The Man Upon the Stair

by Gary Inbinder

  The dockland appeared like a waterfront forest overgrown with tall masts and towering cranes. The place echoed with the sound of steam whistles on vessels of various types, sizes, and national origins and from stationary engines powering the derricks that hoisted tons of freight, loading and emptying the vast cargo holds. The world’s produce—raw materials, finished goods, and foodstuff—flowed into and out from the bustling entrepôt. An immense amount of human traffic also passed through the port, many bound for the Americas aboard the great French Line steamers.

  The café occupied a convenient space amid the warehouses, trading posts, steamship offices, and ships’ chandleries that serviced the port. A constant procession of wagons drawn by powerful draft horses rumbled up and down the quay. The place reverberated with the colorful patois of sailors, stevedores, traffic managers, and teamsters.

  Achille, Legros, M. Foucault, the harbormaster, and Gilles, who had come out from Paris on a later train, sat around a table outside the café, savoring their wine and after-dinner cigars. Achille briefed the local authorities on the facts of the criminal investigation that they needed to know while avoiding any reference to international intrigue and espionage, which was information kept at the highest level of secrecy.

  There was no lack of urgency as they discussed the case, but that was no reason to rush and spoil their meal. They could enjoy the food and drink in good company, the bracing sea air and the calling seabirds circling above in a clear, maritime sky, and still do their jobs. In that regard, they sometimes mocked their British and North American counterparts who always had to appear busy even when they were not, and seemed to view workplace conviviality as a moral failing.

  “These cigars are excellent, M. Lefebvre,” the harbormaster remarked. “And I hear you gave one to Brisbois?”

  “Yes, I did, M. Picard,” Achille replied. “It seems little enough, don’t you think? The poor fellow has been very helpful.”

  “M. Lefebvre ordered up a bottle of wine for the old vagabond,” M. Foucault interjected. “I believe he’s made a friend for life.”

  They all laughed, but Achille said:

  “I hope so, M. Foucault. In my job, I’ve enough enemies. I need all the friends I can get. By the way, I want to add how grateful I am to you and M. Picard. Connecting Brisbois’s story to the barge captain’s report and replying immediately to our bulletin was first-rate police work, and M. Picard’s plans for retrieving the vehicle are a model of efficiency.”

  Foucault smiled and raised his glass in salute to the chief. “I had cordial relations with your predecessor, M. Féraud, and look forward to the same with you, M. Lefebvre.” Then to his friend, the harbormaster: “We don’t mind working with Paris, do we, Picard?”

  “Not at all, my friend, as long as they send out gentlemen like Messrs. Féraud and Lefebvre,” the harbormaster replied. Then to Achille: “The special barge is ready, Monsieur. It’s fitted with a powerful steam crane, Rouquayrol-Denayrouze diving apparatus, and an electric searchlight. If the coach is in the canal, we’ll haul it up for you, day or night.”

  “Thank you, M. Picard. We’ll meet you on land. Once you get the carriage up, M. Foucault will provide the men and equipment to winch it back onto the embankment.” He smiled at Gilles. “You may have to take your photographs in the dark, my friend. Any problem with that?”

  “No, Monsieur; I’ve brought the right plates and lenses to work with the electric light.”

  “What about checking the ships’ manifests and the inns, Chief?” Legros asked.

  “Thank you for reminding me,” Achille replied. Then, to Foucault and Picard: “We believe the suspects arrived by coach in the vicinity of Harfleur on the twenty-sixth, and remained there until the twenty-eighth, when Brisbois saw them ditch the coach in the canal. Some or all of them may have boarded a ship and already be out to sea. We need to check all the inns and the manifests of the outbound vessels. We have good descriptions and photographs of the suspects except for the one that goes by the name of Major Sims. Of course, we must consider the possibility that they are disguised and traveling on false passports.”

  “Of course, M. Lefebvre,” the commissary replied. “I’ve already assigned men to investigate. We’ll turn up something, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you, M. Foucault. Inspector Legros will remain here to coordinate the investigation with you and your men. I must return to Paris on the morning train to interrogate a suspect who might shed more light on this matter.”

