She met his gaze without embarrassment and started to greet him, but before she could speak he unclasped his hands, inclined his head, and bowed to her. She had been judged a lady; the unexpected courtliness of the gesture disarmed her.
She smiled at him and held out her hand. "I am Elise de Clichy, Monsieur," she said. "I was told you wished to speak with me."
He bowed over her hand and returned her smile with some warmth. His smile was pleasant: it softened the clear lines of a face that had the calm aloofness of a statue without it.
"Yes, Mme. de Clichy," he said quietly. "I do. My name is Paul Malet. I spoke yesterday with Charles de Saint‑Légère, who lives here. I will be handling a matter that he brought to my attention. I can't go into it in any great detail, but I believe he has discussed it with you." His gaze was very direct.
"He has, indeed. He hasn't confided in anyone else." She added, "I assure you that you can trust my discretion in this and other matters."
"So I have been told by several people including your cousin, Christien L'Eveque," Malet said. "For various reasons, all of them urgent, it will be necessary for me to live here while I pursue this matter. In view of all that he has told me, I thought to hire a room here for, say, three weeks at the least. Will that be possible?"
Elise had heard of Chief Inspector Malet over the years, but she had expected a man quite different from the one who faced her, someone a little more coarse, with more swagger. This man was undeniably a gentleman. His accent interested her as well: he was not a native Parisian. The final 'E', usually silent, was lightly voiced. It was a regional trait from the south of France. She found it charming.
He was waiting for an answer: she tallied her guests and consulted a mental map of the inn.
He misunderstood her hesitation. "I can provide references if you need them, Madame," he said. "Inspector L'Eveque has been acquainted with me these seven years."
She did not have to consider. "Christien has spoken of you with admiration and affection, M. Malet," she said. "And so I don't think that will be necessary in your case. I might start requesting them in future, however."
"It's no trouble," he said with a touch of insistence that she found amusing.
"But not necessary," she repeated, favoring him with her best smile and reflecting on the relative stubbornness of the Police as a group.
They traded looks for half a minute, and then he shrugged. "As you wish," he said, "But you can never tell who might be a murderer or a thief."
She began to chuckle. "Pardon my speaking so, M'sieur," she said, "But while I thank you for the lecture, it is unnecessary. And as for any danger from you: it's obvious to me at least that murdering me or robbing me is the farthest thing from your mind. Yes, I know you're armed, but so am I." She took out her pocket pistol and showed it to him.
Inspector Malet watched her with amused approval. "Ah," he said. "A 'ladies' special'. I see you keep it primed. May I see it?" He held out his hand. It was well tended, with strong, shapely fingers.
She handed the gun over to him.
He examined it closely and finished by looking down the barrel. "Rifled?" he said. "Hm. And I can tell it's seen some use. Here-" he gave it back to her and added, "You're wise to carry another as a back‑up, but I'd suggest a better hiding place than your pocket: how about under your apron, or up your sleeve?"
"How did you know?" she demanded as she replaced the pistol in her pocket.
Malet shrugged. "You notice these things after a while," he said. "Now: if you have no objection to letting the rooms to me, we can discuss payment."
"If it's official Police business, I can be reimbursed by the Departement," Elise said.
Inspector Malet shook his head. "The Departement takes its own sweet time in matters of reimbursement, as I know to my cost," he said. "I will pay you myself, obtain a receipt, and submit it with my report when it's finished. They'll move a little more swiftly for me than for you, I think."
"As you like, but it's no inconvenience," Elise said as she went to the door and then stood aside as he opened it for her. "Would you like to look over the available rooms?" she asked.
"If I may. If they overlook the street, so much the better."
Elise paused and considered. "M. de Saint‑Légère's rooms do," she said. "The guest rooms face out over the courtyard: they're quieter that way. The people who actually live here-myself, M. de Saint‑Légère, Mlle. Franchotte, who is also an owner-you met her, sir-Claude and Alcide, our two men, and the other servants-have rooms overlooking the street. The courtyard is pretty at this time of year. You would enjoy the view."
