“He said if my master wanted payment he would have to fight for it.”
Achille stopped questioning. He circled the room for a moment before returning to face Bonnet squarely. “Did the baron agree to a meeting?”
“Yes, Monsieur, for later that morning.”
“Who acted for your master?”
“The Englishman, M. Sims. The Russian officer acted for the prince.”
“Where and when did the meeting take place?”
“At nine, in a lakeside clearing, near a dock on the prince’s estate.”
“Did they use swords or pistols?”
“Pistols, Monsieur.”
“Who were the witnesses?”
“ M. Sims, the Russian officer, and I.”
“And what was the outcome?”
“My master and the prince exchanged fire at twenty paces, without doing injury. Then the seconds intervened and the matter was settled honorably.”
“Do you know the terms of the settlement?”
“Yes, Monsieur. The prince retracted his accusation. My master agreed to take half his winnings in cash and gold as payment in full, and he cancelled the promissory notes.”
“Did they shake hands?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“What happened next?”
“My master received payment and placed the winnings in his bag. Then the prince’s coachman drove us to the station in Aix-les-Bains.”
“Do you recall what time you arrived at the station?”
“At about eleven.”
“And you saw your master board the train?”
“Yes, Monsieur. He boarded a first-class carriage at noon on the express for Paris by way of Lyon.”
“And he was carrying the Gladstone bag?”
“Of course, Monsieur.”
“How much was he carrying?”
“Almost one million francs in banknotes and gold.”
“Where did you go after you left the station?”
“I went directly to the hotel to inform the baroness that my master had returned to Paris and would wire her upon his arrival.”
“That was the message the baron told you to give to Madame de Livet?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Now, Bonnet, have you answered all my questions fully and truthfully?”
Bonnet replied without hesitation. “Yes, Monsieur Lefebvre.”
“Is there anything you want to add?”
“No, Monsieur.”
“And you reported all this to the police in Chambéry?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Very well, that’s all for now, Bonnet. However, you are not to leave Paris. We may require you at any time for further questioning.”
“Yes, Monsieur. Thank you. May I go now?”
“Yes, you may.”
On their way back to headquarters, Achille and Legros stopped to discuss the case over a beer. A brisk wind blew up the avenue, rustling leaves and rattling the branches of a great horse chestnut that shaded the pavement in front of the brasserie. They chose a sidewalk table under the tree to avoid the noisy crowd that had gathered inside the bar.
Legros had interviewed two footmen, the cook, two scullery maids, and the coachman. He would return the next day to interrogate the remainder of the household staff. So far, his questioning had gathered nothing of interest. However, the servants had all expressed concern when he mentioned the baroness’s maidservant, Otero, who seemed to have been seriously ill since her return from Aix-les-Bains.
“Well, I hope we can question Otero soon,” Achille remarked.
Legros took a swig of beer before answering. “Of course, Chief. But the servants say she’s very sick. If she doesn’t improve overnight, the doctor is going to try a new remedy.”
Achille raised an eyebrow at the reference to medication. “Do you know what he’s going to give her?”
Legros shook his head. “I asked the servants, but they didn’t know.”
Achille frowned. “You should have asked the baroness.” He noticed the worried expression on Legros’s face. “No matter, Étienne. You’ll find out tomorrow when you go back to finish your questioning.”
“Do you think . . . do you think someone might poison her to keep her mouth shut?”
Lefebvre shook his head. “I don’t know, but under the circumstances it seems suspicious that she’s too sick to answer our questions. As for poisoning, considering the present state of our medical practice, about half the prescriptions are as likely to kill as to cure.”
Legros smiled. “You’re right, Chief, but I wouldn’t say that to the doctors at the Morgue.”
“Oh, heavens no. Of course, the pathologists’ ‘patients’ are mercifully beyond all medical assistance.” Achille finished his beer and gestured to the waiter. “Would you care for another drink?”
“Thanks, Chief, yes, I would.”
