The Hanged Man

by Gary Inbinder

  Achille leaned over the table. His eyes grew cold, his voice firm and unrelenting. “You say you’ve discontinued your activism and broken off your political associations; I believe you. I also believe that you would pursue your ends by peaceful means. But there are those who are not so patient. They would stop at nothing to achieve their utopian dream. Boguslavsky is such an individual, and he’s an explosives expert. You know what a dynamite bomb did to the late Tsar. Perhaps there’s some justification for assassinating the leader of a tyrannical state. But imagine what such a bomb would do to a crowd of innocent men, women, and children. I have a wife and two little children, Madame. I think of their torn and broken bodies, their screams, and their agony—”

  Nazimova covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “No, M. Lefebvre, please stop. I don’t want that. I never wanted that.”

  Achille slammed his fist on the table. “Then tell me what you know about Boguslavsky and his confederates, Madame! Tell me everything, before it’s too late.”

  Marie interrupted with a timid knock on the doorjamb. “I—I’m sorry. There’s a gentleman in the shop who wants the complete Victor Hugo. But he demands a twenty-percent discount. He’s very insistent, Madame. He says he won’t leave until he speaks to you.”

  Achille glared at Marie, wondering if she’d been eavesdropping.

  Nazimova wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and blew her nose. Then she turned to Marie and said firmly, “Tell the gentleman I’ll give him a ten-percent discount. If he doesn’t like it, he may take his business elsewhere.”

  Marie hesitated a moment, but then replied “Yes, Madame.” She glanced at Achille, turned around, and returned to the shop.

  Achille waited until he could hear Marie speaking to the customer. “I regret having to press you like this,” he said, “but I believe it’s a matter of public safety. If you have any idea of Boguslavsky’s whereabouts or can give me the names and addresses of his current friends and associates, I insist you tell me now.”

  She looked down at her hands and sighed. “Viktor has changed, M. Lefebvre. Years of persecution and frustration have taken their toll. He may now be as dangerous as you say.” She paused for a moment before looking him in the eye. “He used to meet with a group of like-minded individuals at the Lapin Agile in Montmartre. They were still meeting at the time of the International Congress last year. I swear this is all I know.” She said no more, but continued staring at him with eyes worn out from having seen too much of the world.

  Rousseau has paid informers at the Lapin Agile; he could have spared me the trouble, Achille thought. He grabbed his hat and rose from the table. “Thank you, Madame. I apologize for my persistence in questioning, but I’m only doing my duty. And I trust you appreciate the gravity of the situation.”

  Nazimova did not look up. She slumped in the chair with a look as though she’d been beaten physically. “Oh, yes, Inspector, I do. Good day.”

  He made a slight bow and exited. On his way out, he passed a stout, well-dressed gentleman, still dickering for the Hugo, now insisting on a compromise of fifteen percent. Marie crossed her arms stubbornly and held firm at ten. Achille noticed a spark of aggression smoldering in her gray eyes.

  Gilles leaned back against a cast-iron pillar in his loft studio. He folded his arms and watched patiently while Achille, magnifying glass in hand, bent over a worktable and scrutinized a group of photographs. A shaft of sunshine streaming from the immense skylight flooded the area with intense white light, leaving the remainder of the room half-hidden in purple shadow.

  Achille returned the magnifier to his breast pocket and turned to face the photographer. “Good work, my friend. Two sets of fingerprints are clearly distinguishable; one matches those I took from Kadyshev’s corpse, the other is as yet unidentified.”

  Gilles left his observation point and approached the workbench. “Do you think the unidentified prints belong to the man you’re looking for—what’s his name?”

  Achille nodded. “Viktor Boguslavsky. Perhaps. I’ll have to find him first, then bring him in and take a set of his fingerprints to make that determination. And even if the prints match, it’s not dispositive, just one more link in the chain of evidence.” He paused, then remarked, “We’re so limited, Gilles. I long for the tools of the future. I’m afraid we’re a decade away from incorporating fingerprinting into our identification system. And think what we could do with better chemical analyses of poisons and drugs, bloodstains, hair, bones, fabrics, and all the other bits and pieces we discover at a crime scene. We’re hamstrung by our ignorance. We might as well be working in the Dark Ages.”

