“Hmm, I see. I could set up a meeting with Orlovsky. I know he wants to maintain good relations with you, and he owes us for saving his ass in the Hanged Man case.”
“Thanks, Rousseau; please do. And thanks again for the tip.”
“Think nothing of it, Professor. I’m sure you’d do the same for me.”
“Of course. By the way, I noticed you’re employing Duroc. I hope he’s improved his surveillance skills?”
Rousseau frowned. “Don’t be too hard on him. He made a mistake, and I gave him a second chance. He’s grateful, and loyal to a fault. Loyalty’s a rare and precious commodity nowadays, don’t you think?”
Achille nodded. “Yes—yes, it is. Good morning, Rousseau.”
“Au revoir, Professor. And never forget: To survive in this game you need brains, balls, a trusty weapon, and eyes in the back of your head.”
Achille returned to his office where he studied the files Rousseau had provided. He had thought about having a real breakfast that morning but settled for coffee and a cigarette.
Giraud and Breton were down-and-outers with several arrests each for vagrancy, petty theft, and minor disturbances. They had met Moreau at the Bateau-Lavoir, a ramshackle flophouse on the Rue Ravignan that had been nicknamed for its resemblance to the laundry boats on the Seine. Now radicalized, the pair operated on the fringe of the anarchist movement. Achille pitied them, but they were dangerous and he did not take them lightly. He rang for his clerk.
“Go to the detectives’ room and fetch Sergeant Adam.”
Adam was the best shadow and toughest cop in the brigade, a younger, leaner version of Rousseau. He knocked on Achille’s door and entered.
“Good morning, M. Lefebvre.”
“Good morning, Adam. Take a seat. I’ve a job for you.”
Adam sat across from his chief. Achille handed him the files.
“Do you recognize these individuals?”
Adam examined the photographs. “Yes, Chief. Breton and Giraud—a couple of loud-mouthed bums. Moreau’s pals. Since the execution, they’ve been stirring up trouble in Montmartre.”
“I just got a tip from Inspector Rousseau. These two are plotting to assassinate me. Have you heard that?”
Adam paused a moment before answering. “There’ve been rumors, Chief.”
“I see. Well, now we have it on good authority. I want you to set up a security plan and pick some men for the detail. I think you’re the best man for the job.”
“Thank you, Chief. I’ll work up a plan and have it on your desk by lunchtime.”
“Good. Please coordinate with Rousseau. He already has men shadowing the would-be assassins. Alert our friend Sergeant Rodin. He monitors all the criminals in Montmartre and Pigalle. And I’d like to employ Le Boudin’s chiffoniers, too. They’re my loyal eyes and ears on the street.”
“Very well, Chief. Is there anything else?”
“No, Adam; you may go.”
The sergeant hesitated. Achille stared at him.
“Why are you still here? Is there something on your mind?”
Adam leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Pardon me, Monsieur. Just give the word and we’ll make those two disappear. No trouble, and no one will blame you.”
He recalled his conversation with Rousseau. Adam’s suggestion offended Achille’s fine sense of justice, but he would not condemn one of his most loyal and capable subordinates. Instead, he replied with a mild rebuke. “I know you mean well, Adam, but that’s not the way I want to begin my tenure as chief.”
Adam looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry, M. Lefebvre. I hope you’ll forget—”
Achille broke in: “It’s already forgotten. Now, you’d better get started on that plan.”
After Adam left, Achille finished his coffee and lit another cigarette. He leaned back in his chair and thought, Life might be simpler if we did things Rousseau’s way. But could we still distinguish right from wrong?
The de Livet mansion had a modern kitchen with immaculate white-tiled walls, linoleum flooring, two cast-iron sinks with hot and cold running water, electric and gas lighting, a massive oak icebox, and a spotless coal-burning stove. Light and fresh air streamed in through sash windows and a screened back door that led to the garden.
