The Man Upon the Stair

by Gary Inbinder

  “Ah, that’s an ugly accusation to level at a distinguished physician, but it might be the truth. Do you recall his irritable manner when I questioned him, insisting on how busy he was? I know the type, Étienne. He’s a society doctor who collects big fees from wealthy patients. He probably didn’t want to waste much of his precious time on a servant. He gave the poor woman a couple of doses and left in a hurry. Now, what do you make of that?”

  “He . . . he forgot all about the bottle of tincture?”

  Achille smiled wryly. “That’s a good guess. And if he did, he knows what he did was wrong. What’s more, he thinks we know, and that gives us an advantage if at some point we need to put the screws on him. At any rate, make a note of it. Now, you and your detectives made a thorough search of the bedroom, the landing, and the staircase. You found nothing of interest besides the second bottle?”

  “No, Chief, assuming you didn’t want us to look for fingerprints?”

  Achille frowned. “Alas, you assumed correctly. Unless we find something obvious, like bloody prints on a murder weapon, fingerprints won’t be of use to us. I’m taking you into my confidence on this matter. We were lucky in the Ménard case. Galton’s system is brilliant, but it remains incomplete. Moreover, I’ve yet to perfect a reliable means of lifting and preserving latent prints at the crime scene, and my present duties leave me no time for experimentation. But there’s more to it than that, and this must remain between you and me.

  “M. Bertillon’s anthropometric system of identification has achieved universal acceptance, which brings great credit to our prefecture. As a result, our chief of records is no longer as receptive to fingerprinting as he once was. As newly appointed chief of detectives, I’d be risking not just my reputation but also the honor of our brigade if I insisted on using such a novel and unproven method. No, Étienne, I’m afraid that fingerprinting, like telephonic communications and motorized transport, are early shoots that won’t reach full bloom until the next century.”

  “I understand, Chief.”

  “Good. Now let’s get back to the timeline and your interviews. You arrived at the de Livet mansion at ten and continued questioning servants. Just before noon, you were in the kitchen conducting your final interview when you heard Mme de Livet scream. According to the prescription, Otero should have received seven doses of solution from nine through ten, followed by another at eleven with the next dose due at noon. Therefore, if her death were the result of aconite poisoning, she would have received the fatal dose between eleven and twelve. Do you agree?”

  “Yes, Chief. I used that timeline when I returned this afternoon to question the baroness and the servants. Mme de Livet and the cook were the only members of the household who gave the medicine to Otero. The cook administered the dose at eleven and the baroness was to do the same at noon. According to the baroness, it was when she went up to the servants’ quarters to administer the medicine that she discovered Otero in extreme distress.”

  “I see; just a moment, please.” He studied a list of the entire household, including the baroness. In addition to Mme de Livet; her deceased maidservant; and the baron’s man, Bonnet, there was a housekeeper, two footmen, an upstairs maid, a downstairs maid, a cook, two scullery maids, a coachman, and a gardener. Only the baroness and Bonnet were not seen between the eleven A.M. dosage and the baroness’s alarming scream.

  “The baroness said that during the time in question she was either in her boudoir or the baron’s study. But none of the servants could corroborate that?”

  “That’s correct, Chief. Bonnet said he was out on foot, running errands for the baroness.”

  “But he was back, in the main hallway, when the servants gathered to see what the commotion was about?”

  “Yes, Chief. I saw him when I came from the kitchen.”

  “None of the servants observed him leave the house or return?”

  “That’s correct. Only the baroness saw him leave to go on his errands. No one saw him return.”

  “What were his errands?”

  “He posted some letters and then went to make a few small household purchases.”

  “All right. You can have the detectives follow up and make inquiries on Bonnet’s route.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “And no one saw any person or persons going up to, or coming down from, Otero’s room?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  Achille nodded and scratched his beard. “When I last spoke to Masson, he said the onset of symptoms in cases of aconite poisoning is very rapid, a matter of minutes. However, he’s yet to determine whether an overdose caused her death. We won’t know that until tomorrow morning.

