As Rousseau approached the table, the poules rose and walked toward the exit, passing him on either side with eyes averted. In proximity, he noticed that neither girl appeared to be more than fourteen. He paused a moment and glanced over his shoulder at their swishing little behinds, eyeing them with a mixture of pity and contempt. Then he proceeded to the table.
The man placed his pudgy hands, covered in rings, on the tabletop and half-rose in salutation. “Good morning, M. Rousseau. I see you’re a trifle damp. Please, be seated. Would you care for some refreshment? I suggest Devil’s Brew and Hellfire to brace you up.” The man spoke elegant Parisian French with just a hint of a foreign accent. His impeccably tailored suit would have passed muster among the most discriminating swells at the Jockey Club.
Rousseau nodded and took a chair. “Thank you, Monsieur. I need a drink.”
The man snapped his fingers at a waiter loitering by the bar. “Some service, Raymond, if you please.”
The imp-costumed waiter immediately sprang to life, skipping over to take their order. He gave an unctuous smile in anticipation of his patron’s generous pourboire, then dashed off to fill the order.
The man glanced after him and then looked back at Rousseau. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table and lowered his voice. “We can speak freely, my friend. Just be careful when the waiter comes around. Now, I understand you have some information for me?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” Rousseau answered in a discreet sotto voce. “I’ve turned three files over to my friend, and the bloodhound’s taken the scent. He’s put out a search for Boguslavsky, and he’s looking for a cat burglar as well. Someone did a good job cleaning out Kadyshev’s room. And I expect he’ll go back to Nazimova for more questioning.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. He formed a steeple with his fingers, and then intertwined the digits as if in prayer. “Who do you think will get to Boguslavsky first?”
Rousseau shook his head. “I don’t know. Achille’s very thorough. He and Legros have developed their own network of informers in and around Paris. He’ll also have police watching the railways, ports, and border crossings. And he has excellent contacts in London and Brussels, Boguslavsky’s most likely destinations outside France.”
“Well, we have excellent contacts in London and Brussels, too.” The man started fussing with a black onyx cameo ring, twisting it around and around his finger. “As for the cat burglar and Kadyshev’s room, do you think Lefebvre has any idea what’s missing?”
Rousseau shook his head and snorted. “He’s clever, Monsieur, but he doesn’t have second sight. At any rate, I expect he’ll sniff things out soon enough.”
Raymond interrupted with their drinks. The man gazed up at the waiter and smiled appreciatively, but remained silent until he was out of earshot once more. “He’ll get something out of Nazimova, I’m sure,” he eventually continued. “It’s a good thing she’s under close surveillance.”
Rousseau nodded and sipped his coffee and cognac.
The man smiled and stopped toying with his ring. “Inspector Lefebvre’s an interesting fellow. He’s in line to become the next chief of the detective’s brigade. I’ll want to meet him one of these days. I’m sure you can arrange that, when the time comes.”
Rousseau finished his drink and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. “No problem, Monsieur.”
The man sipped his drink, leaned back and hooked a thumb in his vest pocket. “I won’t detain you any longer, my friend.” He paused a moment, then added, “Those little girls are very friendly, and I don’t mind sharing. That is, if you have nothing more pressing.”
Rousseau looked over the man’s shoulder. A golden-eyed demon leered at him from its wall niche. “No, thank you. I have a woman waiting for me.”
The man shrugged. “As the Parisians say: à chacun son goût.” He extended his hand. “Au revoir.”
4
LE TEMPS DES CERISES
At five A.M., Chief Féraud tasted his morning café, smiled, and smacked his lips with satisfaction. “Perfection,” he sighed. The brew was hot as hell, black as mud, and strong as the biblical Samson; those were his standing orders for the clerk who was assigned the task of procuring the chief’s coffee, and this morning they’d been carried out to the letter.
Thus fortified with a jolt of caffeine, the chief hunched over his desk while shuffling through routine paperwork, until he came to a manila envelope date-stamped that morning at the Morgue. He turned the screw on his oil lamp until the flaming wick flooded his cluttered desk with light. His stubby fingers eagerly tore open the flap and retrieved a sharp, expertly composed image of a guillotined head on a slab. A knock on the door interrupted the chief’s scrutiny of the photo. He expected Achille, and so answered with a cheerful “Come in!”
