Orlovsky sighed. “That would be difficult, Monsieur; diplomatic protocol, you know. But it might be possible; though I’m afraid I’d have to be present at the interviews.”
Achille smiled broadly. “I understand, Monsieur. You’ve been so helpful; perhaps those interviews won’t be necessary after all. At any rate, I appreciate your assistance and may call upon you again before this matter’s over.”
“Please feel free to do so. As I said, I owe you a debt of gratitude, and a gentleman always pays his debts.”
“Of course, Monsieur.” Achille seemed about to leave when he smacked his forehead, a sign of frustration at his apparent carelessness. “Pardon me; I must be dozy. I almost forgot to ask. Let’s assume the baron arrived in Paris; do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
Orlovsky reached into a waistcoat pocket and removed a notebook and silver pencil. He wrote something, tore out the sheet, and handed it to Achille. “The baron keeps a woman in the Marais. You might ask her.”
“Thank you. Good morning, M. Orlovsky.”
“Good morning, M. Lefebvre.”
The moon hid behind a heavy cloud cover; a light steady rain pattered on the cab roof and streamed down the side windows. The chiffoniers and night-soil collectors had finished their hygienic rounds along broad boulevards and avenues and through winding narrow streets and back alleys. Soon, the street cleaners would come out along with an army of lamplighters extinguishing thousands of gaslights.
Sergeant Adam sat silently on the carriage seat next to Achille. The chief inspector seemed lost in thought as he stared into the damp darkness outside the cab window. Achille’s mind drifted from the problems of the case to his ghostly, rain-streaked reflection, to the sound of the horse’s hoofbeats and the rumble of rubber-tired wooden spoke wheels on the pavement.
“Pardon me, M. Lefebvre. We just crossed the Rue de Rivoli. You’ll be home soon.”
Achille turned to Adam and smiled. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, did you get much out of the Russian?”
“Much? I don’t know, Adam. I got something. But as is often the case, what I got provided me with more questions than answers.”
“I’m sorry, Chief.” Adam turned and glanced out his window. “This is your street.”
The cab pulled up to the curb in front of Achille’s apartment building. Adam opened the door, stepped out, and remained on the watch as Achille exited the carriage.
“Thank you, Adam. Go home and get some sleep. I’ll see you later, at headquarters.”
“It’s a tough case, isn’t it, Chief?”
“Damned tough, Sergeant. But that’s not your problem. Your job is to keep me alive, at least long enough to solve this cursed puzzle. Good morning.”
Adele had left a light burning in the front hallway. Achille removed his shoes, lifted the oil lamp from its place on a small table, and crept up the corridor as noiselessly as possible. He stopped at his study, turned the brass knob slowly, and opened the door with a noticeable creaking. I must remember to oil those damned hinges, he thought.
He set the lamp on his desk and turned up the flame. Then he sat in his leather swivel chair, opened a drawer, and rummaged about until he found a clean pad of paper. He picked up a pencil and made the following notes:
What really happened in Aix-les-Bains? Achille underlined “really.” He thought about the possible relationships among the Russians, the Englishman, and the missing baron. Could this have something to do with the Trans-Caspian railway and Afghanistan? Could it involve espionage? After this, he wrote, Contact the Deuxième Bureau for information about ex–British officers traveling through France who served on North-West Frontier 1885–90.
Achille removed his pince-nez, blinked, and rubbed his eyes. He needed a few hours of sleep. But before he left his desk, he compulsively scribbled a few more notes as reminders: Follow up with Legros and Masson. Need information from the Railway Squad. Follow the lead regarding the woman in the Marais. What about Le Chabanais? The maid who shared a room with Otero—what does she know? Employ Apolline and Delphine? He had already sent a message to one of his most resourceful agents, the cabaret singer Delphine Lacroix, and he anticipated a response would be waiting on his desk when he returned to the Quai des Orfèvres.
Did he forget something? He shook his head and decided things would seem clearer later that morning. He yawned and stuffed the notes in his coat pocket. Taking the lamp, Achille stepped into the hall. Walking up the shadowy corridor, he took care not to step on Jeanne’s scattered toys. When he reached the bedroom doorway he turned the light down low and tried not to make any noise, but the squeaky hinges betrayed him.
