The Hanged Man

by Gary Inbinder

  Achille picked up his pace, footsteps echoing throughout the high-vaulted sacred enclosure. He stopped at the corner of an arch and peered into the shadows. “Good morning, Rousseau. You’re early.”

  “Good morning, Professor.” The greeting emerged from the penumbra. “Yes, I’m early and I’m in a hurry. I’ve a busy day ahead. Things are heating up in our case.”

  Achille responded to the obvious with a smirk. “Hot as Hades, I’d say, and I appreciate the reference to our case. What have you got for me, partner?”

  Rousseau ignored the sarcasm. “We’re closing in on Boguslavsky. We believe he was moved from a safe house in Montmartre to La Villette.”

  “La Villette’s a big place. Have you anything more definite?”

  Rousseau frowned with displeasure—he had apparently anticipated surprise, or at least a more enthusiastic response. “We’re working on it,” he grunted.

  “Good,” Achille replied. “Please keep me apprised of the situation.”

  Rousseau’s granitic features cracked. “Keep you apprised of the situation?” he parroted mockingly. “You’re a cool one, Professor.”

  Achille smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Any leads on the cat burglar?”

  “We brought in the usual suspects for questioning. We’ve turned up nothing, so far. But these fellows don’t like outsiders poaching on their preserve. Sooner or later, someone will come forward and inform.”

  “Let’s hope sooner rather than later. At any rate, if we trap the rats, we’ll likely bag the cat too. Now, I have a question. What do you know about M. Orlovsky?”

  Rousseau was taken aback and remained silent for a moment, eyes smoldering like hot coals. The snoop did not like being snooped. “I should ask you the same question,” he answered bluntly.

  “Let’s not play games, my friend. You’ve been meeting with the man regularly, and I doubt these are social tête-à-têtes. I can imagine how he fits into our case.”

  “Don’t imagine. He’s my Okhrana contact,” Rousseau admitted. “He’s on our side. That’s all you need to know.”

  His suspicions confirmed, Achille thought of Delphine. He had launched her on a dangerous venture, like a sacrificial pawn. But he had no time for sentimental weakness. “Fair enough,” he said. “Now, what can you tell me about Rossignol?”

  “Rossignol? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Was Rousseau lying? Covering up? Or just ignorant? Achille had no way of knowing, but he threw a bone to see how Rousseau chewed on it. “You mentioned a safe house in Montmartre. We located a place on the Rue Ronsard, and I assume it’s the same. The lease is in the name of M. Rossignol.”

  Rousseau did not answer directly. “So you know about Moreau and Wroblewski?”

  “Yes, I do. And you know nothing of Rossignol?”

  Rousseau shook his head in the negative and remained silent. Then he said, “I suppose you’re looking for this Rossignol?”

  “Of course.” Achille paused before adding, “Can you tell me something about one of Orlovsky’s friends? A young fop who frequents the dance halls and cabarets.”

  Rousseau did not hesitate to answer, though he raised a questioning eyebrow. “You mean de Gournay? I know nothing about him, except that he hangs out with Orlovsky. The Russian gentleman has his own way of life. I don’t interfere, as long as he remains our ally.”

  “I see. But there is no formal alliance between France and Russia. What if he turned against us?”

  Rousseau’s face darkened. He stepped forward and clenched a fist, as though about to strike out. “I think you can answer that yourself,” he growled.

  Achille remained calm, gazing directly into Rousseau’s burning eyes. “I’m sorry, my friend, I know you’re a patriot. I trust you’ll act accordingly.”

  Rousseau backed off, but he replied with dignity, “You needn’t remind me of my duty.”

  “I’d never presume to,” Achille said. Then he tossed another bone. “I’ll contact you immediately if I learn more about M. Rossignol.” Of course, he said nothing about the code, the Blind Beggars, or Delphine’s espionage. As for the shady M. de Gournay, he would take Rousseau at his word. Achille had other means of acquiring facts about the gentleman. Everything considered, he had learned something about Rousseau’s intentions, and revealed little in return.

  Rousseau seemed satisfied. “All right, Inspector.” Then he solemnly proclaimed, “We’d better pull together, Achille. After all, we’re rowing the same boat.”

