“Where did they get the passports?”
“From Lieutenant Denisov, no doubt. He was the aide-de-camp to Colonel Mukhin, the military attaché, and could have easily gained access to the passports and the embassy stamp.”
“What about the two brothers Czerny?”
“I don’t know, but we do have samples of the baron’s writing to compare to the signature on the register, and my chief will investigate the identity of the corpse we sent to the Morgue. As for Bouleau, I believe the ‘gentleman’ is the baron’s mistress, Mme Behrs, disguised as a man. They must have induced the Englishman, Sims or Simpson—God knows his real name—to assist in the murder of the other two.
“The treacherous three probably drugged or poisoned Denisov and ‘brother Czerny’ before loading them into the coach, driving to the canal, unhitching the horses, and pushing the landau down the embankment into the water. Then our prime suspects took the Englishman unawares and slit his throat.”
“There’s no honor among thieves, M. Legros. An old saying, but true. I’ve seen it happen that way many times in my career.”
Legros nodded his agreement. “The first thing I’m going to do is recheck the ship’s manifest. I should find Czerny and Bouleau on the steamer we’ve already identified. Then I’ll cable that information to the Spanish authorities and wire Paris for further instructions.”
Foucault grinned and produced a flask from his coat pocket. “I think a celebration is in order.”
“Thank you, my friend. I agree, but just a little one for now.”
Orlovsky and Colonel Mukhin viewed the corpses on private display at the Morgue. Achille noted the Russians’ reactions, especially those of Colonel Mukhin, who had been close to his aide-de-camp. Rousseau remained in a shadowy corner of the chamber, observing the scene with amused interest.
“Can you identify these three individuals?” Achille asked.
The colonel leaned toward Orlovsky and whispered to him in Russian.
“Yes, M. Lefebvre, we can.” Orlovsky pointed toward the cadavers and identified them as follows: “This one is Lieutenant Denisov, the next is Major Sims, and that one is M. de Livet.”
“You are correct as to the lieutenant,” Achille said. “The man you identified as Sims is in fact a cashiered British officer, cardsharp, and confidence trickster named Rawls.” Achille had just received this information from Scotland Yard. “As for the other, we’re not yet sure who he is, but he’s not the baron.” The baron’s dentist had confirmed Achille’s suspicions.
Orlovsky stared at Achille with the bewildered expression of a stage farce cuckold who has just discovered that his heir is another man’s son. The spymaster’s face seemed so comically grotesque Achille had to cough and clear his throat to suppress laughter. Rousseau had a similar reaction; he turned his face to the wall and bit his lip.
Colonel Mukhin placed his hand on Orlovsky’s shoulder to get his attention. Orlovsky turned around, and the two engaged in a heated conversation in Russian.
Achille let them go on for a minute before saying, “Gentlemen, if you please.”
Orlovsky turned back to Achille. “Please forgive us, M. Lefebvre. We were so . . . surprised by this revelation. Do you know where the baron is?”
“We have good reason to believe that he and Mme Behrs are on a steamer bound for the Canary Islands. They are traveling under assumed names with forged Russian passports we suspect Lieutenant Denisov stole from your embassy. Inspector Legros has already cabled the Spanish authorities with a request to hold them until my men can get down there with a warrant.”
“Do you think the Spanish will comply with your request?”
“We have good relations, Monsieur. I expect they will.”
“Ah, I see. Thank you, Monsieur. Do you . . . do you know what happened to our money?”
“I can’t say for sure, but if the fugitives still have the cash in their possession we’ll recover it.”
Orlovsky smiled. “Thank you very much, M. Lefebvre. Please excuse me one moment.” He turned to the colonel and poured out a voluble stream of Russian in an optimistic, almost cheerful tone.
Achille watched Mukhin’s hard features soften as a broad grin spread over his heavily bearded face. Orlovsky presently turned his attention back to the chief:
“My dear M. Lefebvre, we are profoundly grateful to you for your exemplary efforts in this matter, and we apologize for any inconvenience you have incurred due to—Lieutenant Denisov’s malfeasance. The colonel and I pledge that in the future we will cooperate with you in a spirit of mutual respect and comradeship.”
