The Man Upon the Stair

by Gary Inbinder

  “Shortly before you left Paris you met with Apolline at a hotel in Montmartre; you gave her a gold bracelet. You had plans for the future, after you returned from Aix-les-Bains. I believe you wanted to get away from both the baron and Bonnet, and you made arrangements accordingly. I believe you learned the baron’s secret from Manuela, and you tried to use that knowledge to free yourself from both your husband and your lover, Bonnet.”

  She glanced at the empty brandy glass. “May I smoke, Monsieur?” she asked in a disheartened voice. “My cigarette case is on the piano.”

  “Of course, Madame,” he replied. Achille fetched the case and lit her cigarette. Then he returned to his chair. “Now, Madame, please tell me what happened. Did Manuela come to you with information about the baron’s plans for the meeting in Aix-les-Bains?”

  She exhaled a plume of smoke before answering. “Yes, Monsieur. She overheard my husband and Bonnet discussing their scheme. She wanted to benefit from this knowledge, but for obvious reasons she was afraid to go directly to either of them. Instead, she came to me. You were right in saying that I wanted to be free. Manuela knew I despised my husband. My feelings for Eugene are more . . . complicated.

  “I went to my husband first. I told him I’d play my part in his intrigue in exchange for my freedom and enough money to live on. I’d take care of Manuela out of my own funds. He agreed. I accompanied him to Aix-les-Bains and filed the missing persons’ report along with his fabricated story about the card game.”

  “What about Bonnet and Manuela?”

  “After we talked, I thought she agreed to my plan. But I’m afraid greed overcame her fear. She went to Eugene and demanded one thousand francs. He has a temper, you know. He threatened to kill her, and I had to intervene. I told him to pay Manuela and I’d make it up to him. He promised not to harm her.

  “Manuela was susceptible to bad colds. She was quite ill when we returned from the spa, and I called in Dr. Levasseur. He diagnosed a case of la grippe and prescribed a solution of tincture of aconite. Eugene took advantage of the situation. First, he sought the advice of one of his underworld associates who knows something about poisons. Apparently, that individual did not know as much about the postmortem detection of aconite poisoning as you do.

  “Convinced he could get away with the crime, Eugene entered Manuela’s room when no one was looking and administered the poison.”

  Lefebvre recalled Legros’s question about the method Bonnet used to poison his victim. He had not yet discussed the matter with Masson. “Do you know the name of the individual he consulted and the means of administering the poison?”

  “No, Monsieur. He did not go into details, and I did not ask.” She paused a moment before adding, “He broke his solemn promise to me. You see, M. Lefebvre, I haven’t been fortunate in my relations with men.”

  “I understand, Madame. One more thing: Did you give the diamonds to Bonnet, or did he steal them? Before you answer, please know that my detectives observed you and Bonnet at a guinguette near Joinville-le-Pont. The acoustics on the almost-empty terrace enabled my men to hear most of your conversation.”

  Madame laughed softly and shook her head. “You are like King Louis XI, the ubiquitous spider. No one escapes your web. Yes, I gave my finest jewelry to him. I know I should have given him over to the police, but as I said, my feelings for him are complicated. I’m bound to Eugene by something I cannot understand. It’s neither love nor hate. Perhaps it’s just our mutual bad fortune. May I say something else about broken promises?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “My husband promised me freedom and money, but all he left me was debt. Look around you, Monsieur. This mansion and all the exquisite things in it were purchased on credit.” She turned toward the piano and stroked the keyboard affectionately. “My beloved Érard will be taken away. It’s all mortgaged to the hilt. All I have left are the diamonds I gave to Bonnet. The baron took all the cash; he’ll enjoy it with his Russian whore while I languish in prison.”

  “I’m sorry, Madame. I’m going to recommend leniency in your case. You’ll need to appear before the magistrate and make a statement under oath. If you continue cooperating, you might avoid prosecution, but I can’t promise anything.”

  “At least you’re honest.” She looked at Achille with an enigmatic smile that made him uncomfortable. After an awkward interval she said, “Do you like Chopin, M. Lefebvre?”

