To pass the time—and be less conspicuous—Achille concealed his face behind a copy of Le Petit Journal. While ostensibly concentrating on the latest installment of a detective novel, he surreptitiously observed his fellow passengers: a couple of chattering young women, perhaps shop-girls, and an old man with a long white beard, who was dressed in a shabby suit, his wizened head crowned with a battered bowler hat.
According to Bertillon, there were three points the detective should concentrate upon for his verbal portrait: the lips, the ears, and the shape of the skull. The contour of these features remained constant from cradle to grave. A suspect could pad his nostrils to change the shape of the nose, use tinted glasses to cover his eyes, shave a beard or moustache or add false facial hair, or use dye—or a wig—to change hair color. A young man could make himself look old, or vice versa; he might disguise himself to look like a woman, or a woman could transform herself into a man.
Using Bertillon’s method, Achille could get an accurate portrait parlé of his fellow passengers without much trouble. But in the serialized novel, the detective was tailing after a young woman through the dark, twisting streets of Montmartre. The suspect in the story wore a broad-brimmed hat and a veil; for all the detective knew, she could have been a he. How could he determine the correct form of her ears, lips, or skull under such circumstances? Achille shook his head, annoyed with the fiction, and sighed.
The clopping of the horses’ hooves ceased, the brakes squealed, the bell clanged; they had arrived at the tramway stop near Marshal Moncey’s statue in the Place de Clichy. Achille folded his newspaper, rose from his seat, and walked down the winding exit stairs to the pavement. At street level, he crossed the busy intersection in the direction of the large, four-story office block that housed Gilles’s studio. Achille entered the foyer, his footsteps echoing on the checkerboard marble floor as he walked briskly to the stairway. Bright, warm rays of sun streamed down from a skylight high above the fourth-floor landing, where the photographer’s studio was located. Achille bounded upstairs, two steps at a time, anxious to see how the photographs had come out, and most particularly concerned about the results of the fingerprint test.
Gilles greeted his friend with his customary cheerfulness. “Good day, Inspector, and a lovely day it is. Sunny, clear, and not as bloody hot and humid anymore.”
Achille took a moment to catch his breath. Then he asked, “Did the prints come out all right?”
“Champing at the bit, eh? Well, I won’t keep you in suspense. Everything came out splendidly; I think you’ll be pleased.” Gilles beckoned, leading Achille to a long workbench at the back of the studio near the darkroom. Achille noticed what appeared to be a large parcel wrapped in brown paper, seemingly displayed on the bench in such a conspicuous manner as to pique his curiosity.
Achille smiled knowingly and pointed toward the object. “I suppose you’re going to tell me what’s in that package. Is it another one of your gadgets? The latest American Kodak, perhaps?”
Gilles laughed. “This, my friend, is something of my own devising: a camera disguised to look like a parcel.” Gilles turned the camera around so Achille could see the concealed lens, the shutter buttons, and the knob that could be rotated to change the plates. “It contains enough dry plates for twelve exposures. Might come in handy in your line of work, don’t you think?”
Achille lifted the camera to examine it more closely and get the feel of it. “It’s a bit bulky to carry around all day, even with the handle. I suppose you’d aim it like this?” Achille pointed it in Gilles’s direction.
“That’s right, Inspector. And I tried to keep the weight to a minimum.”
“Hmmm … all right. But I assume you’d need good weather, plenty of light. And the detective would need to consider the range, and focus—”
“They could be trained,” Gilles broke in with a frown. “I could train them.”
Achille nodded and returned the camera to the workbench. “It’s a good idea, Gilles. I’ll keep it in mind. Now let’s take a look at the photographs.”
Gilles had expected more enthusiasm for his camera, but he didn’t express his disappointment. He retrieved a large envelope from a nearby file cabinet, blew off some dust, and handed it to Achille. “You’ll see I got a sharp image of three fingers from the back of the document. I’m afraid the thumb prints on the obverse near the writing are a bit blurred.”
