The Orphan's Tale

by Anne Shaughnessy

  "It must be splendid to have so much leisure time," Malet said. "There are those of us who will be up and about for some hours yet. But I didn't bring you here to discuss sleeping habits. Did you look at those prisoners?"

  "I did. They turned my stomach. They're a collection of rabble. Did you wish my agreement on that score? You have it with all my heart. And I will admit that the trick was neatly turned. You have my compliments."

  "It was more valuable to have your cooperation," Malet said.

  Guerin bowed, although the sardonic bend of his mouth remained. "Thank you," he said.

  Malet disposed himself in a chair and said, "There were one or two surprises among the prisoners we bagged."

  "You didn't seem surprised by any of them," Guerin said. "You knew most of them by name. Interesting that you would be so conversant with the names and histories of such criminals." His tone was openly mocking. "But I suppose you have an advantage over those of us poor mortals not blessed with a bastard birth and a prison upbringing."

  As the illegitimate son of a nobleman and the opera dancer who had murdered him in a fit of jealous rage, Malet ignored the insult. "One of them at least was a surprise," he said. "-or should have been to you."

  Guerin raised his eyebrows and smoothed the thick line of his side‑whiskers. "And who was that?"

  "Must we fence like this?" Malet demanded. "Ensenat. I know you recognized him."

  "Well?"

  "'Well'?" Malet repeated. "You know as well as I do that he's closely tied with-"

  "-Constant Dracquet," Guerin finished with the air of one sorely tried. "I am not a patient man, and I find monomaniacs particularly tiresome." He speared Malet with a level, half‑amused look. "Yes," he said. "The man is employed by Dracquet in a menial position. I believe he's some sort of gardener or stable hand. I don't believe his employment includes cutting throats, or at least trying to, and I suspect that when M. Dracquet hears of his involvement in this venture he will cast him off completely."

  "Like master, like man," said Malet. "I would like to see Dracquet's reaction to this."

  "He will probably find this entire matter an embarrassment and a disgrace," Guerin said. "I would, and so would any honest man."

  "The question is whether Dracquet is an honest man," said Malet. His tone was beginning to lose some of its courtesy. This was a matter that had been discussed too often between them. "I am certain that he's the force behind most of the crime in this departement-"

  "And where's your proof?"

  Malet ignored the interruption. "-in this departement," he said. "His name has come up again and again in every major criminal undertaking that I have investigated or read about. Extortion, bribery, arson, political murder-look at the ones we arrest and you find him behind them like a shadow."

  "I say again: where's your proof?" said Guerin. "Who has seen him shooting the guns? Who has seen him setting the fires? Has he done anything provably wrong? No? Then he's innocent." He added bluntly, "One involved in upholding the Law for as long as you have been shouldn't have to be told that."

  "And for most of those years I have been trying to get the proof," exclaimed Malet. "And I have been blocked-for what reason I can't begin to guess!-by you! I need your cooperation in order to get the proof, as I have told you time and again. I have watched and been helpless against him, but things are different now. We have one of his close lieutenants in the Conciergerie at this moment!"

  Guerin started to speak but Malet silenced him with an impatient gesture.

  "Don't annoy me with your talk of gardeners and stable hands!" Malet exclaimed. "You know as well as I the sort of position Ensenat holds in Dracquet's household. I think it could be a chink in his armor, and with some swift, decisive action-"

  Guerin pushed himself to his feet and headed for the door. "No," he said.

  Malet followed him. "You can't be serious after what you have seen tonight! Don't you understand what we are dealing with? The man is tied in with murder! We must act! We can keep hooking the small fish, we can keep raking in the hired assassins, we can find the arsonists, we can nab the go‑betweens, but if we do nothing to stop the man at the very heart of this tangle and pulling the strings, we're wasting our time! I haven't been able to nail him, but with your cooperation-"

  Guerin took up his coat and hat. "It is my time that's being wasted," he said with a yawn.

