6
THE INFORMATIVE M. FORESTIER
The express from Chambéry chugged up the track into the vast iron-and-glass train shed. Passengers, guards, and baggage-toting porters bustled up and down the lengthy concrete island platform. Locomotives shuttled back and forth, belching soot and hissing forth clouds of steam. Whistles shrieked, and signal horns blasted warnings.
Achille and Sergeant Adam passed through a gate that separated the main concourse from the train shed. A brigadier detailed for added protection met them. The three officers made their way through the crowd as the train came to a screeching halt.
Guards hustled to open carriage doors and assist passengers onto the platform. Achille had a good description of Inspector Forestier. He scanned the detraining passengers; after a moment, he spotted a portly man in his fifties carrying a carpetbag. He gestured to the other officers and said, “That’s Forestier.”
They approached the provincial detective, who glanced around with a bewildered look as he waited on the platform.
Achille walked up to the visitor and greeted him. “Welcome to Paris, Inspector Forestier.”
Forestier’s brown eyes widened; he looked up furtively. His heavily moustached upper lip twitched. “M. Lefebvre?” he ventured in a voice so hushed it could barely be heard over the voluble throng and chuffing engines.
“Yes, I’m Lefebvre, and these gentlemen are my companions for the day, Sergeant Adam and Brigadier Roche.”
Forestier relaxed somewhat. After they had exchanged greetings, Achille made a suggestion.
“You’ve arrived on a perfect autumn day. Your hotel’s a short walk from the station, and there’s a first-rate brasserie across the street. After your long journey, I’m sure you’d welcome a sandwich and a glass or two of excellent beer. We may even be able to conclude our business without a trip to headquarters.”
Forestier reverted to his furtive manner and tone. “Do you . . . do you think it would be safe, Monsieur?”
Achille smiled reassuringly. “With these gentlemen watching out for us, it’s perfectly safe.”
Forestier agreed, with some trepidation. The inspector’s jitters amused Adam and the brigadier. They left the station and crossed the Boulevard Diderot in the direction of a brasserie situated in the angle where the Rue de Lyon intersected the boulevard. There they found two adjacent sidewalk tables beneath the shade of a bright red awning. Achille and Forestier ordered beer and sandwiches while Adam and Roche kept their heads clear and their eyes sharp, on the watch for Giraud and Breton.
A mild breeze shook the leaves of trees lining the boulevard; shadows of swaying, sunlit branches flickered on the pavement as if projected by a magic lantern. The natural autumn fragrance interfused with the scent of tobacco smoke drifting from the patrons’ cigars, cigarettes, and pipes and pungent cooking odors flowing out through the open brasserie doors. A persistent murmur of conversation mixed with the rumble and clatter of horses’ hooves and ironshod wheels on paving stones and a multitude of boots and shoes beating up and down the sidewalk.
Charmed by his host’s conviviality and satiated with good food and drink, the recently agitated detective drifted into a sea of postprandial tranquility, so much so that he seemed to forget the urgency of his visit. Achille noticed the signs and threw Forestier a line to draw him back to reality.
“This has been pleasant, M. Forestier, but I suppose it’s time we discussed the case.”
Forestier came to attention, like a sleeping soldier shaken back to consciousness by his sergeant. “Oh yes, of course, M. Lefebvre. I have important papers for you, but before I hand them over I can tell you the results of my investigation.” His words implied that he was about to turn sole jurisdiction of the case over to Paris, a hint that was not lost on Achille.
Forestier began with the baroness’s report and his subsequent questioning of witnesses. His first reference was to Bonnet. He repeated the manservant’s story, including the duel, at which point Achille asked a question.
“Did you ask Prince Papkov about the fight?”
“Yes, M. Lefebvre. The prince mentioned an affaire d’honneur that the gentlemen settled agreeably.”
“You didn’t pursue it further?”
Forestier shrugged. “Why should I, Monsieur? No one was hurt, and they shook hands.”
“The age of chivalry is dead.”