Achille took out his magnifying glass, then reached into his jacket pocket and removed the card containing the hanged man’s fingerprints. He set the card next to the photograph on the end of the workbench that was lit brilliantly by sunshine streaming through the large skylight. After a few minutes’ scrutiny, Achille said, “Look, Gilles, you can see a distinct difference in the whorl and loop pattern.”
The photographer bent over and peered through the magnifier. Achille used a pencil as a pointer to highlight the discrepancy. Presently, Gilles nodded his agreement and returned the glass. “Yes, Inspector, I see the difference. So, what does it mean?”
“It means someone other than the deceased got his or her hands on this note, and it wasn’t the police. Rodin’s done a good job training his men in that regard.”
“So, what’s next, Inspector?”
Achille packed up the photographs and tucked them into his jacket pockets. Then he announced, “I’m off to headquarters to deposit the evidence; then, I’ll take copies of your photographs to an expert translator in the Latin Quarter. And I must meet with Legros to see what he’s turned up, if anything.” He smiled and held out his hand. “You’ve done excellent work, as always, my friend. And I really do like your concealed camera. I’ll talk to Féraud about it when I get a chance. But for now, I’m afraid I’m preoccupied with this case.”
Gilles shook hands warmly and returned the smile. “I understand, my friend. And good luck, though I doubt you’ll need it.”
Achille shook his head and remarked wistfully, “With this one, I fear I’ll need all the help I can get.”
It was a short walk from headquarters across the Pont Saint-Michel and up the boulevard past the monumental fountain to Madame Nazimova’s shop. Achille habitually enjoyed this stroll—his favorite café-bar was nearby—but his mind was too focused on his case to notice the familiar sights. Nor was he much concerned with the milling crowd in the Place Saint-Michel; they were mostly tourists this time of year, the students having gone off on holiday.
On such ostensibly informal excursions from his official world on the Île de la Cité, he tried to blend in with the crowd. He hoped his light-colored summer suit, the straw hat worn at a jaunty angle, a copy of Le Petit Journal, and an affable manner would camouflage the sign that his profession had permanently hung around his neck: “Beware the Cop.”
The jingling shop bell on Madame Nazimova’s door announced his arrival. He entered the dusty warren of narrow aisles and towering bookshelves stacked halfway to the ceiling. A high-pitched voice squeaked from the shadowy recess behind the stacks. “Good afternoon, Monsieur Lefebvre. Are you here to see Madame?”
Achille smiled and peered in the direction of the greeting. “Good afternoon, Marie. Yes, I have some business with Madame. I hope she’s available?”
The shop assistant emerged from her shelter, a mousy miniature in grisaille. “She’s in the back taking tea, Monsieur. Please wait here; I’ll just be a moment.”
While waiting for Madame Nazimova, Achille amused himself by thumbing through a leather-bound volume of Paul de Kock’s La Pucelle de Belleville. He shook his head and smiled at the marked price. The illustrations and binding are much better than de Kock’s scribbling, he thought. Only tourists would pay good money for such outmoded rubbish.
“Madame will see you now, Monsieur.”
Achille replaced the volume and walked to a curtained-off room in the back of the shop. Marie drew back the portière and announced Achille. She gave him a quizzical, sidelong glance before returning to her duties.
Mada
me Nazimova sat at a round tea table in the center of the small chamber. She was a bird-like woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a well-worn russet silk frock. Her curious, light blue eyes stared at him through steel-rimmed glasses. “Forgive me for not rising, M. Lefebvre. A touch of rheumatism, I’m afraid; surprising in such lovely weather.”
Achille lifted his hat, smiled, and made a slight bow. “Please don’t go to any trouble, Madame,” he replied. “I trust you are otherwise well?”
“As well as can be expected, Monsieur.” She gestured to an empty chair and place setting. “Marie has set a place for you. I’d be honored if you would join me for tea.”
“That’s most kind of you, Madame.” Achille sat and immediately searched for a place to hang his hat. The little room, with its faded rose wallpaper and mildewed scent, was bare of furniture except for the table and two chairs.
She noticed his confusion and offered a solution. “Please set your hat on the table, Inspector.”
