“With all due respect, Commandant,” Rousseau replied, “this matter is in my brigade’s jurisdiction.”
Bazeries was about to make a sharp retort when Achille intervened. “Gentlemen, please. Let’s not squabble over jurisdiction. From now on, we must coordinate closely and efficiently. Agreed?”
Bazeries and Rousseau concurred. Achille continued with reference to the cat burglar.
“One of the individuals we’re investigating may be a common criminal, a burglar named Guy Renard.”
“The Porter?” Rousseau interjected. “I thought he was safely locked up in a Belgian prison.”
“Perhaps not,” Achille replied. “We have photographs and a description that matches. Inspector Legros is wiring our Belgian contact for more information. At any rate, I have reason to believe there will be a burglary within the next twenty-four hours at Nazimova’s bookstore.”
“Why do you think that?” the commandant inquired.
“I believe Mme Nazimova kept some papers that belonged to her late husband, and it’s likely the high-explosives formula was among the documents. Nazimova burned the papers just before she died, but de Gournay wouldn’t know that. Perhaps she hid something more than copies of Boguslavsky’s notes. Regardless, the papers would be something de Gournay would not want us to find. And here’s another twist. It’s possible de Gournay worked as Nazimova’s shop assistant under the name Marie Léglise, to spy on Nazimova and gain access to the documents.
“My detectives will arrest anyone who enters the shop. If it’s Renard, I believe we can persuade him to rat on the others to save his neck. He’s a professional thief, not a committed ideologue like the other members of de Gournay’s cell. And I don’t believe he was in on the murders, though we can still charge him as an accessory and co-conspirator if he doesn’t cooperate.”
“Will you take him to the Conciergerie and turn him over to the juge for interrogation?” Rousseau asked.
Achille frowned and shook his head. “No time for that, I’m afraid. I suggest you detail one of your men at the stakeout. We can turn the prisoner over to you, let your brigade handle the interrogation.”
Rousseau grinned. “Don’t worry, Achille. If we get him, we’ll make him talk.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
Rousseau shrugged and returned to his croque monsieur.
“Now,” Achille continued, “we must take extra precautions to protect the Russian minister. Even if we make our arrests before he arrives, we can’t take any chances. They may have planned for that contingency. What’s his itinerary?”
Rousseau put down the remains of his sandwich and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He arrives at Saint-Lazare station tomorrow evening, on an eight o’clock express from Le Havre. The meeting will be held in a suite at the Hotel Terminus.”
Achille thought for a moment. “I’m afraid the express will have to make an unscheduled stop. The minister could detrain at Asnières and proceed to the hotel by coach, where we would escort him through the tradesmen’s entrance and up to his suite. Orlovsky should be present to reassure the minister that it’s a routine precaution. Can you arrange it?”
“I can,” Rousseau replied.
“I have another question. If you were de Gournay, planning an assassination along the minister’s travel route, what would be the most likely place for an ambush?”
Rousseau drummed his fingers on the table, and looked away as if in deep thought. After a moment, he answered with conviction, “The pedestrian overpass between the station and hotel would be a good spot. It’s an enclosed space, about twenty meters from end to end, and narrow. A bomb would be devastating. Of course, the assassin would have to be fanatically devoted to his cause, since his chances of escape would be slim. But he’d certainly get publicity and set off a panic, which is what these terrorists want. Moreau and Wroblewski are mad enough to do the deed, but I’d say Moreau’s the steadier of the two for a job like that.”
“Thank you, Inspector. That’s my thinking, too.” Achille paused, then moved on to the next item on the agenda. “One problem is the timing of the arrests. Do we try to take them piecemeal to forestall further action on their part? Picking them up now would save us a lot of time and trouble, but what happens if we lose one or two of them?
“I believe it may be best to wait for their four A.M. meeting, when all the rotten eggs are in one basket, so to speak. We’ll set up a cordon on the Rue Ronsard, then enter the house and wait for them. We’ll arm ourselves in case they put up a fight. What’s more, the place might be a bomb factory, so we should alert the Fire Brigade and keep an explosives expert on hand. In the meantime, we’ll maintain our surveillance on all the suspects. Are we in agreement?”
