“Damned if I know.”
“Then we’ll be up against a trapped rat; there’s nothing worse. God help us if he grabs a hostage.” Rousseau looked up the platform. “Where is the bastard? The Le Havre train’s on schedule; it must be nearing the Batignolles tunnel.” His eyes darted around the milling throng. After a moment, he grabbed Achille’s arm and whispered in his ear, “Keep quiet, and look over there.”
Rousseau nudged Achille in the direction of a man entering the platform with a Gladstone bag in his left hand. He was a young man wearing a nondescript brown suit and a slouch hat with the brim pulled down low over his forehead.
“Do you see him?” Rousseau hissed. “That’s Rossignol.”
Achille tapped Legros’s arm and then signaled his men with a hand to his bowler’s brim. A squad of plainclothes detectives and gendarmes began closing in on the subject. As soon as the man stopped, the police halted and waited for another signal from Achille.
“He’s mine, Lefebvre,” Rousseau snapped and began moving toward de Gournay.
Achille grabbed the inspector’s coat sleeve. “Don’t be a fool. Let’s take him as we planned.”
Rousseau shook him off. “It’s my affair!”
The blast of the signalman’s horn echoed through the train shed, the express train arriving on time. “Damn him,” Achille muttered. He turned to Legros. “Follow me.”
The express chugged into the platform bay, enveloped in a cloud of steam. The crowd stirred as the train screeched to a halt. Rousseau approached the suspect rapidly; he was more than two meters ahead of Achille and Legros. A great arm extended; a strong hand gripped the suspect’s shoulder.
“You’re under arrest, de Gournay!” Rousseau bellowed.
In an instant, de Gournay spun around, whipped out a British Bulldog, and aimed. Rousseau swatted at the pistol, knocking it out of de Gournay’s hand and deflecting the shot, but not before the Bulldog barked. A .44 caliber ball slammed into Rousseau’s shoulder. Rousseau staggered from the impact and lost his grip on the prisoner. De Gournay turned and fled up the platform, shoving aside screaming passengers and swinging his heavy Gladstone bag to clear the way.
Achille and Legros ran to Rousseau, with the plainclothes detectives close behind. Three officers continued pursuing de Gournay while Achille and Legros stopped to aid their fallen comrade.
Rousseau grasped his bleeding shoulder and swore. When Achille tried to help him, he exclaimed, “Damn it, Achille, I’m all right. Get after him!”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Achille dashed up the platform, his strong rower’s legs soon outpacing the other pursuing officers. He fixed his eyes on his quarry, running several meters ahead.
“Stop! Sûreté!” he cried, but only once to save his breath. As he neared the end of the train shed, his lungs and muscles ached, and he regretted his coffee-and-cigarette diet. When he reached the vast excavation through which trains entered and exited the station, a gust caught his bowler and blew it onto the tracks.
De Gournay ran on past startled switchmen and signalmen, into the brightly lit expanse of the rail yard. Far above, the light on the signal tower flashed red as a flaming star. As he gained on the fugitive, Achille wondered, Where is he going? What’s in the bag?
Two blasts of a horn signaled an approaching train. In the near distance, on the other side of the Pont de l’Europe, an express roared out of the tunnel at forty miles per hour. Men rushed to throw switches; the light on the tower turned green. De Gournay jumped off the platform and sprinted across three lines of double track. A signalman shouted a warning.
Achille kept running toward the switching hut at the end of the platform. Crazy bastard! He’ll never make it. He bent over next to a signalman, gasping for air as the train rushed by.
Achille caught his breath and straightened up, and turned toward the signalman. “I’m Lefebvre of the Sûreté. That man’s a fugitive. Did he make it?”
The man pointed toward a concrete abutment on the other side of the sunken roadway. “Look over there, Monsieur.”
De Gournay was standing on the abutment. He had opened the bag and set it down on the pavement. He pulled out a rope attached to a grappling hook, swung the hook around, and cast it toward the bridge’s iron latticework guardrail. It bounced off the railing.
Achille grabbed his revolver. “Is it safe to cross?”
“Yes, Monsieur, if you’re quick about it!”
