The Man Upon the Stair

by Gary Inbinder

  The most superstitious servants had resorted to fortune-telling to determine the household’s future. Mme Renard continued interpreting the cards she had placed on the tabletop, each row representing the past, present, and future, until she turned over the Hanged Man. She paused in her reading and took a sip of tea.

  The gardener’s face wrinkled in a worried frown. “I don’t like that card, Madame. We used to call it ‘The Traitor.’ In the old days, they’d hang villains upside down.”

  She put down her teacup and smiled. “It’s not necessarily bad, Honoré. The card signifies suspense, a state of inaction and contemplation. The fortunes of the house of de Livet are at a crossroads and could go forward in any number of directions. The next card will be revealing.”

  A lightning flash lit the kitchen followed by a thunderclap that rattled the windows.

  “Sacristi! That reminded me of the Prussian guns in ’71.”

  Mme Renard gazed through the rain-streaked windows at a gray-green sky. Is it a sign? Her eyes widened in anticipation, and she hesitated before turning over the next card—Death.

  Honoré crossed himself. “God help us, Mme Renard. Surely that can’t be good?”

  She swept up the cards and shuffled them back into the deck. The fortune-teller stared at the gardener for a moment before saying, “How about some rum for our tea?”

  Bonnet knocked at the music room door. “It’s me, Mathilde. I’m coming in.”

  The music stopped. Bonnet entered and closed the door behind him. Madame sat in the shadows, her face turned away from him, her eyes on the keyboard. The electricity was off, and she had not lit the lamps or the candles. As Bonnet approached, he smelled the heavy odor of tobacco smoke mingled with Madame’s musky perfume. An ashtray filled with lip rouge–smeared cigarette butts rested on the piano next to an almost-empty brandy decanter and a glass.

  Bonnet tried to place his hand on her shoulder, but she shrank from him, like a nervous cat.

  He sighed. “I’m so sorry, Mathilde. I came to thank you again for the diamonds. It’s arranged for early tomorrow morning. I can’t tell you when; it’s best you don’t know.”

  “I see,” she said without looking at him. “I’ll miss the diamonds. They meant a great deal to me.”

  “I’ll try to make it up to you. When I get settled in Buenos Aires I’ll send for you—if you’ll have me.”

  Madame sniffed and shook her head. She wiped away tears and said, “Please go.”

  Bonnet stood silently for a moment before turning and leaving the room.

  After he left, Madame looked up and gazed out the French windows that opened onto a terrace. Through the rain, she could make out the form of an overflowing alabaster fountain. Why waste tears on a worthless man? she thought. She reached for the decanter and poured another glass. The cognac burned her throat and she coughed.

  After a while, she put down her drink and continued playing Chopin’s “Raindrop Prelude.” She recalled reading about Chopin and George Sand’s romantic interlude on Majorca. It had rained heavily on the island, and the prelude’s repeating A-flat reminded her of raindrops. Moreover, the dirgelike section seemed to portend the composer’s premature death. “Romantic nonsense,” she muttered.

  Mme Renard was right; the bittersweet prelude was the only piece Mathilde de Livet played well.

  Le Boudin, ex-Legionnaire and uncrowned king of the chiffonniers, established his domain between the two lines of fortifications surrounding Paris, in the strip of wasteland called the Zone. To enter his “kingdom” you exited the capital through the Porte de Clignancourt, passed by the glacis and weed-clogged ditch of the Thiers wall, and continued toward the town of Saint-Ouen.

  Le Boudin built his compound on a low mound near the road, a place once occupied by Prussian artillery during the Siege of 1870–71. From this vantage point, the ragpicker king contemplated the walls of Paris and the flea market where he and his people peddled their wares.

  Over the years, the market had transformed from a dangerous den of thieves into a legitimate business catering to shoppers looking for a duty-free bargain. Le Boudin employed a host of pêcheurs de lune, all licensed to pick through the city’s rubbish from which they gathered a rich harvest of rags and scrap metal.