Bazeries frowned and said, “I’m a cryptographer, not a policeman or a spymaster. There’s not much more I can do personally, but I’ll inform the appropriate parties in my organization. I agree, Inspector.”
Rousseau grunted and nodded in the affirmative.
“Two thoughts occurred to me that are worth considering,” Achille said. “If de Gournay comes to trial, the facts of the case would raise an awful stink. Moreover, if the Germans will not pay full price for the explosives formula, I wonder what they would pay for the assassination of a Russian foreign minister traveling incognito on French soil, especially if we were to be blamed for lax security. That might nip our prospective alliance in the bud, don’t you think?”
After a moment, Bazeries said gravely, “It might precipitate a war.”
Rousseau drained the last drop of beer. He put down his glass and grinned at Achille. “It’s a festival of shit, isn’t it, Professor?”
“Are you speaking of life in general, or our particular situation?” Achille replied.
Achille had invited Bazeries and Rousseau to join him for his meeting with Féraud. Now, they sat in his office, watching as the chief paced around, his hands clasped behind his back, his teeth grinding away at an unlit cigar. After a few tense minutes, the chief stopped near his desk, took the chewed-up cigar out of his mouth, and stared at the small group of officers assembled before him, which now included Inspector Legros.
“Gentlemen, our duty is clear in this matter. The honor of France is at stake. I agree to Inspector Lefebvre’s plan. The Russian minister will detrain at Asnières and I will greet him, along with a group of picked men and M. Orlovsky. If necessary, I’ll defend our distinguished guest with my life.”
Achille thought his chief’s declaration overly dramatic, though it was not far from the truth. If the anarchists assassinated the Russian minister on Féraud’s watch, he would be in the same position as General Ducrot at the Battle of Sedan: Nous sommes dans un pot de chambre, et nous y serons emmerdés.
The chief looked directly at Achille. “Inspector Lefebvre, I leave the matter of the arrests to you and Inspector Rousseau. My preference would be to bring them in now, but I understand that’s impossible.”
“That’s correct, Chief,” Achille replied. “We could arrest Moreau and Wroblewski immediately, but we’re not sure about Renard. Unfortunately, after he delivered his message our detectives lost track of him. Moreover, I’m afraid as of this morning, de Gournay’s given us the slip. Fortunately, the Deuxième Bureau has him under close surveillance.”
The chief scowled and turned to Bazeries. “Do your agents know de Gournay’s present whereabouts, Commandant?”
Bazeries hesitated before answering, “I can’t be certain, Chief Féraud. I haven’t seen the latest report.”
The chief pointed to the telephone on his desk. “Can you use this thing to communicate with your office?”
“I believe so,” the commandant replied, somewhat dubiously, and went to the telephone. Bazeries began fidgeting with a pencil on the chief’s desktop.
Rousseau rolled his eyes and tapped his foot in synchronization with the commandant’s pencil. After a while, he began whistling a popular cabaret tune. The chief’s icy glare stifled the impromp
tu performance. Rousseau looked down and twiddled his thumbs.
“Hello … hello. Am I connected with the Deuxième Bureau? Good. This is Commandant Bazeries. Ba-zeh-ree! Yes. Could you please connect me to Captain Duret? Yes, I’ll wait.” A few moments passed. “Good afternoon, Captain. Bazeries here. This matter is urgent. Do you have the de Gournay file at hand? Goor-nay! Yes, yes, of course I’ll wait.” A minute passed. “I’m here. Do you have the most recent report from our agent?” Bazeries sighed and glanced at the ceiling. Another minute passed. “Of course I’m still here. If I weren’t here, I wouldn’t be shouting into this damned contraption!” Bazeries frowned. “Yes, yes. Is that all? I see. Very well, Captain. Thank you. Good afternoon.” Bazeries put down the receiver.
“Gentlemen, we’ve had no contact with our agent since yesterday,” he announced to the assembled group with a downcast look. “He should have reported this morning, and he’s punctual. Moreover, the house on the Rue de la Mire is empty. We’ve lost de Gournay.”
