"He's a fine man," said L'Eveque. "I have known him since before Waterloo. We were in the 1st Cuirassiers together, and we kept in touch after I was invalided from the army."
"You recommended him for the force," Malet said.
"Yes, I did. He wanted to return to France, and I had a job for him if he wanted it."
"Which he did," Malet said, taking up the fork and the carving knife that had been brought with the roast. "As I said, I read his reports after speaking with him about the matter he brought to my attention. Something he said gave me pause, and I decided to look into it. I waved a red flag today: I spent this morning walking his beat under my real name. Did you know he's not far from Constant Dracquet's house? And then, this afternoon, I sent some of the Prefecture's special agents to Saint‑Légère's old assignment and had them ask a few questions of the shopkeepers around there. What I learned is very disturbing, and I understand, from His Excellency, that you're looking into a similar matter for him."
He cut a slice of meat, laid it almost gently down on the platter, and said, "It appears that there's quite a protection racket going on in the 18th arrondissement."
"That's right," L'Eveque answered. "I discovered it not long after I was promoted to my precinct. It was quite a shock, coming from your command to Guerin's and encountering it. I have been assembling names, dates, amounts of money - cooperating with Guerin, outwardly. I have been making my reports regularly to the Count. So far, I don't think anyone suspects anything. They think my hands are as filthy as everyone else's."
Malet frowned and lowered the fork and carving knife for a moment. "You're playing a very dangerous game, Christien," he said quietly. "The stakes could be your life. Please be careful."
"You're a fine one to talk," said L'Eveque.
"I am different. I used to think that I was born to fight criminals, and I would die fighting them."
"I trust you have come to your senses," L'Eveque said. When Malet did not respond, he added, "M. le Comte is the soul of courtesy. I certainly don't object to making my reports available to you, if you wish."
Malet had been carving the roast as they were speaking. He handed L'Eveque a plate full of sliced beef, set several small boiled potatoes beside them, and then set to work assembling a plate for himself. "Thank you," he said. "That's what I wanted. And now, since I am investigating the matter myself, I want you to stop your work on it."
"We'll see what His Excellency says," L'Eveque said blandly.
"That's fair. And it's all I wanted to hear."
"And for this you bought me a supper!" L'Eveque said, smiling again.
"It's been a while since I have seen you," Malet said. He dipped the salt spoon in the saltcellar and scattered salt across his meat, then spooned some of the juices over it. "I don't see you often enough." He cut a bite of meat and chewed it.
"We do keep busy, don't we?" L'Eveque said.
Malet smiled and sipped his wine. "There's another matter," he said.
L'Eveque set his fork down. "Do you know," he said, "Somehow I rather thought there'd be."
"No, it has to do with Saint‑Légère. He's very good. Whether or not our investigations into our respective matters get any results, I think it wrong that the man should be stuck where he is. It's obvious to me that Guerin wants to force him out of the Police. I don't know how he managed to last as long as he has: I can be patient, but only a week of that beat would have me ready to resign. At any rate, I am thinking of setting things in motion to have him brought to my arrondissement. The proposal would be a promotion, so we'd be following proper procedure. Do you think he will refuse if I approach him?"
"Charles?" L'Eveque demanded. "Certainly not! He will go if I have to drag him to you by the hair! I have been worried about him, and if he were under your command - it would be beyond anything wonderful!" He paused and then said more briskly, "I can gather some recommendations for Charles' promotion, if you wish. He's wasted where he is, but I wasn't sure how to step in."
"Never mind, Christien. I will handle matters," said Malet. "Keep out of it for your own sake. You'd chance annoying Guerin, and you aren't up to his weight yet. For that matter, as his subordinate, you'd be unwise to cross him that way, especially with that other matter pending. As it is, he will be angry that I am raiding his flock, and I think there's a battle‑royal coming at any rate. No matter: I don't fight unless I am sure I can win."
L'Eveque said, "If I can do anything else - "
"You can."
