"But why would anyone-"
"To disguise a murder," Malet replied.
"But who-"
"That, my lad, is for you to find out," said Malet with a smile. "It may be easier than you thought: this fellow has the look of a tough about him, and if you ask among the dockworkers, or whores, or other such, you may find what you need to know."
Malet glanced at the young man's expression and continued, "Also, this particular hanging has the look of an execution about it; I have seen this man before, and he was very nervous then..." He remembered the man's behavior in the cathedral, and his own last words to him. Perhaps the man had decided to seek a better master, after all. He had lost his life for it-and gained his soul. I would have advised it even so, he thought.
Malet looked up at Inspector Layard and continued, "I suspect that he ratted on someone, and you may wish to look into this fellow's relationship with a man who goes by the name 'Dracquet', or another named 'Benoit', his right hand man, but that's your call, of course. Keep the office of the Prefect advised on the progress of the case."
He pulled on his gloves and swept a glance round at the rows of corpses laid on their tables, and said almost off‑handedly, "We have had quite a haul today, especially that slashing victim. That's the eighth, and the newspapers have gotten wind of them. Let's hope we're not so lucky tomorrow. Gentlemen- " He nodded to the others in the room and went to the door.
Layard watched as the Chief Inspector moved away. He reflected glumly on the meaning of the word 'stickler'-and then forgot his reflections as Malet turned and smiled warmly at him.
"And by the way, M. Layard," said Malet, "You did an excellent job noting all the details when the body was found, and then following up by taking measurements. Not enough people do that. You'll find it invaluable in your investigation. Good day."
Layard, suddenly aware of the respectful gazes of the constables around him, was filled with the warm feeling that he had just been publicly honored. He watched Malet pass between the silent rows of corpses and out of the cold room; as the man turned he smiled and raised his hand in a half‑salute.
** ** **
Malet left the icy rooms of the morgue and stepped out into sun‑drenched air that seemed mild by comparison. Corpses had long ago ceased to bother him, but he was always glad to leave the morgue, and he had been viewing the bodies there since just after noon. He paused just outside the doorway to don his hat and gaze westward at the apse of the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris. The worn, shabby stones seemed to glow in the golden mid‑afternoon sun.
"And was there anything noteworthy, M. l'Inspecteur?" asked a voice to his right.
Malet frowned slightly and looked over at a man who had come up beside him. "Nothing out of the ordinary, M. Franck," he said with thinly veiled distaste. Franck was a lead writer for Le Moniteur, a press organ that Malet considered only slightly above a scandal sheet. "A collection of corpses in varying stages of decay."
"And-?"
"And nothing else," Malet said briskly as he headed toward the Rue du Cloître Notre‑Dame. He accorded a cold nod to the man and started to push his way through the crowd of beggars and rubber‑neckers who jammed the square outside the morgue.
Franck stepped directly in front of Malet.
"You're blocking my path," said Malet.
"Come now, Inspector," said Franck. "I hear there's another slash victim in there. Is it true?"
Malet tried to step around the man, but Franck followed him.
"Another slash victim," said Franck. "That makes how many in the past two months? Eight? Nine? Was this one tortured to death like the others?"
Malet stopped, looked Franck up and down and said, "I believe I have been courteous with you up to now, and it has given me no results. Will you stand aside, or must I resort to stronger methods?"
Franck moved out of Malet's way with a half‑smile, then fell in beside him. "You have never given the press any cooperation," he said. "I don't understand why. We keep the public informed, that's all. We can be a very dangerous enemy-"
Malet halted and turned to face him. "So can I," he said softly. "Are you threatening me, M. Franck?"
"Not at all," said Franck with a shrug and a smile. "I only seek to discover why you despise us."
"I don't despise the press," said Malet with frosty cordiality. "I simply have a distaste for those who, sitting in a sewer, feel the need to add to it."
"Indeed!" said Franck, who appeared to be torn between his personal indignation at the insult that he had just been offered and his professional appreciation of a well‑turned phrase.
