Tag Archives: true crime

Death in the City of Light: The Serial Killer of Occupied Paris by David King

The soldier remembered one conversation about the morality of theft, Petiot arguing that it was perfectly natural:

 “How do you think that the great fortunes and colonies have been made? By theft, war, and conquest.”

“Then morality does not exist?”

“No,” Petiot answered, “it is the law of the jungle, always. Morality has been created for those who possess so that you do not retake the things gained from their own rapines.”

A few years ago, I came across the French film Doctor Petiot. I’d never heard of this man before, but after watching the film, I knew I’d never forget him. I also vowed that one day I’d read a non-fiction account of Petiot and his crimes. Well ‘one day’ arrived recently with the publication of David King’s well-researched book, Death in the City of Light.

Death in the City of Light begins on March 11, 1944 with a fire at a house located at 21 Rue Le Soeur. To the numerous bystanders it appeared as though the house’s chimney was on fire. The fire department arrived on the scene, broke in and discovered a slaughter house with dismembered body parts strewn about the floor. But this was nothing compared to the contents of the basement: personal items which clearly belonged to dozens of people, jars filled with human genitals, a lime pit which contained even more body parts, and an ad-hoc surgery area for dismemberment, scalping, and the removal of internal organs. Obviously French police had a serial killer on their hands. Or did they?

Although it seems fairly clear-cut that the human remains found at the house at La Rue de Soeur were the result of a maniac, things immediately became murky. The house belonged to French physician, Marcel Petiot, a collector of fine art, a very wealthy man who also had a reputation for helping the poor and drug addicts. Commissaire Georges-Victor Massu of the Homicide Squad was in charge of the case (for Simenon fans, Massu served as inspiration for Inspector Maigret), and initially he suspected that the police had stumbled on a house used by the Gestapo. The La Soeur house was just around the corner from a Gestapo building and this combined with the flagrant brutality and sheer number of the victims made Gestapo involvement likely:

A swastika had flown over the building across from Petiot’s property. The garage at No. 22 had been appropriated by Albert Speer’s Organization Todt, a vast supply company that supervised German construction projects in Occupied Europe.

If the murders at Petiot’s house had indeed been committed by the Gestapo, this created a very delicate situation for Massu since “the French police, of course, had no authority over the Gestapo or any of its activities.” I’ve often thought that wartime creates a fertile opportunity to mask other crimes, and the possibilities expands exponentially with the idea of an occupation. The author takes the time to clarify both Massu’s uncertainty and the chaos of the times–people were disappearing daily. Some were swallowed up by prison, others were tortured and tossed out dead somewhere, and still others were shipped off to concentration camps. Massu’s initial feeling that Petiot’s building was a Gestapo torture house did not pan out, however, for a couple of reasons. Massu was not warned off of the investigation by the Gestapo, and there were no Gestapo personnel on site when the grisly discovery was made. Moreover, shortly after the fire began, a mystery man appeared on a bicycle. Grabbing the attention of the patrolmen, the mystery man said that the corpses inside the house “are the bodies of Germans and traitors to our country.” 

As Massu tries to capture Petiot and identify some of the remains in the La Soeur house, the question of whether or not Petiot was indeed an agent of the Gestapo or a member of the Resistance emerges repeatedly. Author David King takes both possible scenarios and deconstructs the myths which surround both stories. Tracing Petiot’s chequered career, a portrait of Petiot begins to emerge–a troubled childhood, “signs of imbalance,” various stays in mental asylums, a political career fraught with scandal, kleptomania and corruption, and also various charges that he supplied a legion of drug addicts with a steady supply. And then there are the many instances of people disappearing when they stood in Petiot’s way….

Author David King follows Massu’s investigation as he tries to discover just who Petiot really was, and the investigation, naturally, in the absence of the culprit, expands into the identity of the victims. Evidence mounts that Petiot claimed to run an underground railroad for wealthy Jews who were attempting to escape the Nazis, but the bones in the basement argue that these travellers arrived at Petiot’s home but did not leave. The case was further complicated by the fact that Petiot had been arrested and held by the Gestapo for a considerable number of months, and also by the fact that the Gestapo had tried to infiltrate the underground escape route by sending a young Jewish man, whose freedom had been bought by his family through bribes, into Petiot’s operation. Naturally he disappeared. King also throughly investigates Petiot’s possible ties to the Gestapo and also his relationship with the Carlingue. It’s quite a task to unravel all the possibilities here, but King does his job masterfully–tying in Petiot with the darkest segments of the Paris underworld.

