The Hanged Man (24 page)

Delphine frowned. “Last night, I saw evidence of his
displeasure
on Aurore's behind.”

“Oh, that.” Apolline shrugged. “Last week, Monsieur was playing cards with his crony, de Gournay. Aurore and Aisha served them, and that clumsy fool Aurore spilled half a bottle of champagne over the card table. Monsieur was furious. He made her lift her skirts and lie face down on the settee. I held her wrists while de Gournay grabbed her by the ankles. Monsieur whipped Aurore's bare ass with his riding crop and little Aisha had to count the strokes. The poor girl cried more than Aurore.”

“The brute. A pimp beat me when I was fourteen and I swore I'd kill the next man who abused me.”

“Fine gentlemen or thugs, so many men are beasts. But if you ask me, Aurore provokes him. I fancy it's just a game for them. They're both bent that way, I'm afraid.”

Delphine smirked.
“À chacun son goût.”
Then she finished the chocolate, puffed her cigarette, and set it down in an ashtray.

“At any rate, he's never hurt me physically, though he's made threats on occasion. And I've managed to obtain some nice trinkets for my services, and put some cash away, too.”

“I'm glad to hear it. We girls should save for a rainy day. By the way, what do you think of M. de Gournay?”

Apolline shook her head and frowned. “He's a queer one. I can't make him out. For example, when M. Orlovsky whipped Aurore, you should have seen the fiendish look on his face. Like Satan himself; frightening. But de Gournay? Nothing—blank as a wiped slate. He might as well have been staring at the wallpaper.”

“Well, we see all kinds of things in our profession—and hear them, too. By the way, what is the relationship between Orlovsky and de Gournay? Are they in business together?”

“Now you've touched on an interesting subject.” Her eyes darted furtively around the room, as if looking for spies lurking in every corner and crevice. Though they were alone, she lowered her voice. “They're in business, all right, and they're on to something big. If it comes off as planned, they stand to make millions. I guess they let things slip around me because they think I'm too stupid to understand. But I'm not so dumb. I'll let you in on a secret, if you promise on your sacred honor not to tell anyone.”

Delphine surreptitiously crossed her fingers behind her back and promised.

“All right. It seems Germany has stopped lending money to Russia. So a syndicate of the largest French banks has entered into an agreement with the Russians for a huge loan on very favorable terms. France will be Russia's largest creditor.”

“How big is ‘huge'?”

“Orlovsky said a billion francs.”

“But what has this loan to do with Orlovsky and de Gournay?”

Apolline grinned slyly. “Ah, here's where it gets really interesting. Orlovsky acts as agent for a large Russian arms manufacturer. De Gournay works for a comparable French firm. When they float the loan, the Russian government will give an immense subsidy to Orlovsky's company and the price of its shares will skyrocket. What's more, Orlovsky and de Gournay share a secret from which both companies will benefit. So the price in the French company's shares will rise as well.”

“Do you know the secret?”

Apolline shook her head. “I think it has something to do with a new explosive for the military. Anyway, anyone with shares in the French and Russian companies at today's prices stands to make a fortune when the loan goes through and the public gets wind of it. Frankly, I was hoping they'd let me invest a little, but I'm afraid to ask.

“And here's another thing that frightens me: I've seen Orlovsky with Rousseau. They meet at the Cabaret de L'Enfer. Everyone in Montmartre knows that Rousseau took payoffs from the pimps and cabaret owners. Maybe he's on Orlovsky's payroll. I don't know, and I don't want to get involved. Rousseau's scarier than Orlovsky and de Gournay put together.”

Delphine nodded her agreement and smiled sympathetically. “You'd better play dumb and stay out of it.” After a moment, she questioned, “Do you think Aurore knows anything? And what about Aisha? Have they discussed this matter with you?”

“I don't think they know anything. At least, they haven't talked to me about it. You're the only one I've told, so far. I don't trust the other girls.” She reached across the table and took Delphine's hand. “I wanted to tell someone to get it off my chest. You're different from the others. It's sort of like talking to a priest.”

Delphine stared into her friend's trusting eyes, and knew that when she passed the information to Achille, she would have to emphasize the need to protect Apolline and the other girls. “I'm glad you told me. But you realize we can't profit from this information. That would be wrong, not to mention
extremely
dangerous.”

Apolline frowned soberly. “I promise I won't speak another word about it, except to you.”

Delphine leaned forward and kissed her friend's lips. “I must finish dressing and go now, my dear.”

“Oh, so soon?” Apolline pouted with disappointment, like a child who missed her favorite playmate. “I wish we had more time together. Anyway, do you still plan to meet M. de Gournay?”

Delphine got up and patted Apolline's hair affectionately. “Yes, the young gentleman intrigues me. I enjoy a challenge.”

Apolline sighed. “Well, you be careful around that man. He gives me the creeps.”

Delphine laughed nonchalantly, as if to show her disdain for a mere fop. “Now, where did I leave my dress?” she asked, scanning the room in search of her outfit.

Apolline went to her dresser, sat down in front of the mirror, and began arranging her hair. “It's in the wardrobe, my dear, along with your corset. Your shoes and stockings are under the bed.” For a moment, she watched Delphine's reflected image in the mirror as she rounded up her clothes. Then Apolline smiled at her reflection and continued her toilette.

I've seen that face before. But where? When?

Achille stared at Lautrec's sketch of de Gournay. Light streamed through a window opening onto the quay, highlighting the drawing on his desk. He stubbed out a cigarette in an ashtray, lit another, and then closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

Who is he? What's his game? I need to contact Delphine.