Achille placed the order, the waiter soon returned with two beers, and they continued discussing the case. “Bonnet gave me an inkling of a suspect or two, and one of them is a Russian prince.” He proceeded to tell Legros about the argument over cards and the subsequent duel and settlement. “If Bonnet told the truth, Prince Papkov has a volatile temper and is likely to still believe he was cheated, despite the so-called honorable settlement. He could be the sort who thinks he is entitled to recover the money by means outside the law.
“It takes approximately ten hours to travel by train from Aix-les-Bains to Paris. That would be more than enough time for the prince to wire confederates in Paris who could waylay the baron somewhere between the Gare de Lyon and his ultimate destination.”
“That’s assuming the prince had individuals in Paris ready to act on his orders.”
“Good point, Étienne. It’s an assumption on my part that we can confirm or refute by further investigation. However, in my experience a man like the prince would tend to have minions stationed in the capital.”
“Do you think Inspector Forestier shares your suspicion?”
Achille shrugged. “How would I know?” He thought about the telephone sitting uselessly on his desk. “I’d like to talk to the man. Communicating by telegram is limited and too slow. We ought to have long-distance telephone lines linking police headquarters throughout all the regions and departments in France.”
Beer and the convivial brasserie atmosphere had loosened Legros’s tongue. “Ah, M. Lefebvre, now you’re sounding like Jules Verne. Our telephones hardly work effectively in and around Paris, not to mention regions beyond our jurisdiction.”
“It’s not so fantastical a proposition, my friend. The Americans have a line running from New York to Philadelphia. That’s a distance of 150 kilometers. And they’re planning a line from New York to Chicago of approximately 1,200 kilometers, about twice the distance from Paris to Marseille.”
Legros smirked and shook his head. “Oh well, the Americans,” he said with a hint of disdain for the upstart industrial power.
“Yes, the Americans. What they lack in culture, taste, and intellectual refinement they more than make up for in vision, ingenuity, and persistence. I admire men like Edison, Bell, Carnegie, and Rockefeller. We could use a few of them over here.” Achille stopped short, realizing that the beer, which at this brasserie was exceptionally good and strong, was having its effect upon him.
He glanced at his watch. “Time to get back to work. I want you to contact Inspector Hennion of the Railway Squad. Give him the train information I got from Bonnet. Regardless of what they’re doing down in Chambéry, the railway police need to start looking for witnesses and gathering information all up and down the line. We also need to check with the hack drivers who may have picked up the baron at the Gare de Lyon. That’s assuming, of course, that he made it to Paris.
“I want more information about Prince Papkov and the other two gentlemen at the card party, the Russian officer and the Englishman Sims. I hope Forestier can provide those particulars, but I’m going to start my own inqui
ry through my sources in Paris. And you’ll need to go to records to see if they have anything on the servants. We’ll go over the details when we return to headquarters.”
“Right, Chief.”
Achille paid the waiter. They left the brasserie and walked up the avenue in the direction of the Pont Saint-Michel.
At ten P.M., Achille crossed the Pont Neuf to the right embankment, and from there it was a short walk to his apartment on the Rue Bertin Poirée. Adele greeted him at the front door. She carried an oil lamp to light the hallway. The children, Suzanne, and the cook were asleep; Mme Berthier had retired to her boudoir; Adele had extinguished all the gas jets.
Achille was dog-tired, but he managed a smile. “Good evening, my dear.”
“Good evening, Achille. As usual, you missed an excellent meal with your family. I suppose there’s a new case that requires your immediate attention?”
He sighed. “Yes, my dear, a new case, and I’d like to discuss it with you since it involves someone you know.”
Her eyes widened. “The baroness?”
Why would she think that? Does she know more than she’s told me? “Let’s go to the sitting room. I’d like a drink.”
Shadows flickered on the walls as she led him down the corridor. She opened the door carefully, so as not to disturb the children sleeping nearby. They entered the dark room; Adele set the lamp on a table. “Do you want more light?”
