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but the case it made was highly circumstantial…. First, there was the meat in Clovis’s feces. Second, the half-eaten corpse of a baby chimp, two or three days old. Third, the gleeful aggression Rita-Lu had displayed toward the corpse. And fourth? Fourth, the possibility of more meat traces in the fecal matter just collected. What did that add up to? I checked my natural excitement: softly, softly, I thought.
    Then there was the baby. Whose baby? Lena’s? It was possible; she was due to give birth any day. But if so, how did the baby die? What had eaten it and why? And why had Rita-Lu behaved in such a way? I stopped myself from further unprofitable speculation. We needed more facts, more data. I sent Alda off to find João and said that both of them should try to locate Lena, find out if she had given birth and if her infant was with her. I picked up the plastic bag with the dead baby in it—so light—and headed back to Grosso Arvore.
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    I stood in Hauser’s lab. The simple building, a rectangular corrugated-iron shack, contained a small but surprisingly efficient and well-equipped laboratory. Hauser’s work at the project was to do with chimpanzee pathology. He was currently trying to identify the various types of intestinal worms that infected chimps; hence the avidity with which he welcomed our cloacal samples brought in from the field.
    We stood together, now, looking down at the pathetic remains of the baby chimp laid out on a stainless steel dissecting tray. Hauser’s lab had a small generator to power his centrifuges and chill his refrigerators. In a corner a table fan turned its face this way and that, dispensing its breeze, endlessly saying no, no, no. Hauser wore a white coat and trousers, but with no shirt or undershirt under the coat. Beneath the antiseptic smells of his chemicals and preserving spirits it was just possible to distinguish thethin vinegar reek of his body odor, a noisome seam in the olfactory strata.
    He gave a soft grunt and poked at the body with the end of his ballpoint pen. He lifted a minute leg and let it drop.
    â€œIt is a chimp,” I confirmed.
    â€œAbsolutely. Very young and maybe dead for twenty-four hours. Hard to say. Brains gone, viscera gone. Hardly worth chewing on the rest. Where did you find it?”
    â€œAh…at one of my feeding sites.”
    â€œThe very discreet Mrs. Clearwater responded.”
    I ignored him and laid out my specimen bottles.
    â€œIs there any way,” I began as lightly as I could manage, “that you could tell if these ones”—I pointed at the bottles—“had consumed this one?” I indicated the baby’s corpse.
    Hauser looked steadily at me, thinking. The sweat stood out on his bald head like little sun blisters. “Yes,” he said. “Tricky, but possible.”
    â€œI’d appreciate it.”
    â€œThen I assume these aren’t chimp feces.” He tapped one of the bottles with his pen. Hauser was no fool—which was annoying.
    â€œGod no,” I said. “At least I assume not.” I tried a laugh and it came out not too badly. But I could sense Hauser’s mind at work, testing the implications. “Just a crazy theory of mine,” I went on, “about predators.” As soon as I uttered the words I regretted them. I had said too much: Hauser knew better than anyone what chimpanzees ate. He had identified dozens of plant and fruit types from fecal study alone. He would be looking much more closely now. For some absurd reason I suddenly felt guilty about my insignificant duplicity. Why didn’t I simply air my suspicions, test my theory on a fellow worker? But I had the answer to that: I knew my colleagues too well to trust.
    â€œNo hurry,” I said. “Whenever you’ve got a moment.”
    â€œNo, I’ll get right onto it,” Hauser said, ominously.
    I left the lab with some relief. It was hot outside, the