The Man Upon the Stair

by Gary Inbinder

  “Absolutely, Chief. The baron paid Bonnet from the notes he withdrew before they went to Aix-les-Bains. That corresponds with the information Mignonette says she got from Otero.”

  “A picture of this case is forming like a mosaic; it’s coming together piece by piece. Tell me, how did Madame react when you told her the news about Mlle Hubert?”

  “Surprise followed by anger, culminating in acceptance.”

  “That’s to be expected; she’s irritated and troubled, but she hasn’t much choice in the matter. The young woman’s accusation against Bonnet must have hit a nerve.” Achille rubbed his beard meditatively for a moment. “I imagine there will be some interesting conversations between Madame and her paramour. It’s too bad we don’t have a reliable pair of eyes and ears in the house.”

  Legros frowned. “Pardon me, Chief. Do you want to send Mignonette back to the mansion? It would be very risky.”

  “Of course not. But I would not be surprised if someone else on the staff came forward. We’ll see. In the meantime, I’m following the cloak-and-dagger leads. I suspect Bonnet was paid to help conceal what really was to happen at Prince Papkov’s villa. His story was a fabrication. And money wasn’t his only incentive; there’s also his liaison with Madame.”

  “Do you think the Okhrana’s mixed up in it?”

  “I believe so, and the English may have a hand in it, too. But I don’t want to speculate too much. Let’s see what we get from Delphine and Apolline. And of course, we need to keep searching for the baron, Mme Behrs, and the fellow with the bandaged face. I hope you can get some leads from the Hotel Squad tomorrow. The neighbors on the Rue de Turenne or old Aubert might come up with something, too.”

  “Very well, Chief. Do you think we have enough on Bonnet to go to the juge for a warrant?”

  “You mean bring him in for investigative detention? No, not yet. Let’s keep him on the line a bit longer and see how it plays out. Which reminds me: We have the two medicine bottles, a spoon, and a glass in evidence. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Chief; that’s what we took from Otero’s room.”

  “Those items might prove useful after all. I have an idea.” Achille paused for a moment. He was not ready to share his idea with Legros. He stroked his moustache meditatively before asking, “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

  “I was wondering about the aconite. I’m sure Otero wouldn’t have taken it from Bonnet willingly. Do you know of any way he could have given it to her while she slept?”

  Achille rubbed his chin for a moment and then smiled. “Do you recall how the king was murdered in Hamlet?”

  Legros replied with a bewildered stare. “Pardon me, Chief?”

  Achille shook his head. “Really, Étienne. You’re an educated man. You should know your Shakespeare. Hamlet’s evil uncle poured deadly poison into his sleeping brother’s ear.”

  “Ah yes, Chief. Now I remember. Do you think that’s how Otero was murdered?”

  “Perhaps. At any rate, it’s a good question. I’ll talk to Masson.” He glanced at the wall clock. “It’s late, Étienne. Your report’s finished. Why not go home? There’ll be plenty of work waiting for us in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry; I almost forgot. Mme Lefebvre invited me to dine at eight, and she insisted you come home in time for dinner, too.”

  “What’s on the menu?”

  “Madame said a cassoulet.”

  “Ah, one of my favorites. And I’ve just the right wine to accompany it: a first-rate Canon-Fronsac. I think we should accept.”

  “Pardon me, Chief; won’t it be awkward? Mlle Hubert will be there, and we must avoid discussing the case.”

  Achille scratched his beard and pondered the matter for a moment. “You have a point. My wife knows better than to talk about the case, but my mother-in-law is another matter. She tends to rely on conspiracy theories circulated by her confidant, the famous cabbage vendor Mme Gros. She can hold forth on such nonsense ad nauseam. Nevertheless, over the years, I’ve learned how to handle her. And the young woman’s presence should help curb my mother-in-law’s loose tongue. At any rate, I suggest we please Mme Lefebvre and ourselves by enjoying good company and an excellent meal.”

  Achille closed the file and placed it in his desk drawer. On the way out, he turned to Legros and said, “I’m sure Mlle Hubert will welcome the presence of her gallant protector.”

  Legros smiled shyly and said nothing.

