The Hanged Man (16 page)

Achille frowned, but answered calmly, “I understand, Chief. But you must appreciate the urgency of the situation. Boguslavsky's an explosives expert with a history of radical activity, both here and in Russia. And we've recently learned that his employer reported pilferage to the local police. The missing items could provide the makings for a powerful bomb, and perhaps more than one. It all adds up to a terrorist plot centered right here in Paris. If we find Boguslavsky, we've a good chance of breaking up the conspiracy before they strike. Innocent lives are at stake.”

Féraud sat back in his chair. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and twiddled with his watch fob. Finally, he looked at Achille and moderated his reply. “I understand, Achille, and I know you've been working hard on this case. Perhaps too hard. You should rely more on Rousseau and his network. Aren't they making progress in locating the fugitive?”

“Not that I'm aware of, Chief. And you may rest assured that I'm cooperating. But in a case like this, I think we should use all our resources, and I have some that aren't on friendly terms with Rousseau. Let me employ them. I've spent years developing my relations with the people on the Butte and in the Zone. In the past, they worked as spies and snitches for Rousseau, for pay and out of fear. With me, the money is, of course, a factor, but we've also formed a bond of mutual respect, akin to friendship.”

“I appreciate that, Achille, but aren't you duplicating efforts?”

“No, Chief. That might be the case if I were using our detectives for surveillance, as they and Rousseau's men would be tripping over each other's feet. My plan is to supplement Rousseau's intelligence. I believe that gives us the best chance for success.

“And there's another thing. I fear Rousseau's too bound up in the old ‘round up the usual suspects' mentality. That sweeps too broadly in a case like this. If we rousted out all the radicals and their sympathizers in Montmartre, we'd have to arrest more than half the population. We don't need butchery with a meat cleaver; we need precise surgery for such a delicate operation.”

Féraud realized that Achille's deprecation of the old methods was an indirect criticism of his tenure as chief. It vexed him at times, but he was big enough not to resent it, as long as Achille got results. “All right, my boy, we'll play it your way. But keep me informed. If you muck this up, we go down together, like galley slaves chained to the same oar.”

Achille nodded grimly. “I understand perfectly, Chief. May I go now?”

Féraud started shuffling papers. “Yes, you may.” But before Achille opened the door, the chief added, “Get out and have some fun this weekend. Take Adele for a row; the weather should be lovely.”

Achille turned around and smiled. “Thanks, Chief. I'm sure she'd like that.”

Féraud returned to his paperwork. “Just let me know where you are, in case I need you. And don't go too far from headquarters.”

Bright rays flooded in through a skylight, concentrating their intense beam on a young woman posed on a dais. Dressed in freshly laundered white underwear and black cotton stockings, the woman sat on a stool, her arms raised behind her head as if doing her hair while gazing into a mirror. A short, well-dressed man with neatly trimmed black hair and beard focused on the model; his keen, dark eyes peered through a pince-nez, darting between subject and canvas.

Wooden shelves stacked with plaster casts encircled the dais. Paintings and Japanese prints decorated the half-timbered walls. The sharp, bittersweet odor of turpentine and linseed oil saturated the studio. The artist worked quickly with short, precise brushstrokes, applying thin washes of oil paint over a chalk under-drawing. Then he stepped back a few paces to judge the result. Satisfied with his progress, he set his brushes and palette down on a table, uncorked a bottle, and poured a glass of cognac.

Dripping with perspiration, her arms, shoulders, and back aching from the difficult pose, the model glanced toward the artist. Relieved to see him taking a break, she asked hopefully, “May I rest now, M. Lautrec?”

Toulouse-Lautrec finished his glass. His critical eye glanced from model to canvas and back. “You may wash and dress, Delphine. I'm done for the day.”

“Thank you, Monsieur.” Delphine sighed with relief, lowering her arms and taking a moment to stretch and rub her muscles.

Toulouse-Lautrec lit a cigarette and poured another glass, then leaned back in an armchair and continued his observation. His eyes drank in the firm, round contours of her body, rippling beneath her clinging linen chemise and drawers. A student of the morgue and operating theater, Lautrec intellectually processed every fluid detail of her movements and gestures as anatomy in motion, from internal organs, bone structure, veins, arteries, muscles, and tendons outward to her glistening café au lait skin and glossy black hair. However, he also knew her sensually and sexually, and that intimacy added singular context to his artistic vision.

Delphine stepped down from the dais and retired behind a Japanese silk screen decorated with flying cranes gracefully ascending a cloud-stippled sky. Lautrec closed his eyes and, for a moment, lost himself in a reverie.

But a knock at the door interrupted his daydream. “Yes,” he answered gruffly, “what is it?”

The concierge opened the door a crack and poked in her head. “There's a man here, a
chiffonier
by the look of him, who says he has a message for Mlle Delphine. Shall I admit him?”

“Does this individual have a name?”

“Yes, M. Lautrec. Moïse, or so he says.”

Lautrec recognized the name. “Very well, Madame, you may send him up.”

Delphine emerged from behind the screen, fully clothed except for an enormous feathered hat she held at her side. “I wonder what he wants,” she mumbled, half to herself.

Moïse crossed the threshold and greeted the artist familiarly. “Hello, M. Lautrec.” Then, without awaiting a reply, he turned to Delphine. “Hey, Delphine. How goes it, kid?”

