The Hanged Man

by Gary Inbinder

  “Not bad,” Madame replied. “Prices were reasonable, though, as always, I had to bargain them down. The quality is good, especially Mme Gros’s cabbages.” With the mention of Mme Gros, her eyes twinkled. She rolled her newspaper around in her hands. “Have you read the latest edition of Les Amis de la Vérité?”

  Speechless, Adele eyed the newspaper. My God! Did Fournier write about our meeting at La Grenouillère?

  Madame smiled mischievously. “You seem at a loss for words. Let us go to the drawing room. There’s a matter I wish to discuss with you—in private.”

  Adele followed her mother silently with downcast eyes, like a naughty child on her way to a familiar place of punishment. When they arrived in the drawing room, Madame eased herself into a comfortable armchair.

  “It’s early, but I’d like a sherry. Why don’t you pour two glasses?”

  Perplexed by her mother’s conviviality, Adele retrieved the bottle and glasses from a nearby cabinet. She served Madame, took a glass for herself, and sat on the settee across from her mother.

  Adele braced herself with sherry before breaking her silence. “Is there something of particular interest in the newspaper?” she inquired hesitantly.

  “You needn’t be so modest, my dear.” Mme Berthier noticed her daughter’s blank stare. Her face wrinkled; her eyes narrowed skeptically. “Is it possible you don’t know? Why, all Paris is abuzz with it.”

  Adele’s apprehension and bewilderment evolved into exasperation. “Abuzz with what, Mother? Please be kind enough to inform me.”

  Madame snorted dubiously and took a sip of sherry. Then she opened the paper to Fournier’s article and handed it over to Adele. “Read it for yourself.”

  Adele read the puffery with a bemusement even greater than that of her husband. When she finished, she set down the newspaper on the coffee table. After taking a minute to gather her thoughts, she stammered, “I had no idea M. Fournier was … that he admired Achille so greatly.”

  Madame smiled shrewdly. “Oh, you didn’t, my dear? Well, his great admiration for your husband is obvious, but more important is M. Junot’s esteem. Junot is a man of consequence, with influence at the highest level of government, and with M. Junot backing him, there’s no limit to what Achille might achieve.

  “I’ll admit to having misjudged your husband. I thought he was nothing but a common policeman, chasing criminals through the gutters of Paris. His ambition seemed confined to the office of the chief of detectives. Well, I was wrong and I apologize. Achille has risen considerably in my eyes. Why, only this morning, Mme Gros said he could be our next Prefect of Police. Do you realize what that means? The prefect is a position of great honor, the equivalent of a general or a cabinet minister. Men in such positions reap great rewards; fortunes are made overnight. Achille could assume a title based on his ancient lineage. You might become a baroness with apartments on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.”

  “Please, Mother, think of what you’re saying,” Adele broke in with alarm. “It’s true, Achille’s well-regarded. He’s solved difficult cases and been promoted for his accomplishments. But he’s still a young man. You mustn’t leap to conclusions based upon one newspaper article and Mme Gros’s predictions.”

  “Young, is he?” Madame sniffed. “The great Napoleon was a general at twenty-four and ruler of France at thirty. Of course, I will not liken Achille to the incomparable Emperor. Nevertheless, you should be proud being the wife of such a promising individual. Your father was a brave man, a brilliant officer. He ought to have been a general, but he had powerful enemies. They ruined his career and forced him to retire. You must not let that happen to Achille. As his wife, you have a duty to him and to our family. You must support and encourage him, and do your utmost to help him succeed. Do you understand?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Mother.” Adele trembled and her eyes filled with tears. “Remember Scripture: ‘Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.’”

  Madame laughed bitterly. “Oh, my dear, when did you become so religious? You and your freethinking husband rarely attend mass—not a good example for your children, I’m afraid. Admit it: You don’t turn to the Bible from piety, Adele. It’s fear, pure and simple. You married a man with a destiny and you’re afraid to live with the consequences. Well, I took the colonel, for better or worse, and I would have ridden to heaven or hell with him, as long as I could remain by his side.” Madame reached for the sherry and poured another glass.

