“Of course, my friend. Have you made any progress in your search for Boguslavsky?”
“No, Monsieur. We had a tip that led us to a house on the Rue Ronsard, but they must have moved him.”
Orlovsky clicked his tongue. “That’s too bad. For all we know, he could be out of the country—or this world. Perhaps M. Lefebvre has been more successful?”
Rousseau frowned grimly and shook his head. “The Professor’s playing his cards close to the vest. He might be on to them, but he’s not sharing information.”
Orlovsky smirked. “Is it possible his sources might be better than yours?”
Rousseau resisted a strong impulse to remove the Russian’s annoying grin—permanently. “Achille has a way of using people and making them like him for it. It’s quite a gift, and he’s improved upon it since last I worked with him.”
“Yes, that’s quite a useful talent for a politician, a pimp—or a detective. Do you know how he pulls it off?”
“Yes, Monsieur, I do. He’s made a reputation for honesty, and the poor people of Paris think he really cares about them. That’s helped him build a reliable network of snoops and snitches. In my day, we relied mostly on bribery and fear.”
“I see. But, of course, he pays for information, doesn’t he? And he’s not above putting the screws on, if necessary.”
Rousseau laughed mordantly. “Achille’s no saint, if that’s what you mean.”
Orlovsky glanced down at his empty glass and sighed. “I shouldn’t drink this stuff. It’ll be the death of me.” After a moment, he looked Rousseau squarely in the eye and continued in a sober, businesslike tone, “Please keep me informed, M. Rousseau. I said once before that I’d like to meet Inspector Lefebvre. That may be sooner rather than later. I’ll let you know. Au revoir, Inspector.”
8
THE EEL UNDER THE ROCK
Achille and Blind from Birth met beneath a chestnut tree on the lower embankment. The familiar group of clochards sheltered under a Left-Bank archway of the nearby Pont Neuf. A steady drizzle had sprinkled the city from late evening to the early morning hours, letting up just before dawn, but raindrops fell from the sodden leaves and plopped on the pavement and the crown of Achille’s flat cap.
The spy reported the results of his brother’s surveillance from the doss house on the Rue Ravignan to the Café Aux Billards en Bois and back, with emphasis on the dead drop. “Il y a anguille sous roche, M. Lefebvre. There certainly was an eel under the rock in this case.”
“You and your brother have done well,” Achille replied. “Are you certain Rousseau hasn’t caught on to our game?”
Blind from Birth grinned reassuringly. “No need to worry on that account, Monsieur. But I must warn you: we’re coming to terms with your former partner, and may need to terminate our present arrangement—at least for the time being.”
Achille had anticipated the revelation. “Not a problem, my friend. With the information you’ve provided, my men can stake out the route and take over from here.” Achille reached into his pocket and produced several gold pieces. “Here’s the remainder of our agreed-upon sum, plus a bonus for good results.”
The spy tipped his battered hat, snatched the cash from Achille’s extended palm, and flashed a broad smile. “You’re an honorable gentleman. That’s your reputation, and it’s well deserved. My brother and I will gladly work for you anytime, as long as it doesn’t create a conflict of interest with M. Rousseau.” He noted the hint of a frown on Achille’s lips, and added prudently, “In this particular case, if we were to become privy to actions contrary to your interests, we’d be pleased to tip you off—for a reasonable fee, of course.”
Achille smiled. “Of course, my friend.” He held out his hand for a hearty shake and concluded his present dealings with the Blind Beggars upon a gentleman’s agreement. I’ll keep them on my side, he thought. They can be of great help in the future. He waited until the spy disappeared from view, and then walked up the steps to the bridge.
Halfway across, he stopped for a cigarette. Leaning against the balustrade, he viewed the Conciergerie in the first light of dawn. To most Parisians, the grim fortress had sinister connotations. Parents frightened their wayward children with tales of confinement, torture, and a dreaded early-morning rendezvous with Monsieur de Paris. But to Achille, the detention cells were merely an extension of his office, a cordon sanitaire separating the most pernicious elements of society from the general population.