  Foucault smiled and refilled his glass. “Very well, M. Lefebvre.” He glanced up at the blue sky and inhaled the fresh salt air. “It’s such a lovely day, gentlemen. How about another round of drinks before we go?”

  “I concur with you wholeheartedly,” Achille replied. He called to the waiter and ordered more wine.

  At dusk, a barge-mounted carbon-arc search lamp swept a beam of intense white light around the canal embankment. An hour earlier, a diver had entered the turbid channel and located the coach resting upright on the muddy bottom. He fastened the block and tackle and returned to the surface. Once he was safely aboard the barge, the steam-powered crane lifted the landau above the waterline and Foucault’s men winched it onto the embankment and blocked the wheels.

  Achille and Legros recognized the coach from Aubert’s description, and they noticed that the Russian eagles on the doors had been painted over. The police peered through the windows. A brigadier turned to the detectives with a grim expression on his face:

  “There are two bodies inside, Messieurs.”

  An officer fetched a tarpaulin from a wagon; he spread it out on the grass near the carriage. Gilles set up his camera nearby. The police broke through a window and wrenched the door open; a stream of muddy water spilled over the doorframe. As soon as most of the water had drained out, two officers entered the carriage, removed the bodies, and laid them out on the tarpaulin. Then they returned to the coach to search for the cash-filled suitcases but found nothing.

  “Do you recognize them, M. Lefebvre?” Foucault asked.

  “This one matches our description of Lieutenant Denisov,” Achille said after examining the corpse of a young man and comparing it to a description and photograph provided by Orlovsky. He then turned his attention to the older of the pair. Was it the baron? One week in the canal had had an effect; the flesh was bloated with the greenish tinge associated with decomposition. However, the individual’s height, build, and dark hair seemed right; the expensive clothing, watch, and jewelry could be traced to determine if they belonged to M. de Livet.

  Achille knelt by the body. He stared at the dead face for some time, scrutinizing each feature, the shape of the eyes, nose, mouth, and ears, the hairline and beard, comparing each detail to Mme de Livet’s photograph of the baron. Everything matched. But the distinctive expression in the image taken from life, a sardonic smile, had died with the man. Finally, Achille said, “This appears to be the Baron de Livet.”

  “You are not certain?”

  “No, M. Foucault. I’ll reserve judgment until after they’ve been autopsied and returned to Paris for identification.” Achille turned to the photographer. “Get some good photographs, Gilles.”

  “No problem, Chief,” the photographer replied.

  Achille and Foucault were discussing arrangements for the postmortem examinations and transportation of the bodies to the Paris Morgue, when a shout from a copse on the edge of the clearing interrupted the conversation:

  “Over here, Messieurs! We’ve found another body.” The cry came from a gendarme who was searching the area with Brisbois.

  The detectives went immediately to the spot, where they found the officer shining his lantern on a corpse lying facedown, half-covered in a clump of weeds. Brisbois stood off to one side. He shook visibly, his eyes wide with terror.

  “I . . . I didn’t see this . . . this dead body before,” the vagabond stammered. “I swear I didn’t, Messieurs.”

  “Calm down, Brisbois,” Achille repli
ed. “No one has said that you did.” He knelt by the corpse and turned it over carefully. The corpse on land was in a more advanced state of decomposition than those taken from the canal; its distended blue-green flesh was crawling with vermin, and the stench was overwhelming. Achille covered his mouth and nose and proceeded with a cursory examination.

  The man appeared to be about forty, with sandy, close-cropped hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. He wore a three-piece brown suit; the fine fabric and expert tailoring betokened Savile Row. Achille made a mental note to check all the labels.

  “What about this one, M. Lefebvre? Do you know who he was?” Foucault asked.

  Achille looked up and shook his head. “No, Monsieur. He might be the one called Major Sims. At any rate, I have witnesses in Paris who could identify him, and I’m hoping for some additional information from Scotland Yard.”

  Foucault said, “I see. Can you tell how he died?”