  The chief laughed and nudged his assistant playfully. The case seemed to be progressing well; Achille accepted the cassoulet and Canon-Fronsac as a well-deserved reward. But he had more on his mind than a good meal. He anticipated a pleasant evening in bed with Adele followed by several hours’ rest, as well.

  10

  THE DEMIMONDE

  A light steady shower sprinkled the Rue Pigalle. Delphine gazed out the rain-streaked cab window. Yellow gaslights highlighted the drizzle and reflected in rippling puddles. She observed a pair of streetwalkers huddling together in the shelter of a rubbish-strewn passageway. Poor things. Like a couple of stray cats, she thought. Delphine empathized with these women; between the ages of fourteen and eighteen she had been one of them. Abandoned by their fathers, harassed by the police, and exploited by pimps, such women often turned to their own gender for love and protection.

  The cab pulled over to the curb. Delphine stepped down to the pavement, opened her umbrella, and paid the fare. She walked up the block to Number 75, the unobtrusive entrance of the Hanneton, a brasserie owned, operated by, and catering exclusively to women. Men were not welcomed, with the notable exception of Toulouse-Lautrec, who went there regularly to drink and sketch the proprietress and her clientele.

  Mme Armande, the muscular one-eyed manager, stepped out from behind her cashier’s cage and greeted Delphine with a bear hug and a kiss. “My dear Mlle Delphine, how good of you to come. We’ve missed you.”

  “Thank you, Madame. I’m afraid the demands of my career have kept me away too long.”

  “Ah yes, your career. We’re all so proud of you since you’ve become a star.” Madame lowered her voice and winked with her good eye. “Your little friend is waiting for you, and you’ve arrived not a moment too soon. She’s very popular, you know.”

  Delphine looked over Madame Armande’s beefy shoulder and spotted Apolline seated in a corner on the red banquette. The young woman looked up, smiled, and raised her glass of beer in greeting. Her painted face in gaslight had the appearance of a wanton bisque doll.

  Delphine excused herself, walked over, and sat next to Apolline. “How goes it, my dear?”

  Apolline shrugged. “It goes, Delphine. Buy me another beer?”

  “Of course.” Delphine raised her hand and gestured to a waitress, who came immediately.

  “Two of the same, please.” After the waitress returned to the bar to fill their order, Delphine offered Apolline a cigarette and gave her a light. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

  Apolline took a puff and exhaled before answering, “Not long, but I had to fend off an old hag who got too friendly. She left in a huff.”

  “I’m sorry; I got here as soon as I could. Anyway, I guess I’d better come to the point. M. Lefebvre is looking for M. de Livet. I know the baron played cards regularly with M. Orlovsky, perhaps as recently as a week ago. Do you have anything of interest for me to pass along?”

  “I might, but I’m afraid it’s going to be for a stiff price.”

  Delphine stared at the young woman. They were friends, but she figured that in this game friendship had its limits. “If what you have is good, M. Lefebvre will pay at the usual rate.”

  The waitress brought the beers. Apolline waited for her to leave, then took a long drink before replying. “I’m afraid this is a price M. Lefebvre can’t pay. M. Orlovsky is waiting with Aurore at the Folies Bergère. He allowed me to meet you here on one condition. I’m to persuade you to join us for a private party at our flat, and you know what that me
ans. But there’s more to it. He promised me a pair of pearl earrings if you come, but he said he’d whip me if you don’t; he wasn’t joking. He’s been in an ugly mood all week, and I’m sure it has something to do with the baron and M. Lefebvre’s investigation. When he gets that way, he usually takes it out on Aurore’s behind. After all, the poor girl seems to like it. But this time—” Her hand trembled as she raised it to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.

  Delphine put her arm around Apolline’s shoulder. She leaned over and whispered, “Of course I’ll come; I won’t let him hurt you.”

  Apolline took a drag of her cigarette, then fussed with some stray curls on her forehead. “All right, Delphine. What do you want to know?”

  Delphine asked questions about the baron, Colonel Mukhin, Prince Papkov, Sims, and Bonnet. Apolline replied:

  “I never met the prince or the Englishman, but the baron, the colonel, and Orlovsky mentioned them at a party in an apartment on the Rue de Turenne the evening before the baron and Bonnet went to Aix-les-Bains. I didn’t hear details, but I got the impression there was a lucrative deal in the works.