“Pardon me, Monsieur Lefebvre?”
“I’m sorry. I quoted an observation made a century ago by a British statesman in regard to our Revolution.”
“Oh well, that’s the English for you. As the Emperor Napoleon said, they’re a nation of shopkeepers.”
“It’s conceivable the emperor meant it as a compliment to their enterprise, industry, and commercial success.”
Forestier smiled. “Surely you’re joking, Monsieur?”
Achille nodded. “Perhaps. At any rate, I apologize for the digression. Do you have any information about the seconds? Bonnet mentioned a Russian officer and an Englishman named Sims.”
“The Russian officer is Colonel Mukhin. He’s a military attaché assigned to the embassy here in Paris.”
Achille stared at Forestier in stunned silence while thoughts of Rousseau and his Okhrana contact, M. Orlovsky, and claims of diplomatic immunity raced through his head. After an awkward moment he asked, “Did you interview the colonel?”
“No, Monsieur. The colonel left for Paris on the same train as the baron.”
“Bonnet said nothing to me about that.”
“Nor to me. I assume he did not know. According to the prince, the colonel had already planned to leave the day of the . . . dispute. He left shortly after the baron and Bonnet, but he did not go to the same station. Instead of going down to Aix-les-Bains, which is within a few kilometers of the prince’s villa, the colonel and one of the prince’s servants drove up to Annecy in a fast gig.”
“How far is Annecy from the prince’s villa?”
“About thirty kilometers to the north. It’s the next stop on the railway line. He would have boarded the train there. The baron was on the express, which arrived in Annecy at approximately twelve fifty.”
“I see. As I recall, Bonnet said he and the baron arrived at the station in Aix-les-Bains at eleven and the baron boarded the train at noon. If the colonel left the prince’s villa shortly after the baron and Bonnet, and he traveled in a fast gig, he ought to have had enough time to catch the train at Annecy. Have you confirmed this with witnesses at the railway stations?”
“Yes, Monsieur. I have the names and addresses of witnesses who saw the baron board the train in Aix-les-Bains, and others who identified the colonel at Annecy. Those identifications were based on descriptions I received of both gentlemen from the baroness, the prince, and Bonnet.”
“What about Sims? Did you question him?”
“No, Monsieur. According to the prince, M. Sims left for Monte Carlo on the twenty-fifth.”
“I see. So he went to Monaco the same day the baron and the colonel took the express to Paris. Have you any information about the Englishman?”
“The prince told me the gentleman resides in London.”
“Oh, that’s very helpful.”
“Excuse me, Monsieur?”
“An idle comment; forgive me, Inspector. Did the prince say where in London?”
Forestier glanced down at his empty beer glass. “Uh, not precisely, Monsieur Lefebvre.” Then he looked up with a hopeful smile. “The prince did say that Sims was a retired major in the British Army who had recently returned from India, where he had served in a regiment on the North-West Frontier.”
“Well, that’s good to know. But didn’t you think it odd that Sims would associate with Russian notables? Have you never heard of the Great Game?”
Forestier frowned and shook his head. “The Great Game? No, I don’t believe we have that at our casino. Is it like baccarat?”
Achille sighed. “Never mind, Inspector. Did the prince give you a good
description of the man?”
“Yes, Monsieur; an excellent description, and it will corroborate what I got from Bonnet.”
“Very well. Did you try to locate Sims?”
“Oh yes; I wired the police in Monaco.”
“And what did they say?”
Forestier shook his head sadly. “They checked with the railway and all the hotels. They had no record of a recent arrival matching the name or description.”
That’s hardly surprising, Achille thought. “Did you question Madame de Livet’s maidservant, Manuela Otero?”
“Oh . . . I planned to, but by the time I got around to it, they had left for Paris.”
Achille replied with a hint of exasperation, “That’s a shame, Monsieur. I fear we must do without her testimony. The woman is dead.”
“How awful. Do you know the cause?”
“No, I do not. An autopsy is under way. We should know more later today.”
Forestier frowned. “Good heavens, what a mess.”