Opening his eyes, he leaned forward and penciled a note on a chart he had been working on since his meeting with Rousseau had concluded. The sounds of chugging tugboats and steam whistles filtered in from the river, but he hardly noticed, concentrating instead on the chart and the case.

The case could involve the interests of four major powers: France, Russia, Germany, and Great Britain. Two competing factions on the radical left were also relevant to his investigation: Anarchists and Marxists. Kadyshev, the Hanged Man, had been a Marxist. Boguslavsky, Moreau, and Wroblewski were Anarchists. He situated Nazimov and Nazimova in between with a question mark. He indicated Rossignol with a question mark and an exclamation point.

How did all these interests interact? On the French side, he sketched in the hierarchy down to inspector level. He did the same on the Russian side, from Tsar down to the Okhrana operatives. He bracketed Rousseau and drew a line between the inspector, the Russian Secret Police, and Orlovsky. However, he also drew a dotted line between France and Russia. He had no way of knowing for sure, but it was reasonable to assume that cooperation between the two nations, at least in regard to this matter, went up to the highest level. Such covert cooperation between France and Russia could draw the attention of German and British intelligence. Furthermore, all four governments spied on the activities of the radicals.

What do they all want?
By “all,” he meant the gamut from kings and queens down to pawns. He could not dwell upon overly broad generalities like power, wealth, and prestige. He needed to bring it down to the level of the matter at hand. He reconsidered his conclusions based on Boguslavsky's expertise in high explosives.
Maybe there is more to it than making anarchist bombs. Perhaps he's developed something revolutionary, something powerful.
That was tangible and concrete, something of military value providing a plausible motive for espionage, betrayal, theft, and murder.

Achille put down his pencil, removed his pince-nez, and rubbed his eyes. His thoughts turned to the elusive knight.
Who is the bastard? What is he? Whom does he serve? Is he in it for himself?

After a moment, he penciled in Rossignol beneath Orlovsky. He added de Gournay, traced a dotted line connecting the two, put them in brackets, took a ruler and drew another dotted line to the “Rossignol” entry among the radicals. He wrote “Infiltrator,” “Double Agent,” and “Agent Provocateur,” and placed question marks next to all three. He added notations as reminders: “Delphine,” who was to spy on de Gournay, and “Legros,” who was to provide more information about Rossignol.

Achille wanted to talk to Legros, who was currently at the stakeout in Montmartre. Among other things, he was to arrange with Gilles to begin photographing the coded messages. He glared at the brass telephone resting uselessly on his desk.
What good is the blasted thing without more lines, exchanges, and call boxes?
He would have to rely on the telegraph and messengers. He was in the process of scribbling a note to Legros when a knock on the door interrupted him.

“Enter,” he muttered, and quickly stuffed his chart in a desk drawer.

The chief greeted him cheerily. “Good morning, Achille. Hard at work on the case, I see.”

Achille returned the greeting and offered Féraud a chair. He noticed a folded newspaper in the chief's hand.

Féraud requested a routine update on the case, which Achille provided without too much detail or speculation. He made a point of not referencing his chart. The chief seemed quite satisfied, but he beamed while incessantly tapping the newspaper with his forefinger. Achille thought this behavior peculiar and annoying. Eventually, when he could endure no more, he looked directly at the paper and blandly inquired if there was anything interesting in the morning news.

The chief grinned from ear to ear. He lifted the paper and began smacking it against his palm as if he were about to swat a naughty puppy. “As if you didn't know, my boy!”

Achille shook his head in bewilderment. “I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Chief. Will you please be direct?”

The chief shook his head bemusedly. “Oh, all right, Achille, though I think such coyness more becoming to a maiden at her first ball.” He opened the early morning edition of
Les Amis de la Vérité
and turned to a featured article. “Shall I read aloud what M. Fournier has to say about ‘France's greatest detective'?”

Damn the man!
Achille thought, assuming that the reference to France's greatest detective was a product of the journalist's sarcasm. Anticipating a dressing-down, Achille sputtered, “I can explain, Chief. The man's a rascal. Adele and I—”

The chief broke in with a laugh. “A rascal, you say? That's very droll. A journalist praises you to the skies in a prestigious newspaper, and you call him a dirty name. I wonder what you would say about your enemies.”

Achille was perplexed in the extreme. Flushed with embarrassment, he asked, “Pardon me, Chief. May I see the article?”

“With pleasure, my boy. I should think you'd want to clip it, get it framed, and hang it on your office wall. Such acclaim from the press is the next best thing to the Legion of Honor.”

Achille took the paper and skimmed the article. There was no mention of the incident at La Grenouillère. Rather, this was a puff piece dedicated to the Sûreté, with Achille singled out as the investigative brigade's rising star. Fournier did not spare the adulatory adjectives: Inspector Lefebvre was “intrepid,” “resourceful,” “indefatigable,” and “brilliant.” Achille responded to the flattery with mixed feelings—on one hand, there was the gratification that most would experience upon seeing oneself lionized in print; on the other, he could not avoid skepticism and suspicion as to the journalist's motives. He returned the newspaper without comment.

Féraud stared at Achille for a few moments before asking, with a hint of exasperation, “Well, aren't you going to say anything?”

Achille replied modestly, “It's very complimentary to the brigade.”

The chief shook his head and grinned. “Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.”

Achille frowned. “What do you want me to say?”

The chief laughed at his protégé's seemingly affected display of nonchalance. “Do you keep a bottle of cognac in your office? No, of course you do not. Well, I do. If I were in your shoes, I'd pour a couple of glasses, salute our success, and perhaps pour another and one more after that. Then I'd dance a jig around the office.”