He turned toward the site and gasped, his mouth open, his

arms hanging slack at his side. "Bonne mkre," he murmured,

blinking.

Three of the excavated baths were occupied. There was a

man in each of them. They were fiat on their backs. Roux

moved closer, half frozen by fear, driven by curiosity. He

stared at each man in turn. They were all well dressed. Two

wore expensive overcoats; one had a felt hat on his head.

"Are you all right?" he said, hopefully, his voice cracking.

It was a stupid question. He knew they were far from all

right. "They re dead," Roux whispered to himself, "all dead!"

He moved closer and crouched over one of the holes. His

analytical mind took over as the initial shock faded. He was

looking for the cause of death. There was no apparent

wound. The man s eyes were closed; his chubby face had the

waxy, drained texture of death and his hands were folded,

fingers interlaced, on his chest. The professor stood up, no-

ticing that all three had been laid out in the same manner.

Each of them was grasping an identical yellow-blossomed

mimosa in their lifeless hands . . .