The Orphan's Tale

by Anne Shaughnessy

  Her lips moved in an answering smile. She carefully eased herself into his arms and drew the covers up over her shoulder.

  He seemed to feel the movement. His arms tightened slightly; he drew a breath and expelled it in a sigh.

  'Love must lie down with laughter', she thought, 'or it will make its bed in hell.' Now her heart was filled with laughter and warmth. She settled herself against him, kissed the bandage on his left arm, and then raised her fingertips to stroke the smooth, heavy curves of his shoulder and chest.

  By God he was a fine figure of a man, trim, well‑muscled and elegant, without an ounce of extra fat on him! She sighed and wished that the other men she had known were half as fine as him. How disheartening to reflect that so many men, in removing their jackets, removed their chests as well. What would men do without buckram and sawdust?

  But there was no fear of that here. She snuggled more closely against him, yawned and laid her cheek against his heart, and so drifted at last into sleep...

  Five minutes passed. The firelight glimmered beneath Malet's lashes. His eyes opened cautiously and he raised his head.

  Rosalie sighed and murmured, then was still again.

  He looked down at her sleek, dark head, and his lips moved in a smile before he looked toward the right, where his shirt lay half‑draped across the corner of the bed. He cautiously raised his right arm and reached for the shirt, delicately searching for the breast pocket. After a moment he extracted his leather notebook and gold pencil. He brought the notebook to his left hand, lifted the pencil, and carefully advanced the lead.

  And then he paused to gaze down at Rosalie and smile. He hadn't meant for this to happen, but he had loved her once, and the memories had come flooding back now that she was going away forever.

  Rosalie sighed his name and curled closer to him.

  "I was telling you the truth," he whispered as he dropped a kiss on her forehead and carefully brushed a stray curl from her cheek when he saw that it threatened to fall into her eyes. "I did love you..."

  Then he smiled, lifted the notebook and pencil, and began to write. He would send some urgent inquiries to Burgundy and then speak with Inspector Gilles d'Arthez, one of his chief lieutenants, about going undercover the next day...

  XXII

  THE POLICE PRECINCT

  AT THE RUE DES TROIS FRÈRES

  RECEIVES A VISITOR

  "Good morning. Your card, please." The Officer of the Day took the round, glass‑bound card, mechanically read the name, rank and age of the holder, noted them in his log, and gave the card back without looking up or even paying attention to the name on the card. It was morning, it took him a while to wake up, and no one important would be coming around to this sleepy little precinct before noon, anyhow.

  He yawned and reached for the cup of coffee that sat at his elbow - and jumped as a well‑gloved hand whisked it away from him.

  "Wait a minute! What - " He looked up and stopped, the angry words dying in his throat as he encountered a glacial stare from the tall, well‑dressed man standing before him.

  The man smiled grimly, set the coffee down, and covered the last journal entry with his hand.

  "What is my name, what is my age, and what is my rank?" he asked very gently. The inflection was the same one the O.O.D. used with his children when they were naughty.

  He stared at the man.

  "Come now, Constable," the man said reasonably. "You just wrote them down. I watched you do it."

  "I - I - " The man was flabbergasted. No one had ever done this to him before.

  "I see," said the man. "You never looked at me, you gave the card back without checking my signature, and you didn't have me sign the book in the first place. How do you know I am not an assassin?"

  "I am sorry - "

  "You'd be a good deal sorrier if I tried to kill you," the man said, pulling off his right glove. "Your sword's far away, you have no stick, and you carry no pistol."

  He twitched the logbook toward him and scanned it. "I see that no one signs in half the time," he said. "Very interesting." He took out a gold pencil from his breast pocket, signed the logbook, and said, "Where do you hold muster in the morning?"

  "The - the third room, there on the right."

  The man returned the logbook. "Thank you," he said. He removed his hat, pulled off his left glove, took up his silver‑headed walking stick, and moved away.

  The O.O.D. reached for his cup with a shaking hand. He almost spilled the coffee when he looked down at the log. He had written, P. V. MALET, CH. INSP. "GE 45.