  “From the wounds on his neck and the bloodstains it’s obvious his throat was slit. The killer might have cut both the jugular vein and the carotid artery, which suggests that he or she was an expert with a knife or razor as well as a practiced assassin. There’s no sign of a struggle; I believe the attack was swift and took the victim by surprise. Moreover, I suspect he was killed after the coach and its two passengers were dumped into the canal.” Achille got up and dusted off his trousers before adding, “Of course, we’ll know more after the autopsies.”

  “You said ‘she,’ M. Lefebvre. Do you suspect Mme Behrs?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t rule her out,” Achille replied.

  “Do you think she could have acted alone?” Foucault asked.

  “I doubt it, Monsieur, but then I never underestimate a woman’s strength, cunning, and resolve. When it comes to murder, some women can be as ruthless and efficient as any man.”

  “Pardon me, Chief,” Legros interjected. “Aubert saw three individuals leave the apartment on the Rue de Turenne: the baron, the bandaged man, and Mme Behrs. Denisov, the coachman, makes four altogether: three men and a woman. Now, we have three dead bodies, all of them male. We’ve tentatively identified Denisov and the baron. This one might be Sims, who we believe was the bandaged man. Brisbois says he saw three men push the coach into the canal. We cannot account for Mme Behrs. Was she disguised as a man? Was there a fourth man? Did she and the fourth man kill Sims after they got rid of the other two?”

  Achille scratched his beard. “Good questions, Inspector. It appears two individuals killed three confederates and took off with suitcases filled with cash. I suspect Mme Behrs is one of the two remaining fugitives, and they may already be on a ship bound for who knows where. I’m afraid we have a few odd pieces left to our puzzle, and we’ll have to adjust to changing circumstances to complete the picture.”

  Foucault turned to Achille. “This is certainly an interesting case, M. Lefebvre, and you may continue to count on me and my department. We’re at your service.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur. I regret I must return to Paris in the morning, but I’m confident you and Inspector Legros will handle this end of the investigation admirably in my absence. And remember, we do have one great advantage over the remaining fugitives.”

  “What is that, Monsieur?”

  Achille smiled. “The transoceanic cables can outrun the swiftest steamer.”

  15

  WHAT BONNET REALLY KNEW

  At eight A.M., Achille’s train arrived at the Gare Saint-Lazare. He waited by the baggage car while porters unloaded three wooden boxes and placed them on a cart. They proceeded up the busy platform and out the main entrance to a black van waiting to transport the chief and the cadavers to the Morgue on the Île de la Cité.

  Upon arrival at their destination, attendants placed the makeshift coffins on gurneys that they wheeled through a guarded back doorway and then up a dimly lit corridor to the dissection room. Achille followed. They entered the chamber and waited for the chief pathologist and his assistants.

  Achille bantered with the attendants, one of whom he had known for several years. Jokes took the edge off this grim occupation carried out amid disagreeable surroundings: brickwork and plaster painted dingy institutional gray; the sharp odor of disinfectant and formaldehyde commingled with the stench of putrefaction; gruesome instruments displayed in glass cases; internal organs and body parts pickled in jars set on shelves.

  The chief pathologist and his assistants arrived presently. The doctor greeted Achille with a familiar smile and a friendly handshake.

  “Good morning, M. Lefebvre. I see you’ve made quite a bit of work for us.”

  “I’m afraid so, Dr. Cortot. They’re all related to the de Livet case, and one of them might be the baron.”

  “You said might be? You are not sure?”

  “I’m taking nothing for granted, Doctor. I want to bring in his dentist to make certain.”

  The pathologist nodded his approval. “That’s good thinking, Chief Inspector. You can’t disguise the teeth. By the way,” he added, “those two fellows you put on display have been drawing quite a crowd, especially since Le Petit Journal featured your confrontation with the assassins.”

  Achille had read the article accompanied by a typically lurid illustration of the shootout, and his plan to put the bodies on public display had worked to perfection. A few of the assassins’ friends had come out of the woodwork to nibble at the cheese. Achille’s detectives stationed at the Morgue discovered the names and turned them over to Rousseau.

