The Hanged Man (23 page)

Delphine took a puff of her cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke in the direction of the ceiling. Then she looked directly at Orlovsky. “If you please, Monsieur. He seems like an
amusing
young man.”

Apolline suppressed laughter at Delphine's comment by covering her face with a fan and coughing loudly, which drew a reproving glare from her patron. Directing his attention back to Delphine, he continued, “Very well, Mademoiselle. I shall speak to him.” Then he lowered his voice, leered provocatively, and brushed his fingers against her kid-gloved hand. “Now, my dear, if you are not otherwise engaged, perhaps you'll condescend to spend the rest of the evening with me and my charming little companions?”

Aurore and Apolline held their breaths, anxiously awaiting Delphine's response. They knew exactly what Orlovsky wanted—and expected. Their coveted reward was at stake.

Delphine teased him coyly. “That is an intriguing proposal, Monsieur. What should I say in reply?”

Orlovsky's brain burned with lascivious images of the three young women in bed. He leaned over the table, took her hand in his, and kissed her fingers. Then he looked up with entreating eyes. “Say yes, dear Mademoiselle. Say yes!”

9

THE FRENCH DEFENSE

O
n his way to the Sainte-Chapelle, Achille diverted himself with a chess metaphor. He imagined Rousseau playing white, opening with the prosaic yet sound P-K4. One could anticipate a respectable but unimaginative response from black, mirroring the opponent's opening move. However, Achille preferred the tricky French Defense—P-K3.

The choice of first move always gave white the initiative, but black had a retort: “We'll dance to my tune, not yours.” The reasoning was simple: white may have studied the traditional king's pawn openings—Giuoco Piano, Ruy Lopez—to exhaustion, but he had better know the defenses as well.

A weak player might view black's P-K3 as a blunder, an invitation to charge aggressively like a bull, only to run headlong into a hidden sword. On the other hand, the move could confuse a more experienced player, and that confusion might lead to tentativeness in which white loses the initiative, alters his plans, and winds up playing black's game.

Achille smiled at the analogy, the cat-and-mouse tactics he had adopted with his former partner. Upon arrival at the chapel, he flashed his badge at the guard and entered the dark nave, then spotted Rousseau lurking within the arcade. The detective sought cover habitually, whether he needed to or not.

Achille picked up his pace, footsteps echoing throughout the high-vaulted sacred enclosure. He stopped at the corner of an arch and peered into the shadows. “Good morning, Rousseau. You're early.”

“Good morning, Professor.” The greeting emerged from the penumbra. “Yes, I'm early and I'm in a hurry. I've a busy day ahead. Things are heating up in our case.”

Achille responded to the obvious with a smirk. “Hot as Hades, I'd say, and I appreciate the reference to
our
case. What have you got for me,
partner
?”

Rousseau ignored the sarcasm. “We're closing in on Boguslavsky. We believe he was moved from a safe house in Montmartre to La Villette.”

“La Villette's a big place. Have you anything more definite?”

Rousseau frowned with displeasure—he had apparently anticipated surprise, or at least a more enthusiastic response. “We're working on it,” he grunted.

“Good,” Achille replied. “Please keep me apprised of the situation.”

Rousseau's granitic features cracked. “Keep you apprised of the situation?” he parroted mockingly. “You're a cool one, Professor.”

Achille smiled. “I'll take that as a compliment. Any leads on the cat burglar?”

“We brought in the usual suspects for questioning. We've turned up nothing, so far. But these fellows don't like outsiders poaching on their preserve. Sooner or later, someone will come forward and inform.”

“Let's hope sooner rather than later. At any rate, if we trap the rats, we'll likely bag the cat too. Now, I have a question. What do you know about M. Orlovsky?”

Rousseau was taken aback and remained silent for a moment, eyes smoldering like hot coals. The snoop did not like being snooped. “I should ask you the same question,” he answered bluntly.

“Let's not play games, my friend. You've been meeting with the man regularly, and I doubt these are social tête-à-têtes. I can imagine how he fits into
our
case.”

“Don't
imagine
. He's my Okhrana contact,” Rousseau admitted. “He's on our side. That's all you need to know.”

His suspicions confirmed, Achille thought of Delphine. He had launched her on a dangerous venture, like a sacrificial pawn. But he had no time for sentimental weakness. “Fair enough,” he said. “Now, what can you tell me about Rossignol?”

“Rossignol? I don't know what you're talking about.”

Was Rousseau lying? Covering up? Or just ignorant? Achille had no way of knowing, but he threw a bone to see how Rousseau chewed on it. “You mentioned a safe house in Montmartre. We located a place on the Rue Ronsard, and I assume it's the same. The lease is in the name of M. Rossignol.”

Rousseau did not answer directly. “So you know about Moreau and Wroblewski?”

“Yes, I do. And you know nothing of Rossignol?”

Rousseau shook his head in the negative and remained silent. Then he said, “I suppose you're looking for this Rossignol?”

“Of course.” Achille paused before adding, “Can you tell me something about one of Orlovsky's friends? A young fop who frequents the dance halls and cabarets.”

Rousseau did not hesitate to answer, though he raised a questioning eyebrow. “You mean de Gournay? I know nothing about him, except that he hangs out with Orlovsky. The Russian gentleman has his own way of life. I don't interfere, as long as he remains our ally.”

“I see. But there is no formal alliance between France and Russia. What if he turned against us?”