  Adele composed herself. Following her mother’s example, she refilled her glass and took a draft before responding. “I’ll admit I’m frightened,” she said, “but it’s not what you think. I won’t hold Achille back. I’m afraid that as we gain wealth and social status, we’ll lose sight of something precious, something closely bound up in our love for one another. For want of a better word, I’d call it innocence.”

  The old woman sighed. “Adele, you’re a married woman with two children. You’re hardly innocent. What’s more, I think you’re too sentimental to be my daughter. At any rate, innocence has nothing to do with it. You can be happy or miserable in a shack or a palace. All things considered, it’s better to live in the palace.” She leaned over and took her daughter’s hand. “Your life will change. You’ll meet new people and enter a higher social sphere. Achille spends too much time with his rowing companions and bohemian friends. They’re all a bunch of loafers, drunkards, dope fiends, and degenerates, not to mention their floozies—”

  “Please, Mother,” Adele interrupted. “You exaggerate. Gilles is a good friend, and M. Lautrec is a great artist and a gentleman.”

  Madame smiled. “All right, my dear, we won’t speak of it anymore. Now, tell me why you’re not invited to Jeanne’s tea party.”

  Adele raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Did she tell you that?”

  “She certainly did.” Madame mimicked her granddaughter to perfection: “‘No! Mama is not invited.’”

  The imitation was so ludicrous, it got a laugh out of Adele. “I scolded her this morning,” she explained. “You know how she’s always leaving her toys on the runner. Suzanne and I pick up after her, but it does no good. She just takes them out again and leaves them. Then, when Achille comes home, tired and near-sighted as he is, he trips on the toys and swears awfully.”

  Madame doubled over in a giggling fit. “Oh, I know,” she said between bursts of laughter. “I’ve heard him often enough—his favorite curse word, though I won’t repeat it.” Presently, she calmed down and remarked, “Don’t worry, my dear. I’m sure your name will be put back on the invited list.” She turned her attention to the bottle. “You know, this sherry is excellent. Shall we have another?”

  Adele smiled. “Just one more wouldn’t hurt,” she said, as she filled two more glasses to the brim.

  Achille and Legros stood side by side, each leaning against the walkway balustrade on the Pont Neuf, gazing in the direction of the Eiffel Tower while discussing the case. Passersby walked up and down from Left Bank to Right, ignoring the detectives who were, on this clear, pleasant day, anonymous, hidden in plain sight.

  Achille spoke over the chugging and churning of a tugboat passing beneath the arch. “As soon as we’re finished, go to Records and look for the letter carrier. From the photograph and description, I believe he may be Guy Renard, alias the Porter, wanted for burglary in Liège. He’s an expert second-story man. He used to work in the hotels; that’s where he got the moniker.”

  “Do you think he’s our cat burglar?”

  “Could be. If you find a match in Records, wire our Belgian contact for more information. In the meantime, keep shadowing him, and maintain the stakeout on Nazimova’s shop.”

  “What about the message?”

  “The decoded message read, ‘Rossignol team. Meeting at Ronsard re: Guest, four A.M. tomorrow.’” Achille took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to his companion. He lit up and took a drag on his smoke before answering. “The ‘team’ is t
he knight and his pawns, Moreau and Wroblewski. The unidentified suspect, possibly Renard, may not be part of the inner circle. The place is the house on the Rue Ronsard. The purpose of the meeting and the identity of the ‘Guest’ are unknown. I’m hoping Rousseau will shed some light on the subject.”

  “You’re meeting him here?”

  Achille consulted his watch. “Yes, in twenty minutes. Afterwards, I’ll make our case to the chief.”

  Legros turned to Achille. “And what will that be, Inspector?”

  Achille smiled and shook his head. Without looking back at Legros, he answered, “I won’t know until I speak to our big friend.”

  “Why not arrest the whole gang at the Rue Ronsard tomorrow morning? They’re all suspects in the murders of Kadyshev and Boguslavsky, and we’ve built a good case against them.”

