The Hanged Man

by Gary Inbinder

  Rodin viewed the interchange among cat, concierge, and detective with a knowing grin. Good relations with a concierge could prove invaluable in police work. The ubiquitous Parisian gatekeepers tended to be more knowledgeable and reliable than the best-paid informers, at least when it came to the comings and goings of their tenants.

  “My dear Mme Arnaud,” Rodin said, “in addition to his remarkable affinity for cats, M. Lefebvre is one of France’s most distinguished detectives. I vouch for him without reservation.”

  The old woman smiled fondly at Achille. “Since both Cyrano and my old friend Sergeant Rodin hold you in such high regard, I shall, of course, do whatever I can to assist in your investigation.”

  Achille smiled, thanked her, and began his polite interrogation. He continued gently stroking Cyrano’s neck and back, as if by doing so he could further ingratiate himself with both the cat and its mistress. “Mme Arnaud, how long have you known M. Kadyshev?”

  She narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips, and thought a moment. “I believe he first came here by way of Geneva, back in the fall of 1881. Of course, I have a record of the exact date. That was the year of the Tsar’s assassination. Many Russians came here back then.”

  “Can you tell me what sort of gentleman he was? I mean, his habits, customs, and general demeanor. Did he have many friends, or was he the sort who kept to himself?”

  “Well now, he was an educated gentleman; he had a medical degree from his own country, but he wasn’t qualified to practice here so he worked as an apothecary at a shop in the square. I’d say in most regards he was an ideal tenant—neat, quiet, and always paid the rent on time. And he was polite, but not friendly, if you know what I mean. A solitary fellow, and rather gloomy—but I have no reason to complain of him.”

  Achille thought, Speak well of the dead or not at all. “I see. Can you recall any friends or acquaintances of his—male or female?”

  Madame sighed. “There were no women, which might seem odd. He was a decent-looking man and seemed healthy enough. He dressed well for a man of his class and occupation, but he wasn’t a pansy. I know that sort, not that I have any particular prejudice against them. At any rate, in all the years he was here I can recall only two male acquaintances, both of them Russian.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  “Yes, there was a M. Nazimov. He was a doctor by profession, like M. Kadyshev. A thin, pale gentleman as I recall, and he coughed a good deal. He might have been consumptive. Anyway, he hasn’t been here in years.”

  Achille assumed that she referred to Mme Nazimova’s husband; the information squared with what Nazimova had told him about their relationship with Kadyshev. “And the other man?”

  “Ah, that would be M. Boguslavsky—what names these people have. He visited quite frequently, as recently as last week. I think he’s a chemist. A loud man, not as polite as M. Kadyshev, and he smokes like an old stove.”

  Achille immediately recalled the Sobranie. “Excuse me, Madame. Did this man smoke a pipe or a cigar?”

  “No, Inspector, he smoked cigarettes, one right after the other. And he dropped the butts on the landing, the stairway, in the entrance hall, or anywhere else he pleased.”

  “Do you remember anything different or unusual about the cigarettes he smoked?”

  “Yes, they were long with cardboard tips, the kind Russians smoke. Heaven knows I’ve had to pick up enough of them.”

  “Can you give me a more detailed description of M. Boguslavsky? His approximate age, height, weight, and build, and color of skin, hair, beard, and eyes? Or any unusual distinguishing features—scars, deformities, and so forth?”

  “Oh, he’s a bear, taller than you by a couple of centimeters, and stocky. I’d say he’s in his forties; he has a full brown beard that comes down well below his collar and he’s balding on top, but no gray. Big brown eyes and a gruff manner. And he does have a nasty scar above the beard on his left cheek. Might have got it dueling, which wouldn’t surprise me; he’s that sort of man.”

  “This is very helpful information, Madame. You said you believe he’s a chemist. Do you know where he’s employed?”

  She shook her head. “No, M. Lefebvre, I’m afraid not. You might ask over at the café near the apothecary shop. He and M. Kadyshev used to go there for coffee and to play chess. And, I assume, to talk politics.”

  The mention of politics piqued Achille’s interest. “Politics—did you ever overhear any of their discussions?”