  The offer of closer cooperation, coupled with the boating metaphor, caught Achille off guard. Subtlety was hardly Rousseau’s long suit. “Before, we were working opposite sides of the same street,” Achille replied. “Now, we’ll crew the same boat. It’s all one to me, as long as we do our job and dispose of the case successfully.”

  “Very well, Professor. You’ll hear from me soon. Until then.”

  Achille nodded. “Au revoir, Rousseau.”

  The porter gave Boguslavsky’s shoulder a rude shake. “Wake up, comrade. You must leave at once.”

  The snoring man’s eyes blinked open to the blinding glare of a lantern. He raised his right hand over his face for shade. “What … what the devil’s going on?”

  “Keep your voice down! The police have this place surrounded. We have an escape route planned, but you must make haste. Get dressed and I’ll give you instructions.”

  Boguslavsky rolled off his palette and grabbed his trousers, shoes, and socks. In response to the porter’s incessant urging, he growled, “Shut up, will you? I’m moving as fast as I can.”

  As soon as Boguslavsky was dressed, the porter guided him to a corner space hidden behind a row of shelves. He set the lantern down, grasped an iron ring, and lifted a trap door. A stench like rotten meat and excrement filled their nostrils.

  “What is this?” Boguslavsky growled. “Do you expect me to crawl through a fucking sewer?”

  “Be quiet, you fool!” the porter hissed. “This is the only way out. Get down there and I’ll point the way. Now listen carefully: You’ll crawl on your belly for about twenty meters until you come to a canal. A boat’s waiting. The boatman will take you to a prearranged spot, where you’ll transfer to a closed coach that’ll take you to a railway station. Rossignol will meet you there with a passport, tickets, and cash. Any questions?”

  Boguslavsky scowled. “No.” He lowered himself into the narrow space, grunting as he stretched out face-down in the muck. “Aren’t you coming?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about me. Start crawling. It’s not far.” The porter held the lantern and watched until Boguslavsky disappeared from view. Then he lowered the trap door, leaving the chemist to creep through the slime in total darkness.

  Delphine and Apolline sat at a lace-draped tea table, enjoying their morning chocolate, pears, and brioche. A Moroccan maid served their breakfast near an unshuttered window, with cut velvet curtains partially drawn to admit light and a mild summer breeze. The two young women lounged, partially dressed in petticoats and chemises.

  Aurore called to them from the adjoining sitting room. “Are you lazybones going to get up and join me?”

  Apolline stretched her arms and yawned loudly. “You run along, dear, and take Aisha with you. Delphine will stay here with me and have a nice gossip.” Then she bit into a juicy pear and wiped the dribble from her chin with a serviette.

  “Do as you please,” Aurore replied. “Come, Aisha, we haven’t all day.”

  The Moroccan girl, who looked no more than thirteen, said, “Yes, Mademoiselle.” She curtsied politely to Apolline and Delphine and then passed out of the room through a portiere.

  Apolline grinned as she leaned over the table and whispered, “Aurore likes getting up early and going to market with Aisha. Frankly, I think she’s sweet on her. Can you imagine?”

  Delphine shrugged and took a cigarette from her silver case. “Would you like one, dear?” she offered. “It’s a Turkish blend I have m
ade up special. The tobacconist calls it ‘Delphine’ and it’s becoming popular with the fashionable ladies.”

  “Oh, thank you, darling,” Apolline replied, as Delphine gave her a light. They smoked quietly and picked at their breakfast until they heard the front door close. Apolline smiled conspiratorially. “At last, we can speak freely. What do you think of our little love nest?”

  Delphine glanced around at the lavishly furnished bedroom: blue silk-patterned wallpaper adorned with landscapes in gilt frames; raspberry velvet-upholstered settee and chairs; Persian carpets; Japanese silk screens with floating blossoms and soaring cranes; and fragrant, fresh-cut flowers in Chinese vases. There was even a whimsical mechanical parrot in a gilded cage. Finally, her eyes rested on the large Empire-period bed, unmade, and a strategically placed screen.

  “Monsieur has fine taste, and he seems generous enough,” she stated matter-of-factly. “You girls are lucky.”

