The clicking of a door lock and the sliding of a bolt broke in on his thoughts. Boguslavsky turned toward the entrance. “At last,” he muttered. “Perhaps now I’ll get some answers.”
The dawn sky flushed crimson. Here and there, a brilliant golden flash pierced the scattering clouds. The Butte slept half-hidden in shadows, sporadically lit by street lamps, tiny points of light winding their way uphill and down like a procession of glow-worms.
On the Rue de l’Abreuvoir, a young chiffonier trudged upward, following the narrow street as it snaked its way toward the summit. Hunched over, he hauled a cart filled to overflowing with rags, old clothes, and odds and ends, his gleanings from hours of labor along miles of avenues, alleys, and boulevards. Puffing with exertion, he halted for a moment alongside a mossy wall. He eased back on the cart handles carefully, so as not to spill any of his treasures on the cobblestones.
He mopped his brow on a ragged sleeve, and then took a moment to admire the tranquil beauty of the scene. Here, the street was like a tree-shaded village lane, lined with vine-covered walls, wooden fences, and brightly painted two- and three-story houses.
Above the humble skyline loomed the rising dome of an unfinished Sacré-Cœur. Completion of the Basilica had been delayed for years due to political wrangling between the Left, who considered the church an affront to the Revolutionary spirit of Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité, and the Right, who viewed Sacré-Cœur as a symbol of their triumph over Jacobinism, Marxism, and Anarchy. But the young chiffonier did not think of politics. He had spent hours scanning the pavements and gutters like a miner panning for gold, and rummaging for buried treasure in the stinking, flyblown poubelles. Now, for a moment he could rest his aching muscles, look up, and wonder: How beautiful it is.
“Good morning, Moïse.”
The chiffonier spun around, crouched defensively and flicked out a razor with the swift agility of a tomcat baring its claws. But in an instant, his feral snarl turned to a smile of recognition. He closed the razor, rose to his normal stance, and returned the greeting.
“Good morning, M. Lefebvre. You certainly gave me a start. What are you doing up here so early in the day?”
Achille glanced around; he’d taken precautions against being shadowed, but one could never be too careful. Satisfied that they were unobserved, he said, “I want a meeting with Le Boudin, in the Zone. Can you arrange it?”
“In the Zone, Monsieur?” He eyed the well-dressed inspector critically. “You can’t go looking like that.”
Achille smiled. “I don’t intend to, my friend. I’ll go disguised, and we’ll need to take precautions against surveillance. I want to meet your boss on his own ground, for security reasons. Of course, there’s something in it for you.” He paused for effect, then said, “You look like you could use a cigarette.” Achille reached into his breast pocket and took out a silver case. “Here, take a whole pack—and the case, too.”
The chiffonier handled the offering as though it were a holy relic. He stroked it fondly and then placed it in his pants pocket. “Thank you, Monsieur. You know, when anyone says something bad about the cops, I say ‘But then there’s Inspector Lefebvre.’ And they reply, ‘Ah, yes, Lefebvre’s a good man. Always on the square.’ Don’t worry, Monsieur, I’ll arrange the meeting without fail. I’ll get a message to you this evening with the details.”
“Very well, Moïse. Remember, I’m counting on you.” He looked up; the sun had risen, exposing them to the full light of day. “Now, we’d better break this up before someone sees us.”
The chiffonier nodded. “Of course, Inspector. Au revoir.” Moïse reached into his pocket, opened the case, took out a cigarette, and struck a match. Then he watched Achille’s back until he rounded a corner and disappeared from view.
Rejuvenated by his good fortune, the chiffonier raised the cart handles and began his long descent to the boulevard.
Boguslavsky rested his elbows on the crude tabletop. His greasy fingers grasped a breast of roasted chicken; his teeth tore away gobbets of crisp, golden skin, yellow fat, and tender white meat. The ravenous chemist gorged himself to the point of choking. He dropped the half-devoured hunk of fowl on its tin plate, coughed into his fist to clear his throat, and then gulped vin ordinaire straight from the bottle. His airway cleared of chicken meat, he then returned to his feast.
