The Man Upon the Stair

by Gary Inbinder

  “Are you bringing in your network?”

  “Yes. The baron, like M. Orlovsky, is an habitué of the demimonde. Therefore, to learn more about him, I’ll employ my demimondaines. They have contacts at the Folies Bergère, the Moulin Rouge, and Le Chabanais, all of which he frequented. I’m also contacting the Deuxième Bureau to see if they have anything on the baron, the Russians, or the elusive M. Sims. Do you remember Captain Duret? He worked with us on the Hanged Man case.” Duret was one of Achille’s most trusted colleagues in military intelligence.

  “Yes, I do. Duret’s a good man. Do you suspect espionage is a factor in this case?”

  Achille sighed and leaned back in his chair. He thought for a moment before answering. “A jigsaw puzzle isn’t so difficult to put together when you have the completed picture as a guide. In our business, we go in blind and must extrapolate our finished mosaic from a jumble of seemingly disparate pieces. At some point, we get a vision of orderliness and completion; we assemble the fragments accordingly. However, we must never reshape the pieces to fit our concept. If we’re wrong we must admit our mistake, pull the thing apart, and start over again.”

  Achille summarized what he had learned from Orlovsky about the prince, the colonel, and Sims and added the information Legros had obtained from the bank concerning the baron’s recent withdrawals. “Now the baron has disappeared with a bundle of cash, one of his servants has died under suspicious circumstances, and another may have information relevant to the case. I can’t rule out espionage as an important element, but I’m not going to make the mistake of assuming it until I know more. In other words, I won’t trim the pieces to fit the puzzle.”

  “I understand, Chief. What about Bonnet’s background as a fighter? Can you make anything of that?”

  “It’s not surprising that a man like the baron would hire a tough guy for a manservant. Then, why didn’t the baron have Bonnet guard him and his moneybag on the train to Paris? M. de Livet could have sent a message to his wife without forgoing his protection. Anyway, I know Julien Leclerc; I trained with his master, Charles Lecour. I’ll pay M. Leclerc a visit and see if he can tell me something interesting about Bonnet.”

  Legros finished taking notes and then asked if there was anything else to put on his list.

  “No, Étienne, that’s all for now. You may go.” As Legros was about to walk out the door, Achille added, “Keep an eye on Mlle Hubert; she may be in danger. And please tell Adam I want to see him before I leave for Montmartre.”

  After Legros left, Achille finished his coffee and brioche and lit a cigarette. We often miss the obvious, he thought. Is there a forgotten clue in this case? After taking a few deep drags, he dropped the cigarette in an ashtray, pulled out a notepad, and wrote a column of names: the baron, baroness, Bonnet, Prince Papkov, Colonel Mukhin, and Sims. He bracketed them, and then drew a dotted line to Orlovsky/Okhrana and added a question mark. Below he wrote Otero with the symbol of a cross. Then he added, What does Hubert know?

  Achille returned to his cigarette. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. For an instant, his mind drifted from the case. I hope Adele wasn’t too hard on little Jeanne. He shook his head, sighed, and went back to work.

  Achille sat on a slatted wooden bench on the open upper deck of the Rue Caulaincourt tram. The horse-drawn car ran up from the Place de Clichy and over the iron viaduct that crossed the cemetery. He grabbed the brim of his fedora as a gust whipped over the elevated roadway. Wind rustled the reddish-golden-leaved treetops lining each side of the thoroughfare. The breeze carried smoke from dead leaves smoldering in piles gathered around the graves and sarcophagi; the fumes irritated his eyes and nostrils, making them water. He removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket, coughed, and blew his nose.

  His disguise consisted of a light brown jacket; dark corduroy trousers; a soft, turned-down collar; and a floppy raspberry silk necktie, all of which, along with his broad-brimmed felt hat, gave him a bohemian look suitable to the neighborhood. There was a print shop near Lautrec’s studio; Achille carried a portfolio as though he were an artist going about his business. The few passengers riding on top paid him no attention.

  The chief of detectives seemed secure within his cocoon of inconspicuousness, but he never let his guard down on the street. He carried a revolver concealed beneath the casual attire; his eyes scanned fellow passengers and passersby, and he remained alert to any suspicious actions or movements.

