The Hanged Man (20 page)

“A clever trick,” Rousseau observed.

“Life's full of illusions,” Orlovsky replied. “It's difficult to separate the real from the false, and the deceivers from the deceived.” He leered at the dancer. “Take the wriggling girl, for example. From our perspective, in this artificial lighting, she appears to be almost naked. In fact, she's wearing flesh-colored tights, just enough to satisfy the police and keep this place from being raided. But who's fooling whom?”

Rousseau turned away from the show and stared at his drink. “I'm not fooled, Monsieur. Tights or not, you can bet someone's being paid off. Men like me cash in on our opportunities. It's tough making ends meet on a cop's salary.”

Orlovsky finished his absinthe and called for another. “Do you notice something different, my friend?”

Rousseau glanced around. “Your girls aren't here, Monsieur. Is that something I'm supposed to notice?”

Orlovsky laughed. “Keenly observant, as always. Do you know why they're absent?”

Rousseau downed his drink and then shook his head. “I couldn't say.”

Orlovsky patted the detective's shoulder. “Oh, come, dear fellow, be a sport. Won't you venture a guess?”

Rousseau looked up abruptly and glared. “Pardon me, Monsieur. I'm not in the mood for playing games.”

The waiter came with the absinthe. Orlovsky added water and, for a moment, amused himself by watching the cloudy mixture change color. Then, still concentrating on the liqueur, he said, “The little imps are afraid of you. So, you've done me another service without even knowing it. When they're naughty I say, ‘Behave, or I'll give you to Rousseau.' Works like a charm. You're their bogeyman. They fear you more than a thrashing.”

Rousseau turned back to watch the dancer and snake writhing together suggestively. “You speak of them as though they were your slaves.”

Orlovsky took a sip of absinthe, then put down his glass and steepled his hands. “Slaves, you say? I assure you, my little sparrows are as free as air. They may fly away anytime they please. Of course, they would have to take their chances on the streets, with all those un-belled cats. In that regard, they're much like our former serfs.

“You know, my father inherited almost one hundred souls who were bound to the land. However, our martyred emperor freed them, leaving them to fend for themselves. Most still eke out a meager existence as tenant farmers or house servants; some have found work in factories and mills; others wander the roads and crowd together in our cities. Count Tolstoy, our great writer, pities them. Their suffering nettles his conscience. ‘What then must we do?' he asks. Not much, I'm afraid. According to Messrs. Darwin and Spencer, the fit will survive and the weak will go under.”

Rousseau watched the snake slither between the dancer's legs and up the crack of her buttocks. “Disgusting,” he muttered, and returned to his drink.

“Ah, you think me uncharitable?” Orlovsky said. “Or perhaps you dispute the cruel laws of nature, survival of the fittest?”

Rousseau stared at the man with a look that belied his apology. “Pardon, Monsieur, I was referring to the
act
.”

Orlovsky caught a glimpse of the dancer, licked some absinthe from his lips, and looked back at Rousseau. “You dislike it, but you won't shut them down. What was it you said about ‘opportunities'?”

“That's not my job,” he replied.

The music ended abruptly. The audience stopped chattering long enough for a round of applause, and then resumed their conversations. The magician, dancer, and snake exited the stage.

Rousseau eyed Orlovsky wearily. “Can we get down to business, Monsieur?”

“Of course, my friend. Have you made any progress in your search for Boguslavsky?”

“No, Monsieur. We had a tip that led us to a house on the Rue Ronsard, but they must have moved him.”

Orlovsky clicked his tongue. “That's too bad. For all we know, he could be out of the country—or this world. Perhaps M. Lefebvre has been more successful?”

Rousseau frowned grimly and shook his head. “The Professor's playing his cards close to the vest. He might be on to them, but he's not sharing information.”

Orlovsky smirked. “Is it possible his sources might be better than yours?”

Rousseau resisted a strong impulse to remove the Russian's annoying grin—permanently. “Achille has a way of using people and making them like him for it. It's quite a gift, and he's improved upon it since last I worked with him.”

“Yes, that's quite a useful talent for a politician, a pimp—or a detective. Do you know how he pulls it off?”

“Yes, Monsieur, I do. He's made a reputation for honesty, and the poor people of Paris think he really cares about them. That's helped him build a reliable network of snoops and snitches. In my day, we relied mostly on bribery and fear.”

“I see. But, of course, he pays for information, doesn't he? And he's not above putting the screws on, if necessary.”

Rousseau laughed mordantly. “Achille's no saint, if that's what you mean.”

Orlovsky glanced down at his empty glass and sighed. “I shouldn't drink this stuff. It'll be the death of me.” After a moment, he looked Rousseau squarely in the eye and continued in a sober, businesslike tone, “Please keep me informed, M. Rousseau. I said once before that I'd like to meet Inspector Lefebvre. That may be sooner rather than later. I'll let you know.
Au revoir
, Inspector.”

8

THE EEL UNDER THE ROCK

A
chille and Blind from Birth met beneath a chestnut tree on the lower embankment. The familiar group of clochards sheltered under a Left-Bank archway of the nearby Pont Neuf. A steady drizzle had sprinkled the city from late evening to the early morning hours, letting up just before dawn, but raindrops fell from the sodden leaves and plopped on the pavement and the crown of Achille's flat cap.