As he entered the room, he heard a stirring under the bedclothes.
“Achille?” Adele’s voice came out softly as though she had murmured his name in a dream.
He stepped lightly up to the bedside. “Forgive me, my darling. I’m sorry to disturb you.”
She stretched and batted her eyes awake. “Goodness, what time is it?”
“About three—or maybe closer to four. I don’t know. I’m afraid I lost track of time.”
“Are you coming to bed?”
“Yes, my dear; at least for a while. I’ve a busy day ahead.” He sensed her fragrant warmth nearby and inviting; but all he could think of was sleep.
Adele rolled over onto her side with her back to him. “All right, Achille,” she mumbled.
As he tiptoed to the wardrobe to change into his nightshirt, he thought he heard her say, “I wish you’d do something about those hinges.”
8
THE NETWORK
At the same time M. Lefebvre was meeting with Orlovsky at the Cabaret de L’Enfer, Delphine Lacroix finished playing to a packed house at the Divan Japonais. Delphine exited the stage door into a back alley, opened her umbrella, and walked out onto the steep Rue des Martyrs. She began her ascent in the direction of the Rue des Abbesses. Slanting raindrops glimmered in the radiance of a row of gas lamps pointing the way uphill.
One of the leading exponents of chanson réaliste, known affectionately as the chiffonier’s daughter, Delphine walked the dark, dangerous streets of the Butte without fear. Her popularity in these quarters provided her some protection, as did her secret association with the Sûreté, but in a tight corner she relied on her own resources and reputation as a fierce street fighter.
She had first learned to defend herself as a child growing up in the poverty-stricken wasteland between the fortifications, known as the Zone. She honed her skills as a teenaged prostitute walking the streets of Montmartre and Pigalle, and later as a Folies Bergère regular, a cancan dancer at the Moulin Rouge, and an artist’s model. She was savage in close-quarters combat with a straight razor and hatpin, and Achille had taught her the basics of savate and canne d’arme, in which her parasol or umbrella became lethal weapons. She had recently added a Remington double-derringer to her arsenal. Depending on the circumstances, Delphine concealed the tiny pistol in her purse, a muff, or a garter holster, and it extended her deadly reach by several paces.
She turned onto the Rue des Abbesses and walked on through dimly lit squares, past dark shuttered shops, tenements, and seedy hotels. Near the stairway that climbed to the Rue Lepic, she heard what sounded like a baby crying. She stopped, looked to her right, and saw a small kitten perched on top of a poubelle. She approached the garbage can; in the dim yellow glow of a gas lamp, she spied a ball of damp gray fur and a pair of wide emerald eyes. She reached out and stroked the back of the creature’s head; it replied with a pitiful mew.
Her own Minou had been the victim of an accident, crushed under a cartwheel; she saw this stray kitten as a fortuitous replacement, perhaps even a reincarnation of her dead cat. “Poor little Minette,” she whispered. “I bet you’d like a nice saucer of milk and a warm, dry place to sleep.” She lifted the kitten gently and sheltered it under her cloak.
Delphine climbed the stairs and turne
d onto the street in the direction of her apartment. She stopped at the front entrance and was about to ring for the concierge when she heard a familiar voice calling to her from a dim passageway.
“Hey, kid, how goes it?”
Delphine peered into the darkness. “Moïse?”
A small, ragged young man stepped forward to show himself. “It’s me, all right. Come closer, where we can talk.” Moïse Gunzberg worked for Le Boudin, Delphine’s father, the uncrowned king of the chiffoniers. Moïse also doubled as one of M. Lefebvre’s most trusted agents.
Delphine walked a few paces in the direction of the passage, stopped, and spoke softly. “What do you want? Make it fast. I’m wet and tired.” The kitten mewed as if in agreement.
“Aw, you found a new kitty. How sweet.”
Delphine frowned. “Watch it, rat boy. I’m not in the best of moods.”
