The Hanged Man (5 page)

Achille took out his pencil and notepad. “Thank you, Madame.” Looking up from his note he added, “Do you know his occupation or place of work?”

“Well, Inspector, as I said, it's been more than a year. At any rate, since he couldn't practice medicine in France, he worked in an apothecary shop on the Place du Tertre across from the new town hall. Is that helpful?”

Achille smiled and returned the notepad and pencil to his breast pocket. “Thank you, Madame, and I won't trouble you further—today. You've indeed been very helpful, but please understand that I may return for more questioning.”

“I understand perfectly, Inspector. One might assume Kadyshev was under surveillance—to a greater or lesser extent, we all are. However, being constantly watched can get on one's nerves. One longs to be free. Then, who is free in this world? Perhaps death is the only true liberation.”

Achille nodded politely, but he had no time for gloomy philosophy. He bid Madame good day, dashed out of the shop, and walked rapidly up the boulevard and across the bridge. As soon as he reached his office, he telephoned the police station in Belleville with a message for Legros and Rodin: “Urgent. Have discovered victim's name and residence. Break off search and meet me at the Montmartre station. Lefebvre.”

“Inspector Legros, over here—I've found something!”

Legros and Rodin were standing on the path leading to the bridge. They supervised a detail of three policemen searching an area approximately ten meters from the site of the hanging. Having spent most of the day looking for evidence without success, the policeman's summons was a welcome interruption.

The men walked to a shady clearing a few meters from the footpath, where they came upon the young policeman, flushed with excitement and pointing toward his discovery. “It's a man's necktie and collar lying in the grass at the foot of that tree.”

Legros crouched to examine the objects resting in a clump of grass between the thick, gnarled roots of a tall elm. He took out his evidence bag, put on a pair of gloves, and lifted the tie to get a better look. “Average quality silk, cut neatly with a razor or sharp knife,” he said to no one in particular. He deposited the necktie in the bag and turned his attention to the collar. “Appears to have been ripped off; the buttons popped. One's over there in the grass.” He got up and turned to Rodin. “Let's continue searching this area. And I want to send a message to Inspector Lefebvre.”

“Right, Inspector,” the sergeant replied. Rodin scanned the area for a moment, then pointed and exclaimed, “Look, over there, in the bushes.”

Legros focused on the undergrowth near the elm. He noticed a white object. Hunkering down, he parted the foliage and retrieved a linen handkerchief. He dropped the evidence in his bag, and continued his search. A dark, familiar shape caught his eye. Reaching into the tangled underbrush, he retrieved a small, uncorked brown bottle. Legros sniffed the bottleneck. His eyes widened with recognition of a faint, cloying odor, like overripe fruit. “Chloroform?”

Legros's speculation was interrupted by a red-faced, panting gendarme. The man took a moment to catch his breath and then handed an envelope to Rodin. “Sergeant—M. Legros, I have an urgent message from Inspector Lefebvre.”

Kadyshev had rented a room in a yellow-painted, four-story residence on the Rue des Saules across from the vineyard that had recently been decimated by phylloxera. This quiet neighborhood, known for its rural charm, had acquired a somber aspect, perched high above the city near the Butte's summit and close to the rising white walls of Sacré-Coeur. The once-thriving vineyard had become a graveyard of the grape, its abundant vines had withered and grown moribund, denuded of their broad green leaves and succulent fruit.

The arrival of three policemen on her doorstep shocked Mme Arnaud, the concierge. She knew Sergeant Rodin well and expressed her anxiety to him directly. “One of my tenants, murdered, M. Rodin? Such a thing is unthinkable. It will give the house a bad name.”

Rodin's familiarity and solicitous demeanor calmed her. Achille thought it best to question Mme Arnaud in Rodin's presence, trusting Legros to conduct a thorough preliminary search of Kadyshev's room. The concierge led the policemen into her tightly shuttered sitting room, where she settled her ample skirts onto a velvet-upholstered settee and offered Achille and Rodin a pair of lumpy, stiff leather chairs. After a tense moment, a tinkling silver bell and a plaintive meow initiated conversation. Achille was greeted by a cat rubbing its muzzle against his pant leg.

Mme Arnaud's eyes widened in surprise and a network of wrinkles spread across her face in reaction to the prodigious sight. “This is impossible, M. Lefebvre. Cyrano hates strangers. To be honest, he doesn't much like people he knows, including me, not to mention other cats. But he absolutely loathes strange humans.”

Madame's wonder magnified when Achille scratched the old Siamese behind his ear. Cyrano responded by springing onto Achille's lap, curling into a ball, and purring blithely while casually flipping his tail against Achille's thigh.

“I guess I have a way with cats, Mme Arnaud,” Achille remarked. He didn't add that cats had a way with him, too. If he didn't get on with his questioning, his eyes would begin to water, his throat would scratch, and he might be seized by a fit of sneezing.

Rodin viewed the interchange among cat, concierge, and detective with a knowing grin. Good relations with a concierge could prove invaluable in police work. The ubiquitous Parisian gatekeepers tended to be more knowledgeable and reliable than the best-paid informers, at least when it came to the comings and goings of their tenants.

“My dear Mme Arnaud,” Rodin said, “in addition to his remarkable affinity for cats, M. Lefebvre is one of France's most distinguished detectives. I vouch for him without reservation.”