Shortly before noon, Legros leaned back against a marble countertop, his arms folded and a smile on his face; he gazed fondly at the charming subject of his final interrogation. Mignonette, a seventeen-year-old upstairs maid, sat on a small wooden chair facing Legros.
The young detective’s casual, flirtatious approach was not all for his own amusement; the girl had until recently shared a room with Manuela Otero and perhaps had received secrets from the now seriously ill young woman. Moreover, he figured Mignonette was the type who might have caught her master’s eye; perhaps the baron had employed her for his pleasure. In that regard, he hoped she would prove careless enough to reveal a confidence that might be useful to the case.
Unfortunately, after more than a half hour of questioning, the girl had provided nothing of consequence. In fact, Mignonette was enjoying herself immensely. The friendly interrogation made for a nice break in her routine, and she welcomed the handsome detective’s attention. Rather than giving brief, direct answers to his questions, she digressed, chattering about things she liked to do on her day off, her favorite amusements, her tastes in food, entertainment, and so forth.
Legros was patient, but he figured it was about time to put an end to it. The doctor had been in to see Otero early that morning. Legros wanted to ask the baroness about the maid’s condition and any remedies the doctor may have prescribed.
A scream interrupted the interview.
Mignonette stopped babbling and jumped up from her chair. “Oh, M. Legros, that sounds like Madame.”
Legros frowned. “Wait here. I’ll see what’s going on.”
He ran out into the hallway, which was in a state of confusion. The baroness stood by the main stairway, sobbing uncontrollably. The servants surrounded their mistress, attempting to calm her and determine the cause of distress.
The circle of domestics parted to admit the detective. Legros spoke firmly. “Please, Madame de Livet, control yourself. Tell me what has happened.”
Madame wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and cried, “Oh, how awful. It’s Manuela. I think . . . I believe she’s dying. God help us, she may already be dead.”
Legros glanced around at the servants. “One of you, take me to her immediately. The rest remain with Madame.”
The English footman led the detective up four flights of stairs to the maid’s tiny dormer room in the servants’ quarters. As they mounted the landing, they inhaled a sharp, nauseating stench. The footman retched and covered his mouth with a handkerchief.
Legros entered the airless room first. Manuela Otero was sprawled across the mattress, one limp arm hanging over the bedstead. The sheets were soaked with vomit.
He checked her for signs of life and made note of her rapid decline: shallow respiration, dilated pupils, and faint, irregular pulse. Legros’s eyes turned from the dying woman to a brown medicine bottle resting on the edge of a bedside table. He read the label: Tincture of Aconite.
Legros spoke urgently. “She’s alive—barely. Have you a telephone?”
“Yes, Monsieur. There’s one in the sitting room.”
“Very well. I’m going to telephone the Hôtel-Dieu to send an ambulance. Then I’ll notify police headquarters. I charge you to guard the door to this room. Touch nothing inside and admit no one, including Madame de Livet, without my permission. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Monsieur, I understand.”
Legros left the bedroom and ran downstairs.
Achille considered a telegram that had made its way to his desk. Inspector Forestier would arrive at the Gare de Lyon at four P.M. that afternoon. Apparently, the Chambéry Police Commissary considered the missing baron case important enough to warrant a trip to Paris. Achille was about to notify
his clerk of his plans to meet Forestier at the station when the telephone rang.
Achille lifted the receiver and recognized Legros’s voice on the line. Legros described Otero’s symptoms, referred to the tincture of aconite, and said he had called an ambulance to take the poor woman to the Hôtel-Dieu. He had little hope of her surviving the trip to the hospital.
“Very well, Étienne. Do you have someone guarding Otero’s room?”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Did you notify the attending physician?”
“Yes; Dr. Levasseur. He’ll meet me at the hospital.”
“Good. I’m sending a couple of detectives to examine the scene. I’m also going to the laboratory to consult Masson about aconite poisoning. Telephone me as soon as you arrive at the hospital and I’ll meet you. However, regardless of what happens, I want to greet Forestier at the station. He’s coming up from Chambéry to discuss the case, so you may need to carry on for a while without me.”