  On the other side of the bridge, just north of the park-like burial ground, the car came to a squealing halt near the Rue Tourlaque. Achille descended the spiral staircase at the back of the tram and stepped down to the pavement. The driver whistled at his draft horses and shook his reins; the team lifted their great hooves and clomped down on the paving stones. The conductor rang the bell, and the car rolled on up the track.

  Achille waited for a cart to rumble by and then crossed the street and continued on to the house at Number 7. He passed through the front door and entered the dimly lit foyer. The concierge, who knew the chief inspector well, greeted him simply as “Monsieur.” Achille nodded his acknowledgment and climbed the staircase to the artist’s studio.

  He knocked on the door at the end of the uppermost landing. A faint voice responded from the back of the studio: “One moment, please.” Sounds of a shuffling gait and the tapping of a cane followed the words. Presently the door creaked open; a diminutive bearded man looked up with an amused grin. He scrutinized Achille for an instant before speaking.

  “Good afternoon, M. Lefebvre. If you don’t mind, please remain on the threshold for a minute. The lighting’s perfect; I’ve had an inspiration.”

  Achille was accustomed to Toulouse-Lautrec’s humor; he played along and waited patiently.

  The painter drew back two paces, squinted critically, and tugged at his chin-whiskers before announcing, “Yes, indeed; I’ve a composition in mind. I’ll call it The Flic’s Impression of an Artist. I could submit it to the next Salon. It might make my fortune.”

  Achille smiled tolerantly in response to Lautrec’s wry critique of the disguise. “Thank you, M. Lautrec. I’m at your service and look forward to the sittings.”

  Lautrec laughed and gestured for Achille to enter the studio. Achille savored the pleasantly piquant odor of turpentine and linseed oil. A skylight admitted a stream of bright sunshine into the center of the spacious interior, leaving only the obscure corners and recesses in shadow. Finished canvasses covered the walls up to the high ceiling; wooden shelves groaned beneath the weight of plaster casts and miscellaneous paraphernalia. One unfinished canvas, displayed on an easel near a model’s dais, caught Achille’s eye.

  “It appears your design for the new Moulin Rouge poster is almost finished.”

  Lautrec stopped by a table next to his liquor cabinet, turned around, and glanced toward his painting. “It requires some finishing touches before I take it to the lithographer.”

  “I see, Monsieur. I suppose Oller and Zidler are itching for it?”

  Lautrec shrugged. “Let them itch. They’ll get it when it’s done.” He turned his attention back to the liquor cabinet, opened the door, and retrieved a bottle of cognac and two glasses. “Take a seat and join me for a drink.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur.” Achille sat down at one end of the plain wooden table, removed his hat, and set the portfolio against a table leg. Lautrec poured the drinks, handed one to Achille, and then occupied the opposite chair. After taking a draft of cognac, he leaned forward, eyeing the portfolio with curiosity.

  “Tell me, M. Lefebvre, does that folder contain something of interest, or are you just carrying it around for show?”

  Achille smiled sheepishly. “Sketching is a hobby of mine, Monsieur. The portfolio contains a sample of my poor efforts.”

  “May I have a look?”

  Achille did not want to show his work to a professional artist, especially one known for his sharply critical tongue. He made up an excuse. “I’d be honored, but I�
��m afraid Delphine will arrive shortly. We’ll need to get on with business.”

  “Don’t bother yourself about Delphine, M. Lefebvre. Since she’s become a star she’s acquired the irritating habit of being fashionably late.” Without waiting for a response, Lautrec grasped the portfolio, placed it on the tabletop, and removed the sketches. He began leafing through the drawings, nodding at some with apparent approval and grimacing at others. Finally, after a few minutes, he replaced the sketches and poured himself another cognac. Then he contemplated Achille with a sly smirk. “I have some advice for you, Chief Inspector.”

  “Thank you; and what might that be?”

  “Stick to detective work.”

  Achille was about to say something offensive about the art profession—and one artist in particular—when a knock at the door intervened.

  “That must be Delphine,” Lautrec said. “Would you mind answering the door? My poor legs are feeling a bit wobbly.”