"Indeed," said Malet.
"In return for that gratuitous insult, M. Malet," said Franck, "I should think you would at least grant me leave to view the corpses."
"You have a point," said Malet after a moment's thought. He reached into the breast of his jacket and took out a notebook. He opened it, took out a gold pencil from his pocket, wrote swiftly, and then tore out the page and handed it to the man.
"Give this to the guard at the door," he said. "Tell him to show you number eight first."
Franck took the note in astonished silence and watched as Malet turned and continued on toward the Prefecture.
Malet was smiling to himself as he strolled down the Boulevard du Palais. Number eight was a 'floater' that had been pulled from the Seine the evening before. It had been dead for so long that the fatty tissues had turned to dark brown corpse‑wax, and the features were distorted to a nightmare's rendition of a human face. There was no stench, but the river scavengers had eaten away great chunks of flesh. It was not the sort of thing anyone liked to view right after eating. M. Franck was in for an unforgettable afternoon if Malet was any judge of people.
There might be some repercussions from his sojourn in the morgue. Malet considered for a moment and then shrugged. Or maybe not. If all went according to plan, there would be no more slash-victims after another day or so. The trap was nearly read to be sprung; it only required the right day.
He dismissed Franck after a moment and turned his thoughts to the afternoon's activities. He had a campaign to plan, one he had been wanting to pursue for years, and he was looking forward to it. And it would be nice to be able to give a figurative black eye to Chief Inspector Guerin of the 18th arrondissement.
Guerin had been the ranking Chief Inspector in Paris up until Malet's arrival from Picardy, where he had been Commissioner of Police for the city of Vautreuil. Malet had been placed in a position senior to Guerin, and the man had taken that fact, coupled with Malet's illegitimate birth and prison upbringing, as an insuperable insult. Their dealings had always been frigidly cold.
Alexandre Guerin, as the Chief Inspector in charge of the 18th arrondissement, had rebuffed all Malet's attempts to secure his collaboration in pursuing Constant Dracquet. He had done it in such a way that Malet had begun to wonder if Guerin's refusal might perhaps be triggered by more than mere personal dislike.
But things were just a little different now. A strong lead against Dracquet had come at a time when he had all the power and latitude of the position of Prefect at his disposal. And-only conceive of it!-the matter in question, an ethics problem, was one that could properly be handled only by the Prefect of Police or his stand‑in.
For Malet, filling in for M. le Prefet, although technically a great honor, was ordinarily a time of tedium. He theoretically enjoyed without reservation all the Prefect's rights, privileges and powers throughout the Île de France during such times, but, mindful of the folly of abusing such power, he usually carried out his duties with diplomacy and restraint.
It would be different this time. He had a criminal to catch, he knew just how to go about it, and no one was going to stop him.
XIII
WARPING THE LOOM
"Good afternoon, Archet," Malet said crisply. "Here's my card. I have no patience for your little games today: look it over and don't waste my time!" He waited in the vestibule while Constabl
e Archet, looking unaccustomedly pale and more than usually vexed, glanced over his card and entered his name in the logbook.
The vexation did not impress Malet. He had caught the man in the act of embezzling candle‑ends-they were usually sold to the public and the proceeds returned to the Prefecture's budget-and ordered him to stop. Now Archet bore him a deep and lasting grudge. The grudge did not trouble Malet at all.
He signed in now, pocketed his card, and strode down the main aisle of the anteroom toward the offices of the Prefect, pausing along the way to speak to Jacques Guillart, the Chief Archivist of the Prefecture.
"Will you be able to obtain what I requested this morning?" Malet asked.
Sergeant Guillart transferred his smile from the paper he was filling with a neat, elegant script to Malet's face. "I was able to obtain part of it, sir," he said. "I placed the collection of Inspector de Saint‑Légère's reports on your desk. I did weed out some that were completely banal-the report of the mysterious disappearance of a shoe, for example-but I gave you a fair sample of his work. I think you'll find it interesting: I always enjoy reading his reports."
