The Hanged Man (7 page)

Choosing to ignore Rousseau's reference to his nerves, Achille instead noted the quality of his former partner's dark gray suit. “My compliments to your tailor; you're looking very debonair. The political brigade must pay well.”

Rousseau grinned broadly. “Thank you, Professor. My new job does have its rewards.”

Achille guessed that Rousseau's evident prosperity was not entirely the consequence of his inspector's salary. But he prudently kept such thoughts to himself. “I congratulate you on your success. Now, pleasant as this reunion has been, I think we should get down to business. You're already aware of my investigation into the circumstances surrounding the death of a man found hanging in the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. We believe the deceased was a Russian émigré, Lev Dmitryevich Kadyshev. Does that name mean anything to you?”

Rousseau narrowed his eyes and rubbed his clean-shaven chin as if in thought. “Kadyshev, eh? That has a familiar ring to it. I guess we do have a file on him somewhere; nothing too exciting, I'm afraid.”

“You didn't have him under surveillance?” Achille asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

Rousseau laughed, a deep rumbling like the pedal tones on an organ. “We can't shadow every rat in the Paris sewers. Not enough resources, I'm afraid. But cracking a big case could remedy that.”

Achille recalled what Féraud had said about politics, publicity, and appropriations. “I'm also looking for Kadyshev's friend, a big fellow named Boguslavsky. We believe he works as a chemist. Have you got anything on him?”

“Ah, yes, Boguslavsky; a damned anarchist. I'll pull Kadyshev's file, and Boguslavsky's, as well, and help you find him. Anything else?”

“I believe the killers brought in a cat burglar to remove evidence from Kadyshev's room. Do you know of anyone the Russians might have used to pull off a job like that?”

Rousseau nodded and grunted, “Maybe. I'll look into it.”

“I'm also interested in files relating to Madame Nazimova and her late husband.”

Rousseau grinned like a gargoyle. “Oh, I'm sure we have something on
them
. They were chummy with that old bitch, Louise Michel.”

Louise Michel was one of the prominent Communards who had been transported to New Caledonia. Returning to France following the 1880 amnesty, she immediately became involved in anarchist plotting. Sentenced to six years imprisonment in 1883 and released after serving three, she was soon re-arrested for inciting to riot. She wasn't incarcerated for long, but upon release she lived under close surveillance and constant threat of arrest. Fearing that her political enemies were about to have her committed to an insane asylum, Michel had recently fled to London.

While he strongly disagreed with her politics, Achille admired Louise Michel for her courage, honesty, self-sacrifice, and social work among the poor. He would have never referred to her as an “old bitch,” but unlike Rousseau, Achille had no bitter personal memories of the Commune.

“Very well. In addition to Kadyshev and Boguslavsky's files, please provide me with what you have on Nazimova and her late husband.”

“They'll be on your desk this afternoon. Is that all?”

Achille frowned. “I don't suppose you have any suspects in this case?”

Rousseau cracked a sly smile. “Maybe Kadyshev poked his nose where it didn't belong and his anarchist pals cut it off?”

Achille stared directly into Rousseau's insinuating eyes. “Was Kadyshev one of your paid informers?”

“Listen, my friend. People in high places want us to cooperate on this case, and I'm going to follow orders like a good soldier.” Rousseau's granitic expression and cool tone of voice revealed nothing. “But you work your side of the street and I'll work mine, all right? Review the files I send you, continue your investigation, and follow your leads. I'll try to find your cat burglar. I know them all, especially those who work in Montmartre. We'll put on the screws and make 'em squeal. Keep me informed, and if I turn up anything useful, I'll do the same for you. Fair enough?”

Achille disliked the way his former partner evaded a direct question. But for the time being, there was nothing he could do about it. “Fair enough, Rousseau. Shall we shake on it?”

Rousseau grinned and held out a beefy hand. “Just like old times, isn't it, Achille? I always liked working with a gentleman.”

Achille spent most of the day at headquarters doing paperwork, taking a mid-afternoon break at his favorite café-bar on the Boulevard Saint-Michel for coffee and a croque monsieur. He sent a message to Adele not to delay supper for him. She knew he was on the case and could hardly be surprised at his absence, but he anticipated a few sharp words upon his return to the apartment later that evening.

He had an anxious sense of precarious immobilization, like a wasp on flypaper, waiting for the files from Rousseau. The remedy for his predicament was to attend to piles of routine work—a status report on a burglary on the Rue Caulaincourt; evidence obtained pursuant to the
juge d'instruction
's search warrant and so forth. He chain-smoked while shuffling papers; the brass ashtray on his otherwise neatly organized desk overflowed with a hecatomb of immolated cigarettes. “Damn it,” he muttered as he stubbed out the last butt in the pack.

The telephone rang just as he was rummaging in his desk drawers, searching for a fresh pack of cigarettes. He ceased this exercise in futility (he had, in fact, smoked his last pack), lifted the receiver, and held the transmitter to his lips. Legros was on the line.

“We've located Boguslavsky's residence and workplace, but he's disappeared. Gone to ground, most likely. We've put out a sweep to search for him.”

Achille sighed. “I'm hardly surprised. What else?”

“A concessionaire believes he saw the victim walking up the path to the bridge on the evening of the incident about half an hour before the park closed.”

“Was the victim alone?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Did the concessionaire notice anything unusual about the victim's demeanor?”