“Sacristi!” the chief sputtered. “He’s a slippery devil, and too clever by half. Achille, you’d better pray this bastard walks into your early-morning trap. In the meantime, don’t lose sight of Moreau and Wroblewski and do your best to catch Renard.”
Then the chief turned to Rousseau. “Inspector, I want to meet with Orlovsky to make arrangements for the minister’s arrival. We must notify the railway management and hotel immediately. As soon as our preparations are made, I’ll report to the prefect.” Finally, he thanked Bazeries. “Commandant, as always I appreciate your assistance. I leave the business with the Germans to you and your bureau. I’ve enough on my plate for now.”
The officers dispersed without further comment, each among them thinking that this case was indeed a “festival of shit.” Whether or not that sad state of affairs applied to life in general was a problem best left to the philosophers.
11
ENDGAME
Please permit me to escort you to your apartment.” Lautrec made this gentlemanly offer to Delphine following her performance at the Divan Japonais. His gesture was more than mere politeness; it reflected his genuine concern for her safety.
“That’s very kind of you, Monsieur, but I’ve been walking these streets for years and I know how to take care of myself.” Her reply was not bravado; Delphine carried a razor in her purse and she was quite capable of using it to fend off an attack. Moreover, she knew how Lautrec struggled up the steep winding streets and stairways of the Butte. She did not want to add to his misery without reason.
A light rain fell on the Rue des Martyrs. The crowd had scattered and moved on to their beds, boîtes, brothels, or whatever other amusement was obtainable at that late hour. De Gournay, Orlovsky, and the girls were not among the audience that evening, much to Delphine’s relief. She hoped never to see de Gournay again, though not because she feared him. Rather, she felt an unwanted attraction to Inspector Lefebvre’s adversary.
Delphine turned in the direction of the Rue des Abbesses and Lautrec bid her good evening. He descended the dark street in the direction of the still-lively boulevard, his tapping cane echoing on the pavement, while she trudged upward on strong legs, walking as rapidly as her high-heeled leather boots would permit on the rain-slicked pavement.
She turned the corner and walked on through silent squares, past shuttered houses, shops, and alleys alive with whining cats. When she reached the narrow, unlit passage with its precipitous stairway climbing to the Rue Lepic, she paused. Sensing something ominous in the shadows, she glanced around and then reached into her purse. She drew out the razor and felt for her other weapon, a hatpin that she could resort to as a backup in a tight corner. Having checked her weapons, she raised her skirts halfway to her knees and started up the slippery stairs.
As she reached the summit and turned onto the street, she took comfort from the gas lamps and the glimmering yellow lights in a few unshuttered windows. Her apartment was only two blocks ahead. She recalled how her best friend and lover, Virginie Ménard, had walked this way in the early morning hours, the final moments of her brief, tragic life.
As she neared the gated entrance to her flat, she heard a low, familiar voice calling her from a murky passageway. Her grip tightened on the razor, her thumb poised to flick it open with a well-practiced action. She approached cautiously until she made out the obscure form of a woman hidden in shadows.
“Is that you, Mado?” she asked.
“Yes, Delphine. Please come closer; there’s something I must say to you.”
Delphine shook her head. “I’m sorry. If you want to speak to me, step forward and show yourself.”
The figure revealed itself in lamplight. Delphine recognized de Gournay’s form and features through the slanting raindrops. “I’ve met you halfway. Won’t you do me the same courtesy?”
Delphine took one step and halted. “Whatever you have to say, please say it now. It’s late, and I’m wet and tired.”
“I told you I was leaving Paris and I asked you to come with me. I offered you money and I regret it. I believe I insulted you. I wanted to apologize.”
“Put your mind at ease, Mado. I’m not insulted. Your offer was simply too generous. I’ve sold my body for much less than that.”
De Gournay smiled sadly. “Your body, perhaps, but never your heart.”
Delphine had loved one woman and one man. The former was dead, the latter unattainable. She felt something for de Gournay, but she knew it was not love. “You’re too romantic. Goodbye, Mado.”
