The Hanged Man (15 page)

Achille stared at Le Boudin, trying to read his face. He soon realized that he had misunderstood the man, and that this misunderstanding might have been the result of his own prejudice. “Very well, my friend. I'll use her, as long as she understands the danger involved—and the nature of our relationship.”

Le Boudin leaned back in his chair, smiled, and shook his head. “You're still speaking like a gentleman. What does ‘the nature of our relationship' mean?”

“Cordial and professional. Or, if you prefer, businesslike, but friendly.”

Le Boudin shrugged. “As you wish, Inspector.” He reached over to the counter, grabbed a glass of rum, and handed it to Achille. Then he took one for himself. “Time to toast our bargain. Moïse should return presently. We'll be in touch, and you can use him as our messenger.”

They downed their drinks, then Achille staggered to his feet and leaned against the counter for support.

There was a knock on the door followed by the announcement, “I'm at your service, M. Lefebvre. Whenever you're ready.”

Le Boudin turned to Achille. “You'd best be off now, Inspector. You'll hear from me soon. And don't worry about Delphine.”

Achille took a deep breath, made an effort to clear his head, and tried not to slur his words. “Thank you, Le Boudin. I appreciate your assistance and I'll see to it that you receive a just compensation. And please be assured, in this matter, you've the honor of serving our country.”

The old legionnaire glanced down at his hook. “I already served my country, Inspector.” Then he looked back up and smiled. “But now I have the pleasure of helping a friend. Good luck, M. Lefebvre.”

“Papa's home! Papa's home!” The little girl broke free from her mother's hand and streaked toward Achille as soon as he crossed the threshold. Achille smiled and hoisted the child in his arms.

Jeanne's angelic face screwed up into a disgusted
moue
. “Oh, Papa, you look like a tramp and your breath stinks.”

“I'm sorry, little one. Papa was out playing tramp with his friends. But now I must clean up and go to work.”

Jeanne rested her head on his shoulder and clung to him desperately. “Please don't go. I want you to stay here and play tramp with
me
.”

Adele came over in a snit. “Achille, you're filthy and you've been drinking. I just bathed and dressed her. Now, I'll have to do it all over again.” She pried the little girl from his arms.

“No, no, I want to play with Papa!” Jeanne whined.

Adele wrestled the child down and grabbed her hand to drag her up the hallway. “Behave, or I'll spank you,” she snapped at her squirming daughter. The threat transformed the whining into howls and shrieks that echoed through the apartment and continued with intensity behind a locked nursery door.

Achille sighed and turned up the hallway toward the master bedroom. He'd almost made it to the door when his mother-in-law confronted him.

Mme Berthier loomed before him, a malevolent gnome in black bombazine and white widow's cap, imbued with the overwhelming wardrobe odor of attar of roses and camphor. “Good morning, Achille. Have you been attending a masquerade with your Montmartre friends?”

Achille winced. “Pardon me, Madame. I've been on duty since three this morning. I'm tired and I've had nothing to eat since last evening. Now I must wash, change, and report to headquarters directly.”

Madame's eyes narrowed within a spiderweb of wrinkles. She sniffed. “Ah, it's a pity you've had nothing to eat. At least you were fortunate enough to find something to drink.”

Achille was in need of many things, the least of which was a conversation with his mother-in-law. Nevertheless, he tried to be civil. “Madame, I'm afraid the drink was in the line of duty. I assure you, I did not enjoy it. Now, if you'll excuse me—”

“I understand, my boy. No need to apologize for your condition. You were on a covert assignment, no doubt in emulation of your idol, the
great
Vidocq.” She referred to Eugène François Vidocq, founder of the Sûreté. Among other things, Vidocq had been famous for his disguised forays into the Parisian underworld. But her reference reeked of sarcasm; she had nothing but contempt for the reformed criminal-turned-detective and had made her feelings known to her son-in-law on several occasions.

“Yes, Madame, it's something like that. Now, if you please—”

“I knew it, I knew it,” the old woman chirped redundantly. “Only the other day I was discussing the case of the hanged man with my friend Mme Gros. As always, she's developed an interesting theory.” Mme Gros was the proprietress of a vegetable stall at the local market; she was famous for her cabbages and conspiracy theories.

Achille decided to play along—up to a point. After all, his mother-in-law could make the homecoming at the end of the day pleasant by squaring things with Adele. “And what, pray tell, is Mme Gros's theory?”

Madame's eyes darted as though there were little spies concealed in the nooks and crannies of her face. Then she approached Achille's chest, tilted her head up, and whispered in the direction of his inclined chin. “Berlin's behind it. The hanged man was a double agent and the Germans found him out.”

Achille tried to keep a straight face. “That's an intriguing conjecture. Of course, Madame, you understand I'm not at liberty to comment.”

“Absolutely, my boy. And I'm pleased you've been given an assignment worthy of your talents.” She paused a moment before adding, “Jeanne's been difficult all morning, and the baby's colicky again. Adele's out of sorts, but I'll set her right before you come home this evening.”

