The Hanged Man (2 page)

Gilles interjected, “Ah, Monsieur, I anticipate another of your forensic experiments. Do you want me to check the note for latent prints, using the Coulier method?”

“Yes, Gilles, and I want a good, sharp photograph of the document for my expert translator. The original, of course, must be carefully preserved in evidence.”

“But of course, Monsieur.” Gilles nodded the affirmative with a wry smile, indicating that he knew the Lefebvre manner and did not need to be reminded.

“You know, Inspector,” Rodin broke in, “I was certain Chief Bertillon would incorporate fingerprinting into his identification method following your stunning success in the Virginie Ménard case.”

Achille turned to Rodin. He appreciated the comment, since he believed that it was prompted by sincere admiration for his detective skills, rather than mere flattery. “Thank you, Sergeant. For the moment, M. Bertillon considers his anthropometric system sufficient, though he does not forbid my using fingerprinting on an ad hoc basis.” In fact, Achille had been gravely disappointed by Bertillon and the prefect's rejection of his plan to incorporate fingerprinting into their identification system, an innovation that would have put the Sûreté ahead of all the world's police agencies in the new science of forensics. At least Achille had the consolation of knowing that his own chief, M. Féraud, and the
juge d'instruction
, Magistrate Leblanc, had backed him to the hilt.

Achille left his companions to walk slowly up the bridge in the direction of Temple Island. The others went about their business and didn't disturb him; they knew his habits and moods. He was thinking about the case.

At the end of the bridge, Achille turned to his left and leaned against the railing. Pulling down the brim of his black bowler to shade his eyes from the sun, he scanned the area: the dense green- and gold-hued foliage on the muddy banks; the murky, olive-drab surface of the placid lake; and the sunbeams streaming through chinks in the cloudy sky. He wiped sweat from his neatly bearded cheeks with a handkerchief and brushed away the buzzing flies that had swarmed near the corpse. After a moment's contemplation, he gestured for Legros to join him.

“Do you see the incongruity of the situation, Étienne?”

Legros was accustomed to his superior's cryptic remarks, and gave his standard response: “Pardon, Monsieur?”

Achille made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the scene. “Look around you, Étienne. Isn't it lovely? And whom do we have to thank for this charming Rousseauian retreat in the midst of our bustling metropolis? Why, none other than the late Emperor and his prefect, Baron Haussmann. Yet many Parisians who enjoy this park as a place of recreation would condemn the Empire as a cesspool of corruption. So we have the incongruity of what many would consider a great good arising from what they might also condemn as an insufferable evil.

“But then, who, viewing from our present perspective, would deny the pristine beauty of this place? Yet, a thousand years ago, a great battle was fought on the bald summit, when Count Odo saved Paris from the marauding Vikings. Imagine all the hacked, dismembered, bloated corpses rotting in the sun, picked at by vermin. Think of the stench—”

“If you please, Monsieur Lefebvre, I'd rather not,” Legros interrupted. “After all, our next stop is the Morgue.”

Achille laughed. “You're right, Étienne. I've a tendency to prattle about such things. I suppose that's why the ‘old boys' on the force call me the ‘Professor.' I'll come to the point—look to the incongruities. A body hanging from this scenic bridge is like a pile of horseshit in front of the fancy shops on the Rue de la Paix, and we're the sanitary workers who must clean up before some elegant lady steps in it.

“Please take out your pencil and notebook, and we'll begin our list of things to do. We must determine who the victim was, as well as the time, place, and manner of his death. How, when, and under what circumstances did he enter the park and end up hanging from this bridge? Perhaps you noticed the relatively clean state of his shoes and clothing. He couldn't have spent much time off the beaten path. And the collar and necktie are missing, though I doubt he entered the park without them—a well-dressed man going about Paris without a collar and necktie would have been quite conspicuous. We'll need to conduct a search for the missing apparel. That's your job, Étienne, and Rodin and his men will assist you. And start looking for witnesses. Question the guard who found the body, and other park employees who might have seen the victim.

“I'll go to the Morgue on the meat wagon with the attendant, then check the records department. I'll get the note translated, follow up with Gilles on the photographs and fingerprint test, and attempt to locate the tobacconists who sell Sobranies. At the end of each day, we'll write up our reports for the chief. Any questions?”

Legros had a question, but he expressed it silently in his penetrating gaze, a narrowing of the eyes and a twist of the mouth beneath his neatly trimmed brown moustache, as though he'd bitten into an apple and discovered a worm. After being lectured by the “Professor” about unfounded assumptions and leaps of faith, he questioned whether his mentor was practicing what he preached. Achille appeared to be transforming a routine suicide, a case easily closed, into a full-blown homicide investigation. But the pupil lacked the self-confidence to question the master. “No, Monsieur,” he said finally.

“Very well, Étienne. Let's get on with it.”

The hanged man lay supine on the “butcher's block,” a bloodstained oak table deep within the bowels of the great Morgue on the Île de la Cité. Here, unidentified bodies, many of them fished out of the nearby Seine, were autopsied and embalmed prior to being placed on steel slabs in the refrigeration room. There they remained in cubicles behind immense plate-glass windows for public display. The intended purpose of this morbid exhibition was identification, though the Morgue also functioned as a popular theater of the macabre.