  ** ** **

  "Bastian!"

  "Here!"

  "Bignon!"

  "Here!"

  The names continued one after another in the morning ritual of roll call, the owner of each name responding as his was called.

  "Richard!"

  "Here!"

  "de Saint‑Légère!"

  "Here." The voice answered before anyone could remind the head of the Precinct, Inspector Auguste Rameau, that Junior Inspector de Saint‑Légère was on special assignment at the Bois de Boulogne. Now everyone turned to see who had spoken.

  Inspector Rameau himself was not amused. He looked up with a thin smile. "All right, then," he said, "What jok - " he stopped and swallowed. "Chief Inspector!" he said in a completely different voice.

  He stopped and collected himself. He was, after all, a good, conscientious man, and he knew it. Malet might be the acting Prefect of Police, but this was his, Rameau's territory! "Gentlemen," he said, "permit me to present to you M. Malet, Chief Inspector of the 12th arrondissement and Provisional Prefect of Police in the absence of M. Lamarque."

  Malet's eyes lightened with amused respect even as he noted the uneasy expressions on some of the faces. He inclined his head to Rameau and said, "Good morning, Inspector Rameau. Gentlemen."

  "And to what do we owe the honor of this visit?" asked Rameau.

  "I am taking an interest in a matter that M. de Saint‑Légère brought to the Prefect's attention," Malet replied. "I thought to come by here and review his duties, if it is permitted."

  "There's no question of it being permitted," said Rameau. "Allow me to finish here, and I am completely at your service."

  ** ** **

  Inspector Rameau took Malet on an inspection tour of the Precinct and then gave him a write‑up of Saint‑Légère's beat. At the last moment he said, "And M. Malet - ?"

  "Yes?" Malet looked up from the itinerary and surprised a wistful expression on Rameau's face. A nervous‑looking young constable was standing beside him and kneading the brim of his bicorne between his fingers.

  "Pelletan here just started this week," said Rameau.

  The young man attempted a smile.

  "Could he walk with you today? Until, say, two o'clock?" Rameau asked.

  Malet looked Pelletan over, frowning slightly, and then checked his watch. He put the watch back in his waistcoat pocket and noticed that Pelletan was directing a longing look at the watch and chain. Malet smiled - and saw the young man's face light up in response. "It would be a pleasure," he said.

  Two hours later Malet was frowning at the houses along the Rue Lepic, his eyes caught by one in particular, a tall, tan stone building with wide windows and a courtyard beside it. This house belonged to Constant Dracquet, and it was part of Charles de Saint‑Légère's beat.

  The area was pleasant enough, but the beat was one that a rank beginner could handle and still be bored. The only reason that the rank beginner who walked beside him was not bored was his very painful awareness of the identity of the man he was accompanying, as well as the fact that Malet had decided to make his visit a sort of training session.

  They had strolled down steep, winding streets bounded by tall houses, returning the greetings of the residents. They halted traffic once or twice to allow children to cross. Malet, who enjoyed teaching, had Pelletan do the honors while he offered suggestions.

  Malet was patient and gentle, and by the e
nd of an hour, though he was not aware of it, he had a wholehearted admirer who would cheerfully have died for him, and who raised no objection when he said, "That place interests me: let's look closer."

  They lunched at a tiny café along the Boulevard de Rochechouart, in the shadow of the butte, or summit, of Montmartre. Malet listened to Pelletan's life story as he drank a glass of vin ordinaire and downed a fair‑sized portion of roast chicken. It was 1:30 by the time they finished, and Malet was considering going back toward the Precinct.

  "M. l'Inspecteur..?" Pelletan was still a little shy.

  "Yes, Constable?" Malet said.

  "May I ask a question?"

  Malet smiled as he drained his glass. "By all means," he said.

  "Are you glad you became a Police officer?" Pelletan asked. "I mean, d‑did you ever wonder if there was something else you could have done?" Seeing Malet's quizzical frown, he added, "It's so different from what I thought it would be..."

