The Hanged Man by Gary Inbinder Read Free Book Online Page A

concierge opened it?”
    Achille shook his head. “It wasn’t Mme Arnaud. She told Rodin she hadn’t entered the room since Kadyshev was last here.” Achille walked to the window, looked down, and noticed paint chips on the sill. He felt for gouges, running his hand along the rough underside of the sash. Achille removed his hat, raised the sash, leaned out the window, and examined the exterior.
    Anticipating Achille’s discovery, Legros joined him. “It was forced, M. Lefebvre?”
    â€œYes, of course,” Achille replied. Still leaning out the window, he craned his neck to look up at the guttering and eaves. Then he glanced over in the direction of the drainpipe and beyond, to the narrow airshaft separating this building from the next. A warm breeze ruffled his hair; sparrows flitted by, then perched on the gutter and chattered; a one-horse cart rumbled up the cobblestone pavement four stories below.
    Finished with his inspection, he pulled back from the window and dusted off his jacket front and sleeves. Then he turned to Legros. “This was the expert work of a cat burglar. Do you remember Jojo, the acrobatic clown at the Circus Fernando?”
    â€œIndeed I do, Inspector. You sent him up for a nice long holiday in Le Bagne .”
    â€œWell, whoever did this was as good as Jojo.” Without another word, he walked over to the table. Legros followed. Taking a large magnifying glass from his breast pocket, Achille examined the bottle and glasses. “I suppose this is what caught your eye?”
    â€œYes, you can see the prints quite clearly.”
    Achille nodded and put away his glass. He looked at Legros with a wry smile. “Another forensic experiment. Too bad we have no method for transferring them at the scene. At any rate, we’ll take the glasses and bottle into evidence and see what we can do with them in the laboratory to enhance the prints.” For a moment, he glanced at the threadbare rug beneath the table, and then scanned the bare wooden floor and skirting board. Achille shook his head. “I don’t suppose you found any cigarette butts?”
    â€œNo, Inspector.”
    â€œHe smoked like an old stove,” Achille muttered. And he was careless about the butts, even perhaps at the crime scene.
    â€œPardon, M. Lefebvre. Are you referring to Kadyshev?”
    â€œNo, Étienne. We need to track down a Russian named Boguslavsky. I want to question him as soon as possible. He may be a chemist by profession, and Mme Arnaud gave me a good description. Ask about him at the café in the square; he used to hang out there with Kadyshev. I’ll check M. Bertillon’s records and I may have another source as well.”
    â€œIs that all, Inspector?”
    Achille grinned sardonically. “Isn’t that enough?”

3
    HEAVEN AND HELL
    I nspector Lefebvre’s cubbyhole office was as well known in the brigade for its uniformity and efficient organization as was the chief’s for its individuality and casual disarray. Rousseau had a running joke with the “old boys”: “I’m afraid to touch anything in the Professor’s office. I might leave germs—and incriminating fingerprints.”
    Achille had set up an easel in the small space between his desk and the opposite wall, from which hung a map of the park; the crime scene and the area of the search were circled and marked with pins. Féraud rested his backside on Achille’s desk, cup and saucer in hand. While sipping his morning coffee, the chief concentrated on the map, and Achille gave him an update on the status of the investigation.
    â€œHere’s where Legros and his detail discovered the necktie, collar, handkerchief, and chloroform bottle.” Achille indicated the location with a pointer. “The evidence we’ve gathered thus far has given me an idea of how the crime was committed, and of the perpetrators’ motives.”
    Féraud