The Hanged Man

by Gary Inbinder

  Achille wanted to talk to Legros, who was currently at the stakeout in Montmartre. Among other things, he was to arrange with Gilles to begin photographing the coded messages. He glared at the brass telephone resting uselessly on his desk. What good is the blasted thing without more lines, exchanges, and call boxes? He would have to rely on the telegraph and messengers. He was in the process of scribbling a note to Legros when a knock on the door interrupted him.

  “Enter,” he muttered, and quickly stuffed his chart in a desk drawer.

  The chief greeted him cheerily. “Good morning, Achille. Hard at work on the case, I see.”

  Achille returned the greeting and offered Féraud a chair. He noticed a folded newspaper in the chief’s hand.

  Féraud requested a routine update on the case, which Achille provided without too much detail or speculation. He made a point of not referencing his chart. The chief seemed quite satisfied, but he beamed while incessantly tapping the newspaper with his forefinger. Achille thought this behavior peculiar and annoying. Eventually, when he could endure no more, he looked directly at the paper and blandly inquired if there was anything interesting in the morning news.

  The chief grinned from ear to ear. He lifted the paper and began smacking it against his palm as if he were about to swat a naughty puppy. “As if you didn’t know, my boy!”

  Achille shook his head in bewilderment. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Chief. Will you please be direct?”

  The chief shook his head bemusedly. “Oh, all right, Achille, though I think such coyness more becoming to a maiden at her first ball.” He opened the early morning edition of Les Amis de la Vérité and turned to a featured article. “Shall I read aloud what M. Fournier has to say about ‘France’s greatest detective’?”

  Damn the man! Achille thought, assuming that the reference to France’s greatest detective was a product of the journalist’s sarcasm. Anticipating a dressing-down, Achille sputtered, “I can explain, Chief. The man’s a rascal. Adele and I—”

  The chief broke in with a laugh. “A rascal, you say? That’s very droll. A journalist praises you to the skies in a prestigious newspaper, and you call him a dirty name. I wonder what you would say about your enemies.”

  Achille was perplexed in the extreme. Flushed with embarrassment, he asked, “Pardon me, Chief. May I see the article?”

  “With pleasure, my boy. I should think you’d want to clip it, get it framed, and hang it on your office wall. Such acclaim from the press is the next best thing to the Legion of Honor.”

  Achille took the paper and skimmed the article. There was no mention of the incident at La Grenouillère. Rather, this was a puff piece dedicated to the Sûreté, with Achille singled out as the investigative brigade’s rising star. Fournier did not spare the adulatory adjectives: Inspector Lefebvre was “intrepid,” “resourceful,” “indefatigable,” and “brilliant.” Achille responded to the flattery with mixed feelings—on one hand, there was the gratification that most would experience upon seeing oneself lionized in print; on the other, he could not avoid skepticism and suspicion as to the journalist’s motives. He returned the newspaper without comment.

  Féraud stared at Achille for a few moments before asking, with a hint of exasperation, “Well, aren’t you going to say anything?”

  Achille replied modestly, “It’s very complimentary to the brigade.”

  The chief shook his head and grinned. “Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”

  Achille frowned. “What do you want me to say?”

  The chief laughed at his protégé’s seemingly affected display of nonchalance. “Do you keep a bottle of cognac in your office? No, of course you do not. Well, I do. If I were in your shoes, I’d pour a couple of glasses, salute our success, and perhaps pour another and one more after that. Then I’d dance a jig around the office.”

  Achille remained stoically focused on the problem at hand. “That’s understandable, Chief. However, I prefer to reserve my celebration for the day we crack this case. May I ask a few straightforward questions?”

  “Of course, Inspector. And I shall try to give you straightforward answers.”

  “Is it true nothing gets published in Les Amis de la Vérité without M. Junot’s approval?” Junot was the paper’s influential publisher and managing editor.

  “Most certainly,” Féraud replied. “And M. Junot’s very particular about what he allows into print.”