  “Based on what we’ve gathered thus far, Otero might have ingested a fatal dose sometime between eleven and noon; let’s narrow it to eleven thirty and noon due to the fast action of the poison. It might have been the result of accident, negligence, suicide, or murder. And if there is any criminal culpability, we haven’t sufficient evidence pointing to any particular person or persons. Is that your opinion?”

  “Yes, Chief. However, if either the baroness or Bonnet had a motive for murder, they seem to be the only members of the household who had the opportunity.”

  “That’s a big if, Étienne.”

  “I know, Chief. But there is a pretty maid. She shared a room with Otero and they were very close. When I left the mansion with the ambulance, she ran up to me, slipped me a note, and dashed away before I could speak to her. She obviously didn’t wish to be seen. She wants to meet me at the Eiffel Tower the day after tomorrow. I think I might get something from her.”

  Achille smiled. “A ‘pretty maid,’ you say? Well, I’m sure whatever you get will all be in the line of duty.”

  Legros blushed. “Of course, Chief. It’s for the case.”

  Achille nodded. “Very well, Étienne. At any rate, I’ve a meeting at one this morning that might prove productive. I’m going to see our Russian friend, M. Orlovsky.” Achille briefed Legros on the information he had received from Forestier.

  After Achille brought Legros up to date, the young detective said, “The Russian military attaché and the baron were on the same train to Paris? I’ll need to follow up on that.”

  “Indeed you will. Get everything you can from the Railway Squad. First, we need to determine where the baron and colonel detrained. If their destination was Paris, they should have arrived at the Gare de Lyon. I want to know where each of them went from there, and when.”

  “Yes, Chief. Is there anything else?”

  “One more thing. I had a chat with Magistrate Leblanc this afternoon. He needn’t be actively involved with the investigation at this stage, but we should keep him apprised of the situation.” Achille glanced up at the wall clock. “It’s late, Étienne. Go home and get some rest.”

  “Yes, Chief. Thank you.” Legros was about to leave when he added, “Pardon me, Chief. You said you had a meeting at one in the morning. When will you sleep?”

  Achille laughed mordantly. “Didn’t anyone tell you when you signed on for this job? We of the Sûreté are like Satan. We never sleep.”

  7

  ORLOVSKY’S WORLD

  At one A.M., Achille and Sergeant Adam passed through the demon’s mouth doorframe of the Cabaret de L’Enfer. The stage Mephistopheles attendant gave them the customary greeting:

  “Enter and be damned.”

  Achille replied, “You have no idea, my friend.”

  The theatrical devil raised a painted eyebrow. “We’re honored by your presence, M. Lefebvre.”

  Achille smiled wryly and put a finger to his lips. “Thanks, but I’m here incognito.”

  The doorman leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Of course, Monsieur. But I fear there are no secrets in hell.”

  A place without secrets hardly seems the proper venue for a spymaster, Achille thought. Orlovsky chose to hold court in the demimonde, a milieu in which he seemed to proclaim his presence with characteristic audacity. How
ever, M. Orlovsky was one of those camouflaged insects that blends into its surroundings and thus remains hidden in plain sight.

  Achille and Adam paused at the threshold before plunging into the inferno. Their eyes scanned the grotto-like room with its two rows of tables lining a narrow aisle that led to the bar. Red-painted, high-relief plaster figures of the naked damned and their demon tormentors writhed overhead and along both walls. Colored electric lights created the effect of consuming flames; steam hissing from strategically placed pipes commingled with a yellowish tobacco haze to coalesce in a hellish atmosphere. A diabolical pair of fiddlers serenaded the lost souls with a scratchy rendition of Liszt’s “Mephisto Waltz.”

  At the end of one line of tables, in the dark recesses of the interior near the bar, Orlovsky sat, flanked by his constant companions, Apolline and Aurore. The painted young women wore the scarlet silk dresses and plumed hats of their trade. They smiled and whispered dirty jokes and gossip while toying with the perfumed ringlets that flowed over the back of their master’s high starched collar. Orlovsky responded with vague indifference as he puffed on a long cigarette. Suddenly, he pushed one girl aside, reached into his waistcoat pocket, and pulled out his watch. He glanced toward the entrance and immediately recognized the chief inspector.

