The Orphan's Tale

by Anne Shaughnessy

  ** ** **

  "Where did you find this diagram of Dracquet's house?" Malet demanded later. They had strolled through the Champ de Mars and were now seated at ease beneath a tree. "Did you pay someone for it?"

  "I drew it myself," Rosalie replied. "Dracquet had some thought of installing me there permanently as his mistress, and he showed me all around the house."

  "Then you did this from memory?

  "Of course," said Rosalie. "You forget my profession. I have a memory for these things - it comes of years of practicing on various stages, with sets that change from day to day." She watched Malet's expression and asked, "Can you use it?"

  "I certainly can!" said Malet. He frowned at the diagram and then raised his eyes to the interlaced branches over his head. He was clothing the bare outline of the walls with the shape and height of the rooms within. He prowled through the house in his mind and stalked Dracquet through its corridors.

  Rosalie, sitting beside him with her head pillowed against his shoulder, watched him and smiled to herself. He seemed happier: the lady he loved must have come to love him in return. That was very good to know, and she wished the lady every happiness - after this afternoon. "Do you find it useful?" she asked softly, as she traced the seam of his coat sleeve with a fingertip.

  "Indeed I do," Malet replied. He transferred his gaze back to the diagram.

  Rosalie turned a little more toward him, settled her cheek in the hollow below his shoulder, ran her fingers lightly along the breast of his waistcoat, then eased them inside to savor the satisfying swell of his chest through the fabric of his shirt. "Do you think I should request payment for them?" she asked mildly.

  Malet lowered the diagram and frowned into space. He was superimposing the outline over his memory of the house seen from the outside. The courtyard lying slightly to the side, the arched entry with a deep recess to either side of the door... "The Police pays its informers," he said as he mentally positioned a squad of gendarmes to either side of the door and stood back to see if it could be done. "They're usually quite generous... This is invaluable."

  He blinked and banished the picture, and looked down into her wide eyes. What he saw made him smile, but with a touch of compunction. He folded the diagram and tucked it away in his breast pocket. "Rosalie," he said.

  "I had dared to hope for payment in a certain coin," she said with the breath of a chuckle at the shadow of a frown between his eyebrows as she tipped his face down toward hers for a leisurely kiss. "I am leaving Paris tomorrow, and this will be farewell."

  She drew back, puzzled after a moment. "What is it, Paul?" she said after a pause.

  "I can't pay you that way," Malet said.

  She pushed the veil of her hat over her shoulder and stared up at him. "Why not?" she demanded. "I am in your arms at the moment, and you didn't object the other day."

  "I got caught up in the past that night," he said. "And it was wonderful to remember you. I had forgotten how much you meant to me. You were a true friend, and I loved you."

  "'Were'," she repeated, speaking directly and with steady intensity. "Are you completely indifferent to me now?"

  "No man could be indifferent to you," he said with the same calm intensity. "I would be less than a man if I didn't find you beautiful and desirable beyond most women. How could you think otherwise?"

  The softening of the sharp, grieved edges of her expression showed that she understood.

  "And beyond your beauty is your wit, your kindness - I am proud to have become your friend, and I will never lose my admiration for you. But we said our farewells years ago and went our separate ways, and I can't find my way back to you."

  Rosalie closed her eyes for a moment. "She loves you, then?" she asked quietly.

  "Yes," he said. "I believe she does."

  Her mouth moved into a rueful half-smile as she raised her hands to cup his face, tracing the line of his lips before drawing him gently to her for a last, quiet kiss. "If you have truly found love, Paul, I won't ask for your second-best, and I won't ask you to betray the lady. I pray she can make you happy - and I envy her from the bottom of my heart."

  He took the folded diagram and silently handed it back to her.

  She waved it away with a flick of her fingertips. "No, it is for you," she said. "If it makes your task easier and puts you at less risk, I am content. I can't imagine a world where I did not know that somehow, somewhere, you were part of it. You'll always have a little of my heart, and I think I still have something of yours."