  “I see. And is it also true that the Junots dine regularly with the prefect and his wife?”

  Féraud’s eyes narrowed; his joviality waned. “That’s true; they move within the same social circle, though I’m not sure I understand what you’re driving at.”

  Féraud would not welcome an inference of collusion between the Prefect of Police and the publisher, especially since the article honored his service. Achille realized he had pushed his chief as far as he could on the subject, and so smiled innocently. “I was just thinking how pleased the prefect will be when he reads the paper.”

  Féraud eyed Achille coolly for an instant before regaining his conviviality. “Oh, I’m certain of it. As for dining with the prefect, his wife, and the Junots, I wager you and Adele will soon have that honor.”

  A biblical allusion flashed through Achille’s mind: What does it profit a man to dine with the prefect and M. Junot?

  A knock on the door intervened. After apologizing for the interruption, the messenger handed a telegram to Achille. The messenger left, and Achille shared the contents of the message with his chief.

  “It’s from Rousseau. They’ve located Boguslavsky in La Villette. Rousseau’s men have the place surrounded. I’m going there at once. Legros and Gilles will join me.”

  “Splendid! It looks like we’ll wrap up this case in record time. Then you and Adele can run off to Trouville. I envy you.”

  “I hope so, Chief,” Achille replied laconically.

  Féraud left the office. Achille took his revolver out of its holster and checked the cylinder. Then he grabbed his hat and jacket from the coat rack. On his way out, he muttered to himself, “It’s all too pat.”

  The stench of closely confined animals, excrement, offal, and blood saturated the humid, noontime air. Chuffing locomotives rumbled over an iron network, hauling long trains of cars laden with livestock, lowing, bleating, grunting, and squealing their way to the slaughterhouse pens. Other engines chugged in the opposite direction, pulling ice cars packed with fresh meat for the Paris markets.

  The police cordoned off a small section of storehouses situated between the great abattoir and a narrow canal flowing into the La Villette basin. Achille joined Rousseau, Legros, and Gilles across the street from a boarded-up, one-story frame building.

  Rousseau lifted his bowler and mopped his forehead with the back of his hand. “It smells sweet on a hot summer day, doesn’t it, Professor?”

  Achille, eyes focused on the canal, thought wistfully of the sea at Trouville and nodded. “It stinks, but I’ve smelled worse.” After a moment, he asked, “How long have you been here?”

  “A little more than three hours, and it’s too damned quiet. There’s one door and boarded windows all around. No one’s gone in or out since we showed up,” Rousseau replied. He turned to Achille with a grim frown. “They may resist. Are you armed?”

  Achille patted the Chamelot-Delvigne, holstered beneath his jacket. “Yes, of course.”

  “Can you still use it?” Rousseau asked with a sly grin.

  “I practice regularly. Do you have a warrant?”

  Rousseau reached into his pocket and pulled out the paper. “Here it is, signed and sealed by the juge. It’s all legal and proper.”

  “Good. When do we go in?”

  Rousseau returned the warrant to his pocket and took out his watch. “Let’s synchronize on five minutes from now.”

  Achille checked his watch and then signaled to the detectives and gendarmes stationed on the barricade’s perimeter. At t
he appointed time, he and Rousseau advanced steadily toward the entrance, escorted by two officers with drawn revolvers and another pair carrying a battering ram. Tactically deployed sharpshooters, armed with Lebel rifles, concentrated on the boarded windows and rooftop.

  They walked up a few steps to a low porch. Rousseau stepped forward and pounded on the door. “Open, in the name of the law!” His booming voice echoed around the block. No answer. He pounded again until the hinges almost gave way. “Open or we’ll break it down!” Still no response.

  “Shall we break in, Inspector?” asked one of the gendarmes with the battering ram.

  “Oh, fuck it,” Rousseau muttered. He backed up a pace, and kicked out with a massive, hobnail-booted foot. The lock shattered, the hinges broke away from the frame, and the door fell forward, landing on the plank floor with a thud and a plume of dust.

