“Our examination found no wounds, either. And what do you deduce from these facts, M. Lefebvre?”
“I believe these two were either dead or unconscious as a result of drugs or poison administered some time before they entered the water.”
The doctor turned to Achille, lifted his glasses, and smiled. “You’ve simplified my job, Monsieur. It’s difficult to determine the exact time or cause of death. The decomposition is not as advanced in comparison to the other individual. However, bodies submerged in a closed coach would not decompose as rapidly as one on land. Therefore, I estimate they’ve been dead for about the same period of time, approximately one week. And I concur with your deduction from the available evidence. We found some water in the lungs, and there are signs of asphyxia in both corpses. However, water can enter the lungs of a submerged body postmortem, and there are many causes of asphyxia. In addition, we noticed an inflammation of the lungs; certain poisons can have that effect.
“We’ve prepared specimens to send to Masson for analysis. If there’s a detectable trace of drugs or poison in these fellows, Masson will surely find it. But regardless of his findings, given the totality of circumstances, I conclude that these three individuals were all victims of homicide.”
“Thank you, Doctor. As always, I appreciate your professional courtesy and keen insight into each case. And I found your Japanese tale quite interesting. I’m hardly an expert, but I have devoted some time to the study of Oriental fighting techniques, strategy, and the warrior’s code.”
The doctor rubbed his chin and grinned. “I know that, M. Lefebvre. That’s why I told you the story.”
“Madame, your breakfast is ready. Madame, please open the door. You haven’t eaten in two days.” Mme Renard carried a silver tray laden with a coffeepot, cup, and saucer and a basket filled with warm rolls, a slice of cheese, and a ripe pear from the garden. She knocked several times on Mme de Livet’s boudoir door, a little louder and harder each time.
Two days earlier, after Achille had left the mansion, Madame closed the keyboard cover on the Érard, abandoned the music room, retired to her chambers, and locked the door. Mme Renard and Honoré had neither seen nor heard from her since.
The cook set the tray on the landing. She walked to the stairway, leaned over the banister, and called down to Honoré. “Will you please fetch the housekeeper’s passkey? I’m worried about Madame.”
The old gardener muttered, “All right, all right; I’m coming.” A few minutes later, he came puffing up the stairs, key ring jingling in his hand. He handed the keys to the cook. “Do you think we should enter without permission?”
Mme Renard frowned. “This is an emergency. She’s never locked herself up like this, and who knows what she might do under the circumstances. It’s our duty to enter.”
The old gardener shrugged and stood aside as Mme Renard unlocked the door and opened it slowly. She peered into the room. The curtains were drawn and the lights out. The electricity had stopped the previous day; there was no one left in the household to tend the generator.
Upon entering the room, Mme Renard could distinguish her mistress’s fully clothed figure, sprawled facedown on the bedding. The cook ran to the bedside as fast as her legs could carry her. She reached down and felt the still-warm forehead with the back of her hand; her head lowered to Madame’s lips, she detected the faint flow of air and the sound of slow but regular breathing.
“Is she alive, Mme Renard?”
“Yes, thank God.” Mme Renard noticed a bottle of sleeping draught and an empty glass on the bedside table.
“Shall we call Dr. Levasseur?”
The cook frowned and shook her head. “No, we can’t call him. Madame hasn’t paid his bill, and after what happened to Manuela, I don’t trust him. We’ll telephone M. Lefebvre; he’ll know what to do.”
“The telephone? Does that contraption still work?”
“Let’s pray it does, for Madame’s sake.”
The old man sighed. “The Hanged Man followed by Death. It was in the cards, wasn’t it, Mme Renard?”
“Forget the cards, you old fool. We still might have time to save her. If the telephone doesn’t work, I’ve just enough pin money left for a cab.”
Mme Renard dashed out of the room. Honoré hobbled after her, shaking his head in dismay.
