The Hanged Man (19 page)

Achille admired the sketched outlines of a new composition, mounted on an easel in Lautrec's studio. The artist leaned back against a wooden column in a corner, observing his guest from the shadows like a cat—wary, but curious.

“It's very striking, M. Lautrec,” Achille remarked. “It catches the eye and makes a bold statement. Excellent! I can only wonder at what it will look like when you add color.”

The artist's thick, purplish lips curved upward in a shrewd smile and his dark brown eyes glowed with satisfaction. “Thank you, Monsieur. You should have been an art critic instead of a policeman.”

Achille stepped back a few paces and kept his eyes fixed on the drawing.
I'd give almost anything to create something like this
, he thought. “I recognize La Goulue and Valentine le Désossé. Is it a sketch for a new poster advertising the Moulin Rouge?”

Lautrec laughed. “Alas, my secret's been found out by the great Inspector Lefebvre. I trust you'll keep mum?”

Achille turned to face the artist. “My lips are sealed. I'm sure Zidler will be very pleased.”

“Oh, I'm sure—he packed them in during the Exposition. But now the tourists are gone, along with their cash. So he feels the need to drum up trade. If he could get away with it, he'd have the girls dance the can-can
sans culottes
. But your prefect's spies are everywhere, guarding public morality. At any rate, the current poster is too dull and uninspiring. He needs something controversial.”

The artist left his observation post and walked haltingly toward a liquor cabinet on the other side of the studio. He retrieved a bottle of cognac and two glasses. “You'll join me in a drink while we're waiting for Delphine?”

Achille figured one would be all right, and agreed.

“I don't trust a cop who won't accept a free drink while on duty. That sort of thing smacks of self-righteousness, not to mention bad manners.” Lautrec poured and handed a glass to Achille, who joined him at a small rectangular table next to the cabinet.

They sat across from each other, enjoying their drinks in silence, until Achille brought up the subject of surveillance. “You mentioned the prefect's spies. Do you object to them?”

Lautrec put down his glass and lit a cigarette before replying. “Of course I object. It's an invasion of privacy, an affront to liberty and freedom of expression, the most basic of human rights. But I suppose you consider such intrusions necessary to your job?”

Achille sighed. “We've worked together before, Monsieur, and I've come to think of you as a friend. Surveillance and spying are indeed necessary to my job. But, of course, you know the purpose of my visit.”

The artist raised his bushy eyebrows and smiled wryly. “I was under the impression you came to admire my work—and perhaps to arrange an assignation with the lovely Mlle Delphine.”

Achille frowned, shook his head, and glanced down at his half-empty glass. “I appreciate your humor, Monsieur, but life is no joke.”

Lautrec laughed bitterly. “No joke, you say? Life's a jumble of farce and melodrama, the chaotic scribbling of a third-rate penny-a-liner. We mock it to keep from going mad—or at least to display our good taste.” Lautrec refilled Achille's glass before his guest could protest. “Drink up, Inspector. I've a theory, you know. Cops, like artists, can find inspiration in a brandy bottle, an opium pipe, or a whore's bed.”

Achille frowned and sipped his drink, then wiped his lips. He muttered through his beard, “If anyone else said that, I might take offense.”

“Ah, you make an exception for me, Inspector, and I know why,” Lautrec answered caustically. “You're a gentleman, but I'm a far grander personage, a scion of the counts of Toulouse. Yet you pity me, in your sentimental bourgeois way, because fate has made me a figure of fun. As a consequence of my deformity, I don't enjoy playing the grand seigneur like my father, or mingling with the upper-class idiots at the Jockey Club. Actually, I do run into those fops on occasion, since we frequent the same brothel on the Rue Chabanais. But unlike them, I make myself useful by contributing to our economy. I live in the shadows, hobbling through the gutters of Bohemia on shriveled legs. Cats yowl at me as I limp by their cozy, trash-laden
poubelles
.”

