The Hanged Man (18 page)

“This is the way we blind beggars see it. You and Rousseau are like a pair of thoroughbreds from the same stable. You race against the field, but you also compete with each other. If one of you wins the purse, your owner is pleased, but that does not mean the other goes to the butcher—as long as he runs a good race.

“We are hedging our bets. Whether you or Rousseau cracks the case, it's still a win for the police, and for us. And I don't see why we shouldn't bet on you, at least until we settle our dispute with M. Rousseau.”

Achille replied with a twisted grin. “I appreciate your honesty.”

“Thank you, Monsieur. It always pays to have fair and honest dealings in my profession.”

“I would have thought just the opposite.”

The man was silent for a moment. Then he remarked, “Of course, you will pay the agreed-upon price?”

Achille reached into his pocket and retrieved a few gold pieces. “This is for what you've provided so far, plus a little on account. I pay a bonus for good results, but rest assured there is a penalty for failure.”

Blind from Birth took the coins and sighed. “Alas, Monsieur, there's always a price to be paid for failure. We'll be in touch.
Au revoir
.”

Achille watched the man walk down the embankment, under the arch, past the clochards, and out of sight. He then turned toward the river and rummaged in his pocket for cigarettes and matchbox. A little tug chugged past, towing a barge in its wake. Light from the lamps on the embankment and bridge reflected in ripples on the dark water.
I'd like to be out in a skiff rowing, with Adele at the tiller.
He watched for a while, and then walked toward the entrance to the bridge and on to headquarters.

Achille met Legros in the evidence room at the Palais de Justice. He examined the ligature Legros had removed from the evidence bag and placed on a lamp-lit table. “Our forgotten clue. Good work, Étienne. Tell me how it was found.”

Legros smiled. “A snot-nosed kid came across it while he was playing in the reeds by the lake. He used it as a whip to beat his sister, who'd been tagging along and tried to claim the prize for herself.”

Achille laughed. “The little devils!”

“Indeed. Anyway, the girl screamed bloody murder and flailed away at her brother. Their mother ran over, broke up the tussle, grabbed the ligature, and gave them both a good hiding. You can imagine the commotion. The row caught the attention of one of the men Rodin detailed to patrol the crime scene.
Et voilà!”

“That was a lucky break, combined with good police work. Please convey my thanks to Sergeant Rodin.” Achille stretched out the ligature and held it up to the light. “You see how the cord was cut cleanly, and the strength of the knot?”

“Yes. They had a sharp blade ready and made good use of it. And I believe that's a sailor's knot, isn't it?”

Achille nodded and returned the ligature to the bag. “A figure eight, to be precise. I tie them myself. This one's first rate, and under the circumstances, I imagine it was tied expeditiously as well. And that bit of evidence dovetails nicely with some information I received this morning concerning a sailor named Moreau.”

“Is he a suspect?”

Achille nodded the affirmative. “He's one of the anarchists who hung out with Boguslavsky at the Lapin Agile. I'm having him shadowed, along with his pal, a Pole named Wroblewski. What's more, I've checked their records and they've both been up to no good in the past.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I got all this information without the aid of our friend Rousseau. No need to spread that around. Understood?”

“I understand, Achille. Do you have enough on them to ask the
juge
for a warrant?”

Achille thought for a moment. If it had been a routine homicide, the
juge d'instruction
would have already been leading the investigation. “Perhaps, but I want to give them enough rope to hang themselves. And we'll have more for the prosecutor than Kadyshev's murderers. If this is a terrorist conspiracy, as I suspect it is, we want to nab the whole gang right on the point of committing the act. It's risky, but that's how I caught the smugglers on the Marseilles docks.

“Wroblewski and Moreau could lead us to Boguslavsky. According to my theory, it took three to hang Kadyshev. If we can bring in these three all together and put the screws on, I'm sure we can persuade one to rat on the others to save his neck. And let's not forget the knight. I won't be satisfied with three pawns; there's more to this game than that. Anyway, the
juge
and the prosecutor will thank us for making their jobs easier.

“Remember what I said about the coded messages and the dead drop? If we can intercept a message and decrypt it, we'll really have them by the short hairs. I've a rendezvous tomorrow morning with a spy who's tailed them to a house on the Rue Ronsard. Here's the address.” Achille took out a pencil and notepad and passed the information to Legros. “I want you to begin a discreet inquiry. Find out everything you can about the place: property owner, residents, concierge, unusual activity, and so forth. Report what you find directly to me.”

“I understand. But tomorrow's Sunday. I thought you were taking a day off to go rowing with your wife.”

Achille frowned. “Duty first, Étienne. Anyway, my meeting is at five in the morning and won't last long. I'll still have the rest of the day.” He made another note and handed it to Legros. “That's the name of a
guinguette
in Croissy. Except for an hour or so on the river, I'll be either there or at home. Pass this along to the chief. If something comes up, you'll know where I am. All right?”

