The Hanged Man (30 page)

A detective, watching from his hiding place in an alley on the other side of the square, checked his watch, opened a notebook, and recorded the time.

When Wroblewski arrived at the signaling house, he glanced up at the third-story window and immediately noticed that it was unshuttered. In response to the eagerly anticipated signal, he turned, walked rapidly away, and practically bounded up the precipitous stairway to the Rue Lepic. A detective concealed in a narrow air space between two houses across the street noted the time, the signal, and Wroblewski's reaction.

Wroblewski continued to the Café Aux Billards en Bois, at the intersection of the Rue des Saules and Rue Norvins.

Achille, Gilles, and another detective waited in the secreted alleyway observation post staked out by Blind by Accident. Two hours earlier, Gilles had photographed an unidentified suspect, the porter from the La Villette storehouse, depositing a message behind the loose brick in the wall around the corner from the café. The detective stationed on the Rue de la Mire had already spotted the message carrier and written a
portrait parlé.
As soon as the “postman” was safely out of view, Gilles had gone to the hiding place and taken two exposures of the concealed note.

The photographer had two plates left and used them to photograph Wroblewski retrieving the message. As soon as the subject was out of sight, Achille turned to his detective. “Remain here until you're relieved.” Then to Gilles, he said, “We must return to your studio immediately. How long will it take to develop and print the negatives?”

“About an hour.”

The knight's making his move
, Achille thought. “All right, then. I need to decrypt the message and get descriptions of the new suspect to Legros. Then I need to arrange a meeting with Rousseau. We have no time to lose.”

Achille paced up and down the floor outside Gilles's darkroom, chain-smoking and muttering to himself. As always, he deplored the scarcity of telephones. In a matter of utmost urgency, he would rely upon the ubiquitous
petit-bleu
, a closed telegram sent by pneumatic tube and delivered by messenger. He took cold comfort in knowing that his adversaries were subject to the same limitations.

Gilles emerged from his photographer's lair, prints in hand. “Good news, Achille! They all came out beautifully. The light was perfect, and my new camera performed like a charm.”

Achille muttered “Thanks” and dashed to a nearby table with the prints. He sat, laid out the photographs before him, and concentrated on the encryption. At last, a broad smile crossed his lips. “You fucked up!” he cried.

Gilles winced as if he had been struck. He ran to the table and stared at the photographs. “What are you saying, Achille? They're perfect, absolutely perfect.”

Achille glanced up at Gilles. “I'm sorry, my friend, I wasn't referring to your work. I was speaking of the clever M. Rossignol. As I'd hoped, he failed to change the key to his poem encryption. I've got the bastard by the short hairs.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” Gilles replied with a mixture of consternation and relief.

Taking the Ronsard poem, some paper, and a pencil from his pockets, Achille went to work on the decryption. Operating quickly but accurately, he soon had the message decoded. Then he dashed off two messages marked “Urgent Police Business”: one to Legros, the other to Rousseau. As soon as he was finished, he got up from the table and stuffed all the material in his pockets.

“I'm off to the telegraph office and then to headquarters. If anyone comes looking for me, especially Étienne, please tell him to meet me there directly.”

“I'll do that, Achille.”

Achille smiled and took his friend by the hand. “I can't tell you how much I appreciate your work on this case. When it's over, I'll take you out on the town and thank you properly.”

“I'll look forward to that, my friend. But don't you have a holiday planned? I assume Adele takes precedence.”

Achille shook his head. “Ah, yes, Trouville. Thank you for reminding me. Our ‘bachelor' spree will have to wait until I return.”

Gilles laughed and clapped his friend's shoulder. “I understand. Now off with you, Inspector. And good luck!”

Mme Berthier and Cook returned from the market, their baskets brimming with fresh produce. In addition to a variety of vegetables, Madame's basket carried the latest edition of
Les Amis de la Vérité
, a gift from Madame's friend, the noted cabbage vendor and gossip, Mme Gros.

Madame and Cook met the nanny and Jeanne in the first-floor foyer. The nanny, Suzanne, pushed a perambulator bearing Olivier, who was sound asleep. “Good afternoon, Mme Berthier,” Suzanne said as she halted her excursion party.

“Good afternoon, Suzanne,” Madame replied. “Taking the little ones out for some air?”

“Yes, Madame, we're going to the Tuileries Gardens.”

Madame inspected the dormant infant in the pram. “Very well, but mind Olivier carefully. He's been a bit fragile lately. He must take after the Lefebvres.” With a rustle of old-fashioned crinoline and a creaking of stays, she bent over gingerly and patted Jeanne's head. “Not like my pretty little cabbage. She's a true Berthier, strong as a cavalry horse.”

Jeanne beamed with pride. “Yes, Grandmamma, and when I grow up, I'm going to be a colonel, just like Grandpapa.”

Madame shook her head. “I'm afraid you'll have to settle for being a colonel's wife.”

Jeanne pouted and stared at her shoes. “Oh,” she muttered. But a moment later, she looked up again with an excited grin. “You're invited to an English tea!”

“An
English
tea, eh? How elegant. And what is the time and place of this social event?”

“It takes place in the nursery this afternoon, as soon as we come back from the park. You will be the guest of honor.”

“If that's the case, I'll surely come. Who else, may I ask, will be present?”

“Suzanne and my dollies,” Jeanne replied matter-of-factly.

“Oh, no one else? What about your mama?”