Achille's face reddened, and his hands trembled as though he had received an insult that required satisfaction. But he needed Lautrec's help, and therefore would tolerate the artist's sharp tongue. “This conversation has taken an ugly turn, M. Lautrec. I'll put it down to an excess of brandy.”

Lautrec sniggered. “Ugly, you say? Well, I'm
ugly
all right. But you know what's uglier? A man who asks a woman who …
admires
him to do a filthy job.”

Achille breathed deeply to regain control of himself. “I appreciate your concern for Delphine, Monsieur. Believe me when I say I share your misgivings. However, in this case, I've reason to fear innocent lives are at stake. I'll use any means at my disposal, all means necessary and proper, to protect the honest and peaceful citizens of this city.”

Lautrec fixed Achille's eyes with a penetrating gaze. “You say ‘all means necessary and proper,' Inspector Lefebvre. So you concede our law draws a line at some point beyond which you will not go?”

Achille answered firmly, “Indeed, M. Lautrec. There are limits—but I'm not there yet.”

The artist was about to comment further, but a knock at the door interrupted. “Will you do the honors, Inspector? I fear my legs aren't too serviceable just now.”

Achille called out, “One moment, please,” then got up and walked to the entrance. He opened the door and saw Delphine half-hidden in shadow on the dimly lit landing. She lifted her face beneath a broad-brimmed hat, smiled faintly in response to his greeting, and then crossed the threshold with a rustle of silk.

The high heels of her leather boots tapped gently on the floorboards; her presence filled the studio with a heady fragrance. Tastefully dressed and studiously graceful in her movements, the
chiffonier
's daughter had come a long way from the Zone and the streets of Montmartre, so much so that Achille barely recognized her. He offered her a chair at the table and seated her with the attentive courtesy of a waiter at a posh restaurant. Lautrec observed the performance with an amused grin, and his smile only broadened when Achille proffered a cigarette and she accepted, holding his hand seductively to steady the match.

Delphine had never been pretty, not like Renoir's rosy-cheeked models. However, she possessed a marketable
je ne sais quoi
that had earned her a good living in the dance halls, cabarets, artists' studios, and beds. A pair of sparkling emerald eyes complemented her
café au lait
skin, flat nose, full sensual lips, and even, white teeth. Those eyes now fixed on Achille with a probing, questioning gaze. In meeting that look, he felt the sting of Lautrec's admonition:
What could be uglier than a man who asks a woman who admires him to do a filthy job?
He suddenly, inexplicably became tongue-tied.

Delphine recognized shame and guilt in his mute, downcast expression. She had seen it often enough, on the faces of clients when they dropped money on her bed. “Pardon me, Inspector,” she said softly. “You've brought me here for a reason. If I can be of service, please don't hesitate to ask.”

Achille's mouth was dry, so he finished his cognac to free up his tongue. “Delphine, first I want you to understand the gravity of the situation and the risk.” He turned to Lautrec. “Monsieur, you too may be helpful, but I'll understand if you don't want to become involved.”

The artist frowned and poured another glass. “The way I see it, I'm already involved. Please continue.”

Achille nodded and looked back at Delphine. “I'm investigating a difficult case. You must know that I'm working with Rousseau, a man you despise. What you shouldn't know, although you may have guessed, is that I don't have a great deal of confidence in my former partner.”

Lautrec spluttered brandy and coughed into his handkerchief.

Delphine merely smiled. “That's hardly a revelation, Monsieur. Don't worry; you can lay your cards on the table. Do you want me to spy on Rousseau?”

“That's a blunt way of putting it—but it's about the truth. I know Rousseau has clandestine meetings in Montmartre—”

“Like
our
meeting, Inspector?” Lautrec broke in.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Achille replied with a hint of irritation. Then, to Delphine: “You know everyone around here; you frequent all the nightspots. If Rousseau's meeting someone on the sly, I'd like to know who that person is. Do you think you can get that information for me?”

