The Man Upon the Stair
Page 16
“I believe so, but it’s a shame about the canary. I forgot they only sell the birds on Sunday. Anyway, I picked out a lovely yellow rose for my little one. That’s her mother’s favorite. By the way, you must come in for a drink and meet the family.”
“That’s kind of you, Chief, but Sergeant Adam gave strict orders—”
“Nonsense. Adam’s becoming an old mother hen. Why, he’s—”
“Monsieur Lefebvre, you’re in danger!” Duroc shouted.
Achille stopped, spun around, looked up the quay, and saw Duroc and Adam running toward him. He dropped the flowers on the pavement, reached under his coat, and pulled out his Chamelot-Delvigne. “Cover my back, Bouvier,” he cried. There was an exchange of shots behind him, the screams and shouts of bystanders, but Achille remained focused. No more than ten paces in front of him, a man wearing a slouch hat and long gray coat stepped out from behind a stall and aimed a revolver. Achille recognized the Lefaucheux.
They fired simultaneously, Giraud once and Achille twice. The stink of gunpowder mixed with the floral perfume. Achille felt something sharp, like a beesting, on his left cheek above the beard line. He was about to fire a third time when he saw his enemy drop to his knees, clutch his chest, and fall forward facedown on the paving stones.
Duroc halted and stooped to disarm, bind, and guard the wounded assassin while Adam ran on to his chief. “Are you all right, Monsieur Lefebvre?”
Achille wiped a trickle of blood from his cheek. “Yes, it’s just a scratch. Where’s Bouvier?” He turned around and saw the detective down on one knee, gripping his smoking revolver in one hand as he held the inside of his thigh with the other.
A policeman had arrived on the scene. A small crowd had gathered around Breton, who was lying on his back, kicking and groaning in agony as he grabbed at a gaping hole in his gut.
Achille called out and gestured to the police officer. “Monsieur l’Agent, I’m Lefebvre of the Sûreté. One of my men is wounded. We must get him to the hospital immediately.”
The policeman snapped to attention. “Yes, M. Lefebvre. What about the others?”
He scowled at the writhing Breton. “They can die here or in le bagne. It makes no difference to me. At any rate, my detective comes first. We can attend to the thugs later. And get these people out of here. This isn’t a circus.”
“Yes, Monsieur.” The officer admonished the curiosity seekers before leaving to flag down a vehicle to carry Bouvier to the Hôtel-Dieu. The laggards dispersed as more police came to secure the area.
Adam knelt at Bouvier’s side. The sergeant cut the detective’s trouser leg and placed a handkerchief on the wound to stanch the bleeding. “That’s better, isn’t it?” he said gently. “We’ll have you at the hospital in no time.”
Achille came over. “Hang on, old man. You’ll be all right.”
Bouvier looked up and noticed the blood running down his chief’s face. “You’re wounded, Monsieur,” he grunted.
Achille smiled. “It’s a fleabite.” He reached down and brushed some hair away from the detective’s eyes. “Be quiet now.”
They heard the rumble of carriage wheels and the clopping of horse hooves. The gendarme had returned with a commandeered fiacre.
“Can you walk on one leg if we support you?” Adam asked Bouvier.
“I think so,” the detective replied.
Achille and Adam half-carried Bouvier to the carriage. They lifted the groaning detective into the compartment and tried to make him as comfortable as possible for the short ride to the hospital. The gendarme mounted the running board and took out his truncheon to wave away traffic.
Before they left the flower market, Achille leaned out the carriage door and called and gestured to Duroc and one of the gendarmes. “Get a cart for the racaille and take them to the hospital.”
“It’s the Morgue for them, M. Lefebvre,” Duroc replied.
“Very well then, to the Morgue,” the chief replied.
The carriage rolled over Achille’s scattered roses, made its way up the quay, and turned right onto the Rue de la Cité and then left on the Parvis de Notre-Dame. Achille glanced out the window at the ancient buttressed walls of the cathedral. He turned to Bouvier, took out a handkerchief, and wiped perspiration from the detective’s brow. “We’re almost there, old man,” he whispered.
