Free The Hanged Man by Gary Inbinder Page A

axe-murderer. An excellent likeness.” He handed back the photo. “I suppose you’re going to add it to your Rogue’s Gallery?”
    Féraud returned the photo to its envelope. He smiled with a sense of pride, like an old hunter about to mount his valedictory trophy on an overcrowded wall. “Yes. He might be among the last of my tenure. You’ll be starting your own Rogue’s Gallery soon. And you deserve much credit for Palmieri’s arrest and conviction.”
    Achille forced a smile. He and Legros had followed a trail of evidence that had led them to a crawl space beneath the Palmieri residence, where they had exhumed Mme Palmieri’s badly decomposed body parts from a vermin-infested pit. The stench, filth, and horror had remained with him, and the image of the head brought back unpleasant memories. Nevertheless, he could shrug it off. It was all part of his job; routine, compared to the Hanged Man case.
    The chief rested his arms on the desktop, leaned over, and contemplated his protégé with a father’s eyes. For an instant he glanced at a silver-framed desktop photograph of his own son, an officer serving in Algeria, then looked back at Achille. “I’ve read your report, my boy, and I’m quite pleased with your progress. But you mustn’t overwork yourself. If you need assistance, don’t hesitate to ask.”
    Achille knew what was expected of him. He had worked for Féraud long enough to know that the chief’s “don’t overwork yourself” line was intended as a spur to greater effort. Nevertheless, Achille was short of detectives and he would make a reasonable request for more. “Thank you, Chief. In fact, Legros and I have our hands full looking for Boguslavsky, questioning his acquaintances and co-workers, and searching his residence. And we’re looking for the individual who burgled Kadyshev’s room. I’d appreciate some assistance.”
    The benign smile transformed into a businesslike frown. “Of course, Achille; I’ll see what I can do. I suppose there’ll be some duplication of effort between you and Rousseau?”
    â€œPerhaps, Chief. We’re cooperating all right, but frankly, I believe we’re competing to see who can get to Boguslavsky first. Have you obtained an arrest warrant?”
    Féraud nodded. “Yes, but this is an unusual case. The Magistrate won’t be taking an active role in the investigation, at least not at this stage. That’ll be left to us—and the political brigade.”
    Achille’s eyes widened, and he stared at the chief for a moment before speaking. He disliked procedural irregularities, but he knew that in this particular case, he couldn’t push Féraud too far. “I understand, Chief. But I hope we get to the suspect first. You know what Rousseau and his thugs will do to Boguslavsky if he doesn’t talk. At any rate, the sooner we bring him in, the better. There’s the issue of public safety. Boguslavsky worked for a research laboratory that tests high explosives and electric detonators used in the mining industry. And Rousseau hinted at an anarchist plot, though I fear Rousseau’s holding back information. That puts me at a disadvantage.”
    Féraud sat back in his chair, eyes closed, and fiddled with the death’s-head charm on his watch chain. After a moment, he leaned forward and looked directly at Achille. “I don’t think you have ever understood Rousseau. Do you know what happened to his friend Marchand?”
    â€œI’ve heard the story, Chief. Marchand was one of the policemen taken prisoner by the Communards and was killed in the final days when the Versailles army was advancing on the Butte.”
    Féraud nodded. “That’s common knowledge in the brigade, but there’s more to it than that. Rousseau and Marchand grew up together in Belleville. They ran with the same gang, a couple