  “Assuming the meeting isn’t a ruse or diversion, I’d say that’s the best way to proceed. But Rousseau might think otherwise, not to mention the chief. And we still don’t know what Orlovsky and Rossignol are up to. Rousseau might be on to something, or at least have a clue. And he’s been investigating the leak at La Villette. I believe Rossignol tipped off the anarchists, but I want Rousseau’s opinion. Regardless, something significant is happening within the next twenty-four hours, and we must prepare for all contingencies.”

  Legros sighed. “I’ve had enough cloak-and-dagger to last a lifetime. Give me a good old criminal investigation any day.”

  Achille nodded and tossed his cigarette into the river. “A beautiful day, isn’t it, Étienne? Suzanne’s taking the little ones to the Tuileries Gardens. They ought to be there by now. I’d like to be with them.”

  “It must be nice, having children.”

  “It’s a great responsibility—and a headache at times—but I wouldn’t give it up for the world. Anyway, you’d better get over to Records. When you’re done, meet me back at headquarters. The next couple of days will be pure hell. Don’t expect to go home or get much sleep.”

  “Thank God I’m a bachelor. Have you notified Adele?”

  “I already sent a message.” He turned toward Legros and smiled wryly. “I’m sure she’ll be pleased. Now, get a move on, Inspector. I’ll stay here and enjoy the view until my friend Rousseau arrives.”

  At the appointed time, Achille saw Rousseau approaching from the Right Bank. A well-dressed man exhibiting the distinctive military bearing of an officer in civilian attire accompanied the detective. Surprised by the appearance of someone unconnected to the case, Achille adjusted his pince-nez and then recognized Commandant Bazeries of the Deuxième Bureau.

  Rousseau displayed his best manners as he made a brief introduction. “Inspector Lefebvre, I believe you know Commandant Bazeries?”

  Achille smiled and shook the officer’s hand. “Indeed I do. I’m pleased to see you Commandant, though frankly I’m puzzled. Has our case come to your bureau’s attention?”

  Bazeries was on the point of explaining when Rousseau broke in. “Gentlemen, I’m hungry,” he said. “I suggest we discuss this matter over lunch.”

  Achille frowned and protested, “We hardly have time for a leisurely luncheon.”

  Rousseau shook his head and laughed. “I’m a big man with big appetites, as you well know, Inspector. Unlike you, I can’t survive on coffee and cigarettes. We’re going to be as busy as the devil the next day or two, so we might as well eat while we can. Now, I want a beer and a croque monsieur, so let’s be off.”

  As they crossed to the Left Bank and proceeded up the boulevard, Achille speculated as to Bazeries’s involvement. It must have something to do with the code, he thought. He had gone to great lengths to guard the secret. Was there a leak in his organization? Regardless, he found the officer’s presence reassuring, evidence of Rousseau’s good intentions. After all, Bazeries was a man of spotless reputation.

  They arrived at the café and the proprietor seated them at Achille’s favorite sidewalk table. Achille took Rousseau’s advice and ordered a sandwich and a beer. Bazeries made do with coffee and a brioche.

  “I won’t keep you in suspense, Inspector, though what I’m about to tell you must remain strictly confidential,” Rousseau said as soon as the proprietor was out of earshot. “I have a mole working in the Paris Okhrana. This individual reports directly to me—and me only. My agent has been providing me with information on de Gournay and early this morning identified him as the source of the leak at La Villette. I’d suspected de Gournay for some time, but Boguslavsky’s death confirmed it. Now Orlovsky’s in the shit because we’ve caught his best agent double-dealing. According to the mole, Orlovsky planted de Gournay among the anarchists to spy on them and provoke them to illegal acts, but not to feather his own nest at the expense of Russia and France.”

  “Pardon me, Inspector,” Achille interrupted. “Did you say de Gournay provoked them to illegality?”

  “You have heard the term agent provocateur, haven’t you?” Rousseau replied.

  “I was just wondering what our government would think of a foreign agent instigating crimes on French soil.”

  Rousseau smiled knowingly. “If by ‘crimes on French soil’ you mean dangerous subversives killing others of their ilk at the instigation of a friendly government, our superiors would think ‘Thank you very much.’ Of course, they would deny all knowledge of the affair and demand that we bring the killers to justice. May I continue?”