Moïse smiled. “All right, kid; simmer down. M. Lefebvre has a job for you, if you’ll take it.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“Of course not. You’ll have to talk to the chief. If you’re interested, he’ll meet you this afternoon at two at Lautrec’s studio. It’s the safest place. As usual, you can tell anyone who gets nosy that you’re on a modeling job. M. Lautrec’s all right with it.”
Delphine nodded her agreement. “Very well. Now I want to go inside.”
“Thanks, kid. And no offense meant. I like cats, too.”
She smiled, reached out, and tousled his hair. “Okay, kid. Au revoir.”
Sergeant Adam detailed six detectives, four primary guards and two alternates, to maintain a twenty-four-hour watch on the chief. According to Adam’s plan, two men were always on guard near the apartment building on the Rue Bertin Poirée. When Achille went out, one of the guards would accompany him while the other remained at his post until relieved by the man on the following shift.
That morning, Achille woke about eight after a fitful four hours of sleep. Adele had been up since dawn and was busy with Suzanne and the children; Mme Berthier was out marketing with the cook.
Achille rolled out of bed, pulled out the chamber pot, and relieved himself. Then he stumbled over to the washstand and stared into the mirror with bloodshot eyes. My God, I look awful, he thought. He poured cold water from a pitcher into the basin, grabbed a bar of soap, and began scrubbing his hands, beard, and face. Next, he sprinkled tooth powder onto his palm, mixed it with water, and gave his teeth a cursory brushing. Then, he removed his nightshirt and gave himself a quick scouring with a damp sponge followed by a splash of cologne and a vigorous toweling. Finally, he brushed and combed his hair and beard and completed his morning ablution with a fresh change of clothes.
Achille stepped out into the hallway; the sounds of the baby crying, Jeanne whining, and Adele alternately scolding Suzanne and threatening the six-year-old assaulted his ears. He could have escaped without anyone noticing, but he felt it his duty to look in on the family before leaving. He knocked on the nursery door and opened it a crack.
“Well, my love; I’m off to work.”
Jeanne took advantage of the interruption to squirm free from her mother’s grasp, run to the wardrobe, climb in, and slam the door shut. Adele stared after her daughter for a moment before turning back to glare at her husband. “I don’t suppose you’ll be home for supper?”
“Sorry, my dear. I . . . I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“Very well, Achille. Good morning.” She turned her attention back to the wardrobe. Adele grabbed a hairbrush from a nearby dresser and began smacking the hard tortoiseshell back of the utensil against her palm. The implications were frightening.
“Good morning, darling,” he said. Then he dashed up the hallway, grabbed his hat, overcoat, and holstered revolver from the coatrack, and exited the apartment just as pandemonium erupted in the nursery.
Detective Bouvier and his relief, Detective Allard, waited for the chief in a passageway observation post across from the apartment building. Achille came out the front entrance and crossed the quiet, narrow street.
“Good morning, Bouvier, Allard. How goes it?”
“Good morning, M. Lefebvre,” Bouvier replied. “All’s well, so far.”
Achille smiled. “That’s good to hear. And which bridge shall we take?”
“Let’s go by the Pont au Change, Monsieur.”
They bid good day to Allard, then walked up the short street in the direction of the quai.
The Pont au Change crossed the Seine on the right bank from the Quai de la Mégisserie to the Palais de Justice on the Île de la Cité. From there, they would proceed to headquarters on the Quai des Orfèvres. Achille often took another route, crossing to the island on the Pont Neuf. Adam wanted to vary the schedule to make it less predictable. He figured that if the two would-be assassins planned an ambush from a hiding place near the bridges, they would have to split up to cover both routes.
With all that was on his mind, Achille could still enjoy a brisk walk along the tree-lined embankment on a crisp, clear autumn morning. When he arrived at headquarters, he thanked Bouvier and released him to other duties. Then he stopped at the clerk’s desk, picked up his messages, and ordered his customary breakfast—coffee and a brioche. Achille looked down the hallway and saw Legros talking to Adam. He gestured to the inspector. Legros left the sergeant and walked over to the chief.
“Good morning, Étienne. Is your report finished?”
“Yes, Chief. It’s on your desk.”
“Good. Give me half an hour, then come down.”