Chief Inspector Malet was frowning thoughtfully. "The view is not a prime consideration at the moment," he said.
"You could take M. de Saint‑Légère's rooms while he's away at the Bois de Boulogne," she said. "I am sure he wouldn't mind."
Malet's eyes suddenly narrowed. He said, "Let me see them." He paused, remembered his manners, and added, "Please." For a moment he sounded a little like a contrite schoolboy, an odd effect for a man of his height.
Elise chuckled again and said, "This way, then, M'sieur," and started down the hall. He moved very quietly; she had to look behind her to see if he was following.
XI
CHIEF INSPECTOR MALET ENGAGES A ROOM
"Good God! Is there something wrong with putting all one's books and papers in the same place?" Malet demanded, scowling around at the room. They were in the small parlor adjoining Charles' bedroom. "And shoes, too! How many pairs does he have?"
"He's an unmarried man. You must make allowances."
Inspector Malet snorted. "By that token, then, I should start flinging my shoes and papers about!" he said. He stepped over a pile of outdated newspapers as he went to the window. He paused to stare at the pile. "How fortunate that he doesn't smoke!" he commented. "This place is a firetrap! Is he saving these for some reason?"
Elise did not think an answer was required. It was just as well, since she was having trouble restraining her laughter. She busied herself with gathering Charles' papers and setting them to one side.
He snorted again and turned his attention to the street. "Excellent," he said. "I will take this room. Can you have your men move Saint‑Légère's belongings into another? The clothespress shouldn't be hard to manage. I will pay for the hire of two rooms."
Elise caught sight of Charles' pipe across the room and started toward it, hoping to hide it before Malet's eyes lit on it. "That won't be necessary," she said.
Malet was still looking out the window. "Yes, it will," he said. His tone admitted no argument, and Elise admitted the justice of the suggestion.
"Very well," she said. "I will let you. We'll get things ready for you: when will you move in?"
Inspector Malet turned back from the window. "Tonight, I think," he said after some thought. "That is, if it's quite convenient. The matter is urgent."
Elise's way to the pipe was blocked by a pile of books. She tried to step around them and bit off a cry as they began to teeter.
Malet saw this and went toward them with the obvious intent of moving them aside for her. "That'll give me time to settle matters with my housekeeper," he said, adroitly managing to avoid knocking anything over with his sword. "If you need me before then, you can send to the Prefecture. I will be there for the next several weeks."
He skirted the pile of newspapers and was brought up short by the sight of the pipe and matches.
His brows drove together as he lifted the pipe between his thumb and forefinger. "Good God!" he said. "He does smoke! Why hasn't this inn gone up in flames?"
"Well, M'sieur," Elise said, "he may not be the neatest man who ever lived, but he's careful. I have had no complaints about him in the year he's lived here. I wish my other guests were as considerate. But I promise that this will all be cleaned up before you arrive tonight."
She gently took the pipe from Malet's fingers and smothered another chuckle at his expression. He was obviousl
y not used to having things whisked out of his hands.
He submitted with fairly good grace, however, merely lifting an eyebrow and watching as she set the pipe in her pocket. "Is it quite cold?" he asked. "I'd hate to have that set off your pistol."
Elise succumbed to her laughter at last. "It's fine," she said. "I will write up a receipt for the two rooms now-by the way, we have a small room that's barely more than a closet, and I will move M. de Saint‑Légère's belongings there. It's not as expensive as a regular bedroom-five sous a day-and that should save the city some money."
"Very good," Malet said. He took two folded, sealed documents from the inner pocket of his jacket and handed them to her. "Here are two items for you," he said. "The first-" he tapped it, "-is a directive from the acting Prefect of Police commanding that Junior Inspector Paul de Colbert be stationed at the Rose d'Or pending further notice-"
"De Colbert?" Elise repeated.