While I throughly enjoyed the visually stunning film Dr. Petiot, the complexities of this case were largely absent, and the film portrayed Petiot as a maniac, who treated his patients for free, while luring wealthy Jews to their doom. Death in the City of Light makes it clear that Petiot, a dangerous chameleon, did not have a philanthropic bone in his sick little body, and that so-called free treatment was just a way of embezzling the state. Furthermore, the book explores the intricacies of Petiot’s relationship with Henri Lafont and the Carlingue, and this link certainly explains just why Petiot operated so freely for so long.  A large portion of the book concentrates on Petiot’s trial, and at this point, Petiot, who’d managed to hide some of his egomaniacal tendencies, went wild in the spotlight–even making anti-semitic slips at some points. The trial turned into a media and social event with many spectators enjoying Petiot’s performance, and the testimony was spiced up considerably by the appearance of Rudolphina Kahan who “looked like a spy on the Orient Express.” Petiot seemed to nurse a crush on this woman who served as one of his many scouts. Petiot’s show-off performance was reminiscent of the trial of Lacenaire, and there are indeed some similarities between the two men–although Petiot’s murderous rampage far exceeded Lacenaire’s.

The film portayed Petiot as a ghoulish figure who rode his bicycle through the streets of Paris at night, and physically the dark rings under Petiot’s eyes reminded me of Cesare from the film The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. I was delighted to see this same connection made in the book by a journalist who attended the trial. Death in the City of Light includes many photographs, and Petiot really looks like a nut-job.

There are several names in the book: Adrian the Basque, Jo the Boxer, Henri Lafont, Pierre Bony, Francois the Corsican, Zé. I’m still looking for a book (in English) on the subject of the Carlingue, so if anyone knows a source, please let me know.

(my copy courtesy of the publisher via netgalley and read on my kindle)


Filed under King David, Non Fiction

The Man in the Rockefeller Suit: The Astonishing Rise and Spectacular Fall of a Serial Imposter by Mark Seal

Somehow or another I missed all the headlines about the man who posed as a Rockefeller for over a decade, so when I came across a non-fiction book on the subject, I decided to read it. After all, it taps into my crime fetish, and I was curious to see just how a penniless German teenager managed to pretend he was a Rockefeller while he mingled with the upper-crusty set in America.

For those who know nothing about this case, Christian Kark Gerhartsreiter, a 17-year-old German came to America in 1978 on a tourist visa and stayed. How he morphed into Clark Rockefeller, and more importantly how he convinced everyone in his social orbit that he was one of the members of this famous family, is at the heart of this incredible tale.  As author Mark Seal notes, Gerhartsreiter’s story is “more bizarre that any gifted writer of fiction could possibly invent.”

Seal painstakingly tracked down people who knew ‘Rockefeller’ in all of his many manifestations and various personas, and he also actually went to the places that Gerhartsreiter lived. The book begins with the July 2008 parental kidnapping of Rockefeller’s daughter, and then tracks how the FBI got involved, and how the FBI discovered that Clark Rockefeller did not exist. From this point, the author goes back in time covering Gerhartsreiter’s life in Germany, his relocation to America in 1978, and just how his identities began shifting once he arrived. This really is an amazing story, and for anyone remotely interested in this particular story or shapeshifters in general, I can heartily recommend this well-researched, highly-readable book.

One of the points that the author makes repeatedly is that the fake ‘Rockefeller’ (and I’m going to refer to Gerhartsreiter as that) was like a “human sponge.” From the moment he arrived in America and started being obnoxious with his “host” family (he pretended to be a student), he soaked up everything he saw or watched on television. It wasn’t long before this shapeshifter moved onto California which makes perfect sense as he was thrilled with film. In California,  Gerhartsreiter developed what was to become his MO. Given Gerhartsreiter’s intelligence, it can’t be a coincidence that he picked San Marino for his hunting ground. It’s a wealthy community and here from 1981-1985 with the new name “Christopher Chichester” he hung out at the churches of the rich and lied, smarmed, and name-dropped his way into everyone’s homes:

It made sense that Chichester had chosen to live in a city with one of the foremost libraries in America, since libraries were a key part of his existence wherever he went. He spent much of his time in them, studying how to become someone else.