“Understood, Chief.”
Achille hung up, left his office, and stopped at his clerk’s desk with orders to notify the stationmaster that Chief Inspector Lefebvre would meet Inspector Forestier’s train. He also requested the stationmaster keep the visitor occupied in case M. Lefebvre came a bit late.
He left the clerk and walked down the corridor to the detectives’ room. There, he assigned two men to go to the de Livet mansion to secure the scene and gather evidence, and then he proceeded on to the Palais de Justice.
He passed through a long hallway filled with lawyers smoking cigars and cigarettes as they milled around in groups or hid in dark corners to confer with their clients. His destination, the police laboratory, was located at the top of a dimly lit, secluded stairway.
Achille entered through a pair of swinging doors; his eyes scanned the premises, searching for the familiar figure of a gnomish individual in a white lab coat. After a moment, he spotted the chemist seated at the end of a long table laden with bubbling alembics, retorts and other scientific paraphernalia. Masson held a test tube over a flaming Bunsen burner, intently observing a chemical reaction. Achille watched respectfully at a distance, until the chemist completed his test and recorded his findings in a notebook.
Achille walked down to the other end of the laboratory and greeted the chemist. “Good day, Masson. Busy as always, I see.”
Masson turned his head, lowered his glasses from his forehead, and smiled. “Ah, Chief Inspector Lefebvre. To what do I owe this honor?”
“I need your expert advice. I may have a witness suffering from aconite poisoning.”
The chemist swung his legs around from under the table and came down from his stool. He gazed up at Achille, the top of the chemist’s balding head barely reaching the level of the chief inspector’s chest. “Aconite, you say? That’s interesting. What can you tell me?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. The subject is presently on her way to the Hôtel-Dieu. Legros doesn’t expect her to live, but then he’s no doctor.” Achille referred to the medicine bottle and then gave the symptoms as Legros had described them on the telephone.
“The symptoms could indicate aconite poisoning. As for the amount, five milliliters, or one fluid dram, of the tincture can be fatal.”
“But I believe doctors prescribe it in minute quantities in solution, do they not? In this case, the woman was ill with fever and had been seen by a physician.”
“Indeed, it is given to patients in a febrile condition. For example, many physicians prescribe it for an acute case of la grippe. But of course, that would be in solution; a specified number of drops mixed in water, not the pure tincture.”
“How would you determine if aconite poisoning were the proximate cause of illness or death? Is there a test?”
“The tests for the presence of aconite, or more precisely aconitine, the poisonous alkaloid obtained from the plant, are chiefly physiological; one detects a tingling and numbness when a very minute quantity is applied to the tongue or inner surface of the cheek. One can also observe the effects on laboratory animals.
“We can use the Stas-Otto method to extract the alkaloid from vomit, urine, and feces. Postmortem we can find the alkaloid in stomach contents and viscera. Of course,” he added with a curious smile, “all I can do is help the doctors determine the cause of death. Whether the poison was ingested as the consequence of criminal intent, negligence, or accident is another matter.”
Achille nodded. “Of course, Masson. Have you ever worked on a murder case involving aconite?”
“No, Monsieur Lefebvre. I know of only one recent case, and that was in England. I’ve also read of cases in India. But here in France, arsenic remains the poison of choice, as it has been since the days of Madame de Brinvilliers, Sainte-Croix, and La Voisin. La poudre de succession. However, as I’m sure you know, those incidents of homicidal poisoning have declined somewhat since the introduction of the Marsh test.”
Achille glanced at his watch. “I anticipate the subject’s arrival at the hospital shortly. I would appreciate your attendance. My clerk can notify you by telephone.”
“Thank you, Monsieur; I’d very much like to attend, and of course I’ll do what I can to assist in your investigation.”