L'Eveque had not quite been voicing an insincere social formula, but he was a little surprised to have his offer accepted so promptly. He smiled, though, and said, "I am at your service, of course."
"Of course," Malet said. His tone was dry, but he broke into a warm smile. "Relax, Christien," he said. "It isn't as bad as you fear. I want you and some others to go to the auction that the remount service is having in two weeks' time. See what price that bay stallion fetches: for that matter, you can bid on him, yourself, but I suspect that he will sell high. Watch who bids on him and see who buys him. Detail your best trackers to follow the horse back to his purchaser's stable and shadow the buyers."
"Is there a reason for all this?" L'Eveque asked.
Malet's thoughtful frown became a scowl, and it seemed for a moment as though he might deal L'Eveque one of the snubs for which he was famous, but he replied gently enough, "How long did you work with me, Christien? Use your mind for once: the horse is a bribe. He's also very valuable, and the one attempting the bribery would be a fool not to buy the horse back. I want to see who it is. Besides, my dear Christien, maybe you can purchase a horse for your friend, who seems to be fretting for one. If you do, I will be happy to contribute something toward it."
L'Eveque sat back. "That's an excellent idea!" he said.
"I thought it was."
"I will do it!"
"Good," said Malet. He took his billfold from his breast pocket, took out several notes, and handed them to L'Eveque. "These can be my contribution," he said.
L'Eveque looked at the notes and nearly dropped them. The top one was a twenty franc note. He looked up and saw that Malet was motioning to the waiter. "Thank you," he said softly. "You're very generous."
Malet turned back and smiled at him. "It's nothing," he said with an air of finality. As L'Eveque watched, his smile softened and warmed. "Christien?" he said.
"Yes, Paul?"
"Mme. de Clichy is a cousin of sorts, I believe you said?"
L'Eveque lifted his eyebrows slightly, but he answered without showing any surprise. "Yes, she is."
"Is she spoken for?"
XXIV
INSPECTOR MALET AT SCOUNDREL SQUARE
The Place Gredin was the name given to a huddle of dingy gray buildings and shadowed doorways set in a small square at the edge of the 12th arrondissement. The name means 'Scoundrel Square', and it had once been apt. The square had once teemed with thieves' hovels and dim little pawnshops and the sort of filthy, dark places that swallowed runaway children. It had been a busy, profitable place for the right sort of people, a splendid listening post, and a haven where one could dispose of goods obtained in ways that the Law might not like.
It was just beginning to show some signs of respectability, thanks to the actions of Chief Inspector Malet two years after his arrival, when the Place Gredin witnessed the biggest arrest of criminals of all sorts and the largest recovery of stolen property in the history of Paris.
The arrests were the culmination of an elaborate undercover scheme that had taken two years to bring to fruition. It had brought in quite a haul, entirely due to the Chief Inspector's skill as a hunter of criminals. The Place Gredin had been ringed by armed soldiers under the direction of the Chief Inspector. It had taken twelve police wagons to transport the prisoners to the Conciergerie.
The members of the underworld of the 12th arrondissement never recovered from the shock. Many of them shifted their territories to the neighboring arrondissements, to the di
smay of Chief Inspectors Gravelot of the 11th, Fauquier of the 5th, and Rabateau of the 3rd.
Only one pawnshop remained at the Place Gredin, a dingy establishment made singular by the beautifully carved sign above the door that announced to the world that Joseph Michaud, pawnbroker and antiquarian, traded there.
This Joseph Michaud had been able to remain open due to some shady connections with the Police at the 12th. He had been too smart to engage in anything openly or provably wrong, and when Inspector Malet had come to his door, Michaud had greeted him effusively, offered him wine and butter cakes, and directed that his assistant escort the Chief Inspector about the shop. He even assured the Inspector that the books were available for his perusal, if he wished.
Malet's eyes had narrowed as Michaud's smile had widened: the man had been tipped off, and not recently, by the look of things. Malet knew when he was stymied: he had declined the refreshments, strolled perfunctorily through the shop, and finally left.