Achille placed his boater on the white linen tablecloth, next to a tarnished samovar. She served him tea; he accepted a slice of lemon, but declined her offer of milk and sugar. Then she called his attention to a plate of madeleines. “You must try one of these, M. Lefebvre. They’re fresh from the local bakery.”
Achille refused the tea cookie. “No, thank you, Madame. I just ate, and I’m quite full.” In fact, he was quite hungry, and the madeleines were tempting. He had survived all morning on coffee and cigarettes, but there was still plenty of work ahead. He was anxious to get down to business and move on, but he would be polite. On the other hand, he would not prolong the tea ceremony. After a few minutes of small talk, Mme Nazimova must have sensed Achille’s impatience in his terse statements, darting eyes, and drumming fingers.
“I enjoy your company, M. Lefebvre, but I assume you’re here on official business rather than social. Do you have something that requires translation?”
Achille smiled with relief. “Yes, Madame. I’ve a very short document written in Cyrillic characters. I’ll pay the usual rate, if you’ll be so kind as to provide a receipt for my expenses.”
Madame adjusted her glasses and held out her hand. “If you please, Inspector.”
Achille retrieved the photograph from his jacket pocket and handed it to Madame. She examined the note for a moment, returned it to Achille, and regarded him with a blank stare. The blankness of her expression transmitted a mixed message: Either she was indifferent to the contents of the note, or she was concealing her true feelings by affecting a lack of interest. “The message is written in modern Russian,” she said in a flat monotone that matched her facial expression. “It’s a verse from the Bible, Matthew 27:5: ‘And he cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, and departed, and went and hanged himself.’”
Achille confronted her studied emptiness with a critical eye. The hanged man was Judas, but whom did he betray, and why? She knows something, and she’s holding it back. His questioning frown transformed quickly into a disarming smile. “Thank you, Madame. This information is helpful, and I believe you might be of further assistance in my investigation. I’m trying to identify a man found hanging from a bridge in the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, and I’d like you to look at a photograph. But I must warn you, it’s somewhat unpleasant.”
A faint smile played along her bloodless lips. “I’m used to the face of death, Inspector. And I’m pleased to cooperate with the police.” She scrutinized the photograph of the dead man taken on the bridge, with the noose still looped round his throat and the note pinned to his jacket. “Lev Dmitryevich,” she muttered. She handed back the photograph and looked at Achille with eyes like windows with the blinds drawn—he could get nothing from them.
“Who was he, Madame?” he asked in a quiet, sympathetic voice.
After a moment, she said, “Lev Dmitryevich Kadyshev. He and my late husband met at the university in St. Petersburg; they studied medicine together. We left Russia for Switzerland about the same time, in 1881, and remained in contact when we immigrated to Paris. But I haven’t seen him since my husband died, more than a year ago.” She paused before asking, “But I assume you have a dossier on him?”
Achille supposed Rousseau had a file, but he wanted Nazimova to believe he already had the information, or could easily obtain it. On the other hand, he needed to locate Kadyshev’s residence immediately. “Yes, Madame, but I must confirm his present address. It’s a matter of some urgency, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”
She eyed him warily for an instant before answering. “As far as I know, he still rents—pardon me, rented—a room in a house on the Rue des Saules, near the vineyard on the Butte.”
Achille took out his pencil and notepad. “Thank you, Madame.” Looking up from his note he added, “Do you know his occupation or place of work?”
“Well, Inspector, as I said, it’s been more than a year. At any rate, since he couldn’t practice medicine in France, he worked in an apothecary shop on the Place du Tertre across from the new town hall. Is that helpful?”
Achille smiled and returned the notepad and pencil to his breast pocket. “Thank you, Madame, and I won’t trouble you further—today. You’ve indeed been very helpful, but please understand that I may return for more questioning.”
“I understand perfectly, Inspector. One might assume Kadyshev was under surveillance—to a greater or lesser extent, we all are. However, being constantly watched can get on one’s nerves. One longs to be free. Then, who is free in this world? Perhaps death is the only true liberation.”
