The Man Upon the Stair

by Gary Inbinder

  She drew back the sheets on her side of the bed, swung her legs over, and sat up. Blinking her eyelids and shaking her head, she reoriented to the surroundings; her tingling flesh reminded Delphine that she was naked. She sniffed a musky potpourri of perfume, incense, and glowing bare flesh. Her eyes now adjusted to the pale light, she glanced around in search of her clothes. She spotted her dress, underwear, and stockings draped over a corner chair, her shoes on the floor, and her hat, purse, and umbrella sat on top of an adjacent dressing table.

  Delphine rose to her feet gingerly, her head still whirling in an alcoholic vortex. Thank goodness I refused the opium pipe, she thought. Careful to avoid stumbling on the carpet, she made her way to the chair, where she gathered her garments, sat, and began dressing. As she put on her clothes, memories of early-morning revels returned to her consciousness like a series of slides projected by a magic lantern. She most vividly recalled M. Orlovsky indulging his voyeurism by posing the young women in a tableau vivant reminiscent of Ingres’s The Turkish Bath. However, high art soon descended into a sex show suitable to the Moorish room at Le Chabanais. True to character, the Russian viewed the performance from behind an Oriental screen, peering through a peephole like a louche Sultan spying on his seraglio.

  Eager to report her intelligence to M. Lefebvre, she dressed quickly, grabbed her umbrella and purse, and passed through the portière separating the bedroom from the sitting room. Upon entering, she saw Orlovsky seated at a corner table. The Russian wore a floral-patterned silk dressing gown casually left open to expose his pallid, hairy flesh. He was enjoying his coffee and brioche while perusing the morning edition of Les Amis de la Vérité. Orlovsky put down his newspaper and turned toward Delphine. Exposed to the morning light, his cheeks and jowls exhibited white stubble in contrast to his jet-black dyed hair, moustache, and small beard.

  “Good morning, Mademoiselle. Will you join me? I’ve ordered for two.”

  “What about Aurore and Apolline?”

  The Russian snorted contemptuously. “They’re dead to the world; they’ll sleep for hours. It’s the drug’s effect, you know.”

  Delphine frowned. “Yes, Monsieur; I know all too well.”

  “I noticed you didn’t touch the stuff.”

  “No, Monsieur; I don’t need it.”

  He grinned knowingly. “You control your appetites. I like that.” Orlovsky rose and pointed to the chair opposite him. “Please sit, Mademoiselle. I’d like a word with you. It won’t take long, I promise.”

  She did as he asked, but with some trepidation. Delphine suspected Orlovsky knew that her acceptance of his invitation signified something more than a carnal urge to romp in bed with her girlfriends. She tried to read his intentions in his expressions and manner, but the spymaster’s aims remained hidden behind a mask of civility. He filled her coffee cup. She thanked him but declined the pastry.

  Orlovsky gazed at her keenly before saying, “I’m reading an article about the case of the missing baron. It seems M. Lefebvre is being very tight-lipped about his investigation, which is leading to all sorts of speculation in the press. By the way, I believe you’re acquainted with M. de Livet?”

  Delphine sipped her coffee and considered before answering carefully. “I’ve met him on occasion. But I haven’t seen him for some time.”

  “I know. You refused his invitations to some very amusing parties. May I ask why?”

  “A woman may have reasons that she keeps to herself, and it is impolite of a gentleman to question her about them.”

  Orlovsky smirked. “I’m justly rebuked, Mademoiselle. More coffee?”

  “No thank you, Monsieur. I’m in a bit of a hurry, if you don’t mind.”

  “As you please. Before you leave, I have a proposition that should interest you. My associates and I have important business with the baron. His sudden disappearance is distressing, and we’d pay handsomely for information that would aid us in locating him. Have you any idea where he might be?”

  “No, Monsieur, I do not. Have you contacted the police?”

  “Ah yes, the police. I’m a great admirer of M. Lefebvre and would do anything I could to help his investigation. However, between you and me, my associates and I would like to get to the baron first. Just to settle our business, you understand. Then we would gladly turn him over to the Sûreté. Now, if someone were to provide information that led us to Monsieur de Livet, we’d make it worth her while, to the tune of twenty thousand francs.”

