reproach you, Mademoiselle, only to ask a few questions. That is all', I assured her.

'I understand, Monsieur, and I apologise—I wasn’t expecting you today. I am a humble woman, and as you can see, I live in modest surroundings', she explained with a hint of melancholy.

'That’s not a crime. I’ll leave you to your daily matters'.

'Thank you. I’m sorry I couldn’t offer more information'.

'Perhaps you will remember more later'.

'Perhaps', she replied, her voice soft.

In my contemplative thoughts, I had cogitated the validity of the statement given by the young Mademoiselle Chaumette, whose words, though brief, had proved insufficient. I perceived an ambiguity in her words, but at the same time, she was confident that the man fleeing was of African descent. What inducement could cause her to fabricate such a lie?

I returned to the Prefecture of Police, where Bonheur had finished his intense interrogation of Dufour. The suspect remained steadfast in his defiance until the very end. I observed the frustration in Bonheur's eyes, and it became clear to me that he was not satisfied with the progress of the case. For a moment, he appeared lost in thought, then he broke the silence with a more measured tone, contemplating his next step.

As far as I was concerned, our immediate focus should be to understand why these men had been chosen for such brutal executions.

A punctilious gendarme had informed me of the occupations of the victims and their recent business transactions. The list of names revealed an unsettling pattern: all the victims were wealthy merchants or bankers who had been outspoken in their opposition to the anarchist movement.

What struck me as particularly curious was that each of these victims had made transactions with an obscure company named 'Charbonnier Textile,' located in the commune of Asnières, specifically in the arrondissement of Bernay. There was also a link to a man named Herr Gerhardt Hasenkamp, from Wilhelmsbad, Germany.

A sapient perception told me that we were not merely dealing with anarchists but perhaps a secret society or a serpentine cult, with a more nefarious agenda. I considered the nature of the crimes and their connection to the victims. Once this crucial information was revealed, I suggested to Bonheur that a couple of gendarmes be dispatched to Bernay to investigate the involvement of Charbonnier Textile with the victims, while we remained in Paris to continue our investigation.

Dufour, still being held at the Prefecture of Police, was of no further use to us. He had already admitted his involvement in the bombing, and I knew it would take a day or so for the gendarmes to uncover the truth behind this mysterious company in northeastern France. As for Herr Gerhardt Hasenkamp, we had discovered through our German contacts that this was an alias. The man was not who he claimed to be. The question remained: who was Herr Gerhardt Hasenkamp in reality?

Finally, we received a telegraph from the gendarmes in Bernay confirming that Charbonnier Textile was indeed non-existent. This was the crucial piece of the puzzle. Upon hearing this new evidence, Bonheur's belief in an anarchist plot aimed at overthrowing the government grew stronger, as did the possibility of German involvement. If this connection were proven, Bonheur knew it could mean disaster for his country—another potential war with Germany.

It had been nearly 23 years since the Franco-Prussian War, a painful memory for the French. The very idea of German interference was disconcerting, and the prospect of war between the two nations was a horrendous thought. Bonheur’s anxiety about this reality added urgency to our investigation.

I could not disagree. The bombing appeared to be a ruse, a deliberate distraction engineered by the real culprits, whose identities remained a mystery. Bonheur, with growing impatience, insisted on speaking to Dufour once more. When we arrived at his cell, we found that Dufour was dead—hanged, in what appeared to be a suicide.

Bonheur, in a state of disbelief, was livid. He blamed the prison guards for their incompetence, but I was quick to intervene. It was crucial to remain composed, for there was little to gain from reacting impulsively.

'Although it seems that Dufour was murdered, we cannot bring him back to life. We must focus on deciding what our next move will be', I said, trying to calm him.

'You expect me to remain calm when we are on the brink of war with Germany?' Bonheur had exclaimed.

'I understand, Bonheur. If we do not solve this case, the murders will continue, and war will become more than an inevitability—it could escalate into a broader conflict,' I explained.

'How?' Bonheur asked, his tone sharp.

'I have a strong suspicion that the anarchists are being manipulated by the real culprits, who have thus far remained hidden', I reasoned.

'Incognito? Who?' Bonheur asked persistently.

'That is the true mystery. But we shall soon uncover their identity'.

Bonheur had ordered the city to be placed under strict curfew, and security was heightened at key monuments, including the Place de la Bastille, the Louvre, the Musée d'Orsay, and others. The list was extensive, including the Élysée Palace and Hôtel de Ville.