"At your service," Malet said with the hint of a bow. "The presence of a Chief Inspector at your inn is almost certain to cause comment, especially since the one in question is filling in for the Prefect at the moment. De Colbert is a family name of sorts-" his mouth tilted oddly for a moment, "-and I have used it before on assignments requiring some measure of secrecy. It's possible that someone might interest himself in my presence here and try to read the orders. I will sign in as Paul de Colbert when I arrive." He added, "The second is an authorization for me to lodge here and be reimbursed for my expenses."
Elise opened the two documents and scanned them. "Don't you think the person who might try to read these will be piqued by the fact that the handwriting of the acting Prefect matches that of this Junior Inspector de Colbert?" she asked.
"He might," Malet agreed with sudden, almost startled, respect. "That's why the order was written out and signed by the chief archivist of the Police, and not by me. Do you find them in order?"
"Of course I do," Elise replied. "I am happy to be of service. And I do believe you will enjoy your stay here. I know M. de Saint‑Légère did, at least until recently." She hesitated, then said, "I am certain that M. de Saint‑Légère mentioned Constant Dracquet-"
Malet grew very still.
Elise continued without looking up. "I do know something of the-the matter that brings you here," she said. "And I am familiar with the man's reputation. Christien has confided in me from time to time. M. Dracquet doesn't live far from here, and his men have recently made it their practice to come here for drinks or food. Do you wish for me to keep track of their names and activities while they are here?"
Malet considered for a moment. "Yes, he said at last. "But don't be obvious. In fact, if it becomes too difficult, I would prefer that you do not."
"Very well," she said, and turned the talk to his projected stay. When arrangements had been made to their mutual satisfaction they descended to the public rooms and drank a glass of lemonade, which Elise insisted on providing 'on the house'.
Chief Inspector Malet departed after about a half hour, most likely heading back toward the Prefecture. Elise saw him to the door, wished him a pleasant afternoon, and softly closed the door behind him.
She turned to find Yvette watching her, round‑eyed and nervous.
"Well?" said Yvette.
"Well?" Elise repeated.
"Was he unpleasant?" Yvette asked.
Elise considered. "Not at all," she said. "He's a gentleman. A handsome and charming one, in fact, and quite harmless, at least toward us."
"I don't know..." Yvette said. "He had a sword."
"He's an officer of the Police," Elise said, pouring herself another glass of lemonade and motioning Yvette to sit down. "Of course he wears a sword. And he will be staying with us on the orders of the Prefect, so you may as well learn to enjoy his company."
** ** **
Inspector Malet paused in the stableyard and looked around at the Rose d'Or as he pulled on his gloves. He nodded to himself after a moment. The inn would do very well, indeed, and far better than he had hoped. It was a fine establishment, and the two owners certainly appeared to be ladies of character and quality, though the tall blonde one who had squeaked and stared at his sword was a little too skittish for his taste.
He had not expected squalor, certainly, but the size and quality of the inn had been a pleasant surprise, as well as the perception and intelligence of its senior proprietress. He would enjoy his stay there.
He looked around at the neat, well‑tended houses with flowerboxes at the windows. Very nice, indeed! His eyes moved from the faces of the passers‑by to the beds of late roses along the street and the window‑boxes of the inn. He loved flowers-the garden in his house in the Marais was celebrated for its beauty-and he liked roses, especially the deep, almost wine‑colored ones. If he had been at his own house he would have picked one for the bud vase on his desk. Since these were not his, he left them alone.
He donned his hat, stepped out onto the street, and set off at a brisk walk, intending to head north west, back toward the Prefecture.
He considered twirling his walking stick. It was a magnificent fall day, he was in his usual splendid health, they were closing in on that group of vicious slash‑killers and, best of all, he had miraculously been given another chance to nail Constant Dracquet.
He decided against it, finally. Cane‑twirling was appropriate for the Champs Elysees, but not a street in middle‑class Paris. Besides, it was not dignified-
On the heels of that thought, like a defiant jeer, came a dark blur from the left, a blow, the sudden feel of wind in his hair, and the clatter of his hat against the pavement.