  Mme Arnaud flushed a bit and laughed nervously. “Well, Monsieur, I don’t eavesdrop. But I have overheard them, on occasion, speaking in a mixture of French and Russian, and I could make out some of it. Stuff about workers and peasants, oppressors and tyrants, strikes, revolution, that sort of thing.”

  She paused a moment, glanced at her old friend Rodin, and then looked back at Achille with a grim frown. “You know, M. Lefebvre, many of us up here still have bitter memories of 1871. I remember an old priest, Abbé Laurent, a kindly gentleman who always cared for the sick and the poor, and never harmed anyone. He was one of the hostages shot by the mob on the Rue Haxo. No, Inspector, I want nothing to do with that sort of ‘politics.’”

  Achille understood perfectly. Across the political spectrum, Parisians had painful memories of the Commune. Asking questions about what had occurred, especially during the Bloody Week, was like probing an old wound that had never completely healed. “Madame, we’ll need to question your other two tenants. I understand they’re both presently at work?”

  “Yes. Messrs. Jacquot and Lebel. But I assure you, they had nothing to do with the Russians.”

  “I understand, Madame. It’s just a matter of routine.”

  A knock on the parlor door interrupted them. “Pardon me, Madame; that must be my associate, Inspector Legros.” Achille placed Cyrano down gently on the carpet, leaving the cat staring up at his new friend with wistful blue eyes, his tail curled into a question mark. Achille walked to the entrance with the cat padding alongside. When the door opened, Cyrano let out a low growl and dashed into the hall, having spotted a mouse scampering along the skirting board.

  “Excuse me, Inspector, I’m sorry to interrupt. But I’ve found some items of interest upstairs.”

  Achille smiled. “Not to worry, Étienne, I’m finished down here.” He turned back toward Mme Arnaud. “Thank you again, Madame. You have my card. If you have any questions or any further information of interest, please don’t hesitate to contact me. You may also get a message to me or M. Legros through Sergeant Rodin.”

  Madame replied, “I’ll certainly do that, M. Lefebvre.” She then turned to her old friend Rodin and engaged him in local gossip, a variety of topics including Russians, radicals, and the tragic aftermath of the phylloxera infestation, most particularly the plight of the unemployed vintners and the sharp rise in the cost of vin ordinaire.

  Upon entering Kadyshev’s sparsely furnished room, Achille was struck by its tidiness. From the neatly made cot to the orderly rows of books on a shelf, everything seemed almost too perfectly arranged.

  Aside from the bed, the only furnishings were a small round table with a half-empty bottle of vodka and two glasses on top, three plain wooden chairs, and a marble-topped washstand with porcelain basin, pitcher, and shaving mirror. A scrupulously cleansed chamber pot occupied a cabinet beneath the washstand, and a rack held what appeared to be recently laundered washcloths and towels. A mahogany armoire was the most prominent item in the room, and it contained a presentable wardrobe for a man of Kadyshev’s social status and profession. Achille noticed two plaster busts decorating the bookshelf, one of Jean-Jacques Rousseau and the other of Karl Marx. Someone was certainly making a political statement, he thought.

  “Did you find any letters, papers, photographs, or other personal effects?”

  “No, Inspector. That’s odd, isn’t it?”

  Achille shook his head. “Not odd if someone was here before us and cleaned the place out.”

  “B
ut wouldn’t the concierge have known if anyone had been here?”

  Achille muttered, “Not necessarily.” He pointed toward the open window. “The air’s surprisingly fresh. Was that window open when you entered?”

  “Yes, Inspector, it was. I assumed Kadyshev had left it open. Or perhaps the concierge opened it?”

  Achille shook his head. “It wasn’t Mme Arnaud. She told Rodin she hadn’t entered the room since Kadyshev was last here.” Achille walked to the window, looked down, and noticed paint chips on the sill. He felt for gouges, running his hand along the rough underside of the sash. Achille removed his hat, raised the sash, leaned out the window, and examined the exterior.

  Anticipating Achille’s discovery, Legros joined him. “It was forced, M. Lefebvre?”

