“Madame Gros does tend to exaggerate,” Achille replied.
“Nonsense, my boy.” She adjusted her spectacles and peered up at his bandaged cheek. “But you’re wounded. Are you all right?”
“It’s a scratch, nothing more.”
Mme Berthier smiled and turned to Adele. “You see, my dear. He’s just like your father. The colonel almost lost his right arm at Solferino. When he came home I made a fuss about his wounds and he said, ‘It’s just a scratch,’ and would hear no more of it.”
“Yes, Mama; I’ve heard the story many times.”
Madame narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying I repeat myself?”
Adele sighed. “No, Mama; please forgive me. I’m sure Achille is tired and would like to get ready for bed.”
“Oh of course; of course.” She turned back to Achille. “Forgive me, my boy. I’ll leave you two alone. Good night, and God bless you.”
He smiled and made a slight bow. “Thank you, Madame. Good night.”
“Take the lamp, Mother,” Adele said. “We’ll get another from the sitting room.”
They waited silently as Madame shuffled up the corridor and then disappeared into her boudoir.
“I need a drink,” Achille whispered.
“Me too,” she replied.
They entered the sitting room. “Wait here,” Adele said. “You always trip in the dark.” She felt her way carefully to a coffee table where she found a matchbox. Adele lit the table lamp and turned up the screw. “All right, my dear; you can come here now. What do you want?”
“Cognac, please.” He walked over to his favorite armchair, sat, and eased back in its warm, familiar embrace.
Adele returned with the drinks. She handed Achille the cognac before saying, “I’ll take off your shoes and get the footstool.”
“Bless you, my dear; you’re an angel.”
He sipped cognac as she removed his boots, fetched the stool, and lifted his feet. She massaged his toes and soles until he sighed with pleasure.
“Are you comfortable?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you; very comfortable,” he replied.
“Good.” She brought a chair and sat opposite him. “Now, please tell me what happened this afternoon, and don’t leave anything out.”
Achille put down his glass, sat up, and stared at her through his pincenez. He tried to read the thoughts hidden behind her enigmatic smile but could not. He decided to be as forthright as possible.
“I’ll tell you what I can, my love, but some things must remain unsaid. Do you understand?”
“I’m not sure I do, but please continue.”
Achille narrated the assassination plot and its outcome, while downplaying the danger and omitting the names of the assassins. He said the “unidentified” individuals could have been friends of Moreau; their motive was revenge. He did not disclose his veiled reason for putting the bodies on public display.
When he finished she asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you had detectives watching our home?”
“I did it in an excess of caution, my dear; I didn’t want you to worry needlessly.”
“You might have been killed. You say it’s nothing but a scratch, but the bullet came very close to your eye. You were lucky.”
Achille smiled. “Rousseau said something similar, but you’re both wrong. Luck had little if anything to do with it.”
“Please explain.”
“There’s a difference between relying on luck and taking calculated risks. Bouvier and I have superior weapons and training. The assassins didn’t have a chance. They were lucky to hit us.”
“How did you know they carried inferior weapons and lacked your skills?”
Achille realized he had said too much. He shrugged it off. “I know the type, my dear. How about another drink?”
She got up and started toward the liquor cabinet. As she came by his chair, Achille reached out, took her wrist gently, and pulled her onto his lap. “I’m sorry to have worried you so,” he said. “But please trust my judgment.”
She gazed at him with moist eyes. “I wish you’d trust me with your secrets. You ought to have told me, Achille.”
He toyed with a couple of stray ringlets. “You’re right, Adele. I apologize. If I seem furtive at times, it’s only because I don’t want to burden you with the troubles of my office. I need your support, now more than ever. We’re making significant progress in the de Livet case.”
The news got her attention. She sat up, put her hands on his shoulders, and looked him in the eyes. “Are you about to crack it?”
He smiled slyly. “Perhaps. But for now, I need rest. I’ve a five o’clock appointment with Rousseau.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes, Madame. Let’s go to bed. Shall I carry you?”
Adele laughed softly. “You fool. It’s dark in the hallway. You might stumble and land us both in the hospital.”
