The Hanged Man

by Gary Inbinder

  “A neat hangman’s fracture, M. Lefebvre,” he observed, lifting the head to show Achille. “If this had been an execution, I’d say the executioner had done his job well.”

  “So the man didn’t strangle?”

  “No, Inspector. He died of asphyxiation, after being rendered unconscious by the fracture and compression that cut off the blood flow to the brain. The rope was strong and pre-stretched, the knot expertly tied and correctly placed, the drop calculated accurately for a man of his height and weight.”

  “Do suicides typically hang themselves in this manner?”

  The pathologist rested the head back on the table, wiped his hands with a towel, and looked up at Achille with a twisted smile. “In my experience, they do not. They bungle it badly, and suffer as a result. I can think of several better means to an end. I’m ready to certify hanging as the cause of death, probable suicide. As for the time of occurrence, based on the condition of the body, I’d say within the last twenty-four hours.”

  Achille sighed. If only dead men could speak, he thought. His eyes scanned the corpse, as if for the last time. Under the strong, concentrated light, he noticed some marks on the wrists. Achille bent over to get a better look. “What do you make of these bruises and abrasions?”

  Cortot adjusted his spectacles and walked around the table to stand beside Achille. He examined the marks on the wrists. “I noticed these, Inspector, but I concentrated on the neck injuries to determine the cause of death. The marks are recent.” The pathologist paused and looked to Achille. “I doubt he would have tied his own hands before killing himself. Was he bound when you found him hanging from the bridge?”

  “He was not.”

  Cortot thought for a moment. Then he stated with authority, “I’m changing my opinion, Inspector, not as to the cause of death, but as to the person—or persons—involved. I’m afraid, without further evidence, that must remain undetermined.”

  Achille frowned and nodded his agreement. The doctor had confirmed his suspicions, but Achille was uncertain if that confirmation pleased him. “Thank you, Doctor. There’s one more thing before I go. I want to fingerprint the corpse, and I’ve brought equipment with me for that purpose.”

  The pathologist raised his eyebrows at the novelty of Achille’s request. “Fingerprint a corpse? I know you had some success with fingerprinting in the Ménard case, but isn’t this somewhat … irregular?”

  Achille shrugged. “It’s an experiment in forensic science, Doctor. I have authority from chiefs Féraud and Bertillon; you may check with them if you are concerned.”

  The pathologist responded with a bemused smile. “No, that’s quite all right, Monsieur Lefebvre. Please proceed with your experiment. I’m at your service.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Cortot. As always, I appreciate your medical expertise and cooperation.”

  The Pont Neuf had spanned the Seine for three centuries, linking the Left Bank and the Right Bank to the Île de la Cité. Achille walked from his office on the Quai des Orfèvres to the long, stone-arched section of the bridge that crossed over to the Right Bank. From there, it was not more than a ten-minute walk to his apartment on a quiet, tree-lined avenue.

  In truth, the apartment belonged to his mother-in-law, Madame Berthier. Achille paid Madame a nominal rent that permitted the Lefebvre family to enjoy greater comfort than they could have managed on an inspector’s salary. Achille had a reputation for scrupulous honesty, and was generally respected and well-liked by his peers. But his agreeable, bourgeois domestic arrangements had given rise to an unkind intimation that having married well, Achille could afford to be honest.

  Halfway across the bridge, Achille stopped, leaned against the balustrade, and lit a cigarette. He lifted his bowler and mopped his brow. Then he took a moment to gaze in the direction of the dark, shadowy bastions of officialdom—police headquarters, the Palais de Justice, the Conciergerie, and the Morgue—that comprised the hub of his working life. From this ancient, central location extended the Magistrate’s Sword, reproducing itself in a multiplicity of sharp little blades poking and prodding their way through all points of the metropolis, and beyond.

  The natural darkness of the hour was made softer by artificial light, emanating from thousands of gas lamps and new electric bulbs. So much light, it outshone the stars. Has a false light made the city safer and more secure? he wondered.