Cabinets filled with surgical instruments and chemicals lined the drably painted walls; anatomical charts hung from an easel near the dissection table. A blaze of intense white light streamed from gas mantles, and was amplified by a large reflector, highlighting the naked cadaver like an actor in a spotlight. Doctor Cortot, the pathologist, had removed the noose, examined the markings on the neck, and palpated the cervical vertebrae.

“A neat hangman's fracture, M. Lefebvre,” he observed, lifting the head to show Achille. “If this had been an execution, I'd say the executioner had done his job well.”

“So the man didn't strangle?”

“No, Inspector. He died of asphyxiation, after being rendered unconscious by the fracture and compression that cut off the blood flow to the brain. The rope was strong and pre-stretched, the knot expertly tied and correctly placed, the drop calculated accurately for a man of his height and weight.”

“Do suicides typically hang themselves in this manner?”

The pathologist rested the head back on the table, wiped his hands with a towel, and looked up at Achille with a twisted smile. “In my experience, they do not. They bungle it badly, and suffer as a result. I can think of several better means to an end. I'm ready to certify hanging as the cause of death, probable suicide. As for the time of occurrence, based on the condition of the body, I'd say within the last twenty-four hours.”

Achille sighed.
If only dead men could speak
, he thought. His eyes scanned the corpse, as if for the last time. Under the strong, concentrated light, he noticed some marks on the wrists. Achille bent over to get a better look. “What do you make of these bruises and abrasions?”

Cortot adjusted his spectacles and walked around the table to stand beside Achille. He examined the marks on the wrists. “I noticed these, Inspector, but I concentrated on the neck injuries to determine the cause of death. The marks are recent.” The pathologist paused and looked to Achille. “I doubt he would have tied his own hands before killing himself. Was he bound when you found him hanging from the bridge?”

“He was not.”

Cortot thought for a moment. Then he stated with authority, “I'm changing my opinion, Inspector, not as to the cause of death, but as to the person—or persons—involved. I'm afraid, without further evidence, that must remain undetermined.”

Achille frowned and nodded his agreement. The doctor had confirmed his suspicions, but Achille was uncertain if that confirmation pleased him. “Thank you, Doctor. There's one more thing before I go. I want to fingerprint the corpse, and I've brought equipment with me for that purpose.”

The pathologist raised his eyebrows at the novelty of Achille's request. “Fingerprint a corpse? I know you had some success with fingerprinting in the Ménard case, but isn't this somewhat … irregular?”

Achille shrugged. “It's an experiment in forensic science, Doctor. I have authority from chiefs Féraud and Bertillon; you may check with them if you are concerned.”

The pathologist responded with a bemused smile. “No, that's quite all right, Monsieur Lefebvre. Please proceed with your experiment. I'm at your service.”

“Thank you, Dr. Cortot. As always, I appreciate your medical expertise and cooperation.”

The Pont Neuf had spanned the Seine for three centuries, linking the Left Bank and the Right Bank to the Île de la Cité. Achille walked from his office on the Quai des Orfèvres to the long, stone-arched section of the bridge that crossed over to the Right Bank. From there, it was not more than a ten-minute walk to his apartment on a quiet, tree-lined avenue.

In truth, the apartment belonged to his mother-in-law, Madame Berthier. Achille paid Madame a nominal rent that permitted the Lefebvre family to enjoy greater comfort than they could have managed on an inspector's salary. Achille had a reputation for scrupulous honesty, and was generally respected and well-liked by his peers. But his agreeable, bourgeois domestic arrangements had given rise to an unkind intimation that having married well, Achille could afford to be honest.

Halfway across the bridge, Achille stopped, leaned against the balustrade, and lit a cigarette. He lifted his bowler and mopped his brow. Then he took a moment to gaze in the direction of the dark, shadowy bastions of officialdom—police headquarters, the Palais de Justice, the Conciergerie, and the Morgue—that comprised the hub of his working life. From this ancient, central location extended the Magistrate's Sword, reproducing itself in a multiplicity of sharp little blades poking and prodding their way through all points of the metropolis, and beyond.

The natural darkness of the hour was made softer by artificial light, emanating from thousands of gas lamps and new electric bulbs. So much light, it outshone the stars.
Has a false light made the city safer and more secure?
he wondered.

A throbbing of engines and a blaze of electric illumination announced a
bateau-mouche
chugging its way under the arches and up the river past the island. He watched the boat for a while, its propellers churning a white wake on the dark, still surface of the Seine.
Why couldn't the poor bastard have jumped off this bridge, like so many other routine suicides? Was it suicide? Murder? Or something else?

Paris had a relatively low murder rate for a city of two and a half million, and most detectives liked routine cases. Something nice and easy, like a man who comes home from work, finds his wife in the arms of her lover, and kills them both in a fit of jealous rage. Achille had built his reputation on cracking the hard cases, the ones no one else wanted. Yet even he didn't want this one.
If only there hadn't been those marks on his wrists.
He could have turned the file over to Legros and gone off on his holiday with a clear conscience. But there was more to the conundrum than the evidence of bound wrists; there was the note; the Sobranie; the absence of any other personal items; the time, place, and manner of death; the totality of the circumstances. What if the iodine-fuming test brought out fingerprints that didn't match those he had taken from the corpse? And the note could raise more questions without providing answers.