Toulouse-Lautrec sat near the orchestra, sketchbook and charcoal in hand. As the crowd filed in, his eyes darted around the room, scanning the scene for intriguing subjects. A quartet seated near the end of his row caught his eye: two men spruced up like toffs, escorting a pair of young girls wearing the scarlet silk gowns, feather boas, and enormous plumed hats of their profession.
Lautrec recognized the older man and the girls; he had sketched them before in various dance halls, cabarets, and clubs. His brain, eyes, and hand coordinated with machine-like precision rendering their charcoal gray forms on paper. They developed magically, like the latent images emerging from a photographic plate, but they were merely background to the focal point of his composition.
The younger man’s elegant detachment intrigued the artist. He was dressed comme il faut, but no better than his elder. Still, his middle-aged companion seemed vulgar in comparison; his baggy eyes, well-fed paunch, waxed moustache, and imperial, rouged lips and cheeks displayed a louche sensuality. These physical and cosmetic attributes, coupled with his insinuating gestures (a hand on the young whore’s knee, an obscenity whispered in her ear), made him appear like the dirty old man in a stage farce, a perfect subject for Lautrec’s caricature.
The young man remained aloof. His female companion clung to his arm, made faces, laughed loudly, told dirty jokes, all of which he acknowledged with insouciant minimalism—a nod, a smirk, a subdued snigger. When her hand strayed toward his crotch, he slapped it—hard.
From Lautrec’s perspective, the youth treated the whore as though she were a pet monkey. His clear blue eyes remained fixed on an empty stage; his kid-gloved hands rested on a silver-handled cane. The artist emphasized the boy’s androgyny, his smooth cheeks, fair curly hair, and delicate features. Nevertheless, Lautrec’s sharp eyes and acute intellect detected a singularly arrogant cruelty in his subject’s behavior toward his companion and barely concealed contempt for the crowd. He glanced down at the finished sketch. The old fellow’s a scoundrel, but the boy is a sadist.
The orchestra warmed up their instruments in a flurry of scales, intervals, long tones, and rumbling beats on the kettledrum. For a while, the musical cacophony clashed violently with the audience’s nattering din. Presently, their leader appeared and brought them to order by rapping his baton on the music stand. He called upon the oboe to give the musicians a tuning “A.” The houselights dimmed. Delphine emerged from the wings and stepped boldly into the footlights’ glare. The audience greeted her with whistles and applause.
She posed like a streetwalker under a lamppost, dressed in the shabby costume of the lowliest in her profession. Delphine was an admired exponent of Chanson réaliste—her songs told stories about the life she had lived in the Zone and on the streets of Pigalle and Montmartre. Her voice was a throaty mezzo-soprano tainted with cigarettes and absinthe. However, she projected her songs with the power of experience that breathed life into the words, and she had an instinctive sense of rhythm and pitch. The leader and orchestra members praised her natural musicianship. The greatest compliment to her acting was that it never seemed like an act.
When Delphine opened her mouth, the room vibrated with the defiant battle cry of a badly abused but undefeated spirit. The effect was electrifying. The rowdy crowd fell silent. She had once again subdued the beast, like a legendary hero braving the dragon in its lair.
Lautrec sketched Delphine, as he had many times before. But as he worked, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye: the self-important youth sat transfixed, as if mesmerized.
A wry smile crossed the artist’s lips. Try her on for size, you little shit. I wager you’ll get more than you bargained for.
7
DE CAPE ET D’ÉPÉE
At the brink of dawn, the Eiffel Tower’s ten thousand blazing gas lamps cast their beams into the purple sky, highlighting the dome of the Institut de France on the Quai de Conti. Does technology illuminate reason, or is it the other way around? This thought occurred to Achille as he viewed the two structures from his perspective on the left embankment near the Pont Neuf.