Some months later, two of Malet's subordinates were dismissed. Four more were transferred to distant prefectures, their dossiers containing devastatingly frank letters from the Chief Inspector, who did not tolerate double‑dealing.
Michaud had remained in business, but it had been a precarious triumph, for he was a thorn in the Chief Inspector's side, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that a vast shadow was looming over his operation. It was beginning to wear him down. He felt like one of the sinners carved on the facade of the cathedral, pursuing his tawdry little crimes on the path to Hell under the majestically contemptuous gaze of a mailed and armored St. Michael.
He began to dream of withdrawing from his very lucrative line of business and returning to the village of his birth, far from that ominous gaze. The longing came to him from time to time as he made his way to his home, glancing fearfully at shadows in the streets, flinching when someone spoke unexpectedly to him.
It was not that the Chief Inspector persecuted Michaud. Even the underworld admitted that the man was fair; if there was nothing to prove wrongdoing, then he always treated his quarry as one who had done nothing wrong. But this fairness did not make him any less formidable an adversary. He had a retentive memory and a long attention span. His patience was legendary: he set his traps and waited for the wrongdoer to slip.
Withering under that terrible, patient scrutiny, Michaud was beginning to fear that he would slip soon. He suspected that Malet only suffered his presence because he had from time to time been useful to the police as an informer, a role that Malet viewed with scorn but whose value was undeniable. Nevertheless, Michaud feared that Malet would one day decide that he could dispense with informers and that would be the end.
This day, however, such fears were far from him. Malet was away from the 12th, which was being administered by Inspector Plougastel, a capable man but as far from Malet as an ocelot is from a tiger. He was engaged in negotiating with the seller of a particularly fine piece of jewelry, his gout was not troubling him at the moment, he had eaten an excellent meal and was planning to partake of another as soon as the present piece of business was finished.
Things were going well until Michaud heard a muffled exclamation and saw several of the store's occupants scatter and lose themselves in the shadows.
The ragged, furtive man before him turned, looked over his shoulder, and quickly pocketed the diamond and sapphire ring he had been about to sell. "Shit!" he hissed as he edged along the counter toward the back door. "What's he doing here?"
Michaud leaned forward to peer down toward the front of the shop, and froze. He had a confused impression of a towering being bearing down on him, the peculiar silence of its progress underlined by the faint jingle of a sheathed sword. His heart faltered and lurched sickeningly as he shrank back against the wall. And - were those wings that he saw?
Joseph Michaud was a pragmatic man. He might believe in angelic visitations but not until all other explanations had been exhausted. He took a second to catch his breath, and by the end of that pause he was cursing himself for having such an active imagination that saw winged, warrior archangels instead of tall men in caped, black coats.
His alarm returned after another moment, when he realized who was coming toward him.
The ragged man had reached the door and opened it.
"I will be speaking to you soon, Jacquillat," said Michaud's visitor. His voice echoed appallingly in the silence of the shop.
The ragged man, Jacquillat, cast a horrified stare over his shoulder, yanked the door open, and bolted.
Michaud had faced danger before. He stepped forward with a smile even as he fought down his dismay. "M. Chief Inspector," he said cordially. "A charming surprise, indeed! To what do I owe this honor?"
"Let us dispense with the pleasantries, Michaud. I wish to speak with you."
"I am at the Inspector's service," said Michaud.
Malet flashed a glance around the shop. "Alone," he said.
"As you wish," said Michaud. He raised his voice. "My friends - ?"
The people in the shop filed out. The door closed softly behind the last one.
Malet watched them go from beneath frowning brows.
"Well, Monsieur?" said Michaud.
Malet looked over at him, shook his head with an ominous smile, and drew his sword. He strolled down the main aisle of the store. "I said I wish to speak with you alone," he said over his shoulder. "I meant it."
"We're quite alone," said Michaud.
"Are you certain?" Malet asked. "What would happen if I were to take my sword and run it through this curtain, for example?"
Two men erupted from behind the curtain and ran for the door.