  Achille and Rousseau drew their revolvers, pulled back to either side of the doorway, and cautiously peered into the dark interior. Their eyes darted about, scanning for hidden ambushers.

  “You see the counter? There’s a window behind it,” Achille half-whispered.

  Rousseau nodded and gestured to the gendarmes. “Rip out the boards on the south-side windows and look in,” he ordered. “And be careful.”

  They waited until the gendarmes gave a signal indicating all was clear, then the inspectors entered warily, covered by the policemen. The storeroom was empty and the air stale, as if long abandoned. Achille pointed toward a short flight of steps leading to a basement door.

  Rousseau nodded and gestured to a gendarme. “Get one of the riflemen.” When the sharpshooter arrived, Rousseau turned to Achille. “They’ve had their chance to surrender. Why risk going through the door? I say pull the boards out from the cellar windows, and let the sharpshooter have at them if they don’t give up peacefully. We’ll guard the door in case they try to break out.”

  Achille agreed. They waited a few minutes until a gendarme reported back.

  “It looks clear, Inspector. We can’t see or hear anything, but there are rows of shelves. They could be lying in wait.”

  Rousseau waved one of his detectives over. “Go to the basement window and lob in a smoke grenade. That’ll stir the cockroaches.” Then he looked to Achille. “You see, Professor, I come prepared.”

  They remained in place, silently guarding the door, waiting for the smoke to have its effect. Finally, Rousseau muttered, “I’ll be damned. If anyone were alive down there, we’d have heard them coughing their lungs out.”

  “We’ve waited long enough,” Achille agreed. “Let’s knock down the door, air the place out, and go in.”

  The men broke through the basement door and smashed all the windows from the outside. Several minutes later, with handkerchiefs covering noses and mouths, they entered. There were signs of recent habitation—a palette, food scraps, a slop bucket, and cigarette butts.

  Rousseau fumed to no one in particular, “God damn it. The bastards have buggered out.”

  Achille figured an informer had tipped off Rousseau, but the information had leaked before the police arrived. That was a problem, but they had more immediate concerns.

  He gave an order to his detectives. “They must have had an escape route. Look for a trap door.” Then Achille called to Legros. “Start gathering evidence, Étienne. I’ll bet those cigarette butts are Sobranies.”

  “Over here, Inspector,” a detective cried.

  Achille went to a dark corner hidden behind some shelves. Rousseau followed. When they arrived, the detective had already lifted the trap door.

  “That was their way out,” Achille stated matter-of-factly.

  Rousseau nodded. “Are you going down to have a look, Professor?”

  Achille turned and gave his former partner a sad but resigned smile. “Since it’s your stakeout, I thought you might have the honor.”

  Rousseau shook his head. “Not me, my friend. I’m too big. Might get stuck in the muck.”

  Achille had always led from the front; he never asked his men to do anything he would not do himself. He removed his hat and jacket and handed them to the detective. “That’s what I expected,” he muttered.

  “You’ll be fine, Professor,” Rousseau said encouragingly. “After all, you had plenty of experience with crawl spaces in the Palmieri case.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.” He rolled up his sleeves and removed his pince-nez. Then he continued, “I believe they went to the canal. It’s no more than twenty meters from here. Please take a detail of men over there and check for an outlet. I’ll head in that direction and we’ll meet, unless I run into an obstruction and have to turn back.”

  Rousseau gestured to a couple of his men. “You, come with me.”

  Achille lowered himself into the hole and then stretched forward, prone. A red-eyed rodent greeted him, nose twitching. Achille froze as the rat studied his face for a moment, then scampered off.

  He began crawling forward, his powerful rowing arms and legs working to his advantage. Thank goodness I’ve a change of clothes at headquarters, he thought. The ground was muddy, the air rank as a cesspit, and the space cramped and claustrophobic. But several meters on, he noticed a pale light ahead, partially blocked by an obscure heap, as if someone had stuffed a pile of old clothes into the crawl space. He halted and listened to an incessant buzzing. Flies. Hundreds of them, by the sound.

