The Hanged Man (9 page)

Féraud sat back in his chair, eyes closed, and fiddled with the death's-head charm on his watch chain. After a moment, he leaned forward and looked directly at Achille. “I don't think you have ever understood Rousseau. Do you know what happened to his friend Marchand?”

“I've heard the story, Chief. Marchand was one of the policemen taken prisoner by the Communards and was killed in the final days when the Versailles army was advancing on the Butte.”

Féraud nodded. “That's common knowledge in the brigade, but there's more to it than that. Rousseau and Marchand grew up together in Belleville. They ran with the same gang, a couple of tough little monkeys. Marchand looked up to Rousseau, more like a kid brother than a friend. When Rousseau decided to go straight and join the force, Marchand joined up with him. That pissed off their former pals. But Rousseau had quite a reputation on the streets; the gangsters feared him more than they hated him, and that salutary fear extended to his best pal.

“Marchand married and had a couple of kids; Rousseau had his woman, Louise. He rose through the ranks and joined the detective's brigade. That's when I met him. Then the War came, followed by the Siege and the Commune. The National Guard uniform was the only one respected on the streets. Rousseau was already in plainclothes, and wisely went to ground. He tried to persuade Marchand and his family to go into hiding with him. He figured they could hold out until the army restored order in Paris.”

“Pardon me, Chief,” Achille interjected, “this much Rousseau has already told me.”

Féraud frowned and shook his head. “There's more, things he's told no one—except me. Marchand thought he could keep his job under the Commune and remained at his post until an old enemy denounced him as a spy for the Versailles government. The charge was false, but the Communards took him prisoner anyway. Following a drumhead court-martial, Marchand was found guilty and sentenced to death. Rousseau saw his best friend, his ‘little brother,' die at the hands of a mob. They were bad shots; the volley was sloppy, hit and miss. They wanted to save their lead for the barricades, so rather than give him a
coup de grâce
, they beat Marchand with rifle butts and stuck him with bayonets. Then they dragged the mutilated corpse through the streets and hung it from a lamppost.

“After the Versailles army stormed the barricades and retook the Butte, Rousseau denounced the Communards who had murdered his friend. He took pleasure in watching the executions. And for as long as I've known him, he's always set something aside from his salary for Marchand's widow and the children.”

“I had no idea, Chief. This explains much about Rousseau.”

Féraud nodded in agreement. “You know the song ‘Le Temps des cerises'? It was popular in the sixties, and they still sing it at the café-concerts. When I was young, it was a nostalgic song about Paris in the spring and the cherry blossoms. But it took on a new meaning after the Commune—now, they look back to a Golden Age that never was and long for a world that will never be. It's an illusion, but some people are so dedicated to their utopia that they'll use any means—riots, mayhem, murder—in a futile attempt to realize it.

“You were still a schoolboy in the country when Rousseau and I were patrolling the Paris streets. I respect your ideals, your concern for human rights and equal protection under the law. But you must realize that there was a time not long ago when the law broke down and anarchy ruled. The majority of our citizens appreciate the order, stability, peace, and prosperity of the past twenty years; they don't want to return to that ‘Time of the Cherries.' It's our duty to serve, protect, and defend the good citizens, their lives, and their property—even if it requires an occasional bending of the rules. You understand?”

Achille thought that even the best ends rarely—if ever—justified the means, but the world was more gray than black and white. There was a difference between a practical good and a fantasy, and a moral distinction between evil and an occasional divergence from the ideal. He disliked hair-splitting, but he wouldn't let punctiliousness get in the way of doing his job. “I understand, Chief. But I'd prefer having suspects arrested and interrogated properly, rather than leaving them to Rousseau.”

Féraud smiled warmly, as though Achille's reply had pleased him, and returned to his affable manner. “Of course, that goes without saying. I'm going to release a few good men from their present duties to assist you. Now, what do you have planned for the rest of the day?”

“I'm going again to Mme Nazimova. Hopefully, she'll provide more information about Boguslavsky. Then I'm meeting Gilles at his studio. He's using iodine fuming to bring out the prints on the bottle and glasses we found in Kadyshev's room. I'm also calling off the search in the park—the ligature isn't an essential piece of evidence, and I can make better use of my
limited
resources.” Achille's emphasis caused a slight twitch of Féraud's moustache in response. “I'm going to send a message to Le Boudin—”

“You're bringing in the
chiffoniers
?” the chief broke in.

“Yes, Chief. They're my eyes and ears on the street, and they're loyal to me, not Rousseau. I want authority to pay them the going rate, and a bonus for good results.”

Féraud eyed Achille sharply, then breathed in and out for a moment while fiddling with his watch chain. At last, he said, “All right, my boy. This is your case, and I'm backing you to the hilt. Anything else?”

“That's all for now, Chief. You'll have my report on your desk first thing tomorrow morning, as usual. Of course, if anything breaks, I'll report to you immediately.”

Féraud nodded. Then he remarked, “The weekend's coming. I want you to promise me something.”

Achille grinned knowingly.
Our hours at the Sûreté are midnight to midnight.

But what Féraud said next surprised him. “Take Adele somewhere. Get your mind off the case and relax. Just make sure you stay in Paris and let me know where you are at all times.”

Achille smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Chief. I'll certainly do as you suggest.” But both he and the chief knew that Achille's mind would remain focused on the case until it was closed.

The tinkling doorbell announced Achille's entry into Nazimova's shop. Marie, the shop assistant, was sweeping a little dust cloud from the floor while Madame rearranged a row of leather-bound volumes stacked on a corner shelf. The women stopped working, turned toward the door, and gazed at him apprehensively.