  A throbbing of engines and a blaze of electric illumination announced a bateau-mouche chugging its way under the arches and up the river past the island. He watched the boat for a while, its propellers churning a white wake on the dark, still surface of the Seine. Why couldn’t the poor bastard have jumped off this bridge, like so many other routine suicides? Was it suicide? Murder? Or something else?

  Paris had a relatively low murder rate for a city of two and a half million, and most detectives liked routine cases. Something nice and easy, like a man who comes home from work, finds his wife in the arms of her lover, and kills them both in a fit of jealous rage. Achille had built his reputation on cracking the hard cases, the ones no one else wanted. Yet even he didn’t want this one. If only there hadn’t been those marks on his wrists. He could have turned the file over to Legros and gone off on his holiday with a clear conscience. But there was more to the conundrum than the evidence of bound wrists; there was the note; the Sobranie; the absence of any other personal items; the time, place, and manner of death; the totality of the circumstances. What if the iodine-fuming test brought out fingerprints that didn’t match those he had taken from the corpse? And the note could raise more questions without providing answers.

  Achille flicked his half-smoked cigarette away and watched as the tiny, glowing red tip disappeared into the darkness below. He muttered, “Mon Dieu, what a case.”

  “I’m sorry I’m so late, my dear. I hope you received my message?” He bent down and kissed Adele’s cheek. How soft and warm she is, he thought. And such a delightful fragrance. At that moment, he longed for three things: a bath, a cognac, and his accustomed place in bed beside his young wife.

  “Indeed I did,” she replied with just a hint of disappointment in her voice. “A new case, I assume. And as usual, you missed an excellent supper. I trust you made do with a sandwich?”

  “Yes, I picked up something at the café-bar and took it back to the office. I’m reporting to Féraud first thing in the morning.” He paused for a moment, then said, “The little ones are asleep, I suppose?”

  Adele laughed softly. “Yes, thank goodness. Have you any idea of the time?”

  He sighed and scanned the shadowy entry hall for signs of his mother-in-law. “Has your mother retired for the evening?”

  “Yes, Achille, she has.”

  At least the dragon’s in her lair, he thought. “I’m sorry I missed her.”

  She smiled at his polite fib. Then she noticed the condition of his shirtfront. “You’re awfully damp. Why don’t you get into the bathtub? When you’re ready, I’ll wash your back, and you can tell me about your new case.”

  He smiled and took her by the hand. “You’re an angel. Sometimes I wonder what I’ve done to deserve you.”

  2

  GIVE HIM ENOUGH ROPE

  A fly buzzed around the green-shaded oil lamp on Chief Féraud’s cluttered mahogany desk. The chief glanced up from Achille’s report; his sharp brown eyes followed the insect’s circuit around the lamp’s smoking chimney. A hand lashed out and grasped the fly. A pathetic buzz emanated from the clenched fist.

  “Gotcha, you little bastard.” The fist tightened like a vise; the faint whining ceased. The chief leaned to his right, picked a scrap of paper from his wire wastebasket, and wiped the fly’s remains off his palm. Having disposed of the pest, he returned to his perusal of the hanged man’s file.

  The dial on the wall clock read five-fifteen. The dusty shades were drawn down, covering the grimy windows that faced out onto the quay two stories below. There was little activity at this early hour; the only sound penetr
ating the tightly shuttered windows was the monotonous chugging of a tugboat towing a barge upriver. The pre-dawn hour was a good time to work, undisturbed by outside distractions and untroubled by the summer heat.

  Féraud closed the file and laid it down on top of a pile of others. Leaning back in his chair, the chief hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets and stared for a moment at Achille, who sat stiffly upright on the other side of the desk. “Well, my boy, you think this might be a homicide?”

  “It’s possible, Chief,” Achille replied cautiously. “The circumstances are suspicious, and there are the bruises and abrasions on the wrists, evidence that the individual had been bound. At any rate, I’ll know more by the end of the day.”

