The Orphan's Tale

by Anne Shaughnessy

  A group of people passed him, and he flattened himself against a wall fronted by smoothly cut stone, and lowered his face into the high collar of his dark coat. The people disappeared around the corner; he relaxed and resumed his progress toward the inn. A sudden noise startled him and he stiffened. He relaxed again, and his right hand slipped lovingly down to the cold, smooth barrel of the pistol he wore tucked into his belt.

  He started on toward the inn just as a grip like a vice clamped down on his shoulder and a voice said, by his left ear, "If you're going to attempt surveillance, my lad, then you'd best wait until your head‑cold clears. You snort and sniffle so loudly, I could shoot you with my eyes closed." The voice paused and he could sense amusement when it said again, "Now turn around and let me look at you."

  He was forced round unwillingly to stand with his face full in the glare of a street lamp.

  "Hm," said the voice, which came from a tall, black shape against the light. "Just as I thought. Tell your master that I am still at the Rose d'Or, and I won't leave until it suits me. And tell him, further, that he's ill‑served if all the sneaks he employs are as clumsy as you!"

  "I don't know what you're talking about, M. Chief Insp - "

  "Then how do you know my rank?" the man demanded. "Be off! Or I will remember that Chief Inspector Guerin has declared loitering illegal in this arrondissement and run you in to the nearest precinct!"

  The grip was released; the man took to his heels.

  Malet watched him go, laughing quietly to himself. What an oaf! One would think that Chief Inspector Guerin, fearing an investigation into his doings, would employ better spies than that!

  He sobered after a moment. It was almost frightening to contrast the maladroitness of that one with the very capable spies that had been set on him by Dracquet. He had been followed from the moment he left the Rose d'Or that morning, and his tailers had been very, very good. It was fortunate, he thought, that they had not been set on him before he went to Michaud.

  Michaud. He shouldered his walking stick and went on toward the inn. He had been wise to contact the man. He might be getting old, but his presence in Paris predated Dracquet's, and while he was a considerably smaller fish, his influence was, in its way, more far‑reaching. He was in touch with the back‑alleys, with the beggars and sneak‑thieves. The prostitutes who came to him to exchange the jewels given them by their lovers for ready cash always had their ears wide open, and they didn't mind earning an extra sou or two by chatting with the man. No one feared Michaud as they feared Dracquet, and that made him a valuable tool for Malet.

  Michaud had sent several messages to Malet by convoluted means known only to himself, and the information he had sent had been useful, but limited. His sources reported comings and goings, and he gathered snips of speculation, packaged them, and sent them on to Malet.

  He reported that he had been baffled by the very tight control that Dracquet maintained in his own household; he had no way of learning what was going on in Dracquet's house. The man's control even extended to having the contents of the waste‑baskets thrown in the fire under his own supervision. Malet reflected that the very impenetrability of the man's establishment only served to confirm his suspicions about the time frame in which he was working. If only there were some way to get a 'mole' into the man's house...

  "If wishes were horses, Pippin," he said in English, "then beggars would ride." He would have to do some intense thinking.

  He had narrowed his focus. He had originally thrown a wide net to catch Dracquet's target. Now, examining his haul, Malet decided that the most promising fish was Princess Victoria, the heiress of England. She was the target: he could feel it. This was the venture on which Dracquet was willing to stake his empire. It was up to Malet to ensure that the gamble failed.

  In the meantime, he thought, looking up, the Rose d'Or was ahead of him, and he had to try to mend matters there after Dracquet's unspoken slur on Elise.

  He entered through the kitchen, as usual. Marie was there before the fire, busy basting a roast. She looked up and smiled at him as he came in.

  "Good evening, M. l'Inspecteur!" she chirped happily. "We have been looking for you! Dinner is ready for you any time you please, and if you wish to go freshen up, I will tell Madame you have come in."

  He thanked her and went through to the hallway. Alcide was standing by the stairs, his face warmed by a wide smile. "Good evening, Inspector!" he said. "Welcome home! Let me take your coat and hat!"