  "But I tell you he's known to have-"

  Guerin set the hat on his head. "Rumors! Libels! Slanders! You say you haven't been able to 'nail' him-what a term!-has it occurred to you that he can't be 'nailed'? That however much you may lick your chops at the prospect of going after someone you think is the kingpin of crime here, you're aiming the wrong way?" He flashed a scornful look at Malet and then shrugged into his coat and started toward the door.

  Malet drew a deep breath and said quietly, "You took an oath to uphold the government and protect the helpless. If the man is the monster I believe he is, then he's far deadlier than a mad dog! You owe it to your charges to make certain that he won't harm any of them!"

  When Guerin did not respond, Malet stepped in front of him. "I beg you, Inspector: cooperate with me! I will do all the work. I won't use any of your people. I won't take up any of your time, and when I do get my proof, you'll get all credit for catching the man. I will write the report and you can sign it. All I want to do is catch that criminal before he does any more harm. And make no mistake: he will do more harm! Please! Let me-"

  Guerin spoke over him with cold incisiveness. "You might be keeping Lamarque's seat warm while he's away, but I am still master in my own arrondissement, and I will thank you to remember it and keep out of it! You don't have my permission to stick your nose in the affairs of the 18th arrondissement or any of its residents. If M. Dracquet does anything illegal in the 12th, which, you may recall, is your territory, by all means feel free to harass him-within the bounds of your own territory!"

  "But-"

  "Forget it, Malet! You'll have to give up your pet project!" Guerin's eyes narrowed and he added, "And let me suggest that you try going after someone who has actually done wrong-such as those slash‑murderers you have been trying to chase lately-rather than hounding an innocent man!" He paused, as though calculating the effect of his next words. "I have long suspected that, having crawled out of the gutter, you wish to send everyone you can back into it. But you won't succeed here, and so I warn you!"

  "I tell you-"

  "Stand aside," snapped Guerin. "You're blocking my way!"

  Malet moved aside and watched Guerin open the door. He said, "You were once the finest officer in Paris. I heard of you from as far away as Picardy. And now you do this. What changed you?"

  "Good night, Malet," Guerin said. He turned on his heel and strode off, leaving Malet looking after him with his brows drawn together in a puzzled frown, heedless of the people in the anteroom.

  ** ** **

  Malet walked slowly to the Prefect's desk and sat down. After another moment he drew a deep breath and buried his face in his hands.

  Another door slammed! It made no sense-

  "Don't pay him any heed," said a voice in the doorway. "As scriptures say, 'As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly'."

  Malet raised his head and saw Inspector L'Eveque smiling at him.

  "Are you all right?" asked L'Eveque.

  "I am fine," Malet said. "Just stalemated. Again."

  "You'll find a way around it," L'Eveque said. "You always do." He commanded a precinct in Guerin's arrondissement, but he had spent five years as one of Malet's close subordinates, and the two had developed a warm friendship. Now L'Eveque's merry eyes narrowed in a smile and he said, "But I am here to ask leave to introduce someone to you. I am hoping you'll take an interest in him."

  Malet sat back and smiled back at the man. "Of course, Christien," he said. "Bring him in."

  L'Eveque turned and went to the door. "Come on in, Charles," he said, and stood
aside as the young man who had been acting as the decoy entered. He was wearing a bandage tipped over one eye.

  L'Eveque said, "Chief Inspector Paul Malet-acting Prefect of Police for the moment-permit me to present to you Junior Inspector Charles‑Maurice de Saint‑Légère. We were in the army together: he left as a Major in 1829, and he's just come from England within the past year. Charles, M. Malet was my commanding officer for five years, and I have never ceased regretting leaving his command-though I am certain he's been blessing the day ever since."

  Malet rose and returned Saint‑Légère's bow. "I am pleased to meet one who distinguished himself this evening," he said.

  Saint‑Légère chuckled. "I distinguished myself by dropping my gun," he said. "I must apologize. I am more used to carrying a sword."

  Malet made a motion with his hand. "That was hardly a mistake," he said. "Don't refine on it. It took me a lot of practice to master keeping a pistol up my sleeve. You did very well, and without your assistance, we would never have been as successful as we were. I see you have had your hurts tended."