Bouvier looked up at his chief and tried to smile. “Thank you, M. Lefebvre,” he replied.
Achille waited on a hard wooden bench in a vast vaulted corridor outside the bloc opératoire. Light poured in through an apparently endless row of arched windows. The place was quiet except for the echoing footsteps of white-coated doctors, sisters, and attendants pushing gurneys into and out from the operating theaters.
He shifted and squirmed on the uncomfortable seat and glanced at his watch. The sound of a heavy tread made him look up to his right. He immediately recognized the hulking figure of Rousseau.
“Good afternoon, Achille. May I join you?”
“Good afternoon, Rousseau. Please do.”
The inspector sat down next to the chief. “My God, these benches are torture on one’s buttocks,” he muttered. “How long have you been here?”
“Almost an hour. The chief surgeon said he’d come out and see me as soon as they’re finished with Bouvier.”
“Where did he get it?”
“In the thigh. The surgeons say the bullet missed the bone and major artery. They believe they can avoid amputation. Thank God those Apache pistols aren’t too accurate and don’t pack much punch at a distance.”
Rousseau nodded, then noticed the bandage on Achille’s face. “Looks like you took a bullet, too.”
“It’s nothing, but two centimeters up and a little to the right and I might have lost an eye—or worse.”
“You always were lucky, my friend.”
“Yes, I’m lucky.” He paused a moment before saying, “I wanted to thank Duroc. If he hadn’t arrived when he did, things might have been worse.”
“I’ll give him your thanks. He’s always wanted to make up for the Ménard case.”
“Yes, I imagined he would. Well, when things calm down he can come to my office and I’ll thank him personally.”
“That’s very kind of you; I’m sure he’ll appreciate the gesture.”
Achille nodded. “By the way, if you don’t mind my asking, how did those two give you the slip?”
Rousseau sighed. “It’s an imperfect world. My men were tired from working twelve-hour shifts. The assassins’ inactivity lulled them to sleep and they became a little careless. Fortunately, we got a good tip about the ambush. You’re usually in the office late; I apologize for not warning you in time.”
“Apology accepted. There’s something else: Orlovsky sent a couple of his thugs out to rough up Delphine. I won’t tolerate that. Do you want to tell him, or should I?”
“I know about the incident. I already spoke to our Russian friend. He was out of line; it won’t happen again.” Rousseau grinned. “Delphine thrashed the bastards. She’s quite a woman, isn’t she?”
Achille nodded his agreement without further comment. “We need to discuss the de Livet matter, but not now. Can you meet me at the usual time, tomorrow morning at the Sainte-Chapelle?”
“All right.”
They sat quietly for a while, each lost in his thoughts. Achille broke the silence. “I don’t feel like going home just now. It’s as if I were unclean. Do you ever feel dirty after you’ve killed a man?”
Rousseau shook his head. “No, but I’ve killed more than you have, so I’m used to it. Messy but necessary.”
“Perhaps, but I would have preferred to let our justice system deal with them.” Am I being hypocritical? he thought. Achille stared at Rousseau. He noticed the hint of a wry smile on the inspector’s granitic face. “I wanted to bring them in, if only to question them. Otherwise, I’ll admit they were of little use to society. They won’t be missed. At any rate, when it comes to killing criminals
I’m catching up to you. I’ve shot and killed two this year—so far.”
“Don’t let it bother you, Achille. It’s a matter of public health and safety, like sweeping the streets and cleaning out the sewers. Besides, it’s easier to forgive your enemies after they’re dead.”
“Have you forgiven anyone, Rousseau?”
The inspector shrugged. “No, not yet. But who knows? Maybe I will, someday.”
The chief of surgery exited a nearby operating theater. Achille got up and walked over to the surgeon.
“Pardon me, Doctor. How is Detective Bouvier? Will he pull through?”
The doctor smiled and put a hand on Achille’s shoulder. “I believe so, M. Lefebvre. He’s young and strong, and the operation went well. The bullet did not penetrate far, and we’ve cleaned and dressed the wound.”