Achille nodded politely, but he had no time for gloomy philosophy. He bid Madame good day, dashed out of the shop, and walked rapidly up the boulevard and across the bridge. As soon as he reached his office, he telephoned the police station in Belleville with a message for Legros and Rodin: “Urgent. Have discovered victim’s name and residence. Break off search and meet me at the Montmartre station. Lefebvre.”
“Inspector Legros, over here—I’ve found something!”
Legros and Rodin were standing on the path leading to the bridge. They supervised a detail of three policemen searching an area approximately ten meters from the site of the hanging. Having spent most of the day looking for evidence without success, the policeman’s summons was a welcome interruption.
The men walked to a shady clearing a few meters from the footpath, where they came upon the young policeman, flushed with excitement and pointing toward his discovery. “It’s a man’s necktie and collar lying in the grass at the foot of that tree.”
Legros crouched to examine the objects resting in a clump of grass between the thick, gnarled roots of a tall elm. He took out his evidence bag, put on a pair of gloves, and lifted the tie to get a better look. “Average quality silk, cut neatly with a razor or sharp knife,” he said to no one in particular. He deposited the necktie in the bag and turned his attention to the collar. “Appears to have been ripped off; the buttons popped. One’s over there in the grass.” He got up and turned to Rodin. “Let’s continue searching this area. And I want to send a message to Inspector Lefebvre.”
“Right, Inspector,” the sergeant replied. Rodin scanned the area for a moment, then pointed and exclaimed, “Look, over there, in the bushes.”
Legros focused on the undergrowth near the elm. He noticed a white object. Hunkering down, he parted the foliage and retrieved a linen handkerchief. He dropped the evidence in his bag, and continued his search. A dark, familiar shape caught his eye. Reaching into the tangled underbrush, he retrieved a small, uncorked brown bottle. Legros sniffed the bottleneck. His eyes widened with recognition of a faint, cloying odor, like overripe fruit. “Chloroform?”
Legros’s speculation was interrupted by a red-faced, panting gendarme. The man took a moment to catch his breath and then handed an envelope to Rodin. “Sergeant—M. Legros, I have an urgent message from Inspector Lefebvre.”
Kadyshev had rented a room in a yellow-painted, four-story residence on the Rue des Saules acr
oss from the vineyard that had recently been decimated by phylloxera. This quiet neighborhood, known for its rural charm, had acquired a somber aspect, perched high above the city near the Butte’s summit and close to the rising white walls of Sacré-Coeur. The once-thriving vineyard had become a graveyard of the grape, its abundant vines had withered and grown moribund, denuded of their broad green leaves and succulent fruit.
The arrival of three policemen on her doorstep shocked Mme Arnaud, the concierge. She knew Sergeant Rodin well and expressed her anxiety to him directly. “One of my tenants, murdered, M. Rodin? Such a thing is unthinkable. It will give the house a bad name.”
Rodin’s familiarity and solicitous demeanor calmed her. Achille thought it best to question Mme Arnaud in Rodin’s presence, trusting Legros to conduct a thorough preliminary search of Kadyshev’s room. The concierge led the policemen into her tightly shuttered sitting room, where she settled her ample skirts onto a velvet-upholstered settee and offered Achille and Rodin a pair of lumpy, stiff leather chairs. After a tense moment, a tinkling silver bell and a plaintive meow initiated conversation. Achille was greeted by a cat rubbing its muzzle against his pant leg.
Mme Arnaud’s eyes widened in surprise and a network of wrinkles spread across her face in reaction to the prodigious sight. “This is impossible, M. Lefebvre. Cyrano hates strangers. To be honest, he doesn’t much like people he knows, including me, not to mention other cats. But he absolutely loathes strange humans.”
Madame’s wonder magnified when Achille scratched the old Siamese behind his ear. Cyrano responded by springing onto Achille’s lap, curling into a ball, and purring blithely while casually flipping his tail against Achille’s thigh.
“I guess I have a way with cats, Mme Arnaud,” Achille remarked. He didn’t add that cats had a way with him, too. If he didn’t get on with his questioning, his eyes would begin to water, his throat would scratch, and he might be seized by a fit of sneezing.
The Hanged Man Page 3