The Hanged Man

by Gary Inbinder

  “Praying, Professor?”

  The familiar voice startled him. It seemed to come from the void. He flinched like a cat, and then turned around to face Rousseau.

  “You seem a bit on edge,” the man said. “Well, that’s to be expected. We live in a dangerous world.”

  Achille contemplated the massive frame, small, round head, and porcine eyes. He seemed out of place in the graceful chapel. He was more like the Gothic Grotesques carved in stone that decorated the grimy outer walls of the great cathedrals. Achille was above average height and very fit, a skilled oarsman, a master of savate, and unafraid of a brawl. But Rousseau was a force of nature, a legend in the brigade and on the streets. Years earlier, he had been ambushed in a Montmartre alley by four knife-wielding hoodlums. Rousseau was badly cut and lost a great deal of blood, but, fighting with only his fists and truncheon, he left two gangsters dead on the pavement. A third died the next day in hospital; a fourth had run for his life. A couple of months later, the fourth man’s mutilated corpse was fished out of the Seine. No one doubted that Rousseau had put a distinctive finish to what the gangsters had foolishly begun.

  Choosing to ignore Rousseau’s reference to his nerves, Achille instead noted the quality of his former partner’s dark gray suit. “My compliments to your tailor; you’re looking very debonair. The political brigade must pay well.”

  Rousseau grinned broadly. “Thank you, Professor. My new job does have its rewards.”

  Achille guessed that Rousseau’s evident prosperity was not entirely the consequence of his inspector’s salary. But he prudently kept such thoughts to himself. “I congratulate you on your success. Now, pleasant as this reunion has been, I think we should get down to business. You’re already aware of my investigation into the circumstances surrounding the death of a man found hanging in the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. We believe the deceased was a Russian émigré, Lev Dmitryevich Kadyshev. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  Rousseau narrowed his eyes and rubbed his clean-shaven chin as if in thought. “Kadyshev, eh? That has a familiar ring to it. I guess we do have a file on him somewhere; nothing too exciting, I’m afraid.”

  “You didn’t have him under surveillance?” Achille asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

  Rousseau laughed, a deep rumbling like the pedal tones on an organ. “We can’t shadow every rat in the Paris sewers. Not enough resources, I’m afraid. But cracking a big case could remedy that.”

  Achille recalled what Féraud had said about politics, publicity, and appropriations. “I’m also looking for Kadyshev’s friend, a big fellow named Boguslavsky. We believe he works as a chemist. Have you got anything on him?”

  “Ah, yes, Boguslavsky; a damned anarchist. I’ll pull Kadyshev’s file, and Boguslavsky’s, as well, and help you find him. Anything else?”

  “I believe the killers brought in a cat burglar to remove evidence from Kadyshev’s room. Do you know of anyone the Russians might have used to pull off a job like that?”

  Rousseau nodded and grunted, “Maybe. I’ll look into it.”

  “I’m also interested in files relating to Madame Nazimova and her late husband.”

  Rousseau grinned like a gargoyle. “Oh, I’m sure we have something on them. They were chummy with that old bitch, Louise Michel.”

  Louise Michel was one of the prominent Communards who had been transported to New Caledonia. Returning to France following the 1880 amnesty, she immediately became involved in anarchist plotting. Sentenced to six years imprisonment in 1883 and released after serving three, she was soon re-arrested for inciting to riot. She wasn’t incarcerated for long, but upon release she lived under close surveillance and constant threat of arrest. Fearing that her political enemies were about to have her committed to an insane asylum, Michel had recently fled to London.

  While he strongly disagreed with her politics, Achille admired Louise Michel for her courage, honesty, self-sacrifice, and social work among the poor. He would have never referred to her as an “old bitch,” but unlike Rousseau, Achille had no bitter personal memories of the Commune.

  “Very well. In addition to Kadyshev and Boguslavsky’s files, please provide me with what you have on Nazimova and her late husband.”

  “They’ll be on your desk this afternoon. Is that all?”

  Achille frowned. “I don’t suppose you have any suspects in this case?”

