The Hanged Man (12 page)

Boguslavsky nodded agreeably. “Thank you, comrade.” The young man turned and was halfway up the stairs when Boguslavsky added, “Pardon me. Must the door remain locked?”

The youth glanced back over his shoulder and glared. “Yes, it's for your protection.” Then he turned and left the cellar without another word.

Boguslavsky stared at the door until he heard the hard metallic snap of the bolt and the clicking of the lock. He shrugged, sighed, and returned to the table to finish his meal.

Maître François occupied two rooms on the fourth floor of a mansard-roofed building on the Rue des Écoles. Achille enjoyed the walk across the bridge and along the Boul'Mich, but this particular afternoon he'd been caught in a sun shower. He sprinted down the final blocks and, upon arrival, shook himself like a poodle that had just retrieved a mallard from a river. Still dripping, Achille knocked loudly on the oak door and then listened for sounds of life within.

“All right, all right, I'm coming.” A faint acknowledgement emerged from the apartment. After a minute or so, a latch clicked and the door creaked open. A pair of rheumy hazel eyes peered into the dark landing and then widened upon recognition.

“Ah, Inspector Lefebvre. You're right on time, as always. Please come in.”

Achille smiled at the familiar sight of the gnomish gentleman dressed casually in a smoking jacket, velvet tasseled cap, and baggy checked trousers, which had been new and fashionable the year Louis Napoleon proclaimed himself Emperor of France. The Maître's slippered feet shuffled along the worn carpet. Bent and twisted with rheumatism, he required the aid of an ivory-handled walking stick.

Achille followed slowly as François led him through a cramped anteroom that served as study, sitting room, and bedchamber. The windows were shuttered and the place reeked of pipe smoke and the fetor of old age, particularly oppressive on the warm summer day.

They passed into the Maître's true realm, a library containing shelves stacked high to the ceiling with rare volumes, a repository of centuries of wisdom and wit. The old man offered Achille a seat, then carefully eased himself into a comfortable armchair vis-à-vis his visitor. He laid his cane across his lap, adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles, leaned forward, and began the conversation with an observation.

“Pardon me for saying this, Inspector, but you are very wet.”

Achille grinned, took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and wiped his forehead and beard. “Yes, Maître, I was caught in a sudden downpour. Quite lovely, actually. I saw a rainbow arcing over the Seine.”

The old man smiled wistfully. “Yes, these summer showers can be quite refreshing. But I don't go out anymore. In my condition, the four flights of stairs make it impossible.”

Achille offered some encouragement. “Perhaps the landlord will install a lift?”

The old man laughed feebly, showing his few remaining teeth. “That's very droll, M. Lefebvre. A lift, indeed. I imagine they'll be carrying me downstairs in a box long before this establishment incorporates such a novel improvement.” He coughed into a handkerchief before proceeding. “At any rate, you have something for me. May I?” He extended a palsied hand.

Achille opened his briefcase, retrieved a transcription of the cryptogram, and handed it to the retired professor.

M. François held the item up into the light and adjusted the distance until the words came into focus. After a moment, he read aloud,
“Gay Rossignol, Gay Rossignol—”

He returned the document. “The nightingale, like the lark, is a very poetical bird.
Rossignol
and
alouette.
The words trip from the tongue so delightfully, like birdsong. Do you have any idea, M. Lefebvre, how much verse, in how many different languages, has been written about the nightingale?”

“I wouldn't venture a guess, Maître. That's why I've come to you.”

The old man smiled pensively; apparently, he was still good for something. “Perhaps today we are fortunate, Inspector, for I believe I recall the poem from which these words were taken.” He lifted his cane and pointed toward a row of books on a shelf. “If you go to the stacks, you'll find Blanchemain's eight-volume edition of the complete works of Ronsard. Bring me the index, please. I regret I can no longer retrieve it without assistance.”

Achille went to the shelves and returned with the book, then handed it to the old gentleman.

M. François riffled through the pages until he found what he was looking for. “Ah, yes, here it is.” He glanced up at Achille. “Now, Inspector, would you be so kind as to bring me the sixth volume?”

After Achille had done as requested, the Maître opened the book to the page indicated in the index and read aloud:

Gay Rossignol, honneur de la ramée,

Qui jour et nuict courtises ton aimée

“‘Le Rossignol,' a charming little poem.” M. François closed the volume. He turned with some difficulty and looked up at Achille, who had been reading the poem by glancing over the old man's shoulder. “But I doubt you have come to me out of admiration for the father of our lyric verse.”

Achille came around the chair and rewarded the Maître with a broad smile of gratitude. But the inspector could not avoid giving a grim warning in reply to what might have been an expression of curiosity.

“I'm afraid the reasons for my interest in the poem must remain secret, and I request that you not mention the purpose of my visit to anyone.”

The old man shrugged. “You needn't fear on that account, Inspector. My associations are few these days. As for my friends and old acquaintances, they all reside in Père Lachaise. They tell no tales; I expect to join them presently.”

Achille nodded in response to the gloomy observation, and tried to cheer up the old gentleman with an optimistic compliment. “I find your services indispensable, my dear
Maître
, so I earnestly desire that you remain with us for many years to come.”