  “They drank, laughed like hyenas, and took turns stuffing twenty-franc notes in our garters and down our cleavage. The baron’s mistress was there, too. She smoked cigars, guzzled vodka, and played with the men; we had to serve the bitch like the others and call her ‘Madame Behrs.’ Madame, my ass. She’s just a snooty Russian whore from Le Chabanais, where the swells paid thousands to sniff her chamber pot and kiss her dirty feet.”

  “Was Bonnet there, too?”

  “You mean the baron’s lackey? He was there all right, the sullen brute. I can tell you a thing or two about him.”

  “What about Bonnet?”

  Apolline smiled slyly. “Well, for one thing, he’s Madame de Livet’s lover.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Madame told me so, herself.”

  “You know Madame de Livet?”

  Apolline gave a little laugh. “Oh yes, my dear; I know her intimately.”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “Right here, of course. She dropped in a few weeks ago; her first time, I guess. What an entrance. She sashayed through the door as if she were the Queen of England, with her lackeys and coach waiting at the curb. All eyes were on her, but she came straight to me. I guess the old girl knew what she was looking for.”

  “Is she . . . one of us?”

  “Well, I’d say she’s been unlucky with men. Her husband married her for the name and social position, and her father sold her to pay off his debts. As for Bonnet, he’s no better than an ape.”

  Apolline took a swig of beer, then drew close enough to whisper in Delphine’s ear. “Now, here’s something that ought to interest M. Lefebvre. A couple of evenings before they left for Aix-les-Bains, I sneaked out and met the baroness at a hotel on the Rue des Abbesses. She gave me a gold bracelet and said there would be more as soon as she was ‘free.’”

  “What did she mean by ‘free’?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, but I’ll wager she’d like to be rid of both the baron and Bonnet, with enough money to choose her company and do as she pleases. At any rate, I imagine she expected some big change in her life and that it would happen soon.”

  “I see. Is there anything else you have for me?”

  Apolline thought a moment before shaking her head and saying with conviction, “No; that’s all.” Then her eyes widened as if she suddenly remembered something important. “My God, it’s late. We’d better get over to the Folies Bergère or M. Orlovsky will tan my backside for sure.”

  “All right, dear.” Delphine left money on the table for the beers, took Apolline by the hand, and walked to the cashier’s cage where they said au revoir to Madame. The young women exited to the dark, damp street and headed in the direction of the popular cabaret on the Rue Richer.

  Delphine and Apolline passed through the spacious lobby that provided access to the two-tiered, horseshoe-shaped promenade. Several eyes turned toward them in recognition, prompting a round of applause and cheers for a star of the café concerts. Delphine smiled and waved to her admirers; her celebrity distinguished her from the common whores who plied their trade at the Folies Bergère. As for Apolline, she savored the moment as though association with a popular entertainer had elevated her status in the demimonde.

  Hundreds of electric bulbs glimmered through a cloud of tobacco smoke, their yellow incandescence dimmed like the lights of an ocean liner steaming in a fog. Through the haze one could make out the red-and-gold-painted, mirror-lined arcade, the artificial garden and spouting, alabaster fountain, the marble-topped bars stocked with bottles of liquor and champagne and bowls of fruit, the women serving drinks to a thirsty crowd, the clientele lounging on chairs and couches as they ogled the perambulating prostitutes.

  One inhaled a miasma of countless cigars and cigarettes interfused with the odor of a confined multitude reeking of perfume, cologne, pomade, and sweat. A band blared out a popular tune loud enough to overtop a constant murmuring punctuated by laughter, drunken outbursts, and an occasional scream.

  As they approached M. Orlovsky’s private box, Delphine and Apolline glimpsed the stage act, a scantily clad young woman swinging from a trapeze high above a gaggle of clowns who gestured suggestively at her deftly exposed anatomy.

  The spymaster ignored both the performance and Aurore’s desperate attempts to amuse him. His dark eyes darted impatiently, scanning the perimeter. When he spotted Delphine and Apolline, his rouged lips twitched upward, forming a twisted smile. He rose from his chair and prepared to greet his honored guest.