  "You do," he said. "You always will. I only wish - "

  He did not finish the thought, but Rosalie nodded. "Sometimes I learn to value what I have had only after I have lost it," she said.

  "You won't lose what you have of me," he said quietly. He drew a long breath, and said more easily, "You sail tomorrow: can we drink champagne and toast your future?"

  "And the past?" she said. "Of course."

  She watched with a reminiscent smile as he got to his feet in one fluid motion, and leaned down to offer a hand to her. As she watched, he paused to pick up something from the grass, wrap it in his handkerchief, and put it in his pocket.

  ** ** **

  Elise watched as Malet took out a handkerchief‑wrapped packet from the breast of his jacket and handed it to her. "For me?" she said. "What is it?"

  "Look and see," he said.

  She opened it. "A wren's egg!" she exclaimed. "And so perfect, too! Where did you find it?"

  "In a park I was in this afternoon," he said. "It had fallen out of the nest, I think, and was sheltered in the roots of the tree."

  "I would never have seen it," she said, turning it over in her hand. "Your eyes must be very sharp."

  "Do you like it?" he asked. "I enjoy watching birds, but I felt a little foolish saving it for you."

  "Oh not at all! I love it! I will put it on the shelf here - " She turned around suddenly. "Did they have birds in that prison?"

  "Gulls," said Malet. "I made a pet of one of them, once. He followed me to Marseilles when I left the prison and went into the Police. I had him for years. I named him Odysseus."

  "What happened to him?" Elise asked.

  "He died, finally," said Malet. "I missed him for a long time."

  "But he followed you to Marseilles," Elise repeated. Her smile warmed as she gazed on him.

  "Screaming for fish heads."

  "Longing for your company. He didn't want to live without you."

  XLII

  THE NIGHT OF THE HUNT

  PART I: THE TRAP

  Malet's spies reported that Dracquet appeared to have left Paris, as he had said. His departure, in fact, had been very well‑witnessed, since the man had made himself conspicuous during it. He had gone so far as to strike his coachman when that man fouled one of the carriage's wheels on the gate.

  "He called the fellow a few names that I hadn't heard since my army days," said Gilles d'Arthez, facing Malet across the table in the questioning room.

  By previous arrangement, he had just been 'arrested' for loitering by the Tuileries, and he had raised such a fuss when the arresting officer tried to take him into custody that he had been placed in handcuffs and brought directly to the Prefecture to be interrogated by Malet. When the questioning was finished, he would be taken to the prison of La Force and then sprung.

  D'Arthez's grimy, tired face creased in a smile. "Then he fetched him a crack across the face," he said. "It was a good roundhouse swing that drew blood! I wonder if he had any training in boxing." He shrugged after a moment and said, "There was some more commotion, then he climbed into his carriage and drove off."

  "And you say the house is unoccupied now," Malet mused.

  "The knocker's off the door and the windows are shuttered," said d'Arthez. "Some servants appear to be there still - I know his cook by sight, for example, and I have seen him in the past three or four days, as well as one little street‑urchin who hangs around there - but there's been no sign of him or th
e Englishman."

  "Any idea where he was heading?" Malet asked.

  "The word is that he was traveling to Lyons," said d'Arthez. "I don't know anything more than that."

  Malet sat back and said thoughtfully, "Richet reported that he left by the Porte de Charenton, so it would fit. And they would be going near the Bois de Vincennes, so he could easily get into another carriage and head back into the city. Hm."

  He looked up at d'Arthez and smiled at the man. "Very good," he said. "I am pulling you off the case now, Gilles, and I am giving you two weeks off, as well."

  "Thank you!"

  "No," said Malet. "I thank you. You have done a fine job, and you have earned the rest. I will call the constables in to take you away. Make it good."

  Malet sat back in his chair as d'Arthez was escorted from the room under heavy guard, swearing and spitting. He had to think. He did not for a moment believe that Dracquet had left Paris, and especially not to go to a place like Lyons.