  Malet nodded and unbuckled his sword‑belt, and set it on the console table by the door. "Thank you, Alcide," he said as the boy helped him out of his coat and took his hat, as well. "Have you had a good day?" he asked, and then caught sight of the boy's tie. "Very good!" he said. "You have almost got it. Come to me after supper and I will show you an easy way to tie that."

  "Oh, thank you!" said Alcide, who had been eyeing Malet's cravats with envy since he had come to the Rose d'Or. "I will! If‑if it isn't any trouble?"

  "None at all," Malet said, thinking that the lad reminded him of his housekeeper's eldest grandson, François, who was going through a titanic struggle with the difficulties of cravat‑tying and looked to Malet for help and advice. "I'd enjoy it."

  Alcide was beaming, but he schooled his features to aloof propriety and said, "Dinner will be awaiting you in the private dining salon. I will escort you there after you have a chance to go to your rooms and refresh yourself."

  Alcide was waiting at the foot of the stairs when he came back down. He bowed and said, "If you will follow me, sir..."

  Just like François, thought Malet, eyeing the young man's expression. He's play‑acting. The thought made him smile as he followed Alcide down the hallway to the dining room and preceded him through the doorway.

  Elise was waiting just inside the door. She smiled warmly when she saw him and took his arm to be led to the table. He thought she was looking very pretty. The dress of heavy, golden beige silk in a flowered jacquard weave, with a wide lace collar and cuffs and cameo belt‑clasp, was one that he did not recall seeing before. She had styled her hair in a new, as well, in a cascade of curls to either side that reminded Malet forcibly of his housekeeper's spaniel, Ninon.

  The thought made his eyes dance as he smiled at her, but he led her to the table in silence, drew her chair out for her, and waited for her to arrange her skirts before he sat down.

  "You seem to be in good spirits tonight, Paul," she said as she smoothed the napkin over her lap. Her voice was as warm and private as a caress.

  "You could say that," Malet said, thinking of Ninon once more. "And you're in great beauty tonight."

  "Thank you," she said. She nodded to Marie, who had come in with the veal in pastry, and then turned to Malet again. "I have chilled some champagne," she said. "Remembering the last time I served you this dish - you were unable to finish it, if you recall - and all that happened afterward, I decided that you certainly merit a bottle of champagne. Alcide is opening it in the kitchen."

  They heard a POP! just as she finished speaking, and Alcide emerged through the kitchen doors with a bottle and two glasses.

  Elise raised her glass when Alcide had finished pouring. "A toast," she said. "To guardian angels." There was nothing in her manner to indicate that she remembered the insult of the morning. Her smile was as cordial as ever, her manner lively and affectionate with no hint of constraint. She sipped her champagne and set the glass down. "Now tell me, Paul," she said, "How did your day go?"

  He was puzzled; he answered at random and then, unwilling to pretend, said, "Mme. de Clichy - "

  She opened her eyes at him. "'Mme. de Clichy'?" she repeated. "Are you annoyed with me? I gave you leave to use my name, if you recall."

  "Elise, then," he said.

  "That's better," she said. She looked thoughtfully at the platter of veal and said, "But aren't you going to serve?"

  He took up the knife, cut into the pastry, and set a portion on her plate. Alcide came t
o the table with a timbale aux epinards, topped with a cream sauce. He grinned at Malet's expression, set the dish down, and left.

  "I will have some of that, as well," Elise said, and watched as he cut into the hot, molded spinach and cheese, and set the serving on her plate as well. "Thank you, Paul. Now what were you going to say to me?"

  Malet frowned down at his own plate. "What I wished to say, Mme. de - Elise, I mean - is that in view of what M. Dracquet seemed to think this morning, I will be quite willing to remove myself from - "

  He stopped as Elise lay down her fork and took his hand warmly between hers.

  "Let us forget Dracquet," she said. "He's no fit subject of conversation for a lady or for a man whom I view as one of the most complete gentleman I have ever had the good fortune to meet. I have given orders that he and his...people...are to be denied entrance to the Rose d'Or, no matter what they may offer to pay. As far as I am concerned, I have never met him. We shall forget that he exists and go on as we have."