Inquiries led investigators to an auberge near the canal, not more than a kilometer from the crime scene. Legros and Foucault came out from Le Havre in a fiacre. On the way, Foucault remarked:
“I know the proprietor, M. Quevillon, quite well. I expect he’ll be forthcoming. He runs a respectable establishment and wants no trouble with the police.”
“I hope you’re right, M. Foucault. This afternoon, M. Lefebvre and the juge d’instruction will interrogate the prime suspect in a murder related to the de Livet case. Any additional information I can wire to the chief prior to the interrogation should be helpful.”
“Don’t worry, Inspector. According to my detectives, Quevillon has been cooperating. And I heard you’ve made headway with the ships’ manifests.”
“Yes, Monsieur. We’ve narrowed the list down to a steamer that left port the morning of the twenty-eighth. It’s headed for Las Palmas to take on coal. From there, it will cross the Atlantic to Montevideo and Buenos Aires.”
“That’s good news, Inspector. If the boat hasn’t yet arrived in Las Palmas, you can cable the Spanish authorities to hold the fugitives long enough for you to get down there with a warrant. That is, if you can provide the Spaniards with sufficient information about the two suspects.”
“The two are probably traveling on forged passports under assumed names. And we’ve had a bit of luck. It’s a slow boat with stops in Lisbon and Tangier before it reaches Las Palmas. And even if we miss them in Las Palmas, we still have a good chance of getting them in South America.”
The fiacre turned from the main road onto a tree-lined, gravel driveway that led to the inn. Legros looked out the window and saw a quaint, half-timbered Norman country inn with a slate roof and gabled windows, surrounded by well-tended flower beds and neatly trimmed hedges.
The driver parked the carriage near the entrance. The officers stepped down from the fiacre and entered the front door, with Foucault in the lead. As soon as they arrived in the foyer, M. Quevillon came out from behind the front desk to greet them. The proprietor was a short, paunchy, middle-aged man whose natural fussiness was exacerbated by the police presence.
Quevillon bowed curtly and wrung his moist hands. “Good day, gentlemen. Please come into my office.” The proprietor gestured to a room hidden behind the desk. He obviously wanted to get the detectives out of sight as soon as possible, the case having already drawn unwanted attention to his establishment. The auberge had entertained fugitives, albeit unwittingly, and M. Quevillon worried that the incident would give his inn a bad name.
The detectives followed the proprietor into a sparsely furnished anteroom, secreted from the foyer by a portière. M. Quevillon led them to chairs set around a chintz-covered round table. Anxious as he was, the proprietor did not forget his manners.
“I hope you gentlemen are comfortable? Would you care for coffee or tea? Or, if you prefer, may I offer you something stronger?”
“No, thank you, M. Quevillon,” Foucault answered. “We don’t want to keep you any longer than is necessary.”
Quevillon bowed. “Oh, thank you, M. Foucault. Thank you very much. You gentlemen have no idea how distressing this matter has been for me. My respectable inn has unknowingly extended its hospitality to a gang of criminals, three of whom have died under the most horrible circumstances. Can you imagine what my other guests will think, not to mention our prospective clientele?”
Foucault tried to calm the agitated innkeeper with reassuring words and a mollifying smile. “It’s indeed a regrettable situation, M. Quevillon, but one in which you are completely blameless. You have a sterling reputation hereabouts, and I believe your cooperation in the inves
tigation will enhance your good name. My colleague from Paris will bear that out. By the way, permit me to introduce Inspector Legros. He is assisting Chief Lefebvre in this case.”
Quevillon bowed. “I’m honored, M. Legros. Do you really think my involvement in your investigation could add to the inn’s cachet?” he added hopefully.
Legros followed Foucault’s lead in emphasizing the positive public relations angle. “Yes, I do, Monsieur. I know of several instances where hotel managers and innkeepers received praise in the newspapers and the community for their cooperation with the authorities. Public commendation can attract law-abiding citizens to establishments such as yours, while at the same time deterring criminals from using your inn for their nefarious purposes.”
