The Hanged Man (36 page)

Adele and Achille had been playing for nearly an hour and were even. “This is our last bet, Adele,” Achille said. “It's a mug's game. The house always wins.”

“Don't be such a stick in the mud,” she teased. “We've got ten-to-one this time, and I've a good feeling about the color green.”

Achille shrugged, shook his head, and clasped her hand gently.

The starter made his final call and the betting closed. He yanked the lever and the mechanical horses began whirling around the track. The players and spectators cried with excitement followed by hushed, intense observation. The casino game transported the vacationing Parisians to Longchamp, little tin horses like snorting thoroughbreds, their hooves pounding turf, and toy jockeys more like animated riders, whipping their galloping mounts.

After a few circuits of the table, the machine ran down. As the mechanical horses neared their goal, the crowd stirred and began shouting encouragement.

Adele watched intently until her horse edged out Number 5. “We won, darling! We won!” she cried and hugged Achille so tightly it hurt.

The losers ripped their stubs and dropped them on the floor. Some glared enviously at Adele as she received a twenty-franc Napoleon from the starter.

She held up the glittering gold piece for Achille's inspection. “You see, darling, I was right about green. Shall we play again?”

Achille smiled. “Twenty francs is a fortune. Let's quit while we're ahead. It's a lovely evening. We can take a walk on the pier.”

“All right,” she replied, and deposited the coin in her purse.

They exited the casino and walked arm in arm up the esplanade to the promenade pier. Nearby, a band played excerpts from
Mignon
by Thomas. Plangent tones of woodwinds and brass echoed over the beach, mingling with the cries of circling seabirds and rushing surf. Clouds drifted through a purple sky tinged gold from the sun lowering toward the horizon. A mild, salty breeze ruffled capes and coattails, and sudden gusts threatened any hat not firmly pinned.

The men, women, and children on the pier for an early-evening stroll represented nearly all the Parisian classes one might encounter on the boulevards and in the public parks. At Trouville, the fashionable aristocrats and haute bourgeoisie mingled comfortably with the lower middle classes and an infusion of foreign tourists. As Achille glanced to his right toward the hotels lining the esplanade, he noticed several flags fluttering in the breeze. No matter the time or circumstances, he could never see the tricolor without feeling a sense of pride, obligation, and a call to duty.

Achille and Adele passed up the promenade, greeted by several Parisians. Adele seemed to take this recognition in stride, but Achille felt a keen sense of embarrassment. Regardless, with the publicity of the Hanged Man case and Achille's impending promotion, the inspector would have to become comfortable with it. The thought of his new responsibilities weighed heavily on his mind, even in his happiest moments. That evening, they would dine with millionaires, a self-styled baron and his wife who had taken them up the first day they arrived at the hotel. Adele was flattered, but Achille sensed self-seeking personalities and a penchant for bribery lurking behind the smiles and social graces.

Toward the end of the pier, Achille and Adele walked to the railing and spent a few quiet minutes gazing out into the channel. Achille focused on a trail of brown smoke drifting behind a steamer bound for England, raising thoughts of his contacts at Scotland Yard. As soon as he returned to headquarters, he would wire the Special Branch to obtain more information about the Okhrana's British operations.

The great nations were playing a dangerous game that would inevitably lead to war. Could Achille manage to forestall it, somehow? He shook his head in despair.
I'm bound to the wheel of fortune as surely as the little tin jockey riding his mechanical horse.

Adele broke into his thoughts with a worried frown. “Are you all right, darling? You seem so pensive.”

He turned to her. “I was taking in the seascape, that's all.”

“Oh, Achille, you're crying.” She stared at his face, his hidden sorrow unmasked by the intense white glow of an electric lamp.

He smiled and brushed away tears with the back of his hand. “It's nothing, my dear, just the brisk salt air. Now, I'm going to give you the first two lines of a poem and I'll bet you a franc you can't name the title and poet.”

She smiled broadly at the challenge. “It's a bet!”

Achille recited the lines:

Vois, ce spectacle est beau. - Ce paysage immense

Qui toujours devant nous finit et recommence …

Adele laughed. “That's too easy. It's Victor Hugo, ‘Au Bord de la Mer.' Pay up, Chief.”

Achille dug into his pocket and pulled out the coin. She snatched it from his palm and dropped it into her purse, along with her other winnings of the evening.

“This must be my lucky day,” she said.

He brushed a couple of stray hairs from her forehead and kissed her cheek. “We're both lucky, my dear. Now, shall we return to the hotel and dress for dinner?”

“If you wish, but we won't dine for hours.”

“Let's go back anyway.”

They strolled arm in arm, up the pier and along the esplanade in the direction of their hotel. Achille remained aware of the challenges ahead, the risk and the danger. But he also valued the moment—the ocean breeze, the sound of surf breaking on the beach, and Adele's reassuring presence.

“I know something we can do to pass the time,” Achille said.

Adele drew closer, resting her cheek against his shoulder. They continued on to the hotel.

END

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I
am grateful to Donald P. Webb, Dana M. Paramskas, Bill Bowler, and Carmen Ruggero, for reading and commenting on my early drafts of this novel. Thanks to my agent, Philip Spitzer, and his associate, Lukas Ortiz, for their outstanding representation. Thanks also to Claiborne Hancock and his staff at Pegasus, most particularly my excellent editors, Maia Larson and Katie McGuire.

THE HANGED MAN

Pegasus Books Ltd.

148 W 37th Street, 13th Floor

New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2016 by Gary Inbinder

First Pegasus Books cloth edition August 2016

Interior design by Maria Fernandez

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-68177-164-9

ISBN: 978-1-68177-199-1 (e-book)

Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.