  “That’s a great deal of money, Monsieur.”

  “Yes, it is; and it would all be strictly confidential. No one need know, and no one gets hurt. A nice, neat stroke of business.”

  “I understand, M. Orlovsky; but as I said, I haven’t seen the gentleman in some time and have no idea where his is. Now, if you’ll kindly excuse me, I fear I must leave.”

  “Very well, Mademoiselle. But if by chance you do come across some valuable information, please keep my offer in mind. And if you’ll permit, my carriage is at your disposal.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur. It’s a lovely morning; I prefer to walk.”

  Orlovsky rose from the table and made a slight bow. “As you wish, Mlle Lacroix. Au revoir.”

  “Good day, M. Orlovsky.”

  He listened to her footsteps on the stairs and the sound of the front door closing. Orlovsky got up and went to the window. Hiding behind the half-opened shutter, he peered at her through the slats as she walked up the street, turned a corner, and disappeared from view. Then he stepped over to an escritoire; took out pen, ink, and paper; and wrote a brief note. He placed the message in an envelope, addressed it, and rang a small silver bell to summon Aisha, the Moroccan maidservant.

  The young woman entered from the adjoining kitchen. “Yes, Monsieur?” she answered.

  Orlovsky handed her the envelope. “Deliver this message, and be quick about it.”

  She took the letter, curtsied, and left the apartment. Orlovsky returned to his coffee, rolls, and newspaper. After a moment, he glanced in the direction of the bedroom and muttered, “Will those lazy bitches sleep all day? I’ve a good mind to wake them up with my riding crop.” He shook his head, lit a cigarette, and continued reading Fournier’s article about the missing baron.

  Delphine purchased four white chrysanthemums from a street vendor near the cemetery entrance on the Avenue Rachel. The old woman asked, “For the dead, Mademoiselle?”

  Delphine nodded. “Yes, Madame; for the dead.” Carrying the flowers in one hand and her parasol in the other, she entered the final resting place of both the famous and the obscure.

  A brisk wind shook the poplars lining the pathway, scattering leaves over the tightly packed tombs and graves. The crisp, smoky scent of burnt foliage filled the cemetery. She paused for a moment to contemplate the statue of a sad angel, a grieving husband’s monument to a young mother who died giving birth. The beautifully carved stone face reminded her of Virginie. She wiped a tear and continued down a narrow path between a row of vaults clustered beneath the Rue Caulaincourt bridge. When she reached her friend’s burial place, she knelt for a moment in silent prayer before laying down the chrysanthemums as a signal for Moïse. She rose and scanned her surroundings as a precaution before walking on to the mail drop. From her perspective, she seemed to be the only living person nearby. The place was quiet except for the intermittent rustling of branches and the rumbling of traffic on the viaduct. Nevertheless, she gripped her parasol in her left hand near the handle with her right hand free, a position conducive to defense and attack.

  When she reached the bench, she looked around in all directions. Satisfied that she was alone, she sat and deposited her encrypted message in the designated hiding place. She rested for a few minutes, then got up and proceeded toward the exit. She remained alert, her instinct for danger sharpened by years of experience in the Zone and on the dark, twisting streets of Montmartre. As she neared her destination, she sensed a stirring behind a group of tombs. Her thumb flicked a rel
ease; her right hand grasped the parasol handle. The two-pronged attack came swiftly but not as quickly as her defense.

  In one graceful, fluid movement, she drew a twelve-inch blade, lunged, and slashed at her frontal attacker while at the same time thrusting back with her steel-tipped parasol. Her dagger cut the first assailant’s forearm, causing him to drop his knife while the parasol struck the other in the pit of his stomach, making him double over and retch. With one adversary disarmed and the other disabled, she instantly transitioned from defense to attack.

  Delphine advanced with her two weapons. Her first attacker gripped his bleeding arm, turned, and fled. She spun around and ran to the other, who had dropped to his knees while hanging his head over a pool of vomit. Grabbing his hair and tugging with her left hand, she put the blade to his throat with her right. “Are you done puking?” she asked.