  Apolline nodded her agreement. “This place is a palace compared to where we came from. As for Monsieur, he has his quirks, but no one’s perfect. Better him than some old tightwad.”

  “Is that all he does with you two, watch from behind that screen?”

  Apolline laughed and stubbed out her cigarette. “Yes, he likes to hide and peek, watching us romp in bed. With you, he got a bonus. He’s very pleased today, I’m sure. Thank goodness.”

  Delphine frowned. “Last night, I saw evidence of his displeasure on Aurore’s behind.”

  “Oh, that.” Apolline shrugged. “Last week, Monsieur was playing cards with his crony, de Gournay. Aurore and Aisha served them, and that clumsy fool Aurore spilled half a bottle of champagne over the card table. Monsieur was furious. He made her lift her skirts and lie face down on the settee. I held her wrists while de Gournay grabbed her by the ankles. Monsieur whipped Aurore’s bare ass with his riding crop and little Aisha had to count the strokes. The poor girl cried more than Aurore.”

  “The brute. A pimp beat me when I was fourteen and I swore I’d kill the next man who abused me.”

  “Fine gentlemen or thugs, so many men are beasts. But if you ask me, Aurore provokes him. I fancy it’s just a game for them. They’re both bent that way, I’m afraid.”

  Delphine smirked. “À chacun son goût.” Then she finished the chocolate, puffed her cigarette, and set it down in an ashtray.

  “At any rate, he’s never hurt me physically, though he’s made threats on occasion. And I’ve managed to obtain some nice trinkets for my services, and put some cash away, too.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. We girls should save for a rainy day. By the way, what do you think of M. de Gournay?”

  Apolline shook her head and frowned. “He’s a queer one. I can’t make him out. For example, when M. Orlovsky whipped Aurore, you should have seen the fiendish look on his face. Like Satan himself; frightening. But de Gournay? Nothing—blank as a wiped slate. He might as well have been staring at the wallpaper.”

  “Well, we see all kinds of things in our profession—and hear them, too. By the way, what is the relationship between Orlovsky and de Gournay? Are they in business together?”

  “Now you’ve touched on an interesting subject.” Her eyes darted furtively around the room, as if looking for spies lurking in every corner and crevice. Though they were alone, she lowered her voice. “They’re in business, all right, and they’re on to something big. If it comes off as planned, they stand to make millions. I guess they let things slip around me because they think I’m too stupid to understand. But I’m not so dumb. I’ll let you in on a secret, if you promise on your sacred honor not to tell anyone.”

  Delphine surreptitiously crossed her fingers behind her back and promised.

  “All right. It seems Germany has stopped lending money to Russia. So a syndicate of the largest French banks has entered into an agreement with the Russians for a huge loan on very favorable terms. France will be Russia’s largest creditor.”

  “How big is ‘huge’?”

  “Orlovsky said a billion francs.”

  “But what has this loan to do with Orlovsky and de Gournay?”

  Apolline grinned slyly. “Ah, here’s where it gets really interesting. Orlovsky acts as agent for a large Russian arms manufacturer. De Gournay works for a comparable French firm. When they float the loan, the Russian government will give an immense subsidy to Orlovsky’s company and the price of its shares will skyrocket. What’s more, Orlovsky and de Gournay share a secret from which both companies will benefit. So the price in the French company’s shares will rise as well.”

  “Do you know the secret?”

  Apolline shook her head. “I think it has something to do with a new explosive for the military. Anyway, anyone with shares in the French and Russian companies at today’s prices stands to make a fortune when the loan goes through and the public gets wind of it. Frankly, I was hoping they’d let me invest a little, but I’m afraid to ask.

  “And here’s another thing that frightens me: I’ve seen Orlovsky with Rousseau. They meet at the Cabaret de L’Enfer. Everyone in Montmartre knows that Rousseau took payoffs from the pimps and cabaret owners. Maybe he’s on Orlovsky’s payroll. I don’t know, and I don’t want to get involved. Rousseau’s scarier than Orlovsky and de Gournay put together.”

  Delphine nodded her agreement and smiled sympathetically. “You’d better play dumb and stay out of it.” After a moment, she questioned, “Do you think Aurore knows anything? And what about Aisha? Have they discussed this matter with you?”