  “Of course, Monsieur.” He got up, walked back to the entrance, and welcomed Delphine with a warm, familiar smile.

  At this stage of her career, Delphine Lacroix could afford to order the latest creations from Worth or Doucet. Alternately, she could have patronized one of the chic grand magasins, such as Le Bon Marché or Printemps. Instead, she chose to shop “among her people” at the new Dufayel department store on the Rue de Clignancourt, just as she chose to stay in her modest flat on the Rue Lepic. She dressed and lived comfortably without ostentation, retaining a sense of loyalty to her class. Thus, she remained true to her role as an interpreter of chanson réaliste.

  “You look lovely as always, Mademoiselle.”

  Delphine lowered her eyes and flushed slightly at the compliment. “Thank you, M. Lefebvre.”

  Lefebvre escorted the cabaret singer to the table. Lautrec observed them shrewdly. Achille seemed to have few qualms about putting Delphine’s life in danger for small compensation, and she reciprocated with an almost unaccountable devotion. She might have loved him. If she did, the artist supposed her secret passion was seriously mistaken. Lautrec had slept with Delphine, but he figured the prudent and virtuous M. Lefebvre would do without that singular pleasure.

  Lautrec retrieved another glass from his cabinet. “You’ll join us for a drink?”

  “Yes, M. Lautrec. Thank you.”

  Achille seated her courteously before returning to his chair. Lautrec poured the drinks, and Achille offered Delphine a cigarette. They drank, smoked, and chatted for a few minutes before Achille came to the point.

  “As you know, I’m searching for M. Le Noir de Livet, who hasn’t been seen since last week, when he arrived in Paris on a train from Aix-les-Bains. I believe you both know the gentleman?”

  Lautrec answered first. “Yes, I know him. He has piles of cash and likes to spend it on cards, horses, and women, though not necessarily in that order.”

  “Have you seen him recently?” Achille asked.

  “I last saw him at the Moulin Rouge, but that was almost a month ago. We are not friends, you know. We just seem to turn up in the same places, that is to say, the cabarets, brothels, and racetracks. We also have ancient and noble names, though like my deformity I claim mine by right, or more precisely as an accident of birth. The baron got his name the same way he gets other things—he bought it.”

  Delphine looked down at her drink. “I’ve known him, Monsieur—on a professional basis.”

  Her answer was what he had hoped for, but he was sensitive enough not to display his enthusiasm at her revelation. “I see, Mademoiselle. Could you please tell me when was the last time you—saw the gentleman?”

  She took a puff on her cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke before replying. “It’s been more than a month, M. Lefebvre. He had a woman he visited regularly, at Le Chabanais. Not long ago, he paid her debts to the house and set her up in a pied-à-terre in the Marais.”

  “Do you know the woman’s name?”

  “Valentine Behrs; but her real name is Valentina Berezina.”

  Orlovsky had given Achille a name, but he had not disclosed the woman’s nationality. “Is she Russian?”

  “Yes, Monsieur; she’s an émigré.”

  “I know her,” Lautrec broke in. “I’ve enjoyed her companionship, on occasion, as has your friend, M. Orlovsky.”

  A pattern was developing; a picture formed in Achille’s mind’s eye. He hoped it would not prove to be false and misleading. “Was that at Le Chabanais, M. Lautrec?”

  “Yes, it was. I haven’t seen her since she left the establishment.”

  Achille put his next question to Delphine. “You said you haven’t seen the baron in more than a month. Do you know if Apolline has been in his proximity more recently?”

  Lautrec smiled and muttered, “In his proximity. How droll.”

  Delphine ignored the artist. “Yes, M. Lefebvre. There were parties at the house in the Marais. The baron and M. Orlovsky like to gamble, and Apolline, Aurore, and Valentine were there to serve and entertain the gentlemen. I was invited on occasion, but I didn’t go.”

  Lautrec shook his head and laughed softly. “To serve and entertain, I’m sure.”

  Achille glared at the painter. “Please, M. Lautrec. This is serious business.”

  Lautrec made a mock bow. “Pardon me, Monsieur.” Then he eyed the cognac. “Excuse me a moment. I think it’s time to open another bottle.”