His eyes wandered from the brilliant display to the shadows beneath an arch where a small gathering of clochards slept in a heap. Did this incongruity require investigation? Could scientific and artistic glory peacefully co-exist with such human misery in a just society? What Then Must We Do? He had read Tolstoy; he sympathized. As he watched the sleeping clochards, he recalled a particular passage: “However we may try to justify to ourselves our treason against mankind, all our justification falls to pieces before evidence: around us, people are dying from overwork and want; and we destroy the food, clothes, and labor of men merely to amuse ourselves.”
How would Chief Féraud have answered Tolstoy’s question if his subordinate had put it to him? Perhaps: This is France, not Tsarist Russia. You’re a detective, Achille, an important public servant. Do your job, and leave the rest to the Republic and God. Simplicity itself.
This morning, his job involved a rendezvous with one of his spies, a man known to him only as Blind from Birth. Achille had arranged their meeting for five, but the spy was already ten minutes late.
Achille wanted a smoke, but he feared the glowing tip of his cigarette might draw unwanted attention. Waiting made him edgy; he kept glancing up and down the embankment from his cover beneath a large chestnut tree. He wore his workingman’s outfit to make him less conspicuous but here, near headquarters in central Paris, he carried his badge concealed under his blouse, next to his Chamelot-Delvigne. At last, he was relieved to see a dark figure approaching and hear the telltale tapping of a cane against the embankment wall. His eyes are better than mine, but he does well to stay in character.
The man came up to Achille, smiled, and tipped his battered hat. “Good morning, Monsieur.”
“You’re late,” Achille replied testily.
“Pardon me, Monsieur. For reasons that must be obvious, I don’t carry a watch. I make do with public clocks, bells, and the signs of nature.”
Achille’s eyes darted from his spy to the clochards. “Do you think it’s all right if we speak here?”
The man turned his head toward the shadowy archway. “You’re worried about them? You needn’t be. Eyes open or shut, they’re dead to this world and could not care less about what we have to say to each other. For now, this is as safe a spot as any for us to meet. But we oughtn’t hang around here too long.”
“Very well. You have something for me?”
“Indeed I have, Monsieur. I spent last night and much of this early morning in Montmartre. I shadowed two known anarchists from the Lapin Agile: friends of Viktor Boguslavsky. Here are their names, addresses, and descriptions.” The spy reached into a jacket pocket and handed a piece of paper to Achille. “You should have files on both of them. They’re Leon Wroblewski, a Polish exile, and Laurent Moreau, a common seaman between voyages. They both live in a fleabag on the Rue Ravignan, but they didn’t return there last night. Instead, I tailed them to a house on the Rue Ronsard—”
“Ronsard, did you say?” Achille immediately remembered the poem code.
The man raised his eyebrows. “Does that address have some significance?”
“It might. Please continue.”
“My brother, Blind by Accident, is still on the watch up there—we work in shifts. We’ll have more for you tomorrow morning, Monsieur.”
Tomorrow was Sunday. Achille had planned to take Adele for a row, but he figured he could make the five A.M. rendezvous and still have most of the day off. “Very well, but please try to be on time. Will there be a problem with Rousseau and his men? I imagine they’ll be tailing these individuals, too.”
The man raised his hand to his lips to stifle a laugh. “Pardon me, Monsieur, but this is amusing. Rousseau hasn’t said anything to his men about the state of our … business arrangements. We’re in ongoing negotiations of a confidential nature. So his men think we’re still working with them.”
“That
’s a dangerous game. What if Rousseau finds out you’re working for me?”
“This is the way we blind beggars see it. You and Rousseau are like a pair of thoroughbreds from the same stable. You race against the field, but you also compete with each other. If one of you wins the purse, your owner is pleased, but that does not mean the other goes to the butcher—as long as he runs a good race.
“We are hedging our bets. Whether you or Rousseau cracks the case, it’s still a win for the police, and for us. And I don’t see why we shouldn’t bet on you, at least until we settle our dispute with M. Rousseau.”
Achille replied with a twisted grin. “I appreciate your honesty.”
“Thank you, Monsieur. It always pays to have fair and honest dealings in my profession.”