  She smiled across at him and added gently, "Now do stop looking surprised, Paul, and drink your champagne before it gets warm."

  Malet sipped his champagne and then, when Elise raised her glass and said, "To friendship!" drank again.

  He said without looking up, "It might be best if I left the Rose d'Or rather than compromise you - "

  "How on earth could the friendship of a gentleman of your caliber ever compromise any woman?" she demanded. "Paul? Look at me!"

  Malet cut a piece of veal and speared it with his fork. "I don't want to compromise you," he said again.

  She stared at him, touched. Now she understood. "You think it would ruin my reputation for you to remain under my roof!" she said. The thought was touching but amusing. "Paul, you're quite gothic! There's no need to worry!"

  "But perhaps - "

  "I tell you that I will be offended if you leave!" she said.

  His eyes flew upwards to meet hers.

  "I am serious, and you're ridiculous," she said. "Let us have no more of this sort of talk! It's an insult to yourself!"

  "Are you sure?" he asked. "I don't want to hurt anyone I care for."

  "You can't hurt me," she said. "Ever."

  XXXI

  A SHADOW COMES INTO THE LIGHT

  Marie Chardin set the broom against the wall and frowned down at the pile of dust and vegetable peels that she had gathered. She should sweep it up and put it in the dustbin, she knew, but she couldn't find the gride, and she didn't want to go searching for it. It was late, and she had an engagement at the theater du Porte Saint‑Martin. The evening's production was an adaptation of Hugo's Notre Dame de Paris, and it promised to be an enjoyable evening.

  She looked over her shoulder; no one about. She went to the door, pushing the dust before her, opened the door, and swept the dust out into the stable courtyard in a billowing cloud. Let Alcide worry about it the next morning when he cleaned the stables. He was getting too possessive: it would serve him right.

  "Geez, lady!"

  The voice made her squeak and jump back, and she caught sight of a shadowy figure hovering just outside the circle of light thrown across the cobblestoned courtyard by the open door.

  "Go away!" she gasped, raising the broom like a weapon as the man came into the light.

  "Take it easy," the speaker advised. "I am not dangerous, I am just hungry. And one of the fellows around here said you give out soup to poor duffers like me."

  "We usually dish it out during the day," said Marie, who was still a little shaken.

  "Oh," said the man. He was standing before the door with a battered hat in his hands. "I could sweep the floor for you, or scrub pots." He added wistfully, "I haven't had much to eat for the past few days, and some nice, hot soup would sure taste good."

  Marie looked him over. He was undeniably seedy, with a five days' growth of beard, but unalarming. He smiled at her as she scrutinized him.

  "Who are you talking to, Marie?" demanded Elise, who had just come into the kitchen. She was still wearing her silk dress, and her eyes were shining with happiness.

  The man surveyed her with respectful approval. "Just a bum trying to mooch a handout," he said with a grin.

  "He wants some soup," Marie said repressively.

  Elise looked the man over and made a decision. "Well, bring him inside and give him some," she said. "There's some bread on the sideboard as well - bring that and some cheese." She looked over at the man. "And you, M'sieur, come inside. The night is chilly."

  The man entered the kitchen with a dawning smile. "I will work for it," he said. "I am good at scrubbing pots."

  "They're all scrubbed," Elise told him. "We don't leave them sitting around to get crusty."

  The man pulled out a chair and sat down. "You sound like my wife," he sighed ruefully.

  Elise took a closer look at his tired face and suddenly stiffened. "Monsieur," she began in a tone of voice that made the man look up sharply, "I believe I know - "

  She halted as Marie came back bearing a tray containing a bowl brimming with thick, meaty soup, the generous end of a long loaf of bread, a slab of cheese, and a glass of wine.

  "There," said Marie as she set it on the table before the man.

  "Thank you, child," said Elise. "Now go and get ready for your evening out." She eyed the man, who was tucking into the soup and added, "And please tap on M. Paul's door and tell him I need him in the kitchen at once."