Seal painstakingly tracked Chichester/Gerhartsreiter/Rockefeller’s adventures in America and the various aliases and personas he adopted as “he tried on various names for size,” and there’s a very long list: Dr. Christopher Rider, Chris Crowe, Charles Smith, Chip Smith, Christopher Chichester, Christopher Chichester XIIIth baronet, Christopher Mountbatten Chichester (my personal favourite), and of course, the biggie–Clark Rockefeller. The fake names were accompanied by the most fantastic stories of his background; he was  “passing himself off as a computer expert, film producer and stockbroker,”  related to British Royalty, the son of a silent film star, blah, blah. These are just some of the creative and fictional details added to the tall tales he told. And the crazy thing is that some of his stories didn’t even make sense; at one point for example, he claimed to have inherited a medieval cathedral and that he wanted to relocate it to San Marino. The preposterousness of this plan didn’t even raise any eyebrows!

At one point, Gerhartsreiter/Crowe was bragging about the Ferraris, the Alfa Romeos, and the Lamborghinis he owned, but then he showed up with a ’65 chevy that was “belching more smoke than Mount St Helen’s.” He certainly wasn’t short on audacity. The author emphasizes Rockefeller’s “customary uniform,” the particular outfits he wore: “he dressed exclusively in the uniform  of the Wasp aristocracy,” and the props he used that convinced the people he met that he was a stray yachtsman:

Well-worn khakis, a sky blue Lacoste shirt with the crocodile embroidered over the heart, Top-sider shoes (as always without socks), and a red baseball cap emblazoned with the word Yale. He adjusted his heavy black-framed glasses, which some people thought brought Nelson Rockefeller to mind.

Chichester/Gerhartsreiter moved on from San Marino rather suddenly, and as the book reveals, in 2011, he was charged with an 1985 murder that occurred in a house in which he lived. In 1985, leaving San Marino behind,  Gerhartsreiter headed back east, and then became Christopher Chichester Crowe who’d managed the mythical Battenberg-Crowe-von Wettin Family Foundation. Apparently just hanging out at the Indian Harbor Yacht Club in Greenwich, showing off photos of the fantastic houses he claimed he owned, our man pretended to be a bond trader/ TV producer and landed a $125,000 a year  job (not counting “perks and bonuses.”). Apparently no one checked to see if Christopher Chichester Crowe (also known as CCC) was who he claimed to be or if his credentials were legit. He was eventually fired BTW. And in 1988, CCC disappeared….

But no matter, because CCC now morphed into Clark Rockefeller, and what a succesful deception that turned out to be. As Clark Rockefeller he wooed and in 1993, he  married a talented, ambitious woman who was soon earning millions a year. My favourite part of the book takes place when the author travels to Cornish, New Hampshire where the “Rockefellers” settled. Big mistake–the Cornish natives didn’t exactly take to Rockefeller’s notion of being landed gentry. The people of Cornish seem to operate on the principal that it doesn’t matter how much money you have, or what your last name is, you still can’t go around acting like a dickhead.

In spite of all the tall tales Rockefeller eagerly told, NO ONE checked him out or tried to substantiate the wild fantasies that spewed forth regarding his background. He was invited into people’s lives, their homes, their businesses and was handed high-paying jobs, free meals, you name it.

Ultimately The Man in the Rockefeller Suit tells us a lot about America, and the attitudes and protections afforded to those who claim the so-called great names and/or wealth (Not that it’s much different anywhere else, but there’s this myth that America is supposed to be a classless society). As the author interviews those duped by Rockefeller while he operated under various aliases, he reinforces the idea that “Rockefeller had the kind of peculiarities” that were expected from the very rich, so people accepted Rockefeller’s at-times bizarre behaviour as the sort of normal eccentricity of the filthy rich. Here’s one example: Rockefeller invited people to lunch at expensive restaurants but then they had to pay as he didn’t carry cash!!!