Achille eased back into his favorite armchair, removed his pince-nez, and rubbed his weary eyes. “No thank you, my dear. This is fine.”
Adele opened the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of cognac for Achille and a sherry for herself. She handed him the drink and then settled down on a couch opposite him.
Achille took a sip before speaking. “My new case does indeed involve Mme de Livet. She hasn’t seen or heard from her husband since he left Aix-les-Bains last week.”
Adele sputtered and coughed for a while before clearing her throat.
“Are you all right, my dear?”
She nodded and raised her hand. After a moment she said, “I’m fine. I guessed there was something odd going on with those people, I just couldn’t put my finger on it.”
“Something odd, you say? Well, perhaps. At any rate, we’re both tired, so I’ll be brief. You have already told me about your encounters with the baroness in detail, including her inappropriate invitation, your refusal, and her apology. She said the invitation was the baron’s idea, but you told me you never saw him while you were in Aix-les-Bains. That’s correct, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I can’t recall seeing him at all.”
Achille nodded and scratched his beard for a moment before continuing. “How would the baron have known that you were at the hotel prior to the baroness greeting you in the lobby?”
Adele thought for a moment. “I didn’t notice him when we arrived, but perhaps he saw me?”
“That’s possible. Anyway, it’s quite a coincidence that you all happened to be in Aix-les-Bains at the same time and in the same hotel.”
“Do you suspect they planned the meeting?”
Achille sipped his cognac and shook his head. “I don’t know. It may be of no consequence.” He remained silent for a moment before saying, “The baroness was tearful and somewhat distraught when she came to see me, but I have the impression her marriage is not exactly a love match. I’d like your opinion—from a woman’s perspective.”
“She said he was vulgar, a parvenu. I got the distinct impression that she married him for his money and possibly against her wishes.”
Achille nodded his agreement. “There may be even more to it than that. From what she told me I gather the baron bought her father’s estate and ancient name; one assumes she was part of the bargain.”
Adele shook her head in disapproval of such a mercenary arrangement. “How awful.”
Achille finished his cognac. He was so quiet that for a moment Adele thought he had dozed off. Then he asked, “I assume you’re familiar with the stories about the Marquise de Brinvilliers and her lover, Sainte-Croix?” Achille brought up the notorious poisoners from the court of Louis XIV, the subjects of a popular novel by Alexandre Dumas, père.
“Of course, my dear; everyone knows about them.”
“Do you think Madame de Brinvilliers murdered for love or for money?”
“I believe she did it for both.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Now, again from a woman’s perspective, do you suspect Mme de Livet has a lover?”
Adele smiled slyly and replied without hesitation, “I’d be surprised if she didn’t.”
Achille pulled his watch from his pocket and sighed. “I’ve a five o’clock appointment with my friend Rousseau.”
“Oh no, Achille. What does he want?”
He shook his head sadly. “God only knows, my dear.”
5
ROUSSEAU’S WAY
Achille arrived at the entrance to the Sainte-Chapelle at five A.M. sharp. He displayed his tricolor badge to the guard on duty. The man snapped to attention and saluted.
“Has Inspector Rousseau arrived?” Achille asked.
“Yes, M. Lefebvre. He’s waiting for you inside.”
Achille entered the nave that was, at that early hour, lit only by a few sputtering candles. His footsteps echoed throughout the dark vaulted interior. The ancient royal chapel slept peacefully; at dawn, it would awaken with a burst of multicolored radiance, rays of sunshine streaming down through its vast expanse of stained glass.
Halfway up the corridor Achille made out a hulking form half-hidden within the shadows of the dado arcade. Rousseau emerged from the penumbra.
“Good morning, Chief Inspector.”
“Good morning, Rousseau. How goes it with you?”
“Not bad, Professor. And with you?”
“I can’t complain, my friend, and if I did no one would give a damn.”
Rousseau laughed; a deep, descending rumble that filled the chapel like the pedal point tones on an organ. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll go to hell for swearing in church?”