  Rousseau cracked a sly smile. “Maybe Kadyshev poked his nose where it didn’t belong and his anarchist pals cut it off?”

  Achille stared directly into Rousseau’s insinuating eyes. “Was Kadyshev one of your paid informers?”

  “Listen, my friend. People in high places want us to cooperate on this case, and I’m going to follow orders like a good soldier.” Rousseau’s granitic expression and cool tone of voice revealed nothing. “But you work your side of the street and I’ll work mine, all right? Review the files I send you, continue your investigation, and follow your leads. I’ll try to find your cat burglar. I know them all, especially those who work in Montmartre. We’ll put on the screws and make ’em squeal. Keep me informed, and if I turn up anything useful, I’ll do the same for you. Fair enough?”

  Achille disliked the way his former partner evaded a direct question. But for the time being, there was nothing he could do about it. “Fair enough, Rousseau. Shall we shake on it?”

  Rousseau grinned and held out a beefy hand. “Just like old times, isn’t it, Achille? I always liked working with a gentleman.”

  Achille spent most of the day at headquarters doing paperwork, taking a mid-afternoon break at his favorite café-bar on the Boulevard Saint-Michel for coffee and a croque monsieur. He sent a message to Adele not to delay supper for him. She knew he was on the case and could hardly be surprised at his absence, but he anticipated a few sharp words upon his return to the apartment later that evening.

  He had an anxious sense of precarious immobilization, like a wasp on flypaper, waiting for the files from Rousseau. The remedy for his predicament was to attend to piles of routine work—a status report on a burglary on the Rue Caulaincourt; evidence obtained pursuant to the juge d’instruction’s search warrant and so forth. He chain-smoked while shuffling papers; the brass ashtray on his otherwise neatly organized desk overflowed with a hecatomb of immolated cigarettes. “Damn it,” he muttered as he stubbed out the last butt in the pack.

  The telephone rang just as he was rummaging in his desk drawers, searching for a fresh pack of cigarettes. He ceased this exercise in futility (he had, in fact, smoked his last pack), lifted the receiver, and held the transmitter to his lips. Legros was on the line.

  “We’ve located Boguslavsky’s residence and workplace, but he’s disappeared. Gone to ground, most likely. We’ve put out a sweep to search for him.”

  Achille sighed. “I’m hardly surprised. What else?”

  “A concessionaire believes he saw the victim walking up the path to the bridge on the evening of the incident about half an hour before the park closed.”

  “Was the victim alone?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Did the concessionaire notice anything unusual about the victim’s demeanor?”

  “Yes, he said the victim was distracted and seemed to be in a hurry. He was walking very fast and bumped into a couple who were strolling in the opposite direction.”

  “Good work, Étienne. Have you turned up any other evidence?”

  “No, Monsieur; we’re still looking for the ligature.”

  Achille glanced up at the wall clock; it was after seven P.M. “You may return to headquarters and complete your report. Tell Rodin to leave a good man up there. We might get lucky; perpetrators often return to the scene of the crime. And they have Boguslavsky’s description. Since he’s done a bunk, he’s our prime suspect.”

  Achille hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. The concessionaire’s narrative confirmed his hypothesis that the victim had been lured to the bridg
e for a meeting of some importance. And the late hour fit with his theory. Boguslavsky’s disappearance was evidence of guilt. According to Mme Arnaud’s description, Boguslavsky was strong enough to have lifted Kadyshev over the railing. He smoked Sobranies. If his fingerprints matched those on the note, the bottle, and the glasses, they had their man—or at least a conspirator who could be pressured into giving up his accomplices. Maybe they could crack the case before his planned holiday.

  Achille removed his pince-nez and rubbed his tired eyes. Where are the damned files? He muttered a few expletives, made another futile search for cigarettes, and returned to his routine.

  Rousseau’s files arrived by special courier shortly after nine that evening. The late delivery led Achille to observe that his former partner had taken an overly broad interpretation of “afternoon.” Since his working day had begun at five A.M., he decided to pack the files in a briefcase and carry them home to review in his study.

