The Hanged Man

by Gary Inbinder

  Le Boudin’s prodigious belly quaked with laughter. “Now that we’ve kissed each other’s arse-holes, we must cleanse our palates with rum.” He turned to Moïse. “You may go, but don’t stray too far. M. Lefebvre must be back at the gate no later than five. We wouldn’t want the cops swarming out here looking for him, now, would we?”

  “Sure thing, boss. I’ll return in plenty of time.”

  Le Boudin waited until Moïse had gone, and then gestured to a chair near the counter. “If you please, Inspector.” Achille sat while Le Boudin retrieved a bottle of rum and two glasses from behind the counter. Le Boudin pulled the cork with his teeth and was about to pour when he noticed a speck on one of the glasses. He spat on it, and then wiped the spittle on his sleeve before pouring. He noticed Achille’s wince.

  “Don’t worry, Monsieur. This stuff’s guaranteed to cure rabies and kill plague germs.” Nevertheless, as a matter of courtesy, he handed Achille the un-spat-upon glass.

  Achille lifted his drink, said “À votre santé,” and gulped the fiery liquid. A coughing fit seized him. Le Boudin came over and slapped his back. After a minute or so, Achille turned to his host with red face and tears in his eyes. “What is this stuff?” he sputtered. “Lamp fluid? Rat poison?”

  Le Boudin smiled. “I reckon it might be put to many such useful purposes. Anyway, if the first shot kills, the next one resurrects.” With that friendly solicitude, he refilled his guest’s glass.

  His mouth and gullet numbed, Achille sipped the liquor judiciously. As he did so, his carefully concealed fear dissipated the way a dental patient inhaling nitrous oxide loses his dread of the dentist. Nevertheless, through the rotgut-induced mental fog, he retained a sense of urgency.

  “I appreciate your hospitality, but we must get down to business. I’m requesting your assistance in an unusual case.”

  Le Boudin nodded. “I know, Monsieur. You’re investigating the death of the man found hanging from the bridge on the Buttes-Chaumont.”

  Achille wondered how much Le Boudin already knew about the case. He suspected it was more than what the newspapers had printed. Achille had good reason to trust his host; Le Boudin owed him a favor, and the chiffonier king was known as a man who always paid his debts. Nevertheless, Achille proceeded cautiously, as though he were shadowing a dangerous criminal through a dark, unknown alleyway. “That’s right, and I’ve reached a point where I require some expert surveillance, but for certain reasons, I can’t use my own men on this job.”

  Le Boudin narrowed his eyes, his bearded lips twisted in a shrewd grin. “Would one of those ‘certain reasons’ be Inspector Rousseau?”

  Le Boudin hated Rousseau and he almost certainly knew that Achille was working the case with his former partner. He would play his next card carefully. “As you may know, Rousseau is back with the police, but he’s working for another brigade. I’ve been ordered to cooperate with him, but between you and me, my faith in Rousseau and his methods has eroded somewhat.”

  Le Boudin laughed and shook his head. “‘Eroded somewhat’? You talk like a gentleman, M. Lefebvre. Well, that’s all right by me. After all, you are a gentleman. But I’m not, so I’ll speak bluntly. You don’t trust the bastard, and for good reason. And you need better spies than those plodders who work for that pig. Why else would you risk meeting me in this place? The answer’s simple: I’ve the best spies in Paris and Rousseau’s men haven’t the balls to tail you into the Zone.”

  Achille smiled and nodded his agreement. “That’s the gist of it, my friend. Can you help me?”

  Le Boudin raked through his beard with his hook as he pondered the request. Then he said, “One more shot of rum before we talk business, eh?”

  One more shot and Moïse will have to carry me back to the gate, he thought. But he could not refuse his host’s convivial liberality. “Thank you, my friend. Just one more, if you please.”

  Le Boudin poured the drinks and set them on the counter. “We’ll hold this round for a toast to seal our bargain. I once said I owed you a debt of honor that could never be repaid. You saved two of my best men from a frame-up, and you tracked down Virginie Ménard’s murderer.” For a moment, he stared silently at the dirt floor. “My daughter, Delphine, was in love with Virginie. I can’t say I understand that sort of thing, but I care very much for my girl. I assure you, we’re both grateful for what you did in that case.”