“I would have thought just the opposite.”
The man was silent for a moment. Then he remarked, “Of course, you will pay the agreed-upon price?”
Achille reached into his pocket and retrieved a few gold pieces. “This is for what you’ve provided so far, plus a little on account. I pay a bonus for good results, but rest assured there is a penalty for failure.”
Blind from Birth took the coins and sighed. “Alas, Monsieur, there’s always a price to be paid for failure. We’ll be in touch. Au revoir.”
Achille watched the man walk down the embankment, under the arch, past the clochards, and out of sight. He then turned toward the river and rummaged in his pocket for cigarettes and matchbox. A little tug chugged past, towing a barge in its wake. Light from the lamps on the embankment and bridge reflected in ripples on the dark water. I’d like to be out in a skiff rowing, with Adele at the tiller. He watched for a while, and then walked toward the entrance to the bridge and on to headquarters.
Achille met Legros in the evidence room at the Palais de Justice. He examined the ligature Legros had removed from the evidence bag and placed on a lamp-lit table. “Our forgotten clue. Good work, Étienne. Tell me how it was found.”
Legros smiled. “A snot-nosed kid came across it while he was playing in the reeds by the lake. He used it as a whip to beat his sister, who’d been tagging along and tried to claim the prize for herself.”
Achille laughed. “The little devils!”
“Indeed. Anyway, the girl screamed bloody murder and flailed away at her brother. Their mother ran over, broke up the tussle, grabbed the ligature, and gave them both a good hiding. You can imagine the commotion. The row caught the attention of one of the men Rodin detailed to patrol the crime scene. Et voilà!”
“That was a lucky break, combined with good police work. Please convey my thanks to Sergeant Rodin.” Achille stretched out the ligature and held it up to the light. “You see how the cord was cut cleanly, and the strength of the knot?”
“Yes. They had a sharp blade ready and made good use of it. And I believe that’s a sailor’s knot, isn’t it?”
Achille nodded and returned the ligature to the bag. “A figure eight, to be precise. I tie them myself. This one’s first rate, and under the circumstances, I imagine it was tied expeditiously as well. And that bit of evidence dovetails nicely with some information I received this morning concerning a sailor named Moreau.”
“Is he a suspect?”
Achille nodded the affirmative. “He’s one of the anarchists who hung out with Boguslavsky at the Lapin Agile. I’m having him shadowed, along with his pal, a Pole named Wroblewski. What’s more, I’ve checked their records and they’ve both been up to no good in the past.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I got all this information without the aid of our friend Rousseau. No need to spread that around. Understood?”
“I understand, Achille. Do you have enough on them to ask the juge for a warrant?”
Achille thought for a moment. If it had been a routine homicide, the juge d’instruction would have already been leading the investigation. “Perhaps, but I want to give them enough rope to hang themselves. And we’ll have more for the prosecutor than Kadyshev’s murderers. If this is a terrorist conspiracy, as I suspect it is, we want to nab the whole gang right on the point of committing the act. It’s risky, but that’s how I caught the smugglers on the Marseilles docks.
“Wroblewski and Moreau could lead us to Boguslavsky. According to my theory, it took three to hang Kadyshev. If we can bring in these three all together and put the screws on, I’m sure we can persuade one to rat on the others to save his neck. And let’s not forget the knight. I won’t be satisfied with three pawns; there’s more to this game than that. Anyway, the juge and the prosecutor will thank us for making their jobs easier.
“Remember what I said about the coded messages and the dead drop? If we can intercept a message and decrypt it, we’ll really have them by the short hairs. I’ve a rendezvous tomorrow morning with a spy who’s tailed them to a house on the Rue Ronsard. Here’s the address.” Achille took out a pencil and notepad and passed the information to Legros. “I want you to begin a discreet inquiry. Find out everything you can about the place: property owner, residents, concierge, unusual activity, and so forth. Report what you find directly to me.”