Another troubling incident soon arose—the death of Mademoiselle Chaumette. She had been murdered, though we were unsure by whom, as she was not known to wander aimlessly.

Upon arriving at the crime scene on Boulevard Montmartre, we found her body, dismembered and left in a state that suggested a brutal attack. I felt bitter regret over her death, for she had been a central witness to the case. Now, her murder seemed to be another deliberate step to obscure the truth.

Despite this heinous act, a pivotal clue had surfaced—a card from the Hôtel Continental on Rue de Castiglione. A witness had seen Mademoiselle Chaumette speaking with an African man shortly before her death. I remembered her mentioning an eccentric, well-dressed African man, and this led me to consider that he might be key to solving the case.

We headed to the hotel, where the receptionist confirmed the presence of an African man who had been at the ballroom the previous evening in the company of Mademoiselle Chaumette. His name was Gustav Mengue, a Cameroonian by origin but a French citizen.

'What does this African man have to do with the murders, inspector?' Bonheur had asked, his curiosity piqued.

'Perhaps everything, Bonheur. He could be our killer—or he may lead us to the true perpetrators. I believe we are dealing with a secret society behind these murders', I concluded.

'Why would a prosperous African be involved with a sinister secret society?'

'I know it may not make any practical sense, but it does when you think of the incentive that could impel this man to murder, such as the fact that he is originally from Cameroon, a German colony presently', I opined.

'Are you suggesting that this man is the actual killer?' Bonheur insisted.

'That is for us to definitely confirm'.

Time was of the essence, and like the sand of an hourglass, our time was gradually running out. The receptionist also made a fascinating disclosure. He told us that the African was not alone and had been seen accompanied on several occasions by a strange man who was a rastaquouère, or at least he seemed in appearance. We were fortunate that we had a name, but the name given was not of Spanish or South American origin.

The name registered was Borislav Bakalov, and he was a Bulgarian nationalist from one of the vassal states of the Ottoman Empire. What was the direct linkage with the Cameroonian and the Bulgarian? Bonheur was anxious to find the two strangers, and he knew the press and the newspapers would be quickly stirring the Parisians to fright and panic. We had to be more proficient in our approach, and we had to confer the information that we knew to the Republican Guards, who were guarding the president and the other national politicians.

We had gleaned from the details of the proof established, and the hunt to capture the two evasive men had been pursued with a pressing necessity. We had numerous large printed pictures of the presumable suspects placed all around Paris and in the different parts of France.

It did not take long before Bakalov was arrested the following day in the city of Toulouse. We had headed to Toulouse, sensing that it was better to speak to Bakalov outside of Paris. This was determined before we had departed Paris, and once we arrived at Toulouse, we spoke to Bakalov in privacy.

At first, he was hesitant to converse at all, but after being confronted with the dire reality of being sent to the guillotine, he had changed his mind drastically and maundered on about the case. I had joined Bonheur in the dim interrogation room where Bakalov was waiting.

The day was rainy, and there was a cold draught of autumn that had entered through the recesses of the walls of the interrogation room as we entered afterwards. Bakalov was extremely nervous as he saw us enter, and Bonheur was eager to intimidate him from the start. It was agreed amongst us that Bonheur would speak to him. We knew that Bakalov spoke French with a natural Bulgarian accent.

Because I spoke and understood French, I had listened closely to the interrogation. Bonheur was rigorous in his questions, and I heard Bakalov make quite a startling confession. At last, the secrecy of the secret society was unveiled, and we had discovered through Bakalov's admission that it was the unusual order of the 'Illuminatenorden' or the 'Order of Illuminati'. The original name for the new order was 'Das Bund der Perfektibilisten' or the 'Covenant of Perfectibility'. Adam Weishaupt was the supreme founder of the Bavarian Illuminati, and their last known reunion or gathering was at the ruined castle that was built by Prince Charles of Hesse-Kassel in the park at Wilhelmsbad, venue for the final convent of the Strict Observance.

It was the exact Wilhelmsbad that the transactions dealt with Germany and a certain Herr Hasenkamp. I was the first to be flummoxed by this incredible revelation of Bakalov. I knew of many cults and secret societies in Europe, but I had not heard much of the Illuminati since the organisation had ceased to operate in the 19th century. Bakalov had related how the operations of the Illuminati were done in a clandestine fashion that was too inconspicuous and gave us the names of local merchants who were devout members of the association.