Achille entered and took a seat opposite Féraud. His haggard face and red eyes outlined in dark circles appeared in sharp contrast to his chipper boss. Achille’s weary countenance led to the chief’s observation, “You’re not getting enough sleep, my boy.” The chief handed over the photograph. “Here’s something to wake you up.”
Achille rubbed his eyes and put on his pince-nez. Nodding in recognition, he said matter-of-factly, “It’s Palmieri, the Corsican axe-murderer. An excellent likeness.” He handed back the photo. “I suppose you’re going to add it to your Rogue’s Gallery?”
Féraud returned the photo to its envelope. He smiled with a sense of pride, like an old hunter about to mount his valedictory trophy on an overcrowded wall. “Yes. He might be among the last of my tenure. You’ll be starting your own Rogue’s Gallery soon. And you deserve much credit for Palmieri’s arrest and conviction.”
Achille forced a smile. He and Legros had followed a trail of evidence that had led them to a crawl space beneath the Palmieri residence, where they had exhumed Mme Palmieri’s badly decomposed body parts from a vermin-infested pit. The stench, filth, and horror had remained with him, and the image of the head brought back unpleasant memories. Nevertheless, he could shrug it off. It was all part of his job; routine, compared to the Hanged Man case.
The chief rested his arms on the desktop, leaned over, and contemplated his protégé with a father’s eyes. For an instant he glanced at a silver-framed desktop photograph of his own son, an officer serving in Algeria, then looked back at Achille. “I’ve read your report, my boy, and I’m quite pleased with your progress. But you mustn’t overwork yourself. If you need assistance, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Achille knew what was expected of him. He had worked for Féraud long enough to know that the chief’s “don’t overwork yourself” line was intended as a spur to greater effort. Nevertheless, Achille was short of detectives and he would make a reasonable request for more. “Thank you, Chief. In fact, Legros and I have our hands full looking for Boguslavsky, questioning his acquaintances and co-workers, and searching his residence. And we’re looking for the individual who burgled Kadyshev’s room. I’d appreciate some assistance.”
The benign smile transformed into a businesslike frown. “Of course, Achille; I’ll see what I can do. I suppose there’ll be some duplication of effort between you and Rousseau?”
“Perhaps, Chief. We’re cooperating all right, but frankly, I believe we’re competing to see who can get to Boguslavsky first. Have you obtained an arrest warrant?”
Féraud nodded. “Yes, but this is an unusual case. The Magistrate won’t be taking an active role in the investigation, at least not at this stage. That’ll be left to us—and the political brigade.”
Achille’s eyes widened, and he stared at the chief for a moment before speaking. He disliked procedural irregularities, but he knew that in this particular case, he couldn’t push Féraud too far. “I understand, Chief. But I hope we get to the suspect first. You know what Rousseau and his thugs will do to Boguslavsky if he doesn’t talk. At any rate, the sooner we bring him in, the better. There’s the issue of public safety. Boguslavsky worked for a research laboratory that tests
high explosives and electric detonators used in the mining industry. And Rousseau hinted at an anarchist plot, though I fear Rousseau’s holding back information. That puts me at a disadvantage.”
Féraud sat back in his chair, eyes closed, and fiddled with the death’s-head charm on his watch chain. After a moment, he leaned forward and looked directly at Achille. “I don’t think you have ever understood Rousseau. Do you know what happened to his friend Marchand?”
“I’ve heard the story, Chief. Marchand was one of the policemen taken prisoner by the Communards and was killed in the final days when the Versailles army was advancing on the Butte.”
Féraud nodded. “That’s common knowledge in the brigade, but there’s more to it than that. Rousseau and Marchand grew up together in Belleville. They ran with the same gang, a couple of tough little monkeys. Marchand looked up to Rousseau, more like a kid brother than a friend. When Rousseau decided to go straight and join the force, Marchand joined up with him. That pissed off their former pals. But Rousseau had quite a reputation on the streets; the gangsters feared him more than they hated him, and that salutary fear extended to his best pal.