Legros proved prescient; a resident physician pronounced Manuela Otero dead upon arrival at the Hôtel-Dieu. The hospital scheduled an autopsy for later that afternoon; a pathologist would perform the procedure, assisted by Dr. Levasseur. Masson would observe.
The dissecting room was a dismal, vaulted chamber. Light and air entered through large casement windows; two shaded gas lamps situated above the dissecting table provided artificial illumination. A lingering, pervasive odor of putrefaction commingled with the sharp astringency of formaldehyde and carbolic disinfectant.
A half hour prior to the postmortem, Achille and Legros met with Dr. Levasseur in the corridor outside the dissecting room. Levasseur was a tall, elegantly dressed man in his late thirties who confronted Otero’s sudden death with professional sangfroid.
Achille was acutely aware of the time. He had ordered a cab to take him to the railway station, and he would leave prior to the autopsy’s conclusion. He decided to use the brief hiatus to question the physician.
“Dr. Levasseur, when were you called to attend the deceased?”
“Madame de Livet contacted me three days ago, after she returned from Aix-les-Bains. I saw Mlle Otero that evening.”
“What was your diagnosis?”
“I diagnosed a bad case of la grippe.”
“What treatment did you prescribe?”
“In the initial stages, I ordered the patient to remain in bed where she was to be kept warm and quiet. As for feeding, she was given lukewarm gruel, barley water, and chamomile tea with lemon.”
“Do you know who fed her?”
“I believe Madame de Livet gave orders to the cook. You can confirm that with the baroness.”
“I see. Did you prescribe any medication?”
“On the first day I gave her a calomel pill as a mild purgative, but she did not tolerate it well. This morning the illness had progressed to the acute stage, so I prescribed tincture of aconite in solution to bring down the fever and ease her chest pains.”
“Can you tell me the exact dosage?”
“Yes, Monsieur. I mixed fifteen drops of the tincture in six centiliters of water, and then I gave her five milliliters, or one teaspoonful, of the mixture. She was to have one teaspoonful every ten minutes for the first hour and afterward hourly for the next eight hours.”
“When did you give her the first dose?”
“At nine, and I gave her a second dose ten minutes later.”
“Who gave the other doses?”
“I left instructions with Madame de Livet. You’ll have to ask her. I only gave the first two doses. Then I left. I’m a busy man. I had other calls to make that morning.”
Achille noted a hint of irritation in the doctor’s voice and manner. “I understand, Doctor. Permit me
one more question. When Inspector Legros entered Mlle Otero’s bedroom, he noticed a bottle of tincture of aconite on the bedside table. Where did you leave the mixture?”
“It was in an unmarked brown medicine bottle next to the tincture.”
Achille glanced at Legros, who frowned and shook his head in response to the doctor’s reference to an unmarked bottle. “Thank you, Dr. Levasseur; you’ve been very helpful. Now I suppose you want to prepare for the autopsy, so I won’t detain you. However, we may require your presence for further questioning. I trust you do not have any plans to leave Paris in the near future?”
The doctor’s face reddened, but he remained composed. “No immediate plans, Monsieur Lefebvre. I have an active practice that requires my constant attention. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” The doctor bowed curtly, turned, and entered the dissecting room.
Achille smiled knowingly at Legros. “Touchy fellows, these physicians, especially when there’s any implication they bungled the job. At any rate, after you finish up here you’ll return to the de Livet mansion. The detectives must search for the other bottle, if they haven’t already found it, and you must interview everyone, beginning with Madame. Who gave Otero her medication? Who was in or around the sickroom? How do they account for themselves during the period in question? Can you handle it?”
“Yes, Chief; no problem.”
“Good.” Achille took his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Not much time, Étienne. Forestier’s train will arrive in little more than one hour.”
At that moment, Achille and Legros noticed an orderly wheeling a gurney bearing a corpse covered in a white sheet. Masson and the pathologist followed close behind.
“Here she comes, poor thing. Let’s go in now.”
The Man Upon the Stair Page 5