Achille leapt off the platform and ran over the tracks, just as Legros and the three pursuing officers reached the switching hut.
The grappling hook took hold on the second try. De Gournay was climbing the masonry pier as Achille mounted the abutment.
“Give it up, de Gournay!” he cried. “I’ll shoot!”
De Gournay ignored the warning; he was within reach of the girders. Achille fired a shot above the fugitive’s head that ricocheted off the pier. De Gournay kept climbing. Achille’s second shot ripped into de Gournay’s lower back, near the spine. He screamed, dangled by one hand for a moment, and then fell backwards onto the concrete three meters below.
Smoking revolver in hand, Achille walked to his quarry and stared down into the fading eyes. De Gournay gazed up at the inspector. A tear streamed down his pale cheek; blood foamed and bubbled on quivering lips.
“Was it worth it?” Achille murmured.
Legros and the detectives ran to him. “Should we call for an ambulance?” Legros asked.
“Yes, for Inspector Rousseau,” Achille replied. “As for this one, he’s meat for the Morgue.”
De Gournay heard these words, and nothing more.
Rousseau occupied a ward bed at the Hôtel-Dieu, the recently rebuilt hospital located conveniently near both police headquarters and the Morgue. Curtains surrounded the cramped bed, providing a modicum of privacy, though the flimsy partitions could not screen out the occasional cries and groans of the other patients.
Achille sat on a crude wooden chair crammed between the bed and a table upon which rested a glass and pitcher, a spoon, two brown medicine bottles, and the morning newspaper.
“Are the sisters taking good care of you?” Achille inquired of Rousseau.
The inspector grimaced. “The nuns are like prison guards—cold, ugly, and efficient. They feed me swill three times a day and empty the chamber pot when the crap comes out the other end.”
Achille smiled. “According to the surgeon, you won’t be here much longer. The wound’s clean and you’re healing well.”
Rousseau shifted about and scratched at his dressing. “It itches like the devil,” he grumbled. “They say that’s a good sign. Anyway, I’m like the great Napoleon. ‘The bullet that will kill me is not yet cast.’”
Achille contemplated his former partner with mixed feelings. He questioned Rousseau’s methods, especially the brutal treatment of prisoners. In addition, Rousseau’s rash departure from Achille’s plan to arrest de Gournay could have resulted in tragedy. On the other hand, Achille admired Rousseau’s bravery and tenacity. And, as Chief Féraud indicated, the two inspectors would have to continue working together for the common good.
“I’ll never question your motives or actions at the railway station,” he said. “You disarmed a dangerous criminal and took a bullet in defense of the public and your brother officers. That’s what I put in my report.”
“That’s generous of you, Achille, and well-spoken—as befits a chief of detectives. Your promotion is certain. Féraud and I go back many years. We’ve remained close, and he still confides in me. He’s already recommended you to succeed him. Féraud has a nice pension along with his Officers’ Cross. He’s retiring to the country to live like a gentleman. I can see him resting beneath a willow tree on the bank of a stream, his fishing rod tucked under an arm and a jug of wine at his side, snoring away while crafty trout snatch the bait off his hook. You’ll take his place in Paris, reeling in the murderers and crooks.”
“As you said, you and the chief go back a lon
g way. I suppose you know him better than anyone on the force.”
“We’ve known each other twenty-five years, and more. He was my sergeant when I was a green kid fresh off the street. He taught me everything I know. We’re nothing but old bones now, like the dinosaurs. You and Legros are the future. For what it’s worth, I think Legros is a damn good man. I credit you for bringing him along.”
“The prefect and Féraud consider the case closed,” Achille said, changing the subject. “We were lucky with the bomb; Professor Martin defused it just in time. The prosecutor has charged Moreau and Wroblewski with the murders of Kadyshev and Boguslavsky. The juge is certain they’ll both get the guillotine. Renard will testify against them and receive a light sentence.
“The government is suppressing the facts surrounding the attempted assassination and bombing, as the minister was here incognito. Officially, de Gournay died while resisting arrest as an accomplice to the murders.