“Thank you, Monsieur. You may be certain I’ll hold you to that pledge.”
“Oh yes—yes, of course, M. Lefebvre.”
Achille reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. “Our business here is finished, M. Orlovsky. We will keep you informed as to the progress of the case. Unless you have any further questions or concerns, I’ll bid you good day.”
Orlovsky turned to Mukhin and mumbled a few words. The colonel came to attention, clicked his heels, and bowed. Orlovsky smiled unctuously, said au revoir, and left with his compatriot.
After the Russians were gone, Rousseau walked over to Achille. “Well, Professor,” he said, “it looks like they’re going to put the blame on Denisov.”
“So it seems. The low man is always the scapegoat, and it helps when he’s conveniently dead.”
Rousseau grinned. “Do you have time for a drink? I’m buying.”
Achille nodded. “As long as you’re paying for it, I’ll make time.”
They left the Morgue and walked in the shadow of Notre Dame, up the Rue d’Arcole to the quayside, where they turned and continued on to the Rue de Harlay. The bright sky, crisp clean air, and autumn colors reflected on the water reminded Achille of the nearby flower market. “I keep forgetting to buy flowers,” he muttered.
“What did you say?”
“I told Adele I’d stop at the market on my way home and buy flowers, but it always slips my mind.”
“I suppose you have other things to think about.”
“Yes, Rousseau, but flowers are important, too.”
Rousseau smiled and shook his head but said nothing. They turned onto the Rue de Harlay, entered the brasserie, and found a secluded corner table. Rousseau ordered beer. When the waiter returned to the bar, Rousseau said:
“So, Scotland Yard came through after all?”
“Yes, they did. As soon as I wired my contact with a detailed description of ‘Major Sims,’ they replied with the report on Rawls. He was wanted in Britain on charges of fraud and forgery. Rawls was never a major. He served as a subaltern in the Second Anglo-Afghan War, so his ‘intelligence,’ such as it was, was more than a decade out of date. Shortly after the war, Rawls was drummed out of his regiment for theft and cheating at cards. He knocked about India for a while as a remittance man. Then, a few years ago, his family cut off his allowance. He returned to England and entered the London underworld. That’s where he met the baron. The whole story smacks of Kipling.”
“What’s ‘Kipling’?”
“Rudyard Kipling, a talented young Anglo-Indian writer. He’s quite good, actually.”
Rousseau shrugged. He muttered, “Oh, Kipling,” and took a swig of beer. He wiped his lips on the back of his hand and added, “So you don’t think the English will make trouble?”
“No, I don’t. Rawls was an embarrassment to them. They’re glad he’s dead. He had no military secrets, and they are willing to disregard the Russians’ role in the affair. However, I’m certain this incident has alerted the British to our secret ally’s activities on French soil. But that’s not our problem, is it?”
“No, it’s not. I assume you’ve notified the Deuxième Bureau?”
“Yes, of course.”
Rousseau swirled the beer in his glass before taking another drink. Then he asked, “The two stiffs you fished out of the canal; how were they killed?”
“Based on the autopsy results, Masson thinks they were poisoned with prussic acid. They were dead at least a couple of hours before they went into the water.”
“Looks like you’ll be able to close this case soon. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. Everyone seems satisfied.”
Rousseau looked up from his drink. “You aren’t satisfied?”
Achille frowned. “No, I’m not. It’s a disturbing case. The actions of a few greedy bastards might have provoked a war. What’s more, none of the victims is blameless; not even poor Manuela Otero. After all, she learned the baron’s scheme and used the knowledge in an attempt to extort money out of the baroness and Bonnet. She ought to have informed the police.”
“It’s a messed-up world. Always was; always will be. You know that well enough.”
“I may know it, but I don’t want to believe it.”
Rousseau shook his head. “Is that a riddle? Remember, I’m a simple detective who learned his trade on the streets.”