Quevillon sighed with relief and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “Thank you, gentlemen. Your kind words have eased my mind.” He sat opposite the detectives. “Please tell me how I may be of assistance?”
Legros reached into his coat pocket and took out a packet containing Gilles’s photographs of the coach and the deceased suspects. “I’m afraid these are unpleasant,” he said as he handed the photographs to Quevillon. “The features have been somewhat altered by decomposition.”
Legros also produced a photograph of Mme Behrs. Quevillon’s examination of the pictures produced some surprises. He examined the postmortem photograph of the body tentatively identified as Baron de Livet for almost one minute before saying:
“This is either M. Czerny or his twin brother. Frankly, I can’t tell one from the other.”
The statement took Legros by surprise, but he tried not to show it. He calmly took out a studio portrait of the baron provided by Mme de Livet. “Please take a look at this picture, Monsieur. Can you identify the gentleman?”
Quevillon’s eyes darted from the live portrait to the corpse on the tarpaulin and back. After another minute he said, “I’m sorry, Monsieur. I can’t distinguish between the two. They could both be photographs of M. Czerny—or his brother.”
“When did the man you call Czerny first arrive at your inn?”
“The morning of the twenty-sixth, as I recall. Shall I fetch the register?”
“Please do.”
As soon as the innkeeper left the room, Foucault turned to Legros and said, “What do you make of the name and the brother?”
“Schwarz, Le Noir, and Czerny—‘Black’ in three languages. The baron isn’t very original in his choice of pseudonyms. As for this business about a twin brother, I don’t know.”
Quevillon returned with the register. He placed the leather-bound book on the table and opened to the page with the entry. “Here it is, gentlemen.” He pointed to the signature, date, and time. “M. Czerny from Paris, arrived ten in the morning on the twenty-sixth.”
Legros studied the signature. He turned to Foucault. “This will help in sorting things out. We have several samples of the baron’s handwriting, including his signature.” Then to Quevillon:
“How did Czerny arrive?”
“By fiacre, from the Le Havre terminus.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“Did you get a good look at his passport?”
“Yes, Monsieur; it seemed in order.”
Legros turned to Foucault. “How’s the trade in forged passports hereabouts?”
“Thriving, Inspector, as I assume it is in Paris?”
Legros nodded and returned to M. Quevillon. “Who issued the passport?”
“It was a Russian passport, Monsieur.”
“He said he was a Russian citizen?’
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“How much baggage was Czerny carrying?”
“Just one suitcase and a traveling bag.”
“How many rooms did he take?”
“Two, M. Legros. He expected a party of four to arrive by coach from Paris later that afternoon and he paid for the other room in advance. You can see the entries on the following page.”
Legros turned the page and made note of the following names: Messrs. Czerny, Denis, Simpson, and Bouleau. “You’ve already identified the two Czerny ‘brothers.’ Please look at the photographs. Can you identify Denis, Simpson, and Bouleau?”
M. Quevillon quickly identified Denis as Lieutenant Denisov. It took longer to identify Simpson as Sims, due to the more advanced state of decomposition. He also took a long look at Mme Behrs’s photograph. Finally, he said, “If you cut this woman’s hair and put her in male clothing, I’d say she could be M. Bouleau.”
“Are you certain, Monsieur?”
“Yes, quite certain,” Quevillon replied with conviction.
“Very well, Monsieur. We’ll require these pages as evidence.”
“I understand, Inspector.”
“Thank you. Did Czerny pay in banknotes or gold?”
“Both, Monsieur.”
“Do you still have the banknotes?”
“No, Monsieur. I deposited them.”
“I see. Did you take a look at all the passports?”
“Of course, Monsieur. They were all carrying Russian passports, but the names are not what we think of as Russian. However, I’ve had other Russian guests with names that sounded German, French, or English. Going back to the days of Peter the Great, the Russians have employed Western Europeans to help modernize their country. And from my experience, all the upper-class Russians speak excellent French. Indeed, French is their second language.”