  Le Boudin was a nondiscriminatory employer; all were welcome as long as they obeyed his rules, a simple code that M. Lefebvre would have recognized as the jus naturale, or natural law. If you lived and worked by the code, you had food, shelter, and a share in the profits. There was even provision for the aged and infirm. In that regard, Le Boudin’s domain might have resembled a commune more than a kingdom, except that the king’s word was final and his share of the profits the greatest by far. As for the jus civile of Paris and Saint-Ouen, Le Boudin figured that if he and his people lived according to his code, they would not conflict with the laws of France. In fact, he had formed a cooperative relationship with the authorities, most particularly with the newly appointed chief of detectives.

  Le Boudin and Delphine sheltered from the storm in his storehouse, a treasury of the choicest gleanings from the streets and back alleys of the twenty arrondissements. They sat at a rough-hewn table, enjoying a meal of bread, cheese, and coffee laced with rum. An occasional drop from the leaky roof splattered the unpainted pine tabletop and the surrounding floorboards.

  Delphine looked up and said, “Why don’t you get that fixed, Papa?”

  Le Boudin glanced upward and scratched his beard with his hook, a replacement for the hand he had lost fighting in Mexico. “I’ll get around to it—one of these days,” he mumbled through a half-full mouth. Then he finished chewing and washed it down with fortified coffee.

  Moïse knocked and entered. He shook himself off like a wet dog before coming to the table.

  “Hello, boss; Delphine. It’s pissing down like an old drunk on a bridge. Do you mind if I join you? I’ve news from M. Lefebvre.”

  “Pull up a chair, kid,” Le Boudin replied.

  “How is M. Lefebvre?” Delphine asked anxiously.

  Moïse smiled. “The chief’s all right. Mind if I have some coffee before giving you the details?”

  Le Boudin reached over to a nearby shelf and grabbed a mug. He looked into the cup and sniffed before handing it to Moïse. “You can use this. I don’t think the cat peed in it—at least, not recently.”

  The young chiffonier grinned. “Thanks, boss.” He poured some coffee, took a swallow, and gasped. “Whew, that’s strong. Did you spike it with that roach poison you call rum?”

  Le Boudin glared at his employee. “Are you complaining?”

  Moïse shook his head. “No, boss. It’s great. Just the way I like it.”

  “Would you please stop clowning and give us the news?” Delphine asked.

  Moïse winked at Le Boudin. “All right, I won’t keep you in suspense. M. Lefebvre is fine. He’ll just have a little scar on his cheek. One of his detectives is in hospital, but he’s on the mend. As for the assassins, they’ve moved from the Bateau-Lavoir to the Morgue. Knowing both places as I do, I’d say that’s an improvement.”

  “Did he have a message for me?” Delphine asked impatiently.

  Moïse sipped his coffee before saying, “Keep your panties on, kid. I’m coming to it.”

  “I’m warning you, runt,” Delphine said.

  Moïse smiled and shook his head. “Feisty, isn’t she, boss?”

  “Yes,” Le Boudin growled. “But she’s right. Get on with it.”

  “Very well, boss. M. Lefebvre sends you both greetings. Delphine’s not to worry. She can go home any time she wants. Sergeant Rodin arrested the thugs who ganged up on her, and they squealed on the Russian. M. Lefebvre’s putting the screws on. But if you ask me, Delphine doesn’t need the police. You should have seen her fight. She’s awfully tough—for a girl.”

  Delphine frowned. “Tough enough to kick your scrawny ass.”

  Moïse raised his hands in mock supplication. “Peace, big sister. I
’m not looking for trouble.”

  “Good,” Le Boudin said with a grunt. He turned to Delphine. “Well, my girl, it looks like you can go back to Montmartre, and I won’t have to keep feeding you and your cat.”

  Delphine smiled. “Thanks, Papa Le Boudin.” She looked at the raindrops plopping on the table and the floor. “I guess I’ll go when the rain lets up.”

  “Me too,” Moïse said.

  Le Boudin glared at the chiffonier. After a tense moment, he said, “All right, runt. I guess you’d better eat. Have some bread and cheese.”

  Moïse grinned, grabbed some food, and stuffed it into his hungry mouth. “Thanks, boss,” he mumbled between bites.