“Yes, indeed. Now, Inspector, is there anything else?”
“No, Monsieur Lefebvre. You’ll find it all in the report I brought with me.”
“May I have the documents?”
Forestier leaned forward over the table. His eyes darted around suspiciously, and his voice lowered. “You mean here and now?”
“Yes, Inspector; if you please.”
Forestier reached for his carpetbag, removed a file, and handed it to Achille. “Here it is, Monsieur. I believe you’ll find it in order. I discussed the matter with our juge d’instruction. Since the baron went missing on the train to Paris, we have concluded our preliminary investigation; the matter is now out of our jurisdiction. Therefore, we leave it in your capable hands.”
That’s right, get it off your desk, he thought. “Thank you, M. Forestier.”
The inspector smiled with relief. “Oh, you’re very welcome, M. Lefebvre. And please be assured we’ll continue to cooperate with your investigation to the best of our ability.”
To the best of your ability, I’m sure. Achille returned Forestier’s smile. Then he gestured to the officers at the adjacent table. Adam and Roche came over.
Achille addressed Roche. “Brigadier, please escort Inspector Forestier to his hotel. Then you may return to your regular duties. Sergeant Adam and I are going back to headquarters.”
Roche walked up the boulevard with Forestier; Adam hailed a cab. On the way to the Quai des Orfèvres Achille asked, “Give me your frank opinion, Adam; what did you think of M. Forestier?”
Adam hesitated before saying, “Forgive me, Chief; I think he’s a provincial donkey. The man wouldn’t last a week on our beat.”
Achille shrugged. “Ah well; we must rely on his preliminary investigation. Let’s hope he wrote an intelligible report.”
When Achille returned to his office, there were three messages waiting on his desk. The first was from Rousseau:
“Meet O., one in the morning. Cabaret de L’Enfer.”
Achille muttered, “Don’t these people have families?” The question was rhetorical. M. Orlovsky’s “family” consisted of young women who accommodated the Russian’s irregular schedule, for a price.
The second was a “call in” from Legros. Unless he received orders to the contrary, he would return to headquarters at six P.M. and have a report on the chief’s desk that evening.
The third was by telephone from Fournier, lead crime reporter for Les Amis de la Vérité. He was inquiring about the de Livet case.
Achille closed his eyes and rubbed his aching forehead. “Merde alors! The press is onto it already.” He disliked Fournier, but the publisher, M. Junot, dined with the prefect and remained supportive of the police. Therefore, Achille was obliged to reply, though he would say as little as possible about the case and instruct his men to do the same.
He removed his pince-nez, blinked, and rubbed his eyes. Then he scribbled a note to Adele telling her he was working all night and on into the next morning. He placed the note in an envelope and rang for his clerk, who came at once.
Achille handed the envelope to the clerk. “Have a messenger deliver this to my wife. Once you’ve done that, get me a large café au lait and a brioche.”
“Yes, Monsieur Lefebvre. Anything else?”
“Please tell Adam I want to see him. Then telephone Magistrate Leblanc’s office and ask if the juge is available this afternoon.”
As soon as the clerk left, Achille telephoned the laboratory and asked for Masson.
“Masson here.”
“Hello, Masson. This is Lefebvre. What have you got?”
“The doctors agreed that she died of respiratory failure. Whether that was the result of natural causes or aconite poisoning is an open question. I’m running tests; I should have an answer first thing in the morning, unless you need it sooner.”
“Thank you, Masson; tomorrow morning will be fine.”
Achille hung up. He leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling, and listened to the sound of a barge chugging up the Seine. Above the familiar noise of river traffic, he noticed the faint euphony of the police band rehearsing Hérold’s “Zampa” overture. “That’s good,” he murmured. He began humming along and conducting with his pencil until a knock on the door interrupted.
The chief stopped imitating Maestro Colonne, sat upright, and said, “Enter.”
Sergeant Adam came in and remained at attention, waiting for orders.
“Adam, are you familiar with the Cabaret de L’Enfer in Pigalle?”