  Gilles smiled and gave his friend an encouraging tap on the shoulder. “It isn’t as bad as all that. This is a progressive age. We’re on the threshold of a new century that holds great promise, and I expect we’ll both live to see it.”

  “I’ll admit we’ve made progress, but we could make better use of what we’ve got.” Achille shrugged. “The telephone, for example. Paris is behind London in that regard, not to mention the large American cities. Rapid communication is essential to police work, but we must make do with the pneumatic post, telegrams, and messengers. As for transportation in the city, the police need to move faster than the speed of a horse or bicycle. We need automobiles and airships—”

  Gilles broke in with a laugh. “You sound like Jules Verne. Perhaps you should leave the Sûreté and take up the pen?”

  Achille smiled wistfully. “That’s not a bad idea, my friend. At least my dreams are within the realm of scientific possibility, like you and your friends’ experiments with color plates and moving pictures. It’s not ‘Le Temps des cerises.’”

  “Why do you mention that song?” Gilles gazed at his friend with a perplexed squint. “It’s lovely, but very sad. I’ll admit a good performance can bring a tear to my eye.”

  Achille frowned. “Do you assign any particular meaning to it?”

  The photographer thought a moment before answering. “I know the meaning given it on the streets, in the cabarets and café-concerts. They refer to Louise Michel and the girls who tended the wounded at the barricades. Some of them took up arms and fought alongside the men. I suppose you know what the soldiers did to the women when they re-took the Butte?”

  Achille looked as though he’d been forced to swallow bitter medicine. “Yes, I know. It haunts us like a ghost that can never be appeased or exorcised.”

  Gilles exhaled audibly. “Sometimes I think you’re too philosophical to be a good detective.” Then he smiled broadly and winked. “But then, you’re not a good detective; you’re a great one. What you need is a stiff drink or two and a day off, or a night out. You may begin here. I’ve a bottle just itching to be uncorked.”

  “No, thank you; I’m on duty and I’ve a long day ahead of me.” He paused a moment and then asked casually, “I believe you frequent the Lapin Agile?”

  “Yes, now and then. Are you thinking of going? It’s an amusing place, but I wouldn’t take the wife, if I were you.”

  “Thanks for the tip, but I’m actually interested in a group that hangs out there. I believe the man I’m looking for was one of them.” He gave a portrait parlé of Boguslavsky before asking, “Do you recall seeing a man answering to that description?”

  Gilles rubbed his chin. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. But then, my friends are photographers, artists, musicians, and writers, you being a singular exception. And then, of course, there are the women. I avoid the political crowd. They’re too gloomy and hostile for my taste. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

  Achille shook his head, disappointed by the response but convinced that his friend would not deceive him. “Think nothing of it, Gilles.” He reached into his vest pocket and checked his watch. “I must be off. I need to stop by the station and see Rodin. And I must get a message to Legros.” I also need to contact Rousseau, he thought. He gathered the photographs and deposited them in his briefcase.

  Gilles escorted Achille to
the landing. They shook hands at the top of the stairway. “Good day, my friend, and best of luck with the case,” Gilles said. “If I can be of any further assistance, you know where to find me.”

  “Thank you. Actually, Legros is searching Boguslavsky’s residence. I may have more fingerprints for you.”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Ah, yes, more prints and iodine fumes. It’s becoming one of my specialties. À bientôt!”

  Upon his arrival at the Montmartre station, Achille was greeted by Sergeant Rodin, who handed him a message. Achille had missed Legros by less than half an hour—he’d finished searching Boguslavsky’s room and had already returned to headquarters.

  Returning immediately to the Quai des Orfèvres, Achille found his assistant, evidence bag in hand, puffing on a cigarette and pacing the office corridor. Seeing Achille, Legros removed the cigarette and exclaimed, “M. Lefebvre, did Rodin give you my message?”