“Marchand married and had a couple of kids; Rousseau had his woman, Louise. He rose through the ranks and joined the detective’s brigade. That’s when I met him. Then the War came, followed by the Siege and the Commune. The National Guard uniform was the only one respected on the streets. Rousseau was already in plainclothes, and wisely went to ground. He tried to persuade Marchand and his family to go into hiding with him. He figured they could hold out until the army restored order in Paris.”
“Pardon me, Chief,” Achille interjected, “this much Rousseau has already told me.”
Féraud frowned and shook his head. “There’s more, things he’s told no one—except me. Marchand thought he could keep his job under the Commune and remained at his post until an old enemy denounced him as a spy for the Versailles government. The charge was false, but the Communards took him prisoner anyway. Following a drumhead court-martial, Marchand was found guilty and sentenced to death. Rousseau saw his best friend, his ‘little brother,’ die at the hands of a mob. They were bad shots; the volley was sloppy, hit and miss. They wanted to save their lead for the barricades, so rather than give him a coup de grâce, they beat Marchand with rifle butts and stuck him with bayonets. Then they dragged the mutilated corpse through the streets and hung it from a lamppost.
“After the Versailles army stormed the barricades and retook the Butte, Rousseau denounced the Communards who had murdered his friend. He took pleasure in watching the executions. And for as long as I’ve known him, he’s always set something aside from his salary for Marchand’s widow and the children.”
“I had no idea, Chief. This explains much about Rousseau.”
Féraud nodded in agreement. “You know the song ‘Le Temps des cerises’? It was popular in the sixties, and they still sing it at the café-concerts. When I was young, it was a nostalgic song about Paris in the spring and the cherry blossoms. But it took on a new meaning after the Commune—now, they look back to a Golden Age that never was and long for a world that will never be. It’s an illusion, but some people are so dedicated to their utopia that they’ll use any means—riots, mayhem, murder—in a futile attempt to realize it.
“You were still a schoolboy in the country when Rousseau and I were patrolling the Paris streets. I respect your ideals, your concern for human rights and equal protection under the law. But you must realize that there was a time not long ago when the law broke down and anarchy ruled. The majority of our citizens appreciate the order, stability, peace, and prosperity of the past twenty years; they don’t want to return to that ‘Time of the Cherries.’ It’s our duty to serve, protect, and defend the good citizens, their lives, and their property—even if it requires an occasional bending of the rules. You understand?”
Achille thought that even the best ends rarely—if ever—justified the means, but the world was more gray than black and white. There was a difference between a practical good and a fantasy, and a moral distinction between evil and an occasional divergence from the ideal. He disliked hair-splitting, but he wouldn’t let punctiliousness get in the way of doing his job. “I understand, Chief. But I’d prefer having suspects arrested and interrogated properly, rather than leaving them to Rousseau.”
Féraud smiled warmly, as though Achille’s reply had pleased him, and returned to his affable manner. “Of course, that goes without saying. I’m going to release a few good men from their present duties to assist you. Now, what do you have planned for the rest of the day?”
“I’m going again to Mme Nazimova. Hopefully, she’ll provide more information about Boguslavsky. Then I’m meeting Gilles at his studio. He’s using iodine fuming to bring out the prints on the bottle and glasses we found in Kadyshev’s room. I’m also calling off the search in the park—the ligature isn’t an essential piece of evidence, and I can make better use of my limited resources.” Achille’s emphasis caused a slight twitch of Féraud’s moustache in response. “I’m going to send a message to Le Boudin—”
“You’re bringing in the chiffoniers?” the chief broke in.
“Yes, Chief. They’re my eyes and ears on the street, and they’re loyal to me, not Rousseau. I want authority to pay them the going rate, and a bonus for good results.”
Féraud eyed Achille sharply, then breathed in and out for a moment while fiddling with his watch chain. At last, he said, “All right, my boy. This is your case, and I’m backing you to the hilt. Anything else?”
