Skeleton Dance

by Aaron Elkins

  "Not a problem, exactly, no," said Joly. "But do you suppose you might come a little earlier?"

  "Could be. When did you have in mind?"

  "The sooner the better. I was thinking of next week."

  "Next week?"

  "Next week?" echoed Julie. "Absolutely not! Gideon, I'm warning you, you're in very dangerous territory here."

  "Yes," said Joly, "I was hoping you could make France your first stop instead of your last."

  "I don't think so, Lucien," Gideon said. "We've been working on our itinerary for weeks—"

  "We've been working?" said Julie to the ceiling. "I really love that."

  "—making reservations, arranging flights, and so forth. We already have room reservations in Les Eyzies next month, at the Hotel Cro-Magnon. That's where I stayed the last time I was there and I really like it. I wouldn't want to lose—"

  "I'm sure I would have no trouble changing your reservation for you. The thing is, you see, these rather intriguing bones have just turned up here—"

  "But we don't even arrive in France until—" He stopped. "Um… bones, did you say?"

  "Yes, it's a curious case. They've been found in what seems to be a Paleolithic cave, oddly enough—by a dog, as it happens—and although I have no doubt that it's a homicide, I can't prove it. I was hoping that if you came earlier you might look them over while they're still there and see what you can turn up. It would be a great service to me, but, of course, if it's impossible…"

  "Well, no, I wouldn't say it's impossible.…"

  Up into the air in a fountain of glossy, colored paper went the brochures. "I knew it," Julie muttered. "The minute I heard that 'um… bones?' I knew it. Les Eyzies, here we come. Honestly—"

  "Lucien, it seems to be a little noisy at this end. Could you speak up a bit?"

  Chapter 4

  Paris may well be the most beautiful city in the world, but its outskirts are nothing to brag about. Leaving the Gare d'Austerlitz by train and rolling south toward the Dordogne one travels first through what seem like tens of miles of railroad yards, empty of people but dotted with grimy, isolated freight cars and passenger coaches that stand like tombstones on spurs that lead nowhere. Then come block on block of drab apartment houses, followed by grubby, gray suburbs that are succeeded in turn by grubby gray villages (relieved by an occasional glorious church), all set in flat, featureless countryside.

  "Every time I take a train out of Paris," Gideon mused, "I wonder if the landscape is really this ugly, or does it just look that way after you've had your eyes dazzled by Paris itself?"

  "It has to be the former," Julie said. "We didn't see enough of Paris to get dazzled."

  "That's a good point," Gideon said, nodding.

  "And what we did see wasn't that dazzling."

  "Very true."

  They had begun the fourteen-hour, eight time-zone flight from Seattle early the day before, arriving jet-lagged and seedy at 6:15 this morning, showered and changed at the airport, taken the Air France bus to the city, had a disappointingly so-so breakfast in a glassed-in streetside brasserie, managed to get in a morning walk around the Tuileries and then caught a taxi to the train station, where a two-day old garbage men's strike had left the place looking as if it had been hit by a tornado. All in all, not a wildly successful Paris visit, and their moods reflected it.

  After an hour or so on the rails, however, during much of which Julie slept, the land developed some character, the fields becoming more contoured, the villages a little prettier and more individual; about on a par, say, with what you'd see driving through southern New Jersey. But then, as the train moved deeper into the rural heart of France, eventually crossing into the département of the Dordogne—or the Périgord, as most Frenchmen still referred to it—there were increasingly frequent glimpses of deep-green forests of chestnut and oak, smooth-flowing rivers, and wonderful outcroppings of limestone, brilliant against the darkness of the green.

  Gideon too tried sleeping, but, although he was relaxed and comfortable enough, it came only in drifting patches, and most of the time he simply looked dumbly and contentedly at the scenes sliding by the window, or equally dumbly and contentedly at Julie, sound asleep in the chair opposite in their otherwise empty compartment, a single misplaced tendril of her glossy, curly, black hair quivering back and forth on her cheek with every quiet breath.

  "You're not watching me sleep, are you?" she asked with her eyes closed.