  Rousseau had confirmed another of Achille’s suspicions. “Please do,” he said calmly.

  “Now that de Gournay’s gone rogue, M. Orlovsky will have to square things with his masters in Saint Petersburg. So far, he’s playing it cool, acting as though nothing’s gone wrong within his organization. His predicament could be to our advantage—he’ll cooperate, and be indebted to us if we can pull his chestnuts out of the fire. That’s where the commandant comes into the picture.”

  Bazeries paused a moment to brush a fly away from his beard. His eyes followed the insect until one of Rousseau’s hands lashed out and dispatched the intruder.

  “Our bureau has also had de Gournay under surveillance for several weeks, M. Lefebvre,” Bazeries began. “When he first came to our attention, we thought he was a woman going by the name of Marie de Gournay. Regardless of gender, de Gournay has formed a liaison with a military attaché at the German Embassy. They have exchanged certain communications in code, which is how the matter came to me.”

  “Excuse me, Commandant. Is it a poem code, similar to the one used in the Marseilles smuggling case?” Achille asked.

  Rousseau, who had been leering at a pair of pretty girls walking up the boulevard, stopped and stared at Achille. Bazeries raised his eyebrows. “Yes, Inspector,” he answered. “Is that an educated guess, or did you know?”

  Achille replied with another question. “Do they use a poem by Ronsard about a nightingale?”

  “That’s correct, Inspector. So you did know.”

  “I suspected de Gournay, but I knew nothing about the German.”

  “Wait a minute,” Rousseau broke in. “You never said anything to me about a code.”

  “How could I tell you, my friend,” Achille replied, “when your organization had a leak?”

  Rousseau’s face reddened. “It’s not my organization,” he fumed. “It’s the fucking Russians.”

  His comment caught the attention of a couple at a nearby table.

  “Please keep it down, Inspector,” Achille said sotto voce.

  Rousseau grunted and stared at his hands. “I’m hungry, that’s all. Where’s my bloody sandwich?”

  As if on cue, the proprietor arrived with the order. As soon as the man left, Achille continued with a question for the commandant. “Has de Gournay passed on any secret information to the Germans?”

  “Not to our knowledge. He’s negotiating with them. We believe he’s trying to sell a high-explosives formula that’s relevant to your case. The Germans want it, but so far they haven’t met de Gournay’s demands.”
r />   “How much does he want?” Achille inquired.

  “Two million francs. The Germans have offered him one.”

  “Did you know that one of my informers has been spying on de Gournay?”

  The commandant nodded in the affirmative. “De Gournay’s lackey works for us. He’s provided a full report of their evening together.”

  “I see. Did you also know that de Gournay told my informer that he was leaving France soon and that he asked her to accompany him?”

  “Yes, M. Lefebvre. We have that information.”

  Achille thought of Delphine. Would de Gournay risk going to the Divan Japonais so close to a critical meeting with his cell? Achille doubted it. Under the circumstances, he did not think Orlovsky would appear in public with his turncoat agent. Moreover, how could he arrest de Gournay at the Divan Japonais without creating a scandal that might compromise Delphine and the Sûreté? Much better, he thought, to capture or otherwise eliminate de Gournay away from his spymaster and out of the public eye.

  He addressed his next question to Rousseau. “Does the code word ‘Guest’ mean anything to you?”

  Rousseau was busy wolfing down his croque monsieur. He coughed loudly and continued hacking into his serviette.

  The commandant slapped the inspector’s back. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  The crimson-faced detective nodded in the affirmative and held up his hand to signal: One moment, please. Rousseau took a long swig of beer to clear his throat. Then he turned to Achille. “How did you learn about ‘Guest’?”

  “We recently intercepted a message from de Gournay to his cell. They’re meeting tomorrow morning at four to discuss ‘Guest.’”

  Rousseau lowered his voice. “‘Guest’ is a code name for the Russian foreign minister. He arrives in Paris tomorrow evening for a secret meeting with his French counterpart.”

  Now it was the commandant’s turn to be surprised. “I knew nothing of this. My bureau should have been informed.”