The names were Gautier, Dumont, Deschamps, Boulanger, Dubois, Charbonnier, Bernier, Lemond, amongst others. There was another list that was more disturbing. According to Bakalov, the targets of the Illuminati were reputable businesspeople of France. I had told Bonheur to order one of his gendarmes to substantiate this confession of Bakalov.

'Mon Dieu, inspector, the list of targets includes the beautiful star of French theatre Alice Regnault, and wealthy businessmen such as Louis Vuitton, Louis Renault, Louis Biériot, the Lumière brothers, Alfred Cartier—the watchmaker', Bonheur said.

'A conspiracy, Bonheur, at its best! The question I pose is this: is it limited to this list of famous individuals?' I suspected.

'I pray that it is—for if not, then the conspirators or anarchists will achieve their mad objective', Bonheur conceded.

'Let us not indulge their caprices and play their duplicitous game'.

'What do you suggest we do next?'

'We must be one step ahead of the criminals always to foil their operations'.

'How?'

'By devising an effective plan to capture all of the current members as soon as possible. We know that they seek the ultimate destruction of the French government, and most likely other governments too', I articulated.

'Oui, how?'

'That is simple. We shall offer the criminals genuine bait'.

'Bait? Please explain'.

'We entice the murderers to commit another crime. Not any ordinary crime. We shall make them believe the president will be having a secret reunion with the German Kaiser. Of course, we know that is not true, but the criminals will not know'.

I had proceeded to expound my proposed plan to Bonheur, down to each detail and calculation. We had no option but to effectuate this plan with perfection. Failure would have brought a catastrophic result that would have afterwards been extremely consequential. I was counting on an overt miscue on the part of the criminals to eventually solve this perplexing case.

The only foreseeable problem was if the sequence of events that were to transpire would occur in the manner that I had predicted. We had dossiers compiled on each and every subject, be it criminal or possible victim, included in the lists. A postulate could serve as a key association, and it could be proof of causation when it was intrinsic to the definition of the murders and murderers.

The two houses of the French Parliament were located on the Left Bank and were on alert. The upper house, the Senate, was located in the Palais du Luxembourg within the 6th arrondissement, whilst the more vital lower house, the Assemblée Nationale, was located in the Palais Bourbon, within the 7th arrondissement. The President of the Senate, the second-highest public official in France, had lived in the 'Petit Luxembourg', a smaller palace that was an extension to the Palais du Luxembourg. All was in place then for the plan to take effect and for it to succeed.

Bakalov had been moved to another secret place outside of Paris and guarded as we left for the selected area where the president and the Kaiser of Germany were to meet in isolation. We had the duplicates of both arrive and then enter the château at Montmartre, which was on top of a large hill in the 18th arrondissement of Paris.

We had waited with the Republican Guards outside from afar, as we were joined by the gendarmes. All of us were dressed incognito, so that we would not be easily identified by the culprits. We had conscientious sharpshooters on the white-domed Basilica of the Sacré-Cœur on its summit, in case they were needed.

At around two o'clock in the midday, a shot was heard ringing from inside the château. Then several rounds of bullets were heard echoing outside. When we had reached the area, the duplicate of the French President was lying on the ground dead, bleeding from a gunshot wound to the chest by the culprit, who had disguised himself as one of the servants who were there tending to the needs of the duplicates.

It was regretful that the duplicate had to die in order for the plan to be a success, but it was something we were all cognisant of as an actual possibility. The obvious goal was to capture whoever had dared to assassinate the Kaiser or the French President. The culprit was later identified as a French national by the name of Monsieur Bertrand Bourdillon, who was an anarchist.

As we were there, we received notice from the gendarmes who remained at the Police Prefecture that the African had been seen, as he sped towards the Boulevard Montmartre. The gendarmes and the Republican Guards who were patrolling headed towards the Boulevard de la Madeleine or the Boulevard des Italiens to seize him, but he had eluded their capture.

To make the matter worse, several of the most prominent senators of France were reported missing. There was a note left behind that clearly stated that they had all been abducted by an anonymous organisation, who did not wish to reveal its identity. We left Montmartre immediately and returned to the Police Prefecture, where we spoke to one of the captains of the gendarmes, who reported that the city was under a stricter curfew. Bonheur was exceedingly nervous, and I was a bit rattled as well by this new revelation.

We had to think about where these imperative men could have been taken with cognition. I knew that they could not be far, since the whole city and its peripheries were completely patrolled by the gendarmes and the Republican Guards.

Bonheur was terribly clueless as to where they could be, but I happened to realise one particular place where they could be sequestered. I came to this rational conclusion based on the most hidden place in Paris, one that was synonymous with death and mystery.

