The chief glanced up from Achille’s report; his sharp brown eyes followed the insect’s circuit around the lamp’s smoking chimney. A hand lashed out and grasped the fly. A pathetic buzz emanated from the clenched fist. “Gotcha, you little bastard.” The fist tightened like a vise; the faint whining ceased. The chief leaned to his right, picked a scrap of paper from his wire wastebasket, and wiped the fly’s remains off his palm. Having disposed of the pest, he returned to his perusal of the hanged man’s file. The dial on the wall clock read five-fifteen. The dusty shades were drawn down, covering the grimy windows that faced out onto the quay two stories below. There was little activity at this early hour; the only sound penetrating the tightly shuttered windows was the monotonous chugging of a tugboat towing a barge upriver. The pre-dawn hour was a good time to work, undisturbed by outside distractions and untroubled by the summer heat. Féraud closed the file and laid it down on top of a pile of others.
