The Man Upon the Stair

by Gary Inbinder

  Before returning to headquarters, Achille stopped at the salle de boxe on the Rue de Richelieu. He had a twofold purpose for the visit. First, he wanted to question Leclerc about his former pupil, Bonnet. Second, and perhaps more important, Achille wanted to test himself with a match.

  Upon entering the hall, he noticed the familiar sharp odor of tobacco smoke and sweat and the resounding thump of fists and feet on punching bags and practice dummies. The maître observed the activity critically from his vantage point on a dais in the center of the hall.

  In the tradition of the salle d’armes, the high oak walls and surrounding gallery displayed arms from the Age of Chivalry, crossed swords, shields, and daggers. In addition, there were rich tapestries and salon paintings depicting jousting and the hunt as practiced in the days of François I. However, despite the trappings of the romantic past, the maître taught the most modern and scientific methods of self-defense.

  Achille approached the dais. Leclerc turned to greet him.

  “Good afternoon, Monsieur. How may I help you?”

  Achille smiled broadly and came closer. “You don’t recognize me, Maître?”

  Leclerc walked over to Achille and inspected him with a skeptical squint. “Is that you, M. Lefebvre?”

  Achille laughed and held out his hand. “Fooled you, didn’t I, Maître?”

  Leclerc smiled and shook the chief inspector’s hand. “Indeed you did, Monsieur. In that outfit, and with the portfolio under your arm, I took you for one of those fellows who peddle their daubery to tourists in the Place du Tertre. My congratulations on a clever disguise.”

  “Thank you, Maître. Now to the purpose of my visit. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about Eugene Bonnet. I believe he’s a former pupil of yours?”

  Leclerc frowned as though he had smelled something putrid. “Yes, I remember Bonnet. What do you want to know about him?”

  Achille glanced around. A few men had stopped practicing and were staring at them. “If you please, Maître, could we go somewhere less conspicuous?”

  Leclerc glared at the handful of loiterers. “I hope you gentlemen aren’t exhausted from your exertions?” The students bowed respectfully and went back to work. Leclerc turned to Achille. “Very well, Monsieur; please follow me.”

  Leclerc led Achille to a dark alcove beneath the gallery. “I believe this is private enough, M. Lefebvre. You asked about Bonnet. He studied with me for a few weeks. That was about one year ago. His master, Baron de Livet, paid his tuition.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the man: his associations, his fighting style, his character?”

  Leclerc shook his head. “I teach the art of self-defense to gentlemen, Monsieur. Bonnet’s ‘fighting style,’ such as it is, might do in a brawl, but not in the ring or on the field of honor. In short, he’s a dirty fighter with no interest in the art and science of boxing. I don’t want that element in my hall, and I said as much to the baron.”

  “I understand, Monsieur. Is there nothing more you can tell me about him? Perhaps he made some friendships among the other pupils?”

  “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time, Monsieur. I know nothing more about Bonnet. As for my pupils, they avoided the fellow, and who could blame them?”

  Achille shrugged. “Well, Maître, if there’s nothing more—”

  “Excuse me, Monsieur,” Leclerc broke in. “Is Bonnet in trouble with the law?”

  “Not yet, Monsieur, but between you and me, he could be.” Achille seemed dejected and on the point of leaving when Leclerc made a suggestion.

  “Don’t let your visit be for nothing, M. Lefebvre. You honor us with your presence. I can offer you a match with one of my most promising pupils.”

  Achille perked up immediately. “Thank you, Maître; I was hoping you’d say that. But it will have to be a brief set-to. I fear I’m pressed for time.”

  “How about going one round on points, or the first knockdown wins?”

  “That would be splendid; thank you.”

  In his youth, Achille had fought a duel with the épée. In retrospect, the cause of the quarrel—a perceived insult to a woman of dubious reputation—seemed trivial; however, the fight itself was significant. He had met the challenge by fighting an older, more experienced adversary. Achille had performed admirably. He wounded his opponent with a skillful thrust to the chest. Thankfully, the wound was minor. They shook hands, the man recovered, and Achille’s reputation rose among his peers.