Achille smiled appreciatively. “Thank you, Madame. And please be discreet when discussing the case.” He lifted a finger to his lips for emphasis.

She smiled conspiratorially. “Mum's the word. You can count on me.” With that, she bade him good morning.

Achille watched for a moment as Madame shuffled up the shadowy hallway toward her boudoir. He shook his head sadly.
German spies. If only it were true. I could dump the damned case into the Deuxième Bureau's lap and be done with it.
Then he opened the bedroom door, went straight to the washstand, and dunked his drowsy head in a basin of cold water.

Viktor Boguslavsky moved his black knight—QN-Q2. Chess solitaire provided a diversion; he was grateful for the gift of the board and men. His handler's indulgence—the provision of the game, reading material, cigarettes, comestibles, and adequate sanitation—had eased the chemist's mind, providing him with a sense of security.
This cellar is merely a waypoint
, he thought,
not the end of the line.

He stroked his beard and took a puff on his Sobranie. As many times as they had played the Queen's Gambit Declined, Kadyshev always fell into Black's trap on the fourth move. Boguslavsky shook his head and sighed.
You ought to have been more clever, Lev Dmitryevich.

Viktor recalled the last game they had played together at a rough picnic bench—one had to sit carefully to avoid splinters—on the patio fronting the Lapin Agile. They had lingered beneath the shade of a tall, leafy tree, a warm wind rustling the branches and stirring a row of bushes on the steep, narrow Rue des Saules. They had smoked cigarettes and sipped a decent
vin ordinaire.
A fine day. But that evening, Comrade Rossignol had ordered Kadyshev's execution.

Why make me participate?
Each time the question surfaced, he tried to shove it back into the murky depths at the bottom of his consciousness. But it had the bad habit of reemerging, like a bloated corpse inadequately weighted down to keep it concealed beneath the river. The chess game, an association with the hanged man, had been sufficient to raise the unwelcome remains, the evidence of his betrayal, and the source of his guilt.

He tried to justify his actions to himself.
We must use all means necessary to achieve universal justice, a goal that will benefit all humanity.
But how many must suffer and perish for the greater good? Hundreds, thousands, millions? In the end, who would remain to enjoy the brave new world that had required so much sacrifice, so much suffering and blood?

I gave them the formula. Why wasn't that enough?
The formula was Boguslavsky's improvement on Nobel's gelignite, the means to the production of a powerful explosive stabilized in a waxy substance, easily shaped and molded like clay. In addition to the formula, he had provided explosives stolen from his employer, and instructions for the manufacture and detonation of a shrapnel-spraying bomb. Comrade Rossignol, the dandified young bicyclist, had given the orders, and Viktor had obeyed to the letter.

Boguslavsky pushed away from the table and stubbed out his cigarette. He glanced at the boarded windows. Still disoriented, he had lost his sense of time and place.

The door lock clicked; the bolt slid. A man known only as the Porter entered. He carried a parcel under his arm. “Greetings, comrade,” the man said in a flat monotone.

Boguslavsky returned the greeting. He had grown accustomed to the Porter's laconic demeanor. The man brought food, emptied the slop bucket, and swept the floor. He spoke little, and his answer to any question was either terse, evasive, or a simple “I don't know.”

The Porter set the parcel down on the table. “I'm here to shave you, cut your hair, and provide you with a change of clothing.”

Boguslavsky's eyes glowed with hopeful anticipation. “Does this mean I'll be leaving soon?”

The Porter opened the parcel and then gathered up the washbasin and pitcher. He removed a razor and whetstone from his jacket pocket. Then he turned toward Boguslavsky. The Porter's little eyes narrowed to slits; his scrubby moustache and pale lips twitched in what seemed like a grin. “I don't know,” he replied.

Féraud puffed furiously on his cigar while pacing around his office. Achille sat quietly, patiently allowing his chief to blow off steam. After his third circuit, the chief dumped his cigar in the ashtray, placed his hands on his desk, leaned over, and glared at Achille. “On whose authority did you enter the Zone?”

“My own, Chief. I thought you wanted me to use initiative. Of course, if you'd like to take me off the case and assign someone else—”

“Oh, no, Inspector.” The chief smiled sarcastically and shook his head. “You don't get off as easily as that. I
want
you on this case, as you well know. But more importantly, the
prefect
wants you on the case. In fact, he insists upon it, so there it is. As for initiative, I expected you'd use judgment like the experienced man you are, rather than playing cloak-and-dagger like a green recruit. You might have been killed this morning or, worse yet, taken hostage. I would have been up to my neck in shit with the prefect and the newspapers.”

“It would have been tough on me, too,” Achille observed.

Féraud grimaced. “It would have been tough on you, too, eh? Well, M. Lefebvre, you are to take no other such risks without first clearing it with me. Is that understood?”