  Her peculiar question worried him, but he decided to humor her. “Yes, Madame; I like his music very much.”

  “Good; I’ll play for you. I promise it won’t take long.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned toward the keyboard and began the “Raindrop Prelude.”

  Achille watched and listened in uneasy silence. The piece began well enough, but as she continued, her false notes multiplied and the rhythm became uneven. Could she be mad? he wondered. If so, the credibility of her testimony would be seriously impaired. He would discuss the matter with Magistrate Leblanc.

  The juge finished reading Achille’s report on his interview with Mme de Livet. He filed it with the case dossier. M. Leblanc removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Then he leaned forward over his desk and asked, “Do you think she’s incapable?”

  “I don’t know, Monsieur le juge,” Achille replied. “I suppose we could take her to the Salpêtrière and have Dr. Charcot examine her.”

  “What a terrible thing for a woman like that. On the other hand, she could be shamming to gain sympathy.”

  “It’s possible, Monsieur. When she first came to me to report her husband’s disappearance, I thought she overplayed the role of distraught wife. Her emotional performance raised my suspicions. She reminded me of Mme Bernhardt. And I was correct in my assumption. She despises the baron, and for good reasons.”

  M. Leblanc smiled. “Ah yes, Mme Bernhardt. I saw her Ophelia; a most convincing stage lunatic. But when it comes to madness, I’ve seen nothing to compare to Mme Patti in the role of Lucia di Lammermoor. I saw her at the Opera several years ago. She raised hysteria to a high art.”

  “Without a doubt, Patti acts a superb madwoman. As for the baroness, I can’t judge her mental state, but I do believe she finally told me the truth. I’d prefer not to see her prosecuted. She’s suffered from her father’s selfishness, her husband’s cruelty, and her lover’s mendacity; now she’s ruined financially and socially; that’s punishment enough, don’t you think?”

  “I agree, M. Lefebvre. ‘Leave her to heaven,’ as Shakespeare said. We want the baron and his fugitive accomplices. As for Bonnet, we have enough on him to get a confession and send the dossier on to the prosecutor for trial. If he confesses fully and shows remorse I’m willing to recommend transportation for life and spare him the guillotine.”

  “Very well, Monsieur le juge. I think we can persuade our canary to sing, and we could get more than Bonnet’s confession to the Otero poisoning. He might have information that will help us locate the baron and his friends.”

  “Have you made any progress tracking them down?”

  “No, Monsieur; not yet. Inspector Legros has sent out bulletins, and I expect the leads will start coming in. Of course, it’s a job separating the wheat from the chaff, but we’re concentrating on Le Havre as their most likely escape route. Perhaps we’ll get lucky.”

  M. Leblanc frowned and tugged nervously at his long side-whiskers. “Let us hope so, M. Lefebvre.”

  14

  THE MAN WHO WASN’T THERE

  In the early-morning hours, on the outskirts of the old port of Harfleur, a barge bound for Le Havre chugged up the calm waters of the canal. The westward journey from the locks at Tancarville, where the canal joined the Seine, took about three hours. That morning’s passage was routine, uneventful. The rural surroundings seemed peaceful and charming: tree-lined banks, ancient farmhouses, and inns at generous intervals, waterfowl circling above in a hazy sky.

  The helmsman puffed on his clay pipe; his calloused hands gripped a weathered wheel t
hat seemed like an extension of his sunburned, tattooed arms. His keen eyes scanned the channel before him, alert for obstacles lurking beneath the smooth, olive-colored surface. He was especially watchful in this relatively narrow and shallow stretch of the waterway.

  Despite his watchfulness, with Harfleur in sight, the helmsman let his mind wander for an instant to thoughts of his pay packet and money to spend in his favorite tavern in Le Havre’s Saint-François district. During this moment of distraction, he failed to notice a slight rippling near the stone embankment. The sound of creaking wood and scraping metal and the shock of a vibration that ran under the boat and up into the wheel roused the helmsman.

  The captain came out from his cabin and shouted, “What the Devil was that?”

  “I don’t know, Captain. We must have scraped over something in the channel,” the startled helmsman replied.