Malet watched them, then lifted an eyebrow at Michaud. "Why M. Michaud," he said. "I thought we were alone!"
"We are now," Michaud said. What amateurs! He planned to speak with them when they came back.
Malet flashed him a scornful look and went quietly through the pawnshop one last time. He paused to open a chest and peer behind a dusty counter before returning, satisfied, to Michaud.
"I am told that you hear a great many things which can be useful," he said. "There's a person about whom I'd like to hear something."
"I have been privileged to be of service to the Police from time to time," Michaud said. "And if I can be of service to the Chief Inspector, I will be honored."
"Really?" said Malet with a dark smile. "Suppose I tell you that I want information on a man calling himself Constant Dracquet."
Michaud had been engaged in inspecting a lady's tiny ivory‑leafed silver notebook and pencil. He frowned and set it down. "Dracquet?" he repeated slowly. "He's a very big fish."
"So am I," said Malet. "I can give you some particulars."
Michaud looked up at Malet. "I don't need them," he said. "I am acquainted with the man."
"Do you know?" Malet asked gently, "Somehow I am not surprised." He lifted the notebook - the leaves were smaller than a man's calling card - and touched the repoussé cover. Receiving no answer from Michaud, he frowned and looked across the counter at him.
Michaud had folded his hands and was staring down at them as though he did not expect to see them again. He seemed tired and a little fearful, but he raised his eyes to Malet's and said, "Permit me to understand things, Monsieur. Are you hiring me to find some information for you?"
"Perhaps you could say that I am questioning you," said Malet.
Michaud felt panic rising within him. "I see," he said. His hands were shaking as he busied himself with putting several small items away. He was agonizingly aware that this Nemesis of a Chief Inspector was watching him silently.
The piercing hiss of metal upon metal made him start and drop a comb. He looked up and saw that Malet had sheathed his sword and unfastened the top three buttons of his coat.
"Let us say that I am requesting information," Malet said. His voice was somehow kinder, with a touch of sympathy.
Kindness! Sympathy! Michaud was off balance. He tried t
o right himself by blustering a little. "And what'll you do for me in return?" he asked. "Your people should have told you that my services are never free."
Malet seemed amused. "Let us discuss what I will not do in return," he said. "That makes matters easier."
Michaud relaxed. He enjoyed cat and mouse games: he played them, himself. The threat was gone for the moment: why not play? "All right," he said. "What won't you do?"
"I won't close you down," Malet replied with a smile.
"Not close me - !" Michaud repeated, astonished. Hadn't that been what Malet had wanted all along? He spread his hands, palms up, his eyebrows raised halfway to his hairline. "Come now, M. l'Inspecteur, that won't wash! My operation is legal!"
"Barely legal," Malet corrected.
"Barely legal is still legal!" Michaud exclaimed.
"Is it?" Malet asked, strolling down the aisle and casting a contemplative eye over the merchandise there. He lifted a lady's spangled fan with sticks of mother‑of‑pearl and opened it, frowning down at the embroidery on it. "You know, Michaud, I am very surprised to see that you're operating without a license - "
"I have a license! Paid up through the end of the year!"
Malet's voice was still gentle. "But it's not displayed," he said. "Grounds for closing this place down, Michaud, as you well know. And I am certain I could find a few more just by looking around. For example - "
"Now wait a min - !"
"Yes?" said Malet.
Michaud's shoulders slumped. "Oh very well," he said. "You have won. I thought you had come to purchase my knowledge. If this is merely blackmail... I'd heard you were an honest, honorable man. What do you have on me?"
Malet turned, the fan still in his hands. "Now why do the shady ones always bandy the words 'honest' and 'honorable' around?" he asked of the air. "It puzzles me. You have been recommended as an informer: very well, I need information."
Michaud stared at him with a sort of fearful hope.
That expression brought Malet up short. He had encountered it before, one terrible night when he had been forced to arrest his dearest friend. The heartbreak of that case had sent him to Paris from Picardy, and the memory still hurt.
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