The Hanged Man (33 page)

As she neared the gated entrance to her flat, she heard a low, familiar voice calling her from a murky passageway. Her grip tightened on the razor, her thumb poised to flick it open with a well-practiced action. She approached cautiously until she made out the obscure form of a woman hidden in shadows.

“Is that you, Mado?” she asked.

“Yes, Delphine. Please come closer; there's something I must say to you.”

Delphine shook her head. “I'm sorry. If you want to speak to me, step forward and show yourself.”

The figure revealed itself in lamplight. Delphine recognized de Gournay's form and features through the slanting raindrops. “I've met you halfway. Won't you do me the same courtesy?”

Delphine took one step and halted. “Whatever you have to say, please say it now. It's late, and I'm wet and tired.”

“I told you I was leaving Paris and I asked you to come with me. I offered you money and I regret it. I believe I insulted you. I wanted to apologize.”

“Put your mind at ease, Mado. I'm not insulted. Your offer was simply too generous. I've sold my body for much less than that.”

De Gournay smiled sadly. “Your body, perhaps, but never your heart.”

Delphine had loved one woman and one man. The former was dead, the latter unattainable. She felt something for de Gournay, but she knew it was not love. “You're too romantic. Goodbye, Mado.”

“Just one moment,” de Gournay cried, “that's all. I wanted to tell you that our evening was the happiest of my life. You understand what it's like to be … different. I've never understood, never really knew who or what I was until I met you. Now, I must leave Paris, perhaps never to return. But I'd like to know your true feelings. Please say you don't despise me. Give me a little hope. Can you at least do that much for me?”

At that moment, Delphine understood her feelings for de Gournay—compassion for an outcast. But despite her empathy, she could never betray Achille.

“I don't hate you, Mado, but I could never love you. I don't wish you harm, but I never want to see you again.”

De Gournay reached out to her with one hand, as if he were a drowning man grasping for a lifeline. Delphine turned from him and walked toward the bell-pull. Faced with the finality of her declaration and the futility of his position, de Gournay retreated into the darkness and disappeared.

The concierge answered the bell and opened the gate. Delphine passed into the courtyard and entered the front door. Across the street, Moïse huddled under a blanket behind an overflowing
poubelle
in a cramped, arched passage. Le Boudin had ordered the
chiffonier
to keep a close watch on Delphine.
She's safe for tonight.

For an instant, Moïse considered tailing the strange woman.
Inspector Lefebvre might make it worth my while.
But he had his orders. He stretched out his hand and felt the heavy drops.
The devil with it,
he decided.
No need to traipse all over the Butte in filthy weather.

He settled back in his damp hidey-hole, fixing his eyes on Delphine's room until the shutters closed and the lamp went out.

Clouds covered the moon. The streetlamps below left the rooftops cloaked in shadow. His feet encased in plimsolls, Renard crept noiselessly over slippery roof tiles. The cat burglar wore gloves and tight-fitting black clothing. A knit cap covered his head and a mixture of grease and soot darkened his face. He crawled up to the cornice, where he rested for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, braced himself, and leapt across the narrow space between buildings, landing with a dull thud on the roof over Nazimova's shop.

Two detectives observed Renard's progress from their surveillance post, an unlit fifth-story window in a building across the boulevard. One of the detectives nodded to his companion before opening and closing the shutter on his lantern, a signal to their counterparts on the street. The police waiting below spotted the signal and walked across the street to the shop entrance.

Unaware of the looming police presence, Renard crouched on the roof and scampered to the skylight. There he removed tools of his trade from a canvas bag securely fastened to his leather belt: a glasscutter, a lump of putty, and a clean rag. After drying the selected pane, he applied putty to prevent glass fragments from falling noisily onto the landing below. Then he began cutting near the skylight latch.

He worked swiftly. After a moment, he removed the cut glass, lifted the skylight, and propped it open. He eased himself through the opening, hung by his hands from the sill, and then dropped to the landing.

Renard clutched a small bull's-eye lantern dangling from a hook on his belt. He struck a match on his thumbnail to light the wick, then raised the lamp and scanned his surroundings. The cone of white light revealed the door to Nazimova's bedroom and the narrow stairway leading down to the small room in the back of the shop. The burglar walked downstairs and entered the back room, where he spied the mantelpiece and went straight for the loose brick in the hearth.

“Stop, in the name of the law!” a detective shouted.

Renard glanced over his shoulder into the glare of two unshuttered lanterns. The burglar flung his lantern at the police and bolted for the stairway. The detectives cursed and ran after him.

Renard mounted the landing and leaped for the skylight sill. Pulling up with powerful arms, he was almost halfway through the skylight when a warning shot hit the wall just below the burglar's dangling feet.

“Stop, or the next shot won't miss!” the detective cried.

Renard lowered himself and leaned back against the wall with his hands up. Trembling, he glared at the approaching detectives. The cramped space reeked with the sharp stench of sweat and gunpowder.

His smoking revolver at the ready, the detective climbed the stairs with his partner close behind. Upon reaching the landing, he pointed his gun at Renard's belly. “Pull another stunt like that and you'll wish you were dead. Face the wall and lower your hands behind your back.”