  "Yeah, you caught me. I can't help it. You're sure pretty. I keep meaning to tell you that."

  She smiled, brushed away the tendril, opened her eyes, and straightened up, looking surprisingly rested. "Oh—it's beautiful out there."

  "We're in the Dordogne. You've been asleep for a couple of hours."

  "Those hollows in the cliffs—those are the famous abris?"

  "Uh-huh. You're looking at what was the most crowded place in Europe thirty-five thousand years ago, a real population center. The Cro-Magnons had just arrived, and the Neanderthals hadn't quite died out yet, or evolved, or whatever happened to them. Every one of those hollows—the ones you could reach, anyway—probably had a few tenants at one time or another. The Old Man of Tayac came from one just like that long, low one at the foot of that double-cleft."

  Julie, still a little sleepy, watched it go by. "You know, you've only talked about the Tayac hoax in snippets now and then. I wouldn't mind having a better idea of what it was all about."

  "Sure, what do you want to know?"

  "Well, I know you know the people who were involved, the people from that institute—"

  "The Institute of Prehistory… L'Institut de Préhistoire."

  "—but you weren't actually here at the time it happened, were you?"

  "No, a little before, unfortunately. I missed it by a couple of months. And the reason I knew them was that I was putting in a few weeks weeks on that middle-Neanderthal dig up the road near Le Moustier. It didn't have anything to do with the institute, but I was staying right there in Les Eyzies—at the Hotel Cro-Magnon, in fact—and of course anthropologists like to talk to other anthropologists—

  Julie smiled. "To argue, you mean."

  "That too," Gideon said equably. "Anyway, I made a courtesy call when I arrived and eventually I got to know them fairly well. But I was long gone by the time the ruckus over the Old Man started, and pretty much out of touch. I followed it in the journals, like everyone else."

  "And what was that about, exactly—the ruckus?"

  "Julie, are you sure I never told you about it?"

  "Well, you might have. It's possible my mind wandered—kind of like yours does sometimes when I tell you about the National Park five-year plan. But now I'm here; it seems more relevant."

  "Fair enough," he said, laughing. "Okay, it all goes back almost ten years, to when the institute first dug this Neanderthal site—the Tayac site. They found two burials, a mature adult male and a child of about three, along with a few stone tools, and that was it. The dig was wrapped up six or seven years ago and closed down. The burials and most of the stone tools and things are in the Museum of Man in Paris."

  "And the mature adult, that was the Old Man of Tayac?"

  "In person."

  "And what was so special about him?"

  "About him, per se? Nothing; just one more Neanderthal old geezer—arthritic, toothless, bent over with age—probably all of thirty-five years old. An authentic, fairly typical burial. It was what was dug up later on that made him special."

  "Later on? But you said the dig was closed."

  "Yes, but you see, the director of the institute, Ely Carpenter, was convinced—obsessed is more like it—that there was more to be found in the abri, and even though there wasn't any more funding to keep the dig going, he kept at it on his own, poking around the cave in his spare time, and damned if he didn't eventually hit the jackpot." He looked up. "Here comes the coffee-cart. Interested?"

  "Desperately."

  As usual on European
trains the coffee came in a flimsy plastic double-cup with a packet of grounds in the upper part, over which the vendor poured hot water; a gimcrack affair, to put it mildly. But also as usual, it was delicious: deeply aromatic, hearty, and soul-satisfying, especially to a couple of coffee-lovers whose biological clocks were under the unhappy impression that it was four o'clock in the morning. For a minute they paused in the narrative and sipped, letting the rich stuff flow like heated wine through their systems.

  "Where was I?" Gideon asked after he'd downed half of it.

  "Umm… 'hit the jackpot.'"

  "Right. On second thought, make that 'won the booby prize.' What Ely came up with, you see, was this small cache of grave goods that were part of the old man's burial but had apparently been overlooked during the official excavation."

  "Overlooked?" said Julie, surprised. "Sounds a little careless."