  “There’ll be hell to pay if the barge is damaged,” the captain muttered.

  After making a cursory inspection of the barge, he returned to his cabin and took out his chart and logbook. He circled the area in pencil on the chart and made an entry in his log: “Six thirty. One kilometer from Harfleur, encountered obstruction in channel right-of-way, not visible from above the water. Hazard to navigation.” He would report the incident when they docked in Le Havre.

  Achille sat at his desk, reviewing the de Livet dossier. He tried to concentrate on Bonnet’s upcoming interrogation, which the magistrate had rescheduled for that afternoon. Achille scribbled notes on a pad, crossed things out, and interlineated. A recurring mental image interfered with his customary focus on the job at hand: the portrait of a woman on the verge of madness. Interfused with that disturbing vision of Madame de Livet at her piano, was the sound of a repetitious dirge, a Chopin prelude that began well and then went terribly wrong.

  “Damnation,” he muttered. He poured a cup of coffee from a lukewarm pot and lit a cigarette. She ought to have left her husband and come to us with the truth, he thought. How difficult would that be for a woman in her position? He pondered her conflicting obligations, to her husband, to her ancient family, to the law. Is there a higher duty, a moral law that supersedes all others? That law should not conflict with the laws of France. I pity her, but she ought to have told us the truth from the start. If she had, Manuela Otero might still be alive.

  A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Legros entered. He seemed excited, as if he could not hold his news long enough to properly greet Achille.

  “Pardon me, Chief. We’ve just received a wire from Le Havre. This could be the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for.”

  Achille smiled tolerantly. He had seen many such promising “breakthroughs” peter out. “Calm down, Étienne. Take a seat. Would you care for some coffee? It’s getting cold, I’m afraid.”

  “No, thank you, Chief.” He sat and stared eagerly at Achille.

  “All right, Étienne. What’s the hot item that’s burning up the wire?”

  “It’s actually two wires, Chief, and three separate but related incidents. An alert police commissary pieced them together.”

  “Very well. Can you please let me know what our friend in Le Havre alertly pieced together?”

  “Of course, Chief. Last week, the police found a couple of very fine carriage horses wandering the streets of Harfleur. That’s nothing much, by itself. Then, this morning a barge captain reported an obstruction in the channel near Harfleur—”

  Achille’s eyes widened. “Is it the coach?”

  “It could be. But wait; there’s more. The police commissary and harbormaster are friends. They often get together at a café near the docks. That is how the commissary learned about the obstacle in the channel. Now, the commissary had just come from the station where he had been questioning a vagabond named Brisbois. Brisbois is a familiar type. He scours the embankment searching for stuff he can sell in the local flea market.

  “A few hours before dawn, the same day the stray horses were found wandering the streets of Harfleur, he was out with a lantern, scavenging along the canal about one kilometer east of the city. He was near a clearing that trailed down from the roadway when he spotted three individuals with a coach and horses. He covered his light and hunkered down behind a tree. According to the report, Brisbois saw two of the individuals unhitch the team of horses from the coach, and then all three pushed the vehicle down the embankment into the canal.”

  “Are the police still holding Brisbois?”

  “Yes, Chief. They received my bulletin and thought we’d want to question the vagabond. They’re also sending out a diver and equipment to clear the channel.”

  “I want to give that policeman a cigar. No, I’m going to give him two cigars and buy dinner for him and his friend, the harbormaster. Étienne, we’re going to Le Havre.”

  “What about Bonnet?”

  “Let him sweat. Another day in the cells will do him good.”

  Achille grabbed the telephone and called M. Leblanc to notify him of the change in plans. Then he dashed off two notes, one to his wife and the other to Gilles, his favorite crime scene photographer. Finally, he gave instructions to his clerk to get the train schedules for Le Havre and to wire the police, advising them of the chief’s imminent arrival.