Rousseau's face darkened. He stepped forward and clenched a fist, as though about to strike out. “I think you can answer that yourself,” he growled.

Achille remained calm, gazing directly into Rousseau's burning eyes. “I'm sorry, my friend, I know you're a patriot. I trust you'll act accordingly.”

Rousseau backed off, but he replied with dignity, “You needn't remind me of my duty.”

“I'd never presume to,” Achille said. Then he tossed another bone. “I'll contact you immediately if I learn more about M. Rossignol.” Of course, he said nothing about the code, the Blind Beggars, or Delphine's espionage. As for the shady M. de Gournay, he would take Rousseau at his word. Achille had other means of acquiring facts about the gentleman. Everything considered, he had learned something about Rousseau's intentions, and revealed little in return.

Rousseau seemed satisfied. “All right, Inspector.” Then he solemnly proclaimed, “We'd better pull together, Achille. After all, we're rowing the same boat.”

The offer of closer cooperation, coupled with the boating metaphor, caught Achille off guard. Subtlety was hardly Rousseau's long suit. “Before, we were working opposite sides of the same street,” Achille replied. “Now, we'll crew the same boat. It's all one to me, as long as we do our job and dispose of the case successfully.”

“Very well, Professor. You'll hear from me soon. Until then.”

Achille nodded. “
Au revoir
, Rousseau.”

The porter gave Boguslavsky's shoulder a rude shake. “Wake up, comrade. You must leave at once.”

The snoring man's eyes blinked open to the blinding glare of a lantern. He raised his right hand over his face for shade. “What … what the devil's going on?”

“Keep your voice down! The police have this place surrounded. We have an escape route planned, but you must make haste. Get dressed and I'll give you instructions.”

Boguslavsky rolled off his palette and grabbed his trousers, shoes, and socks. In response to the porter's incessant urging, he growled, “Shut up, will you? I'm moving as fast as I can.”

As soon as Boguslavsky was dressed, the porter guided him to a corner space hidden behind a row of shelves. He set the lantern down, grasped an iron ring, and lifted a trap door. A stench like rotten meat and excrement filled their nostrils.

“What is this?” Boguslavsky growled. “Do you expect me to crawl through a fucking sewer?”

“Be quiet, you fool!” the porter hissed. “This is the only way out. Get down there and I'll point the way. Now listen carefully: You'll crawl on your belly for about twenty meters until you come to a canal. A boat's waiting. The boatman will take you to a prearranged spot, where you'll transfer to a closed coach that'll take you to a railway station. Rossignol will meet you there with a passport, tickets, and cash. Any questions?”

Boguslavsky scowled. “No.” He lowered himself into the narrow space, grunting as he stretched out face-down in the muck. “Aren't you coming?” he asked.

“Don't worry about me. Start crawling. It's not far.” The porter held the lantern and watched until Boguslavsky disappeared from view. Then he lowered the trap door, leaving the chemist to creep through the slime in total darkness.

Delphine and Apolline sat at a lace-draped tea table, enjoying their morning chocolate, pears, and brioche. A Moroccan maid served their breakfast near an unshuttered window, with cut velvet curtains partially drawn to admit light and a mild summer breeze. The two young women lounged, partially dressed in petticoats and chemises.

Aurore called to them from the adjoining sitting room. “Are you lazybones going to get up and join me?”

Apolline stretched her arms and yawned loudly. “You run along, dear, and take Aisha with you. Delphine will stay here with me and have a nice gossip.” Then she bit into a juicy pear and wiped the dribble from her chin with a serviette.

“Do as you please,” Aurore replied. “Come, Aisha, we haven't all day.”

The Moroccan girl, who looked no more than thirteen, said, “Yes, Mademoiselle.” She curtsied politely to Apolline and Delphine and then passed out of the room through a
portiere
.

Apolline grinned as she leaned over the table and whispered, “Aurore likes getting up early and going to market with Aisha. Frankly, I think she's sweet on her. Can you imagine?”

Delphine shrugged and took a cigarette from her silver case. “Would you like one, dear?” she offered. “It's a Turkish blend I have made up special. The tobacconist calls it ‘Delphine' and it's becoming popular with the fashionable ladies.”

“Oh, thank you, darling,” Apolline replied, as Delphine gave her a light. They smoked quietly and picked at their breakfast until they heard the front door close. Apolline smiled conspiratorially. “At last, we can speak freely. What do you think of our little love nest?”

Delphine glanced around at the lavishly furnished bedroom: blue silk-patterned wallpaper adorned with landscapes in gilt frames; raspberry velvet-upholstered settee and chairs; Persian carpets; Japanese silk screens with floating blossoms and soaring cranes; and fragrant, fresh-cut flowers in Chinese vases. There was even a whimsical mechanical parrot in a gilded cage. Finally, her eyes rested on the large Empire-period bed, unmade, and a strategically placed screen.

“Monsieur has fine taste, and he seems generous enough,” she stated matter-of-factly. “You girls are lucky.”

Apolline nodded her agreement. “This place is a palace compared to where we came from. As for Monsieur, he has his quirks, but no one's perfect. Better him than some old tightwad.”

“Is that all he does with you two, watch from behind that screen?”

Apolline laughed and stubbed out her cigarette. “Yes, he likes to hide and peek, watching us romp in bed. With you, he got a bonus. He's very pleased today, I'm sure. Thank goodness.”