The Hanged Man (8 page)

A warm golden light streamed through the cracks separating doorframe from bedroom door. He knocked softly and entered. Adele was sitting up against a bolster as she read by the glow of a bedside lamp. She glanced up from her reading, smiled, and returned to her book without speaking.

Achille went straight to the armoire and changed into a clean linen nightshirt. Adele's eyes darted furtively from the page to her naked husband; after seven years of marriage, she still admired the “Professor's” lean athletic body. But when he sat on the edge of the bed, she took no notice and appeared engrossed in her book.

“What are you reading, my dear?”

“Maupassant's
The Flayed Hand
,” she replied, without looking up.

Achille shook his head, smiling, and tugged at the book gently. “You shouldn't read something like that before you go to sleep. It'll give you nightmares.”

Adele closed the book and set it down on the bedside table. She gazed up at him, her green eyes sparkling, her red lips parted. Placing her hands on his shoulders she whispered, “I shan't be afraid with my big, strong man in bed to protect me.”

Achille was dog-tired, but he wasn't dead. He undid the ribbons of her nightgown, pulling the soft garment down over her shoulders and breasts. Leaning over, he caressed an erect pink nipple with his tongue.

A piercing cry came from the nursery. “Oh, dear, it's Olivier,” she exclaimed. “He's been colicky today.” Adele pushed her husband away and did up her bodice.

He took her gently by the wrist. “Please, don't go. Nanny will see to him.”

She frowned; the sparkling emerald eyes grew cold as ice. “Nonsense. What do you know of these things? He wants his mother. Since you're so tired, you needn't wait up for me.” She got out from under the covers, put on her slippers, and left him, aroused and unsatisfied.

Achille leaned back on the bolster and contemplated the shadows on the ceiling.
“Merde alors!”
he muttered. Then he picked up
The Flayed Hand
and flipped through a few pages. “Ah, M. Maupassant,” he sighed. “Reality is much scarier than fiction.”

In the early morning hours, raindrops pummeled the pavement on the Boulevard de Clichy. Rousseau stepped out of the darkness and passed through the jaws of hell. The gatekeeper greeted him satanically: “Enter, and be damned.”

A crooked grin creased the hulking detective's face. He lifted his bowler and shook out the brim. Rousseau examined the soggy felt hat for a moment, and then held it by his side as it continued dripping onto the floor. Looking back at the Devil of Pigalle, he said, “I was damned long before I got here, my friend.”

The doorman at the Cabaret de L'Enfer, a down-on-his-luck actor costumed as a stage Mephistopheles—green tights, horns, cloven hooves—replied, “As were we all, M. Rousseau.”

Rousseau grunted his agreement. He took a few steps beyond the threshold, then paused to imbibe the atmosphere. Beams of warm, colored electric light flashed through a haze of tobacco smoke and steam that hissed periodically through strategically placed jets in the walls and ceiling. To his left, three demonic fiddlers, bobbing in what appeared to be a seething iron cauldron, scratched out a waltz from Gounod's
Faust
. Above the musical racket, he heard the buzz of conversation, punctuated by the shrill giggling of whores laughing at their companions' suggestive jokes.

Crimson-painted, high relief moldings, depicting lost souls and their tormentors, writhed over the walls and ceiling. Rousseau focused his attention for a moment on an imp prodding a sinner's ass with a pitchfork, and wondered at how the imp's face resembled his own.
I might have sat for the portrait
, he thought.

Glancing past two rows of men and women seated at round tables draped in oilcloth, he noticed a devil-costumed illusionist performing one of his tricks, transforming water into wine. Alongside the magician, a demonically attired young woman tended bar. Bustling waiters dropped off orders from their guzzling customers and returned with expertly mixed concoctions with clever names. The very sight of the drinks made Rousseau thirsty.

Two young women sat at a corner table near the bar, their painted faces half-hidden beneath enormous plumed hats. Their slender throats were wrapped in pink-feathered boas, and their undernourished bodies draped in clinging crimson silk. One girl noticed Rousseau and whispered something in the direction of her companion. A small, round head popped out from the narrow space between the whores. Keen brown eyes peered through the yellowish haze. Sensual red lips, framed by a black moustache waxed imperial, greeted Rousseau with a smile of recognition.

As Rousseau approached the table, the
poules
rose and walked toward the exit, passing him on either side with eyes averted. In proximity, he noticed that neither girl appeared to be more than fourteen. He paused a moment and glanced over his shoulder at their swishing little behinds, eyeing them with a mixture of pity and contempt. Then he proceeded to the table.

The man placed his pudgy hands, covered in rings, on the tabletop and half-rose in salutation. “Good morning, M. Rousseau. I see you're a trifle damp. Please, be seated. Would you care for some refreshment? I suggest Devil's Brew and Hellfire to brace you up.” The man spoke elegant Parisian French with just a hint of a foreign accent. His impeccably tailored suit would have passed muster among the most discriminating swells at the Jockey Club.

Rousseau nodded and took a chair. “Thank you, Monsieur. I need a drink.”

The man snapped his fingers at a waiter loitering by the bar. “Some service, Raymond, if you please.”

The imp-costumed waiter immediately sprang to life, skipping over to take their order. He gave an unctuous smile in anticipation of his patron's generous
pourboire
, then dashed off to fill the order.

The man glanced after him and then looked back at Rousseau. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table and lowered his voice. “We can speak freely, my friend. Just be careful when the waiter comes around. Now, I understand you have some information for me?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Rousseau answered in a discreet
sotto voce
. “I've turned three files over to my friend, and the bloodhound's taken the scent. He's put out a search for Boguslavsky, and he's looking for a cat burglar as well. Someone did a good job cleaning out Kadyshev's room. And I expect he'll go back to Nazimova for more questioning.”

