The Hanged Man (27 page)

Her reference to death almost unnerved him. Could he, in good conscience, continue with his questioning? “Do you want me to go for a doctor?”

Her lips twitched in the semblance of a smile. “I've consulted a doctor, Monsieur. It would be a waste of time and money to call for him now. I presume you are here on official business?”

“Yes, Madame, regrettably, I am. Viktor Boguslavsky is dead. We found his body early this morning. He was murdered. Considering our previous discussions, I wondered if there was more you wanted to tell me.”

“You believe I've been hiding something from you?”

His desire for the truth overruled his sense of pity. “Yes, Madame, I do.”

“And now that I'm dying, you think I might wish to unburden myself. Are you to be my confessor?”

He stared directly into her cloudy eyes. “I'm obliged to ask, Madame. Two men have been murdered, and I want to know who did it and why. I come in the name of the law.”

“But I believe you already know the answers to your questions. Why trouble me further?”

What made her assume he had solved the case? Her statement impelled him to pursue the matter. “I have suspects and a theory, Madame. The information you provide might confirm or refute what I believe to be true.”

“Very well, Monsieur. You may ask your questions, and I will do my best to answer.”

“In consideration of your condition, I'll come to the point: I have reason to believe your late husband, Kadyshev, and Boguslavsky shared a secret, something of considerable value to the Russian government, and others as well. Moreover, I believe you've withheld this information from me for personal reasons. I urge you to come forward now. If you cooperate, I can offer you protection.”

Nazimova laughed feebly. “In my present circumstances, your offer is meaningless. Anyone who took my life would be doing me a favor. But since you insist, I'll answer you candidly and completely.

“Shortly after the Tsar's assassination, during our Swiss sojourn, my husband and his two friends had an idealistically foolish notion. They wanted to create a weapon so powerfully destructive that the mere threat of its use would end war forever. They designed an airship with propellers powered by an electric motor. The ship would carry bombs armed with a high explosive several times more potent than dynamite.

“They discussed their plans with a Swiss engineer who convinced them that the airship was impractical. The explosive was another matter. My late husband and Kadyshev were fine chemists, but Viktor was a genius. They tested his formula and it worked frighteningly well. Clever as they were, they weren't cunning enough to evade the Tsar's spies. The Okhrana discovered their plans, and pursued us to Paris, where they kept us all under close surveillance.

“My husband told me the three vowed never to divulge the secret formula to any of the great powers, most particularly the Tsarist tyranny from which we had fled. Later, Kadyshev confirmed what I'd already learned. Alas, humans are weak and corruptible. My husband took the secret to his grave, but Kadyshev agreed to sell it to Orlovsky, the head of the Okhrana in Paris.

“I only know this because Kadyshev confided in me. You were correct, I did withhold information, though for personal reasons. We were lovers. Lev still cared enough to come to me shortly before he died. He wanted to take me to Buenos Aires for my health, or so he said. That's where he planned to go with Orlovsky's money. I refused. I would not spend my last days with a traitor.

“Viktor must have gotten wind of the betrayal. Perhaps that was part of Orlovsky's scheme. Double-dealing is the Okhrana's stock-in-trade. Regardless, I believe Viktor and his comrades killed Lev; and from their perspective, it wasn't murder, but justice. Now, Viktor is dead. I've told you all I know of the matter, but like you, I too can make deductions. I can venture a guess as to the identities of Viktor's killers.”

Achille looked into the dying woman's eyes with a mixed feeling of respect, guilt, and an overwhelming need to know the truth. “Please tell me what you believe, Madame.”

“I believe as I suspect you do, Inspector Lefebvre: The Russian Secret Police murdered Viktor. That is to say, they got Viktor's comrades to do the dirty work. They must have planted an agent among the anarchists. Once they had what they wanted—the formula, of course—Viktor became expendable.” She held his eyes with a steady, penetrating gaze.

For a moment, Achille was speechless. Then he asked a final question. “You referred to the formula. Did your husband keep copies?”

“Yes, Monsieur, he did. But I burned them the day he died.”

Achille wanted to leave her in peace, but he could not help expressing concern for her condition. “Madame, I thank you for your candor. You said you were expecting a notary, but I don't feel right leaving you alone like this. Permit me to fetch a doctor. Or, if you'd prefer, I could go for the notary. Please, let me be of service.”

Nazimova shook her head. “No, thank you, Inspector. Actually, I'm feeling better. They say confession's good for the soul. Perhaps it helps the body as well. You needn't reproach yourself. Your devotion to duty is commendable, even though some might think it misplaced.”

He bid her good afternoon, but as soon as he returned to headquarters, he notified the local police to keep an eye on her.

After Achille left, Nazimova walked to the mantelpiece and, with great effort, removed a loose brick from the hearth. She retrieved a locked iron box from within and opened it with a key on her chatelaine. She removed a copy of Boguslavsky's formula and stared at it for a moment, before striking a match and setting the paper alight. She dropped the blackened notes into the fireplace and watched the flames transform her memento of Boguslavsky's misguided genius into ashes.