  Malet smiled at the boy - really, he wasn't much more than that. "What did you think it would be?" he asked. "Chasing murderers all the time? Cornering spies?"

  "I don't know," Pelletan said, shoving his hands in his pockets and stretching his feet out before him.

  "Listen to me, lad. What we are sworn to do is to protect those who aren't strong enough to protect themselves. It amounts, quite simply, to that. I never looked for glamour or pageantry or gratitude. I only wanted the knowledge, at the end of the day, that the people around me are sleeping quietly and safely, and their safety is due in part to me. That's all. It is enough for me. Whether it is enough for you is something you have to decide for yourself. It's no shame to you if you decide that it is not."

  Pelletan's eyes were bright with something Malet was touched to recognize as hero‑worship. "If it's enough for you," he said, "then it's certainly enough for me!"

  Malet did not laugh, though he found the young man's admiration a little amusing. Instead, he poured him another small glass of wine, cautioned him about the dangers of drinking while on duty, and wondered if he might be able to entice him to leave Guerin's arrondissement and come to the 12th.

  XXIII

  MASTER AND APPRENTICE

  Malet sat back in the Prefect's chair and smiled down at the inlaid music box that had been brought to the Prefecture while he was away. It had been wrapped in silver paper, and a note had been enclosed with it:

  Welcome back.

  Rosette

  He wound the box and listened to the brisk waltz, his face warmed by a smile. She had always known how to heal an ache.

  He heard a tapping on the door. "Come in," he said, and smiled again as Clerel entered, his arms full of roses. "You found them," he said. "I didn't dare hope they'd be there."

  "I went to the marché aux fleurs, M. Chief Inspector, and searched for the roses with the red and white petals," Clerel said. "I bought all they had - three dozen - and the one purple aster, as well. Here's the receipt, and your change."

  Malet rose and went over to look at the roses. They were the most beautiful he had seen, pure white on the outside, with the inner part of each petal a deep, cherry‑red. "Yes," he said. "Those were the ones."

  "Do you wish to have them delivered somewhere?" Clerel asked with elaborate casualness.

  Malet's eyes lightened in a smile. "Why, yes, my dear Clerel," he said. "This is the address - " he took a fold of paper with an address on it, copied it quickly, and then, after a moment's thought, wrote:

  For you, always. You will be sorely missed.

  "There," he said. "That's the address and the message. Will you be dispatching one of the office boys?"

  "Those chatterboxes?" asked Clerel, his voice for once devoid of its pomposity. "No. I will take them myself. It will be a pleasure."

  "Thank you," said Malet. "You're a prince among men."

  Clerel bowed and left.

  Malet looked down at the music box, closed it, and then took up paper and pen and began to write:

  My dear Christien:

  I am providing you with an opportunity to indulge your passion for free meals. Meet me at the prefecture at 5:00 p.m., and we shall dine together, on me. I need hardly ask that you bring a sharp appetite, since I have never known you not to be hungry. My pockets will be to let, I do not doubt, but I am confident that the amusement attendant upon an evening's conversation with you will make up for it.

  Yours, etc.

  Malet

  That done, he folded the note, sealed it, and went out in search of Sergeant Guillart. Once the note was delivered, he could sit back and ponder the British succession.

  ** ** **

  "You seem to have this odd notion that you need only crook your finger and your friends'll come running!" L'Eveque said some hours later as he raised a glass of champagne to his lips.

  "Crooking my finger has nothing to do with it," Malet said with a smile. "I don't deceive myself: it is the prospect of free food that draws them. And you were certainly moving briskly when you came into my offices."

  L'Eveque grinned. "Let's say that the food isn't a deterrent," he said. "But I think you know, Paul, that I'd happily eat a meal of hard crackers and salt pork, provided that they came with your company."

  "I'd never be so poor a host." Malet set his glass down as the waiter arrived with the first course of oysters on the half‑shell. He watched L'Eveque down the four before him and then passed his plate over.