  Achille smiled and nodded at the face that greeted him, a powdered and painted visage adorned with a waxed jet-black Imperial that gave its bearer the appearance of a louche caricature of the late Emperor Napoleon III.

  The detectives proceeded up the aisle just as the two young women left their patron’s table. The poules averted their eyes and stepped aside to make way for the police officers. Achille walked on without betraying any sign of recognition. Apolline was one of his paid informers, and he sometimes wondered what the Russian would do if he learned the truth of her working relationship with the Sûreté.

  Achille took a seat across from Orlovsky; Adam continued on to the bar. The detective and the spymaster exchanged greetings. Then Orlovsky said:

  “Would you care for a drink? I recommend the Hellfire and Brimstone.”

  “Yes, thank you. That’s just the ticket.”

  Orlovsky smiled. He caught the attention of a waiter and signaled for two coffees with cognac. After placing the order, he took a moment to scrutinize Adam. “You’ve brought one of your men with you. He looks very fit. The sort of fellow you’d want on your side in a tight spot.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “I see. Rousseau told me about your problem. Why bother with the racaille? Let Rousseau deal with them. Or if you’re squeamish, pick them up and hold them till things cool down.”

  “I’m not squeamish, Monsieur. We haven’t enough evidence to arrest them—yet. We’re unpopular in certain quarters, more so since the execution. Pretextual arrests would only stir up more trouble on the streets, in the radical press and among the opposition in the Chamber of Deputies. We have no law against loose talk. Paris isn’t Moscow or Petersburg. People here think they have rights.”

  Orlovsky laughed. “They think they have rights. That’s very amusing, M. Lefebvre.”

  Lefebvre responded to the sarcastic comment with an icy stare.

  The waiter came with the drinks. Achille and Orlovsky broke off their conversation until the man was out of earshot.

  Orlovsky took a sip of his coffee and cognac before continuing. “Forgive me, Monsieur. My government and I owe you a debt of gratitude for your brilliant work in the Hanged Man case. Were it not for the clandestine nature of our business, we would have officially recognized your efforts and awarded a high decoration. Now, how may I be of service?”

  “I assume Rousseau told you I’m looking for M. Le Noir de Livet?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “I believe you know the gentleman—socially.”

  “Yes—as do you, Monsieur.”

  “I’ve come across him once or twice. We’re barely acquainted.”

  Orlovsky raised his dyed and plucked eyebrows. “Is that so? I understand your wife spent some time with Madame de Livet last week in Aix-les-Bains.”

  “My wife had two brief encounters with the baroness, both of them initiated by Mme de Livet. The baron was not present on either occasion, and he is the subject of my investigation. May I continue?”

  “Pardon me. Please do.”

  “When did you last see M. de Livet?”

  “I believe that was about two weeks ago, at Le Chabanais.” Le Chabanais was the most famous and fashionable brothel in Paris. The place catered to celebrities both domestic and foreign, including the Prince of Wales, several prominent members of the Jockey Club, and two of Achille’s artistic acquaintances, the writer Maupassant and the painter Toulouse-Lautrec.

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “No, I did not. Gentlemen go there for the ladies, not for one another. At times, recognizing a fellow patron and engaging him in conversation could be bad form, n’est-ce pas?”

  Achille drank some coffee and cognac. He did not appreciate the Russian’s sarcasm. Achille was tired, and he feared it was showing. He decided to avoid Orlovsky’s banter and get to the point. “Yes, yes, of course,” he replied. “You seem to be informed about matters in Aix-les-Bains. Are you aware of the dispute between Prince Papkov and M. de Livet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know the details?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Will you please tell me what you know?”

  Orlovsky repeated the same story about the card game, the duel, and the settlement.

  “Thank you. Did you know that Colonel Mukhin was observed at Annecy, boarding the same train that M. de Livet had boarded at Aix-les-Bains?”