  The interrogation room at the Commissariat de Police in Le Havre reeked of sweat, unwashed bodies, and tobacco, a familiar odor barely masked by a regular mopping with disinfectant. Brisbois sat at a wooden table in the center of the gray, windowless, gaslit chamber. He could have been thirty or fifty; it was hard to tell. Soiled, ragged clothes hung loosely on his lean frame; greasy locks streaked with gray straggled down to his bony shoulders; a matted beard covered most of his face. His gaping mouth displayed a few brown and yellow teeth; his dark eyes darted suspiciously.

  The police commissary, M. Foucault, said, “Brisbois, these gentlemen have come all the way from Paris to speak to you. This is M. Lefebvre, the chief of the Paris Detective Police, and the other is Inspector Legros.”

  The vagabond seemed duly impressed by the importance of his visitors. He greeted Achille and Legros with a toothless grin and a fart.

  Achille smiled. He grabbed a chair and sat across the table from Brisbois. “Now, my friend, would you like a smoke? I’ve brought some good cigars.”

  The vagabond’s grin widened, and he nodded in the affirmative. After Achille produced the cigar and provided a light, Brisbois uttered his first words: “Thank you, Monsieur.”

  Achille let Brisbois enjoy his smoke for a minute before saying, “I’d like you to tell me exactly what you saw when you were scavenging down by the canal.”

  “Well, Monsieur, it’s just like I told M. Foucault. Everyone knows I go picking down there around that time. I get my work done early, and I don’t cause any trouble. You can’t imagine the things people throw away. Good stuff; stuff you can sell. Anyway, that morning I saw something odd. There was a fine-looking coach and a pair of horses parked up on the road to Harfleur. There were three men on the road, next to the coach. I could hear talking, but I couldn’t make out what they said.

  “Two of them went to unhitch the horses. Now why would they do that? I thought. It seemed to me they might be up to no good. You’ve got to be careful when you’re out alone in the early-morning hours. So I covered my light, got down, and hid behind a big tree. I figured I could see them, all right, but they couldn’t see me.

  “After they got the horses unhitched, they shooed them up the road. Then all three turned around the carriage and grunted, heaved, pulled, and shoved until it rolled down the embankment into the canal. You should have heard the great noise and splash it made. It floated for a while before going under, and I could see them watching it go down.”

  “Did you see what the men did after they sank the carriage?”

  Brisbois frowned and shook his head. “No, Monsieur, I didn’t. I was scared—very scared. In all my years scrounging around the canal, I never saw anything like that. When the carriage w
ent down, I turned tail and ran off in the other direction.”

  “Well, that’s understandable considering the circumstances. But why didn’t you report it right away?”

  “I did, Monsieur. I reported it to a gendarme. But the fellow laughed at me. He said I was drunk. Said I should go away and sleep it off. I’ll admit I took a drop. I was scared. You’d be, too, if you were in my shoes.”

  “That’s true, M. Lefebvre,” Foucault said. “Brisbois does tell stories when he’s had a few. But this time the gendarme should have listened to him.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur,” Brisbois said to Foucault. Then to Lefebvre: “I’m an honest man. Everyone around here knows that. I did nothing wrong.”

  “That’s right, my friend,” Lefebvre replied. “You’re an important witness. I’m sure M. Foucault will take good care of you. By the way, are you hungry?”

  Brisbois glanced up at the commissary and then looked back at Achille. “Well, it is getting close to dinnertime, Monsieur.”

  Achille got up and turned to M. Foucault. “Please see to it that he gets a good meal and a bottle of wine, too.”

  “Very well, Monsieur Lefebvre. But we don’t want him fuddled. He needs to take us back to the place where he said they dumped the coach.”

  Achille looked back at Brisbois. “Do you think you’ll have any trouble finding the spot where the coach went into the canal?”

  Brisbois laughed. “Monsieur, I could find the place blindfolded—drunk or sober.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Achille said. Then, to Foucault and Legros: “Come on, gentlemen, I’m hungry, too. Let’s discuss the case over a good meal. If the harbormaster’s available, I’d like him to join us.”

  “I’m sure he’d be pleased, M. Lefebvre,” Foucault replied.

  Achille, Legros, and Foucault returned to the commissary’s office. M. Foucault telephoned the harbormaster, and they agreed to meet at the café near the dockyard.