The Hanged Man (14 page)

The brigadier smiled grimly. “He's got guts, all right—or he's a damned fool. Anyway, if he isn't back by five, we're to notify Rodin.”

The first gendarme pulled out his watch. “Less than two hours from now. I hope he makes it.”

Achille tramped along the muddy, unpaved military road, past the fortification's looming glacis and weed-clogged ditch. The pervading atmosphere was distinctly rural: chirring crickets, croaking frogs, and rustling branches in a stand of drenched poplars bordering the pathway. This was
terra incognita
for bourgeois Parisians, the demarcation line between the city limits and the suburban village of Saint-Ouen. Not far up the road was the strip of wasteland that Le Boudin, the uncrowned “King” of the
chiffoniers
, had claimed for his flea market. On Sundays, intrepid shoppers would pass through the gate, leaving behind the relative safety of metropolitan Paris to search for a bargain.

Achille kept his right hand near the revolver. His eyes darted around for a sign, and his ears pricked up for a signal. He flinched when an owl swooped overhead. He halted at a prearranged spot, a fork in the road near a wooden footbridge that crossed a drainage ditch, and waited a minute that seemed like an eternity. Finally, a familiar voice called out from the darkness:

“What have you brought to market?”

“A rare item for my friend, Le Boudin,” he replied with a sigh of relief.

Moïse's small figure emerged from its cover amid a tall clump of roadside weeds. “Good morning, Monsieur,” he whispered. The
chiffonier
's sharp brown eyes gave Achille the once-over. “Very good. In that outfit and without your spectacles, you'll pass for a tramp. Are you armed?”

“Of course. But frankly, without my glasses, I could have mistaken you for a large hare.”

“If that's the case, I'm glad you're not starving. Anyway, my boss has given you safe passage and no one wants a fight with Le Boudin. But out here, you must always be on the watch for some hopped-up bastard with nothing to lose.”

Achille nodded. “I understand, Moïse.”

“Good. Now follow close, and don't lag behind. The short cut up the hill to the compound is steep, narrow, and treacherous in the dark.” He glanced up. “And we could have done without this fucking rain.”

Achille followed the
chiffonier
across the footbridge and up a muddy path lined with scrub. The moon hid behind a cloudscape. Achille could barely make out the obscure rounded form of his guide's rump. In the near distance, a band of foraging cats yowled as they huddled for shelter in the neighboring trash pits. Near the crest of the hill, he heard the bleating of goats in their pen and smelled the sharp stench of animal and human waste. The welcoming, dim yellow glow of candlelight penetrated the darkness.

They mounted the rickety porch of Le Boudin's shanty, where the wary growl of an old yellow dog greeted them. Moïse held his hand out for the blind dog to sniff. “Good morning, Bazaine. I want you to meet a friend.”

Bazaine got up from his crouch and sniffed Achille's pant leg. He held out his hand, and the dog licked it. In reply, Achille stroked the animal's muzzle.

“He's got your scent and likes you, Monsieur; a good sign.” Moïse opened the makeshift door and entered, followed by Achille.

Le Boudin's massive form emerged from the shadows and walked around a counter stacked high with his most valuable trinkets. A broad grin breached his bushy, chest-length, salt-and-pepper beard. The one-handed ex-legionnaire saluted with his hook. “Welcome, Monsieur Lefebvre. You honor my humble place of business with your presence.”

Achille smiled and approached his host. “Good morning, Le Boudin. I'm likewise honored to be here.”

Le Boudin's prodigious belly quaked with laughter. “Now that we've kissed each other's arse-holes, we must cleanse our palates with rum.” He turned to Moïse. “You may go, but don't stray too far. M. Lefebvre must be back at the gate no later than five. We wouldn't want the cops swarming out here looking for him, now, would we?”

“Sure thing, boss. I'll return in plenty of time.”