He eased her off his lap, rose from the chair, and swept her up in his arms as effortlessly as he had done on their wedding night. “With the light in your lovely eyes to guide me,” he whispered, “I’ll never fall.”
12
MOVING SHADOWS
The moon hid behind a purplish cloud cover. A steady drizzle burgeoned into a shower as Achille crossed the Pont au Change to the Boulevard du Palais. He opened an umbrella that, like Delphine’s, doubled as a weapon for close combat.
On the way to his meeting with Rousseau, Achille considered a tactic the Japanese fighters called Moving the Shadow. When you cannot determine your adversary’s intentions, you pretend to initiate an attack to force his hand. It’s time I moved shadows with M. Orlovsky, he thought. Boots splashing on the pavement, he continued on to the Sainte-Chapelle.
The guard at the entrance recognized the chief of detectives, but Achille still showed his badge as a matter of form.
“Good morning, M. Lefebvre. Inspector Rousseau is waiting inside.”
“Thank you, Mathieu. Carry on.”
Achille shook out and closed his umbrella before entering the vaulted nave. He spotted Rousseau in his usual place, half-hidden in the shadows under the arcade. He walked toward the inspector, footsteps echoing up the aisle.
“Good morning, Professor. If you don’t mind my saying so, you resemble a drowned rat.”
“Good morning, Rousseau. Yes, a downpour arrived just as I was crossing the bridge.”
“Do you want some brandy to keep out the cold?”
“No thanks; it’s too early for me.”
“Not for me, my friend.” Rousseau pulled out a pocket flask and took a long swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “That hit the spot.”
“Pardon me, Rousseau. Before we get into the case, I’d like to ask you a question.”
“Ask away.”
“Yesterday at the hospital I was going to give you the good news about Bouvier. Why did you leave so abruptly?”
“I read the news on the surgeon’s face. They don’t usually smile like that when they tell you the patient’s going to croak.”
“I see. Over the years, I’ve noticed you don’t like to hang around one place too long. Is that a tactic?”
The inspector grinned. “It’s a habit, Professor, formed by more than twenty years on the streets. Keeping on the move is good for your health.”
“You’ve fought off more than one ambush, haven’t you?”
“True, but the trick is to avoid getting into situations where you’re likely to be jumped and trapped.”
“I agree. Not long ago, I asked Maître Leclerc to assess my chances against two assassins like Giraud and Breton. He said my likelihood of prevailing was quite good. Then I asked how he thought I would do against three or four and I mentioned your famous fight with the four Apaches. Can you guess what he said?”
“No, but I believe you’re about to tell me.”
“‘Ah, but that was Rousseau. People say he’s not human.’”
Rousseau’s laughter r
umbled throughout the nave. “It’s good to have that reputation; it scares hell out of the racaille. On the other hand, there’s always some young punk who wants to have a go at you.”
“Leclerc was speaking figuratively. He meant you’re sui generis.”
“Spare me your Latin, Professor. I hope that’s not an insult. If it is, I’m afraid I’ll have to challenge you and M. Leclerc, too.”
“It’s far from an insult, Rousseau. It means you’re unique—one of a kind. A great compliment.”
“Very well, and I suppose I could say the same for you. Now, if we’re finished kissing each other’s ass, can you please tell me why we are here?”
“First, regarding Giraud and Breton; as far as the public is concerned, they are as yet unidentified. I’m putting them on display at the Morgue, like pieces of cheese to draw the mice out of the woodwork and into my trap.”
“Good thinking, Professor. I assume if you identify any persons of interest you’ll share the information with me?”
“Of course, but I’m not going to keep them on the slabs too long. Someone might get wise, and that would be embarrassing.”
“All right, Achille. Anything else?”
“Yes. I understand the Okhrana wants to get its hands on the baron before I do. Do you know why?”
Rousseau raised an inquiring eyebrow. “You’ve developed a theory of the case?”
“You’re answering my question with a question.”