Delphine stubbed out her cigarette; her red lips parted in a suggestive smile. “I'm ahead of you, M. Lefebvre. I know two young girls intimately, Aurore and Apolline. On occasion, we've worked as a threesome for clients who like that sort of thing. Last night they were at the Divan Japonais with two gentlemen—”

Lautrec's head jerked as though he had suddenly awakened from a catnap. “I sketched them! I'll show you.” The artist hobbled to a shelf, pulled out a sketchbook, and returned to the table. He flipped the pages until he found what he was looking for. “There, you see?”

Delphine examined the sketch. “That's them, all right. I don't know the pretty boy, but the older fellow is M. Orlovsky.”

“Orlovsky?” Achille inquired. “Is he Russian?”

“I suppose so. Anyway, according to the girls, he speaks with an accent and he has money to burn. He keeps them in a flat in Montmartre. They're happy enough with the arrangement, but not long ago they saw him with Rousseau at the Cabaret de L'Enfer. The girls are afraid of Rousseau, and for good reason.”

“That's good information. Do you think you could find out more about M. Orlovsky? I'd also like to learn something about the young man.”

“You should have seen the way the young fop looked you over, Delphine,” Lautrec interrupted with a sly grin. “I'm sure it was love at first sight.”

Delphine laughed knowingly. “I caught a glimpse of him last night. If you ask me, his taste is more likely to run to boys.”

“Perhaps.” Lautrec shook his head. “But I believe I saw something else, and it wasn't very pleasant. You'd better watch yourself with that one.”

She shrugged off the warning. “I can take care of myself, M. Lautrec. Besides, if he's bent, I'm sure I'll get all the details from the girls.”

Achille placed his hand gently on hers, a gesture that was not lost on Lautrec's keenly observant eyes. “Delphine,” he half-whispered, “you must promise not to take any unnecessary risks.”

She glanced down at their barely touching hands for an instant, and then gazed at him with a sad smile. “Very well, Monsieur, but I assume you'll leave the
necessary
risks to my discretion?”

Achille lifted his hand suddenly, as though he had carelessly allowed it to stray too close to a flame. “You're a clever woman, Delphine. I trust your judgment in these matters implicitly.”

Delphine had clearly read Achille's sudden coolness correctly; she understood. “I'll get onto it straightaway. Apolline's the chattier of the pair, and not too bright. I should be able to get something out of her without much trouble. As for the boy, if he's interested in me I'll play him like a hooked fish. How shall we communicate? I assume you want to avoid direct contact.”

“Use Moïse,” Achille replied. “If he's unavailable, you can send a message through M. Lautrec—if he's agreeable, that is.”

The artist nodded in the affirmative and returned to his bottle.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Achille said. “I appreciate your cooperation. By the way, I'll require your sketch of Orlovsky and the young man for identification purposes. Of course, you'll be compensated and the drawing will be returned at the end of the case.”

The artist expressed his indifference with a wave of the hand. “You may keep the sketch for your Rogue's Gallery. As for compensation, how about free drinks for a week at the Moulin Rouge?”

“Thank you again, Monsieur. I know Zidler. I'll arrange it.” Achille turned his attention back to Delphine. “Now, Mademoiselle, if you find yourself in a tight spot and I'm not at hand, go directly to my assistant, Inspector Legros, or to Sergeant Rodin.”

She smiled at his officious expression of concern. “Don't worry, Inspector. I know what to do.” Then she leaned over the table and lowered her voice. “Between you and me, I've lived all my life in a damned tight spot.”

Toward midnight, Rousseau sat at Orlovsky's table at the Cabaret de L'Enfer, watching an illusionist turn a staff into a snake. The magician handed the serpent to his scantily clad female assistant, who used it as a prop in her provocative belly dance. She squirmed and wiggled with her serpentine partner to Saint-Saëns
Danse macabre
played by a fiddler cloaked in the shadows behind the low stage.