  “I don’t care much for sensationalism,” Achille replied. “But I am grateful for anything that aids our investigations.”

  The doctor smiled shrewdly. “Of course, M. Lefebvre. Now I suppose we must get down to business and cut up the poor buggers.”

  The postmortem examination team worked efficiently. Achille lit a cigar and observed the grisly procedure with cool detachment, having witnessed many dissections. He did not mind seeing male cadavers eviscerated, but watching a female go through the same process was more difficult. On the other hand, looking on while the pathologists dissected a child was hard in the extreme, even for a seasoned veteran. He never forgot the innocent young faces, especially that of a little girl who reminded him of his daughter, Jeanne.

  Once the postmortem team had completed their task, Achille consulted with the chief pathologist.

  “What can you tell me about them, Doctor?”

  “Let’s begin with the throat-slitting case, M. Lefebvre.” The pathologist led Achille to the table supporting the remains of the man tentatively identified as Major Sims. “Based on the state of decomposition, I estimate this individual has been dead for approximately one week.” He pointed to the wounds. “There was a deep thrust and cut in this area that severed both the jugular vein and carotid artery. He would have lost consciousness almost immediately due to anoxia, the loss of blood flow and oxygen to the brain. Death would have ensued within minutes.”

  “I suppose it would take considerable skill and strength to inflict a wound like that?”

  “Absolutely, Monsieur. A surgeon or butcher could have done it, or someone trained in hand-to-hand combat, a soldier or professional killer, perhaps. Do you have the weapon?”

  “No, Doctor. We have men searching the area, but they’ve turned up nothing so far.”

  The pathologist nodded. “Years ago a friend of mine, a retired colonel now deceased, went to Japan to help train their new army. In the course of his duties, he witnessed a ritual suicide. The old samurai warriors initiated their self-immolation by slicing open their abdomen with a razor-sharp short sword called a wakizashi. That’s excruciatingly painful, as you can imagine, and if left in that condition they could linger in agony for days. Therefore, in most cases they had an expert swordsman available to behead the suicide as a coup de grâce.

  “In the act of seppuku, or hara-kiri, that my friend witnessed, the fellow performed his own coup de grâce with a swift, deep cut and thrust to the throat identical to
what we see in this case.”

  “Are you suggesting I search for a Japanese warrior?”

  The pathologist laughed. “Not necessarily, Monsieur. I was just telling the story to indicate the sort of skill and determination required to have done the deed. And the wakizashi would have been the ideal murder weapon.”

  “I imagine we can rule out suicide?”

  “I believe so. In that case, you would have likely found the weapon still in his hand and the blade in his throat, although I suppose someone could have removed it. Besides, in my experience, those who attempt suicide in this manner bungle badly and make a mess of it. They lack the fortitude and skill to cut deeply and with precision.”

  “Do you think a woman, acting alone, could have killed in this manner? We found no defensive wounds on the victim’s hands or arms, nor any cuts or tears on his clothing.”

  “I’ve never known a woman to kill like that, have you? I suppose a large, strong, cold-blooded woman with the speed and agility of a panther and the prowess of a samurai master swordsman might have done it alone.”

  Achille thought of Delphine in comparison to Mme Behrs. Delphine had the skill and the training, but he wondered if she had the requisite ruthlessness to kill so efficiently with a blade. He did not know Mme Behrs well enough to come to a definitive conclusion.

  “I’m of the same opinion, Doctor,” he replied. “Based on the information I’ve gathered thus far, I suspect he was killed by a man and a woman working together, one to grab the victim from behind while the other made the fatal thrust and cut.”

  The doctor nodded his agreement. “That seems plausible, M. Lefebvre. Now shall we have a look at the others?”

  They turned their attention to the remaining corpses. Achille began the discussion with the following observation:

  “Before we begin, you should know that neither of these individuals was bound, and we found no signs of a struggle in the coach. Moreover, on cursory examination we could detect no indicia of stab wounds, gunshot wounds, punctures, blunt force trauma, or other suspicious marks on the bodies.”