In many ways, the story of this serial imposter reminds me very much of the man who impersonated Stanley Kubrick. There are some glaring similarities in the two cases when it comes the imposter’s ability to wedge himself in and exploit people, and also the fact that in both situations, people really wanted to believe that they were rubbing shoulders with Kubrick and Rockefeller. It’s important to keep in mind that the many, many people fooled by Rockefeller and then interviewed for this book operate in hindsight. A few people noted that his accent wasn’t quite right, but it’s rare that anyone interviewed says something along the lines of ‘I was an idiot,’ or ‘the clues were staring me in the face.’ Instead for the most part, those who knew this faker state that he was very credible, “brilliant” and carried himself like a blue-blooded New Englander.  Author Seal is very generous to those who granted him interviews, and he doesn’t ask some of the hard questions that I found myself asking.

The fake Rockefeller comes across as a terrible snob, and he deliberately mingled with the sort of people who went all gooey about the Rockefeller name. You can almost hear those he fooled falling over themselves, and if I had to carry away just one thing from this incredible story it’s that if you can convince people that you’re a Vanderbilt, a Getty, or a Rockefeller, doors will open wide for you, and you will be able to get away, quite literally, with murder.

Review copy courtesy of netgalley and read on my kindle.


Filed under Non Fiction, Seal Mark

Celebrated Crimes: The Countess de Saint-Geran by Dumas

“Possibly a more obstinate legal contest was never waged, on both sides, but especially by those who lost it.”

The Countess de Saint-Geran is one of Alexandre Dumas Celebrated Crimes series–18 essays in all, of varied length and now out of print but available used, POD, and also, as it happens, on my Kindle. A few months ago I read The Marquise de Brinvilliers and enjoyed it for its good sense of time and place through the details of trials and sicko torture. I suppose I’d expected the same sort of thing in The Countess de Saint-Geran which I selected at random from the Celebrated Crimes (written between 1839-1841). I knew nothing about the Countess de Saint-Geran before I started reading, and now after reading the story, I feel as though I only know slightly more.

Here’s the gist of the story:

The Countess of Saint-Geran and her husband had long given up the idea of ever producing an heir, and so, given the greed that overcomes people when faced with wills, inheritances, heirs and what-have-you, the Count’s sister, the Marchioness de Bouille– more-or-less expects to get the entire bundle when her brother and sister-in-law die, presumably childless. The Marchioness was originally married off to a man old enough to be her grandfather, but:

“The Marchioness de Bouille quarrelled with her old husband, the Marquis, separated from him after a scandalous divorce, and came to live at the château of Saint-Geran, quite at ease as to her brother’s marriage, seeing that in default of heirs all his property would revert to her.”

 So this is a woman with expectations.

“Such is the state of affairs when the Marquis of Saint-Maixent arrived at the château. He was young, handsome, very cunning, and very successful with women.” The Marquis of Saint-Maixent is a wastrel relative of the Count’s. He’s also a fugitive (more of that later), whose “own fortune is much impaired by his extravagance and by the exactions of the law, or rather in plain words, he had lost it all.”  He arrives at the castle and gets cosy with the Marchioness de Bouille, seeing, of course, the possibilities of a rich, single woman who will inherit everything. But the plans go down the toilet when it’s announced that the Countess, after years of marriage, is finally pregnant. At this point Saint-Maixent employs a shady midwife to dispose of the baby at birth.

So that’s the basic information. The Countess de Saint-Geran morphs into the criminal case about the abducted baby, the contested will, and the various claimants to the fortune.

Unfortunately The Countess de Saint-Geran lacks the clarity of the The Marquise de Brinvilliers, and this is due to several problems. In The Marquise de Brinvilliers, Dumas gave us a sense of exactly who this woman was, her appeal, her social dilemmas, and also her uncanny ability to control and manipulate people. This level of characterisation is missing from The Countess de Saint-Geran, and the main characters–wicked people acting  against the innocent, remain two-dimensional. There’s little detail beyond their names and the facts and figures of the case. We are told, for example, that the Marchioness was married off to a 70-year-old, but that the marriage ended in a scandalous divorce. A divorce in the early 17th century must have been a rare event, and that means that the Marchioness must have been a rare woman. There’s no information about who got the divorce or why. Was the Marchioness the plaintive or was her husband? I wanted to know these details as a little more information about the Marchioness would have added considerable interest to the story.  Was the Marchioness a woman who married her elderly husband with expectations that he’s die and leave her free and wealthy? If so what went wrong with that plan? Did he outlive her patience? When the Marchioness moved back to the Saint-Gerans’  chateau and expected to inherit a fortune from her brother and sister-in-law was there resentment against them that she’d be married off to some old git? Was this a woman who spent her life waiting for others to die so she’d inherit wealth and become, in essence, ‘free’?  Dumas tells us only that the Marchioness was:

married to a man who, it was said, gave her great cause for complaint, the greatest being his threescore years and ten.”