"Very good," said Malet. "And what of the rest?"
Guillart lowered his voice slightly. "As far as Dracquet goes," he said, "That'll take a little time. I have flagged some information that I think will come readily to hand, but it'll take a while to dig through the archives and pull out everything that refers to him. Do you have any parameters for me to work in?"
Malet considered and finally nodded. "Yes," he said. "I don't want ancient history. Go back no further than five years. And I want to see only the most believable connections."
Guillart nodded. "Just as I thought," he said. "I will get on it right away."
"Thank you," said Malet. He doffed his hat and, pausing, said, "And Guillart-?"
"Yes, Chief Inspector?"
"Please handle this by yourself. It's extremely important."
"That goes without saying," said Sergeant Guillart.
Malet's thoughtful frown suddenly gave way to a warm smile. "You're an excellent fellow, my dear Guillart!" he said. "We would be lost without you!"
Guillart laughed and shook his head as Malet went on back toward the Prefect's offices.
The Chamberlain, Geraud Clerel, intercepted him halfway back, as was his habit, and escorted him to the doors of his office, giving him along the way a summation of the visitors who had come by while Malet was busy at the morgue. He was a portly man of portentous demeanor, proud of his gentlemanly appearance and prouder of the prestige attending the office of Prefect of Police.
Malet heard him out, returned his bow with an inclination of his head, and allowed the man to help him doff his coat. He listened courteously as Clerel said, his fingers smoothing the fine cashmere cloth of the coat, "Monsieur should be aware that there is a gang of footpads presently abroad in the city who make it their business to wrest the overcoats from solitary gentlemen."
"I have been informed of that hazard, and have directed that the proper attention be given to the problem of apprehending these thieves before they extend their depredations to include trousers. Do you feel my coat is in danger, then, sir?"
Since Malet had said this without smiling, Clerel took the question seriously. "Any fine garments are in jeopardy, M. l'Inspecteur," he said.
"Ah!" said Malet. "Then, my dear Clerel, you had best remain indoors. And perhaps I would do well to dress from the gleanings of the ragpickers."
Clerel settled the overcoat across his arm and said with a benign smile, "You need not take so drastic a step, I assure you, M. Chief Inspector! And I can't conceive that such creatures would have the temerity to attack Me. I pursue a path governed by prudence, and never venture out when it is inadvisable."
"Very wise. I am persuaded that there is much you could teach us all, were we only willing to pay proper attention."
Clerel, who would have found it hard to believe that he could be an object of satire, nodded and replied, "I would be willing to impart any knowledge that might benefit the Force, as Monsieur is well aware."
"You're an ornament to your calling," Malet said as he drew out the chair behind the Prefect's desk, deftly flipped his coattails aside, and sat.
He took out his notebook, opened it to his latest notations, and then froze as Clerel said, "And I must advise the Chief Inspector that His Excellency, Monseigneur the Minister of Police, called today to-"
"What?"
Clerel looked reproachfully at Malet, who had never interrupted him before. "-to offer the invitation to partake of a nuncheon tomorrow," he finished with a bow. "Does the Chief Inspector wish me to bear a reply to His Excellency?"
Malet's lips twitched, but he inclined his head regally and said, "Your kindness in so doing, M. Clerel, would be greatly appreciated." He paused for effect and then added, as he took up a pen, "And M. le Comte will doubtless recognize the compliment implicit in sending yourself as a messenger."
"Then I shall depart at once," Clerel said with another bow.
"But avoid the coat‑snatchers," Malet said gravely.
"Indeed, I shall summon a hackney," said Clerel.
"Very prudent of you," said Malet. "How shocking it would be for Madame la Comtesse to be confronted with a naked man not of her acquaintance! And how uncomfortable for you!" He lifted a demure countenance to Clerel's suddenly suspicious regard and then watched as the man bowed once more and made his majestic way out of the office.