He exhaled tobacco smoke with a sigh. He had enough evidence for a warrant on Moreau and Wroblewski—let the magistrate interrogate them according to law. They could also now search the doss house, the house on the Rue Ronsard, and the one on the Rue de la Mire where the drop had been signaled. There were risks in waiting on the evidence to build a stronger case, but moving prematurely might result in the loss of the person in charge—the king or queen.
Achille shook his head, unsure, and tossed the cigarette into the river; then he checked his watch. He had an early meeting scheduled with Legros, and the rest of the day off for a planned outing with Adele. Gazing up at the cloudy sky, he silently remonstrated with the heavens. Bonté divine, don’t let it rain!
Achille turned up the lamp, read the note in his hand, and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “So, it seems my friend Rousseau wants a meeting ‘at my earliest convenience.’ Damned civil of him, don’t you agree, Étienne?”
Legros sat facing Achille, on the other side of his office desk. “It must be very important. Will you meet him today?”
Achille set down the note and smiled. “If I were a bachelor like you, I probably would. However, I’ve promised this Sunday to my family. I’ll meet with Rousseau ‘at my earliest convenience,’ which will be five o’clock tomorrow morning at the Sainte-Chapelle. If it were so damned urgent, he’d be sitting where you are right now. At any rate, I’ve a good idea why he wants this meeting—M. Rousseau thinks I’m getting ahead of him, and wants me to catch him up. I’ll bargain for information from a position of strength.”
“I’ll convey your reply this morning,” Legros said. “Now, I’ve intelligence about the house on Rue Ronsard. The premises have been let to a M. Rossignol. According to the landlord, he’s a well-to-do merchant broker from Lyons. We’re checking with the prefecture to see if they’ve got anything on him.”
Achille smirked and shook his head. “Rossignol and Ronsard, eh? He’s a cheeky bastard, all right.”
“So it seems, Inspector.”
“Well, pride before a fall. I want you to check another address, on the Rue de la Mire. It’ll be interesting to learn if it’s also being leased by M. Songbird.”
“I’m on it, Inspector. Now, you wanted me to set up a stakeout in Montmartre?”
“Yes, Étienne. Pick a couple of good men and have them shadow Moreau and Wroblewski night and day. I’m particularly interested in learning the details of how they work their dead drop. The timing of the pickup and delivery is crucial. I’ve an idea of how to intercept and decode their messages without tipping them off.”
“How will you do that?”
“We need to get in touch with Gilles. He has a portable camera disguised as a parcel. It may be possible to photograph the messages at the drop. Anyway, we might have to recruit Gilles for that job. We’ll see what he says.”
“I’ll get a message to him. Anything else?”
Achille shook his head and shuffled through some papers in the opened file. “I think that’s all for now. I’m on my way home. Maybe I can catch forty winks before breakfast.”
“Good luck, Inspector. And I hope you have fair weather. It pissed down last night.”
Achille rubbed the ache around his eye sockets. “If anything, Étienne, this case is warming up, which means our days off from now until it’s closed will be few and far between.”
Achille pulled the oars with a deft, powerful stroke. Well known among sporting Parisians as a crack rower, the inspector was often the odds-on favorite at i
mpromptu races in the neighborhood of Chatou and Croissy.
The plan had been to rent a skiff at Chatou, row downriver past the bridge, and then return upstream in time for lunch at their favorite guinguette, the Maison Fournaise. However, the sky had remained gray and cloudy since sunrise, with intermittent drizzle from the railway station to the dock. Few boaters were out in this weather, but Achille insisted they go, even in the face of the boatman’s warnings and Adele’s protests.
“I’ve promised you a row, and that’s what you shall have,” he said stubbornly. His wife answered with a look at once wounded and wounding.
Adele sat gloomy and silent in the stern as she handled the tiller with one hand and supported her parasol with the other. The weather was not bad as they glided downstream past muddy banks lined with willows and white-walled rustic houses.