  “Yes, of course,” Achille replied. Still leaning out the window, he craned his neck to look up at the guttering and eaves. Then he glanced over in the direction of the drainpipe and beyond, to the narrow airshaft separating this building from the next. A warm breeze ruffled his hair; sparrows flitted by, then perched on the gutter and chattered; a one-horse cart rumbled up the cobblestone pavement four stories below.

  Finished with his inspection, he pulled back from the window and dusted off his jacket front and sleeves. Then he turned to Legros. “This was the expert work of a cat burglar. Do you remember Jojo, the acrobatic clown at the Circus Fernando?”

  “Indeed I do, Inspector. You sent him up for a nice long holiday in Le Bagne.”

  “Well, whoever did this was as good as Jojo.” Without another word, he walked over to the table. Legros followed. Taking a large magnifying glass from his breast pocket, Achille examined the bottle and glasses. “I suppose this is what caught your eye?”

  “Yes, you can see the prints quite clearly.”

  Achille nodded and put away his glass. He looked at Legros with a wry smile. “Another forensic experiment. Too bad we have no method for transferring them at the scene. At any rate, we’ll take the glasses and bottle into evidence and see what we can do with them in the laboratory to enhance the prints.” For a moment, he glanced at the threadbare rug beneath the table, and then scanned the bare wooden floor and skirting board. Achille shook his head. “I don’t suppose you found any cigarette butts?”

  “No, Inspector.”

  “He smoked like an old stove,” Achille muttered. And he was careless about the butts, even perhaps at the crime scene.

  “Pardon, M. Lefebvre. Are you referring to Kadyshev?”

  “No, Étienne. We need to track down a Russian named Boguslavsky. I want to question him as soon as possible. He may be a chemist by profession, and Mme Arnaud gave me a good description. Ask about him at the café in the square; he used to hang out there with Kadyshev. I’ll check M. Bertillon’s records and I may have another source as well.”

  “Is that all, Inspector?”

  Achille grinned sardonically. “Isn’t that enough?”

  3

  HEAVEN AND HELL

  Inspector Lefebvre’s cubbyhole office was as well known in the brigade for its uniformity and efficient organization as was the chief’s for its individuality and casual disarray. Rousseau had a running joke with the “old boys”: “I’m afraid to touch anything in the Professor’s office. I might leave germs—and incriminating fingerprints.”

  Achille had set up an easel in the small space between his desk and the opposite wall, from which hung a map of the park; the crime scene and the area of the search were circled and marked with pins. Féraud rested his backside on Achille’s desk, cup and saucer in hand. While sipping his morning coffee, the chief concentrated on the map, and Achille gave him an update on the status of the investigation.

  “Here’s where Legros and his detail discovered the necktie, collar, handkerchief, and chloroform bottle.” Achille indicated the location with a pointer. “The evidence we’ve gathered thus far has given me an idea of how the crime was committed, and of the perpetrators’ motives.”

  Féraud put down the cup and saucer, walked a couple of steps to the map, and peered at the highlighted areas as though he were visualizing the crime. “And what have you deduced from the evidence obtained thus far?” he asked without turning to look at Achille.

  “The park is open to the public until ten on weekdays in the summer, which is around sunset in July. I believe the victim went to the park for a meeting with a person, or persons, who were known to him. The best time for the perpetrators would have been near closing; shadowy, and not many people about.

  “Without a witness, we can’t establish which entrance he used, but that’s not of immediate importance. If he were familiar with the park, or had good directions, he might have used the entrance closest to the bridge. Otherwise, he probably would have entered the main gate on the Place Armand Carrel.

  “The victim was a man of average height and weight. I believe his killers were either two, or perhaps three, strong individuals.”

  Féraud turned his eyes from the map to Achille. “Why two or three?”

  “It would have taken a minimum of two strong individuals to subdue the victim, chloroform him and bind his wrists, carry him to the bridge, secure the rope, hoist him over the railing, and, finally, drop him. Let’s say three, for a job like that. More than three would have been risky for the perpetrators; you don’t want too many inside witnesses.”

  Féraud nodded and turned his attention back to the map. “Please continue.”

  “The perpetrators used a sharp knife or razor to cut the victim’s necktie; I believe they used the same to cut the ligature binding his wrists before they dropped him.”

  “Why tie him up when he was already knocked out with chloroform?”