The burglar complied without a word. The second detective stepped forward and bound Renard's hands tightly before patting him down for weapons, while his partner kept their quarry covered with his pistol. When the detective was satisfied that his quarry was defenseless, he grabbed Renard by the shoulder, spun him around, and slammed a fist into his gut. Renard doubled over in pain, retching, and puked on the carpet.

“That'll teach you not to fuck with us,” the first detective growled.

“It was a fair cop,” his partner added. “An old pro like you should have known better. Now you're going to have a nice chat with Inspector Rousseau, so you'd better behave yourself.”

Renard's eyes widened. “Rousseau?”

The detectives laughed. The first detective holstered his revolver and said, “You should see your face, Renard—like a comedian who just got his rear whacked with a slapstick. You'd better be nice and sing like a bird for Rousseau, or the clochards will have your guts for fish bait. Now let's get a move on. We mustn't keep the inspector waiting.”

At four
A.M.
, Moreau and Wroblewski arrived at the house on the Rue Ronsard. Moreau turned the latchkey and they entered the front hallway. The blinding white light of several police lanterns greeted them.

“Laurent Moreau and Leon Wroblewski,” Achille said, “I arrest you in the name of the law.”

The pair replied by turning to run, but landed in the arms of two beefy officers. A struggle ensued, ending when a gendarme whipped out his truncheon and cracked the back of Wroblewski's skull. Stunned, the fugitive dropped to his knees like a poleaxed ox. Seeing his companion fall at his side and realizing the hopelessness of the situation, Moreau gave up the fight and surrendered.

The officers bound the prisoners and dragged them to Achille and Legros.

“Where's Rossignol?” Achille demanded.

Wroblewski, his eyes glazed over, shook his head and mumbled incoherently. Moreau scowled and spat in the inspector's face. Achille calmly wiped the spittle with a handkerchief; his partner was not so unflappable.

“Filthy swine!” Legros struck Moreau's face with the back of his hand, knocking the prisoner down. Legros's signet ring split Moreau's lip and cracked a tooth. “Stay on your knees and lick the floor!”

Achille put his hand on his partner's shoulder. “That's enough, Étienne.” He ordered the gendarmes to stand the prisoner up.

The officers grabbed Moreau's bound arms and lifted him to his feet. One of the gendarmes yanked the prisoner's hair and held his head in Achille's direction.

“It's over, Moreau,” Achille said calmly. “You're facing the guillotine or transportation. Cooperate, and we'll recommend leniency. I'll ask one more time. Where is Rossignol?”

Moreau scowled. “Go to hell.”

“Take them to the Conciergerie,” Achille ordered.

The officers carried the groaning, semi-conscious Wroblewski feet-first out the door. Moreau followed. As soon as he was in the street, Moreau cried, “You may cut off our heads, but the voice of the people will be heard. Long live anarchy!” Several dogs barked in reply.

“Gag him before he wakes the whole neighborhood,” Achille directed. Then he turned to his partner and shook his head. “De Gournay's given us the slip. All we have are the pawns. I wonder what Rousseau's doing with Renard.”

“Getting valuable information, I hope,” Legros replied. “I'm sure the Porter will talk to save his neck. Among other things, our Belgian friends said he's a gutless canary. However, I doubt the
juge
will get anything out of Moreau or Wroblewski.”

Achille nodded his agreement. “They aren't cowards, if that's what you mean. They want to be martyrs for the cause, but scoundrels have duped and betrayed them and their ideals. Who will profit from their sacrifice? De Gournay? Orlovsky? Others of their ilk? Anyway, the poor fools we arrested this morning wouldn't believe us if we told them. I'm afraid there's no chance of justice in this case unless we catch Rossignol.”

Legros tried to lift his partner's spirit with a sanguine observation. “Sergeant Rodin's men are searching the house on the Rue de la Mire. Maybe de Gournay's hiding there?”

“That would be too lucky, my friend,” Achille said with a sigh. “At any rate, they should be reporting soon. In the meantime, let's go to the cellar and see what the chemist has found.”

The police had entered the house and begun searching a few hours earlier. An expert from the Central Explosives Laboratory accompanied them. They were particularly concerned about the potential hazard from a cache of nitroglycerin.

Achille and Legros went down to the cellar, where they found the chemist and another detective examining a stockpile of explosives and weapons by the light of kerosene lamps. The chemist crouched by a box in a corner, sifting through its contents until he heard the inspectors approach. He turned his head and smiled up at Achille.

“I've some good news, Inspector. There's no nitro down here. We've found dynamite, gelignite, blasting caps and fuses, and an interesting timing device. But once it's all been inventoried, it will be safe to transport.”

“I see,” Achille replied. “So there's no evidence they were making an explosive from a formula?”

The chemist got up and walked over to Achille and Legros. “No, Inspector, they have neither the equipment nor the chemicals required for manufacturing explosives. They either purchased or stole everything. Everything, that is, except for the timer, which is quite ingenious.”

“May I see it?”

The chemist led Achille and Legros to a workbench in the middle of the basement. “As you can see, it's a cheap alarm clock connected to a detonator. It could be placed in a parcel or briefcase, left somewhere, and timed to explode after the bomber had made his escape.”

Achille lifted the device and examined it carefully. “Yes, it's devilishly clever, all right.” He set down the mechanism and added, “I appreciate your efforts, Professor. Your assistance in this case has been invaluable.”