  “Of course he did. You found something significant?”

  “Yes, Inspector.” Legros gestured toward the office door. “If you please.”

  Achille opened the door and entered, followed by his eager assistant. Legros placed the bag on a corner table across from Achille’s desk, put on a pair of cotton gloves, opened the flap, and carefully removed a partially burned scrap of paper.

  Achille looked at the item for a moment, and then stared at Legros. “This is all that you found?”

  “I’m afraid so, Monsieur. I questioned the concierge. Boguslavsky had packed his bags in the middle of the night and decamped in a hurry. The concierge was very angry, because the Russian was a week in arrears in his rent. And he left the stove going, apparently in an attempt to burn some papers. But it’s summer and the chimney needed sweeping, so not everything burned completely.

  “A tenant alerted the concierge when he smelled fumes on the landing. She went upstairs and knocked; when no one answered, she entered with her passkey. She immediately opened the windows and attended to the stove. She’s a sharp one, that concierge, and she has a good relationship with Rodin. She smelled a rat, so she notified the police and preserved the evidence. Please examine the paper. I can make out some writing; it looks like it might be a cipher or code.”

  Achille borrowed Legros’s gloves to handle the brown-edged, half-consumed note. He took out his magnifying glass and walked to the window for more light. While examining the note, he commented, “I see it plainly, Étienne. The letters abfhm followed by ‘Gay/Rossignol/ramée/jour/aimee.’ This could indeed be important. It might be the key to an encryption. I believe the words are taken from a poem, but I can’t place it. We need to get it photographed. I can ask old Maître François about the poem. He’s discreet and has no ties to the Russians or any suspect political affiliations.”

  “Do you think that might be a job for the Deuxième Bureau?”

  Achille shook his head and laughed mordantly. “Étienne, my friend, we already have two brigades involved in this investigation. Do you want to bring in military intelligence, as well?”

  “They do have the best cryptanalysis department in Europe.”

  “That may be true, but remember the old saying about too many cooks. At any rate, that’s for the chief to decide. We’ll note your discovery in our report. You did well, Étienne.”

  Legros smiled with a mixture of relief and satisfaction. “Thank you, Inspector. Are you going to share this information with Rousseau?”

  Achille considered his assistant, and then shook his head. “Frankly, I’m not sure what I’m going to say to Rousseau.” He glanced up at the wall clock. “Which reminds me: I need to send him a message and arrange a meeting. This day is far from over.”

  Darkness enveloped the Sainte-Chapelle; night had fallen, covering the glittering reliquary like a deep purple baldachin. Achille and Rousseau met in the shadowy dado arcade and spoke in hushed tones, their voices modulated by the nature of their relationship, as well as a reverence for the time and place of their conversation.

  “So, Professor, it seems as though you’re headed up a dark, twisting alley and need your old partner to light the way. How may I help?” Rousseau’s eyes glowed; candlelight delineated his granitic features in chiaroscuro.

  Achille respected his former partner, but he would not be intimidated. His response was etched in sarcasm. “You might have helped by letting me know about Boguslavsky’s chums at the Lapin Agile. Why wasn’t that information included in the file?”

  Rousseau didn’t flinch. “Sorry about that, old man. The association is recent, but you’re right. The file ought to have been updated: an oversight on our part. Is that all?”

  “No, that’s not all. Do you have an informer at the Lapin Agile? Have you infiltrated the anarchist cell? Are you shadowing these people? With any luck, they might lead us to Boguslavsky.”

  Rousseau grinned, displaying a row of large yellowish teeth. “That’s three questions and a supposition. I’ll take them in order. One, yes. Two, not yet. Three, of course. As for luck, we’ll need that and a bit more to hook this fish and reel him in. By the way, who tipped you off to the radical circle at the Lapin Agile?”

  Achille hesitated; Rousseau’s grin and overall manner annoyed him; but more than that, he wanted to protect Nazimova, if he could. He decided to throw Rousseau’s words back at him and see how he reacted. “As you said, old man, you work your side of the street and I’ll work mine.”