  Since the time of his duel, he lived with the ambivalence of a man whose rational mind rejected the affaire d’honneur at the same time his romantic heart embraced it.

  Achille had ventured onto the streets without a bodyguard, over the protests of Sergeant Adam. In doing so, he was testing himself and his would-be assassins, almost daring them to come out of hiding and do their worst. He believed he knew their weapons and probable method of attack. He had kept fit by rowing on the Seine and training in savate and canne d’arme. Achille had one deficiency—his nearsightedness—but he compensated with a long reach in arms and legs, agility, timing, and a quick and devious mind. He was also an expert with his double-action Chamelot-Delvigne, and he practiced assiduously to the point where he was deadly accurate at twenty paces.

  Leclerc led Achille to the ring where two young men sparred while another observed. In the short time it took to walk from the alcove to the center of the hall, Achille noted each boxer’s style, reach, and tendencies to attack and defend. As the maître approached with his guest, the men stopped sparring, the observer turned around, and others ceased their exercises and began to gather near the ring.

  The maître called the hall to attention. “Gentlemen, we have an honored guest: M. Achille Lefebvre, Chief of the Sûreté.” A polite round of applause followed Leclerc’s announcement. “M. Lefebvre has kindly agreed to participate in an exhibition of boxe française. The match will be decided after one round on points or upon the first clean knockdown. M. Leroy will represent the hall, Messieurs Roux and Lecocq will act as seconds, and I will judge and keep time.”

  Achille had already identified Leroy as the more dangerous of the sparring partners, with a long reach comparable to his own. He had also noticed the young man’s tendency to go for high kicks, especially the spectacular fouetté haut.

  Achille removed his jacket, shirt, and pince-nez and handed them to his second, M. Lecocq. Then Achille put on a pair of lightly padded leather gloves, and Lecocq laced them securely.

  Achille and Leroy met at the center of the ring, touched gloves, and took their stance: left foot slightly to the front, weight evenly distributed between left and right, on the balls of the feet. They raised their forearms to defend their bodies and their hands to protect their heads, which were angled down a little to cover their chins. They waited for the maître’s signal.

  Leclerc set his stopwatch; he raised his hand and then dropped it, calling, “Begin!”

  Leroy began dancing and weaving while Achille remained relatively still in a defensive posture while adjusting to his opponent’s movements. Leroy darted in with low and medium chassé frontal kicks in combination. These were feints to see how Achille would react. Achille maintained his cautious stance. He guessed the feints were a setup for the fouetté haut, his adversary’s attempt at an early knockout, and he was not about to be surprised and caught off guard.

  The anticipated high fouetté, aimed directly at Achille’s head, followed the feints like thunder after lightning. Achille blocked and dodged the kick skillfully. He countered with a deft, precisely measured front leg coup pied bas that caught Leroy on the shin and nearly brought him down. Sensing victory, Achille instantly slipped in against his unprotected opponent and threw a stinging left jab to Leroy’s ear, followed by a hard right cross to the chin that knocked the young man on his back.

  A gasp echoed throughout the hall. Leroy’s second ran to his stunned companion. Roux knelt and whispered to Leroy, who sat up with his second’s a
ssistance, shook his head, and mumbled incoherently. Roux turned toward Leclerc.

  “Your judgment, Maître?”

  “It was a clean knockdown. I award the match to M. Lefebvre.”

  Achille walked over to his adversary, who rose slowly to greet him. He extended a gloved hand. “A fine set-to, M. Leroy.”

  Leroy wiped a bloody lip on his arm and smiled. He put out his hand, and the fighters touched gloves. “Thank you, M. Lefebvre. I look forward to a rematch.”

  Achille bowed. “I would be honored, Monsieur.”

  Achille returned to his corner to a burst of applause and cheers. As Lecocq unlaced Achille’s gloves, the young man said:

  “That was splendid, M. Lefebvre. I hope someday to be worthy of a match with you.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur. I look forward to it with pleasure.”

