Free The Hanged Man by Gary Inbinder

a cat burglar as well. Someone did a good job cleaning out Kadyshev’s room. And I expect he’ll go back to Nazimova for more questioning.”
    The man’s eyes narrowed. He formed a steeple with his fingers, and then intertwined the digits as if in prayer. “Who do you think will get to Boguslavsky first?”
    Rousseau shook his head. “I don’t know. Achille’s very thorough. He and Legros have developed their own network of informers in and around Paris. He’ll also have police watching the railways, ports, and border crossings. And he has excellent contacts in London and Brussels, Boguslavsky’s most likely destinations outside France.”
    â€œWell, we have excellent contacts in London and Brussels, too.” The man started fussing with a black onyx cameo ring, twisting it around and around his finger. “As for the cat burglar and Kadyshev’s room, do you think Lefebvre has any idea what’s missing?”
    Rousseau shook his head and snorted. “He’s clever, Monsieur, but he doesn’t have second sight. At any rate, I expect he’ll sniff things out soon enough.”
    Raymond interrupted with their drinks. The man gazed up at the waiter and smiled appreciatively, but remained silent until he was out of earshot once more. “He’ll get something out of Nazimova, I’m sure,” he eventually continued. “It’s a good thing she’s under close surveillance.”
    Rousseau nodded and sipped his coffee and cognac.
    The man smiled and stopped toying with his ring. “Inspector Lefebvre’s an interesting fellow. He’s in line to become the next chief of the detective’s brigade. I’ll want to meet him one of these days. I’m sure you can arrange that, when the time comes.”
    Rousseau finished his drink and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. “No problem, Monsieur.”
    The man sipped his drink, leaned back and hooked a thumb in his vest pocket. “I won’t detain you any longer, my friend.” He paused a moment, then added, “Those little girls are very friendly, and I don’t mind sharing. That is, if you have nothing more pressing.”
    Rousseau looked over the man’s shoulder. A golden-eyed demon leered at him from its wall niche. “No, thank you. I have a woman waiting for me.”
    The man shrugged. “As the Parisians say: à chacun son goût. ” He extended his hand. “Au revoir.”

4
    LE TEMPS DES CERISES
    A t five A.M. , Chief Féraud tasted his morning café , smiled, and smacked his lips with satisfaction. “Perfection,” he sighed. The brew was hot as hell, black as mud, and strong as the biblical Samson; those were his standing orders for the clerk who was assigned the task of procuring the chief’s coffee, and this morning they’d been carried out to the letter.
    Thus fortified with a jolt of caffeine, the chief hunched over his desk while shuffling through routine paperwork, until he came to a manila envelope date-stamped that morning at the Morgue. He turned the screw on his oil lamp until the flaming wick flooded his cluttered desk with light. His stubby fingers eagerly tore open the flap and retrieved a sharp, expertly composed image of a guillotined head on a slab. A knock on the door interrupted the chief’s scrutiny of the photo. He expected Achille, and so answered with a cheerful “Come in!”
    Achille entered and took a seat opposite Féraud. His haggard face and red eyes outlined in dark circles appeared in sharp contrast to his chipper boss. Achille’s weary countenance led to the chief’s observation, “You’re not getting enough sleep, my boy.” The chief handed over the photograph. “Here’s something to wake you up.”
    Achille rubbed his eyes and put on his pince-nez. Nodding in recognition, he said matter-of-factly, “It’s Palmieri, the Corsican