A young man attired in a fashionable bicyclist’s outfit—tweed flat cap, Norfolk jacket, and plus fours—observed the Russian with smirking condescension for what he considered a pitiful display of weakness. How can we trust a man who can’t control his appetites? Revolted by Boguslavsky’s unseemly voraciousness, the young man looked down and examined his carefully manicured nails. If the Russian had not been so focused on filling his belly, he might have noticed an incongruity in the youth, his small, slender frame, fine flaxen hair, beardless cheeks, soft white skin, and effeminate gestures in sharp contrast to his hawk-like blue eyes, firmly set mouth, hard, high-pitched monotone, and supreme self-confidence.
Boguslavsky finished his meal by wiping his mouth and beard on a serviette and belching into his hand. Then he smiled sheepishly, as if apologizing for his uncivilized table manners. “I’m sorry, comrade, but you must understand my condition. I haven’t had a decent meal in days. And the drug you gave me—I assume it was chloral hydrate?—made me quite ill. You must admit that the conditions in this place are deplorable, unfit for human habitation.”
The young man had brought food, wine, cigarettes, soap, towels, a pitcher and washbasin, and a couple of books for the detainee’s diversion. The cellar had been swept and dusted; the vermin killed, the slop bucket emptied and disinfected. What more does he want? the young man thought.
“We had to work fast, comrade. You were drugged for security reasons, which I trust you appreciate. As for the conditions, they are, of course, temporary, until we can relocate you. Sorry we can’t put you up at the Grand Hotel.”
Boguslavsky did not appreciate the sarcasm, but the look on the youth’s face defied any challenge on that ground. But the Russian couldn’t help lodging a protest couched in courtesy. “Of course, you’ve done what you can and I’m grateful. But I gave you everything you wanted. I even participated in the execution of an old friend to prove my loyalty. With all due respect, you owe me.” Boguslavsky tried to soften his demand with a benign smile.
“You’ll get all that’s coming to you, in due course,” the youth replied with an unpleasant grin. “But for now, I advocate patience.”
“But, comrade,” Boguslavsky persisted. “Before I went into hiding, I heard that Inspector Lefebvre was leading the investigation. By all accounts, he’s a brilliant detective.”
The young man shook his head; the cellar rang with shrill laughter. “You overestimate the Sûreté, my friend. Compared to the Okhrana, they’re nothing but a bunch of bungling amateurs. We’ll have the celebrated M. Lefebvre running around in circles, chasing his tail. You have my word on it.”
Boguslavsky stared at the young man. He was struck by the way this girlish youth could inspire confidence or instill fear with a slight adjustment of attitude, a gesture, a subtle change of expression, an inflection of the voice. Finally, he replied, “Very well, comrade. I trust you implicitly.”
The young man rose from his chair and dusted off his backside fastidiously. Then he took a moment to put on a pair of leather gloves before saying laconically, “Good. You’ll be well attended to from now on and should have no complaints, as long as you follow instructions.”
Boguslavsky nodded agreeably. “Thank you, comrade.” The young man turned and was halfway up the stairs when Boguslavsky added, “Pardon me. Must the door remain locked?”
The youth glanced back over his shoulder and glared. “Yes, it’s for your protection.” Then he turned and left the cellar without another word.
Boguslavsky stared at the door until he heard the hard metallic snap of the bolt and the clicking of the lock. He shrugged, sighed, and returned to the ta
ble to finish his meal.
Maître François occupied two rooms on the fourth floor of a mansard-roofed building on the Rue des Écoles. Achille enjoyed the walk across the bridge and along the Boul’Mich, but this particular afternoon he’d been caught in a sun shower. He sprinted down the final blocks and, upon arrival, shook himself like a poodle that had just retrieved a mallard from a river. Still dripping, Achille knocked loudly on the oak door and then listened for sounds of life within.
“All right, all right, I’m coming.” A faint acknowledgement emerged from the apartment. After a minute or so, a latch clicked and the door creaked open. A pair of rheumy hazel eyes peered into the dark landing and then widened upon recognition.