But not far beyond the bridge, the sky turned a peculiar tint of green and a flight of noisy sparrows darted from the trees and circled the river ominously. A sulfurous burst of light, like a photographer’s powder flash, preceded a low, distant rumbling. Adele’s lips silently formed the words “I told you so.” The sky answered by spouting like an un-bunged beer barrel.
Achille glanced upward and muttered “Merde!” Then he turned to Adele, who glared back at him. “We must be near La Grenouillère. Can you see it?”
“Yes, it’s just around the bend.”
“Very well. I’m picking up the stroke. Guide me in to the dock.”
“Not that horrible place!”
“My dear, we’re taking on water. It’s La Grenouillère or we go under. Now please help me in, and sing out a warning so we don’t crash into the dock.”
“All right, M. Lefebvre. But I warned you, the boatman warned you … but, oh no, you always know better—”
“You were right, my dear,” Achille broke in breathlessly. His chest heaved; his muscular arms and legs worked liked the pistons and driving rods on a locomotive. “I concede defeat. Will you please handle the tiller and keep an eye out for—”
Achille did not finish the sentence. They slammed into a mossy piling with a bone-jarring thud. After quickly assuring himself that the damage was minimal and they were not about to sink, he shipped oars and got up cautiously to balance the boat. Then he grabbed the mooring line, pulled himself up onto the rickety landing, and secured the skiff. Achille reached down for Adele, took her around the waist, and lifted her onto the dock.
You might have helped, he thought while sensibly keeping such criticism to himself. Instead, he grasped her hand and cried, “Come on. Let’s run for it.”
They dashed to the pavilion that had replaced the notorious floating dance hall, which had burned down the previous year. Inside, they shook themselves off and then sat on a pair of empty seats at the end of a long table. Adele scanned the place critically and made a quick assessment: “It’s not as bad as I thought.”
Achille smiled wistfully. A decade earlier, in his bachelor days, he had made acquaintance with the Romper, a hall on pontoons named for the rowdiness of the dancing, and the tiny round bathing dock with its lone shade tree, known as le camembert because of its resemblance to a cheese. Memories of intoxication, coarse companionship, powdered and perfumed sirens, conquests, brawls, and a quarrel ending in a duel flashed through his mind in an instant. He would share none of these embarrassing reminiscences with his wife.
“It’s changed,” he said.
Adele leaned toward him with a curious gleam in her eye. “Is it true what they say about the drunken can-can dancing and mixed bathing in the altogether?”
Achille laughed softly. “Bathing costume was the rule, but it was loosely enforced. At any rate, no one would make an effort to stop a few fools from stripping down and jumping in the river. That was part of the attraction, and made for some good jokes about the anatomical attributes—” He cut himself off judiciously. “Well, you understand.”
“Indeed I do.” She glanced up and around, listening for a moment to the pattering of raindrops against the eaves and windowpanes. “Not much danger of that today, I’m afraid. And not many customers around, either, which demonstrates the common sense of most Parisians on a day like this.”
Achille flushed and looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he mumbled. He tried to change the subject. “I met Maupassant here. He was a great rower, back in those days.”
She reached over and stroked his hand gently. “Yes, my dear Professor, you’ve told me about your acquaintance with Maupassant many times. And Renoir, Monet, Pissarro, and others came here to paint when they were still unknown. But that was long ago, before the war.”
He placed his hand on hers. “Long ago, when we were very young, before the war,” he echoed. “Back then, they all came here, from the highest to the lowest. Even the Emperor and Empress got on a train and came out to have a look. People compared it to Trouville—” He caught himself again.
“Are we going to Trouville this summer? You may be frank with me, Achille.”
He shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know. This case is difficult—very difficult.”
Suddenly, Adele let go of his hands, frowned, and hissed, “There’s a vulgar little man staring at us. He’s with a floozy. She’s smoking a cigarette and drinking beer—in public.”
Achille glanced over his shoulder. The man smiled and waved. Achille acknowledged the greeting with a nod and turned back swiftly to Adele. “Rats!” he muttered. “It’s Fournier.”
“Who is Fournier?”
“A blasted reporter.”
“Well, the blasted reporter is coming over with his woman.”