  The chief nodded his agreement. “What’s your plan?”

  “Regarding identification, the morning papers will report the discovery of the hanged man, the location of the incident, and a brief description of the body. He’s on display in the Morgue, and the attendants will keep an eye open for anyone showing an unusual interest in the corpse. An initial review of records didn’t turn up anything, but with some additional information, especially the translation of the note, I should be able to narrow things down.

  “Legros, with the aid of Sergeant Rodin and a couple of his men, is conducting a search of the area around the bridge. In addition, Legros is questioning park employees and concessionaires to see if he can turn up witnesses, or leads. I’ve placed a map of the park in the file. There are several ways in, besides the main entrance. A couple of these entrances would be close to the bridge, and less conspicuous. If this is a homicide, it’s possible the individual was lured to the spot for a rendezvous.”

  “It’s possible,” the chief agreed.

  “I’m going up to Gilles’s studio in Montmartre to collect the photographs and get the results of the Coulier test on the note. If the prints on the note don’t match the ones I collected from the cadaver, that, along with the other evidence, may rule out suicide.”

  The chief closed his eyes and fiddled for a moment with the ruby-eyed death’s-head charm on his watch chain. Presently, he put his hands on the desk and stared directly at Achille. “Maybe he was illiterate, and had someone write the note for him?”

  Achille frowned. “Yes, that’s possible. I’ll know more when I get the translation. I’m taking it to Mme Nazimova. She has a bookstore on the Boulevard St. Michel near the Sorbonne. She’s good with all the Slavonic languages. I’ve used her before; she’s discreet and reliable.”

  Féraud glanced down at his hands and mumbled, “Nazimova—Nazimova,” as if trying to recall the name. Then he looked back at Achille with an enlightened gleam in his eye. “She’s one of the Russian émigrés who came here via Switzerland back in ’81.”

  The chief’s reference to Nazimova’s political background troubled Achille. Perhaps it would have been more prudent to suggest another translator. “That’s correct, Chief,” he said cautiously. “She and her late husband came here as political refugees. Of course, if you’d rather I use someone else—”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Féraud broke in. For a moment, he rested his chin on his hand, stroked his thick black moustache, and marked Achille with a gimlet eye. “She may be under surveillance, but that could be to our purpose.”

  “Do you think she’s being watched by the political brigade?”

  Féraud raised his eyebrows. “But of course. Who else do you think would have her under surveillance?”

  Achille almost blurted out, “The Okhrana.” They were the Russian secret police, which ran a network of agents from its headquarters in the Russian Embassy on the Rue de Grenelle. The Okhrana spied on Russian émigrés with the cooperation of the prefecture’s political brigade and the unofficial sanction of the French government.

  Instead of directly referring to the Russians, Achille decided to broach the subject obliquely by mentioning his old partner, Rousseau. After twenty years on the force, Rousseau had resigned in disgrace following his questionable actions in the Ménard case. He’d subsequently obtained a position in the political section, where he had gained credit for deploying his broad network of snoops and snitches on behalf of superiors who ignored Rousseau’s extrajudicial methods. Moreover, rumor had it that Rousseau worked directly for the Russian bureau chief.

  “If she’s being watched, isn’t it likely one of Rousseau’s men would be shadowing her?”

  Féraud grinned and gave a little snort, a knowing laugh through the nostrils. “Oh, I’d say it’s more than likely; it’s a certainty.” For an instant, the chief’s keen eyes studied his protégé’s features for a reaction. Then he observed, “Achille, you’re stiff as a soldier on parade. Sit back and relax.” He glanced up at the clock and then opened a desk drawer and retrieved a cigar box. “We’ve time for a smoke and a friendly chat. You’ll appreciate these, I’m sure. The finest clear Havana, a gift from a generous friend.”

  Achille smiled. “Thank you, Chief. I’ll save mine for after dinner.”