Achille entered his office, hung up his hat, overcoat, and revolver, and settled in behind his desk. He had messages from Masson, Legros, and Moïse Gunzberg. He read Masson’s first. The chemist detected enough aconite in Otero’s vital organs to conclude that the drug was the primary cause of her respiratory failure. Achille scribbled notes: Question Dr. Levasseur. Get a warrant to search the entire mansion. Shadow the baroness and Bonnet.
Legros’s note simply referred to his completed report. The chiffonier’s message confirmed a two P.M. meeting with Delphine at Toulouse-Lautrec’s studio in Montmartre. That was risky. Taking along a bodyguard and traveling by cab would be too conspicuous. He decided to go alone and disguised, by tram and on foot. He glanced toward a cabinet where he kept his disguises, including several outfits, makeup, and wigs.
Achille did not like disguises; it had been one of his weak points as a young detective. Years earlier, he had made the novice’s mistake of making up like an actor, but he soon learned from masters like Rousseau and Féraud that the best disguises blend with the surroundings and never draw unwanted attention. He would appear as someone who had business in the neighborhood; no one would think of giving him a second look.
He next turned his attention to Legros’s report. There was important information from the Railway Squad. They confirmed that the baron and Colonel Mukhin arrived in Paris at the Gare de Lyon, on the same train. They also had witnesses who saw the colonel leave the station in a coach, while the baron left in a cab. Legros was in the process of tracking down the hackney driver. Achille appended a comment: Must find driver as soon as possible!
Legros had also received a response from his contact at the Bank of France. He had a list of serial numbers for the notes the baron withdrew prior to leaving for Aix-les-Bains. Moreover, they had an earlier record of the baron withdrawing another large sum. The withdrawals had significantly depleted the account. Finally, Legros had found no criminal record for any of the servants. However, he discovered that Bonnet had been a fighter, training at Julien Leclerc’s Salle de Boxe after he had gone into the baron’s service. Achille smiled. “Good work, Étienne,” he said to himself.
The clerk knocked and entered with the chief’s breakfast.
Achille thanked his clerk and added, “Please tell M. Legros I’ll see him now.”
Achille was sipping coffee, nibbling at his brioche, and pondering the case when Legros knocked and entered the office. The chi
ef put down his coffee and looked up. “Have a seat, Étienne. I’ve been going over your report. You’ve done a fine job.”
Legros sat across from Achille. “Thank you, Chief. I should have more after my meeting with Mignonette Hubert.”
“Oh yes, Otero’s friend. You’re meeting her at the Eiffel Tower. Isn’t there some big event scheduled for tomorrow morning?”
“Indeed there is. A balloonist will attempt to fly his airship from the École Militaire up the Champs-de-Mars, around the tower, and back. Hubert may have thought that we wouldn’t be too conspicuous in the crowd, and she’ll have a good reason for being there on her day off.”
“She’s clever if she thinks that. At any rate, she could prove helpful. According to Masson, Otero died of aconite poisoning. However, without more evidence we can’t determine whether it was by accident or intent. So this young woman’s testimony could be crucial to our case.” Achille leaned forward and shuffled through his papers for a moment before continuing. “I’m going to Magistrate Leblanc for a warrant to search the de Livet mansion and the entire surrounding property. We already have the two medicine bottles; with any luck, the detectives might discover something else of interest. And I want a tail placed on Mme de Livet and Bonnet. How are we fixed for detectives?”
“We’re running a bit thin, Chief, but we’ll manage.”
“All right. Pick some good men. We also need to get back to Dr. Levasseur. He won’t like it, but that’s his problem. I want to make sure he doesn’t know more than he’s disclosing.”
Legros made notes. “Right, Chief. Anything else?”
Achille gave Legros a copy of the name and address of the baron’s purported mistress. “I got this from Orlovsky. The baroness hinted that her husband kept a woman in Paris, but she never provided us with a name. You need to get over there and question her. We also need to locate the driver who picked up the baron at the railway station. I have a meeting this afternoon in Montmartre, so I’m afraid I won’t be of much help to you later today.”
The Man Upon the Stair Page 8