  "They were nothing," Saint‑Légère said with a shrug. "Just a rap to the skull and little else. Sir, that went off beautifully!"

  Malet half‑bowed. "Sit down," he said. When they had, he said, "England? Did you live there long?"

  "I was born and raised there," Saint‑Légère replied. "My parents were emigres-"

  "He's the cousin of the Duc de Fontrevault," L'Eveque said. "He never mentions it. He could be living in the Faubourg Saint‑Germain and swilling champagne every evening, but he's a cop instead. I don't understand it!"

  "I could level the same accusation at you," Saint‑Légère said.

  Malet said, "Then you must permit me to welcome you back to France, M. de Saint‑Légère, and thank you for your dedication."

  Saint‑Légère looked startled for a moment: Malet had spoken in excellent English. He replied gracefully in the same language, though, and then rose when L'Eveque stood.

  "I don't wish to overstay my welcome," said L'Eveque, "Nor do I wish to keep this poor hero from his bed. I will take my leave of you, sir, with my best wishes, as always."

  Saint‑Légère bowed. "It was a pleasure, sir," he said formally.

  "And for me as well. I look forward to reading your report after M. Guerin approves it."

  Saint‑Légère did not comment, but for a moment he seemed almost stricken to Malet's concerned eyes.

  L'Eveque was looking from Malet to Saint‑Légère. "Just remember, Charles," he said, suddenly intent, "This man is the finest superior I have ever had, and a very fine friend, as well. If you ever need guidance, you should go to him." He turned to Malet. "I am certain M. Malet wouldn't gainsay me."

  Malet rose and walked with them to the door of the Prefect's offices, watched them leave, then went back to his desk. He was smiling; Christien L'Eveque had always been able to amuse him, and he valued the man's friendship. If Inspector de Saint‑Légère enjoyed L'Eveque's friendship, then he was a man of quality.

  Malet turned from thoughts of L'Eveque to considering the man he had captured that night: Ensenat. If Malet was right, he had just gained a formidable weapon to use in a fight that he had begun to consider a private crusade. He would question the man the next day.

  III

  THE PLOT THICKENS

  A finger of wind pushed between the lace curtains that shrouded the window and touched the face of the man lying in the large bed. The sudden coolness caused the man's eyes to shift from contemplating the draped canopy ceiling above him to frown at the window. It was bright: what time was it?

  He reached for the gold watch that had been carefully set on the stand beside the bed the night before. He pressed the stem and gazed at the enameled face when the case opened. He had seen the inscription 'From the Grateful Citizens of Vautreuil, 1814 ‑ 1826' that had been carved inside the heavy gold case too often to pay it any heed. The hour and minute hands had passed the finely painted name 'Breguet' that sat just above six o'clock, and were entangled in the wreath of oak leaves that circled the face.

  Almost seven o'clock! Time to rise. Paul Malet set the watch back on its stand and then lost himself in a luxurious stretch. He threw the covers aside, swung a pair of long, well‑muscled legs across the mattress to the floor, and stepped from his bed to cross to the window and gaze out over the courtyard of his house to the street below.

  The old houses lining his street were cloaked in a fine mist, the last remnants of the marsh that had been drained three hundred years before to form the Marais district of Paris. The sun seemed to be trying to break through the clouds overhead, and the breeze had risen slightly and seemed somehow colder.

  The rigors of a childhood spent in a prison had long ago inured Malet to cold, but he valued propriety, and it would be most improper to be caught standing at his bedroom window clad only in his nightshirt. He turned aside to don a dressing gown of brocaded, wine‑colored silk, knotted the sash about his waist, and then opened the windows inward and rested his folded arms on the carved stone balustrade.

  "Good morning Inspector!" called the costermonger who was leading his horse and cart along the fog‑dimmed street. "You're late rising today!"

  "Busy night," said Malet.

  "There's busy and then there's busy," said the costermonger with a rueful grin. "Knowing life, your 'busy night' wasn't the enjoyable kind, if you know what I mean."

  "No," said Malet with an air of interested innocence, "What can you mean?"