  “Ah, there’s nothing like ending the day with cognac and a good cigar. So you shall have two; smoke one with me now, and save the other for later.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Not at all, Inspector.” Féraud sliced the end off a cigar with his miniature desktop guillotine and handed the neatly decapitated Havana along with its unclipped companion to Achille. They lit up and each took a few satisfying puffs. “Yes,” the chief remarked, “this is a real gentleman’s smoke.” Féraud exhaled and blew a couple of rings, watching them drift toward the ceiling. Then he set the cigar down in a brass ashtray. “Now, getting back to the case. Let’s say our unidentified hanged man turns out to be a Russian émigré. What will you do?”

  Achille took his cigar from his lips and leaned over to knock a bit of ash into Féraud’s tray. Then he sat back in his chair and looked the chief squarely in the eye. “I’d turn the file over to the political brigade, let Rousseau and his pals handle it.”

  The chief smiled broadly. “Yes, my boy, that would be very proper—according to the book. Were I in your position, that’s exactly what I would have said. Get the damned file off my desk, that’s what I’d do, especially if I had a nice seaside holiday with my young wife to look forward to.” Achille frowned, about to protest, but Féraud cut him off. “Believe me, that’s no criticism. The brigade knows I’m planning for my retirement this year, and you’re my picked successor. When the prefect asked who my best detective was, I gave him your name without hesitation.

  “But there’s more to this job than detective work—much more. There’s administration, public relations, and politics. Our brigade runs on money, and that must be appropriated by the legislature. The prefect goes begging to the legislators for every precious franc and centime. As for me, I must ensure that we receive our fair share of the pie, and not just a few crumbs from the crust.

  “Now, there are plenty of plodders in the brigade. They handle the routine cases, put in their time, and collect their pensions in due course. But you, my boy, are a thoroughbred, destined for great things. The press and the public have noticed your work; you’re well-regarded in high places. That’s why you get the cases no one else wants. Because when you crack the case, it brings credit to the brigade, and along with that credit come the appropriations we need to run efficiently and, hopefully, to expand our operations. And remember, it’s all done for the public good.”

  “But what about the political brigade?” Achille interjected. “We can’t poach on their preserve.”

  “Ah, I was coming to that. Tell me truthfully; do you harbor a grudge against Rousseau?”

  Achille recalled Rousseau’s obstructionist attitude and performance in their last case. Whether through negligence or by design, Rousseau had botched his end of the investigation, making Achille’s job more difficult. But Achille knew that the chief wanted to promote an atmosphere of collegial cooperation between the criminal investigation division and the political bran
ch—at least, up to a point. He answered carefully. “I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, as long as it’s in the best interest of the service.”

  Féraud smiled and nodded his approval. “I knew you’d see it that way. Now, here’s how I want you to proceed—for the time being, stick with the case. If it turns out that the hanged man is a political émigré, it’s most likely Mme Nazimova knew him. Don’t tell her anything about the case. Ask her to translate the note, and see how she reacts. You may tell her what’s already in the public record, and be sure to show her the victim’s photograph. If she identifies him, find out what she knows.

  “One of Rousseau’s snoops is probably keeping an eye on Nazimova’s shop, and your former partner will have files on all the Russian émigrés. Contact him and tell him you’re willing to work with him, exchange information, and so forth. Shake hands on it, for old times’ sake. After all, it’s to your mutual benefit. You have your methods and he has his, but we’re all playing on the same team—for the good of France.”

  Achille smiled and accepted the situation with the ostensible enthusiasm of a career public servant.

  Achille took a tram to Gilles’s studio on the Boulevard de Clichy. Dressed in a light summer suit and straw boater, he rode on top in the open air to avoid the stuffiness and sour smell of the closed passenger compartment below. As the large draft horses plodded along, he yearned for the day when the line would become electrified. The anticipated advancement in metropolitan transportation would improve speed and efficiency, cut down on the piles of horse dung and puddles of piss with their attendant swarms of disease-spreading flies, and relieve the poor animals from the torment of hauling such heavy loads.