Malet waited until the door was firmly closed before indulging in a quiet spell of laughter. Filling in for M. le Prefet had its compensations, and one of them was Geraud Clerel.
Another, and more dangerous, compensation was the power of the position itself. Malet, a thoroughgoing autocrat, had no illusions concerning the seductive nature of power. He kept a strict accounting of himself. In this case, however, he thought, scanning his notebook, he would be justified in using it.
He went down his list of items to consider in pursuing Constant Dracquet. He had already requested the search of the Police archives-Guillart had that well in hand-and he would have the man's house shadowed around the clock. He had decided it would be unwise to use men from the 18th arrondissement, especially in view of his suspicions concerning Chief Inspector Guerin.
Charles de Saint‑Légère had said a few things that had confirmed Malet's suspicions regarding the relationship between Chief Inspector Guerin and Constant Dracquet. It would be interesting to see how Dracquet would handle another Police officer living within eight blocks of his house.
Should he consider contacting the Criminal Investigations division, known as the Sureté, for assistance?
Malet sat back and thought carefully. It was not a question that he wanted to consider. He and the Sureté, and its director, Vidocq, got along with all the cordiality of two cats meeting in a gutter.
Shortly after Malet's arrival in Paris from Picardy, his skill at fighting criminals with their own weapons had drawn Vidocq's admiring attention. Francois Eugene Vidocq had been the first to formulate the idea that it takes a thief to catch a thief, and he put it into successful practice. The Sureté of that time was peopled by ex‑criminals of dubious present honesty.
Malet's successes over the next two years had intrigued Vidocq. He made inquiries into Malet's background and then approached Count d'Anglars with the request that Chief Inspector Malet be transferred to the Sureté, where his unprecedented talents could be more successfully used in undercover work.
The Parisian Prefect of Police, Valery Lamarque, had been a little bitter, since Vidocq had tapped several of his most promising officers, but he was genuinely fond of Malet and wanted him to be successful. He had endorsed the proposed transfer and promotion and accompanied Malet to M. d'Anglars' elegant house fronting the Place Vendôme, where he was to be informed of the promotion.
No one had been prepared for what had happened next.
Malet had flown into a rage of truly royal proportions, and the sc
ene that he had thrown in the house of M. d'Anglars was one that was still discussed four years later.
He had crumpled the transfer papers, hurled them to the floor and ground them into the carpet with his heel. He demanded to know what he had done to deserve such an insult, and, fuming, offered his immediate resignation. He begged to inform everyone present that he had left the prison at the age of fifteen, and felt no urge whatever to consort with criminals aside from protecting society against them, and he certainly had no desire to associate with criminals masquerading as honest citizens.
He told them all that if he ever were to lose his wits enough to wish to return to prison, he would murder someone who deserved it and be honestly thrown into jail.
At a nod from d'Anglars, M. le Prefet had taken Malet's arm and hustled him, still seething, away from there while d'Anglars did his best to soothe Vidocq, who wanted to challenge Malet to a duel. It had taken all of Lamarque's tact and charm over the course of a week to calm Malet down.
Things finally returned to normal. Chief Inspector Malet remained with the regular Police, and the 12th arrondissement's subsequent dealings with the Sureté were handled exclusively by Malet's second in command, Senior Inspector Georges Plougastel.
Vidocq, and the Sureté, had a long memory for insults. Malet suspected that if he did involve them, they would find some way to take this juicy case away from him. Dracquet was his meat and he did not want anyone else in on the kill. As M. le Prefet's stand‑in, Malet had access to the roster of officers and the power to recruit them for special assignments. Malet knew some men he considered incorruptible; he would use them.
Saint‑Légère had suspected that something big was about to happen, and Ensenat had hinted at it before he was murdered. Dracquet's connections extended across Europe: it might be serious indeed. Malet had some informers he could tap, though he suspected that the informers would be afraid to go up against someone of Dracquet's stature.
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