Achille smiled. “Swearing is the least of my sins. Now I imagine something must be very important to get you out of bed this early. What’s the problem?”
Rousseau turned serious. “My men have been tailing Giraud and Breton, a couple of Moreau’s pals. They’re out for revenge. The racaille boast about it all over Montmartre.”
Achille shrugged it off. “A couple of punks pissing in the wind. It’s always the same after an execution.”
“No, Achille, this time it’s different. I’ve been around a lot longer than you have and I’ve seen it all. I tell you, these guys mean business. And they’re armed. Giraud carries a Lefaucheux, and Breton has an Apache revolver.”
Achille was familiar with both weapons. The Lefaucheux was the old army pinfire model, obsolete but still serviceable; the Apache revolver was a nasty combination of brass knuckles, knife, and pepperbox pistol, effective only at close range. Had it not been for Rousseau’s “these guys mean business” warning, Achille would have remained nonchalant. Under the circumstances, he was not too proud to ask the veteran for advice.
“Thanks, Rousseau. What do you suggest I do?”
“Do you still carry your Chamelot-Delvigne?”
Achille patted a bulge underneath his frock coat. “Always, except when I go to bed.”
Rousseau grinned in approval. “That’s good. My men will keep shadowing those guys. If they try anything funny, we’ll bring them in. And it wouldn’t hurt if you didn’t go anywhere without a good man to watch your back. You could also detail a couple of detectives to keep an eye on your home.” Rousseau paused a moment before adding: “Of course, it would be much simpler to handle the problem my way.”
Achille knew what Rousseau’s way entailed. Rousseau’s men would pick up Giraud and Breton to bring them in for questioning. The suspects would resist arrest or attempt to escape and be killed in the process. Case closed, no ques
tions asked, and a powerful message delivered on the streets: Don’t mess around with Rousseau and Lefebvre.
Achille considered the possibilities before answering. “I appreciate your concern, but I think I’ll follow your initial suggestion.”
Rousseau nodded. “All right, Professor. I understand. But let me tell you a little story before you make your final decision. Years ago, I had a friend. We grew up on the streets of Belleville, joined the force at the same time, and hung out together. He was a good cop, and like you, he had a wife and kids. Things went well for him. He was up for promotion to sergeant when the war broke out. He did his duty and remained at his post. The Communards lynched him in ’71. I saw what they did to him, and when the army retook the Butte, I had my revenge. Now, I have no friends. But I know a few people whose lives might be worth preserving. I put you in that category.” Rousseau eyed Achille intensely while waiting for a reply.
Achille knew the story about Rousseau’s friend, and he realized that the streetwise detective’s longevity seemed proof of Machiavelli’s maxim: It is far safer to be feared than loved if you cannot be both. But Achille wanted to be loved by honest Parisians of all classes while at the same time being feared by the criminals who threatened the people he was sworn to protect.
Rousseau respected his former partner, but he thought Achille’s scrupulousness unrealistic, if not downright foolish.
“You’re probably right, but for the time being I think I’ll handle this one by the book.”
Rousseau shook his head. “I knew you’d say that. At least I tried. Anyway, you’ll find this useful.” Rousseau reached beneath his coat and removed a couple of envelopes. “Here’s what we have on Giraud and Breton, along with their photographs and detailed descriptions.”
Achille took the files. “Thanks, my friend. By the way, before you go, I have a new case that might interest you.”
“Why should I be interested?”
“Have you heard of the Baron Le Noir de Livet?”
“Of course, but my beat involves subversives and terrorists, not sporting millionaires.”
“Well, this sporting millionaire has gone missing, and just before he disappeared he had a serious dustup involving a couple of Russian notables and an Englishman. I thought your Okhrana contact might have something on the Russians and perhaps on the English gentleman, too.” Achille referred to the Russian secret agents stationed in Paris who on occasion worked covertly with Rousseau’s political brigade.
The Man Upon the Stair Page 4