The Hanged Man (13 page)

“Yes, Monsieur—Achille.”

“Good. Now, let's get oriented to our present situation. In my opinion, the victim, Kadyshev, was a sacrificial pawn. Did he betray, or was he about to betray, his associates? Perhaps, perhaps not. He might have been hanged because he knew too much, or his death could have been a loyalty test, an example for the others. I've seen that before with gangs.

“Boguslavsky is also a pawn. Considering his long association with the victim, he might have been an unwilling participant in the murder. He might become expendable if his handlers think the risk of protecting him exceeds his usefulness to the organization. Regardless, he's an explosives expert, which leads me to believe that his expertise was used to make a bomb.”

“A bomb?” Legros broke in. “Surely that raises the level of urgency in this case?”

“I've put my concerns in the report. The chief and the prefect must be aware of the risk. At this point, I'm not sure what more can be done.” Achille saw fear in Legros's eyes, perhaps a reflection of his own anxiety about the case. He tried to remain cool and objective. “Frankly, I don't think the conspirators are ready to act. And they must be aware of all the attention they've drawn to themselves by murdering Kadyshev and harboring a fugitive.

“Getting back to Boguslavsky, assuming that they've already got what they want from him, his superiors must decide whether to save or get rid of him. I expect they'll do what they determine is most expedient.

“I believe there's someone at mid-level or at least nearer the top of the conspiracy; let's call him the knight. He might have devised the code system, planned Kadyshev's murder, and recruited Boguslavsky. He might even still be in charge of the man—assuming, of course, that Boguslavsky isn't already dead. He could even be the cat burglar who broke into Kadyshev's room and removed his papers.

“The knight is devious, ruthless, cunning, and self-confident. But his strengths harbor a weakness. Hanging Kadyshev in a public park with a note pinned to his body was an act of devilish arrogance. If I'd been in charge, I'd have done everything I could to keep the murder inconspicuous. He would have done better to make it look like an accident, a street mugging or credible suicide. And this business about Ronsard and
Le Rossignol
. Rossignol is underworld argot for a skeleton key. But historically, it's also the family name of France's most famous cryptographers.” Achille paused in his narrative to ease the tension with mordant humor: “The choice of the name is part of his game.”

Legros responded with a wince and nervous laughter.

Achille sighed. “Pardon me, Étienne. My wit's as weary as my eyes. At any rate, the knight's a cheeky bastard. I'm sure he has nothing but contempt for the police, and that's his weakness. Let him underestimate us; we won't make the same mistake with him. If he's so damned confident that he doesn't consider the possibility of our breaching his security, he won't bother to change the poem. So we can use the key to decrypt any messages we manage to intercept. When the time comes, we might even create our own coded message to bait them, hook them, and reel them in.

“In the smuggling case, the gang used a dead drop to mail their messages. A signal—a shuttered or un-shuttered window—indicated if something had been left at the drop, a loose stone in a wall marked with a chalked symbol. I'm betting the knight and company transmit their messages in a similar manner. But here we run into an obstacle.

“We need good, trustworthy surveillance to locate the dead drop. So far, I've been relying on Rousseau. But he's playing it cagey. It could be a simple matter of inter-service rivalry, or something else entirely. Frankly, I don't know. We worked well together until the Ménard case, but since then, things have gone sour between us. My point is this: I can't take chances. I'm going to use my own resources to get the best intelligence, independent of Rousseau and the brigade. Not every detail will go into my reports. Are you comfortable with that, Étienne?”

Legros looked fixedly at Achille. His faith in his superior remained unshaken, but he knew the Professor's reputation for going by the book. But Achille had implied that he'd use any means necessary to crack this case. Legros couldn't help wondering just how far his mentor would go.

“I'm all right with it, Achille,” he declared after a tense pause. “But may I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“Are you convinced the course you've chosen in this matter is in the interest of justice, and not because of something personal between you and Rousseau?”

Achille had asked that question of himself each day since Féraud told him he'd be working with his former partner. Surely there was an element of competition in this case, but he believed he could answer honestly. “I'll proceed in the interest of justice and for the good of the people. Of that, you must have no doubt.”

Legros smiled and nodded his understanding. “Thank you for taking me into your confidence.” He glanced at the wall clock; the hour was late. “If that's all, I'll be on my way. But … but before I go, I want to apologize for taking your last cigarette.”

Achille smiled and shook his head. “Don't worry, my friend. I'm sure I've another pack or two squirreled away.”

There was a knock at the door. A guard entered with a scrap of paper in his hand. “A
chiffonier
left a message for you, M. Lefebvre. We tried to chase him off, but he insisted it was important and said he knew you.”

Achille thanked the guard and took the message. Legros, curious as to the note's contents, remained in the office as Achille read.

“Is it important?” Legros asked.

Moïse had arranged a meeting with Le Boudin in the Zone at four
A.M.
the next morning. Achille folded the note and placed it in his pants pocket.

“Yes, it is,” Achille answered matter-of-factly. He looked up at the clock.
I'll be lucky to get three hours' sleep
. But he smiled at Legros. “It's late, my friend. Let's go home. I'll walk out with you. On the way, I can fill you in about the message.”

He grabbed his hat and jacket from the coat rack, and then extinguished the kerosene lamp on his desk. They left headquarters together and walked up the quay toward the bridge. Achille explained his agenda for the following day, as part of his overall scheme for solving the case.

“Should I cancel our plans for Trouville?”

Adele did not look directly at Achille when she made her inquiry. Instead, she studied his reflection in the dressing-table mirror.