  "Go on with you, Inspector!" called the costermonger. "If you aren't half a card-! Anyhow, a splendid day it is, indeed!"

  "Your eyes are better than mine if you can see that far through this fog!" Malet returned with a smile.

  "It will be," said the costermonger, who had this conversation with Malet most mornings and would have been hurt if he missed it. "Just wait and see!"

  "I will take your word for it," Malet called down. "And what's the news in the city this morning?"

  "Just that you're a hero again!" the costermonger called back with a grin. "They're singing your praises in all the papers!"

  Malet dismissed the French press with a contemptuous snort. "I will be a monster next month," he said. "Especially if we don't get any father toward catching that pack of thugs who torture their victims before murdering them."

  The costermonger looked uneasy for a moment. Paris had lately been terrorized by a vicious gang that preyed on lone people, usually prostitutes. They tortured their victims and then strangled them and mutilated their corpses. Malet had been following their activities from a distance for the past several months; the attacks had not occurred in his arrondissement, and he had had no wish to step on the toes of his fellow Chief Inspectors, who had showed no inclination to take advantage of his expertise. But the killers shifted their territory northeast, within Malet's bailiwick. One of their victims had been left by the Pont d'Austerlitz: it had made him very angry. He had joined the hunt.

  The costermonger's expression cleared a little. "I heard you're working on it, M. Malet!" he said. "It's just a matter of time!"

  "We'll see. You be careful, now."

  The costermonger replied with a very Parisian shrug and turned his cart away down the twisting old street.

  Malet watched him with a smile, then turned back toward his bedroom and made his way to his dressing room. It was a splendid morning-despite the overcast sky-and he had a lot to consider.

  Constant Dracquet.

  The name was a thought in itself, and Malet let his attention focus on it as he poured water in the porcelain basin, thoroughly wet his shaving brush, and rubbed it against a cake of Castile soap.

  He had first heard of the man while he was Police Commissioner in Vautreuil, in Picardy, in 1815. He had watched the man's rise to power. Dracquet was an enigma, a shadow. Malet, sensitive to evil, had immediately detected the stench of corruption about him. Subsequent events following Malet's transfer to Paris in 1826 had served t
o strengthen his distrust of the man, but he had been unable to mount a campaign against him, for he had had no real reason to do so, and the Law frowned on hunches.

  Evidence against Dracquet was faint and inconclusive, and for some reason-prudence, perhaps?-the 12th arrondissement had not been touched by anything pertaining to Dracquet's activities, shady or otherwise, since Malet's arrival in 1826. The inquiries that he had been able to perform-and Malet believed in staying within official guidelines in his investigations-had been maddeningly inconclusive, and he had been effectively blocked by Guerin's refusal to cooperate. He had spent nearly seven years watching Dracquet and waiting for a chance. And now, with one of Dracquet's lieutenants in custody on a serious charge, he had that chance and, almost more important, a powerful hunch.

  He had lately caught a sense of urgency. He could feel stirrings, shiftings, a sort of increased concentration, almost a sense of exultation that filtered down to the lowest strata from the highest-from Dracquet himself, perhaps? An echo of his own hopes and confidence? And could Ensenat's presence be an indication of Dracquet's personal involvement?

  Malet smiled as he wiped a line of foam from the blade of his razor, tested the sharpness of the edge, and bent his attention to the mirror again. He felt almost elated. That had to be it, and this time things were different. This time Dracquet would not be able to dodge him. He could take few people into his confidence, and he would have to devote almost his entire attention to the matter, but it was worth the price to bring down Dracquet and his shadow empire. Who knew what they might find in the wreckage?

  Malet toweled the last remnants of soap from his now smooth chin, smiled at his reflection, took up his comb, and set his hair in order. What indeed? The possibilities were countless and delectable.

  But first he had a hunt to plan.

  ** ** **

  The arched stone ceiling, blackened by centuries of soot, dipped to pillared supports. The room was always dark; candles had been set atop the capitals, rank upon rank, multiplied into a constellation of pallid corpse‑candles floating above a sea of darkness and silence.