Achille swallowed some beer before attempting an explanation. “Our world is flawed—or ‘messed up,’ as you said—but we have a duty to improve it. Of course, we can’t right all the wrongs in one generation, or even a hundred. But at least we ought to try. At any rate, I can’t shrug things off, say the world’s ‘messed up,’ and leave it at that.”
Rousseau smirked. “You’re ambitious, Achille. You’ve become the chief of detectives in record time, and there’s talk you’ll be the prefect someday, or even a cabinet minister. You’ll have all the temptations of high office—honors, titles, bribes. As for your ‘improvements,’ see what people think of them when you try to change the world at their expense. You can make your own cross and climb your Calvary; in the end you’ll die and the world will go on as messed up as it was before.”
Achille looked down and stared silently at the diminishing head on his beer.
Rousseau gave his colleague a good-natured punch in the shoulder. “Drink up, Professor. Life is a bitch, but this beer’s good, and I’m willing to buy another round.”
Achille checked his watch. “Thanks, Rousseau. Just one more, if you please. I’ll buy next time. And don’t let me be late for Bonnet’s interrogation.”
“Don’t worry, my friend. I’ll watch the clock and nudge you if you forget.” Rousseau raised his hand and signaled to the bar. After the waiter served them, Rousseau added, “And don’t forget to stop at the flower market on your way home.”
Achille and M. Leblanc reviewed the dossier in the magistrate’s office. A cloth-draped table had been set in the center of the room along with extra chairs for the prisoner and a stenographer. The room was quiet except for the incessant ticking of the wall clock.
The stenographer knocked and entered. He bowed politely, greeted the juge and the chief inspector, sat, and began arranging his notepad, pens, and ink on a small escritoire. Moments later, the heavy tread of two guards and the prisoner echoed in the hallway. The small detail entered and stood at attention before the juge.
“The prisoner may be seated,” M. Leblanc said.
The guards unbound Bonnet’s hands, grabbed his shoulders, and pushed him down onto the plain wooden chair.
Bonnet had no advocate, not that a lawyer would have done him much good. He already knew his fate—a quick death in the Place de la Roquette or a slow one in le bagne.
Achille noticed the prisoner’s unshaven face, unkempt hair, and bloodshot eyes. The cocky attitude was gone. A few days in a detention cell had had its effect. But then there was Bonnet’s reputation as a tough guy, a street fighter. Such men typically showed defiance under interrogation; they did not crack easily. Something had profoundly affected Bonnet and changed him. Achille guessed that a dim spark of conscience, the helplessness of the situation, and Bonnet’s feelings for Mme de Livet had caused this transformation; he would use all that to his advantage.
Bonnet’s enigmatically passive expression reminded Achille of Moreau in the prison registry on the morning of his execution. The look seemed to pose a question: Why am I here? Was it a silent plea for understanding and mercy? The question seemed too metaphysical rather than specifically grounded in an empirical chain of cause and effect. M. Lefebvre was not a philosopher or a priest. He would provide an answer based on the facts in evidence as applied to the law. In that regard, he was like Rousseau, a detective doing his job.
Achille approached the covered table. He stared hard at the prisoner before saying, “The last time we met, under much different circumstances, you lied. Today, I expect you will tell us the truth.” He lifted the cloth, revealing three exhibits: five thousand francs in banknotes, Mme de Livet’s diamonds, and two brown medicine bottles. “Look at these items carefully; they are evidence of your crimes, including murder and fraud. In addition, we have witnesses who will testify against you.” Achille pointed to each item and described them in the following order. “This is the five thousand francs we found hidden under the floorboards of your room. M. de Livet paid you this money to collaborate in his swindle and lie to the police; these bottles contained the poison you used to murder Manuela Otero after she threatened to inform on you and the baron; the diamonds were given to you by Mme de Livet to help you escape from justice.”
Bonnet stared impassively at the evidence.
“Before you speak,” Achille pursued, “there is something you must know about Mme de Livet. She’s been committed to the Salpêtrière.”
The news had its intended effect. Shocked by the revelation, Bonnet rose to his feet and cried, “You’ve put her in the madhouse? Why?”