“Ah, Inspector Lefebvre. You’re right on time, as always. Please come in.”
Achille smiled at the familiar sight of the gnomish gentleman dressed casually in a smoking jacket, velvet tasseled cap, and baggy checked trousers, which had been new and fashionable the year Louis Napoleon proclaimed himself Emperor of France. The Maître’s slippered feet shuffled along the worn carpet. Bent and twisted with rheumatism, he required the aid of an ivory-handled walking stick.
Achille followed slowly as François led him through a cramped anteroom that served as study, sitting room, and bedchamber. The windows were shuttered and the place reeked of pipe smoke and the fetor of old age, particularly oppressive on the warm summer day.
They passed into the Maître’s true realm, a library containing shelves stacked high to the ceiling with rare volumes, a repository of centuries of wisdom and wit. The old man offered Achille a seat, then carefully eased himself into a comfortable armchair vis-à-vis his visitor. He laid his cane across his lap, adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles, leaned forward, and began the conversation with an observation.
“Pardon me for saying this, Inspector, but you are very wet.”
Achille grinned, took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and wiped his forehead and beard. “Yes, Maître, I was caught in a sudden downpour. Quite lovely, actually. I saw a rainbow arcing over the Seine.”
The old man smiled wistfully. “Yes, these summer showers can be quite refreshing. But I don’t go out anymore. In my condition, the four flights of stairs make it impossible.”
Achille offered some encouragement. “Perhaps the landlord will install a lift?”
The old man laughed feebly, showing his few remaining teeth. “That’s very droll, M. Lefebvre. A lift, indeed. I imagine they’ll be carrying me downstairs in a box long before this establishment incorporates such a novel improvement.” He coughed into a handkerchief before proceeding. “At any rate, you have something for me. May I?” He extended a palsied hand.
Achille opened his briefcase, retrieved a transcription of the cryptogram, and handed it to the retired professor.
M. François held the item up into the light and adjusted the distance until the words came into focus. After a moment, he read aloud, “Gay Rossignol, Gay Rossignol—”
He returned the document. “The nightingale, like the lark, is a very poetical bird. Rossignol and alouette. The words trip from the tongue so delightfully, like birdsong. Do you have any idea, M. Lefebvre, how much verse, in how many different languages, has been written about the nightingale?”
“I wouldn’t venture a guess, Maître. That’s why I’ve come to you.”
The old man smiled pensively; apparently, he was still good for something. “Perhaps today we are fortunate, Inspector, for I believe I recall the poem from which these words were taken.” He lifted his cane and pointed toward a row of books on a shelf. “If you go to the stacks, you’ll find Blanchemain’s eight-volume edition of the complete works of Ronsard. Bring me the index, please. I regret I can no longer retrieve it without assistance.”
Achille went to the shelves and returned with the book, then handed it to the old gentleman.
M. François riffled through the pages until he found what he was looking for. “Ah, yes, here it is.” He glanced up at Achille. “Now, Inspector, would you be so kind as to bring me the sixth volume?”
After Achille had done as requested, the Maître opened the book to the page indicated in the index and read aloud:
Gay Rossignol, honneur de la ramée,
Qui jour et nuict courtises ton aimée
“‘Le Rossignol,’ a charming little poem.” M. François closed the volume. He turned with some difficulty and looked up at Achille, who had been reading the poem by glancing over the old man’s shoulder. “But I doubt you have come to me out of admiration for the father of our lyric verse.”
Achille came around the chair and rewarded the Maître with a broad smile of gratitude. But the inspector could not avoid giving a grim warning in reply to what might have been an expression of curiosity.
“I’m afraid the reasons for my interest in the poem must remain secret, and I request that you not mention the purpose of my visit to anyone.”
The old man shrugged. “You needn’t fear on that account, Inspector. My associations are few these days. As for my friends and old acquaintances, they all reside in Père Lachaise. They tell no tales; I expect to join them presently.”
