Legros grimaced. “What are you thinking, Inspector?”
Achille fidgeted nervously with his pince-nez before answering with a question. “Nazimova had a shop assistant, Marie—Marie Léglise, the type who could blend into the woodwork. You’d hardly know she was there, but on occasion, I detected something about her in a look, a gesture, a tone of voice. There seemed to be a hidden strength and conviction that she kept well concealed. Overall, she might be the sort of person who makes a good spy.
“Nazimova told me that Marie had returned to her home in Normandy. Nazimova was closing the shop, providing a reasonable explanation for Marie’s sudden disappearance. But what if she didn’t leave Paris? She might be here, waiting for an opportunity to enter the shop to search for the papers that Nazimova burned.”
“You’re thinking about the cat burglar who took Kadyshev’s papers, aren’t you?”
Achille nodded the affirmative, finished his coffee, and lit a cigarette.
“But wouldn’t she know that Nazimova destroyed the papers?” Legros pressed.
“Why would she know? I trust we have no leak in our brigade. The Russians could have planted Marie to keep an eye on Nazimova, or they might have recruited her for the job. They knew, or at least must have suspected, that Nazimova had a copy of Boguslavsky’s formula. However, they don’t know that we’re on to their game. Anyway, they wouldn’t want to leave any evidence behind for us to discover.”
“Very well.” Legros could not argue with Achille’s logic. “I’ll work with the schedule and assign a couple of men.”
A flight of sparrows darted among the lindens and a soft breeze ruffled leaves and stirred branches, projecting moving shadows onto the pavement. The café patrons drank, ate, smoked, and chatted, pausing at times to observe the passersby. After a few minutes of quiet enjoyment, Legros ventured a personal question. “You liked Nazimova, didn’t you?”
Achille looked down at his folded hands. “Yes, Étienne, I did.” He raised his eyes to Legros. “We discussed art, literature, poetry, and philosophy. At times, her shop became my refuge from our workaday world.” He stubbed out his cigarette and rested his elbows on the table. “She was an idealist. She wanted to change the world for the better by peaceful means. Frankly, I think she was a dreamer, a utopian. What she wanted affronts reason and experience. Nevertheless, I understood her longing.
“We dwell too much on revenge for the lost provinces, Alsace-Lorraine. What’s more, the wounds of 1871 have never healed completely. Nation against nation, class against class, race against race. Who will fight the next war, my friend? Will it be our generation, or our children, or our grandchildren?”
Achille sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Étienne. Such thoughts distract from the job at hand, but I can’t help thinking. After all, we’re civilized; we have a will and a well-developed sense of right and wrong. If we follow orders without question, we’re nothing but automata doing our master’s bidding.”
The turn in the conversation disturbed Legros, but he put it down to Nazimova’s death. He reminded the inspector of a recent comment. “I understand your feelings, Achille, but you did say ‘Ours not to reason why….’”
Achille smiled sadly. “Thank you for reminding me. At any rate, I’m glad I got that off my chest.” He reached into his pocket and checked his watch. “We’re in danger of becoming idlers, Inspector. Time to settle our bill and return to headquarters. Our day has barely begun.”
Delphine met Achille at Lautrec’s studio. She sat with the artist and inspector at the same table they had occupied at their last meeting. Delphine began her narrative with a detailed description of the lackey, which Achille recorded in his notebook, and then de Gournay’s appearance, which drew an immediate response from the inspector.
“Is de Gournay a man or a woman?”
Delphine shook her head. “I’m sorry, Inspector. I can’t say for sure.”
Achille’s bewildered look amused Lautrec. The artist would have grabbed his sketchpad and charcoals to capture the inspector’s expression, had the materials been nearby.
Achille sputtered, “But Delphine, surely you saw … I mean you must have felt …” His face reddened and he stopped speaking, averting his eyes. Lautrec could not contain his laughter, which brought angry stares from both his guests.