  "Well, some of the ceiling had collapsed at least once during the last 35,000 years or so, you see, and it'd confused the strata quite a bit, so I guess it was excusable. Anyway, it was what Ely found in the cache that was so important."

  "Which was?"

  "Four small, brownish bones about an inch long; metapodials—foot bones, tarsal bones—from a prehistoric cave lynx. And what made them unique… " Gideon, no mean storyteller, paused for a couple of beats for the desired dramatic effect. "… was that three of them had oval holes cleanly drilled through one end. The fourth was perforated partway through."

  Julie frowned at him over the rim of her cup. "So?"

  "So they constituted, or seemed to constitute at the time, the very first concrete evidence that Neanderthals were advanced enough to produce any kind of art. You see, those bones were surely part of a necklace or bracelet that would have been strung together and worn. Plenty of things like that have shown up at Cro-Magnon sites, sure, but this was the first time they'd found any in a Neanderthal setting—in fact, they were the first Neanderthal decorative objects of any kind, or at least the first ones that weren't ambiguous."

  Julie thought for a moment. "I can see why that would be important, but how could anyone say for sure that the Neanderthals made them? You said the Cro-Magnons were here at the same time. So who's to say that they didn't make them? How do you know that this Old Man didn't steal them, or find them, or trade for them, or—"

  "Ah, that's the part that was so slick, Julie. It was that fourth bone, the one that was only partway drilled through. The fact that one of them was unfinished was proof—well, as close as you can come to proof in this kind of thing—that it was in the act of being made right there, on the spot. The natural assumption was that the Old Man of Tayac was a craftsman, and that he was buried with the products of his labor—maybe accidentally, maybe not."

  "Ah, I see," she said, sitting back and gazing out the countryside again. "Yes, that was clever." She finished her coffee and put the cup on the tiny folding table below the window. "How did they find out it was a hoax?"

  "It was an anonymous letter. It showed up at a Paris newspaper—Paris-Match, I think it was—about a month later, claiming that those four bones had been taken from some dusty little paleontology museum not far from Les Eyzies, perforated, and then planted in the abri, waiting to be found." He hunched his shoulders. "They did an investigation, the claim turned out to be accurate, and that was that. The whole thing was discredited as a fraud."

  "Wow, I can see how that would have made a few waves."

  "More than a few. Anyhow, the question of whether Ely actually perpetrated the whole thing or just innocently fell for it has never been settled, and I'm hoping I can come up with some answers, or at least some credible possibilities. So the very first thing I want to do is sit down and see what the institute people have to say about it now, almost three years later. "

  "After you look at Inspector Joly's bones for him, you mean."

  "Oh, that," said Gideon carelessly. "How much work can that take?"

  Chapter 5

  If all his forensic cases were like this, he would have been a happy man.

  Dry. No gore, no brains, no guts, nothing greasy, nothing putrid, nothing nasty. Just clean, dry bones. The only smell, aside from the not-unpleasant fustiness of the bones themselves—not so very different from that of old books or decaying leather—was the damp, woodsy fragrance of the mosses and lichens that had managed to gain a foothold in the dim, rocky crevices at the base of the walls. It was almost like working at an early-man site.

  Well, why wouldn't it be, it was an early-man site, an abri; maybe Cro-Magnon as Joly thought, but probably Neanderthal. The sloping roof of the cave, a few inches higher than Gideon was tall, was black with the soot of hundreds of fires, and embedded here and there in the earthen floor he could see small shards of chert and flint, dozens of them—not the scrapers, or choppers, or hand axes that you saw in museums, but the waste material, the discarded flakes that had been chipped away to form the stone tools. Long ago, some ancient, fur-wrapped flintknapper, possibly more than one, had squatted there by the fire, patiently hunched over his work, slowly shaping household implements or crude weapons from the smooth, dark stones of the nearby valley.

  Much later, millennia later, others had come. A pair of archaeological test trenches, only faintly perceptible now, had been sunk at right angles to one another. It had been some time ago, perhaps thirty years, perhaps fifty. Whoever had dug them had apparently found nothing to encourage a full-scale excavation; the trenches had been filled in again and the excavators had gone elsewhere.