“Very well. Be polite, but give them no encouragement.”
Adele huffed. “You have nothing to worry about on that account.”
Fournier approached, a short fellow with a protruding paunch, embellished with a red silk vest and dangling gold watch chains. “Well, Inspector Lefebvre, fancy meeting you here. And in such charming company!”
Achille took offense at the implication of infidelity. He rose from his chair and towered over Fournier menacingly.
The reporter calmly ignored Achille’s threatening demeanor. “Will you honor us with an introduction, Monsieur?”
Achille glared at the man. “M. Fournier, I have the honor of presenting my wife, Mme Lefebvre.”
The reporter grinned, lifted his bowler, and bowed. “Your wife? I am indeed honored. Enchanted, Madame Lefebvre. And may I present my companion, a young actress of great promise, Mlle Celestine.”
Achille made a stiff bow, while Adele eyed the woman with icy contempt. She nodded curtly and said “Mademoiselle.”
Celestine was a painted trollop of forty. Despite her apparent maturity, she acted the part of an eighteen-year-old ingénue. Her rouged lips parted in a broad smile, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “I’m indeed honored, Madame.” Turning to Achille, she added, “My dear Inspector Lefebvre, all Paris is buzzing with talk of your latest case. ‘The Hanged Man’ is on the tip of every tongue.”
Achille did not reply to Celestine. He turned from the actress to her companion. Fournier had a bad reputation for bribing police officers to obtain confidential information, and if he did not get what he wanted from the police, he was quite capable of making things up. Associating with such an individual was compromising, but if he and Adele left immediately, the reporter might take it as a slight. His revenge for such a snub could be a fabricated article. Achille had a fine sense of honor—and a temper—and if the story was slanderous, he could be provoked into a duel. An illegal fight between a journalist and an inspector would at the least be scandalous; worse, it could detract from the investigation, even end Achille’s career.
Achille addressed Fournier directly in words the reporter would understand. “I’m involved in an investigation, Monsieur, and therefore not at liberty to discuss the case.”
The reporter smirked and stroked his waxed moustache. “Ah, yes, your investigation. So many rumors, so fe
w facts. You must be very busy, Monsieur. But at least you have time to spend a pleasant Sunday on the river with your charming wife.”
Achille clenched his fists, but Adele sensed trouble and intervened. She rose and made a slight bow. “Monsieur, Mademoiselle, it’s been a great pleasure meeting you both, but we were just about to leave. If you will excuse us.”
“But, Madame,” Fournier protested, “you and your esteemed husband have just arrived. Besides, it’s still raining. You might have difficulty obtaining a cab to take you to the railway station.”
She smiled sweetly. “Thank you for your solicitude, Monsieur, but I’m sure we’ll manage. Come along, my dear.” She grabbed Achille’s arm and half-dragged him away from the table before the reporter or his companion could get in another word.
All at once, the clouds parted and the rain stopped. On the pathway outside the pavilion, Achille turned to Adele, leaned over, and kissed her cheek. “That was brilliant, my dear,” he whispered.
She gazed up at him and laughed. “Did you see the looks on their faces?”
“It was very amusing. But we can’t take him too lightly. Remember, the pen’s mightier than the sword. And I’m afraid he was right about the cab. We may have a bit of a walk.”
She looked up at the brightening sky. “Not necessarily, my love. If the boat still floats, we can row. You were right—it’s a beautiful day after all.”
At home, Achille played with Olivier in the nursery. All was going delightfully, until the baby vomited on his father’s clean white shirt. After a bath and a change of clothes, the inspector acted the role of horse to his daughter’s Napoleon. The child’s five-year-old mind transformed the long front hall runner into a snow-laden Alpine pass, or the sands of Egypt (her grandmamma, a colonel’s wife, filled the little girl’s head with stories about the great Emperor) and her father became Bijou, one of young General Bonaparte’s favorite mounts.
“The army will advance! Forward Bijou!” she cried as she kicked her equine papa’s aching sides with little bare feet and smacked his sore crupper with the flat of her wooden sword.
The Hanged Man Page 14