  “Yes . . . yes,” the thug stammered. “Have pity, Mademoiselle.”

  “Pity is for fools. I’m going to count, quickly. If you don’t tell me who sent you by the count of three, I’ll cut your ugly throat. One, two—”

  “Orlovsky sent me. Spare me, please. I’m poor; I have a wife and two little children.”

  “I’m not interested in your misfortunes. Did he send you to kill me?”

  “No, Mademoiselle. We were supposed to frighten you and rough you up a bit. That’s all, I swear it.”

  Delphine smiled. “Do I look frightened?”

  The thug stared at her. “No . . . no, you don’t.”

  She let go of the man’s hair, withdrew the blade, and stepped back, but not outside her killing zone. “Return to your master. I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”

  He got up slowly, a hand rubbing his sore belly. He stood before her, trembling.

  “Why are you still here? Do you want to fuck me?”

  “Uh . . . uh . . . thank you very much, but no.”

  “Well then, go!”

  The poor fellow bowed, and then hobbled away as fast as he could. She had just sheathed her dagger when she heard a rattle in the bushes. She turned and spotted something much larger than a hare scurrying behind the vaults. Delphine lifted her skirts and drew the derringer from her garter holster.

  “I’m not in the mood for rabbit hunting! Come out, before I lose my temper.”

  A whiny voice replied, “Spare me, dear Mademoiselle, for the sake of my four wives and twenty bastards. At least there were four wives and twenty bastards, the last time I counted.”

  “Is that you, Moïse?”

  The young chiffonier came out from behind a tomb with his hands raised and a broad grin on his scraggly face. “It’s me all right. I was back there enjoying the show.”

  “You little rat. Why didn’t you help?”

  “May I put down my hands?”

  Delphine holstered the pistol. “Yes, you may, but I should have taken a shot at you just for sport.”

  Moïse dropped his hands and laughed. “If I thought you needed help, I would have given it. But you beat those guys faster than I could move. You fight like a tigress. Why don’t you put it in an act? They’d love it at the Folies Bergère.”

  “This is no joke. Do you have the message?”

  Moïse stopped kidding and said, “Yes, Delphine. I’ll take it to M. Lefebvre directly.”

  “Good. I’m afraid Orlovsky’s getting wise to our game. Tell M. Lefebvre we can’t use the cemetery anymore. And let him know I’m going into the Zone to stay with Papa Le Boudin for a while, at least until things cool down.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “I’m afraid so. One more thing: Go to Sergeant Rodin and ask him to keep an eye on Apolline. She’s on dope, and that makes you careless. Orlovsky might harm her one of these days.”

  “I understand. Good luck, kid.”

  Delphine smiled and gave him a playful cuff on the chin. “Same to you, runt.”

  11

  STARTLED SNAKES

  Madame de Livet and Bonnet boarded a late-morning train at the Gare de l’Est. A detective shadowed them from the railway station to Joinville-le-Pont in the southeastern suburbs. There, the couple hired a boat and rowed up the Marne toward a nearby guinguette. The detective notified the local police and wired a report to Inspector Legros.

  Madame handled the tiller; Bonnet pulled at the oars. Light poured down from a deep-blue sky through breaks in low scattered clouds. The boat glided along olive-green waters past muddy banks lined with willows and reddish-golden poplars, their images reflected on the river’s smooth surface. The air had a nostalgic country smell; crisp, clean, and earthy, as though the modern, industrialized metropolis had receded in both time and space.

  Madame regarded her lover with ambivalence. She admired his brute strength and cunning while detesting his crudity, but she cared more for him than for her cold, indifferent husband. Recently, she had discovered that she preferred Apolline to the men in her life, and that realization led her to conclude that she cared more for women than for men in general. However, that self-revelation only added to her predicament, because whether by fate or by circumstance—she would never admit to having any practicable choice in the matter—she had become hopelessly entangled with the baron and Bonnet.