  Achille’s throat tightened with emotion and he answered spontaneously, without calculation. “I did my duty, Monsieur. You owe me nothing for that.”

  Le Boudin stared at Achille, and a single tear appeared in the corner of the old legionnaire’s eye and slowly trickled down his hairy cheek. “You’re an honest man in a crooked world, M. Lefebvre. For that alone, I’ll do what I can to help.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “Moïse and his brother Nathan are the best I’ve got for a job like this, but Rousseau’s marked them for revenge. One slip-up and they’re goners. But before we consider our alternatives, you must tell me who you want shadowed. As for the why of it, you may keep that to yourself.”

  In response to Le Boudin’s reference to his honesty, Achille decided to be as forthcoming as possible. “My chief suspect in the case, a Russian named Viktor Boguslavsky, has gone to ground. He used to hang out with a group of radicals at the Lapin Agile in Montmartre. I believe one or more of that bunch could lead me to the suspect’s hiding place, but … but Rousseau’s handling the surveillance. I want information from a source that’s reliable and loyal to me. And I must warn you, I believe there’s a conspiracy brewing, which adds to the danger.”

  “Russians, radicals, and conspiracy, eh? Perhaps you’ve told me more than I wanted to know.” Le Boudin stared at Achille as if he were probing for something, like a surgeon picking fragments out of a wound. Detecting nothing suspicious in Achille’s frank, steady gaze, he outlined a plan. “I believe I’ve a solution to your problem. First, I’ll put you in touch with two blind beggars. They’re master spies, as I’m sure you know, and with my recommendation and for a reasonable compensation, which I’m sure you can arrange, they’ll gladly work for you.”

  Achille’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “The blind beggars? But I thought they worked for Rousseau.”

  Le Boudin smiled slyly. “They’ve had a falling-out. Rousseau won’t say anything about it; he’s trying to lure them back. I’ll see to it you get to them first. But there’ll be hell to pay if Rousseau gets wind of it.”

  “I’ll risk it to get the blind beggars on my side. Was there something else?”

  Le Boudin lowered his voice and frowned, as if he were about to say something profound. “Have you ever used a woman in this line of work? There’s nothing like a woman when it comes to prying out secrets or luring an enemy to destruction.”

  Achille knew about sexual honey traps. He disliked them, but he would not be so squeamish when it came to cracking a tough case. “Have you someone in mind for that job?”

  “Yes, I do, Monsieur. Have you considered Delphine?”

  The proposition shocked Achille, but he tried hard not to show it. He knew Le Boudin had many women and numerous children and grandchildren, but he believed the old rascal was especially fond of Delphine. Yet what Le Boudin proposed was tantamount to selling his daughter. To Achille, such a thing was unthinkable. But he was in no position to turn down whatever help he could get.

  “Frankly, your suggestion is surprising,” he said cautiously. “I’m sure you understand the danger. She might get herself into a tight spot and I may not be there to pull her out.”

  Le Boudin grinned and patted Achille’s shoulder with his hook. “You don’t know my Delphine, do you, Monsieur? When the time comes, more likely you’ll be up to your neck in shit, and she’ll lift you out. She can come off sweet as sugar, when she needs to, but she’s as tough as a legionnaire.

  “And here’s something that must remain a secret, between you and me. After Virginie’s funeral, Delphine said something to me that
I’ll never forget: ‘Papa Le Boudin, M. Lefebvre is the finest man I’ve ever known. I’d do anything for him.’ Ah, Monsieur, you should have seen the look in her eye and heard her voice, especially when she said ‘anything.’ I speak plainly. My Delphine is a whore; she sells herself to both men and women. But she’s in love with you, of that I’ve no doubt.”

  Achille stared blankly, dumbstruck by the revelation. After a moment of uneasy silence, he stammered, “But … but you’ve just given me more reason not to use her.”

  Le Boudin’s mood changed suddenly. His eyes blazed, and his jovial expression turned menacing. “Listen, M. Lefebvre, you led me to believe that this was important. You’re not out here playing some fucking game?”

  Achille glared back at Le Boudin and put a sharp edge on his voice. “No, it’s not a fucking game. If I don’t solve this case soon, innocent people might suffer.”

