The Hanged Man by Gary Inbinder Read Free Book Online

mixture of French and Russian, and I could make out some of it. Stuff about workers and peasants, oppressors and tyrants, strikes, revolution, that sort of thing.”
    She paused a moment, glanced at her old friend Rodin, and then looked back at Achille with a grim frown. “You know, M. Lefebvre, many of us up here still have bitter memories of 1871. I remember an old priest, Abbé Laurent, a kindly gentleman who always cared for the sick and the poor, and never harmed anyone. He was one of the hostages shot by the mob on the Rue Haxo. No, Inspector, I want nothing to do with that sort of ‘politics.’”
    Achille understood perfectly. Across the political spectrum, Parisians had painful memories of the Commune. Asking questions about what had occurred, especially during the Bloody Week, was like probing an old wound that had never completely healed. “Madame, we’ll need to question your other two tenants. I understand they’re both presently at work?”
    â€œYes. Messrs. Jacquot and Lebel. But I assure you, they had nothing to do with the Russians.”
    â€œI understand, Madame. It’s just a matter of routine.”
    A knock on the parlor door interrupted them. “Pardon me, Madame; that must be my associate, Inspector Legros.” Achille placed Cyrano down gently on the carpet, leaving the cat staring up at his new friend with wistful blue eyes, his tail curled into a question mark. Achille walked to the entrance with the cat padding alongside. When the door opened, Cyrano let out a low growl and dashed into the hall, having spotted a mouse scampering along the skirting board.
    â€œExcuse me, Inspector, I’m sorry to interrupt. But I’ve found some items of interest upstairs.”
    Achille smiled. “Not to worry, Étienne, I’m finished down here.” He turned back toward Mme Arnaud. “Thank you again, Madame. You have my card. If you have any questions or any further information of interest, please don’t hesitate to contact me. You may also get a message to me or M. Legros through Sergeant Rodin.”
    Madame replied, “I’ll certainly do that, M. Lefebvre.” She then turned to her old friend Rodin and engaged him in local gossip, a variety of topics including Russians, radicals, and the tragic aftermath of the phylloxera infestation, most particularly the plight of the unemployed vintners and the sharp rise in the cost of vin ordinaire.
    Upon entering Kadyshev’s sparsely furnished room, Achille was struck by its tidiness. From the neatly made cot to the orderly rows of books on a shelf, everything seemed almost too perfectly arranged.
    Aside from the bed, the only furnishings were a small round table with a half-empty bottle of vodka and two glasses on top, three plain wooden chairs, and a marble-topped washstand with porcelain basin, pitcher, and shaving mirror. A scrupulously cleansed chamber pot occupied a cabinet beneath the washstand, and a rack held what appeared to be recently laundered washcloths and towels. A mahogany armoire was the most prominent item in the room, and it contained a presentable wardrobe for a man of Kadyshev’s social status and profession. Achille noticed two plaster busts decorating the bookshelf, one of Jean-Jacques Rousseau and the other of Karl Marx. Someone was certainly making a political statement , he thought.
    â€œDid you find any letters, papers, photographs, or other personal effects?”
    â€œNo, Inspector. That’s odd, isn’t it?”
    Achille shook his head. “Not odd if someone was here before us and cleaned the place out.”
    â€œBut wouldn’t the concierge have known if anyone had been here?”
    Achille muttered, “Not necessarily.” He pointed toward the open window. “The air’s surprisingly fresh. Was that window open when you entered?”
    â€œYes, Inspector, it was. I assumed Kadyshev had left it open. Or perhaps the