“The Russians are pleased—as is our government. And the public is satisfied as well. People in high places will profit from the shared explosives formula and the improved relations that could lead to a Franco-Russian alliance. But I’m damned if I know why de Gournay acted as he did. Who paid him to take such a risk, and how much?
“I saw de Gournay on a slab at the Morgue. The poor devil had no penis. That’s why he hid himself from Delphine. Imagine having to live as a man with something like that.” Achille shook his head and sighed. “Perhaps Rossignol is one of those great mysteries we weren’t meant to solve.”
Rousseau rolled his eyes in the direction of the newspaper resting on the bedside table. “Have you read the latest edition of Les Amis de la Vérité?”
“No, I have not.”
“You should, my friend. They’re piping the tune and all the others are joining the dance. I read paragraph after paragraph about M. Lefebvre, France’s greatest detective. I get two lines. I know them by heart: ‘Inspector Rousseau received a wound in the line of duty. His doctors say he is making rapid progress toward a complete recovery.’
“I understand you and Adele will dine with the prefect when you return from Trouville. Monsieur and Madame Junot are sure to be there. Be careful, Achille. You may find the salons of the rich and powerful more treacherous than the back alleys of Montmartre.”
Achille stared at his hands. After a moment, he looked up and said, “Orlovsky wants a meeting at my earliest convenience.”
Rousseau screwed up his face in disgust. “Watch out for Orlovsky. He’s a serpent. The Okhrana likes to divert attention from their crimes by pointing fingers at convenient scapegoats. This time it was the anarchists; tomorrow it might be the Marxists, or the Tsar’s favorite villains, the Jews. Orlovsky’s already scheming with the anti-Semitic journalists here in Paris.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The partition curtain stirred and then drew back, revealing a nun bearing a steaming bowl of broth on a tray. Achille rose from his chair and respectfully removed his hat.
Rousseau grinned sarcastically. “Ah, here comes Sister Clare with my afternoon dose of rat poison.”
The nun pointedly ignored Rousseau. She placed the tray on the table and then turned to Achille with a smile. “We’re honored by your presence, M. Lefebvre. All France is grateful for your service.”
Achille flushed crimson. “Thank you, sister,” he murmured.
Rousseau laughed until his wound ached.
12
Laws are spider webs through which the big
flies pass and the little ones get caught.
—Honoré de Balzac
TROUVILLE
Faites vos jeux, mesdames et messieurs!”
The starter made his familiar call for bets. Adele ventured two francs on Number 4, the handsome tin jockey in green silks. She received her ticket and dropped two francs into the betting cup. The Salle des Petits Jeux filled with a clamor of players gathered around the tables, the most vociferous action emanating from the crowd surrounding the Petits-Chevaux track. Men and women reached out with their one- and two-franc bets; little boys and girls jumped up and down and tugged at their parents’ sleeves, begging them to place a wager on their favorite ponies.
Adele and Achille had been playing for nearly an hour and were even. “This is our last bet, Adele,” Achille said. “It’s a mug’s game. The house always wins.”
“Don’t be such a stick in the mud,” she teased. “We’ve got ten-to-one this time, and I’ve a good feeling about the color green.”
Achille shrugged, shook his head, and clasped her hand gently.
The starter made his final call and the betting closed. He yanked the lever and the mechanical horses began whirling around the track. The players and spectators cried with excitement followed by hushed, intense observation. The casino game transported the vacationing Parisians to Longchamp, little tin horses like snorting thoroughbreds, their hooves pounding turf, and toy jockeys more like animated riders, whipping their galloping mounts.
After a few circuits of the table, the machine ran down. As the mechanical horses neared their goal, the crowd stirred and began shouting encouragement.
Adele watched intently until her horse edged out Number 5. “We won, darling! We won!” she cried and hugged Achille so tightly it hurt.
The losers ripped their stubs and dropped them on the floor. Some glared enviously at Adele as she received a twenty-franc Napoleon from the starter.
She held up the glittering gold piece for Achille’s inspection. “You see, darling, I was right about green. Shall we play again?”
Achille smiled. “Twenty francs is a fortune. Let’s quit while we’re ahead. It’s a lovely evening. We can take a walk on the pier.”