Delphine smiled affectionately, but answered with a hint of annoyance, as if the
chiffonier
were an obstreperous little brother. “I'm well, thank you. Though I notice your manners haven't improved since last we met.”

Moïse gave a mocking retort. “My
manners
, eh? They're the same as yours, girlie. Remember, we grew up on the same dung heap. But it seems you're hoity-toity now that you're a star of the café-concerts. You've come up from a snot-nosed kid lifting your skirts and shaking your tail at the Moulin Rouge.”

Delphine's eyes flashed; she approached Moïse menacingly. “It's time you learned how to treat a lady, you little plague rat.”

Moïse raised his fists and began capering about in comedic imitation of a boxer. He sniffed and wiped his nose with a thumb. “All right, kid, let's see what you've got.”

Lautrec stepped between them. “At another time, in another place, this might be amusing. However, please remember that this is my studio and I am a busy man. Now, Moïse, I assume you have a message for Mlle Delphine?”

Moïse immediately stopped his antics, bowed his head, and apologized. “Pardon me, M. Lautrec. I've a message for Delphine from my boss, Le Boudin. It's a private matter, but you might be of assistance.” He looked Lautrec squarely in the eye. “You see, it involves Inspector Lefebvre.”

“Inspector Lefebvre?” Delphine broke in. She stared at Moïse with a worried frown. “Is he in trouble?”

Moïse nodded in reply. “He's investigating the case of the man found hanging from the bridge on the Buttes-Chaumont. It's a tough nut to crack. He could use your help.”

“How can I help?” Delphine asked.

“I can't say. You'll need to speak to Inspector Lefebvre. Will you do that?”

“Of course,” she replied without hesitation. “Can you arrange a time and place?”

“You met here in the Ménard case; it was safe then. And no one will notice if you're modeling. The inspector can come disguised.” He turned to Lautrec. “Is that all right with you, Monsieur?”

Lautrec cocked an eyebrow and smiled. “I'm always up for a little intrigue. Shall we arrange our rendezvous for tomorrow afternoon?”

Delphine nodded her agreement. “I'm available.”

“Very well. I'll contact Inspector Lefebvre and get back to you. Are you working tonight, Delphine?”

“Yes, I'm singing at the Divan Japonais.”

“I'll be there, too,” Lautrec said.

“Then I'll get a message to you both this evening at the Divan Japonais.” Moïse smiled at Delphine sheepishly. “Sorry about the ribbing, kid.”

She laughed. “Take care of yourself, Moïse.”

“You, too, Delphine. And thanks again, Monsieur.
Au revoir
.”

Around ten o'clock on a mild summer evening, the benches and tables outside the Lapin Agile were running over with chattering customers. The cramped barroom was packed to the walls with men and women discussing art, literature, politics, the happenings of the day, and plans for the evening and early morning, raising a din within a yellowish haze of tobacco smoke and sputtering lamplight. Waiters scurried about amid the convivial welter, bearing trays rattling with glasses and bottles of wine, beer, brandy, and absinthe to fill the needs of the thirsty crowd.

Gilles sat at a small round table near the bar, drinking wine and discussing his craft with two fellow photographers. Armand, a frail, chain-smoking consumptive, coughed into a handkerchief, examined the result, and lit another cigarette. Then he cleared his throat and asked his friend about the status of his experiments in color photography.

Gilles smiled wistfully, shook his head, and took a sip of wine before answering. “I've come to a dead end. I can duplicate the trichromatic process of Ducos du Hauron and Cros, but I can go no further. For example, I photograph a subject through green, orange, and violet filters, and print my negatives on sheets of bichromated gelatin containing carbon pigments of red, blue, and yellow, the complementary colors of my negatives. Thus, I obtain three positives in the form of transparencies, and superimpose them, producing a full-color photograph. An intriguing result, but time-consuming and complex. There will be no progress until someone produces a color-sensitive plate, or film that's as simple to use as black and white. I'm afraid that individual won't be me.”

Gabriel, a robust, ruddy-cheeked mismatch to his consumptive companion, chimed in. “Leave color to the painters. I get the effects I want in black and white and sepia.”

“But, my friend,” Gilles argued, “color is in nature—it's
there
.”

Gabriel shook his head vehemently. “The camera is my eye, and the camera's perception renders images in black and white. To paraphrase the English painter Turner, I photograph what my camera sees, not what I know.”

Gilles smiled. “What you
know
? But you're editorializing in black and white.”

“That's precisely my point,” Gabriel replied.

“Asnières,” Armand broke in between coughs. “I met that crazy Dutch painter at a
guinguette
in Asnières. He was sketching by the railway bridge, the same scene I was photographing. You know who I mean; the shabby fellow who used to room with his brother on the Rue Lepic.”

“Vincent van Gogh,” Gilles said. “I wonder what happened to him. Last I heard, he was locked up in an asylum, poor bastard.”

Gabriel emptied his glass and gestured to the waiter for another. After a moment, he returned to the subject of their conversation. “I heard he was released to the care of an art-loving doctor in Auvers.”

“An art-loving doctor, eh?” Armand said between coughs. “That'll finish him for sure.”

Gabriel noticed a blind beggar approaching their table. “Don't look around, fellows, but we're about to be cadged.”

“Damn,” Armand muttered. “The poor scrounging off the poor. A just society would care properly for such people. I've nothing for him.”