'Bonheur, I know the place where they could be!' I exclaimed.

'Where, inspector?' Bonheur enquired.

'At the Catacombs of the ancient embastilled Paris!' I ejaculated.

'Are you certain of that?'

'Indeed! We must hurry now, before it is well-nigh too late!'

Once there at the drear and primeval catacombs of obscuration, we entered them with extreme caution and watchful eyes. The catacombs were underground ossuaries, which held the remains of many individuals, within a small part of a tunnel network built to consolidate ancient stone mines. It extended south from the Barrière d'Enfer, the former city gate, where the ossuary was constructed as part of the effort to eliminate the city's overflowing cemeteries.

It was said that in 1786, nightly processions of covered waggons transported many remains from most of the local cemeteries to a mine shaft opened nearby the Rue de la Tombe-Issoire. The ossuary we would enter comprised in its totality only a small section of the underground 'Carrières de Paris'. The catacombs were the perfect place for a hiding spot. I had never entered a catacomb and was uncertain of what to expect.

We went further into the tunnels until we were met by the African man we were searching for. He was dressed as a dapper gent and was fairly tall and athletic in constitution. He had a very powerful and fearless gaze in his eyes that could intimidate any person who tried to defy him. He was holding a pistol in his right hand, and he soon addressed us, with a contumelious smirk. I sensed that he was only a pawn used by an even bigger power.

'It is good to meet you at last, gentlemen. I thought we would never meet. My name is Gustav Mengue, but I am sure that you know that by now', the African said.

'Yes, we know who you are, monsieur! Now, give up—tell us where the senators are!' Bonheur ordered.

'Doubtful, because this place is not suspected. Do you liken me to a gullible man?'

'What do you want from us, Monsieur Mengue? Rest assured that you will not get away with this. It is not too late to save yourself', I urged him.

'Perhaps that is true, Inspector Cauvain, but surely you must know by now that I am very callous in my artful persona. My actions are not as bad as the disdainful actions of the politicians'.

'You will not leave these catacombs, monsieur. You must decide whether you will leave alive or dead!' Bonheur interjected.

'That is an interesting analogy, prefect, but my choice is rather easy. I choose to live, not die under a bullet, nor under the guillotine', the African stated.

'True, monsieur, and it is a terrible way to die. Notwithstanding, by killing us and killing the politicians, you will not solve the problem with corrupted governments', I told him.

'What do you know of corrupted governments, inspector?' He smiled.

'Enough to know that the inspiring cause you champion is futile and will not satisfy your appetite. You see, monsieur, it is like those who hope that the world will change to satisfy their destined beliefs by force, when it is nothing more than a fanciful fatuity of an erroneous miscalculation. I beg that you forsake your illicit cause and the idealistic message'.

'You possess a very brilliant mind, but it is too late for you and the prefect. There is no pretence that could counterfeit such irony. I don't seek fame, instead recognition for our cause', he admitted with a feigned expression.

He then led us to the main ossuary, where before us were endless skulls of deceased men and women. He confessed his crimes and declared he was not going to allow us to leave alive as a result of his capture. As Mengue was about to pull the trigger, the top part of one of the lower ceilings of the statuminated tunnel collapsed completely upon him, knocking him to the ground and killing him.

This time there was no immediate escape for him. We were fortunate to escape the collapse and reached the area where the politicians were sequestered. They were all alive and freed, and afterwards, we were able to arrest all the other members who had participated in the murders and the scheme in France and in Germany.

The gendarmes were meticulous, but nothing could prepare them for the peculiar situation that lay before them. After the collapse in the catacombs, I had returned to the Police Prefecture, utterly disturbed, with Bonheur by my side. We had not yet realised the full extent of the ramifications of Mengue’s involvement. His enigmatic words lingered in my mind—his dispassionate outlook on the state of the world and his cool defiance in the face of certain death.

Bonheur and I were ushered into a room deep in the bowels of the Prefecture, where the interrogation would begin. Before us, seated calmly at the table, was a Frenchman who, despite his stoic appearance, seemed utterly lost in his own thoughts. He was one of Mengue's associates, captured during a police raid earlier that afternoon. His name, we had learned from his papers, was Jacques Lefèvre. The man’s sharp features and calculating eyes hinted at a dangerous mind, one that had been well-schooled in the art of subterfuge.