  “Good evening, Mlle Lacroix. How kind of you to join us.” He bowed formally, then stepped forward to escort Delphine into the loge.

  Aurore dashed ahead to embrace her friend and kissed her on the lips. “Thank you, Delphine,” she murmured. “We’re so happy you could come. Monsieur has ordered the finest champagne, in your honor.”

  Orlovsky glared at Aurore but said nothing. He smiled and helped Delphine to a chair. “Please be seated, Mademoiselle. I’m at your service. Would you care for something in particular? Whatever delicacies the house can provide are yours for the asking.”

  “Whatever you’re drinking is fine with me, M. Orlovsky.”

  Orlovsky snapped his fingers and gestured to a waiter. The man came at once.

  “The Moët et Chandon 1878, if you please,” Orlovsky said. As the waiter rushed off to fetch the wine, Orlovsky reached into his breast pocket and produced a gold cigarette case. “Will you try one of these, Mademoiselle? They’re Turkish.”

  Delphine declined courteously. Knowing his tastes, she suspected the cigarettes contained opium. “No thank you, Monsieur. I prefer my own blend.”

  “Ah yes, Mademoiselle. I’ve heard of ‘Delphine.’ They’ve become popular with the ladies—and some of the gentlemen, too.”

  Delphine ignored Orlovsky’s sly reference to the “ladies” and “gentlemen” of her former profession. She took a silver case from her purse and retrieved a cigarette. He struck a match and gave her a light. She guided his hand with hers but withdrew quickly as if to avoid contamination, a gesture that was not lost on her host.

  The waiter returned with the champagne. He uncorked the bottle expertly, with a pleasing pop and no loss of the precious liquid. Next, he poured a small amount in Orlovsky’s glass and anxiously awaited the spymaster’s judgment.

  “An excellent vintage,” he announced. “I’m sure Mademoiselle will approve.”

  The waiter filled Orlovsky’s glass, then poured for Delphine and the girls and left the bottle in an ice bucket.

  Delphine took a sip and said, “It is quite good. But then, I’m hardly a judge of fine wines.”

  Orlovsky smirked. “You are too modest, Mlle Lacroix.”

  “You’re mistaken, Monsieur. I’m just being honest. I never pretend to be something I’m not.”

  “Is that so? You’re a supe
rb actress. Your songs can move the toughest audience to tears. I’d say acting is one of your most estimable talents, and verisimilitude—that is to say, pretense coupled with the illusion of reality—is the very essence of acting.”

  “Pardon me, Monsieur. I’m a simple, uneducated woman; you’re far too clever for me.”

  Orlovsky laughed and refilled her wine flute. “Are you being honest with me? I’ve heard you enjoy the company of clever men and can give as good as you get.”

  Apolline and Aurore observed and listened with interest; they waited expectantly for a reply.

  Delphine shrugged and took another sip of champagne before answering. “I’ve known many men, from elegant gentlemen to the Apache, and I believe few if any of them would be considered clever.”

  Apolline put a hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle. Orlovsky scowled and removed her glass. “You’ve had enough, my dear,” he muttered.

  The young woman folded her hands and lowered her eyes. “Yes, Monsieur,” she replied.

  Orlovsky turned to Delphine with a wry smile. “My dear Mademoiselle, I’ve heard on good authority that you are intimately acquainted with some very clever men—brilliant, even.” He paused a moment to study her expression and give her time to ponder his reference to her intimacy with “very clever” and “brilliant” men. Impressed by her impassive reaction, he said, “But let’s not speak of them now. Your glass is almost empty.” He poured and signaled the waiter to bring another bottle.

  Orlovsky and Delphine drank and made small talk until one A.M. while the two young women watched the acts and remained silent except when their master addressed them. They all left the Folies Bergère in Orlovsky’s carriage, which conveyed them the short distance to Apolline and Aurore’s Montmartre flat.

  Light streamed through half-opened balcony doors; an early-morning breeze ruffled lace curtains. Delphine’s eyes flickered open. She awoke to the sounds of Apolline’s soft, regular breathing, Aurore’s intermittent snorts, the beating of horses’ hooves, and the rumbling of cartwheels on the pavement below.