“All right,” she replied, and deposited the coin in her purse.
They exited the casino and walked arm in arm up the esplanade to the promenade pier. Nearby, a band played excerpts from Mignon by Thomas. Plangent tones of woodwinds and brass echoed over the beach, mingling with the cries of circling seabirds and rushing surf. Clouds drifted through a purple sky tinged gold from the sun lowering toward the horizon. A mild, salty breeze ruffled capes and coattails, and sudden gusts threatened any hat not firmly pinned.
The men, women, and children on the pier for an early-evening stroll represented nearly all the Parisian classes one might encounter on the boulevards and in the public parks. At Trouville, the fashionable aristocrats and haute bourgeoisie mingled comfortably with the lower middle classes and an infusion of foreign tourists. As Achille glanced to his right toward the hotels lining the esplanade, he noticed several flags fluttering in the breeze. No matter the time or circumstances, he could never see the tricolor without feeling a sense of pride, obligation, and a call to duty.
Achille and Adele passed up the promenade, greeted by several Parisians. Adele seemed to take this recognition in stride, but Achille felt a keen sense of embarrassment. Regardless, with the publicity of the Hanged Man case and Achille’s impending promotion, the inspector would have to become comfortable with it. The thought of his new responsibilities weighed heavily on his mind, even in his happiest moments. That evening, they would dine with millionaires, a self-styled baron and his wife who had taken them up the first day they arrived at the hotel. Adele was flattered, but Achille sensed self-seeking personalities and a penchant for bribery lurking behind the smiles and social graces.
Toward the end of the pier, Achille and Adele walked to the railing and spent a few quiet minutes gazing out into the channel. Achille focused on a trail of brown smoke drifting behind a steamer bound for England, raising thoughts of his contacts at Scotland Yard. As soon as he returned to headquarters, he would wire the Special Branch to obtain more information about the Okhrana’s British operations.
The great nations were playing a dangerous game that would inevitably lead to war. Could Achille manage to forestall it, somehow? He shook his head in despair. I’m bound to the wheel of fortune as surely as the little t
in jockey riding his mechanical horse.
Adele broke into his thoughts with a worried frown. “Are you all right, darling? You seem so pensive.”
He turned to her. “I was taking in the seascape, that’s all.”
“Oh, Achille, you’re crying.” She stared at his face, his hidden sorrow unmasked by the intense white glow of an electric lamp.
He smiled and brushed away tears with the back of his hand. “It’s nothing, my dear, just the brisk salt air. Now, I’m going to give you the first two lines of a poem and I’ll bet you a franc you can’t name the title and poet.”
She smiled broadly at the challenge. “It’s a bet!”
Achille recited the lines:
Vois, ce spectacle est beau. - Ce paysage immense
Qui toujours devant nous finit et recommence …
Adele laughed. “That’s too easy. It’s Victor Hugo, ‘Au Bord de la Mer.’ Pay up, Chief.”
Achille dug into his pocket and pulled out the coin. She snatched it from his palm and dropped it into her purse, along with her other winnings of the evening.
“This must be my lucky day,” she said.
He brushed a couple of stray hairs from her forehead and kissed her cheek. “We’re both lucky, my dear. Now, shall we return to the hotel and dress for dinner?”
“If you wish, but we won’t dine for hours.”
“Let’s go back anyway.”
They strolled arm in arm, up the pier and along the esplanade in the direction of their hotel. Achille remained aware of the challenges ahead, the risk and the danger. But he also valued the moment—the ocean breeze, the sound of surf breaking on the beach, and Adele’s reassuring presence.
“I know something we can do to pass the time,” Achille said.
Adele drew closer, resting her cheek against his shoulder. They continued on to the hotel.
END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am grateful to Donald P. Webb, Dana M. Paramskas, Bill Bowler, and Carmen Ruggero, for reading and commenting on my early drafts of this novel. Thanks to my agent, Philip Spitzer, and his associate, Lukas Ortiz, for their outstanding representation. Thanks also to Claiborne Hancock and his staff at Pegasus, most particularly my excellent editors, Maia Larson and Katie McGuire.
The Hanged Man Page 24