  Adele did not greet him with sharp words; rather, she gazed at him with a concerned frown that pricked his conscience. “Are you all right, Achille? You look so tired.”

  “I apologize for the late hour, my dear. It’s this new case. I’m afraid I’ve got a bit more work to do before I stop for the day. Please don’t wait up for me.”

  His wife’s concerned frown transformed into a pensive, red-lipped smile. Her soft hand brushed against his bearded cheek; she stood on tiptoe and kissed him gently. “Nonsense, darling,” she whispered. “I’ll see you later in bed.” She turned and disappeared up the shadowy hallway with a rustle of silk, leaving behind a trace of her seductive fragrance. Achille sighed and retired to his study, briefcase in hand.

  An hour later, he turned down the flame on his green-shaded kerosene desk lamp, then removed his pince-nez and blinked his overworked eyes into focus. His perusal of the files had raised more questions than it had answered.

  Kadyshev, Nazimov, and Boguslavsky’s association began in 1869, when the three were students at the Medical Academy in Saint Petersburg. They were “Narodniks,” members of the Chaikovsky Circle, a radical organization formed by Nikolai Chaikovsky. Ostensibly a literary society, the members of the circle sought to foment revolution through the printing and distribution of scientific and revolutionary material. Nazimova was also a member; she met Nazimov early in 1871 and they wed later that year.

  In the early days, the Narodniks used peaceful means—the education of the peasants and workers—to achieve their revolutionary ends, but they were frustrated by the peasants’ resistance and outraged by the brutality and repression of the Tsarist police. Harassed by the Okhrana, Chaikovsky left Russia in 1874. He sojourned in Kansas, living in a religious agrarian commune before returning to Europe to continue his revolutionary activities.

  Kadyshev, Boguslavsky, and the Nazimovs joined the People’s Will, a radical group of Narodniks. In 1881, several members of the People’s Will plotted and carried out the Tsar’s assassination. While there was no evidence linking Kadyshev, Boguslavsky, or the Nazimovs to the plot, they fled Russia to escape the police roundup and persecution that followed the assassination. Then, beginning in Geneva, there was an ideological split among the friends. The Nazimovs became “evolutionary,” non-violent anarchists aligned with the Russian social philosopher Peter Kropotkin, and formed a friendship with the French activist Louise Michel because of their mutual interest in the education (someone, perhaps Rousseau, had noted “indoctrination” and “propaganda” in the margins of their files) of the poor and working classes.

  Boguslavsky was a “revolutionary” anarchist, with an alarming interest in high explosives and electric detonators. Kadyshev was a follower of Karl Marx, which had put him at odds with the anarchists entirely.

  Achille closed the files and returned them to his briefcase. The political ideologies were of interest to him only to the extent they pertained to a motive for murder. According to French law, the anarchists and Marxists had a right to their beliefs and the liberty to express them freely, as long as they didn’t cross the line into criminal activity.

  Kadyshev and Boguslavsky had known each other for more than two decades, and for the past nine years, despite ideological disagreements, they had met regularly to play chess and discuss politics. What had changed in their relationship? What might have caused Boguslavsky to turn on Kadyshev and participate in his murder? Where was Boguslavsky? What more could Achille get out of Nazimova? Could he trust Rousseau?

  Achille rose from his chair, and a sudden dizziness made his legs buckle. He braced himself against the edge of the desk. While shaking his head to regain his senses, it occurred to him that working seventeen hours on coffee, cigarettes, and a croque monsieur was not such a good idea.

  Achille picked his way gingerly through the dark corridor that led to the master bedroom. The hallway was little Jeanne’s favorite “play place” and, despite Adele’s scolding, the child persisted in leaving her toys on the runner. At times, Achille wondered if his daughter were playing a game with him by mischievously obstructing the passageway with obstacles for her near-sighted father. Bleary-eyed as he was, Achille navigated the minefield without tripping over Oscar the Duck.

  A warm golden light streamed through the cracks separating doorframe from bedroom door. He knocked softly and entered. Adele was sitting up against a bolster as she read by the glow of a bedside lamp. She glanced up from her reading, smiled, and returned to her book without speaking.