“Yes, he said the victim was distracted and seemed to be in a hurry. He was walking very fast and bumped into a couple who were strolling in the opposite direction.”

“Good work, Étienne. Have you turned up any other evidence?”

“No, Monsieur; we're still looking for the ligature.”

Achille glanced up at the wall clock; it was after seven
P.M.
“You may return to headquarters and complete your report. Tell Rodin to leave a good man up there. We might get lucky; perpetrators often return to the scene of the crime. And they have Boguslavsky's description. Since he's done a bunk, he's our prime suspect.”

Achille hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. The concessionaire's narrative confirmed his hypothesis that the victim had been lured to the bridge for a meeting of some importance. And the late hour fit with his theory. Boguslavsky's disappearance was evidence of guilt. According to Mme Arnaud's description, Boguslavsky was strong enough to have lifted Kadyshev over the railing. He smoked Sobranies. If his fingerprints matched those on the note, the bottle, and the glasses, they had their man—or at least a conspirator who could be pressured into giving up his accomplices. Maybe they could crack the case before his planned holiday.

Achille removed his pince-nez and rubbed his tired eyes.
Where are the damned files?
He muttered a few expletives, made another futile search for cigarettes, and returned to his routine.

Rousseau's files arrived by special courier shortly after nine that evening. The late delivery led Achille to observe that his former partner had taken an overly broad interpretation of “afternoon.” Since his working day had begun at five
A.M.
, he decided to pack the files in a briefcase and carry them home to review in his study.

Adele did not greet him with sharp words; rather, she gazed at him with a concerned frown that pricked his conscience. “Are you all right, Achille? You look so tired.”

“I apologize for the late hour, my dear. It's this new case. I'm afraid I've got a bit more work to do before I stop for the day. Please don't wait up for me.”

His wife's concerned frown transformed into a pensive, red-lipped smile. Her soft hand brushed against his bearded cheek; she stood on tiptoe and kissed him gently. “Nonsense, darling,” she whispered. “I'll see you later in bed.” She turned and disappeared up the shadowy hallway with a rustle of silk, leaving behind a trace of her seductive fragrance. Achille sighed and retired to his study, briefcase in hand.

An hour later, he turned down the flame on his green-shaded kerosene desk lamp, then removed his pince-nez and blinked his overworked eyes into focus. His perusal of the files had raised more questions than it had answered.

Kadyshev, Nazimov, and Boguslavsky's association began in 1869, when the three were students at the Medical Academy in Saint Petersburg. They were “Narodniks,” members of the Chaikovsky Circle, a radical organization formed by Nikolai Chaikovsky. Ostensibly a literary society, the members of the circle sought to foment revolution through the printing and distribution of scientific and revolutionary material. Nazimova was also a member; she met Nazimov early in 1871 and they wed later that year.

In the early days, the Narodniks used peaceful means—the education of the peasants and workers—to achieve their revolutionary ends, but they were frustrated by the peasants' resistance and outraged by the brutality and repression of the Tsarist police. Harassed by the Okhrana, Chaikovsky left Russia in 1874. He sojourned in Kansas, living in a religious agrarian commune before returning to Europe to continue his revolutionary activities.

Kadyshev, Boguslavsky, and the Nazimovs joined the People's Will, a radical group of Narodniks. In 1881, several members of the People's Will plotted and carried out the Tsar's assassination. While there was no evidence linking Kadyshev, Boguslavsky, or the Nazimovs to the plot, they fled Russia to escape the police roundup and persecution that followed the assassination. Then, beginning in Geneva, there was an ideological split among the friends. The Nazimovs became “evolutionary,” non-violent anarchists aligned with the Russian social philosopher Peter Kropotkin, and formed a friendship with the French activist Louise Michel because of their mutual interest in the education (someone, perhaps Rousseau, had noted “indoctrination” and “propaganda” in the margins of their files) of the poor and working classes.

Boguslavsky was a “revolutionary” anarchist, with an alarming interest in high explosives and electric detonators. Kadyshev was a follower of Karl Marx, which had put him at odds with the anarchists entirely.

Achille closed the files and returned them to his briefcase. The political ideologies were of interest to him only to the extent they pertained to a motive for murder. According to French law, the anarchists and Marxists had a right to their beliefs and the liberty to express them freely, as long as they didn't cross the line into criminal activity.

Kadyshev and Boguslavsky had known each other for more than two decades, and for the past nine years, despite ideological disagreements, they had met regularly to play chess and discuss politics. What had changed in their relationship? What might have caused Boguslavsky to turn on Kadyshev and participate in his murder? Where
was
Boguslavsky? What more could Achille get out of Nazimova? Could he trust Rousseau?

Achille rose from his chair, and a sudden dizziness made his legs buckle. He braced himself against the edge of the desk. While shaking his head to regain his senses, it occurred to him that working seventeen hours on coffee, cigarettes, and a croque monsieur was not such a good idea.

Achille picked his way gingerly through the dark corridor that led to the master bedroom. The hallway was little Jeanne's favorite “play place” and, despite Adele's scolding, the child persisted in leaving her toys on the runner. At times, Achille wondered if his daughter were playing a game with him by mischievously obstructing the passageway with obstacles for her near-sighted father. Bleary-eyed as he was, Achille navigated the minefield without tripping over Oscar the Duck.