Another huge problem with The Countess de Saint Geran is that the story begins in 1639 with the “young nobleman”   the Marquis de Saint-Maixent a “consummate rascal”  arrested for a series of crimes. A large contingent of armed guards along with their innocent looking prisoner stop for the night to rest at an inn. Here the crafty Marquis pays for enough wine to get everyone drunk, manipulates an innkeeper’s daughter to help him escape, and then the Marquis dashes to the Bourbonnais castle of his relative the Count of Saint-Geran t0 seek sanctuary. Of course once there he begins scheming to get his hands on the fortune.

This earlier story of the Marquis of Saint-Maixent is never solved, never explored and yet here’s a man who is:

“accused, and indeed convicted, of coining and magic.”

“convicted of incest.”

“convicted of having strangled his wife to marry another, whose husband he had first stabbed.”

No small list of crimes, and since he was convicted there must have been a trial. No details are given here–instead Dumas gives us the Marquis in action as he escapes and heads for his unsuspecting relatives,  the Count and the Countess de Saint-Geran. The Marquis’ backstory is of considerable interest, and as it turns out is much more interesting that the Saint-Geran story, but it’s never explored even though Dumas structures his story with the initial focus on the wickedness of Saint-Maixant.

There were some additional problems in the story regarding the birth of the baby. How could a woman give birth and then be told she imagined it? Wouldn’t there be some virulent arguments there?

Much of the story bogs down in the details of the various court cases that evolve over the years. While it’s perfectly understandable why such a story would capture the imagination, it’s ultimately unsatisfying.  In spite of the occasional tendency to wander into grandstanding through the dramatic turns in events that rival the most tawdry soap opera, the story lacks life–although it was interesting to note that the lower-classes involved in the plot were assigned to torture while the upper-class instigators were handled quite differently.


Filed under Celebrated Crimes, Dumas Alexandre

Celebrated Crimes: Marquise de Brinvilliers by Alexandre Dumas

“She accused herself of incendiarism.”

Well I discovered what it means to ‘put someone to the question.’ Now I’m ready for a career in Guantanamo or in some other exotic location.

The torture in the book Celebrated Crimes: The Marquise de Brinvilliers takes place in the 17th Century, the time of these particular crimes committed by this cold-blooded aristocratic serial killer. I’d intended to read the Celebrated Crime series (18 essays in 8 volumes) by Dumas for some time. They are currently out-of-print, but they are available used, through Project Gutenberg and print-on-demand. I read my version on my Kindle (free).

Reading Celebrated Crimes: The Marquise de Brinvilliers reminds me once again what a damn entertaining writer Dumas is. Here he takes the facts of the mysterious Brinvilliers case and brings to life this tale of adultery, greed, and murder. The book reads with the gusto and zest of a tabloid tale, and yet this is all fact. Dumas dug into the court documents (and the detailed observations of the torture) when writing this tale, and then added his own sometimes flamboyant elaborations. Consequently this reads like fiction, but it isn’t.

The book begins in the year 1665 with the arrest of the young, dashing Chevalier Gaudin de Sainte-Croix. Carried off to the Bastille, Sainte-Croix’s murky background includes various tales of his origins, but at the time of his arrest he was Captain of the Tracy regiment. About 5 years earlier, Sainte-Croix met the Marquis de Brinvilliers, the maitre-de-camp of the Normandy Regiment:

“Their age was much the same, and so was their manner of life: their virtues and their vices were similar, and thus it happened that a mere acquaintance grew into a friendship, and on his return from the field the marquis introduced Sainte-Croix to his wife, and he became an intimate of the house.”

This, as it turns out, was a big mistake….