Le Boudin waited until Moïse had gone, and then gestured to a chair near the counter. “If you please, Inspector.” Achille sat while Le Boudin retrieved a bottle of rum and two glasses from behind the counter. Le Boudin pulled the cork with his teeth and was about to pour when he noticed a speck on one of the glasses. He spat on it, and then wiped the spittle on his sleeve before pouring. He noticed Achille's wince.

“Don't worry, Monsieur. This stuff's guaranteed to cure rabies and kill plague germs.” Nevertheless, as a matter of courtesy, he handed Achille the un-spat-upon glass.

Achille lifted his drink, said
“À votre santé,”
and gulped the fiery liquid. A coughing fit seized him. Le Boudin came over and slapped his back. After a minute or so, Achille turned to his host with red face and tears in his eyes. “What is this stuff?” he sputtered. “Lamp fluid? Rat poison?”

Le Boudin smiled. “I reckon it might be put to many such useful purposes. Anyway, if the first shot kills, the next one resurrects.” With that friendly solicitude, he refilled his guest's glass.

His mouth and gullet numbed, Achille sipped the liquor judiciously. As he did so, his carefully concealed fear dissipated the way a dental patient inhaling nitrous oxide loses his dread of the dentist. Nevertheless, through the rotgut-induced mental fog, he retained a sense of urgency.

“I appreciate your hospitality, but we must get down to business. I'm requesting your assistance in an unusual case.”

Le Boudin nodded. “I know, Monsieur. You're investigating the death of the man found hanging from the bridge on the Buttes-Chaumont.”

Achille wondered how much Le Boudin already knew about the case. He suspected it was more than what the newspapers had printed. Achille had good reason to trust his host; Le Boudin owed him a favor, and the
chiffonier
king was known as a man who always paid his debts. Nevertheless, Achille proceeded cautiously, as though he were shadowing a dangerous criminal through a dark, unknown alleyway. “That's right, and I've reached a point where I require some expert surveillance, but for certain reasons, I can't use my own men on this job.”

Le Boudin narrowed his eyes, his bearded lips twisted in a shrewd grin. “Would one of those ‘certain reasons' be Inspector Rousseau?”

Le Boudin hated Rousseau and he almost certainly knew that Achille was working the case with his former partner. He would play his next card carefully. “As you may know, Rousseau is back with the police, but he's working for another brigade. I've been
ordered
to cooperate with him, but between you and me, my faith in Rousseau and his methods has eroded somewhat.”

Le Boudin laughed and shook his head. “‘Eroded somewhat'? You talk like a gentleman, M. Lefebvre. Well, that's all right by me. After all, you
are
a gentleman. But I'm not, so I'll speak bluntly. You don't trust the bastard, and for good reason. And you need better spies than those plodders who work for that pig. Why else would you risk meeting me in this place? The answer's simple: I've the best spies in Paris and Rousseau's men haven't the balls to tail you into the Zone.”

Achille smiled and nodded his agreement. “That's the gist of it, my friend. Can you help me?”

Le Boudin raked through his beard with his hook as he pondered the request. Then he said, “One more shot of rum before we talk business, eh?”

One more shot and Moïse will have to carry me back to the gate
, he thought. But he could not refuse his host's convivial liberality. “Thank you, my friend. Just one more, if you please.”

Le Boudin poured the drinks and set them on the counter. “We'll hold this round for a toast to seal our bargain. I once said I owed you a debt of honor that could never be repaid. You saved two of my best men from a frame-up, and you tracked down Virginie Ménard's murderer.” For a moment, he stared silently at the dirt floor. “My daughter, Delphine, was in love with Virginie. I can't say I understand that sort of thing, but I care very much for my girl. I assure you, we're both grateful for what you did in that case.”

Achille's throat tightened with emotion and he answered spontaneously, without calculation. “I did my duty, Monsieur. You owe me nothing for that.”

Le Boudin stared at Achille, and a single tear appeared in the corner of the old legionnaire's eye and slowly trickled down his hairy cheek. “You're an honest man in a crooked world, M. Lefebvre. For that alone, I'll do what I can to help.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “Moïse and his brother Nathan are the best I've got for a job like this, but Rousseau's marked them for revenge. One slip-up and they're goners. But before we consider our alternatives, you must tell me who you want shadowed. As for the why of it, you may keep that to yourself.”

