The Hanged Man by Gary Inbinder Page B

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.
    â€œWe’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?”
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œWas the victim alone?”
    â€œYes, Monsieur.”
    â€œDid the concessionaire notice anything unusual about the victim’s demeanor?”
    â€œYes, 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.”
    â€œGood work, Étienne. Have you turned up any other evidence?”
    â€œNo, 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