The Hanged Man

by Gary Inbinder

  Rousseau entered with one of his men and a coil of stout rope. “Still here, Professor?” he called. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of the stiff.”

  Achille walked over to Rousseau. “Thanks, Inspector. Before I leave, there’s something important we need to discuss.”

  Rousseau nodded. Then he ordered his detective to form a detail to retrieve the body. Turning back to Achille, he said, “Come on, Inspector, let’s go outside for a smoke. It’ll get the stink out of your nostrils.”

  Achille picked up his hat and jacket. They went out front and around the corner, stopping beneath an acacia tree that spread its cooling shade over the canal embankment. He gratefully accepted one of Rousseau’s cigars. After a couple of puffs, he said, “We have a problem. Someone leaked. Do you know who?”

  Rousseau frowned and shook his head. “No, but you can be sure I’ll find out.”

  “I understand. But until you’ve plugged the leak, we’ll need to be extremely careful about sharing information.”

  “Agreed. I’ll keep you informed about the situation. By the way, have you been keeping an eye on Moreau and Wroblewski?”

  “We have, but I need an update from my men.”

  Rousseau smirked. “I see. Well, they’re small fry. I suppose you’d use them for bait. Leave them wriggling on the line to hook a bigger fish.”

  Achille smiled knowingly, but did not comment further.

  A warm breeze rustled the branches of the trees lining the canal. Achille and Rousseau stood silently together, each deep in his own thoughts. How far could they trust each other? Who had betrayed them? Finally, Achille tossed his half-smoked cigar in the canal.

  “Thanks for the smoke,” he said. “Until later, at the Morgue.” Then he left Rousseau, crossed the street, and walked on in the direction of a waiting carriage.

  The corpse rested on a blood-stained wooden dissection table. A stream of light from two mirror-reflected gas mantles highlighted purplish abrasions on a chalk-white throat. Dr. Cortot leaned over and scrutinized the bruises while palpating the neck. After a moment, he lifted his eyeglasses onto his forehead, stood erect, and pronounced, “Death by strangulation. A homicide. The killer was skilled in the use of a garrote, something like the knotted scarves employed by the Thugs.”

  Achille had already identified Boguslavsky based upon the description and photograph in his records. Everything matched, except for the recently shaved beard and short haircut.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” he replied perfunctorily.

  “Shall we put him on display?” the pathologist inquired.

  “No, Doctor, that won’t be necessary. But please preserve the body, at least for the time being.” He turned to Gilles. “Take the postmortem photographs and have the prints on my desk as soon as possible.”

  “I can have them to you by tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks, Gilles.” Achille looked to Legros. “We’re finished here. Let’s return to headquarters.”

  Rousseau had remained at the Morgue long enough to confirm the identification, though he did not stay to hear the doctor officially pronounce it a homicide. Rousseau’s immediate concern was the leak in his organization.

  Back in his office, Achille took out his chart, set it on the desk, and briefed Legros on his developing theory of the case. “I’m taking you into my confidence. I believe this case goes beyond the agenda of a small anarchist cell, and involves the interests and intrigues of great nations, including our own.”

  “What has France got to do with it?” Legros broke in, shocked by the implication that his mentor’s theory might impugn the honor of their country.

  Achille remained calm and smiled reassuringly. “Please, Étienne, be patient. I’m not necessarily implying any wrongdoing on the part of our government. May I continue?”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector. Please do.”

  “Based on the evidence we’ve gathered thus far, it appears that Boguslavsky participated in Kadyshev’s murder, and Moreau and Wroblewski were his accomplices. Moreover, I believe Moreau and Wroblewski killed Boguslavsky. However, I don’t think they acted on their own initiative. Rather, they are pawns in a game played by masters. Rossignol is the most likely candidate for their immediate superior. But who is Rossignol?”

  Legros stared at the chart. “You suspect de Gournay? And de Gournay works for the Okhrana?”

  Achille nodded. “I believe so, and Delphine should be making contact with him soon. Now let’s think about motive. What can you deduce from the circumstances of Boguslavky’s murder?”