  Achille went straight to the armoire and changed into a clean linen nightshirt. Adele’s eyes darted furtively from the page to her naked husband; after seven years of marriage, she still admired the “Professor’s” lean athletic body. But when he sat on the edge of the bed, she took no notice and appeared engrossed in her book.

  “What are you reading, my dear?”

  “Maupassant’s The Flayed Hand,” she replied, without looking up.

  Achille shook his head, smiling, and tugged at the book gently. “You shouldn’t read something like that before you go to sleep. It’ll give you nightmares.”

  Adele closed the book and set it down on the bedside table. She gazed up at him, her green eyes sparkling, her red lips parted. Placing her hands on his shoulders she whispered, “I shan’t be afraid with my big, strong man in bed to protect me.”

  Achille was dog-tired, but he wasn’t dead. He undid the ribbons of her nightgown, pulling the soft garment down over her shoulders and breasts. Leaning over, he caressed an erect pink nipple with his tongue.

  A piercing cry came from the nursery. “Oh, dear, it’s Olivier,” she exclaimed. “He’s been colicky today.” Adele pushed her husband away and did up her bodice.

  He took her gently by the wrist. “Please, don’t go. Nanny will see to him.”

  She frowned; the sparkling emerald eyes grew cold as ice. “Nonsense. What do you know of these things? He wants his mother. Since you’re so tired, you needn’t wait up for me.” She got out from under the covers, put on her slippers, and left him, aroused and unsatisfied.

  Achille leaned back on the bolster and contemplated the shadows on the ceiling. “Merde alors!” he muttered. Then he picked up The Flayed Hand and flipped through a few pages. “Ah, M. Maupassant,” he sighed. “Reality is much scarier than fiction.”

  In the early morning hours, raindrops pummeled the pavement on the Boulevard de Clichy. Rousseau stepped out of the darkness and passed through the jaws of hell. The gatekeeper greeted him satanically: “Enter, and be damned.”

  A crooked grin creased the hulking detective’s face. He lifted his bowler and shook out the brim. Rousseau examined the soggy felt hat for a moment, and then held it by his side as it continued dripping onto the floor. Looking back at the Devil of Pigalle, he said, “I was damned long before I got here, my friend.”

  The doorman at the Cabaret de L’Enfer, a down-on-his-luck actor costumed as a stage Mephistopheles—green tights, horns, cloven hooves—replied, “As were we all, M. Rousseau.”

&nb
sp; Rousseau grunted his agreement. He took a few steps beyond the threshold, then paused to imbibe the atmosphere. Beams of warm, colored electric light flashed through a haze of tobacco smoke and steam that hissed periodically through strategically placed jets in the walls and ceiling. To his left, three demonic fiddlers, bobbing in what appeared to be a seething iron cauldron, scratched out a waltz from Gounod’s Faust. Above the musical racket, he heard the buzz of conversation, punctuated by the shrill giggling of whores laughing at their companions’ suggestive jokes.

  Crimson-painted, high relief moldings, depicting lost souls and their tormentors, writhed over the walls and ceiling. Rousseau focused his attention for a moment on an imp prodding a sinner’s ass with a pitchfork, and wondered at how the imp’s face resembled his own. I might have sat for the portrait, he thought.

  Glancing past two rows of men and women seated at round tables draped in oilcloth, he noticed a devil-costumed illusionist performing one of his tricks, transforming water into wine. Alongside the magician, a demonically attired young woman tended bar. Bustling waiters dropped off orders from their guzzling customers and returned with expertly mixed concoctions with clever names. The very sight of the drinks made Rousseau thirsty.

  Two young women sat at a corner table near the bar, their painted faces half-hidden beneath enormous plumed hats. Their slender throats were wrapped in pink-feathered boas, and their undernourished bodies draped in clinging crimson silk. One girl noticed Rousseau and whispered something in the direction of her companion. A small, round head popped out from the narrow space between the whores. Keen brown eyes peered through the yellowish haze. Sensual red lips, framed by a black moustache waxed imperial, greeted Rousseau with a smile of recognition.