The Hanged Man (28 page)

De Gournay smiled demurely and nodded in reply to Madame's gallant offer. They passed on into the intimate room decorated in the familiar style of the
brasserie à femmes
: red curtains and carpets, a few strategically placed marble-topped tables, and a baize banquette backed by wall mirrors that made the place seem larger than it was. A gas chandelier and wall sconces filled the room with a warm golden glow.

This place was different from others of its ilk in that both clientele and servers were women. As Delphine and de Gournay made their way toward a small corner table, a handful of females eyed them with curiosity, envy, and desire. Delphine was a local celebrity and her companion was handsome and dressed to perfection—they would be the subject of gossip and speculation for some time to come.

One pair of critical male eyes examined the couple from the vantage point of his reserved corner table. Toulouse-Lautrec was an honored regular, Madame's friend and one of the few members of his gender welcome in the otherwise female establishment.
She sees me and ignores me
, he thought.
Why?

Turning his attention from Delphine to her companion, Lautrec's sharp eyes scrutinized de Gournay as the subject of a sketch. Before long, his memory conjured the image of the young man at the Divan Japonais.
No wonder Delphine's avoiding me
, Lautrec thought. Smiling wryly, he put charcoal to paper.
Is she a woman posing as a man, or a man masquerading as a woman? Intriguing. More grist for M. Lefebvre's investigative mill.

De Gournay opened a beaded handbag, removed a gold cigarette case, and offered Delphine a smoke. They were smoking and chatting when a curious young server approached them without being beckoned.

“Good evening, Delphine,” the attractive young girl said, impudently ignoring de Gournay. “We've missed you, but perhaps you've no time for old friends?”

Delphine set down her cigarette in an ashtray and picked a strand of tobacco from her teeth. “Good evening, Clo. I regret I've been busy with my career. But I see nothing's changed—you're cheeky as ever. Didn't Madame teach you not to come until you're called?”

Clo pouted. “Oh, my, aren't we hoity-toity. I suppose I must call you ‘Mademoiselle.' All right,
Mlle
Delphine. Now, won't you be polite in return and introduce your
friend
?”

Delphine frowned disapprovingly, but made a curt introduction. “Mado, this is Clo. Clo, this is Mlle de Gournay.”

Clo made a mock curtsy. Then she winked at de Gournay and smirked. “So, what'll it be, dearie? I assume you're playing Monsieur for the evening?”

Delphine glared at Clo. If she had not been “on duty,” she would have grabbed the girl's reddish-blond topknot, dragged her outside, and slapped her insolent face. Madame would have approved. But under the circumstances, Delphine remained silent and calm.

De Gournay smiled, savoring the bitchy ambience. “Two beers, Mademoiselle, if you please,” de Gournay ordered with excessive politeness.

The girl melted. “Oh, you're nice, darling. I mean, Mademoiselle,” she simpered. “Do you prefer short or tall?”

De Gournay turned to Delphine. “Which do you prefer?”

“I like mine tall and strong,” she replied.

“Two tall beers, please,” de Gournay rejoined.

“Coming right up, love,” Clo chirped. As she turned, she brushed her hip against de Gournay's arm, a provocative action not lost on the vigilant Madame. On the way to the bar, the girl heeded the warning implicit in Mme Armande's icy stare.

Their next visitor was a small dog that stood on its hind legs, placed its forepaws on de Gournay's thigh, and wagged its tail in greeting. De Gournay petted the dog's head and scratched behind its ear.

Delphine smiled. “It's Madame's dog. He's friendly. Nevertheless, I must warn you. He has the bad habit of sneaking under tables and peeing on the customer's skirts.”

De Gournay pushed away the dog. “Goodness, I hope not. I'm wearing the latest Worth creation.”

Delphine laughed and patted de Gournay's hand reassuringly. She admired the emerald green silk dress. “It's very beautiful, Mado. Much too fine to be pissed upon.”

De Gournay held her hand. “Would you care to have a dress like this?”

Delphine sighed. “It would be lovely, but I couldn't wear it.”

“Why not?”

“If I put on that elegant gown, I might forget where I came from.”

Puzzled by her answer, de Gournay's brow wrinkled. “Don't you want to forget?”

She shook her head. “I mustn't. If I did, my songs would be false and meaningless. The audience would jeer me off the stage.”

“But you've improved yourself. You live well, and your audience doesn't seem to mind.”

“Oh, they don't mind that I've bettered myself. In fact, they admire me for my success. And they know that, deep down, I'm still one of them. Of course, they tease me on occasion, as we just got from Clo. I shouldn't mind, really. It reminds me who I am.”

“‘This above all: to thine own self be true,' eh?”

“Pardon?”

Before de Gournay could reveal the source of the quote, Clo came with two large glasses of beer balanced on a tray. She served them courteously, without comment, and then went about her business.

“Her attitude changed awfully fast,” observed de Gournay.

Delphine took a draft and then wiped foam from her lips with a serviette. “Remember what Madame said about the girls getting too fresh. She's quite capable of carrying out her threat, as Clo knows only too well.”

De Gournay stared at Delphine. For an instant, her eyes blazed with a cruel passion, which she masked with a benign smile.

Lautrec finished his sketch.
I'll set this one aside for Inspector Lefebvre
, he thought, closing the book and packing away his charcoals. Placing his hands on the tabletop, he rose slowly and painfully. Lifting his “buttonhook” cane from the back of the chair, he gestured to Madame to indicate he was leaving, and made for the door. He was off to one of his other haunts, the Moulin Rouge.

Toulouse-Lautrec sat at his favorite table, on the dance floor perimeter below the mezzanine, not far from the bar. From this location, he had an excellent view of the hall, a perfect vantage point for sketching. He drank, sketched, and assimilated the atmosphere into his art.