  Later still, another visitor had found his way there, but this one had never left, or at least some of him hadn't, and Gideon had spent part of the morning and most of the afternoon working over what remained, using trowel, toothbrush, paintbrush, tongue depressors, and fingers in roughly that order. Gradually, he had freed the reddish-tinged bones from the dirt floor of the cave, where the body had been buried in the backfill at the intersection of the trenches. In the relatively soft, loose soil, and with most of what was left of the skeleton already disturbed by rodents or carnivores, it was an easy job and a quick one—or it would have been, had not Joly insisted on having his people draw charts, take photographs, bag insect remains, put the dug-up dirt through a sieve, and generally get in the way after each couple of millimeters of earth had been scraped away. Well, it was nobody's fault but Gideon's; it was at his forensic seminar in St. Malo that Joly had learned the proper techniques of retrieving skeletal material, and Joly, as Gideon well knew, was nothing if not a stickler.

  Moreover, with the inspector watching his every move, he'd been forced to do everything by the book himself. At first he'd tried to justify a little judicious corner-cutting, but his argument ("You have to do it the way I taught you because the rules are there for a reason, but I can do it this way because I'm an expert and I know when it's all right to break them.") had met with the contempt it deserved.

  And so what should have been an hour's work had ended up taking almost four, but now the grubwork was done. All of the bones that had remained in place were exposed. Inasmuch as the body had been buried on its left side, the right side, being uppermost, had suffered the greatest depredation. Much of the left half was still intact. In total, Gideon estimated that a little more than half the bones, the skull among them, had been carried off or consumed, but the official count could wait until later, when the remains were in the morgue, where the light would be better and he wouldn't have to work kneeling on a kneepad (provided by a considerate Joly) and balancing a clipboard on his thigh. For the moment he was after information of the most basic sort, much of which had already come to light and which he was now presenting to the inspector.

  First things first: the remains appeared to be those of a single individual—they matched in general size and appearance and there were no duplicates—but even that conclusion would have to be checked in the lab. Until you placed each bone against its apposite member to see if they fitted together, you couldn't be sure; joints were as individu
al as fingerprints. Second, it was a male; half-a-dozen hard-to-miss indicators on the pelvis told him that. Race was trickier, not only because race was always trickier than sex (in sex, you only had two choices—flipping a coin would give you the right answer half the time—but when it came to races anthropologists were still arguing about how many there were, or even if the concept of race had any usable meaning), but because most of the better racial criteria were in the skull, and there wasn't any skull. For the moment he was guessing Caucasian, but later he would do a set of metric analyses and run discriminant function coefficients on the long bones to see if he could come up with something definitive.

  As to age, the one pubic symphysis that was relatively ungnawed was rimmed and moderately hollowed, putting it at an advanced phase five on the Suchey-Brooks scale, which suggested a man somewhere around fifty, give or take a decade. The only sign of pathology that had jumped out so far was an interesting area of thickening and callus formation on the top half of the left ulna, just below the elbow; an indicator of inflammation that might have been the result of skin ulceration, or part of a disease syndrome such as syphilis, or perhaps the effect of an injury, although he was fairly sure there hadn't been a fracture. Unfortunately, the right forearm wasn't present, so it was impossible to say if the hypertrophy was bilateral or—

  "Yes, yes," Joly said tartly. He'd been either perched uncomfortably on a rounded boulder near the cave entrance, one well-creased trouser leg crossed over the other and lighting up an occasional Gitane, or else leaning over Gideon's shoulder, for the whole time, and his patience, never one of his strong points, was beginning to fray. "And how long would you say he's been here?"

  Gideon leaned back on his haunches. "Hard to say with any precision, Lucien. All there is in the way of soft tissue, aside from some dried goop, are a few shreds of ligament and some cartilage from the joint capsules, so at least we know he's been here a while." He reached around behind him for one of the scattered bones, the right tibia, held one end of it to his nostrils, and inhaled, first gently, then deeply. Joly made a face.