“Just one moment,” de Gournay cried, “that’s all. I wanted to tell you that our evening was the happiest of my life. You understand what it’s like to be … different. I’ve never understood, never really knew who or what I was until I met you. Now, I must leave Paris, perhaps never to return. But I’d like to know your true feelings. Please say you don’t despise me. Give me a little hope. Can you at least do that much for me?”
At that moment, Delphine understood her feelings for de Gournay—compassion for an outcast. But despite her empathy, she could never betray Achille.
“I don’t hate you, Mado, but I could never love you. I don’t wish you harm, but I never want to see you again.”
De Gournay reached out to her with one hand, as if he were a drowning man grasping for a lifeline. Delphine turned from him and walked toward the bell-pull. Faced with the finality of her declaration and the futility of his position, de Gournay retreated into the darkness and disappeared.
The concierge answered the bell and opened the gate. Delphine passed into the courtyard and entered the front door. Across the street, Moïse huddled under a blanket behind an overflowing poubelle in a cramped, arched passage. Le Boudin had ordered the chiffonier to keep a close watch on Delphine. She’s safe for tonight.
For an instant, Moïse considered tailing the strange woman. Inspector Lefebvre might make it worth my while. But he had his orders. He stretched out his hand and felt the heavy drops. The devil with it, he decided. No need to traipse all over the Butte in filthy weather.
He settled back in his damp hidey-hole, fixing his eyes on Delphine’s room until the shutters closed and the lamp went out.
Clouds covered the moon. The streetlamps below left the rooftops cloaked in shadow. His feet encased in plimsolls, Renard crept noiselessly over slippery roof tiles. The cat burglar wore gloves and tight-fitting black clothing. A knit cap covered his head and a mixture of grease and soot darkened his face. He crawled up to the cornice, where he rested for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, braced himself, and leapt across the narrow space between buildings, landing with a dull thud on the roof over Nazimova’s shop.
Two detectives observed Renard’s progress from their surveillance post, an unlit fifth-story window in a building across the boulevard. One of the detectives nodded to his companion before opening and closing the shutter on his lantern, a signal to their counterparts on the street. The police waiting below spotted the signal and walked across
the street to the shop entrance.
Unaware of the looming police presence, Renard crouched on the roof and scampered to the skylight. There he removed tools of his trade from a canvas bag securely fastened to his leather belt: a glasscutter, a lump of putty, and a clean rag. After drying the selected pane, he applied putty to prevent glass fragments from falling noisily onto the landing below. Then he began cutting near the skylight latch.
He worked swiftly. After a moment, he removed the cut glass, lifted the skylight, and propped it open. He eased himself through the opening, hung by his hands from the sill, and then dropped to the landing.
Renard clutched a small bull’s-eye lantern dangling from a hook on his belt. He struck a match on his thumbnail to light the wick, then raised the lamp and scanned his surroundings. The cone of white light revealed the door to Nazimova’s bedroom and the narrow stairway leading down to the small room in the back of the shop. The burglar walked downstairs and entered the back room, where he spied the mantelpiece and went straight for the loose brick in the hearth.
“Stop, in the name of the law!” a detective shouted.
Renard glanced over his shoulder into the glare of two unshuttered lanterns. The burglar flung his lantern at the police and bolted for the stairway. The detectives cursed and ran after him.
Renard mounted the landing and leaped for the skylight sill. Pulling up with powerful arms, he was almost halfway through the skylight when a warning shot hit the wall just below the burglar’s dangling feet.
“Stop, or the next shot won’t miss!” the detective cried.
Renard lowered himself and leaned back against the wall with his hands up. Trembling, he glared at the approaching detectives. The cramped space reeked with the sharp stench of sweat and gunpowder.
His smoking revolver at the ready, the detective climbed the stairs with his partner close behind. Upon reaching the landing, he pointed his gun at Renard’s belly. “Pull another stunt like that and you’ll wish you were dead. Face the wall and lower your hands behind your back.”
The Hanged Man Page 22