Free The Hanged Man by Gary Inbinder Page B

of tough little monkeys. Marchand looked up to Rousseau, more like a kid brother than a friend. When Rousseau decided to go straight and join the force, Marchand joined up with him. That pissed off their former pals. But Rousseau had quite a reputation on the streets; the gangsters feared him more than they hated him, and that salutary fear extended to his best pal.
    â€œMarchand married and had a couple of kids; Rousseau had his woman, Louise. He rose through the ranks and joined the detective’s brigade. That’s when I met him. Then the War came, followed by the Siege and the Commune. The National Guard uniform was the only one respected on the streets. Rousseau was already in plainclothes, and wisely went to ground. He tried to persuade Marchand and his family to go into hiding with him. He figured they could hold out until the army restored order in Paris.”
    â€œPardon me, Chief,” Achille interjected, “this much Rousseau has already told me.”
    Féraud frowned and shook his head. “There’s more, things he’s told no one—except me. Marchand thought he could keep his job under the Commune and remained at his post until an old enemy denounced him as a spy for the Versailles government. The charge was false, but the Communards took him prisoner anyway. Following a drumhead court-martial, Marchand was found guilty and sentenced to death. Rousseau saw his best friend, his ‘little brother,’ die at the hands of a mob. They were bad shots; the volley was sloppy, hit and miss. They wanted to save their lead for the barricades, so rather than give him a coup de grâce , they beat Marchand with rifle butts and stuck him with bayonets. Then they dragged the mutilated corpse through the streets and hung it from a lamppost.
    â€œAfter the Versailles army stormed the barricades and retook the Butte, Rousseau denounced the Communards who had murdered his friend. He took pleasure in watching the executions. And for as long as I’ve known him, he’s always set something aside from his salary for Marchand’s widow and the children.”
    â€œI had no idea, Chief. This explains much about Rousseau.”
    Féraud nodded in agreement. “You know the song ‘Le Temps des cerises’? It was popular in the sixties, and they still sing it at the café-concerts. When I was young, it was a nostalgic song about Paris in the spring and the cherry blossoms. But it took on a new meaning after the Commune—now, they look back to a Golden Age that never was and long for a world that will never be. It’s an illusion, but some people are so dedicated to their utopia that they’ll use any means—riots, mayhem, murder—in a futile attempt to realize it.
    â€œYou were still a schoolboy in the country when Rousseau and I were patrolling the Paris streets. I respect your ideals, your concern for human rights and equal protection under the law. But you must realize that there was a time not long ago when the law broke down and anarchy ruled. The majority of our citizens appreciate the order, stability, peace, and prosperity of the past twenty years; they don’t want to return to that ‘Time of the Cherries.’ It’s our duty to serve, protect, and defend the good citizens, their lives, and their property—even if it requires an occasional bending of the rules. You understand?”
    Achille thought that even the best ends rarely—if ever—justified the means, but the world was more gray than black and white. There was a difference between a practical good and a fantasy, and a moral distinction between evil and an occasional divergence from the ideal. He disliked hair-splitting, but he wouldn’t let punctiliousness get in the way of doing his job. “I understand, Chief. But I’d prefer having suspects arrested and interrogated properly, rather than leaving them to Rousseau.”
    Féraud smiled warmly, as