The guards restrained him. M. Leblanc gave a stern warning:
“I caution you, Bonnet. Control yourself, or I’ll have you bound to the chair.”
Bonnet said, “Yes, Monsieur le juge.” He sat obediently. The guards remained by his side with their hands on his shoulders.
Achille continued. “I’ll answer your question. I didn’t put her in the Salpêtrière. You and the baron are responsible. You used and abused her and entangled her in your crimes. She cared for you, Bonnet. She gave you her diamonds, her last valuable possessions. The baron took everything else. Admit it; you and the baron broke her in mind and spirit; you are the ones who drove her to madness and attempted suicide.”
“No, M. Lefebvre. I loved her. I still do.” Bonnet trembled; his face flushed, and tears filled his eyes.
The chief inspector paused a moment before saying, “Prove that you care for her. It’s your last chance; your only hope of redemption. You can help Mme de Livet and yourself as well.”
“What can I do, Monsieur?”
“Confess. Tell us how and why you poisoned Manuela Otero and everything you know about the baron’s schemes. If you do, the juge will drop all charges against Mme de Livet. With that burden lifted from her mind, the doctors believe she can recover. Otherwise, she could spend the rest of her life in the asylum.
“As for you, M. Leblanc can recommend transportation instead of the guillotine. It’s a hard life in Guiana, but you’re strong. You’ll survive. With time, if you work well and obey the rules, you could become a trustee. It’s a chance to atone for your crimes and pay your debt to society. At any rate, it’s better than ending your life on the scaffold before a howling mob.”
Achille had correctly assessed the prisoner’s state of mind. Bonnet looked down and nodded his head resignedly. “All right, M. Lefebvre. I’ll confess.”
M. Lefebvre smiled; his tone softened. “You made the right decision, Bonnet. Would you like a cigarette?”
Bonnet looked up at his interrogator. “Yes, thank you, Monsieur.”
Achille walked around the table and gave Bonnet a cigarette and a light. The prisoner took a deep drag.
Achille remained next to the prisoner. “Are you ready?” he asked.
Bonnet took the cigarette from his mouth. “Yes, Monsieur. Where shall I begin?”
Achille glanced at the stenographer. “Make sure you get this all down.�
� Then to Bonnet: “Begin with your introduction to the baron. Where did you meet? When did he hire you, and why?”
“We met at a bistro in Montmartre. That was shortly after Monsieur arrived in Paris.”
“Is it the bistro where Pasquet tends bar?”
“You know the place, Monsieur? Boxers and gentlemen who follow the sport hang out there. But then, you’re a boxer—you would know the place.”
“Smugglers hang out there, too.”
Bonnet smiled bitterly and nodded. “Yes, Monsieur.”
“Was M. de Livet looking for a bodyguard?”
“That’s right. He asked around for someone who was tough and reliable. Someone he could count on in a tight spot. He made me a fair offer. He was a good boss—treated me more like a pal than a servant.”
“Did he have a particular need for your services?”
“Yes, Monsieur. Someone was after him for a swindle he’d pulled off in Cape Town.”
“Whom did he defraud?”
“M. Rhodes.”
Achille glanced back at the juge. M. Leblanc raised an eyebrow in response to the name. Achille continued:
“Do you mean Cecil Rhodes?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“How much did the baron take him for?”
“A hundred thousand pounds, more or less.”
“Did the baron deposit all that money in French banks?”
“Not all of it, Monsieur. He shipped most of it to a lawyer in Buenos Aires.”
“Do you know the lawyer’s name?”
“Maître Antonio Ricci.”
“You said someone was ‘after’ the baron? I assume it was someone working for M. Rhodes. Do you have a name or a description of the individual?”
“No, Monsieur, but you can be sure he’s a professional. The baron has guts, but he feared the assassin. Rhodes can afford the best, and he was out for more than the money. He wanted revenge and to make an example of the baron. Men like Rhodes don’t forgive people who cheat them.”
“Did the baron take any other precautions against the stalker?”
The Man Upon the Stair Page 24