  As the maître escorted him to the front entrance, Achille considered how this meeting would add to his reputation. He hoped that it would discourage some individuals from taking him on, but he also realized that it might have the opposite effect. The man who defeated the formidable chief of detectives would gain great credit on the street.

  When they reached the door, Leclerc turned to Achille and held out his hand. “You took down my best pupil in less than a minute, M. Lefebvre. An impressive performance. You obviously did not agree to the match just for the exercise.”

  Achille smiled and shook the maître’s hand. “You are perceptive as always, M. Leclerc. If I had played for points, I’m sure the young man would have won. His high fouetté is a thing of beauty, but it’s not much good on the street.”

  “I understand, Chief Inspector. Perhaps you are thinking of Bonnet?”

  Achille nodded. “Yes, Maître; Bonnet—and others.”

  “In a fair fight, Bonnet could not touch you. Then, as you well know, fairness counts for little on the street. If there were such an encounter, I’m sure you would do what was necessary to prevail. As for the others you mentioned, are you thinking of anyone in particular?”

  “I’m considering two individuals. Neither of them has a reputation as a fighter, but I’ve heard they carry arms. One is said to have an old Lefaucheux; the other, an Apache revolver.”

  “I assume you carry your Chamelot-Delvigne?”

  “Always, Maître.”

  “Well then, you’d better be prepared to use it. But in very close quarters, I believe you could handle two of that sort without your revolver.”

  “Thank you, Maître. I’m curious: What do you think would be my chances with three or even four? Many years ago my former partner Rousseau got the best of four thugs while armed only with his truncheon.”

  Leclerc shook his head. “Ah, but that was Rousseau. People say he’s not human.”

  Achille laughed softly. “Yes, Maître; that is what people say. Thank you for your courtesy and good advice. Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, M. Lefebvre. And if I hear anything about Bonnet, I’ll certainly let you know.”

  Legros took a cab to Valentine Behrs’s pied-à-terre on the Rue de Turenne. So far, he considered this day one of mixed success. On the positive side, he had located the cabdriver who picked up the baron at the railway station; however, he had not yet interviewed the man. He had questioned Dr. Levasseur without gaining much information. The doctor admitted no wrong for having left a small quantity of tincture of aconite on the bedside table; he had left precise instructions as to the dosage, and it was not his fault if Mme de Livet or others in her household had not followed his orders to the letter. In other words, he blamed the baroness and seemed confident that the medical community would back him in that regard.

  Legros had served a warrant on the baroness and left a sergeant and two detectives to search the premises. He was prepared for a hostile reception and was surprised by Mme de Livet’s calm acquiescence and cooperative manner. He tried to avoid Mignonette so as not to betray their collaboration, but the few times their eyes met, he detected signs of anxiety on her normally cheerful face.

  The cab came to a halt in front of a seventeenth-century, mansard-roofed three-story townhouse built of cream-colored stone. This was a genteel quarter, not far from the Place des Vosges. As he walked to the front entrance and rang for the concierge, Legros wondered what the neighbors thought about the kept woman in their midst; he and his detectives would certainly make inquiries.

  He waited patiently until a man who looked as though he had entered the world at the same time as the ancient residence emerged from a doorway and limped to the front gate with the assistance of a cane. The grandfather raised his rheumy eyes and stared at Legros.

  “May I assist you, Monsieur?” the old man asked.

  Legros pulled out his tricolor badge. “I’m Inspector Étienne Legros of the Sûreté. I’m here to see Valentine Behrs. Is the lady in?”

  The man put on his spectacles and studied the detective’s credentials for a moment before answering. “I’m sorry, Monsieur. Mme Behrs is gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean by ‘gone’?”

  The concierge unlocked the gate. “If you please, Inspector. Come with me and I’ll explain.” Legros followed the man down a short garden pathway to a cramped ground-floor kitchen that smelled of bacon grease and coffee. The old man gestured to a small chair next to an unpainted wooden table. “Please take a seat, Monsieur. I was just enjoying a little snack. Would you care for some refreshment?”