  Achille moved closer to Delphine and lowered his voice. “Mademoiselle, I have an assignment for you and Apolline. It’s dangerous, but if you accept I’ll compensate you both at the usual rate, with a bonus for good results.”

  Delphine nodded. “I accept, M. Lefebvre. I cannot vouch for Apolline, but I’m sure I can persuade her.”

  Lautrec returned with an uncorked bottle. “Is this a private conversation? Do you wish me to leave?”

  “Forgive me, M. Lautrec,” Achille said. “I appreciate your time and the use of your studio, but I’m about to provide Mlle Lacroix with confidential information that it’s better for you not to know. It may seem an unpardonable liberty—”

  Lautrec interrupted with a wave of his hand. “I understand, Chief Inspector.” He pointed toward a sheltered nook on the other side of the studio. “I’ll take my big ears and little bottle over there. Please feel free to get on with your cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

  Achille rose to his feet and bowed politely. “Thank you very much, M. Lautrec.”

  The artist turned and hobbled away to his dark corner. “Think nothing of it, M. Lefebvre,” he mumbled over his shoulder.

  Achille waited until the artist was out of earshot before continuing. “You mentioned parties at the house in the Marais. Do you know if others, besides the baron and Orlovsky, were in attendance?”

  “Yes, Apolline mentioned other gentlemen, but I don’t recall their names.”

  “Do the names Prince Papkov, Colonel Mukhin, or M. Sims sound familiar?”

  “No, Monsieur. I’d have to ask Apolline.”

  “What about the baron’s manservant, Bonnet?”

  She thought a moment before answering. “I do remember Bonnet; that is, I’ve seen him on occasion in the baron’s company.”

  “Good. Now I want you to remember these names. Don’t write them down. Do you think you can repeat them for me?”

  “Yes, Monsieur: Prince Papkov; Colonel Mukhin; M. Sims; and Bonnet.”

  “Very good. You know how to proceed. I suspect some collusion among these individuals leading up to a recent meeting in Aix-les-Bains. Anything of particular interest that Apolline can recall from their conversations might be helpful in solving the case.”

  “What about letters, notes, or other writings?”

  Achille frowned; he hesitated a moment before saying, “She’ll have to use her judgment and exercise extreme caution. Orlovsky’s a dangerous man. I’d rather she missed something than risk exposure.”

  “I understand. How are we to communicate?”

  “You and Apoll
ine can arrange meetings and a method of communication between yourselves. She must avoid any direct contact with me. Do you have the book of poems I gave you?”

  “Of course, Monsieur.”

  Achille reached into a jacket pocket. “Follow our normal procedure. Here’s a new poem and an updated encryption key. If you have an encoded message, place four white chrysanthemums on Virginie Ménard’s grave. Then leave your message under the bench on the pathway that runs under the viaduct. You remember which one?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Moïse will check the grave and the bench each morning. If I have a message for you, he’ll deliver it directly at a time and place of his choosing.”

  Delphine nodded her understanding.

  “Thank you, Delphine. Now, if either you or Apolline at any time fear for your safety, you must go directly to Sergeant Rodin. He’ll take care of you. Do you understand?”

  “Don’t worry, M. Lefebvre. We won’t let you down.”

  Achille looked at her gloved hands on the tabletop; they were resting closer to his than he had realized, almost at the point of touching.

  If he were to crack this case, he needed her help and Apolline’s, too. Yet he could never overcome a sense of shame for putting their lives at risk for a small reward. After a moment, he looked up and said, “I can’t express how much I appreciate your assistance. You do so much and ask for so little in return. But please be assured, Mademoiselle, that you are performing an important service for France.”

  She placed a hand on his, tilted her head to one side, and smiled enigmatically. “Is it only for France that I do this, M. Lefebvre?”

  Achille cleared his throat nervously and withdrew his hand. “Of course, Mlle Lacroix. You are a good citizen. It’s all in the line of duty.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out his watch. “Now that we’ve concluded our business, we ought not to impose on M. Lautrec’s hospitality.” He got up from his chair, bowed stiffly, and offered an arm to escort her to the door.