The Hanged Man (6 page)

Madame replied, “I'll certainly do that, M. Lefebvre.” She then turned to her old friend Rodin and engaged him in local gossip, a variety of topics including Russians, radicals, and the tragic aftermath of the phylloxera infestation, most particularly the plight of the unemployed vintners and the sharp rise in the cost of
vin ordinaire.

Upon entering Kadyshev's sparsely furnished room, Achille was struck by its tidiness. From the neatly made cot to the orderly rows of books on a shelf, everything seemed almost too perfectly arranged.

Aside from the bed, the only furnishings were a small round table with a half-empty bottle of vodka and two glasses on top, three plain wooden chairs, and a marble-topped washstand with porcelain basin, pitcher, and shaving mirror. A scrupulously cleansed chamber pot occupied a cabinet beneath the washstand, and a rack held what appeared to be recently laundered washcloths and towels. A mahogany armoire was the most prominent item in the room, and it contained a presentable wardrobe for a man of Kadyshev's social status and profession. Achille noticed two plaster busts decorating the bookshelf, one of Jean-Jacques Rousseau and the other of Karl Marx.
Someone was certainly making a political statement
, he thought.

“Did you find any letters, papers, photographs, or other personal effects?”

“No, Inspector. That's odd, isn't it?”

Achille shook his head. “Not odd if someone was here before us and cleaned the place out.”

“But wouldn't the concierge have known if anyone had been here?”

Achille muttered, “Not necessarily.” He pointed toward the open window. “The air's surprisingly fresh. Was that window open when you entered?”

“Yes, Inspector, it was. I assumed Kadyshev had left it open. Or perhaps the concierge opened it?”

Achille shook his head. “It wasn't Mme Arnaud. She told Rodin she hadn't entered the room since Kadyshev was last here.” Achille walked to the window, looked down, and noticed paint chips on the sill. He felt for gouges, running his hand along the rough underside of the sash. Achille removed his hat, raised the sash, leaned out the window, and examined the exterior.

Anticipating Achille's discovery, Legros joined him. “It was forced, M. Lefebvre?”

“Yes, of course,” Achille replied. Still leaning out the window, he craned his neck to look up at the guttering and eaves. Then he glanced over in the direction of the drainpipe and beyond, to the narrow airshaft separating this building from the next. A warm breeze ruffled his hair; sparrows flitted by, then perched on the gutter and chattered; a one-horse cart rumbled up the cobblestone pavement four stories below.

Finished with his inspection, he pulled back from the window and dusted off his jacket front and sleeves. Then he turned to Legros. “This was the expert work of a cat burglar. Do you remember Jojo, the acrobatic clown at the Circus Fernando?”

“Indeed I do, Inspector. You sent him up for a nice long holiday in
Le Bagne
.”

“Well, whoever did this was as good as Jojo.” Without another word, he walked over to the table. Legros followed. Taking a large magnifying glass from his breast pocket, Achille examined the bottle and glasses. “I suppose this is what caught your eye?”

“Yes, you can see the prints quite clearly.”

Achille nodded and put away his glass. He looked at Legros with a wry smile. “Another forensic experiment. Too bad we have no method for transferring them at the scene. At any rate, we'll take the glasses and bottle into evidence and see what we can do with them in the laboratory to enhance the prints.” For a moment, he glanced at the threadbare rug beneath the table, and then scanned the bare wooden floor and skirting board. Achille shook his head. “I don't suppose you found any cigarette butts?”

“No, Inspector.”

“He smoked like an old stove,” Achille muttered.
And he was careless about the butts, even perhaps at the crime scene.

“Pardon, M. Lefebvre. Are you referring to Kadyshev?”

“No, Étienne. We need to track down a Russian named Boguslavsky. I want to question him as soon as possible. He may be a chemist by profession, and Mme Arnaud gave me a good description. Ask about him at the café in the square; he used to hang out there with Kadyshev. I'll check M. Bertillon's records and I may have another source as well.”

“Is that all, Inspector?”

Achille grinned sardonically. “Isn't that enough?”

3

HEAVEN AND HELL

I
nspector Lefebvre's cubbyhole office was as well known in the brigade for its uniformity and efficient organization as was the chief's for its individuality and casual disarray. Rousseau had a running joke with the “old boys”: “I'm afraid to touch anything in the Professor's office. I might leave germs—and incriminating fingerprints.”

Achille had set up an easel in the small space between his desk and the opposite wall, from which hung a map of the park; the crime scene and the area of the search were circled and marked with pins. Féraud rested his backside on Achille's desk, cup and saucer in hand. While sipping his morning coffee, the chief concentrated on the map, and Achille gave him an update on the status of the investigation.

“Here's where Legros and his detail discovered the necktie, collar, handkerchief, and chloroform bottle.” Achille indicated the location with a pointer. “The evidence we've gathered thus far has given me an idea of how the crime was committed, and of the perpetrators' motives.”

Féraud put down the cup and saucer, walked a couple of steps to the map, and peered at the highlighted areas as though he were visualizing the crime. “And what have you deduced from the evidence obtained thus far?” he asked without turning to look at Achille.

“The park is open to the public until ten on weekdays in the summer, which is around sunset in July. I believe the victim went to the park for a meeting with a person, or persons, who were known to him. The best time for the perpetrators would have been near closing; shadowy, and not many people about.

“Without a witness, we can't establish which entrance he used, but that's not of immediate importance. If he were familiar with the park, or had good directions, he might have used the entrance closest to the bridge. Otherwise, he probably would have entered the main gate on the Place Armand Carrel.

“The victim was a man of average height and weight. I believe his killers were either two, or perhaps three, strong individuals.”

Féraud turned his eyes from the map to Achille. “Why two or three?”