  Le Boudin leaned forward and gripped Achille’s shoulders. “That’s right, Monsieur,” he said, his aspect softening as quickly as it had turned hard. “You’re decent and just; that’s why my girl loves you. So be a man and do your job. Use her. You don’t have to fuck her. Just see that she’s paid fairly, and say ‘thank you’ when it’s done.”

  Achille stared at Le Boudin, trying to read his face. He soon realized that he had misunderstood the man, and that this misunderstanding might have been the result of his own prejudice. “Very well, my friend. I’ll use her, as long as she understands the danger involved—and the nature of our relationship.”

  Le Boudin leaned back in his chair, smiled, and shook his head. “You’re still speaking like a gentleman. What does ‘the nature of our relationship’ mean?”

  “Cordial and professional. Or, if you prefer, businesslike, but friendly.”

  Le Boudin shrugged. “As you wish, Inspector.” He reached over to the counter, grabbed a glass of rum, and handed it to Achille. Then he took one for himself. “Time to toast our bargain. Moïse should return presently. We’ll be in touch, and you can use him as our messenger.”

  They downed their drinks, then Achille staggered to his feet and leaned against the counter for support.

  There was a knock on the door followed by the announcement, “I’m at your service, M. Lefebvre. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Le Boudin turned to Achille. “You’d best be off now, Inspector. You’ll hear from me soon. And don’t worry about Delphine.”

  Achille took a deep breath, made an effort to clear his head, and tried not to slur his words. “Thank you, Le Boudin. I appreciate your assistance and I’ll see to it that you receive a just compensation. And please be assured, in this matter, you’ve the honor of serving our country.”

  The old legionnaire glanced down at his hook. “I already served my country, Inspector.” Then he looked back up and smiled. “But now I have the pleasure of helping a friend. Good luck, M. Lefebvre.”

  “Papa’s home! Papa’s home!” The little girl broke free from her mother’s hand and streaked toward Achille as soon as he crossed the threshold. Achille smiled and hoisted the child in his arms.

  Jeanne’s angelic face screwed up into a disgusted moue. “Oh, Papa, you look like a tramp and your breath stinks.”

  “I’m sorry, little one. Papa was out playing tramp with his friends. But now I must clean up and go to work.”

  Jeanne rested her head on his shoulder and clung to him desperately. “Please don’t go. I want you to stay here and play tramp with me.”

  Adele came over in a snit. “Achille, you’re filthy and you’ve been drinking. I just bathed and dressed her. Now, I’ll have to do it all over again.” She pried the little girl from his arms.

  “No, no, I want to play with Papa!” Jeanne whined.

  Adele wrestled the child down and grabbed her hand to drag her up the hallway. “Behave, or I’ll spank you,” she snapped at her squirming daughter. The threat transformed the whining into howls and shrieks that echoed through the apartment and continued with intensity behind a locked nursery door.

  Achille sighed and turned up the hallway toward the master bedroom. He’d almost made it to the door when his mother-in-law confronted him.

  Mme Berthier loomed before him, a malevolent gnome in black bombazine and white widow’s cap, imbued with the overwhelming wardrobe odor of attar of roses and camphor. “Good morning, Achille. Have you been attending a masquerade with your Montmartre friends?”

  Achille winced. “Pardon me, Madame. I’ve been on duty since three this morning. I’m tired and I’ve had nothing to eat since last evening. Now I must wash, change, and report to headquarters directly.”

  Madame’s eyes narrowed within a spiderweb of wrinkles. She sniffed. “Ah, it’s a pity you’ve had nothing to eat. At least you were fortunate enough to find something to drink.”

  Achille was in need of many things, the least of which was a conversation with his mother-in-law. Nevertheless, he tried to be civil. “Madame, I’m afraid the drink was in the line of duty. I assure you, I did not enjoy it. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “I understand, my boy. No need to apologize for your condition. You were on a covert assignment, no doubt in emulation of your idol, the great Vidocq.” She referred to Eugène François Vidocq, founder of the Sûreté. Among other things, Vidocq had been famous for his disguised forays into the Parisian underworld. But her reference reeked of sarcasm; she had nothing but contempt for the reformed criminal-turned-detective and had made her feelings known to her son-in-law on several occasions.