“Very well, Achille. Where to next?”

“I've a meeting in Montmartre. More cloak-and-dagger, I'm afraid.”

Legros smiled broadly. “Sounds exciting. Good luck to us both.”

Achille grinned back and slapped Legros's shoulder. “You know what our chief says about luck?”

Legros grimaced in bewilderment. “I'm not sure?”

“He quotes the great Napoleon, and it's usually in reference to promotion. When considering one of his young generals for higher command, the Emperor said, ‘I know he's brilliant, but is he lucky?' Frankly, I'm dubious when it comes to brilliant detective work, so in this case let's pray that we're both damned lucky.”

Blind by Accident crouched behind a
poubelle
in a tight, unpaved passageway between two buildings on the Rue Ravignan. He rubbed his sore hams, having tailed Moreau and Wroblewski down from the summit along the dark, winding streets and stairways.

The first light of dawn touched the heights; the lamplighters had made their rounds, extinguishing countless gas jets; the night-soil collectors had pumped out their quota of cesspools and emptied collection vats from numberless cellars; the
chiffoniers
had finished picking through the trash-filled
poubelles
; the dung collectors had carted off piles of horse manure for fertilizer. Cleansed and refreshed, the Butte was ready for another day.

Through dark glasses, Blind by Accident's eyes scanned the entrance to a doss house on the other side of a small square.
I hope the bastards catch some shuteye, at least until my brother relieves me. I could do with some rest, food, and a bottle of wine.

To kill time, his mind wandered to idle speculation. According to legend, the Emperor Napoleon had stopped in this place on his way to inspect the semaphore telegraph atop the church of Saint-Pierre. The road, which was then called the Vieux-Chemin, proved too steep for the horse, so the Emperor tied his mount to a pear tree and continued the journey on foot. Displeased with his experience on the old road, the Emperor ordered the construction of a new street that became the Rue Lepic.

Blind by Accident pondered the legend skeptically. He had been up and down the Butte many times, and had blistered feet, an aching back, and sore hams to show for it. Granted, the precipitous Old Way had been a damned tough slog for a horse. Nevertheless, the canny spy had a hard time believing that the great general, who had led his army from horseback across the Alps through the Great St. Bernard Pass, could not coax his mount up the old road to the top of Montmartre. And anyway, didn't the Emperor have other business that was far more pressing than inspecting a signal tower? Blind by Accident sighed and shook his head.
In this world of lies, we must take everything with a grain of salt.

The spy glanced up from the shadows to the blue sky above.
Where is that brother of mine?
he questioned silently, as if God might provide an answer. Vexed with impatience, he looked down again, and an unwelcome sight greeted his overworked eyes: Moreau exited the doss house and began walking up the Rue Ravignan.

Blind by Accident was now at a singular disadvantage. In the evening and early morning hours, he could operate beneath a cloak of darkness; in daytime, he would dissolve in the stew of humanity. The in-between time, when daylight first penetrated his shadowy shield, was the most dangerous hour. Not many people were about at this time of morning, which made it impossible for him to blend and fade away within a perambulating crowd. If he followed Moreau too closely, there was a risk of detection; if he tailed the suspect too loosely, he could lose him.

He immediately decided that losing Moreau was a much better alternative to being burned. The Blind Beggars could only be effective as long as their subjects did not suspect their dodge. Blind by Accident set out after Moreau nonchalantly, as if his stroll up the hill were the most natural action imaginable. Experience had taught him that the quickest way to betray oneself as a spy was to act like one.

His feet and legs tingled as though pricked by a thousand needles. His heart throbbed, and he gulped air through his mouth as he endured the torment of climbing the Rue de la Mire for the second time that morning. He went slowly, keeping well behind without losing sight of Moreau. But Blind by Accident almost lost his composure when his subject stopped abruptly and glanced up to his left.

The spy did not make the amateur's mistake by darting for cover. Like most pedestrians on the steep little street, he halted as if to catch his breath and rubbed his aching legs, but carefully kept a “blind” eye on his subject. He noticed Moreau focus his attention on a third-story window, the only one that remained unshuttered.
A signal?

Moreau only paused for a moment, and then proceeded up a stairway to the Rue Lepic. The spy continued his tail uphill, following the street until his subject stopped again outside the entrance to the Café Aux Billards en Bois, at the intersection of the Rue des Saules and Rue Norvins.

Is he going to duck into the café and watch?
Blind by Accident wondered. But, after a brief pause, Moreau walked on until he turned the corner. Could Moreau be setting a trap?

The spy made a split-second decision. He knew every inch of the neighborhood. Tired as he was, he dashed through a passageway into an alley, removed his hat and dark glasses, and cautiously peeked around the wall onto the street. He saw Moreau standing by the rear of a building. The subject glanced around furtively, removed a loose brick, and picked up a message. The spy smiled knowingly.
This'll be worth something, for sure.