The little girl frowned and shook her head. “No! Mama is
not
invited.”

Madame imagined the snub was the result of a minor scolding that had not yet worn off. She smiled and patted Jeanne's cheek gently. “Well, perhaps you'll change your mind and add Mama to your guest list.”

“Perhaps,” she replied without enthusiasm.

Madame kissed Jeanne's forehead and whispered, “
A bientôt
, my angel.” Then Suzanne passed out the front entrance with her charges, while Madame and Cook proceeded upstairs.

Adele greeted her mother and Cook at the door. “How was the market, Mama?”

Madame removed the newspaper and handed her basket to Cook. The servant excused herself and moved on to the kitchen.

“Not bad,” Madame replied. “Prices were reasonable, though, as always, I had to bargain them down. The quality is good, especially Mme Gros's cabbages.” With the mention of Mme Gros, her eyes twinkled. She rolled her newspaper around in her hands. “Have you read the latest edition of
Les Amis de la Vérité?
”

Speechless, Adele eyed the newspaper.
My God! Did Fournier write about our meeting at La Grenouillère?

Madame smiled mischievously. “You seem at a loss for words. Let us go to the drawing room. There's a matter I wish to discuss with you—in private.”

Adele followed her mother silently with downcast eyes, like a naughty child on her way to a familiar place of punishment. When they arrived in the drawing room, Madame eased herself into a comfortable armchair.

“It's early, but I'd like a sherry. Why don't you pour two glasses?”

Perplexed by her mother's conviviality, Adele retrieved the bottle and glasses from a nearby cabinet. She served Madame, took a glass for herself, and sat on the settee across from her mother.

Adele braced herself with sherry before breaking her silence. “Is there something of particular interest in the newspaper?” she inquired hesitantly.

“You needn't be so modest, my dear.” Mme Berthier noticed her daughter's blank stare. Her face wrinkled; her eyes narrowed skeptically. “Is it possible you don't know? Why, all Paris is abuzz with it.”

Adele's apprehension and bewilderment evolved into exasperation. “Abuzz with what, Mother? Please be kind enough to inform me.”

Madame snorted dubiously and took a sip of sherry. Then she opened the paper to Fournier's article and handed it over to Adele. “Read it for yourself.”

Adele read the puffery with a bemusement even greater than that of her husband. When she finished, she set down the newspaper on the coffee table. After taking a minute to gather her thoughts, she stammered, “I had no idea M. Fournier was … that he admired Achille so greatly.”

Madame smiled shrewdly. “Oh, you didn't, my dear? Well, his great admiration for your husband is obvious, but more important is M. Junot's esteem. Junot is a man of consequence, with influence at the highest level of government, and with M. Junot backing him, there's no limit to what Achille might achieve.

“I'll admit to having misjudged your husband. I thought he was nothing but a common policeman, chasing criminals through the gutters of Paris. His ambition seemed confined to the office of the chief of detectives. Well, I was wrong and I apologize. Achille has risen considerably in my eyes. Why, only this morning, Mme Gros said he could be our next Prefect of Police. Do you realize what that means? The prefect is a position of great honor, the equivalent of a general or a cabinet minister. Men in such positions reap great rewards; fortunes are made overnight. Achille could assume a title based on his ancient lineage. You might become a baroness with apartments on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.”

“Please, Mother, think of what you're saying,” Adele broke in with alarm. “It's true, Achille's well-regarded. He's solved difficult cases and been promoted for his accomplishments. But he's still a young man. You mustn't leap to conclusions based upon one newspaper article and Mme Gros's predictions.”

“Young, is he?” Madame sniffed. “The great Napoleon was a general at twenty-four and ruler of France at thirty. Of course, I will not liken Achille to the incomparable Emperor. Nevertheless, you should be proud being the wife of such a promising individual. Your father was a brave man, a brilliant officer. He ought to have been a general, but he had powerful enemies. They ruined his career and forced him to retire. You must not let that happen to Achille. As his wife, you have a duty to him and to our family. You must support and encourage him, and do your utmost to help him succeed. Do you understand?”

“For heaven's sake, Mother.” Adele trembled and her eyes filled with tears. “Remember Scripture: ‘Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.'”

Madame laughed bitterly. “Oh, my dear, when did you become so religious? You and your freethinking husband rarely attend mass—not a good example for your children, I'm afraid. Admit it: You don't turn to the Bible from piety, Adele. It's fear, pure and simple. You married a man with a destiny and you're afraid to live with the consequences. Well, I took the colonel, for better or worse, and I would have ridden to heaven or hell with him, as long as I could remain by his side.” Madame reached for the sherry and poured another glass.

Adele composed herself. Following her mother's example, she refilled her glass and took a draft before responding. “I'll admit I'm frightened,” she said, “but it's not what you think. I won't hold Achille back. I'm afraid that as we gain wealth and social status, we'll lose sight of something precious, something closely bound up in our love for one another. For want of a better word, I'd call it innocence.”

The old woman sighed. “Adele, you're a married woman with two children. You're hardly
innocent
. What's more, I think you're too sentimental to be my daughter. At any rate, innocence has nothing to do with it. You can be happy or miserable in a shack or a palace. All things considered, it's better to live in the palace.” She leaned over and took her daughter's hand. “Your life will change. You'll meet new people and enter a higher social sphere. Achille spends too much time with his rowing companions and bohemian friends. They're all a bunch of loafers, drunkards, dope fiends, and degenerates, not to mention their floozies—”