“It would have taken a minimum of two strong individuals to subdue the victim, chloroform him and bind his wrists, carry him to the bridge, secure the rope, hoist him over the railing, and, finally, drop him. Let's say three, for a job like that. More than three would have been risky for the perpetrators; you don't want too many inside witnesses.”

Féraud nodded and turned his attention back to the map. “Please continue.”

“The perpetrators used a sharp knife or razor to cut the victim's necktie; I believe they used the same to cut the ligature binding his wrists before they dropped him.”

“Why tie him up when he was already knocked out with chloroform?”

“He might have come to and struggled. They had to work quickly and flee the scene before the gates closed.”

“Is Legros looking for the ligature?”

“Yes. It may have fallen along the bank near a pathway. But it might have gone into the lake, in which case it's not likely to be found.”

“What about the motive? You said Mme Nazimova identified the victim?”

Achille nodded. “Based on her identification, we believe the victim was Lev Dmitryevich Kadyshev, a Russian émigré. Legros, Rodin, and I questioned Kadyshev's concierge and searched his room. We have a person of interest, Boguslavsky, another Russian émigré. We're looking for him; if we don't locate him soon, I want to put out an all-points bulletin to bring him in for questioning. And there's evidence that someone broke into Kadyshev's room through a window and removed his personal effects. The job appears to have been the work of an expert cat burglar, and considering the neatness of the room, the thief must have known what he wanted and where to look for it.

“As for motive, the note pinned to the corpse quotes a passage from the Bible in reference to Judas—his betrayal of Christ for money and subsequent suicide by hanging. Therefore, it appears the hanging was an act of revenge against an informer, which raises some troubling questions concerning the political brigade's activities, most particularly the involvement of Rousseau.”

Féraud looked at Achille with a tolerant frown. “Speak your mind. What's troubling you about Rousseau and the political brigade?”

Achille looked directly at his chief and answered firmly. “I have reason to believe Kadyshev was under surveillance. The murder was carried out in a public park, in a manner intended to send a warning. But who were they warning, and why? I might know more after I meet with Rousseau.”

Féraud stroked his mustache meditatively, his eyes fixed on Achille. “You've set up a meeting with him to discuss the case?”

“Yes, Chief. We're meeting at the Sainte-Chapelle this morning, before it opens to the public.”

The chief smiled. “That's quite an interesting place for such a rendezvous. At any rate, I'm sure you'll have some pointed questions for our old friend and colleague.”

Achille did not read too much into Féraud's tone of voice and wry smile. But the chief's expression, coupled with his veiled reference to “pointed questions,” was insinuating. It was as though Féraud had said,
You're a big boy; deal with it.

Achille replied laconically, “Yes, Chief, I will.”

Achille's tricolor badge had gained him admittance to a place once reserved for kings, queens, and their courtiers. He stood in the nave of the Sainte-Chapelle; facing the chevet, he craned his neck and gazed upward as the first light of dawn filtered in through a vast expanse of towering stained glass. The predominantly blue- and red-glazed biblical pictorials glittered like multifaceted gemstones. Rows of graceful piers framed the glass; they towered like ancient trees, their uppermost parts supporting the vault of a starry heaven.

Let there be light.
He thought of the first creative words of Genesis, the heavenly command that imposed order on a chaotic void. Saint Louis, the great crusader, had decreed the building of a chapel to serve as a giant reliquary, housing the spurious relics so prized by medieval kings as symbols of their divine right to rule: splinters of the True Cross; a fragment of the crown of thorns; a piece of the spear that pierced Christ's side. Trumped-up mementoes of the Passion displayed in a royal jewel box.

The king's chapel had been built in the Rayonnant Style: radiant, brilliant, beautiful. The Jesuits had taught him about physical beauty from the perspective of St. Thomas Aquinas, King Louis's thirteenth-century contemporary. According to Aquinas, the beautiful gave immediate pleasure when perceived, and radiance was one of its intrinsic qualities.

The sunlit stained glass windows had radiance in abundance; the upper chapel shimmered and floated within a warm flood of reflected and refracted light. But at that moment, alone in the silent chapel, he thought that nothing on earth could compare to the light in Adele's eyes. He longed for that singular look when he knew, with absolute certainty, that she loved him. Even if God existed, Achille could not touch Him, but he could embrace his wife's warm flesh, feel the softness of her lips against his mouth. He could see their combined images in their children. Her loving light, something radiant yet tangibly human, could guide him through this investigation with its twists and turns like a dark Montmartre back alley. But he could not discuss the case with her. No, he must rely on Rousseau for enlightenment, his former partner who knew all about the chaotic underworld of criminals and terrorists.

“Praying, Professor?”

The familiar voice startled him. It seemed to come from the void. He flinched like a cat, and then turned around to face Rousseau.

“You seem a bit on edge,” the man said. “Well, that's to be expected. We live in a dangerous world.”

Achille contemplated the massive frame, small, round head, and porcine eyes. He seemed out of place in the graceful chapel. He was more like the Gothic Grotesques carved in stone that decorated the grimy outer walls of the great cathedrals. Achille was above average height and very fit, a skilled oarsman, a master of savate, and unafraid of a brawl. But Rousseau was a force of nature, a legend in the brigade and on the streets. Years earlier, he had been ambushed in a Montmartre alley by four knife-wielding hoodlums. Rousseau was badly cut and lost a great deal of blood, but, fighting with only his fists and truncheon, he left two gangsters dead on the pavement. A third died the next day in hospital; a fourth had run for his life. A couple of months later, the fourth man's mutilated corpse was fished out of the Seine. No one doubted that Rousseau had put a distinctive finish to what the gangsters had foolishly begun.