  Legros thought for a moment. “The anarchists planned the escape route. It was Boguslavky’s bad luck to be stuck in the drainage hole. They couldn’t get him out, and they couldn’t leave him for the police. So they shut his mouth—permanently.”

  “Very good. Now, what is it that made Boguslavsky both valuable and expendable?”

  Legros paused before venturing, “His bomb-making expertise?”

  Achille shook his head. “His expertise died with him. What survived? Could it be something of value to both the anarchists and the Russian government?”

  Legros’s eyes widened as if Achille had unmasked a monster. “The plans for a new weapon—or the formula for an explosive?”

  “Exactly, Étienne. That would be something all the great powers want to gain a military advantage over their rivals. For example, France has developed smokeless powder for our Lebel rifles, and new high explosives for the artillery. Germany, Great Britain, and Russia are all seeking improvements along those lines. The sad truth of it is, Europe is preparing for the next war.”

  “But how do the anarchists benefit? What interest do they have in a high-explosives formula, besides bomb-making?”

  “From an altruistic standpoint, they might keep the secret from the great powers, build a terror weapon, and use it themselves as a means to end all war, like Jules Verne’s Captain Nemo or Robur the Conqueror. On the other hand, more realistically, they could bargain with it and sell to the highest bidder. That’s a way of raising cash to finance their revolutionary activities.”

  “But what about Kadyshev?” Legros asked. “Do you think he was killed to stop him from betraying the secret?”

  “That’s plausible. He and Boguslavsky were friends and they were both chemists, but they had different political ideologies. Regardless, I think this is where Rossignol enters the stage. I believe he works for Orlovsky and has at least two identities—Rossignol and de Gournay. His assignment might be twofold: secure the formula for the Russians, and eliminate the anarchist cell. To accomplish this, he’s infiltrated the group and acts as an agent provocateur. The Hanged Man may have been part of his plan, to obtain the formula and set up the anarchists for a charge of conspiracy to commit murder. The deed also foments conflict between the Marxists and the anarchists.” He paused a moment before asking, “How do you think our government might fit into this scenario?”

  Legros began thinking aloud. “France and Russia have been improving diplomatic relations. Rousseau’s branch cooperates covertly with the Okhrana. Both governments have an interest in suppressing radicalism. And—” He broke off and stared blankly at Achille.

  “Yes, Étienne,” he urged. “Please, continue.”

  “Russia and France could share the formula, giving us an edge over the other powers—most particularly, our mutual adversary, Germany.”

  “There it is! We may be witnessing the beginnings of an alliance. Now, if we can get some good intelligence from Delphine and intercept the coded messages, that might be enough to complete the puzzle. But I’m going to try to mine another source as well. I think Mme Nazimova is keeping a secret. Remember, her late husband was close to Kadyshev and Boguslavsky. I’m going to question her in relation to Boguslavsky’s murder. She might reveal something of interest to us.”

  Legros pondered for a moment, considering all the implications. Finally, he asked, “With all due respect, Inspector, where does this end? We’ve gone well be
yond a homicide investigation, and we’ve gathered some good evidence in the process. Can’t we stop and turn the whole thing over to Inspector Rousseau? Let the political police take it from here.”

  A few days earlier, Achille might have agreed. Now, he would persist to the finish.

  “The chief gave us an assignment and it’s our duty to see it through,” he said. “Though I am now on the point of going to Féraud and placing all my cards on the table, and he will decide our course of action going forward. Frankly, this is uncharted territory. If you have any objections or serious concerns about proceeding, please state them now.”

  “I’m with you, Achille,” Legros answered without hesitation. “But do you think—do you honestly believe—our government might be acting dishonorably in this matter?”

  Achille smiled sadly. “Étienne, as always, I follow the evidence wherever it might lead. As for our government, I suppose they are acting the way governments have acted since the dawn of civilization. Whether or not such actions are ‘honorable’ is a question for a moral philosopher, not a police officer. To quote Lord Tennyson: ‘Ours not to reason why …’”

  Legros nodded without comment. Then he asked, “Are we going to arrest Moreau and Wroblewski? I’m afraid our detectives lost the tail last evening, but those two still need to account for their whereabouts.”