Rousseau stared at Achille for a while before responding. “Orlovsky’s scared, and so is Colonel Mukhin. The baron must have outsmarted our Russian friends. Naturally, they like working in Paris. If they’ve been duped and it gets back to their masters in St. Petersburg, Orlovsky and Mukhin could be reassigned somewhere less pleasant, like a Siberian penal colony. That’s all I know.”
“All right; that’s their problem. I need to send a strong message to the Russians, and I want to do it in person. They can play their cloak-and-dagger games as long as they don’t cross the line and commit a serious crime in my jurisdiction. If they screw up on my watch, I’ll arrest them.”
“They’ll claim diplomatic immunity. Have you discussed this with M. Leblanc and the prefect?”
“No, not yet. I want to see Orlovsky first, but not in Montmartre. The three of us can meet at the brasserie on the Rue de Harlay in daylight.”
“Across from the Palais de Justice, eh? That’ll make him squirm. All right, I’ll arrange it. What about the Deuxième Bureau?”
“I’ll keep them informed. One of their agents, a Russian émigré, might be working with the baron. I don’t know. At any rate, as long as this matter doesn’t involve trading in our military secrets they don’t need to take a more active role.
“Here’s my chief concern: If the Okhrana gets to the baron before I do, they’re to turn him over to me unharmed. The same goes for his confederates. It’s my case, Rousseau. I want the meeting here to make a point. I might even take M. Orlovsky on a tour of the Conciergerie, the Dépôt, and holding cells. He could find it educational.”
The inspector smirked at his former partner. “You’re still angry about the incident with Delphine, aren’t you?”
“That’s my affair.”
Rousseau shrugged. “Of course, Achille.” He glanced around the dark nave and scrutinized the sunless windows. “Do you think we’re closer to God in this place than we are on the street?”
Achille was surprised. In all the years he had known Rousseau, he had never heard the detective mention God. He recalled what he had learned about aesthetics, the relationship between the divine and the beautiful. The Saint-Chapelle represented the ancient and medieval concepts of beauty: integrity, harmony, and clarity. Achille appreciated these things, just as he appreciated the beauty of nature when he rowed on the rivers around Paris. Moreover, he considered himself fortunate to have a lovely and loving wife and children who could pull him away from the dark underworld where he fought with demons, an environment portrayed in a new aesthetic by artists like his friend Toulouse-Lautrec. Scenes from hell in gaslight, he thought. Nevertheless, he was attracted to that world just as he was drawn to Lautrec’s art.
“I’m waiting, Professor.” Rousseau broke in on Achille’s musing.
“I didn’t know you were interested in theology,” Achille replied drily.
“I’m not. I’m just asking a question. After all, you’re the professor. I thought you had all the answers.”
Achille shook his head. “I have many questions, my friend, and few answers.” He looked up at the vast expanse of stained glass, asleep in predawn darkness, lulled by a dull patter of raindrops. “You should return when the chapel is filled with sunlight and shimmering beauty. That might answer your question.”
“It might answer my question? Perhaps, or perhaps not. At any rate, this day will be gray and gloomy, and as you’ve noticed, I don’t like to hang around one place for too long. I’ll see you this afternoon, at the brasserie near the Place Dauphine. I’m certain Orlovsky will accept your kind invitation. Duroc will bring a message to confirm the time.”
“Good. That will give me a chance to thank Duroc personally for his warning. But make our meeting with Orlovsky for the late afternoon. Legros is out finding facts that could be of significance to our investigation, not to mention quite interesting to the Russians.”
“Very well, Professor. Au revoir.”
“Au revoir, Rousseau.”
Legros sat in the concierge’s kitchen at Mme Behrs’s apartment house on the Rue de Turenne. Outside, a cold steady rain came down, streaming along gutters, flowing through drainpipes, and gathering in puddles on the pavement.
M. Aubert carried a freshly brewed pot of coffee to the table. “It’s nice to be in a warm, cozy place on a day like this, isn’t it, Inspector Legros?”
“Indeed it is, M. Aubert, and especially when one can enjoy an excellent cup of coffee in good company.”