Delphine and de Gournay entered while the quadrille was underway. The elegant couple passed by the bar, their images reflected in a row of sparkling mirrors. They ignored the alluring scrutiny of many amorous eyes, until they found a recently vacated table not far from Lautrec. De Gournay ordered champagne and they huddled together on the banquette, watching the dance, holding hands. They made small talk, occasionally shouting in each other's ears to compete with the orchestra. Lautrec captured their facial expressions and gestures in charcoal.

The dance ended to cheers and applause and the orchestra took a break. Lautrec kept his eyes on Delphine and de Gournay.
Thus far, she plays her part well
, he thought.
However, the next act will be more difficult.
He finished his cognac and signaled the waiter for another.

Zidler approached with a bottle, poured Lautrec a drink, and set the cognac on the table. The portly, dark mustachioed owner-manager looked very prosperous in his white tie and black tailcoat. “Good evening, M. Lautrec.”

“Good evening, Zidler. A good crowd tonight. You must be pleased.”

Zidler rubbed his hands together and winked. “Not bad, Monsieur. Not bad at all. But not like it was during the Exposition.”

Lautrec shrugged. “Well, every day can't be the first day of spring.”

Zidler stroked his moustache. “Very true, Monsieur.” He glanced in the direction of Delphine and de Gournay and noted, “Our Delphine has found a chic new friend.”

“Yes, so it seems,” Lautrec muttered and drained his glass.

“I'd like to have her back at the Moulin, Monsieur,” Zidler said to Lautrec, “but I'm afraid there would be too much competition with Jane Avril.”

Lautrec refilled his glass. “I suppose so.”

Zidler peered down at the sketchbook. “Hard at work as always, I see. Excellent!” He paused a moment, then inquired, “How's the poster coming along?”

Lautrec sighed. Without looking up, he said, “I shall have something for you presently.”

“Splendid!” Zidler replied. He noticed the orchestra beginning to warm up and glanced at his watch. “I look forward to the new poster, and it's always a pleasure to see you.
Au revoir
.” With that, he walked away in the direction of his office.

A few minutes later, the orchestra was tuned and the conductor tapped his baton on his stand. They struck up a polka and an eager crowd, including de Gournay and Delphine, streamed onto the dance floor. Lautrec flipped a page in his book and began a new drawing, his eyes following the couple around the dance floor, his deft hand working in perfect harmony with his penetrating eye. He captured fluid motion, posture, gesture, and expression with a striking economy of line. Were his observations cool, detached, and clinical? Did he approach the subject objectively, the way he recorded Dr. Péan's operations?

Perhaps, on this singular occasion, more emotion than usual crept into his composition. A cloud of jealousy hovered over his consciousness, as noxious as the tobacco haze permeating the dance hall. He recognized the danger. He would not permit such a base passion to interfere with his art.

One dance followed another, then another, until the couple left the floor, panting with fatigue.
A fine pictorial record for the inspector
, Lautrec thought to himself.
Much better than a concealed camera
. He watched de Gournay settle the bill, take Delphine by the arm, and escort her to the exit. Lautrec set down his charcoal and sketchpad, and took a long draft of cognac.
Now, Delphine, you must give your best performance, until the curtain descends on the final scene.

10

DISCOVERED ATTACK

A
chille and Legros pondered the ashes in Nazimova's fireplace, the empty iron box on the floor, and the displaced brick in the mantelpiece. “She lied to me, Étienne. She didn't burn Boguslavsky's formula when her husband died. What else might she have hidden in the box?”

Earlier that morning, the medical examiner had certified the cause of death an accident—an overdose of medication. According to the Morgue pathologist, Nazimova had suffered from a rare bone cancer.

“Excruciatingly painful,” he had observed, following the autopsy. In such cases, he always determined death by accident rather than suicide, giving the deceased the benefit of the doubt.

Achille removed his watch from his vest pocket. “Let's have lunch. We're finished here, at least for the time being.”

He and Legros left the bookstore and walked up the boulevard to their favorite café. Achille perceived what a fine, mild day it was, so different from his mental landscape. The circumstances of Nazimova's death troubled him deeply, in a way he did not want to admit to himself.

They sat at a small round table on the sidewalk fronting the café, in the shade of a tall linden tree. The proprietor welcomed them, as the inspectors were regulars. They ordered coffee and croissants, and remained silent until the proprietor left them and entered the café.

Achille began the conversation with a chess analogy. “A discovered attack with check is one of the most powerful and dangerous moves in chess. Imagine this position: Rossignol, the knight, occupies a square next to our queen. He moves and checks our king, uncovering an attack from his queen against ours on the diagonal. We have no choice but to move our king out of check, thus losing our queen and the game. How do we prevent the knight from making such a move?”

Legros replied without hesitation. “We must avoid placing ourselves in that compromising position. Otherwise, our only hope is that our opponent blunders, that he does not see our weakness and take advantage of his opportunity.”

Achille smiled. “Precisely, Étienne. We've advanced into the middle game of this investigation. We must anticipate our adversary's moves and forestall any of his actions that might harm us. However, if it looks like he's about to blunder, we won't interfere. As the great Napoleon said, ‘Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.' At any rate, we need more information. I expect a report from Delphine today.”

“Have you received a message?”

“Yes, I'm meeting her at Lautrec's studio this afternoon.”

The proprietor interrupted with their order. Achille and Legros exchanged a few pleasantries with their friend until he left them to attend to another table.

Legros took a sip of coffee and a bite of croissant before continuing. “Things are quiet at the stakeout. No new messages. Do you think they suspect we're watching them?”