  Achille shook his head. “We’ll let the worms wriggle on the hook for a while longer. Keep shadowing them. We can bring them in anytime we want. Now, we need to intercept a message. You can work with our stakeout to set that up. I’m going to pay a call on Mme Nazimova.”

  “Very well. I’ll be in Montmartre if you need me.”

  “Thank you, Étienne. You’ve done a fine job.” After he said the words, Achille realized how much he sounded like the chief in one of his patronizing moods. But he could not think of anything else to say.

  The doorbell rang as Achille entered Mme Nazimova’s shop. He glanced around, expecting Marie to pop out from one of her cubbyholes. There was no greeting, and he noticed that the shelves were empty. After a moment, he heard the tapping of a cane and saw the back room portiere stirring. Nazimova emerged, looking frailer than when he had last seen her, only a few days before. She approached haltingly and her head inclined forward as she tried to focus on him with bleary eyes.

  Achille advanced and announced himself. “Good afternoon, Mme Nazimova. I trust you are well?”

  She stopped, rested her hands on the cane handle, and breathed heavily. Her eyes lacked expression; her voice was a hoarse rasp. “Is that you, Inspector Lefebvre? Pardon me. My eyes are very weak.”

  Achille found her appearance distressing and immediately regretted disturbing her. On the other hand, he believed he had a duty to question her. “I’m very sorry, Madame. May I help you to a chair?”

  “Thank you, Monsieur. As you can see, Marie is no longer here to assist me.”

  Achille took Nazimova’s arm and helped her to the back parlor, where she slowly and painfully eased onto a settee. He adjusted a bolster behind her back and asked if she was comfortable.

  “Comfortable, Monsieur?” she replied. “For me, comfort is a memory. But you are thoughtful to ask.” She took a moment to catch her breath before explaining her situation. “I’m closing the shop. I should have done it last week. I felt better then. At any rate, I’ve made all the arrangements. I sold most of the stock to a bookseller. The rest goes to charity. A notary is coming this afternoon to wind up business. I thought it was he when you entered. Marie’s gone home to her village in Normandy. I’m alone, and I’m dying.”

  Her reference to death almost unnerved him. Could he, in good conscience, continue with his questioning? “Do you want me to go for a doctor?”

  Her lips twitched in the semblance of a smile. “I’ve consulted a doctor, Monsieur. It would be a waste of time and money to call for him now. I presume you are here on official business?”

  “Yes, Madame, regrettably, I am. Viktor Boguslavsky is dead. We found his body early this morning. He was murdered. Considering our previous discussions, I wondered if there was more you wanted to tell me.”

  “You believe I’ve been hiding something from you?”

  His desire for the truth overruled his sense of pity. “Yes, Madame, I do.”

  “And now that I’m dying, you think I might wish to unburden myself. Are you to be my confessor?”

  He stared directly into her cloudy eyes. “I’m obliged to ask, Madame. Two men have been murdered, and I want to know who did it and why. I come in the name of the law.”

  “But I believe you already know the answers to your questions. Why trouble me further?”

  What made her assume he had solved the case? Her statement impelled him to pursue the matter. “I have suspects and a theory, Madame. The information you provide might confirm or refute what I believe to be true.”

  “Very well, Monsieur. You may ask your questions, and I will do my best to answer.”

  “In consideration of your condition, I’ll come to the point: I have reason to believe your late husband, Kadyshev, and Boguslavsky shared a secret, something of considerable value to the Russian government, and others as well. Moreover, I believe you’ve withheld this information from me for personal reasons. I urge you to come forward now. If you cooperate, I can offer you protection.”

  Nazimova laughed feebly. “In my present circumstances, your offer is meaningless. Anyone who took my life would be doing me a favor. But since you insist, I’ll answer you candidly and completely.