  His conviction regarding an attempted assassination of the English heiress, Victoria, was as strong as ever, but for all Dracquet's talk of power and changing governments, in the absence of any concrete evidence that he was plotting something against her, Malet could do very little against the man directly. He could foil any plot at the very least, but he wanted to catch and destroy the man.

  He frowned and took out his watch: 9:45 a.m., time to report to the Conciergerie. The matter of Dracquet was taking up most of his attention, but he was still acting as Prefect of Police for the Île de France, and one of his duties as M. Lamarque's substitute was to be present at the Judges' chambers for certain hearings.

  He sighed and rose. It was going to be a long morning.

  ** ** **

  Malet paused on his way back to the Prefecture to order lunch at Le Chasseur Affamé, one of his favorite establishments near the Place du Chatelet. The restaurant specialized in game dishes and was known for its beautifully spiced sauces. Malet liked the elegant decor; he was a frequent patron, and one of the reasons that the place enjoyed the success that it did.

  The proprietor, M. Rothenay, welcomed him, seated him at his best table, and insisted on bringing his choicest serving of grilled squabs in olive sauce with an accompaniment of especially old, mellow burgundy wine.

  "You like it?" Rothenay asked after Malet had tasted the dish.

  Malet smiled at the man and said, "You have achieved a masterpiece."

  Rothenay ducked his head, smiling, and then froze where he stood. "M. Chief Inspector," he said, "I just remembered something I think you should know."

  The man's expression was odd: Malet gazed up at him as he cut a portion of breast meat, speared several olives from the sauce, and brought the forkful to his mouth. "What is it?" he asked.

  "The last time you were here - it was about three days ago, if you recall - some people came to me after you left, and started asking questions."

  Malet chewed and swallowed. "Oh?" he said.

  "Yes. Did I know who you were? Do you come here often? Do I know the way you usually take to go back to the Prefecture? How long have I known you? Do you ever come here to dine?"

  Malet sipped his wine. His face was carefully expressionless. "And how did you answer them?" he asked calmly.

  "I said that anyone who didn't know you by sight was a fool," replied Rothenay. "I said that I was honored by your patronage, but as far as how often you came, how could I guess? I am the owner, not a waiter, and I don't keep a tally of my guests. I didn't like their looks!"

  Malet hid a smile. "Very wise of you, in that case," he murmured. "And what else?"

  "As far as how you went to the Prefecture, I said that I was one who owned a fine eating establishment and not a hired killer, so that it made no difference to me how you went back to the Prefecture, but I rather thought it was two of the three possible routes, since I didn't think you liked to swim and thereby ruled out your going by the river. I also said that I recalled once when you stopped a quarrel here, and it was at supper time, so I thought you came at least once to dine here, but I couldn't be sure."

  Malet nodded. "Well done," he said. "I couldn't have told you to say it better."

  "But there's more," Rothenay said grimly. "They offered money if I would tell them the next time you came. They offered a great deal of money."

  Malet frowned and cut more meat from the squab. "I see," he said. "You told them to get out and never come back, I suppose?"

  "No, indeed, M. l'Inspecteur," said Rothenay. "I told you I didn't like their looks. There was one in particular who made me very nervous, a man with what looked like a smudge of oil or paint on his chin. I thought if I did become rude, they might get unpleasant, and I had a house full of customers, so I answered smoothly and they parted from me with smiles."

  "Very wise of you," said Malet once more. "And you say this was three days ago?"

  "I remember it clearly, M. Chief Inspector," said Rothenay. "You were in a temper, and I gave you my finest Riesling that I was saving for a special occasion, because I thought it might improve your mood."

  "Ah?" said Malet, who tended to lapse into southern French speech patterns when he was moved. "That was very kind of you, indeed. I must thank you for your concern."