Achille nodded in response to the gloomy observation, and tried to cheer up the old gentleman with an optimistic compliment. “I find your services indispensable, my dear Maître, so I earnestly desire that you remain with us for many years to come.”
“That’s very kind of you, Inspector. I trust you will now pay me at the usual rate?”
“Of course, Maître. I’ll require information about this particular edition, the date of publication, printing, and so forth, and I’ll need a fair copy of the poem. Since it’s little more than three printed pages, if you permit, I can do the work here. Otherwise, I must take the volume to headquarters and have a clerk make the copy. If that’s the case, I’ll leave you a receipt and have the book returned by messenger as soon as possible.”
M. François scratched his white-stubbled chin and thought a moment before answering. “I’d prefer you do the work here, Inspector. I’ll gladly provide you with pen, ink, paper, and escritoire, at no extra charge.”
“Thank you, Maître. I’ll try not to trouble you for too long.” Achille smiled at the old gentleman’s cannily calculated display of generosity. “By the way, are you acquainted with Mme Nazimova, the proprietress of a bookstore not far from here, on the Boulevard Saint-Michel?”
M. François narrowed his eyes inquisitively. “I’ve come across the lady once or twice. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I was just wondering if she carried this particular edition of the complete works of Ronsard in her shop.”
“That’s certainly possible. Why don’t you inquire of her yourself?”
I doubt she’d welcome my inquiry, he thought, but said aloud, “Of course, Maître. It was just idle curiosity on my part. Now, if you please, I’d like to get started on the copying.”
Late in the afternoon, Achille sat at his desk, toiling away at the cryptogram. A knock on the door interrupted him. Leaning back in his chair, he stretched his cramped arms and yawned. “Come in,” he answered.
Legros entered hesitantly. “I’m sorry to disturb you, M. Lefebvre. I’ve completed my report for the chief.”
Achille smiled; he needed to talk to someone and welcomed the pause. “No problem, Étienne. Pull up a chair. I’m working on something that will interest you, especially since you made the discovery.”
Legros deposited the report on Achille’s desk and grabbed a chair with eager anticipation.
Achille removed his pince-nez, rubbed his eyes, and then reached for a pack of cigarettes. “Care for a smoke?” he offered.
“Thank you, Inspector,” Legros replied sheepishly. There were only two remaining in the pack and it seemed rude to take one. But Legros was dying for a cigarette and he assumed his superior had more hidden away in his desk.
After lighting up, Achille turned the cryptogram toward his assistant and began his explanatio
n. “You mentioned the Deuxième Bureau the other day. Did you know I was acquainted with Commandant Bazeries of the Bureau du Chiffre?”
“No, I did not.”
Achille took a deep drag, exhaled, and knocked off a bit of ash into a brass tray. “We met on a case. It involved a smugglers’ ring that communicated with each other in code. Most of the codes used by common criminals are basic, easy to break. But this was different. They had a clever leader and he worked out something sophisticated, so the chief brought in Bazeries and he taught me some of his tricks. I’m far from expert, but I learned enough to enable me to break the code and nab the criminals in the act. You might have read about it in the newspapers?”
Legros rested his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. “Yes, now I remember the case.”
Achille raised his eyebrows as he recalled the sensational articles. “Féraud was very pleased; good publicity for the brigade. Anyway, they were using transposition for encryption and decryption, using the lyrics to a popular song. Boguslavsky and his confederates have chosen a poem by Ronsard.”
Legros frowned. The famous name brought back memories of a schoolmaster who enjoyed beating the classics into his pupils. “Oh, yes, Ronsard. I remember him from my school days.”
Achille smirked. “It appears that our quarry is an individual with a taste for the pedantic; someone who likes showing off his erudition. But more of that later.” Achille pointed to the letters abfhm. “This is a five-letter indicator-group, which refers to the five words that Boguslavsky, or any member of the gang, could use to encrypt a message.”
Achille proceeded to explain the cryptographic method in detail, including a demonstration of the encryption key and grids for encrypting and decrypting messages.
The Hanged Man Page 8