When Sainte-Croix became the lover of Madame de Brinvilliers, she was 28 years old. The Marquise, whose name was Marie-Madeleine, was a wealthy woman and she had expectations of becoming even wealthier. Her father was M. de Dreux d’Aubray, civil lieutenant at the Chatelet de Paris, and the Marquise also had a sister (a nun) and two brothers. Here’s a rather colourful slightly dramatic passage from Dumas describing the Marquise:

“At the age of twenty-eight the Marquise was at the height of her beauty; her figure was small but perfectly proportioned; her rounded face was charmingly pretty; her features, so regular that no emotion seemed to alter their beauty suggested the lines of a statue miraculously endowed with life; it was easy enough to mistake for the repose of a happy conscience the cold, cruel calm which served as a mask to cover remorse.”

The Marquise soon left her husband and began consorting publicly with Sainte-Croix. Her behaviour was ignored by her husband who “merrily pursued the road to ruin,” but her father “procured a warrant for the arrest of Sainte-Croix” (I’m not sure on what grounds). And it’s at this point that Sainte-Croix was carted off to the Bastille and thrown into the same cell as “the Italian Exili.” Dumas relates this ominous meeting with a strong sense of drama. Sainte-Croix howls “like the roaring of a wild beast,” and he first sees Exili as some sort of “supernatural being.” But hyperbole aside, Exili, according to the text, had been kicked out of Rome “charged with many poisonings.” I can’t help but wonder who Exili really was. The name Exili, is that a real name or could it be a derivative of Exile?

Exili is an “artist in poisons, comparable to the Medici or the Borgias. For him murder was a fine art, and he had reduced it to fixed and rigid rule.” A great cellmate in other words for the lover of a married woman. The next thing you know both Sainte-Croix and Exili are free and running around Paris with undetectable poisons.

This really is a great tale, and I had to keep reminding myself that this stuff was true. Basically Sainte-Croix and the Marquise de Brinvilliers start bumping people off with an assortment of poison potions. Of course, not everything is smooth sailing. The murderous lovers have to experiment and how better to experiment than with the sick and impoverished. The Marquise, playing the Lady Bountiful role, visits the ill….

Dumas doesn’t spare details here while at times he also seems to wallow in the histrionics, the sheer deviousness and cackling evil of this murderous pair. The contents of the closet of Sainte-Croix are listed with meticulous detail, for example, as are experiments with poisons on animals, details of the trial and torture of the valet Lachausee and the torture of the Marquise de Brinvilliers.

Given the facts behind the case of the Marquise de Brinvilliers, it’s not too surprising that she became the subject of a number of books. I’ve been curious to read a bit more for some time, and then recently she appeared offstage in the Hoffman novella Mademoiselle de Scuderi. I have a soft spot for Dumas after discovering just what an entertaining writer he is some years ago, and in Celebrated Crimes, he applies his talent for creating historical adventures towards this case of  the 17th century murderess. The author’s imagination runs a little wild at times when it comes to the concept of evil, and he compares Madame de Brinvilliers to Locusta and Messalina at one point while stressing that her face offered no clue to the evil within.

The story takes a dramatic and even more fascinating turn when the Marquise is finally arrested. Dumas had access to the Marquise’s confession, and indeed this document becomes a seminal part of her trial–whether or not her confession–intended to be read upon her death–could be admissible as evidence. Legal precedents are included in the trial. Dumas details quite a bit of the legalities here and I found it all quite fascinating. It’s peculiar how the 17th century court fussed and agonized over admitting the confession as evidence when they had no ethical or legal problem torturing those associated with the case to get confessions.

There’s also some fascinating up-close glimpses of the Marquise following the trial and the torture. And here we get a look at some of her patterns of thought. While some officials are so moved by their own arguments that they break down, Madame de Brinvilliers stays calm and collected. Acting with grace and dignity, nonetheless shards of her innermost thoughts appear with some interestingly twisted logic.

What I particular enjoyed so much is the 19th century perspective of Dumas. If this were written today for example, we’d probably have the story written with an emphasis on the crimes as the result of the Marquise being a female with limited rights. I assume she had an arranged marriage, and then again her father did try to squash her relationship with Sainte-Croix. Dumas, firmly in the 19th century, does not see the Marquise de Brinvilliers as a victim of her sex, and he portrays her as a fascinating yet evil woman. With an absence of the normal moral restrictions that govern behaviour, she doesn’t hesitate to commit the most heinous crimes without an ounce of pity for the agony of her victims:

“The Marquise had often said that there are means to get rid of people one dislikes, and they can easily be put an end to in a bowl of soup.”


Filed under Celebrated Crimes, Dumas Alexandre