“I understand. But tomorrow’s Sunday. I thought you were taking a day off to go rowing with your wife.”
Achille frowned. “Duty first, Étienne. Anyway, my meeting is at five in the morning and won’t last long. I’ll still have the rest of the day.” He made another note and handed it to Legros. “That’s the name of a guinguette in Croissy. Except for an hour or so on the river, I’ll be either there or at home. Pass this along to the chief. If something comes up, you’ll know where I am. All right?”
“Very well, Achille. Where to next?”
“I’ve a meeting in Montmartre. More cloak-and-dagger, I’m afraid.”
Legros smiled broadly. “Sounds exciting. Good luck to us both.”
Achille grinned back and slapped Legros’s shoulder. “You know what our chief says about luck?”
Legros grimaced in bewilderment. “I’m not sure?”
“He quotes the great Napoleon, and it’s usually in reference to promotion. When considering one of his young generals for higher command, the Emperor said, ‘I know he’s brilliant, but is he lucky?’ Frankly, I’m dubious when it comes to brilliant detective work, so in this case let’s pray that we’re both damned lucky.”
Blind by Accident crouched behind a poubelle in a tight, unpaved passageway between two buildings on the Rue Ravignan. He rubbed his sore hams, having tailed Moreau and Wroblewski down from the summit along the dark, winding streets and stairways.
The first light of dawn touched the heights; the lamplighters had made their rounds, extinguishing countless gas jets; the night-soil collectors had pumped out their quota of cesspools and emptied collection vats from numberless cellars; the chiffoniers had finished picking through the trash-filled poubelles; the dung collectors had carted off piles of horse manure for fertilizer. Cleansed and refreshed, the Butte was ready for another day.
Through dark glasses, Blind by Accident’s eyes scanned the entrance to a doss house on the other side of a small square. I hope the bastards catch some shuteye, at least until my brother relieves me. I could do with some rest, food, and a bottle of wine.
To kill time, his mind wandered to idle speculation. According to legend, the Emperor Napoleon had stopped in this place on his way to inspect the semaphore telegraph atop the church of Saint-Pierre. The road, which was then called the Vieux-Chemin, proved too steep for the horse, so the Emperor tied his mount to a pear tree and continued the journey on foot. Displeased with his experience on the old road, the Emperor ordered the construction of a new street that became the Rue Lepic.
Blind by Accident pondered the legend skeptically. He had been up and down the Butte many times, and had blistered feet, an aching back, and sore hams to show for it. Granted, the precipitous Old Way had been a damned tough slog for a horse. Nevertheless, the canny spy had a hard time believing that the great general, who had led his army from horseback acr
oss the Alps through the Great St. Bernard Pass, could not coax his mount up the old road to the top of Montmartre. And anyway, didn’t the Emperor have other business that was far more pressing than inspecting a signal tower? Blind by Accident sighed and shook his head. In this world of lies, we must take everything with a grain of salt.
The spy glanced up from the shadows to the blue sky above. Where is that brother of mine? he questioned silently, as if God might provide an answer. Vexed with impatience, he looked down again, and an unwelcome sight greeted his overworked eyes: Moreau exited the doss house and began walking up the Rue Ravignan.
Blind by Accident was now at a singular disadvantage. In the evening and early morning hours, he could operate beneath a cloak of darkness; in daytime, he would dissolve in the stew of humanity. The in-between time, when daylight first penetrated his shadowy shield, was the most dangerous hour. Not many people were about at this time of morning, which made it impossible for him to blend and fade away within a perambulating crowd. If he followed Moreau too closely, there was a risk of detection; if he tailed the suspect too loosely, he could lose him.
He immediately decided that losing Moreau was a much better alternative to being burned. The Blind Beggars could only be effective as long as their subjects did not suspect their dodge. Blind by Accident set out after Moreau nonchalantly, as if his stroll up the hill were the most natural action imaginable. Experience had taught him that the quickest way to betray oneself as a spy was to act like one.
The Hanged Man Page 12