  "This is good soup," said the man as Marie went out the door.

  "You're welcome to as much of it as you want, M. l'Inspecteur," said Elise with quiet emphasis. "And there's enough of this evening's dessert left to give you a healthy portion of gateau aux amands, too, if you wish."

  The man dipped a piece of bread in the broth, popped it in his mouth and chewed it with a smile.

  "Marie said I was needed here," said Malet, coming silently into the room. He saw the man sitting at the table and stopped with a muffled exclamation, then hurried forward. "What on earth are you doing here, Gilles?" he demanded.

  "This one's sharp as a tack, chief," said Senior Inspector Gilles d'Arthez, gesturing toward Elise with the end of the loaf of bread. "She spotted me right away."

  "You haven't answered my question. It's dangerous here for you."

  "I have some news for you," said d'Arthez. "Along the lines you set out in your last note. It's urgent, so I thought I'd best chance it."

  "You know the proper channels to take. They're designed to protect my operatives and I want them to be followed!"

  "The risk is worth it," d'Arthez said.

  "I am not so sure," Malet said.

  "Come now," said Inspector d'Arthez. "This place is known to be charitably inclined and I thought it'd be a good cover. Besides, I haven't been eating particularly well lately. Gleanings on the street are rather slim right now, and I hear the lady - " he bowed toward Elise, " -employs a good cook."

  He ate another spoonful of soup and then said, "And to convince you I am not a crank or a fool, let me give you a name: Pierre le Noir." He eyed Malet's suddenly white face and nodded. "In the flesh, powder‑burnt chin and all," he said. "And there's this as well." He reached into the pocket of his shabby breeches with a grimy hand, took out a coin, and sent it arcing through the air in a flicker of gold.

  "Now do you think it worth the risk?" he asked as Malet raised suddenly blazing eyes.

  ** ** **

  "Inspector d'Arthez is certain it was him?" Count d'Anglars asked half an hour later. "He has no doubts?"

  "None at all," Malet replied. "He says it was Pierre le Noir, no mistake, right down to the powder burn on his chin from my pistol."

  "My God!" D'Anglars leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees in an uncharacteristically tense posture. "I thought he fled Paris and was killed in the service of the Bey of Tunis."

  "Wishful thinking, it would seem," Malet commented. He was standing beside the mantel, heedlessly toying with an ornate Dresden clock.

&
nbsp; D'Anglars watched him set the clock back on the mantel. "Or a deliberate smokescreen to put us off his track," he said. "How did d'Arthez get so close a view of him?"

  "He was in the stables currying one of the horses. He saw the carriage come in - it was a big berline, by the way - and caught a look at the man as he stepped out of it. He was half‑hidden by a stall partition, but he got a good look. It gave him quite a turn."

  "I can imagine," said d'Anglars. "I thought we'd seen the last of him after the Reuilly murders."

  Malet nodded. "Dracquet's pulling in some heavyweights with Pierre le Noir in his train now," he said. "He's taking a very great risk in having that man staying with him."

  D'Anglars said nothing. His expression was that of a pupil listening to his teacher.

  Malet was still thinking. "If Pierre le Noir's involved in this, Dracquet wants a specific result with no margin for error and is willing to pay heavily to be certain. The man's no spendthrift; I have noticed that every sou he pays out is calculated to get results, and Pierre le Noir is the most expensive assassin on the market. And the best."

  "But what could he be using the man for?"

  Malet touched a carefully articulated porcelain rose and said thoughtfully, "What do you know of the British royal family?"

  "I know they're a pack of German prigs," d'Anglars said with uncharacteristic flatness.

  Malet shot him an amused look. "I recall that you spent a long time living on the charity of the English - which wasn't very gracefully given, as I understand," he said. "What, for example, do you know about the king and his heirs?"

  "The king and queen are childless," d'Anglars said. "As William succeeded his brother, George IV, so William would be succeeded by his brothers and their heirs, starting with the oldest and descending through the youngest."

  "How does Princess Victoria fit in?" asked Malet. "Can women inherit the English throne?"