“Did Czerny or the others say anything about their plans or what they were doing in the vicinity?”
“I only spoke to M. Czerny—that is, the first M. Czerny. He said he and his brother were business partners and the other gentlemen were their associates. They were concluding some transaction in Le Havre, after which they would all sail abroad.”
“Did he say where they were going or reference the name of a particular ship?”
“No, Monsieur, he did not.”
“I see.” Legros pointed to the photograph of the coach. “Did you notice anything unusual about the landau?”
Quevillon thought for a moment before replying, “I saw fresh paint on the doors, as if someone had just covered over a family crest or some such thing.”
“Did you think that odd?”
The innkeeper frowned and he started rubbing his hands together. “Perhaps, but I thought nothing of it at the time. Do you . . . do you think I ought to have reported it?”
Legros smiled. “No, Monsieur. It was a minor detail. Many people wouldn’t have even noticed it.”
Quevillon relaxed. “Thank you, Inspector. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, Monsieur. I need more information about their departure. There was an irregularity. You’ve already reported it to the police, but I’d like to go over it with you. I believe you know what I’m referring to?”
The innkeeper looked down at his hands. “Yes, Inspector Legros, I do.”
“Please tell me what happened.”
Quevillon turned the register page to the time of departure. “Around four in the morning of the twenty-eighth, I was awakened by a knock on my door. It was M. Czerny—the first M. Czerny, I think. He was very polite and apologetic. He said something urgent had come up in Le Havre and the party had to leave immediately to conclude a business deal, sign a contract and so forth, before they boarded their ship. He insisted on paying for both rooms for the remainder of the day to compensate for the inconvenience.”
“I understand, Monsieur. Please continue.”
“M. Czerny said that his brother and M. Denis had been drinking heavily and were in no condition to sign for their passports.”
“And how did you deal with the situation?”
“I . . . I allowed M. Czerny to sign for them.”
“Pardon me one moment.” Legros compared the two “Czerny” signatures in the register. They seemed identical. He glanced at Foucault, who nodded his agreement.
Legros turned back to Quevillon and said, “Let’s conti
nue. Did you see Czerny’s brother or Denis that morning?”
“No, Monsieur. M. Czerny said they were already in the coach, ‘sleeping it off.’”
“I see. What about Bouleau and Simpson?”
“They signed, and I returned their passports. Then M. Simpson went to the stable to hitch up the team and drive the coach to the entrance.”
“Did M. Simpson drive the coach upon departure?”
“Yes, he did. M. Denis was driving when they arrived, but he was drunk, so M. Simpson acted as coachman in his place.”
“And that’s the last time you saw or heard from them?”
“Yes, Monsieur. I heard nothing more about them until I was contacted by the police.”
“Thank you, M. Quevillon. You’ve been very helpful. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a look at the rooms.”
“Of course, M. Legros, but you won’t find anything. M. Foucault’s men have already searched them thoroughly.”
“What do you think, M. Foucault?” Legros asked.
“It’s up to you, Inspector Legros. I sent two of my best men. According to their report, there was nothing of interest left in the rooms.”
Legros concluded he had what he needed from Quevillon, and he was eager to follow up with the information and wire his findings to M. Lefebvre. “I’m satisfied, M. Foucault.”
The detectives thanked M. Quevillon and ended the interview. Before they left, Legros said he would commend the innkeeper to his superiors in Paris, to which Quevillon replied:
“Thank you, Inspector Legros. If you, M. Lefebvre, or any of your colleagues are ever in the neighborhood, I would be delighted to have you as my guests.”
On the way back to the station Foucault said, “I told you he’d be informative. What did you make of all that?”
Legros smiled with satisfaction. “Our prime suspects are sailing to Las Palmas as Messieurs Czerny and Bouleau, carrying forged Russian passports and almost one million francs in cash.”
The Man Upon the Stair Page 23