  “Shortly after the Tsar’s assassination, during our Swiss sojourn, my husband and his two friends had an idealistically foolish notion. They wanted to create a weapon so powerfully destructive that the mere threat of its use would end war forever. They designed an airship with propellers powered by an electric motor. The ship would carry bombs armed with a high explosive several times more potent than dynamite.

  “They discussed their plans with a Swiss engineer who convinced them that the airship was impractical. The explosive was another matter. My late husband and Kadyshev were fine chemists, but Viktor was a genius. They tested his formula and it worked frighteningly well. Clever as they were, they weren’t cunning enough to evade the Tsar’s spies. The Okhrana discovered their plans, and pursued us to Paris, where they kept us all under close surveillance.

  “My husband told me the three vowed never to divulge the secret formula to any of the great powers, most particularly the Tsarist tyranny from which we had fled. Later, Kadyshev confirmed what I’d already learned. Alas, humans are weak and corruptible. My husband took the secret to his grave, but Kadyshev agreed to sell it to Orlovsky, the head of the Okhrana in Paris.

  “I only know this because Kadyshev confided in me. You were correct, I did withhold information, though for personal reasons. We were lovers. Lev still cared enough to come to me shortly before he died. He wanted to take me to Buenos Aires for my health, or so he said. That’s where he planned to go with Orlovsky’s money. I refused. I would not spend my last days with a traitor.

  “Viktor must have gotten wind of the betrayal. Perhaps that was part of Orlovsky’s scheme. Double-dealing is the Okhrana’s stock-in-trade. Regardless, I believe Viktor and his comrades killed Lev; and from their perspective, it wasn’t murder, but justice. Now, Viktor is dead. I’ve told you all I know of the matter, but like you, I too can make deductions. I can venture a guess as to the identities of Viktor’s killers.”

  Achille looked into the dying woman’s eyes with a mixed feeling of respect, guilt, and an overwhelming need to know the truth. “Please tell me what you believe, Madame.”

  “I believe as I suspect you do, Inspector Lefebvre: The Russian Secret Police murdered Viktor. That is to say, they got Viktor’s comrades to do the dirty work. They must have planted an agent among the anarchists. Once they had what they wanted—the formula, of course—Viktor became expendable.” She held his eyes with a steady, penetrating gaze.

  For
a moment, Achille was speechless. Then he asked a final question. “You referred to the formula. Did your husband keep copies?”

  “Yes, Monsieur, he did. But I burned them the day he died.”

  Achille wanted to leave her in peace, but he could not help expressing concern for her condition. “Madame, I thank you for your candor. You said you were expecting a notary, but I don’t feel right leaving you alone like this. Permit me to fetch a doctor. Or, if you’d prefer, I could go for the notary. Please, let me be of service.”

  Nazimova shook her head. “No, thank you, Inspector. Actually, I’m feeling better. They say confession’s good for the soul. Perhaps it helps the body as well. You needn’t reproach yourself. Your devotion to duty is commendable, even though some might think it misplaced.”

  He bid her good afternoon, but as soon as he returned to headquarters, he notified the local police to keep an eye on her.

  After Achille left, Nazimova walked to the mantelpiece and, with great effort, removed a loose brick from the hearth. She retrieved a locked iron box from within and opened it with a key on her chatelaine. She removed a copy of Boguslavsky’s formula and stared at it for a moment, before striking a match and setting the paper alight. She dropped the blackened notes into the fireplace and watched the flames transform her memento of Boguslavsky’s misguided genius into ashes.

  Tears streamed down her wrinkled face. This world that she had longed to change for the better was as bad as the one into which she had been born. “An exercise in futility,” she murmured.

  Gripping her cane with one hand and clinging to the banister with the other, she slowly mounted a flight of stairs to her bedroom. There, she took her last few painful steps to the bed. A brown medicine bottle rested on a bedside table, containing a mixture of morphine and chloral hydrate. She pulled the cork stopper and drank the contents. Then, with her hands clutching the empty bottle, she reclined on the counterpane with her head resting on a bolster. She closed her eyes and took one deep breath, followed by a long sigh. Her hand opened and the bottle rolled over the bedstead and clattered onto the floor.