  “I’ve discussed the incident at Aix-les-Bains with the colonel. He told me he left the prince’s villa following the affaire d’honneur. However, the colonel said nothing about traveling on the same train as M. de Livet.”

  “Did the colonel arrive in Paris at the Gare de Lyon?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Did he notice the baron at the terminus?”

  “No, he did not. Obviously, they were not in the same compartment on the train, and they may not have been in the same carriage. At any rate, the Gare de Lyon is a big, busy place, and the colonel was not on the lookout for the baron.”

  “The baron was carrying a large amount of cash in a Gladstone bag. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, Monsieur, the colonel told me about the baron’s winnings. Apparently, M. de Livet had an extraordinary run of luck at the card tables. Perhaps he was waylaid by a thief?”

  “Perhaps.” Achille paused for a moment before continuing: “Where did the colonel go from the station?”

  “He went directly to our embassy on the Rue de Grenelle.”

  “Did he hire a cab, or was there a coach waiting for him at the station?”

  “There was a coach from the embassy.”

  “Has he seen the baron at any time since he left the prince’s villa?”

  “No, Monsieur. He assured me he has not.”

  Achille smiled and took a moment to savor his drink. He was a devotee of chess, an accomplished fencer, and a master of savate. He decided it was time for a feint to probe Orlovsky’s defenses.

  “Are the prince and Colonel Mukhin old comrades?”

  A network of perplexed wrinkles spread beneath Orlovsky’s face powder and rouge. “Pardon me, Monsieur? Are you asking if the gentlemen served together?”

  “Please forgive my curiosity. It just seemed likely to me that only men of the same regiment could have managed an affaire d’honneur with such exemplary chivalry and panache.”

  Orlovsky hesitated a moment before answering, “Yes, they were of the same regiment.”

  “I knew it,” Achille said enthusiastically. “And I’ll bet they’re the sort of gentlemen who sought out an adventurous post. Could you please tell me where they served?”

  “In Central Asia, Monsieur.”

  “Ah, how exotic. I lo
ng to travel there with my wife. Perhaps when I retire. Did you know that Jules Verne wrote about Samarkand in his Voyages Extraordinaires?”

  Orlovsky frowned. “No, Monsieur, I did not.”

  Achille continued smiling. “Yes, Samarkand. The name conjures images of the mysterious east: the bazaar, silks and spices, caravans, camels, and fierce tribesmen of the steppe. The muezzin calling the faithful to prayer from the top of an alabaster minaret. I’m wondering, Monsieur; could it be that the prince and the colonel were stationed there?”

  Orlovsky stared hard at Achille. The Russians had recently completed an extension of the Trans-Caspian railway to Samarkand, which permitted them to deploy a large number of troops and sufficient matériel near the Afghan border, more than enough to worry the English. “I don’t see how this information is relevant to your investigation?”

  Achille stopped smiling. “Please permit me, Monsieur, to decide what is, and is not, relevant to my inquiry.”

  Orlovsky narrowed his eyes. “Yes, Monsieur; their regiment was stationed at Samarkand.”

  “Thank you. And they returned to Europe recently?”

  “Yes, Monsieur; early this year.”

  The feint had rattled Orlovsky. Now was the time to ask about the Englishman. “There was a man named Sims at the prince’s card party. He acted as the baron’s second. What do you know about him?”

  “He’s an English gentleman who can afford to play for high stakes.”

  “Do you know how the prince and the colonel made the Englishman’s acquaintance?”

  “They met at the baccarat table in Aix-les-Bains.”

  “I see. I’ve been told that Sims is a retired officer who until recently had served in one of Her Majesty’s regiments on the North-West Frontier. Did you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to have a chat with M. Sims. Do you know where he is?”

  “I’m sorry, Monsieur Lefebvre. I haven’t a clue.”

  You say you haven’t a clue, but perhaps you’ve given me one without knowing it. Achille put his hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn. “Forgive me, M. Orlovsky. I’m tired, and I’m sure you have other plans for this morning. Therefore, I’ll detain you no longer. However, before I go, I would like to know if you could arrange for me to interview Prince Papkov and Colonel Mukhin.”