“Yes, Chief, I am.”
“Good. I have business there tonight at one o’clock—police business. Please detail a detective to accompany me.”
“If it’s all right with you, Chief, I’d like to go.”
Achille stared at the sergeant for a moment. “You’ve been on duty all day. I don’t mind if you send someone else.”
“Thank you, Chief, but I’d prefer to do this myself.”
Achille smiled. “All right. You can keep an eye on me from the bar, and I don’t mind if you brace up with a coffee and cognac, as long as you keep your wits about you.”
After Adam left, Achille murmured, “A good man.” Then he turned his attention to the beginnings of a timeline and a list of suspects, cross-referencing the baron’s disappearance to Otero’s suspicious death.
The clerk interrupted with the coffee and brioche. Achille put aside his notes and started enjoying his snack when he remembered he had to telephone Fournier at the newspaper.
The operator put him through to the crime desk; an assistant editor said Fournier was not in the office. Thank God, Achille thought. “Please tell M. Fournier that Chief Inspector Lefebvre returned his call. I’m afraid I’ll be unavailable for comment for the rest of the day, and tomorrow morning, too. However, I will leave instructions with my clerk, should M. Fournier wish to inquire further.”
After hanging up, Achille gave his clerk the following: “If M. Fournier or any other reporters inquire about the de Livet matter, tell them there’s an ongoing preliminary investigation and we have no further comment at this time.” Achille asked next about M. Leblanc; the clerk said the juge was available all that afternoon.
With these matters attended to, Achille returned to his coffee, pastry, and case notes.
Shortly after seven P.M. Achille was still at his desk, reviewing Legros’s report. Legros sat across from him, looking on anxiously. Achille glanced from the document to an empty pot and a cup half-filled with cold coffee set on his desktop amid a pile of notes.
“I read somewhere that Balzac killed himself with too much coffee,” Achille mumbled.
“Pardon me, Chief. You said something about Balzac?”
Achille shook his head without answering and continued reading. After a moment: “You found the second bottle on the floor under the bed?”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Unstoppered and empty?”
“Yes, Chief.”
Achille no
dded. “How do you think it got there?”
“Based on the position of the body on the bed, I believe Otero, in her distress, lashed out and knocked it off the bedside table.”
“But what about the stopper? The fall to the floor wouldn’t remove it.”
“I asked about that, Chief. You’ll see it in my report. The cork was left loose and could have fallen out.”
Achille sighed. “A plausible explanation—or so it might seem. All right, Étienne, let’s recapitulate.” He gathered some notes, including the doctor’s prescription, adjusted his pince-nez, and turned up the screw on his desk lamp. “At nine, Doctor Levasseur mixed fifteen drops of aconite in six centiliters of water and gave Otero her first dose of the mixture. He gave her a second dose ten minutes later and then left for another house call. He gave instructions to Mme de Livet; Otero was to have five milliliters, or one teaspoonful, of the solution every ten minutes for the first hour and afterward hourly for the next eight hours.
“According to my calculations, each dosage contained no more than one drop of the tincture, which according to Masson is quite safe. I also asked Masson about the calomel pill the doctor administered the previous day. Again, given in such a small amount it ought to have done no harm.” Achille paused a moment before asking, “You said the bottle you found on the floor was empty. Could you tell if any spilled onto the floor?”
“No, Chief, I’m afraid not.”
“What about the bottle of tincture? How much was left?”
“Very little. A few milliliters.”
“Why do you think the doctor left any of the pure tincture? He had already mixed enough solution for the complete dosage.”
Legros was silent for a moment. Then he replied hesitantly, “Perhaps . . . perhaps he left it in case the solution was spilled accidentally and they needed to mix more?”
Achille shook his head. “I suppose that’s an explanation—or an excuse. Frankly, if I were a doctor I wouldn’t trust a layperson with deadly poison. Can you think of another reason?”
Legros paused ominously before saying, “Negligence?”
The Man Upon the Stair Page 6