The man's eyes narrowed. He formed a steeple with his fingers, and then intertwined the digits as if in prayer. “Who do you think will get to Boguslavsky first?”

Rousseau shook his head. “I don't know. Achille's very thorough. He and Legros have developed their own network of informers in and around Paris. He'll also have police watching the railways, ports, and border crossings. And he has excellent contacts in London and Brussels, Boguslavsky's most likely destinations outside France.”

“Well, we have excellent contacts in London and Brussels, too.” The man started fussing with a black onyx cameo ring, twisting it around and around his finger. “As for the cat burglar and Kadyshev's room, do you think Lefebvre has any idea what's missing?”

Rousseau shook his head and snorted. “He's clever, Monsieur, but he doesn't have second sight. At any rate, I expect he'll sniff things out soon enough.”

Raymond interrupted with their drinks. The man gazed up at the waiter and smiled appreciatively, but remained silent until he was out of earshot once more. “He'll get something out of Nazimova, I'm sure,” he eventually continued. “It's a good thing she's under close surveillance.”

Rousseau nodded and sipped his coffee and cognac.

The man smiled and stopped toying with his ring. “Inspector Lefebvre's an interesting fellow. He's in line to become the next chief of the detective's brigade. I'll want to meet him one of these days. I'm sure you can arrange that, when the time comes.”

Rousseau finished his drink and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. “No problem, Monsieur.”

The man sipped his drink, leaned back and hooked a thumb in his vest pocket. “I won't detain you any longer, my friend.” He paused a moment, then added, “Those little girls are very friendly, and I don't mind sharing. That is, if you have nothing more pressing.”

Rousseau looked over the man's shoulder. A golden-eyed demon leered at him from its wall niche. “No, thank you. I have a woman waiting for me.”

The man shrugged. “As the Parisians say:
à chacun son goût.
” He extended his hand.
“Au revoir.”

4

LE TEMPS DES CERISES

A
t five
A.M.
, Chief Féraud tasted his morning
café
, smiled, and smacked his lips with satisfaction. “Perfection,” he sighed. The brew was hot as hell, black as mud, and strong as the biblical Samson; those were his standing orders for the clerk who was assigned the task of procuring the chief's coffee, and this morning they'd been carried out to the letter.

Thus fortified with a jolt of caffeine, the chief hunched over his desk while shuffling through routine paperwork, until he came to a manila envelope date-stamped that morning at the Morgue. He turned the screw on his oil lamp until the flaming wick flooded his cluttered desk with light. His stubby fingers eagerly tore open the flap and retrieved a sharp, expertly composed image of a guillotined head on a slab. A knock on the door interrupted the chief's scrutiny of the photo. He expected Achille, and so answered with a cheerful “Come in!”

Achille entered and took a seat opposite Féraud. His haggard face and red eyes outlined in dark circles appeared in sharp contrast to his chipper boss. Achille's weary countenance led to the chief's observation, “You're not getting enough sleep, my boy.” The chief handed over the photograph. “Here's something to wake you up.”

Achille rubbed his eyes and put on his pince-nez. Nodding in recognition, he said matter-of-factly, “It's Palmieri, the Corsican axe-murderer. An excellent likeness.” He handed back the photo. “I suppose you're going to add it to your Rogue's Gallery?”

Féraud returned the photo to its envelope. He smiled with a sense of pride, like an old hunter about to mount his valedictory trophy on an overcrowded wall. “Yes. He might be among the last of my tenure. You'll be starting your own Rogue's Gallery soon. And you deserve much credit for Palmieri's arrest and conviction.”

Achille forced a smile. He and Legros had followed a trail of evidence that had led them to a crawl space beneath the Palmieri residence, where they had exhumed Mme Palmieri's badly decomposed body parts from a vermin-infested pit. The stench, filth, and horror had remained with him, and the image of the head brought back unpleasant memories. Nevertheless, he could shrug it off. It was all part of his job; routine, compared to the Hanged Man case.

The chief rested his arms on the desktop, leaned over, and contemplated his protégé with a father's eyes. For an instant he glanced at a silver-framed desktop photograph of his own son, an officer serving in Algeria, then looked back at Achille. “I've read your report, my boy, and I'm quite pleased with your progress. But you mustn't overwork yourself. If you need assistance, don't hesitate to ask.”

Achille knew what was expected of him. He had worked for Féraud long enough to know that the chief's “don't overwork yourself” line was intended as a spur to greater effort. Nevertheless, Achille was short of detectives and he would make a reasonable request for more. “Thank you, Chief. In fact, Legros and I have our hands full looking for Boguslavsky, questioning his acquaintances and co-workers, and searching his residence. And we're looking for the individual who burgled Kadyshev's room. I'd appreciate some assistance.”

The benign smile transformed into a businesslike frown. “Of course, Achille; I'll see what I can do. I suppose there'll be some duplication of effort between you and Rousseau?”

“Perhaps, Chief. We're cooperating all right, but frankly, I believe we're competing to see who can get to Boguslavsky first. Have you obtained an arrest warrant?”

Féraud nodded. “Yes, but this is an unusual case. The Magistrate won't be taking an active role in the investigation, at least not at this stage. That'll be left to us—and the political brigade.”

Achille's eyes widened, and he stared at the chief for a moment before speaking. He disliked procedural irregularities, but he knew that in this particular case, he couldn't push Féraud too far. “I understand, Chief. But I hope we get to the suspect first. You know what Rousseau and his thugs will do to Boguslavsky if he doesn't talk. At any rate, the sooner we bring him in, the better. There's the issue of public safety. Boguslavsky worked for a research laboratory that tests high explosives and electric detonators used in the mining industry. And Rousseau hinted at an anarchist plot, though I fear Rousseau's holding back information. That puts me at a disadvantage.”