Tears streamed down her wrinkled face. This world that she had longed to change for the better was as bad as the one into which she had been born. “An exercise in futility,” she murmured.

Gripping her cane with one hand and clinging to the banister with the other, she slowly mounted a flight of stairs to her bedroom. There, she took her last few painful steps to the bed. A brown medicine bottle rested on a bedside table, containing a mixture of morphine and chloral hydrate. She pulled the cork stopper and drank the contents. Then, with her hands clutching the empty bottle, she reclined on the counterpane with her head resting on a bolster. She closed her eyes and took one deep breath, followed by a long sigh. Her hand opened and the bottle rolled over the bedstead and clattered onto the floor.

Two hours later, the notary arrived. He discovered the body and reported Nazimova's death to the police.

Delphine answered an anticipated knock at her front door. A smiling lackey greeted her with a bow and a spray of yellow acacia blossoms. “Good evening, Mlle Delphine.” He proffered the small bouquet. “For you, Mademoiselle, with Monsieur's compliments.”

She accepted the flowers and sniffed their fragrance, thinking it would have been more gracious if de Gournay had presented them himself. “Where is Monsieur?” she asked with a hint of annoyance.

“He waits below in the carriage. If you please, Mademoiselle.”

Delphine followed the lackey down three flights of stairs, stopping once to check her appearance in a large wall mirror on the first landing. They passed through the foyer and exited to the street where a closed coach, drawn by two handsome grays, was parked by the curb beneath a blazing gas lamp. The horses snorted placidly as the servant helped Delphine into the carriage. The door closed behind her before she caught a glimpse of the individual seated in the interior.

As the carriage pulled away from the curb, Delphine's first impression of her companion was scent—an earthy, masculine, fern, and floral fragrance,
Fougère Royale
, interfused with tobacco smoke. A throaty but distinctly feminine voice greeted her.

“Good evening, Mlle Delphine. I trust you like the flowers?”

Closed blinds cloaked the passengers in shadow, but Delphine's eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness. She stared in the direction of the voice and of the heady odor emanating from the seat next to her. Her ears detected a rustle of silk as her companion shifted about. Delphine made out the inchoate form of an elegantly dressed woman wearing a veiled hat.

“Monsieur?” she inquired dubiously.

A pair of delicate white hands lifted the veil, revealing the painted and powdered features of the young gentleman at the Divan Japonais. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Marie Madeleine de Gournay. However, I would be very pleased if you called me Mado.”

Delphine frowned, incredulous. “Is this a jest? If so, I believe it's in poor taste and unbecoming a gentleman.”

De Gournay smiled apologetically. “Forgive me, Mademoiselle. I assure you, this is who I am. I'm an actor who plays many parts, and this evening I greet you in the role I hoped you'd find most agreeable. With all due respect, it's well known that you prefer women to men.”

Delphine controlled her temper, remembering that she too was an actor, playing her role under the direction of Inspector Lefebvre. She put on her sweetest smile. “Pardon me … Mado. You took me by surprise. I'm not in the least offended; I appreciate the gesture. And thank you for the lovely flowers.”

De Gournay smiled. “I'm relieved that you're pleased with my gift, Mademoiselle.”

“Please, call me Delphine.”

“Thank you, Delphine. Did you know yellow acacias have a special meaning?”

She lifted the spray and inhaled the fragrance before answering. “I did not. What do they mean, Mado?”

De Gournay leaned over, brushed away a curl from Delphine's ear, and whispered “Secret love.”

Her eyes still focused on the bouquet, she said, “Ah, how enchanting.” Then she gave a sidelong glance. “Where are we going?”

“First, to the Hanneton for drinks and some chat. Then, to the Moulin Rouge for dancing and a show. Afterwards, I'd like to offer you a late supper at my apartment.”

“That sounds lovely,” she replied.

De Gournay smiled, took Delphine's free hand, and caressed her kid-gloved fingers.

Upon Delphine and de Gournay's arrival at the Hanneton, the tough, half-blind proprietress, Mme Armande, stepped out from behind her cashier's cage and greeted the couple with a familiar embrace. “It's been too long, Delphine. And who is your charming companion?”

Delphine smiled and made an introduction. “Mme Armande, may I present my new friend, Mlle de Gournay?”

The beefy proprietress smiled broadly and kissed de Gournay's lips. “My humble establishment is honored by a lady's presence. We'll have to mind our manners, won't we, Delphine?”

Delphine winked at the proprietress and then turned to her companion. “Don't worry, Mado. The girls can get rowdy at times, but Madame knows how to keep them in line.”

Madame laughed and flexed her muscles. “Oh, that I do, indeed.” Her one good eye leering at de Gournay, she added, “Just let me know if anyone gets fresh with you, dearie. I'll tan her hide and pitch her out the door.”