Achille sighed with relief. “Thank God. May I see him?”
“Not now, Monsieur. He’s recovering from the anesthetic. Come back tomorrow.”
“Yes, I will. Thank you; thank you very much.”
Achille said good-bye to the surgeon and returned to the bench, eager to give Rousseau the news. But the inspector had already gone. His heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Achille returned to his office. He noticed detectives milling about, but no one dared approach him without being summoned. He gave orders to his clerk.
“Are Legros and Adam available?”
“Yes, Monsieur Lefebvre.”
“Good. I want to see them immediately. Otherwise, I’m not to be disturbed.”
“Very well, Monsieur.”
Achille entered his office, went to his desk, and took out the bottle of prunelle and a glass. He poured a stiff shot and drank it down. There was a knock on the door.
The chief wiped his lips and moustache, coughed, cleared his throat, and returned the liqueur to its drawer. “Come in.”
Legros and Adam entered and approached the desk, where they stopped and remained at attention.
Achille smiled to put them at ease. “Relax, gentlemen. I assure you I’m well, and I have good news: Detective Bouvier’s wound is not serious. The chief surgeon is confident our colleague will recover and return to duty.” He turned to Legros. “Inspector.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Assemble the brigade. I’ll address them in ten minutes.”
Legros left the office. Adam was about to do the same when Achille said:
“I haven’t dismissed you, Sergeant.”
“I’m sorry, Monsieur.”
“That’s all right. I wanted to thank you personally. You and your detail have done a commendable service. I now relieve you of that duty.”
“But, Chief—”
Achille raised his hand for silence. “Please hear me out. This evening I’ll return home as usual, without an escort. The people of Paris must know that I can walk our streets unafraid. However, I have another job for you that’s of equal importance and which I’m sure you’ll handle admirably.
“I’m going to prepare a statement for the press that will be accompanied by postmortem photographs of the assassins. In addition, I’m going to have the bodies displayed in the refrigeration room on the pretext that they are unidentified. I imagine that will draw quite a crowd to the Morgue.
“I want you to form a special detail to patrol the viewing area. If your men notice any signs of recognition among the viewers, expressions of sympathy and so forth, I want those individuals identified and their names reported to me. Understood?”
“Yes, M. Lefebvre. And thank you for your confidence in me. I won’t let you down.”
“You’ve done well, Sergeant. Now go join your men. I’ll be with you presently.”
As soon as Adam left, Achille dashed off a note to Adele and rang for a messenger. Next, he considered what he would say to the brigade, but with the time constraints, he would have to manage the speech extempore. He began drafting a statement for the press; a knock interrupted.
Legros opened the door a crack and poked in his head. “The men are assembled and waiting for you, Chief.”
“Thank you, Étienne; I’m coming.” Achille entered a hallway crammed with detectives buzzing with anticipation and speculation as to what M. Lefebvre might say. They fell silent on sight of their chief.
Achille gazed at familiar faces, Féraud’s “old boys” interspersed among younger veterans and new recruits. He took a moment to collect his thoughts and clear his throat before speaking.
“Men of the brigade, I’ve called you together to inform you of the events of this afternoon.” Too damned formal, he thought. He smiled sheepishly and scratched at his bandage. “This bloody thing itches like the devil.”
There was a small burst of nervous laughter.
“All right, men,” Achille continued. “As you can see I’m quite well, and your colleague, Detective Bouvier, is on the mend and should soon be fit enough to return to duty. And, thanks to Bouvier, Sergeant Adam, and the timely warning provided by Detective Duroc, the assassins are where they belong—in the Morgue.”
There was a round of respectful applause until Inspector Faucher, an old veteran close to retirement, shouted, “What about you, Chief? We know what you did. You stood face-to-face, pistol-to-pistol, with one of them, and shot him down. I say hurrah for M. Lefebvre! Hurrah for our brave chief of detectives!”