  “Are they taking good care of you, Bouvier?” Achille asked.

  “Very good, M. Lefebvre. I’m going home tomorrow.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Detective. We can use you at headquarters. Sergeant Adam will assign you to a desk job until you’re fit to go back on the street.”

  “Thank you, Chief. And thanks again for visiting my wife. You didn’t have to do it, but it meant a great deal to her.”

  “Think nothing of it. I’m writing up a commendation. You’ve earned it.”

  They were in the surgical ward. Achille sat in a small chair occupying the cramped, curtained-off bedside space. The chief had stopped to visit his detective before returning to the office to meet with Legros. A sister pulled back the curtain. Achille got up and removed his hat.

  The middle-aged nun smiled at the chief of detectives. “Good afternoon, M. Lefebvre.”

  “Good afternoon, Sister. How is the patient?”

  The sister glanced at Bouvier and looked back at Achille. “He’s coming along splendidly, Monsieur. M. Bouvier’s a perfect patient.” She paused a moment. The nuns were supposed to limit their conversations with patients and visitors to subjects directly related to care. However, some of the sisters took a broad interpretation of the rule. She added with a frown, “Not like Inspector Rousseau. That man’s a terror. When he was here, he complained and leered at the young sisters. I must confess we were relieved when he left.”

  Achille smiled. “Rousseau’s a fine detective, but he can be difficult at times.”

  “You are charitable, Monsieur. It’s one of your many fine qualities.”

  “Thank you, Sister; you’re too kind.” He turned back to Bouvier. “I must be off. If you or your family need anything, just let me know.”

  “Thank you, M. Lefebvre. I look forward to getting back on the job.”

  Achille nodded, said good afternoon to the sister, and left. The nun waited until Achille was out of earshot before saying:

  “He’s a great man, M. Bouvier. You are fortunate to work for him.”

  “I know that, Sister,” Bouvier replied.

  Achille’s office glowed with gaslight and oil lamps on the gray afternoon. He glanced from the documents and photographs on his desk to the rain-washed windows and back. Then he looked up at Inspector Legros, who sat opposite him.

  “It seems to have let up, Étienne.”

  “Thank goodness, Chief,” Legros replied. “It’s been coming down for hours. If it had kept up much longer, the streets would have flooded.”

  Achille nodded and stared at a photograph. “Aubert identified the embassy coach. It’s as I suspected.”

  “Yes, Chief. And witnesses confirm that the bandaged man boarded the train at Annecy, along with Colonel Mukhin. The embassy coach met them at the station and dropped off the bandaged man in front of the hotel on the Rue Castex.”

  “Where the baron’s cab picked him up and drove on to Mme Behrs’s apartment on the Rue de Turenne.”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “It seems we’re going to be searching for a landau with the Russian double-headed eagle painted on its doors. The insignia would have been conspicuous, unless they had a means of effacing it without drawing attention.” Achille sighed and shook his head. He returned the papers and photographs to the file. Then he scratched at his bandage, sipped some coffee from a mug, and made a face. “This stuff’s cold,” he muttered.

  “Do you want me to call the clerk to get a fresh pot?”

  He put down the cup. “No, thank you, Étienne. Don’t bother.” Achille remained silent for a moment. He knew what he wanted to say but hesitated to speak. Then he began with reference to Rousseau’s messenger. “Duroc was here an hour ago. I have a meeting with Orlovsky and Rousseau in the Place Dauphine this afternoon at four. I want you there. After all, it’s your case and you’ve done most of the work.”

  “Thank you, Chief. By the way, rumor has it that you’ve forgiven Duroc and commended him for his actions in yesterday’s attempted assassination.”

  “That’s the rumor, is it? Well, it’s just about right. Duroc made a mistake in the Ménard case, and he’s paid for it. We shook hands, and I told him if he ever wanted to return to the brigade, I’d have a place for him.”

  “How did he respond?”

  “He thanked me and said he wanted to prove himself in his present job. I told him I admired loyalty and left it at that. Frankly, he’s the sort of fellow who’ll never make sergeant, never mind inspector. I prefer to bring in men I can promote, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be of service.