  “He might have come to and struggled. They had to work quickly and flee the scene before the gates closed.”

  “Is Legros looking for the ligature?”

  “Yes. It may have fallen along the bank near a pathway. But it might have gone into the lake, in which case it’s not likely to be found.”

  “What about the motive? You said Mme Nazimova identified the victim?”

  Achille nodded. “Based on her identification, we believe the victim was Lev Dmitryevich Kadyshev, a Russian émigré. Legros, Rodin, and I questioned Kadyshev’s concierge and searched his room. We have a person of interest, Boguslavsky, another Russian émigré. We’re looking for him; if we don’t locate him soon, I want to put out an all-points bulletin to bring him in for questioning. And there’s evidence that someone broke into Kadyshev’s room through a window and removed his personal effects. The job appears to have been the work of an expert cat burglar, and considering the neatness of the room, the thief must have known what he wanted and where to look for it.

  “As for motive, the note pinned to the corpse quotes a passage from the Bible in reference to Judas—his betrayal of Christ for money and subsequent suicide by hanging. Therefore, it appears the hanging was an act of revenge against an informer, which raises some troubling questions concerning the political brigade’s activities, most particularly the involvement of Rousseau.”

  Féraud looked at Achille with a tolerant frown. “Speak your mind. What’s troubling you about Rousseau and the political brigade?”

  Achille looked directly at his chief and answered firmly. “I have reason to believe Kadyshev was under surveillance. The murder was carried out in a public park, in a manner intended to send a warning. But who were they warning, and why? I might know more after I meet with Rousseau.”

  Féraud stroked his mustache meditatively, his eyes fixed on Achille. “You’ve set up a meeting with him to discuss the case?”

  “Yes, Chief. We’re meeting at the Sainte-Chapelle this morning, before it opens to the public.”

  The chief smiled. “That’s quite an interesting place for such a rendezvous. At any rate, I’m sure you’ll have some pointed questions for our old friend and colleague.”

  Achille did not read too much into Féraud’s tone of voice and
wry smile. But the chief’s expression, coupled with his veiled reference to “pointed questions,” was insinuating. It was as though Féraud had said, You’re a big boy; deal with it.

  Achille replied laconically, “Yes, Chief, I will.”

  Achille’s tricolor badge had gained him admittance to a place once reserved for kings, queens, and their courtiers. He stood in the nave of the Sainte-Chapelle; facing the chevet, he craned his neck and gazed upward as the first light of dawn filtered in through a vast expanse of towering stained glass. The predominantly blue- and red-glazed biblical pictorials glittered like multifaceted gemstones. Rows of graceful piers framed the glass; they towered like ancient trees, their uppermost parts supporting the vault of a starry heaven.

  Let there be light. He thought of the first creative words of Genesis, the heavenly command that imposed order on a chaotic void. Saint Louis, the great crusader, had decreed the building of a chapel to serve as a giant reliquary, housing the spurious relics so prized by medieval kings as symbols of their divine right to rule: splinters of the True Cross; a fragment of the crown of thorns; a piece of the spear that pierced Christ’s side. Trumped-up mementoes of the Passion displayed in a royal jewel box.

  The king’s chapel had been built in the Rayonnant Style: radiant, brilliant, beautiful. The Jesuits had taught him about physical beauty from the perspective of St. Thomas Aquinas, King Louis’s thirteenth-century contemporary. According to Aquinas, the beautiful gave immediate pleasure when perceived, and radiance was one of its intrinsic qualities.

  The sunlit stained glass windows had radiance in abundance; the upper chapel shimmered and floated within a warm flood of reflected and refracted light. But at that moment, alone in the silent chapel, he thought that nothing on earth could compare to the light in Adele’s eyes. He longed for that singular look when he knew, with absolute certainty, that she loved him. Even if God existed, Achille could not touch Him, but he could embrace his wife’s warm flesh, feel the softness of her lips against his mouth. He could see their combined images in their children. Her loving light, something radiant yet tangibly human, could guide him through this investigation with its twists and turns like a dark Montmartre back alley. But he could not discuss the case with her. No, he must rely on Rousseau for enlightenment, his former partner who knew all about the chaotic underworld of criminals and terrorists.