  Rothenay blushed and disclaimed and then, at Malet's invitation, sat down at the table, poured himself some wine, and chatted amiably while Malet finished his lunch in thoughtful silence. Rothenay suspected that M. Malet wasn't really paying attention, but he seldom had the chance to sit down and take a breather, and the Chief Inspector, though preoccupied, smiled at the appropriate moments and poured another glass of wine for him when he had finished his first.

  Malet set his glass down and said, "Did those people leave you a name to contact with word of me?"

  "They did," said Rothenay. Now that Malet was through, he rose and motioned to one of the waiters.

  "Excellent," said Malet. He fell silent as the waiter gathered the dishes and left. When the man was out of earshot he said quietly, "I want you to get in touch with those people and tell them that I came in just now, and that I plan to dine here this evening at eight o'clock. You might mention to them that I will be returning to my house in the Marais to take care of some personal business, and I will be going there right after dining."

  "But M. l'Inspecteur - !"

  "Tell them this, and collect the money. You may keep it with my compliments, but get a good look at the people who pay you." He accepted his coat and hat from the waiter, nodded to the man, and went to the door, Rothenay beside him.

  "I don't like it, M. l'Inspecteur," he said.

  "Don't worry," said Malet. "You are doing me a favor."

  XLIII

  THE NIGHT OF THE HUNT

  PART II: THE HUNTERS AND THE QUARRY

  Malet strolled across the Seine at the Pont au Change and paused midway across to frown at the gabled slate roof of the Tribunal de Commerce. So Dracquet had sent Pierre le Noir, who had seemed like a hired killer to Rothenay, to inquire after Malet's doings the very day they had spoken in the park, had he? And he had offered to buy information regarding Malet's comings and goings and the routes he would take, had he? Interesting, indeed.

  In all the shady doings that Dracquet had been tied to in one way or another - organized robbery, arson for profit, child prostitution, political assassination - cop‑killing had never been part of them. But now, it appeared, things were different.

  Dracquet had evaded Malet's spies; it was time for Malet to do the same with Dracquet. He had in mind something more dramatic than a supposed journey to Lyons, and it might bag a few witnesses.

  It would take only a few hours to set up a trap with himself as the bait. He could recruit back‑ups from several of the closer precincts, give them a sketchy idea of what was going to happen, and take it from there. Gaston Rabateau, the Chief Inspector of the 3rd arrondissement, had enlisted his help from time to time and would probably be quite willing to return the favor. He could
also count on assistance from Laurent Mercier of the 1st and Emile Fougeroux of the 6th. Fougeroux would be delighted to go in on any plot to catch an assassin, and so would Georges Plougastel, though Georges might be squeamish about the bait Malet proposed to use. But he could deal with Georges.

  He hesitated over the question of whether he should inform M. d'Anglars of the trap, but decided against it. Aside from the fact that there was nothing the Minister of Police could add to it, Malet knew that the man would be opposed to the entire affair. It would be easier to deal with his opposition if he could present a fait accompli. Success is a very powerful argument.

  Malet entered the Prefecture, his mind pleasantly humming with plans, and signed in with Constable Archet, who passed him in quickly, for once. He would dispense with his sword, he thought, since he might have to run, and a sword that banged and clanked in its scabbard and tended to push itself between one's legs would be a danger. In lieu of the sword, he had a long, sharp dagger that he had bought when he was in Russia in 1812. It could easily be strapped to his waist under his coat and serve as a silent back‑up weapon. His two pistols would fit comfortably in his pockets, as well, along with extra cartridges and percussion caps.

  He was singing as he passed Sergeant Guillart's desk, the snatch of a dancing song he had learned in Germany as a Colonel of artillery. He had always suspected that the words weren't quite 'comme il faut', and Guillart's expression confirmed his suspicions.

  "M. l'Inspecteur!" Guillart exclaimed. He, too, had soldiered in Germany.

  Malet stopped and smiled down at him. "Yes?"

  "Where on earth did you hear that song?"

  "Germany, of course," Malet answered. He looked around, found an empty chair, and drew it up to Guillart's desk. "I have always liked it, though I haven't a clue what the words mean. Listen: give me some paper."