The old woman smiled fondly at Achille. “Since both Cyrano and my old friend Sergeant Rodin hold you in such high regard, I shall, of course, do whatever I can to assist in your investigation.”

Achille smiled, thanked her, and began his polite interrogation. He continued gently stroking Cyrano's neck and back, as if by doing so he could further ingratiate himself with both the cat and its mistress. “Mme Arnaud, how long have you known M. Kadyshev?”

She narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips, and thought a moment. “I believe he first came here by way of Geneva, back in the fall of 1881. Of course, I have a record of the exact date. That was the year of the Tsar's assassination. Many Russians came here back then.”

“Can you tell me what sort of gentleman he was? I mean, his habits, customs, and general demeanor. Did he have many friends, or was he the sort who kept to himself?”

“Well now, he was an educated gentleman; he had a medical degree from his own country, but he wasn't qualified to practice here so he worked as an apothecary at a shop in the square. I'd say in most regards he was an ideal tenant—neat, quiet, and always paid the rent on time. And he was polite, but not friendly, if you know what I mean. A solitary fellow, and rather gloomy—but I have no reason to complain of him.”

Achille thought,
Speak well of the dead or not at all.
“I see. Can you recall any friends or acquaintances of his—male or female?”

Madame sighed. “There were no women, which might seem odd. He was a decent-looking man and seemed healthy enough. He dressed well for a man of his class and occupation, but he wasn't a pansy. I know that sort, not that I have any particular prejudice against them. At any rate, in all the years he was here I can recall only two male acquaintances, both of them Russian.”

“Do you know their names?”

“Yes, there was a M. Nazimov. He was a doctor by profession, like M. Kadyshev. A thin, pale gentleman as I recall, and he coughed a good deal. He might have been consumptive. Anyway, he hasn't been here in years.”

Achille assumed that she referred to Mme Nazimova's husband; the information squared with what Nazimova had told him about their relationship with Kadyshev. “And the other man?”

“Ah, that would be M. Boguslavsky—what names these people have. He visited quite frequently, as recently as last week. I think he's a chemist. A loud man, not as polite as M. Kadyshev, and he smokes like an old stove.”

Achille immediately recalled the Sobranie. “Excuse me, Madame. Did this man smoke a pipe or a cigar?”

“No, Inspector, he smoked cigarettes, one right after the other. And he dropped the butts on the landing, the stairway, in the entrance hall, or anywhere else he pleased.”

“Do you remember anything different or unusual about the cigarettes he smoked?”

“Yes, they were long with cardboard tips, the kind Russians smoke. Heaven knows I've had to pick up enough of them.”

“Can you give me a more detailed description of M. Boguslavsky? His approximate age, height, weight, and build, and color of skin, hair, beard, and eyes? Or any unusual distinguishing features—scars, deformities, and so forth?”

“Oh, he's a bear, taller than you by a couple of centimeters, and stocky. I'd say he's in his forties; he has a full brown beard that comes down well below his collar and he's balding on top, but no gray. Big brown eyes and a gruff manner. And he does have a nasty scar above the beard on his left cheek. Might have got it dueling, which wouldn't surprise me; he's that sort of man.”

“This is very helpful information, Madame. You said you believe he's a chemist. Do you know where he's employed?”

She shook her head. “No, M. Lefebvre, I'm afraid not. You might ask over at the café near the apothecary shop. He and M. Kadyshev used to go there for coffee and to play chess. And, I assume, to talk politics.”

The mention of politics piqued Achille's interest. “Politics—did you ever overhear any of their discussions?”

Mme Arnaud flushed a bit and laughed nervously. “Well, Monsieur, I don't eavesdrop. But I have overheard them, on occasion, speaking in a mixture of French and Russian, and I could make out some of it. Stuff about workers and peasants, oppressors and tyrants, strikes, revolution, that sort of thing.”

She paused a moment, glanced at her old friend Rodin, and then looked back at Achille with a grim frown. “You know, M. Lefebvre, many of us up here still have bitter memories of 1871. I remember an old priest, Abbé Laurent, a kindly gentleman who always cared for the sick and the poor, and never harmed anyone. He was one of the hostages shot by the mob on the Rue Haxo. No, Inspector, I want nothing to do with that sort of ‘politics.'”

Achille understood perfectly. Across the political spectrum, Parisians had painful memories of the Commune. Asking questions about what had occurred, especially during the Bloody Week, was like probing an old wound that had never completely healed. “Madame, we'll need to question your other two tenants. I understand they're both presently at work?”

“Yes. Messrs. Jacquot and Lebel. But I assure you, they had nothing to do with the Russians.”

“I understand, Madame. It's just a matter of routine.”

A knock on the parlor door interrupted them. “Pardon me, Madame; that must be my associate, Inspector Legros.” Achille placed Cyrano down gently on the carpet, leaving the cat staring up at his new friend with wistful blue eyes, his tail curled into a question mark. Achille walked to the entrance with the cat padding alongside. When the door opened, Cyrano let out a low growl and dashed into the hall, having spotted a mouse scampering along the skirting board.

“Excuse me, Inspector, I'm sorry to interrupt. But I've found some items of interest upstairs.”

Achille smiled. “Not to worry, Étienne, I'm finished down here.” He turned back toward Mme Arnaud. “Thank you again, Madame. You have my card. If you have any questions or any further information of interest, please don't hesitate to contact me. You may also get a message to me or M. Legros through Sergeant Rodin.”