The old man smiled. “That’s exactly what I was thinking, M. Legros.” He set down the coffee service and poured for his guest before taking his seat at the table.
Legros had ingratiated himself with the concierge. He concluded that the old man was lonely and would be more forthcoming in response to the inspector’s congenial approach. Unfortunately, this tactic had so far produced nothing but gossip and speculation as to the goings-on in Mme Behrs’s apartment, which proved nothing except for the prurience of the old man’s imagination. Legros hoped that the photographs in his briefcase would yield something of value to the investigation.
Aubert blew into the steaming cup and took a couple of sips. “Ah, that’s perfection,” he remarked. “Is it to your liking, M. Legros?”
Legros tasted the coffee. “Thank you, M. Aubert. It’s just the way I like it.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t care for a lump of sugar?”
“No, thank you, Monsieur. It’s fine as it is.”
The old man shrugged. “As you please, Inspector.” He opened the sugar bowl, dropped a lump in his cup, stirred, and took another sip. After a moment, he put down his coffee and asked, “Have you more information concerning Mme Behrs’s whereabouts?”
“No, Monsieur, but I’ve brought something that I hope will help in that regard.”
The statement piqued Aubert’s curiosity. “Oh, and what might that be?”
“With your permission, Monsieur.” Legros lifted his briefcase and placed it on the table. “I’ve brought a group of photographs for your inspection.”
“Photographs? What sort of photographs?” Aubert’s eyes lit up as though he anticipated pictures of Mme Behrs in compromising situations.
“They are photographs of coats of arms. I was hoping you might be able to identify the insignia you saw on the coach door. If I may?”
Aubert could not conceal his disappointment. “Very well, M. Legros. I’ll have a look at them.”
Legros opened the briefcase, took out the photographs, and arranged them on the tabletop. �
�Now, Monsieur, will you please examine each one carefully. Take your time; there’s no rush.”
Aubert adjusted his spectacles and started viewing the pictures. He went down the first row, frowned, and shook his head. When he reached the middle of the second row, he stopped and picked up a photograph for scrutiny. He studied the picture for a full minute before saying, “Yes, M. Legros. This is it; I’m certain.”
Legros looked at the emblem Aubert had identified. “Are you sure this is it? Would you like to reconsider the others?”
“No, Monsieur. This is the insignia I saw on the coach door.”
“Could you swear to that in court?”
Aubert hesitated a moment before declaring, “Yes, Inspector. If necessary, I would swear to it.”
“Thank you, M. Aubert. Thank you very much.” Legros snatched the photograph from Aubert’s hand, marked it with a pencil, and made a notation on a chart. Then he packed everything in his briefcase, put on his hat and overcoat, and grabbed his umbrella, which he had left to dry in a corner near the oven. “You’ve been very helpful, Monsieur. I apologize, but I must leave at once. Thank you again for your assistance and your hospitality.” With that, he dashed out into the rain, slamming the door behind him.
Legros seemed to have vanished like a ghost. Aubert stared at the doorway. Then he turned his attention to the inspector’s cup. “He hardly touched it,” the old man muttered. Aubert sighed, shook his head, and returned to his coffee and fantasies of Mme Behrs.
Mme Renard, the cook, and Honoré, the gardener, sat at a kitchen table in the de Livet mansion. The sound of raindrops clattering in the gutters and beating against the windowpanes mixed with the lugubrious tones emanating from a grand piano in the music room.
“I wish she’d stop, Mme Renard,” Honoré muttered. “Or at least play something cheerful. That music gives me the creeps.”
“I think it’s the only thing Madame plays well, poor thing,” Mme Renard replied.
The two oldest servants had come together for tea and a Tarot reading. Mme Renard had a reputation for clairvoyance and a knack for descrying the esoteric cards. With Manuela dead, the baron still missing, and Mignonette in police custody, the household staff was naturally anxious. Moreover, Madame had become increasingly moody and withdrawn and Bonnet more irritable and menacing. There was backstairs grumbling and talk of giving notice, but good positions were hard to find in Paris, especially when a servant came from a house tainted with scandal.
The Man Upon the Stair Page 17