In response to Le Boudin's reference to his honesty, Achille decided to be as forthcoming as possible. “My chief suspect in the case, a Russian named Viktor Boguslavsky, has gone to ground. He used to hang out with a group of radicals at the Lapin Agile in Montmartre. I believe one or more of that bunch could lead me to the suspect's hiding place, but … but Rousseau's handling the surveillance. I want information from a source that's reliable and loyal to me. And I must warn you, I believe there's a conspiracy brewing, which adds to the danger.”

“Russians, radicals, and conspiracy, eh? Perhaps you've told me
more
than I wanted to know.” Le Boudin stared at Achille as if he were probing for something, like a surgeon picking fragments out of a wound. Detecting nothing suspicious in Achille's frank, steady gaze, he outlined a plan. “I believe I've a solution to your problem. First, I'll put you in touch with two blind beggars. They're master spies, as I'm sure you know, and with my recommendation and for a reasonable compensation, which I'm sure you can arrange, they'll gladly work for you.”

Achille's eyebrows lifted in surprise. “The blind beggars? But I thought they worked for Rousseau.”

Le Boudin smiled slyly. “They've had a falling-out. Rousseau won't say anything about it; he's trying to lure them back. I'll see to it you get to them first. But there'll be hell to pay if Rousseau gets wind of it.”

“I'll risk it to get the blind beggars on my side. Was there something else?”

Le Boudin lowered his voice and frowned, as if he were about to say something profound. “Have you ever used a woman in this line of work? There's nothing like a woman when it comes to prying out secrets or luring an enemy to destruction.”

Achille knew about sexual honey traps. He disliked them, but he would not be so squeamish when it came to cracking a tough case. “Have you someone in mind for that job?”

“Yes, I do, Monsieur. Have you considered Delphine?”

The proposition shocked Achille, but he tried hard not to show it. He knew Le Boudin had many women and numerous children and grandchildren, but he believed the old rascal was especially fond of Delphine. Yet what Le Boudin proposed was tantamount to selling his daughter. To Achille, such a thing was unthinkable. But he was in no position to turn down whatever help he could get.

“Frankly, your suggestion is surprising,” he said cautiously. “I'm sure you understand the danger. She might get herself into a tight spot and I may not be there to pull her out.”

Le Boudin grinned and patted Achille's shoulder with his hook. “You don't know my Delphine, do you, Monsieur? When the time comes, more likely you'll be up to your neck in shit, and she'll lift you out. She can come off sweet as sugar, when she needs to, but she's as tough as a legionnaire.

“And here's something that must remain a secret, between you and me. After Virginie's funeral, Delphine said something to me that I'll never forget: ‘Papa Le Boudin, M. Lefebvre is the finest man I've ever known. I'd do
anything
for him.' Ah, Monsieur, you should have seen the look in her eye and heard her voice, especially when she said ‘anything.' I speak plainly. My Delphine is a whore; she sells herself to both men and women. But she's in love with you, of that I've no doubt.”

Achille stared blankly, dumbstruck by the revelation. After a moment of uneasy silence, he stammered, “But … but you've just given me more reason not to use her.”

Le Boudin's mood changed suddenly. His eyes blazed, and his jovial expression turned menacing. “Listen, M. Lefebvre, you led me to believe that this was important. You're not out here playing some fucking game?”

Achille glared back at Le Boudin and put a sharp edge on his voice. “No, it's not a
fucking
game. If I don't solve this case soon, innocent people might suffer.”

Le Boudin leaned forward and gripped Achille's shoulders. “That's right, Monsieur,” he said, his aspect softening as quickly as it had turned hard. “You're decent and just; that's why my girl loves you. So be a man and do your job. Use her. You don't have to fuck her. Just see that she's paid fairly, and say ‘thank you' when it's done.”