The brigade broke out in a roar that resounded through the halls and corridors and reverberated onto the quay. Achille brushed away a tear and tried to speak, but the cheers drowned out his words.
Achille remained in his office and attended to business, much of it routine, until nine thirty. He worked late on purpose. The extra hours gave him time to compose himself before returning home. Moreover, he did not want to be greeted by anyone except Adele. The children would be long asleep, and the servants and Mignonette should either be sleeping or in their rooms getting ready for bed. His mother-in-law would be awake, but he prayed she would remain ensconced in her boudoir.
He left headquarters and headed home by what he considered the safest route, past the guards at the Palais de Justice, through the Place Dauphine to the Pont Neuf, and across to the Quai de la Mégisserie. In open spaces his focus intensified, his eyes scanning the area for prowlers, his ears alert to the sound of footsteps.
His coat remained open for rapid and easy access to the holstered Chamelot-Delvigne. Before leaving the office, he had ejected the expended cartridge casings and cleaned and reloaded the revolver.
The previous year, Achille had taken Adele and Jeanne to Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show at the Universal Exposition. The American marksmanship and quick-draw artistry impressed him, and he had modified his shoulder holster and shooting technique accordingly. He was surprised that Giraud had time to aim and fire. Achille figured the flowers he carried had slowed him down, just by a split second. The image of blood and roses on the pavement had haunted him all afternoon.
He took comfort in the full moon, its light reflected on the dark, rippling Seine, the gas lamps glowing on the bridge and the quay, the radiant Eiffel Tower rising above tall trees, domes and rooftops in the near distance, the running lights on barges chugging under the bridge. Nevertheless, he was especially wary of the clochards who huddled together for shelter on the embankment beneath the arches of the Pont Neuf. In the past, he often stopped to observe the homeless and ponder their plight; that evening he wondered if assassins might be hiding among them.
He walked up the Quai de la Mégisserie past his favorite book stall where he had purchased, among other things, a first edition of Verlaine’s Les Poètes Maudits. Branches rattled; a sudden cold gust blew up from the river.
His pace slowed; his right hand reached under his coat and grasped the butt end of his revolver. Giraud’s ghost emerged from behind the stall, the way he appeared in the flower market. Achille drove away the phantom with a quote from Napoleon I: The bullet that will kill me is not yet cast. He picked up his step and walked on.
“Thank you, Gautier. I trust all’s quiet in the neighborhood?”
“Yes, Monsieur, but everyone hereabouts is talking about the shootout. I spoke to Detective Allard not more than two hours ago. He said you’d relieved him from guard duty but asked me to keep a sharp eye, just in case.”
“I very much appreciate that. I’m sure we’ll be safe on your watch. Now, I’m afraid it’s late and I must get home to my family.”
“Of course, Monsieur; I won’t detain you any longer.”
Achille continued on to his apartment, wondering how Adele had reacted to the gossip about the gunfight. His apprehensions were magnified by Mme Cazenave, the concierge, who waylaid him in the foyer. The old woman speculated as to the assassins’ national origins, political leanings, religious affiliations or lack thereof, and sexual proclivities. He listened politely before saying, “Excuse me, Madame; it’s late and my family is waiting,” which initiated more than a minute of apologies, expressions of sympathy, and praise for his courage and devotion to duty. Finally, with some effort, he escaped her tenacious grasp.
Achille walked up to the first landing, took out his key chain, and unlocked the door. He heard a rustle of silk and soft footsteps and saw a flicker of light at the end of the dark hallway. As the source of the light drew nearer, two female figures emerged from the shadows. He disguised his disappointment behind an amiable mask.
Mme Berthier preceded her daughter; Adele followed respectfully, carrying an oil lamp. As his mother-in-law came forward to greet him, he inhaled a familiar armoire odor of attar of roses and camphor emanating from her old-fashioned bombazine dress.
“Good evening, Achille. I insisted upon the honor of being the first to greet you. We’ve all heard of your splendid deed; the market was abuzz with it. Mme Gros predicts you’ll be awarded the Légion d’Honneur.”