  Rousseau’s pedal-tone laughter echoed through the nave. “Very well, Professor. Have you anything else for me?”

  Achille considered the cryptogram; he had already decided to play his cards close to the vest. “We might have something of interest, but it’s too early to tell. Of course, I’ll notify you immediately if it pans out.”

  “Good. Shall we call it a night?”

  “Have you any leads on the cat burglar?”

  Now it was Rousseau’s turn to play it cagey. “We’re working on it.”

  Achille smiled. “Very well. Good evening, Rousseau.”

  “Until we meet again, Professor.”

  They walked up the nave together, past a saluting gendarme, and out the door into the mild night. They stopped for a moment. Rousseau glanced up.

  “A fine night, Achille. Even above the lights of the city, you can see the stars. They’re like our quarry. The stars hide in plain sight, but sooner or later they reveal themselves.”

  Achille looked up and smiled at Rousseau’s reflective observation. “Yes, indeed; it’s very fine.” He said nothing in reference to the fugitive Boguslavsky.

  After a moment of stargazing, they parted and went their separate ways.

  5

  ROSSIGNOL

  where am I? How long have I been here? Viktor Boguslavsky had posed that question to himself repeatedly, obsessively, and futilely. He had no answer, not even a clue.

  He sat on a rough wooden stool behind a makeshift table—a few planks across a couple of empty flour barrels. A pallet occupied a corner to his right. He had slept there, but couldn’t recall for how many nights or days.

  Is it night? Is it day? He didn’t know. When he’d arrived at the safe house in Montmartre, they had taken everything he had not already burned—identity papers, money, ring, watch.

  “Did you burn the codebook, ciphers, and formula as we instructed?” they’d asked.

  “Yes, all of it,” he’d replied. “I understand why you took my identity papers. You’re providing me with a forged passport. But why take my watch, my ring, my cash?”

  “You’ll have a new identity; we’ll provide everything you need. There mustn’t be a trace of Viktor Boguslavsky left for the police.”

  They’d given him a drink to calm his nerves. After a few minutes, he’d felt ill. When he’d tried to get up to go to the lavatory, he’d become dizzy, disoriented. Then he’d collapsed, unconscious.

  He’d woken on the pallet in the corner. When was that?

  He turned his attention to a tin plate, covered to keep out mic
e and bugs. The plate had been left for him, by whom he did not know. He lifted the cover, broke off a wedge of moldy yellow cheese, and placed it on a slice of stale brown bread. He chewed a mouthful with a disgusted frown, and then washed it down with a cup of sour wine taken from a half-emptied bottle. Why are they feeding me this shit? Prisoners in the Conciergerie eat better than this.

  As bad as this place was, at least it wasn’t prison. Or was it? He was in a small, low-ceilinged cellar filled with dusty, empty shelves. What sort of goods might this place have once contained? He didn’t venture a guess. Gray-green mold splotched the cracked, plastered walls; two ground-level windows had been boarded up; a couple of stubby candles stuck in wine bottles provided dim light; ventilation was poor and the place stank of damp, rot, and a slop bucket that he used for a privy. He did not want to think about what he’d do once the bucket was full. Will someone at least have the decency to empty the slops?

  He heard the distant cry of a steam whistle, the chuffing and rumbling of an approaching train. The sounds grew louder, the vibration more intense until it rattled the shelves. Then it passed, and everything was silent again. I’m near a railway line. But what does that signify? It could be anywhere. Have I already been taken across the border? Which border?

  There was one entrance, a door at the top of a rickety staircase. The door was locked day and night. When he knocked, no one answered. Even when he pounded and cursed, there was no reply.

  Boguslavsky had studied medicine; he knew this place was a breeding ground for disease. How much longer must I hide in this hole? He turned his attention to a large black spider dangling from a web spun across the tops of two contiguous shelves. I’m like a fly trapped in a damned web. I’ve done what they asked. When will someone come to free me, or at least to tell me where I go from here?