Achille sensed their fear immediately and tried to alleviate it with a friendly greeting. He lifted his hat and smiled. “Good morning, Mme Nazimova, Marie. I hope all's well in your realm of books?”

Nazimova answered, her face wrinkled in a worried frown. “As well as can be expected, M. Lefebvre. How may I help you?”

Achille noticed her guarded manner and reply; it reinforced his suspicion that she knew something about Boguslavsky's disappearance, perhaps more than she wanted to reveal. “I regret interrupting your work, but I have a matter I must discuss with you—in private.”

Nazimova glanced at Marie for an instant, and then turned back to Achille. “Very well, M. Lefebvre. Please follow me.” She led him to the same room behind the shop where she had translated the note and identified Kadyshev's post-mortem photograph. As Achille walked past Marie, he felt her piercing gray eyes on the back of his head.

Once seated at the small table, Achille wasted no time with pleasantries. “Madame, I've come here on an urgent matter. Viktor Boguslavsky is wanted for questioning in the murder of M. Kadyshev. I believe you know Boguslavsky well?”

Nazimova's face assumed the blank expression he'd noticed at their last meeting. “I
knew
him, Inspector.”

Her equivocation irritated Achille. “Madame, I must warn you that withholding information from the police is a serious offense. As a Russian émigré with ties to Peter Kropotkin and Louise Michel, your situation in France is precarious.”

A smile twisted through a narrow opening in her defensive mask. “Ah, Monsieur, now you question like a true policeman. Do you threaten me with deportation? Very well. I doubt I'll live much longer, but I'd rather die in Paris than Siberia. At any rate, I spoke truthfully, in the past tense. My association with M. Boguslavsky ended with my husband's death.”

“Did you not attend the International Workers' Congress last year?” Achille knew that both Kadyshev and Boguslavsky had attended. Nazimova's file contained only a notation: “Suspected affiliation.”

She shook her head. “No, Inspector, I did not attend. I've ended my political activities and severed my affiliations. All I want is to live here in peace.”

“But you're still a follower of Kropotkin, aren't you? Doesn't your ideology require some action on your part? Aren't you obliged by your beliefs to work for the overthrow of governments that you consider oppressive and unjust?”

Nazimova's pale lips quivered; a tear started in one eye. “What I believe, Inspector—” She coughed into her hand to clear her throat before continuing. “I believe in the natural goodness of humankind. But human nature has been corrupted by materialism, greed, competition, and the authoritarian institutions that exist to protect privilege and property. But I also believe that we are by nature predominantly cooperative, and that through a process of evolution and education we can recover what's been lost. We can learn to live communally, through mutual aid and respect for each other, and this fundamental socio-economic transformation can be achieved without violence.”

Le Temps des cerises
, he thought. “Madame, I respect your beliefs, though I disagree with them. We live in a democratic republic according to a rule of law, and the laws protect the persons and property of our citizens. Perhaps in the future we'll evolve into something better or recover something we've lost, as you say, but for the time being, and for generations to come, this is the best we can do.”

Achille leaned over the table. His eyes grew cold, his voice firm and unrelenting. “You say you've discontinued your activism and broken off your political associations; I believe you. I also believe that you would pursue your ends by peaceful means. But there are those who are not so patient. They would stop at nothing to achieve their utopian dream. Boguslavsky is such an individual, and he's an explosives expert. You know what a dynamite bomb did to the late Tsar. Perhaps there's some justification for assassinating the leader of a tyrannical state. But imagine what such a bomb would do to a crowd of innocent men, women, and children. I have a wife and two little children, Madame. I think of their torn and broken bodies, their screams, and their agony—”

Nazimova covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “No, M. Lefebvre, please stop. I don't want that. I never wanted that.”

Achille slammed his fist on the table. “Then tell me what you know about Boguslavsky and his confederates, Madame! Tell me everything, before it's too late.”

Marie interrupted with a timid knock on the doorjamb. “I—I'm sorry. There's a gentleman in the shop who wants the complete Victor Hugo. But he demands a twenty-percent discount. He's very insistent, Madame. He says he won't leave until he speaks to you.”

Achille glared at Marie, wondering if she'd been eavesdropping.

Nazimova wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and blew her nose. Then she turned to Marie and said firmly, “Tell the gentleman I'll give him a ten-percent discount. If he doesn't like it, he may take his business elsewhere.”

Marie hesitated a moment, but then replied “Yes, Madame.” She glanced at Achille, turned around, and returned to the shop.

Achille waited until he could hear Marie speaking to the customer. “I regret having to press you like this,” he said, “but I believe it's a matter of public safety. If you have any idea of Boguslavsky's whereabouts or can give me the names and addresses of his current friends and associates, I insist you tell me now.”

She looked down at her hands and sighed. “Viktor has changed, M. Lefebvre. Years of persecution and frustration have taken their toll. He may now be as dangerous as you say.” She paused for a moment before looking him in the eye. “He used to meet with a group of like-minded individuals at the Lapin Agile in Montmartre. They were still meeting at the time of the International Congress last year. I swear this is all I know.” She said no more, but continued staring at him with eyes worn out from having seen too much of the world.

Rousseau has paid informers at the Lapin Agile; he could have spared me the trouble
, Achille thought. He grabbed his hat and rose from the table. “Thank you, Madame. I apologize for my persistence in questioning, but I'm only doing my duty. And I trust you appreciate the gravity of the situation.”