  He crept on. The sound grew louder, the shape more distinct. Flies attacked Achille’s eyes and nose, buzzed in his ears, flew into his hair and beard, crawled over his mouth. A sharp stench filled his nostrils. A familiar shape loomed ahead: the heels and soles of a pair of shoes.

  “Rousseau! Rousseau!” he cried. “Are you there?”

  “We’re out here by the canal,” Rousseau answered. “There’s a drainage hole, but I can’t see you. Something’s blocking the way.”

  “It’s a body. Can a man crawl into the hole and pull it out? I can help by pushing on the feet.”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, be quick about it. It stinks like hell and I’m into a swarm of bloody flies.”

  Achille swatted at the flies until he heard grunting. The body began sliding slowly through the mud and he pushed forward against the feet. The body was stuck halfway through the drainage outlet when Achille heard retching—the man hauling the body was puking his guts out.

  Achille gave the officer a minute to compose himself before asking, “Are you all right?”

  The man coughed to clear his throat. “Pardon me, Inspector Lefebvre. I’m fine now, but we can’t get the body out. He’s too big.”

  “Merde! Listen. Get a strong rope. We’ll need to tie it around his ankles and drag him back and up through the trap door.”

  “Are you staying in there, Achille?” Rousseau asked.

  “Hell, no! Someone else can finish this. I’m going back to give instructions to Legros. Then I’m going to clean up and return to headquarters. I’ll meet you at the Morgue.”

  “All right,” Rousseau replied. “I think it’s Boguslavsky. He must have gotten stuck on his way out and they garroted him, poor bastard.”

  Achille spat out a fly. “We’ll confirm that at the Morgue. Now, I’m getting the hell out of here.”

  The space was too narrow to turn around, so Achille worked his way backwards to the trap door. Upon reaching the opening, he got a hand up from a gendarme. As soon as he got his feet on the floor, Achille shook his head, shooed away the remaining flies, and wiped some of the muck from his hands, shirt, and trousers. The gendarme could not help gaping at his disheveled superior. Achille gave him a dirty look, followed by an order.

  “Make yourself useful. Go fetch Inspector Legros.”

  Legros came directly. “Gilles is taking photographs, and we’re gathering up the evidence. Someone lived down here for a few days.”

  Achille nodded. “It was probably Boguslavsky. I found what appears to be his corpse in the crawl space. Assuming it’s him, they must
have moved him here from the Rue Ronsard. I doubt he’s been dead more than a few hours.”

  “What next, Inspector?”

  “The body’s stuck. You’ll have to haul him back through the trapdoor.” He noticed Legros’s pained expression and smiled. “You needn’t do it yourself, Étienne. There are plenty of idle hands hanging around who could use some exercise.”

  Legros almost sighed with relief. “Are you returning to headquarters?”

  “Yes. I need a wash and a change of clothes. I’ll meet you and Gilles at the Morgue. Speaking of Gilles, did you ask him about the concealed camera?”

  “He’ll be pleased to help.”

  “Good. We’ll talk about it later.” Achille glanced about to make sure no one was listening. He lowered his voice and added, “There’s a leak in Rousseau’s organization. I’m not blaming him, but we need to be careful about sharing information, at least for the time being. That most particularly applies to the code, the dead drop, Delphine, and Rossignol.”

  “I understand, Inspector. By the way, we confirmed that Rossignol leased both houses in Montmartre, but the transactions were handled by a notary.”

  “So neither landlord dealt directly with Rossignol?”

  “That’s correct; they can’t describe him. And the notary’s left Paris. We’re tracking him down, but no luck so far.”

  “Damn,” Achille muttered. “What about Moreau and Wroblewski? Any report on their whereabouts the last twenty-four hours?”

  “I was just about to check with the detectives on that.”

  Achille frowned. “We could bring them in for questioning anytime, but if we can connect them to this murder, we can really sweat them. Though if we arrest them now, we could lose Rossignol and the higher-ups, as well.”