  "Why aren't you eating them?" L'Eveque demanded.

  "I hate oysters," Malet replied.

  "Then why on earth did you order them?" L'Eveque asked, exasperated.

  "To let you eat mine," Malet replied. "Go ahead: you like them, though God alone knows why!" He lifted his glass of champagne again and sipped. "I understand that you're doing well with your precinct," he said. "His Excellency is very happy with your performance."

  L'Eveque sat back to allow the waiter to remove the two empty plates, and then frowned down at the soup that was set in their place. "M. d'Anglars is very kind," he said. "I am happy where I am, and I like my people." He paused and added, "I must thank you again, Paul, for recommending me and insisting on the promotion. I hated to leave you."

  Malet tasted the soup and shook his head. "No," he said, "You were wasted where you were. I was sorry to lose you, but the force was the gainer in the end." He added with a sigh, "I do seem fated to lose my best people, though..."

  L'Eveque impulsively stretched out his hand to Malet. "My dear sir!" he exclaimed, "Never their friendship! I shouldn't have to tell you that!"

  Malet's brows contracted slightly at that, though he took L'Eveque's hand after a moment's hesitation and gripped it. "No," he said. "You don't have to tell me at all, Christien. You have been a good friend over the years, if something of an annoyance from time to time!"

  "I do my humble best," L'Eveque said in such a tone of unctuous sanctimony that Malet threw him a glare which set him to laughing. He said nothing as the waiter removed the empty soup cups, set a course of creamed salmon in pastry before them, filled their glasses with a light sauterne, and then withdrew.

  Malet snorted and cut into the salmon.

  "So tell me," said L'Eveque after a few minutes of silence. "Why did you invite me to dine with you?"

  "Can't I give myself the pleasure of your chatter one evening out of three hundred?" Malet asked plaintively. "Must there be a reason for everything I do?"

  "No, there mustn't," L'Eveque said with precision, "But I have noticed that there usually is. What is it, Paul?"

  Malet cut off a particularly golden piece of pastry with the edge of his fork, speared it, and ate it in a leisurely manner.

  L'Eveque waited.

  Malet finally said, "I spoke with His Excellency today."

  "I trust he was in good health," L'Eveque said blandly.

  Malet threw him a impatient look but replied, "He's quite well, Christien - and he had some interesting things to tell me about you."

  "Oh?"
r />   "Yes. He told me, for example, that you have been gathering information for him in a matter that closely concerns the 18th arrondissement and its Chief Inspector. Such a matter interests me very much at the moment, for it ties in closely with a matter I am investigating."

  "I see," said L'Eveque.

  "No, you don't," said Malet, who had finished the fish course. "But you will shortly. I asked Count d'Anglars' permission to discuss it with you, and he granted it." He took a folded and sealed slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to L'Eveque. "Here's a note from him to that effect," he said, "And I suggest you burn it after you read it."

  L'Eveque frowned at the note and then transferred his frown to Malet's face. "I don't need an order from headquarters to confide in you, Paul," he said. "If I thought the matter could benefit from your advice, I'd have no hesitation in going to you. You know this: I was, after all, one of the misfits that you took under your wing and taught."

  Malet shrugged. "Don't be so prickly, Christien," he said. "Maybe you'd confide in me: but it would be most improper, and you know it. You can speak without hesitation now, and never fear that my regard for M. Guerin will prompt me to use that information improperly - "

  "As though you ever would!"

  "I might be tempted. So: read the note and stop delaying. And finish your fish."

  L'Eveque opened the note, read it, and then held it in the flame of one of the candles that sat on the table, and watched it burn for a moment before dropping it on his bread plate. "All right," he said. "Ask what you want."

  Malet nodded to the waiter, who was hovering at a distance, and waited until the next course had been set before them and their glasses filled with an aged Beaujolais. "I am handling a matter that Inspector de Saint‑Légère brought to my attention," he said. "I became interested in the man while investigating this matter, and I have read most of his reports."