“I understand your hesitancy, Inspector,” Delphine said. “You’re a gentleman, and wish to spare me embarrassment. Frankly, the evening did not end as I expected. We kissed, held hands, and talked. That’s all.” She opened her purse and removed a slip of paper. “We spent the evening at a house on the Rue de la Mire. Here’s the address.”
Achille immediately recognized it. It was the house the anarchists used to signal a mail drop. He put the paper in his pocket and pursued his original line of inquiry. “Did you notice anything that might indicate gender? Beard stubble, or perhaps a protrusion of some sort?”
The reference to a “protrusion” was too much for Lautrec. He coughed into a handkerchief to stifle his laughter, excused himself, and retreated to his liquor cabinet.
Delphine glared at the artist, and then turned her attention back to Achille. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell one way or another. At any rate, if he’s a man, he gave a great performance. For the most part, I was convinced he was not.”
Lautrec returned with a bottle, three glasses, and his sketchbook. “Will you join me?”
Delphine accepted a glass, but Achille refused. After Lautrec poured for himself and Delphine, the artist opened the sketchbook and handed it to Achille.
“I sketched de Gournay at the Hanneton and the Moulin Rouge. I thought you might be interested.”
“Thank you, Monsieur. Indeed, I am.” Achille scrutinized the sketches. The face seemed familiar, but he could not place it. “Did de Gournay give you a Christian name?” he asked Delphine.
“The only name he gave was Marie Madeleine, Mado for short,” she replied.
Marie. He stared at the sketches, applying his skill in Bertillon’s identification method. Could de Gournay and Marie Léglise be the same person? There is a resemblance in the key features, he thought, but it might just be coincidence.
Eventually, he looked up and declared, “This individual is a master of disguise and deception, a chameleon-like person who changes roles and identities with ease. A dangerous adversary, without doubt. Now, Delphine, please recall your conversation, and don’t spare the details.”
She began with a reference to the information she had received from Apolline, concerning Orlovsky and de Gournay’s lucrative joint venture. The intelligence related to the Russian arms deal, bank loans, and market speculation with French cooperation confirmed Achille’s suspicions.
“Did de Gournay elaborate further on their scheme?” Achille asked.
“No, Inspector,” she replied, “but he did indicate he would be leaving Paris soon, perhaps within the next couple of days. He didn’t say where, though I believe it will be out of the country.”
“What gave you that impression?”
“He talked about faraway places, long days and nights at sea. And he asked if I’d enjoy a journey to some exotic destination.”
“I understand. Please continue.”
“He asked me to accompany him. He even offered me a thousand francs, which I refused.”
Her information supported Achille’s hunch that de Gournay was about to make a critical move. “How did he react to your refusal?”
“Oh, he was quite a gentleman … or lady, as the case may be. He said if I changed my mind, I should notify him no later than this evening.”
Achille took a moment to consider the situation. The game is evolving, developing with every move. I must keep ahead, anticipate and preempt. But I don’t want to expose Delphine. She has done enough.
“Thank you, Delphine,” he replied at last. “Your efforts have been invaluable. From now on, I want you to avoid de Gournay. Since you’ve already rejected his offer, you needn’t
have any further communication with him. However, if he’s importunate, you may give him a polite refusal, something simple and direct. Say you have too many commitments in Paris to leave on such short notice. It’s quite plausible. He shouldn’t expect you to jeopardize your career for a thousand francs and his charming company.
“Should anything develop with de Gournay, or if you feel threatened, notify me immediately through the usual channels. Likewise, if you hear further from Orlovsky or your friends Apolline and Aurore, please get in touch with me at your first opportunity. But regardless of the circumstances, try to maintain a secure line of communication.”
“Very cloak-and-dagger, isn’t it, Inspector?” Lautrec interjected.
“Yes, Monsieur, it is,” Achille stated matter-of-factly. “Based on Delphine’s information, I believe the next forty-eight hours are crucial, and I ask you to be similarly circumspect. Please keep your eyes and ears open, and report anything suspicious.”
Lautrec downed a glass and poured another. “You may count on me, Inspector. As always, I’m at your service.”