“That's very kind of you, Inspector. I trust you will now pay me at the usual rate?”

“Of course, Maître. I'll require information about this particular edition, the date of publication, printing, and so forth, and I'll need a fair copy of the poem. Since it's little more than three printed pages, if you permit, I can do the work here. Otherwise, I must take the volume to headquarters and have a clerk make the copy. If that's the case, I'll leave you a receipt and have the book returned by messenger as soon as possible.”

M. François scratched his white-stubbled chin and thought a moment before answering. “I'd prefer you do the work here, Inspector. I'll gladly provide you with pen, ink, paper, and escritoire, at no extra charge.”

“Thank you, Maître. I'll try not to trouble you for too long.” Achille smiled at the old gentleman's cannily calculated display of generosity. “By the way, are you acquainted with Mme Nazimova, the proprietress of a bookstore not far from here, on the Boulevard Saint-Michel?”

M. François narrowed his eyes inquisitively. “I've come across the lady once or twice. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I was just wondering if she carried this particular edition of the complete works of Ronsard in her shop.”

“That's certainly possible. Why don't you inquire of her yourself?”

I doubt she'd welcome my inquiry
, he thought, but said aloud, “Of course, Maître. It was just idle curiosity on my part. Now, if you please, I'd like to get started on the copying.”

Late in the afternoon, Achille sat at his desk, toiling away at the cryptogram. A knock on the door interrupted him. Leaning back in his chair, he stretched his cramped arms and yawned. “Come in,” he answered.

Legros entered hesitantly. “I'm sorry to disturb you, M. Lefebvre. I've completed my report for the chief.”

Achille smiled; he needed to talk to someone and welcomed the pause. “No problem, Étienne. Pull up a chair. I'm working on something that will interest you, especially since you made the discovery.”

Legros deposited the report on Achille's desk and grabbed a chair with eager anticipation.

Achille removed his pince-nez, rubbed his eyes, and then reached for a pack of cigarettes. “Care for a smoke?” he offered.

“Thank you, Inspector,” Legros replied sheepishly. There were only two remaining in the pack and it seemed rude to take one. But Legros was dying for a cigarette and he assumed his superior had more hidden away in his desk.

After lighting up, Achille turned the cryptogram toward his assistant and began his explanation. “You mentioned the Deuxième Bureau the other day. Did you know I was acquainted with Commandant Bazeries of the Bureau du Chiffre?”

“No, I did not.”

Achille took a deep drag, exhaled, and knocked off a bit of ash into a brass tray. “We met on a case. It involved a smugglers' ring that communicated with each other in code. Most of the codes used by common criminals are basic, easy to break. But this was different. They had a clever leader and he worked out something sophisticated, so the chief brought in Bazeries and he taught me some of his tricks. I'm far from expert, but I learned enough to enable me to break the code and nab the criminals in the act. You might have read about it in the newspapers?”

Legros rested his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. “Yes, now I remember the case.”

Achille raised his eyebrows as he recalled the sensational articles. “Féraud was very pleased; good publicity for the brigade. Anyway, they were using transposition for encryption and decryption, using the lyrics to a popular song. Boguslavsky and his confederates have chosen a poem by Ronsard.”

Legros frowned. The famous name brought back memories of a schoolmaster who enjoyed beating the classics into his pupils. “Oh, yes, Ronsard. I remember him from my school days.”

Achille smirked. “It appears that our quarry is an individual with a taste for the pedantic; someone who likes showing off his erudition. But more of that later.” Achille pointed to the letters
abfhm
. “This is a five-letter indicator-group, which refers to the five words that Boguslavsky, or any member of the gang, could use to encrypt a message.”

Achille proceeded to explain the cryptographic method in detail, including a demonstration of the encryption key and grids for encrypting and decrypting messages.

Following Achille's explanation, Legros studied the encryption key and the grids. Then he nodded his head. “Yes, it's ingenious. It must be awfully hard to crack?”

“Without the key, it's almost impossible. Only an expert like Bazeries would attempt it. But fortunately for us, Boguslavsky has left us the key. That's how I broke the smugglers' ring. First, I got hold of the key to their code. Then I intercepted a message that revealed everything we needed for a warrant: the time, place, manner, and means of a contraband shipment. We caught the whole gang red-handed on the Marseilles docks. A fair cop if ever there was one.”

Legros's face beamed with admiration for his superior. “Do you think that's how we'll crack this case?”

Achille took one last drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out. He exhaled slowly, looked down, and folded his hands. Then he looked back at Legros with a sober frown. “It's possible, but I'm afraid we're up against something greater than a band of thieves. I'm developing a theory of the case, and I'm going to take you into my confidence. Some of this I haven't discussed with anyone, not even the chief. Do you understand?”

Legros nodded; his expression mirrored Achille. “I understand, Monsieur.”

Achille's lips formed a wry smile. “You can drop the ‘Monsieur.' We've worked together long enough to be on a first-name basis—at least in private. Anyway, this is the sort of case that could make or break us. The chief has given me a great deal of latitude, and I'm going to take it all, and perhaps a bit more. If things go wrong, I'm prepared to take the blame—all of it. On the other hand, if we succeed, I'll see to it that you get the credit you deserve. Do you follow?”