The spy reported the results of his brother's surveillance from the doss house on the Rue Ravignan to the Café Aux Billards en Bois and back, with emphasis on the dead drop. “
Il y a anguille sous roche
, M. Lefebvre. There certainly was an eel under the rock in this case.”

“You and your brother have done well,” Achille replied. “Are you certain Rousseau hasn't caught on to our game?”

Blind from Birth grinned reassuringly. “No need to worry on that account, Monsieur. But I must warn you: we're coming to terms with your former partner, and may need to terminate our present arrangement—at least for the time being.”

Achille had anticipated the revelation. “Not a problem, my friend. With the information you've provided, my men can stake out the route and take over from here.” Achille reached into his pocket and produced several gold pieces. “Here's the remainder of our agreed-upon sum, plus a bonus for good results.”

The spy tipped his battered hat, snatched the cash from Achille's extended palm, and flashed a broad smile. “You're an honorable gentleman. That's your reputation, and it's well deserved. My brother and I will gladly work for you anytime, as long as it doesn't create a conflict of interest with M. Rousseau.” He noted the hint of a frown on Achille's lips, and added prudently, “In this
particular
case, if we were to become privy to actions contrary to
your
interests, we'd be pleased to tip you off—for a reasonable fee, of course.”

Achille smiled. “Of course, my friend.” He held out his hand for a hearty shake and concluded his present dealings with the Blind Beggars upon a gentleman's agreement.
I'll keep them on my side
, he thought.
They can be of great help in the future
. He waited until the spy disappeared from view, and then walked up the steps to the bridge.

Halfway across, he stopped for a cigarette. Leaning against the balustrade, he viewed the Conciergerie in the first light of dawn. To most Parisians, the grim fortress had sinister connotations. Parents frightened their wayward children with tales of confinement, torture, and a dreaded early-morning rendezvous with Monsieur de Paris. But to Achille, the detention cells were merely an extension of his office,
a cordon sanitaire
separating the most pernicious elements of society from the general population.

He exhaled tobacco smoke with a sigh. He had enough evidence for a warrant on Moreau and Wroblewski—let the magistrate interrogate them according to law. They could also now search the doss house, the house on the Rue Ronsard, and the one on the Rue de la Mire where the drop had been signaled. There were risks in waiting on the evidence to build a stronger case, but moving prematurely might result in the loss of the person in charge—the king or queen.

Achille shook his head, unsure, and tossed the cigarette into the river; then he checked his watch. He had an early meeting scheduled with Legros, and the rest of the day off for a planned outing with Adele. Gazing up at the cloudy sky, he silently remonstrated with the heavens.
Bonté divine, don't let it rain!

Achille turned up the lamp, read the note in his hand, and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “So, it seems my friend Rousseau wants a meeting ‘at my earliest convenience.' Damned civil of him, don't you agree, Étienne?”

Legros sat facing Achille, on the other side of his office desk. “It must be very important. Will you meet him today?”

Achille set down the note and smiled. “If I were a bachelor like you, I probably would. However, I've promised this Sunday to my family. I'll meet with Rousseau ‘at my earliest convenience,' which will be five o'clock tomorrow morning at the Sainte-Chapelle. If it were so damned urgent, he'd be sitting where you are right now. At any rate, I've a good idea why he wants this meeting—M. Rousseau thinks I'm getting ahead of him, and wants me to catch him up. I'll bargain for information from a position of strength.”

“I'll convey your reply this morning,” Legros said. “Now, I've intelligence about the house on Rue Ronsard. The premises have been let to a M. Rossignol. According to the landlord, he's a well-to-do merchant broker from Lyons. We're checking with the prefecture to see if they've got anything on him.”

Achille smirked and shook his head. “Rossignol and Ronsard, eh? He's a cheeky bastard, all right.”

“So it seems, Inspector.”

“Well, pride before a fall. I want you to check another address, on the Rue de la Mire. It'll be interesting to learn if it's also being leased by M. Songbird.”

“I'm on it, Inspector. Now, you wanted me to set up a stakeout in Montmartre?”

“Yes, Étienne. Pick a couple of good men and have them shadow Moreau and Wroblewski night and day. I'm particularly interested in learning the details of how they work their dead drop. The timing of the pickup and delivery is crucial. I've an idea of how to intercept and decode their messages without tipping them off.”

“How will you do that?”

“We need to get in touch with Gilles. He has a portable camera disguised as a parcel. It may be possible to photograph the messages at the drop. Anyway, we might have to recruit Gilles for that job. We'll see what he says.”

“I'll get a message to him. Anything else?”

Achille shook his head and shuffled through some papers in the opened file. “I think that's all for now. I'm on my way home. Maybe I can catch forty winks before breakfast.”

“Good luck, Inspector. And I hope you have fair weather. It pissed down last night.”

Achille rubbed the ache around his eye sockets. “If anything, Étienne, this case is warming up, which means our days off from now until it's closed will be few and far between.”

Achille pulled the oars with a deft, powerful stroke. Well known among sporting Parisians as a crack rower, the inspector was often the odds-on favorite at impromptu races in the neighborhood of Chatou and Croissy.