Someone had thrown a stone and knocked his hat off.
It took him a moment to understand what had happened. He stared at the hat, bent and picked it up, and stared at it again.
Someone had thrown a stone and knocked his hat off!
No one had ever done anything like that to him before! People had stopped and were laughing at him. It was worse than being shot at!
"Damnation!" he hissed, looking intently toward the left as he set the hat back on his head.
It was on the pavement again a moment later. This time the stone had come from the right.
He waited some minutes before replacing it. Nothing happened. He took a deep breath, released it, and started walking again. A second later the hat was on the ground again.
"Best give it up, Captain!" someone called as Malet retrieved the hat for the third time.
"You're right," Malet growled, and set off toward the Prefecture, feeling an unaccustomed itch between his shoulder‑blades at the thought that the next stone might hit him on the back of the head. It was almost infuriating when no more came.
After another block he hailed a cab and gave directions to the Prefecture. Once inside, he replaced his hat.
** ** **
Larouche watched him, grinning, and then turned away toward the Rose d'Or. They gave generous hand‑outs there, as he recalled. He was not disappointed.
XII
THE PROVISIONAL PREFECT OF PARIS
The bluish lips were drawn convulsively back over protruding teeth in a grotesque rictus as the clouded eyes glared upward into nothingness. The past evening's rain had drenched the hair; over the night it had frozen to a cap of ice. The room was very cold; although it was past noon, the hair was only now beginning to thaw and relax into ringlets.
Chief Inspector Malet frowned thoughtfully down into the staring eyes and then lower still to the arms, lying stiffly alongside the torso. Something in their position made his frown deepen, and he bent to look at the elbows. He nodded and straightened after a moment. The man would be delivering no more bottles of champagne.
"The rigor is still well established," he said. "There's no sign of it passing. This one was probably breathing his last about the time I was eating yesterday's supper. Not a good supper, unfortunately, but I don't doubt he'd have been glad to trade places with me." He spoke thoughtfully, with no hint of a s
mile.
It was hard to tell if the Chief Inspector was joking, so the man beside him, Inspector Layard of the Rue du Bac precinct, temporized by making a noise that lay between clearing his throat and laughing.
Malet flashed him a glance.
Layard straightened self‑consciously. "Suicide, do you think, M. Chief Inspector?" he asked. "He definitely died from hanging. There's the rope, you can see the marks on his neck from hanging-and you can see that his hands are free."
"You say he was found at the Pont Royal?" Malet asked quietly.
"That's right, monsieur."
Malet nodded. He looked down at the livid face and then eyed the coarse hemp rope around the neck. "There are no splinters in his fingertips," he said. "And yet this is a very rough rope."
"But he's a suicide!" Layard objected. "He wanted to die."
"Most of them change their minds halfway through and start clawing," said Malet. "By all reports it's not a pleasant way to go. Of course-" he shot a sudden, uncomfortably keen look at Layard, "-he could have gotten the splinters while knotting the rope." He fell silent again.
"Well?" said Layard.
Malet raised his eyes to the man's face. "Oh I have no objection to a verdict of suicide," he said mildly. "Provided, of course, that you can explain to my satisfaction the fact that his arms were tied."
Layard had been on the force ten years, but this was the first time he had had to report to the acting Prefect at the morgue in the Île de France square, east of the cathedral, to review a corpse found in his bailiwick. He had heard that Chief Inspector Malet was a stickler, and now he believed it.
"What?" he demanded. "I saw no marks on his wrists!"
"Here," said Malet as he lifted the corpse's arm. The body was still in the grip of rigor mortis; the arm moved stiffly. "If you look carefully," he said, "you'll see a line of bruising on the inside of his elbow. His arms were looped together behind him with a thin cord, from what I can tell. Very effective, and it doesn't mark the wrists."
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