  “I don’t think they know anything. At least, they haven’t talked to me about it. You’re the only one I’ve told, so far. I don’t trust the other girls.” She reached across the table and took Delphine’s hand. “I wanted to tell someone to get it off my chest. You’re different from the others. It’s sort of like talking to a priest.”

  Delphine stared into her friend’s trusting eyes, and knew that when she passed the information to Achille, she would have to emphasize the need to protect Apolline and the other girls. “I’m glad you told me. But you realize we can’t profit from this information. That would be wrong, not to mention extremely dangerous.”

  Apolline frowned soberly. “I promise I won’t speak another word about it, except to you.”

  Delphine leaned forward and kissed her friend’s lips. “I must finish dressing and go now, my dear.”

  “Oh, so soon?” Apolline pouted with disappointment, like a child who missed her favorite playmate. “I wish we had more time together. Anyway, do you still plan to meet M. de Gournay?”

  Delphine got up and patted Apolline’s hair affectionately. “Yes, the young gentleman intrigues me. I enjoy a challenge.”

  Apolline sighed. “Well, you be careful around that man. He gives me the creeps.”

  Delphine laughed nonchalantly, as if to show her disdain for a mere fop. “Now, where did I leave my dress?” she asked, scanning the room in search of her outfit.

  Apolline went to her dresser, sat down in front of the mirror, and began arranging her hair. “It’s in the wardrobe, my dear, along with your corset. Your shoes and stockings are under the bed.” For a moment, she watched Delphine’s reflected image in the mirror as she rounded up her clothes. Then Apolline smiled at her reflection and continued her toilette.

  I’ve seen that face before. But where? When?

  Achille stared at Lautrec’s sketch of de Gournay. Light streamed through a window opening onto the quay, highlighting the drawing on his desk. He stubbed out a cigarette in an ashtray, lit another, and then closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

  Who is he? What’s his game? I need to contact Delphine.

  Opening his eyes, he leaned forward and penciled a note on a chart he had been working on since his meeting with Rousseau had concluded. The sounds of chugging tugboats and steam whistles filtered in from the river, but he hardly noticed, concentrating instead on the chart and the case.

  The case could involve the interests of four ma
jor powers: France, Russia, Germany, and Great Britain. Two competing factions on the radical left were also relevant to his investigation: Anarchists and Marxists. Kadyshev, the Hanged Man, had been a Marxist. Boguslavsky, Moreau, and Wroblewski were Anarchists. He situated Nazimov and Nazimova in between with a question mark. He indicated Rossignol with a question mark and an exclamation point.

  How did all these interests interact? On the French side, he sketched in the hierarchy down to inspector level. He did the same on the Russian side, from Tsar down to the Okhrana operatives. He bracketed Rousseau and drew a line between the inspector, the Russian Secret Police, and Orlovsky. However, he also drew a dotted line between France and Russia. He had no way of knowing for sure, but it was reasonable to assume that cooperation between the two nations, at least in regard to this matter, went up to the highest level. Such covert cooperation between France and Russia could draw the attention of German and British intelligence. Furthermore, all four governments spied on the activities of the radicals.

  What do they all want? By “all,” he meant the gamut from kings and queens down to pawns. He could not dwell upon overly broad generalities like power, wealth, and prestige. He needed to bring it down to the level of the matter at hand. He reconsidered his conclusions based on Boguslavsky’s expertise in high explosives. Maybe there is more to it than making anarchist bombs. Perhaps he’s developed something revolutionary, something powerful. That was tangible and concrete, something of military value providing a plausible motive for espionage, betrayal, theft, and murder.

  Achille put down his pencil, removed his pince-nez, and rubbed his eyes. His thoughts turned to the elusive knight. Who is the bastard? What is he? Whom does he serve? Is he in it for himself?

  After a moment, he penciled in Rossignol beneath Orlovsky. He added de Gournay, traced a dotted line connecting the two, put them in brackets, took a ruler and drew another dotted line to the “Rossignol” entry among the radicals. He wrote “Infiltrator,” “Double Agent,” and “Agent Provocateur,” and placed question marks next to all three. He added notations as reminders: “Delphine,” who was to spy on de Gournay, and “Legros,” who was to provide more information about Rossignol.