“That’s all for now, Chief. You’ll have my report on your desk first thing tomorrow morning, as usual. Of course, if anything breaks, I’ll report to you immediately.”
Féraud nodded. Then he remarked, “The weekend’s coming. I want you to promise me something.”
Achille grinned knowingly. Our hours at the Sûreté are midnight to midnight.
But what Féraud said next surprised him. “Take Adele somewhere. Get your mind off the case and relax. Just make sure you stay in Paris and let me know where you are at all times.”
Achille smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Chief. I’ll certainly do as you suggest.” But both he and the chief knew that Achille’s mind would remain focused on the case until it was closed.
The tinkling doorbell announced Achille’s entry into Nazimova’s shop. Marie, the shop assistant, was sweeping a little dust cloud from the floor while Madame rearranged a row of leather-bound volumes stacked on a corner shelf. The women stopped working, turned toward the door, and gazed at him apprehensively.
Achille sensed their fear immediately and tried to alleviate it with a friendly greeting. He lifted his hat and smiled. “Good morning, Mme Nazimova, Marie. I hope all’s well in your realm of books?”
Nazimova answered, her face wrinkled in a worried frown. “As well as can be expected, M. Lefebvre. How may I help you?”
Achille noticed her guarded manner and reply; it reinforced his suspicion that she knew something about Boguslavsky’s disappearance, perhaps more than she wanted to reveal. “I regret interrupting your work, but I have a matter I must discuss with you—in private.”
Nazimova glanced at Marie for an instant, and then turned back to Achille. “Very well, M. Lefebvre. Please follow me.” She led him to the same room behind the shop where she had translated the note and identified Kadyshev’s post-mortem photograph. As Achille walked past Marie, he felt her piercing gray eyes on the back of his head.
Once seated at the small table, Achille wasted no time with pleasantries. “Madame, I’ve come here on an urgent matter. Viktor Boguslavsky is wanted for questioning in the murder of M. Kadyshev. I believe you know Boguslavsky well?”
Nazimova’s face assumed the blank expression he’d noticed at their last meeting. “I knew him, Inspector.”
Her equivocation irritated Achille. “Madame, I must warn you that withholding information from the police is a serious offense. As a Russian ém
igré with ties to Peter Kropotkin and Louise Michel, your situation in France is precarious.”
A smile twisted through a narrow opening in her defensive mask. “Ah, Monsieur, now you question like a true policeman. Do you threaten me with deportation? Very well. I doubt I’ll live much longer, but I’d rather die in Paris than Siberia. At any rate, I spoke truthfully, in the past tense. My association with M. Boguslavsky ended with my husband’s death.”
“Did you not attend the International Workers’ Congress last year?” Achille knew that both Kadyshev and Boguslavsky had attended. Nazimova’s file contained only a notation: “Suspected affiliation.”
She shook her head. “No, Inspector, I did not attend. I’ve ended my political activities and severed my affiliations. All I want is to live here in peace.”
“But you’re still a follower of Kropotkin, aren’t you? Doesn’t your ideology require some action on your part? Aren’t you obliged by your beliefs to work for the overthrow of governments that you consider oppressive and unjust?”
Nazimova’s pale lips quivered; a tear started in one eye. “What I believe, Inspector—” She coughed into her hand to clear her throat before continuing. “I believe in the natural goodness of humankind. But human nature has been corrupted by materialism, greed, competition, and the authoritarian institutions that exist to protect privilege and property. But I also believe that we are by nature predominantly cooperative, and that through a process of evolution and education we can recover what’s been lost. We can learn to live communally, through mutual aid and respect for each other, and this fundamental socio-economic transformation can be achieved without violence.”
Le Temps des cerises, he thought. “Madame, I respect your beliefs, though I disagree with them. We live in a democratic republic according to a rule of law, and the laws protect the persons and property of our citizens. Perhaps in the future we’ll evolve into something better or recover something we’ve lost, as you say, but for the time being, and for generations to come, this is the best we can do.”
The Hanged Man Page 6