  He rowed around a bend and headed toward a secluded landing. Bonnet, with Madame’s assistance, guided the boat in. He grabbed the bowline, climbed up to the dock, and secured the boat to the mooring. Then he reached down and lifted her, as easily as a father might pick up his child. Charmed by her softness, her sweet fragrance, and her enigmatic smile he kissed her deeply; she responded to his warm, rough caress and the strength in his arms.

  “I’d love you in hell, Mathilde,” he said huskily.

  “Would you, indeed? Aren’t we there, already?”

  Bonnet winced as though she had slapped his face. He turned away from her and started walking up the pier to the stone stairway that led to the guinguette’s terrace. After a moment, she followed.

  The restaurant perched atop a low bluff overlooking the river. The terrace contained several rough wooden tables and benches set within a circle of lindens. The dying leaves glowed yellowish brown in the pale autumn light. Madame’s eyes scanned around the area of the outdoor dance floor, the small tavern, and the restaurant. The place seemed deserted; the only other guests were a couple of oarsmen who sat on the other side of the terrace where they drank wine, smoked pipes, and absorbed themselves in a game of draughts.

  “It’s very quiet,” she remarked.

  “Yes, the crowds won’t come until later for the music and dancing. That’s why we came early. And more important, we needn’t worry about the flics.”

  “And who, may I ask, are the flics?”

  “The pigs—the police. Lefebvre’s snoops are swarming all over Paris, but they avoid certain joints that are known to be bad for their health.”

  “Ah yes, the police. You seemed particularly concerned about them this morning. Will you let me in on the secret?”

  “It’s no secret, Mathilde. We’re in trouble. They’re wise to our game.”

  She smiled and spoke patronizingly, as if to provoke him. “Wise to our game? Will you please speak French?”

  “All right, Madame. I’ll put it in words you can understand. The five thousand francs the baron paid me is gone. Legros must have taken it the last day they searched the house.”

  “But Inspector Legros told me they found nothing of interest?”

  Bonnet laughed at her apparent ignorance. “He’s a crafty one, all right; just like his master, M. Lefebvre.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Keep quiet. The proprietor’s coming.”

  The proprietor, a stout, balding man with a long, drooping moustache, came over and greeted Bonnet like an old friend. “Hello, Eugene. Nice day for a row, isn’t it?”

  Bonnet smiled. “A perfect day, my friend.” He placed a hand on Madame’s shoulder and made an introduction. “This is my friend Mathilde.” He turned to Madame. “Mathilde, meet Jacques Simon, th
e friendliest tavern keeper on the river.”

  Madame smiled and gave her best imitation of a coquette. “Pleased to meet you, M. Simon.”

  “Thanks, dearie,” he replied. “But please call me Jacques. We aren’t formal here. Now I know how rowing gives you an appetite. It’s early, but I could fry some fresh fish, or if you prefer I have a nice rabbit stew.”

  “Oh, that sounds lovely,” she replied. “But I’m not so hungry.” She turned to Bonnet. “What do you want—dearie?”

  Bonnet frowned at her, then said to Simon, “Just bring us red wine, bread, and some good cheese.”

  As soon as the proprietor left, Madame opened her purse and took out her cigarette case.

  “You aren’t going to smoke here?”

  “That was my intention,” she replied. “Do you object?”

  “Yes, I do. I don’t like it when you smoke in public. It makes you look cheap.”

  The baroness sighed. “In case you haven’t noticed, my dear, this is not the Café Riche.” She held the cigarette near her lips and stared. “Well? I’m waiting.”

  Bonnet took out a box of matches and gave her a light.

  Madame carelessly blew a plume of smoke in Bonnet’s face. “Now then, what were you saying about five thousand francs and the police?”

  “They know something. Manuela must have talked to Mignonette and she tipped off Legros. Now they’re holding Mignonette somewhere where we can’t get at her. I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time before they take me in for questioning.”

  “What do you suggest we do?”

  “I need to get out of France, and soon. I know someone who can smuggle me over the border to Spain—for a price. From there, I can catch a boat to South America. I have friends in Buenos Aires.”

  “What about me? And where will you get the money?”

  “When the time comes, you can join me. The police are after me, not you. I killed Manuela, not that you objected much.”