As Bonheur stepped forward, the sharp clink of his boots echoed off the stone walls. His posture was firm, but there was an unsettling flicker in his eyes. He knew that this would be no ordinary interrogation.

‘Jacques Lefèvre’, Bonheur began, his voice firm but polite, ‘you have been detained in connection with the murder of the French President's duplicate and the abduction of several prominent senators. We know you were a part of the plot, and we intend to understand the extent of your involvement’.

Lefèvre remained silent, his fingers drumming softly against the tabletop, as if he were testing the rhythm of the room. His calmness was unsettling, and for a moment, I found myself wondering what made him so confident. Perhaps it was the certainty that he would never reveal his true motives.

‘Do you know why you’re here?’ Bonheur pressed.

‘I do’, Lefèvre replied coolly. ‘But I doubt you’ll get the answers you seek. People like you never do, do they?’ His lips curled into a faint, knowing smile.

‘You are mistaken, Monsieur Lefèvre’, I said, my voice growing sharper. ‘You may think you control the situation, but there are forces at play here that you cannot even begin to comprehend. You chose your side, and now the consequences are inevitable’,

He chuckled softly, a dry sound that echoed through the room. ‘Is that so, Inspector Cauvain? I’d love to hear about these forces you speak of. But first, I believe I’m entitled to know—what is it you really think you’ll uncover in all this? The Illuminati, yes? A grand conspiracy? It’s all very predictable, isn’t it?’

Bonheur’s hand clenched into a fist, but I raised a hand to stop him. Lefèvre was goading us, trying to get a rise out of us to mask his own fear.

‘You underestimate us, Monsieur Lefèvre’, I said. ‘This isn’t just about your little organisation. We’ve uncovered something far more dangerous—an ideology rooted in bloodshed, deception, and manipulation. You’ve merely been a pawn in a much larger game’.

Lefèvre’s expression faltered for the briefest of moments, a crack in his seemingly impenetrable façade. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, a sign that my words had struck home.

‘And what if I told you that everything you think you know is wrong?’ Lefèvre asked, lowering his voice. ‘That this isn’t about bloodshed or manipulation. It’s about something much older, much more fundamental. A cause that’s existed for centuries, waiting to rise again’.

I leaned forward, intrigued despite myself. ‘What do you mean?’

Lefèvre’s eyes glinted with a cold, unsettling gleam. ‘You’ll never understand until it’s too late. But there’s no turning back now, inspector. The wheels are already in motion’.

Before we could press him further, the door to the interrogation room swung open. A gendarme stepped in, his face pale and distraught. He whispered urgently to Bonheur, who stiffened at the news.

‘What is it?’ Bonheur demanded, his voice tight with alarm.

‘The African man—Mengue—he’s dead. We found his body crushed beneath a section of the catacomb ceiling’, the gendarme reported.

Bonheur’s face darkened, but there was no visible relief in his eyes. The grim truth of our situation was becoming increasingly clear. The plot was far from over, and Mengue’s death only served to deepen the mystery.

I turned to Lefèvre, my gaze sharp. ‘You won’t escape the truth, Lefèvre. Whether you tell us now or later, we’ll find out everything. Your time is running out’.

Lefèvre said nothing, his gaze lowering to the table as he contemplated the weight of his own words. I knew then that we were on the brink of uncovering a secret far more dangerous than we had ever imagined. The true nature of the Illuminati’s plan was about to be revealed, and with it, the fates of nations would hang in the balance.

Bonheur accompanied me to Germany, where we discovered, at the ruined castle in Wilhelmsbad, the powerful men of the Illuminati who had ordered the African and others to murder. They were ten prominent men in total, who were arrested by German authorities as they sat around a solid black oak table, including the illustrious Herr Gerhardt Hasenkamp.

His true identity was revealed afterwards. They did not expect our arrival and were defiant until the end. Thus, abated the recondite case of 'The Stain of the Crimson Blood'. Their misfortune was recounted in the facts of the case and the mystery of the ancient order. They were seen as a galère by society, but their cause did serve as the precrastination that had delayed our effort to solve this case.

Their objective was a diarchy, and the criminal usage of chronograms to cryptically express support for their cause was a coherent factor in spreading their message and seeking recruitment for their mission. The secretive group had once been vilified by conservative and religious critics in the past, who claimed that they existed clandestinely and were responsible for the inception of the French Revolution. Strangely, the Illuminati were accused of conspiring to control world affairs by plotting events in order to gain political power and great influence to achieve their ultimate goal of establishing a New World Order.