  Legros sat, but he politely declined the coffee. The man sat across from him, blew at the steaming cup, and took a sip. “It’s really quite good, Monsieur. You sure you won’t have some?”

  “No, thank you,” Legros replied impatiently. “Now, you say Mme Behrs is gone. Can you tell me when you last saw her?”

  The concierge stroked his white whiskers. “Let me see. That was last week.”

  “Can you please be more precise?”

  The old man thought a moment. “Do you see that calendar on the wall? Over there, near the oven. That’s it. I believe I marked the date. Would you please be kind enough to bring it here? I’d do it myself, but I’m afraid my rheumatism’s acting up.”

  Legros sighed and went to fetch the calendar. This fellow ought to be in a home for the aged, he thought. He returned and placed the calendar on the table in front of the concierge.

  The old man peered through his glasses and scanned the dates until he found what he was looking for. “There it is, Monsieur.” He pointed with a gnarled finger to a circled date. “She left the twenty-fifth, and I haven’t seen her since.”

  Legros took out his notepad and pencil. The twenty-fifth was the same day the baron arrived in Paris on the train from Aix-les-Bains. “Do you remember what time she left?”

  “It was in the evening, Monsieur. Quite late as I recall, though I couldn’t give you the exact time.”

  “Was anyone with her?”

  “Oh yes, Monsieur; there were two gentlemen.”

  “Can you give me their names and descriptions?”

  “One was M. Noiret. He’s the gentleman who . . . who pays the rent.” He then gave a description that matched the baron, and Legros noted that Noiret was a variation of Le Noir. The use of a pseudonym when renting a pied-à-terre for one’s mistress was a common practice. “The other gentleman I had never seen before, and there was something odd about him.”

  “Oh, and what was so odd?”

  “His face was all bandaged, as though he had been in an accident or had recent surgery.”

  “Do you recall if the gentlemen were carrying any luggage?”

  The concierge thought for a minute. “I believe M. Noiret had a bag—I think it’s the type that’s called a Gladstone bag. I know he had it with him when he arrived, but I can’t recall if he still had it when they left.”

  “Did the gentlemen arrive together?”

  “Yes, Monsieur; they came in a cab.”

  Legros made a note to check with the cabdriver who picked up the baron at the Gare de Lyo
n. “Did they leave in the same cab?”

  “No, Monsieur; they left in a coach, with Mme Behrs. It came about two hours after they arrived.”

  “You said they didn’t come with luggage, except for M. Noiret’s Gladstone bag. Did they take anything with them?”

  “Just a couple of suitcases, as I recall. I assume they were Madame’s bags, and I thought that was strange.”

  “Why did you think it strange?”

  “Mme Behrs is a fashionable lady, Monsieur. Such women never travel without at least one portmanteau.”

  “I see. Can you please describe the coach, the horses, and the driver?”

  The old man shook his head and sighed. “Alas, Monsieur, I remember nothing about the driver and the horses. It was very dark when they left. But the coach was a closed landau, and I recall it had a coat of arms painted on the door. The bright colors stood out in the lamplight.”

  “Can you describe the coat of arms?”

  The concierge smiled. “I fear my eyes and memory are not as sharp as they once were. No, Monsieur, I cannot say. But I distinctly remember a coat of arms on the carriage door.”

  “Did Mme Behrs say where she was going and when she would return?”

  “She said she was going to visit friends in the country for a few days, but she did not say where. She said she would return before the end of the month. Now the rent is due. I’m afraid if they don’t pay soon, we’ll have to enter the apartment and remove her belongings. We don’t like to do that; it looks bad, you know.”

  Legros followed with a series of questions about the comings and goings at the apartment: visitors, parties, activities, unusual incidents, and so forth. After several minutes of questioning, he said, “I would like to search the apartment, if you please.” He hoped the concierge would cooperate. Legros did not want to wait for a warrant.

  The old man hesitated before answering, “I suppose that would be all right, Monsieur.”