Achille sat up in bed, watching his wife as she slowly brushed her long, light brown hair. The sight of her
en déshabillé
was almost more than he could bear as he tried to reconcile sexual desire with an imperious need for sleep. At times like these, he wondered if detectives should remain celibate, like priests and monks. Moreover, he didn't have a good answer to her question.

He tried an equivocation. “Not necessarily, my dear. There's still time until our holiday. I might have the case closed by then.”

Adele set her hairbrush down on the tabletop, and then lowered the lamplight. She approached their bed in a delicately sensual manner he had once compared to a blossom floating on a pond. Resting on the edge of their bed, she leaned over and stroked his cheek. “I'm sorry about the other night, darling.”

He inhaled the fragrance emanating from her warm bosom.
Like a soft bed of flowers
, he thought. “You needn't apologize for being a good mother.”

Adele smiled and brushed her lips gently against his. “I try to be a good mother. But I'm also a wife,” she whispered.

Achille glanced at the bedside clock.
My God, it's almost midnight.
“I'm sorry, my love. I must be up and out of here by three. I promise I'll make it up to you this weekend.”

Adele said nothing in reply. She turned down the bedside lamp and burrowed under the covers with her back to him. “Good night, Achille.”

For an instant, he considered doing—or at least saying—something. But his thoughts turned to the four
A.M.
rendezvous. He rolled away from her and sighed. “Good night, my dear.”

6

THE ZONE

A
hansom cab rumbled along the Boulevard Ornano. An early-morning mist had turned to drizzle and then a light steady shower. Achille peered out the rain-streaked carriage window into the lamp-lit darkness. A faint reflection stared back at him. “It would have to rain,” he muttered.

Leaning back on the leather seat, he reached under his stained and tattered working-man's blouse and removed his Chamelot-Delvigne revolver from its concealed belt holster. Achille flicked back the side-loading gate and slowly rotated the cylinder—click, click, click—until he had counted six brass cartridges. This routine checking of his sidearm was a distraction, repeated to alleviate his fear. He was venturing into the territory of the cutthroats and footpads who inhabited the undeveloped Zone outside the city walls.

The steady
clip-clopping
of the horse's hooves had an almost hypnotic effect. He rubbed his eyes, blinked them into focus, and tried to concentrate on his objective. But his mind drifted to diversions—for example, the relative merits of his 11mm Chamelot-Delvigne versus a top-breaking Smith & Wesson .38. His revolver was sturdy and reliable, and the 11mm black powder load packed a wallop. But the double-action trigger pull was too heavy, and the side-loading gate and ejector slow compared to the Smith & Wesson.
What difference does it make?
he thought.
If I get into a tight corner and use up my six, I'm a dead man.

A dead man.
The hazard of his profession. What would it mean to his wife and children? He relied upon his mother-in-law's generosity to supplement the meager savings he had gleaned from his inspector's salary. Moreover, he had an insurance policy. Nevertheless, his best legacy would be the memory of a husband and father who gave a good account of himself and died in the line of duty. If the worst came to the worst, that would have to suffice for Adele, little Jeanne, and the infant son who would never know his father.

He sensed that the carriage was slowing, his thought confirmed by the diminishing pace of the hoofbeats and the driver speaking gently to his horse as he tugged on the reins. The hansom came to a halt. The driver leaned forward from his rear-end perch and rapped on the trap door with the butt end of his whip. Achille looked up into the raindrops.

“This is as far as I go, Monsieur. The Porte de Clignancourt is no more than one hundred paces ahead.”

Achille nodded. The cabbie turned a crank and the door swung open. Achille exited the cramped passenger compartment and stepped down to the pavement. The driver shook the reins, flicked his whip, and clicked at his horse. The horse whinnied in reply, its skittering hooves clattering on the cobblestones as the cab turned around.

The cabbie glanced down at Achille. “Good luck, Inspector.” With a light snap of his whip, the cab pulled away and rolled down the boulevard.

Achille gazed after the receding image until it vanished around a corner. For an instant, a sense of isolation almost paralyzed him. Then he turned toward the gate. Raindrops shimmered in gas light. Without his spectacles to aid him, the passageway through the city wall appeared distant and blurred.
Like the gates of hell.
He wiped his bleary eyes with the back of his hand.
If I must shoot this morning, it had better be at damned close range.

He walked slowly toward his destination, his footsteps echoing on the pavement. As he neared the Porte, he made out the vague, caped figures of two gendarmes on patrol.
I hope Legros got my message through to Rodin.
Sergeant Rodin had arranged for Achille's passage through the gate, without his having to show identification papers. Achille was not carrying his badge. If Moïse did not hold up his end of the bargain, the
zoniers
might ambush Achille, capture him and discover he was an inspector, then hold him for ransom. If it came to that, he would save one bullet for himself.

As he approached the gate, one of the officers pulled out a truncheon. When Achille had come within ten paces, the gendarme called out the guard's challenge: “Halt! Who goes there?”

“A weary traveler seeking shelter,” Achille replied. Legros was to have arranged the password with Rodin. Achille wished he'd had time to confirm it.

The officer barked, “Stay where you are, and keep your hands out where we can see them.” Then he motioned to his companion, a brigadier.

The brigadier stepped forward. He had gotten the message, and he recognized Achille. He nodded and said, “You may pass.”

As he walked through the arched passage, Achille thanked God for Legros and Rodin.

When Achille had passed beyond earshot, the first gendarme turned to the brigadier. “He's a brave man.”