The dull thrum of the city outside was barely audible through the thick stone walls of Bonheur’s office at the Prefecture of Paris. The room, filled with the scent of old wood and ink, was a familiar sanctuary for the seasoned inspector, yet today, it felt uncomfortably tight. Papers were scattered across the large wooden desk, a mix of half-finished reports, cases that needed attention, and maps outlining the maze of Parisian streets, but none of them offered any answers.

Bonheur stood by the large window, his back to the office, his eyes fixed on the movement below. A light drizzle had begun, and the streets of Paris glistened under the fading afternoon light, the kind of scene that might normally offer a sense of calm. But the unease that had settled in his chest refused to dissipate.

Cauvain, seated across from the desk, was leafing through a set of documents, the frown on his face deepening with each page. The two men had spent hours that afternoon reviewing their progress, or lack thereof, in their investigation into the mysterious society. With every answer they uncovered, it seemed they stumbled upon even more questions. Their progress felt like a series of dead ends, with nothing but shadows and half-formed leads to follow.

‘I don’t like it', Bonheur muttered under his breath, his voice thick with frustration. ‘There is something peculiar that I can't yet solve. It is something that is still slipping through our fingers’.

Cauvain didn’t answer at once. He folded the last of the papers, his mind clearly elsewhere. ‘They’re watching us, Bonheur. Every move we make. But we’ve got to keep moving. If we don’t, they’ll win’.

A soft knock at the door cut through the tension, and Bonheur turned, his posture stiffening. The Prefecture was always busy, but this was not the usual interruption. A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing one of the junior officers, a nervous-looking young man with a sealed envelope in hand.

‘Excuse me, prefect’, the officer said, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘This came for you—anonymous’.

Bonheur exchanged a quick glance with Cauvain. ‘Thank you,’ he replied, taking the envelope and carefully breaking the seal. It was plain, with no markings or identification—just a stark, empty warning. He unfolded the letter slowly, his eyes scanning the words as he read them aloud.

Prefect:

You have made a mistake. The society you so desperately sought to dismantle is not gone. It is merely biding its time, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. They will not rest until every last one of you is brought to justice—every last one of you who dared to oppose them.

Know this: they are not yet finished, and they are coming for you. Your investigation is a fool's errand, a vain attempt to stop what is already in motion.

The clock is ticking. Soon, you will all pay for your actions.

The weight of the words seemed to settle into the room like a heavy fog. Bonheur’s face paled as he read the last line, the chill of the letter sinking into his bones. He refolded the paper slowly, his hands shaking just slightly before he set it down on the desk with a deliberate motion.

Cauvain leaned forward, eyes narrowing. ‘They’re not gone. Not by a long shot’. He ran a hand through his hair, his voice strained. ‘They’ve been waiting for us to make a move. And now they know we’re closing in. This is a warning’.

Bonheur’s jaw clenched. He crossed the room in two strides, the sound of his boots echoing in the silent office. ‘They’ve been pulling the strings all this time, haven’t they? Everything we’ve uncovered—every trail, every lead—it was all meant to guide us here, to make us chase shadows until we stumbled into their trap’.

‘Exactly', Cauvain said grimly. ‘We’ve underestimated them. We thought we were in control, but they’ve had the upper hand all along. They’ve been watching us, waiting for us to show our cards’.

Bonheur turned sharply, his fists clenched. ‘This can’t go on. We need to hit them first, get ahead of them before they have a chance to make their move’.

Cauvain shook his head, his expression hardening. ‘No. We can’t play into their hands. If we act recklessly now, they’ll be ready for us. We need to stay one step ahead, but we need to be smart about it. They’re expecting us to come after them, and if we walk right into their trap, they’ll destroy us’.

Bonheur paced the length of the room, his thoughts racing. He could feel the weight of the letter pressing down on him, a constant reminder of the danger lurking just out of sight. ‘So what do we do now? Sit back and wait? That’s not how I work, inspector'.

Cauvain leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady but filled with the quiet intensity that Bonheur had come to expect from him. ‘No. We don’t wait. We prepare. We’ve already made the mistake of chasing them through the city’s underbelly, thinking we could outwit them. This time, we take a different approach. We need to let them think they’re in control whilst we gather our allies. We’ll get them on our terms’.

Bonheur paused, then nodded slowly. He understood what Cauvain meant. It wasn’t about rushing in blindly, not anymore. It was about strategy, patience. And most importantly, it was about keeping the upper hand, even when the enemy believed they had already won.

Author Notes: S

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