Delphine made a wry face, indicating her doubt as to the habitually inebriated artist’s usefulness in a tight spot. “I’m performing tonight at the Divan Japonais,” she said to Achille. “Orlovsky, de Gournay, and the girls might be there.”
“I’ll be in the front row,” Lautrec broke in with tipsy enthusiasm. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Delphine glanced at the painter with a sigh, then turned back to Achille and continued. “If they approach me after the performance, I’ll play it by ear. Of course, if I learn anything of interest, I’ll pass it on to you.”
Achille smiled. “Thanks, Delphine.” He checked his watch. He wanted to get to the stakeout near the Café Aux Billards en Bois as soon as possible, as he suspected a new mission was due to be put through soon. “I must be off,” he said. “Is there anything else before I go?”
Delphine said no, but Lautrec chimed in with a question.
“Are we in any danger?”
Achille frowned, but answered honestly. “The question is rather broad, Monsieur. To narrow it down, I believe, at present, you are in no more danger than usual. However, I must caution you both to be on your guard in the presence of both Orlovsky and de Gournay.”
Lautrec grinned. “Oh, good. Anything to relieve the boredom of our quotidian existence.” He poured another drink.
Wroblewski and Moreau sheltered from the noonday sun beneath a broad chestnut tree planted in the center of the square near the doss house. Wroblewski smoked a foul-smelling cigarette made from discarded butts. Between puffs, he nervously picked at a few stray threads dangling from the edges of his frayed shirt cuffs. “What’s taking so long?” he muttered. “We ought to have had our marching orders by now.”
Moreau smiled at his excitable friend. “Calm yourself, comrade. Rossignol knows what he’s doing. We’ll have our instructions soon enough.”
Wroblewski exhaled a cloud of gray smoke. “I hope you’re right,” he replied without conviction. “Anyway, I’d best be off. It’s my turn to check the mail.”
Moreau patted his friend’s shoulder. “Good luck, comrade. Maybe today’s the day.”
Wroblewski shrugged and dropped his cigarette on the pavement, then trudged off in the direction of the Rue de la Mire.
A detective, watching from his hiding place in an alley on the other side of the square, checked his watch, opened a notebook, and recorded the time.
When Wroblewski arrived at the signaling house, he glanced up at the third-story window and immediately noticed that it was unshuttered. In response to the eagerly anticipated signal, he turned, walked rapidly away, and practically bounded up the precipitous stairway to the Rue Lepic. A detective concealed in a narrow air space between two houses across the street noted the time, the signal, and Wroblewski’s reaction.
Wroblewski continued to the Café Aux Billards en Bois, at the intersection of the Rue des Saules and Rue Norvins.
Achille, Gilles, and another detective waited in the secreted alleyway observation post staked out by Blind by Accident. Two hours earlier, Gilles had photographed an unidentified suspect, the porter from the La Villette storehouse, depositing a message behind the loose brick in the wall around the corner from the café. The detective stationed on the Rue de la Mire had already spotted the message carrier and written a portrait parlé. As soon as the “postman” was safely out of view, Gilles had gone to the hiding place and taken two exposures of the concealed note.
The photographer had two plates left and used them to photograph Wroblewski retrieving the message. As soon as the subject was out of sight, Achille turned to his detective. “Remain here until you’re relieved.” Then to Gilles, he said, “We must return to your studio immediately. How long will it take to develop and print the negatives?”
“About an hour.”
The knight’s making his move, Achille thought. “All right, then. I need to decrypt the message and get descriptions of the new suspect to Legros. Then I need to arrange a meeting with Rousseau. We have no time to lose.”
Achille paced up and down the floor outside Gilles’s darkroom, chain-smoking and muttering to himself. As always, he deplored the scarcity of telephones. In a matter of utmost urgency, he would rely upon the ubiquitous petit-bleu, a closed telegram sent by pneumatic tube and delivered by messenger. He took cold comfort in knowing that his adversaries were subject to the same limitations.
Gilles emerged from his photographer’s lair, prints in hand. “Good news, Achille! They all came out beautifully. The light was perfect, and my new camera performed like a charm.”