  “We’re only human, Étienne; we all make mistakes. Nevertheless, it is axiomatic to the point of cliché: the higher we climb, the farther we fall. And history judges our failures, like our achievements, from the perspective of hindsight.

  “The Emperor Napoleon I lost five hundred thousand men in Russia, a catastrophe that ultimately cost him the empire. But the outcome might have been different. When it came to war, neither he nor the Russians wanted it, but they hadn’t much choice in the matter. The Emperor’s continental system and the Russian economy were in conflict. When your back’s against the wall, you must yield or fight. In the end, the weather, bad roads, and an angry populace counted for more than generalship. So you see, in a tight spot even the greatest men can lose control of their destinies.

  “Now, I have my own ‘Russian problem,’ but on a much smaller scale. M. Orlovsky and I will be gaming this afternoon, and you may judge who comes out the winner. The stakes might seem relatively low, but it’s all part of a larger game played by the great powers. One false step could lead to disaster.”

  Legros stared at the chief without speaking.

  Achille wondered if he had overstated the situation. He smiled and said, “You should see the look on your face. It isn’t as bad as that. Go ahead and call the clerk. We have time to enjoy a fresh pot of coffee.”

  Achille and Legros sat in a quiet corner of the brasserie on the Rue de Harlay. The restaurant was located near the entrance to the Place Dauphine, across the street from the Palais de Justice.

  The heavy rain had stopped, but it was still overcast with a light drizzle. Rousseau and Orlovsky arrived shortly after four P.M. The Russian seemed distressed in surroundings swarming with police, prosecutors, and judges. When he exited the cab, he hunched over, pulled down his hat brim, and glanced around distrustfully before entering the restaurant. Achille observed the furtive behavior with satisfaction. One should always try to engage an adversary on the ground of one’s own choosing, he thought.

  Achille called for service as soon as Rousseau and Orlovsky sat down at the table. They ordered beer and remained silent until the waiter served the drinks. When the waiter returned to the bar, Orlovsky broke the silence with a question:

  “May I inquire as to the reason for this meeting, M. Lefebvre?”

  Achille put down his beer and stared hard at the Russian before answering. “The reason, Monsieur? The reason is justice. You are under arrest.”

  Achille’s unexpected announcement stunned Legros, but he remained outwardly calm; Rousseau smirked knowingly.

  Orlovsky was livid; his hands shook. The Russian coughed nervously and cleared his throat before asking, “Will you please name the crime with which I am charged?”
r />   “Of course, Monsieur,” Achille replied. “You are charged with soliciting an armed attack on a French citizen.”

  Orlovsky’s eyes widened. He turned to Rousseau. “But I thought . . . you told me . . . ,” he sputtered.

  Rousseau shrugged and said nothing.

  “If you please, M. Orlovsky,” Achille said sharply to regain the Russian’s attention.

  Orlovsky looked back at Achille, his dark eyes burning with anger. “Yes, Monsieur?”

  “We have the attackers’ signed confessions and witnesses to the assault. In addition, you admitted your crime to Inspector Rousseau. Do you deny the charge?”

  “I . . . I demand to see the Russian consul.”

  “You may communicate with the gentleman from the Dépôt in the Conciergerie, which is but a short walk from here.”

  Orlovsky controlled himself. He guessed that the threat of arrest was a tactic; Lefebvre might be open to a deal. “May I smoke?” he asked calmly.

  “Of course, Monsieur,” Achille replied.

  The Russian lit a cigarette and took a couple of puffs before asking, “What do you want, M. Lefebvre?”

  “The truth, Monsieur. Tell me everything you know about the affair involving Baron de Livet, Prince Papkov, Colonel Mukhin, Mme Behrs, and the Englishman. And please be assured I have a great deal more information now than I had the last time we discussed the subject.”

  “Will you drop the charges if I cooperate?”

  “I’ll consider dropping the charges, provided you are forthcoming and remain cooperative. Moreover, I want your pledge that in the future, as long as you’re in my jurisdiction, you’ll abide by our laws and do nothing contrary to the interests of France.”