  “Yes, Madame, it’s something like that. Now, if you please—”

  “I knew it, I knew it,” the old woman chirped redundantly. “Only the other day I was discussing the case of the hanged man with my friend Mme Gros. As always, she’s developed an interesting theory.” Mme Gros was the proprietress of a vegetable stall at the local market; she was famous for her cabbages and conspiracy theories.

  Achille decided to play along—up to a point. After all, his mother-in-law could make the homecoming at the end of the day pleasant by squaring things with Adele. “And what, pray tell, is Mme Gros’s theory?”

  Madame’s eyes darted as though there were little spies concealed in the nooks and crannies of her face. Then she approached Achille’s chest, tilted her head up, and whispered in the direction of his inclined chin. “Berlin’s behind it. The hanged man was a double agent and the Germans found him out.”

  Achille tried to keep a straight face. “That’s an intriguing conjecture. Of course, Madame, you understand I’m not at liberty to comment.”

  “Absolutely, my boy. And I’m pleased you’ve been given an assignment worthy of your talents.” She paused a moment before adding, “Jeanne’s been difficult all morning, and the baby’s colicky again. Adele’s out of sorts, but I’ll set her right before you come home this evening.”

  Achille smiled appreciatively. “Thank you, Madame. And please be discreet when discussing the case.” He lifted a finger to his lips for emphasis.

  She smiled conspiratorially. “Mum’s the word. You can count on me.” With that, she bade him good morning.

  Achille watched for a moment as Madame shuffled up the shadowy hallway toward her boudoir. He shook his head sadly. German spies. If only it were true. I could dump the damned case into the Deuxième Bureau’s lap and be done with it. Then he opened the bedroom door, went straight to the washstand, and dunked his drowsy head in a basin of cold water.

  Viktor Boguslavsky moved his black knight—QN-Q2. Chess solitaire provided a diversion; he was grateful for the gift of the board and men. His handler’s indulgence—the provision of the game, reading material, cigarettes, comestibles, and adequate sanitation—had eased the chemist’s mind, providing him with a sense of security. This cellar is merely a waypoint, he thought, not the end of the line.

  He stroked his beard and took a puff on his Sobranie. As many times as they had played the Queen’s Gambit Declined, Kadyshev always fell into Black’s trap on the fourth move.
Boguslavsky shook his head and sighed. You ought to have been more clever, Lev Dmitryevich.

  Viktor recalled the last game they had played together at a rough picnic bench—one had to sit carefully to avoid splinters—on the patio fronting the Lapin Agile. They had lingered beneath the shade of a tall, leafy tree, a warm wind rustling the branches and stirring a row of bushes on the steep, narrow Rue des Saules. They had smoked cigarettes and sipped a decent vin ordinaire. A fine day. But that evening, Comrade Rossignol had ordered Kadyshev’s execution.

  Why make me participate? Each time the question surfaced, he tried to shove it back into the murky depths at the bottom of his consciousness. But it had the bad habit of reemerging, like a bloated corpse inadequately weighted down to keep it concealed beneath the river. The chess game, an association with the hanged man, had been sufficient to raise the unwelcome remains, the evidence of his betrayal, and the source of his guilt.

  He tried to justify his actions to himself. We must use all means necessary to achieve universal justice, a goal that will benefit all humanity. But how many must suffer and perish for the greater good? Hundreds, thousands, millions? In the end, who would remain to enjoy the brave new world that had required so much sacrifice, so much suffering and blood?

  I gave them the formula. Why wasn’t that enough? The formula was Boguslavsky’s improvement on Nobel’s gelignite, the means to the production of a powerful explosive stabilized in a waxy substance, easily shaped and molded like clay. In addition to the formula, he had provided explosives stolen from his employer, and instructions for the manufacture and detonation of a shrapnel-spraying bomb. Comrade Rossignol, the dandified young bicyclist, had given the orders, and Viktor had obeyed to the letter.

  Boguslavsky pushed away from the table and stubbed out his cigarette. He glanced at the boarded windows. Still disoriented, he had lost his sense of time and place.

  The door lock clicked; the bolt slid. A man known only as the Porter entered. He carried a parcel under his arm. “Greetings, comrade,” the man said in a flat monotone.