Achille muttered “Thanks” and dashed to a nearby table with the prints. He sat, laid out the photographs before him, and concentrated on the encryption. At last, a broad smile crossed his lips. “You fucked up!” he cried.
Gilles winced as if he had been struck. He ran to the table and stared at the photographs. “What are you saying, Achille? They’re perfect, absolutely perfect.”
Achille glanced up at Gilles. “I’m sorry, my friend, I wasn’t referring to your work. I was speaking of the clever M. Rossignol. As I’d hoped, he failed to change the key to his poem encryption. I’ve got the bastard by the short hairs.”
“Oh, thank you very much,” Gilles replied with a mixture of consternation and relief.
Taking the Ronsard poem, some paper, and a pencil from his pockets, Achille went to work on the decryption. Operating quickly but accurately, he soon had the message decoded. Then he dashed off two messages marked “Urgent Police Business”: one to Legros, the other to Rousseau. As soon as he was finished, he got up from the table and stuffed all the material in his pockets.
“I’m off to the telegraph office and then to headquarters. If anyone comes looking for me, especially Étienne, please tell him to meet me there directly.”
“I’ll do that, Achille.”
Achille smiled and took his friend by the hand. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your work on this case. When it’s over, I’ll take you out on the town and thank you properly.”
“I’ll look forward to that, my friend. But don’t you have a holiday planned? I assume Adele takes precedence.”
Achille shook his head. “Ah, yes, Trouville. Thank you for reminding me. Our ‘bachelor’ spree will have to wait until I return.”
Gilles laughed and clapped his friend’s shoulder. “I understand. Now off with you, Inspector. And good luck!”
Mme Berthier and Cook returned from the market, their baskets brimming with fresh produce. In addition to a variety of vegetables, Madame’s basket carried the latest edition of Les Amis de la Vérité, a gift from Madame’s friend, the noted cabbage vendor and gossip, Mme Gros.
Madame and Cook met the nanny and Jeanne in the first-floor foyer. The nanny, Suzanne, pushed a perambulator bearing Olivier, who was sound asleep. “Good afternoon, Mme Berthier,” Suzanne said as she halted her excursion party.
“Good afternoon, Suzanne,” Madame replied. “Taking the little ones out for some air?”
“Yes, Madame, we’re going to the Tuileries Gardens.”
Madame inspected the dormant infant in the pram. “Very well, but mind Olivier carefully. He’s been a bit fragile lately. He must take after the Lefebvres.” With a rustle of old-fashioned crinoline and a creaking of stays, she bent over gingerly and patted Jeanne’s head. “Not like my pretty little cabbage. She’s a true Berthier, strong as a cavalry horse.”
Jeanne beamed with pride. “Yes, Grandmamma, and when I grow up, I’m going to be a colonel, just like Grandpapa.”
Madame shook her head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for being a colonel’s wife.”
Jeanne pouted and stared at her shoes. “Oh,” she muttered. But a moment later, she looked up again with an excited grin. “You’re invited to an English tea!”
“An English tea, eh? How elegant. And what is the time and place of this social event?”
“It takes place in the nursery this afternoon, as soon as we come back from the park. You will be the guest of honor.”
“If that’s the case, I’ll surely come. Who else, may I ask, will be present?”
“Suzanne and my dollies,” Jeanne replied matter-of-factly.
“Oh, no one else? What about your mama?”
The little girl frowned and shook her head. “No! Mama is not invited.”
Madame imagined the snub was the result of a minor scolding that had not yet worn off. She smiled and patted Jeanne’s cheek gently. “Well, perhaps you’ll change your mind and add Mama to your guest list.”
“Perhaps,” she replied without enthusiasm.
Madame kissed Jeanne’s forehead and whispered, “A bientôt, my angel.” Then Suzanne passed out the front entrance with her charges, while Madame and Cook proceeded upstairs.
Adele greeted her mother and Cook at the door. “How was the market, Mama?”
Madame removed the newspaper and handed her basket to Cook. The servant excused herself and moved on to the kitchen.
The Hanged Man Page 20