He grinned, wiped his fingers on his trousers, and set off for Dracquet's house.
** ** **
"So it's you, you little scoundrel!" scolded the cook's assistant as he opened the kitchen door and let him in. "Been away for a while, haven't you? What's the matter? Get hungry?"
Larouche grinned at the man. "I didn't know you cared," he said. He got a swat on the behind for his pains. "Besides," he said, "I heard His Nibs is out of town - "
The cook's assistant looked suddenly stricken, and he hurried off toward the pantry.
Larouche rolled his eyes toward the cook.
"Don't be nosy," said the cook, who was busy stirring a pan of sauce. He set the pan aside and came forward. "M. Dracquet is still in town, and so is that English fellow, but they don't want anyone to know of it. I have no idea why, but I don't like it. They took the knocker from the door and closed the shutters, and all the curtains have been drawn, and shady visitors from England talking about some princess or other..."
The man fell silent, and he looked as nervous as his assistant. He drew a deep breath after a moment and added, "But that's not my concern, scamp. and it shouldn't be yours either. Sit down on that stool and eat this - " he set a quarter of blancmange before Larouche and put a pot of jam at his elbow. "Here's a nice sweet for you: eat it up."
Larouche didn't like blancmanges, but he did understand the theory of supply and demand. If he didn't eat this one, he knew, he would end up wishing, some time down the road, that he had. No use regretting things, so he set his curiosity about Dracquet aside and shoveled the blancmange into his mouth, drank a fair‑sized glass of rich milk, and nodded from time to time as the cook talked.
It took very little to please grownups, or at least the good ones. The cook chattered on, unaware that Larouche was only paying attention with half his mind.
A sudden crash and clatter followed by the sound of angry voices cut the cook off in mid spate.
"What the devil do you mean coming to my house openly like this!" Dracquet's voice roared from the front of the house.
Larouche's eyes widened and he scurried to the kitchen door.
"Come back here!" the cook hissed. "There are some things it's best not to know!"
Larouche flashed him a look of scorn, pushed through to the sitting room door and peeked around the corner into the room. Dracquet, very red and quivering, was resplendent in a brocaded dressing gown and a tasseled smoking cap. Larouche could see a woman in the room beyond, in a state that he had heard described as 'en deshabille', but which he himself termed half‑naked.
A man before him was picking himself up off the carpet with his hand to his face. "I had nowhere else to go," he objected. He flinched when Dracquet raised his hand again.
"Really! So you came here! Dolt! Get off the carpet, Declaire! You're making a mess! Why shouldn't I send you away? You botched your attempt! My best marksman! A clear shot at him and you botched it!"
"Le Noir fired at him and he crumpled," said Declaire. "René went up to finish him, and he pulled out a gun and shot. We all scattered, but not before he winged me. It was a mistake."
"I will say it was! Where's Benoit?"
"Back at the Butte," said Declaire. "He's dead."
"You left him there?" Dracquet demanded. "Good God! He will be recognized for certain! And if he saw Benoit, then he will have an inkling - "
"He said 'Tell Dracquet he made a mistake'," said Declaire with the air of a messenger afraid of his news.
"He used my name, you say?" Dracquet demanded. "That crowns everything! You have botched it for certain - "
"But le Noir's still there," said Declaire.
Dracquet's back was turned, but his voice was easier when he spoke again. "That's something, at least," he said. "Well, you'd best get your hurts tended to. The evening's at an end for you."
Larouche drew a cautious breath. So Dracquet had tried to kill Monseigneur! That bore some thought. At least Monseigneur was safe for the moment. Larouche sighed and withdrew to the kitchen.
The cook was waiting, frowning at him. "Well?" he asked quietly.
"Someone was killed tonight," Larouche said.
"Killed!"
"That's right," Larouche said. "It was Benoit. I think they tried to kill a cop, and they messed up. Dracquet's really pissed off."
"Watch your language!" snapped the cook, still looking shaken. "René! Well, well! Not that he didn't have it coming to him."
"Attacked a cop," Larouche said again.
"You don't say! He was asking for trouble, then. No one in his right mind attacks a cop!"
Larouche thought of his stone‑throwing ventures and said nothing. He only looked up at the cook with wide‑eyed innocence. "May I have some more milk?" he asked.
XLVI
WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT?
Malet drew a deep, soft breath, every muscle tensed. The magnitude of his error smote him with all the force of a thirty‑pound shot. They had followed him from the Prefecture, not from the restaurant. They were coming after him. They had fled only to regroup and send their wounded away. All his planning was useless: he had stepped out of his own trap, and they were between him and his friends.
He cast about for a way to get to help. Christien L'Eveque's precinct was just to the north - and he could hear sounds coming from that direction. They would expect him to try to make his way to a Police or Army post; it would be useless even to try, especially in this arrondissement, where he knew he had enemies. He considered going to the Rose d'Or, but the thought of the innocents at that inn facing a hired killer like Pierre le Noir stopped that line of thought.
Danger lay all about him, and he could not remain where he was. He was surrounded on all sides but one, and he had a sense of shadows converging upon him. The church cemetery was behind him - he whirled around, plunged into the silence of the cemetery, and flattened himself in the slight indentation formed by the lintel of the gate where it joined the wall.
He heard running feet and voices, low and swift. They paused outside the gate.
"He will have taken off east! That's where that fellow said he was heading: that's where he wants to go! You, Edouard - take Villatte with you and circle through here, then join us by the gate. I will send four others, as well. You'll have to split up and rejoin us here while we check along the walls. Two of you remain here at the gate, in case he tries to leave this way. We may be able to save our time and simply corner him here. But be careful: he's a tough one! Now hurry!"
The sound of grim, quiet laughter stopped the footsteps. "Fools!" said a harsh, cold voice. "You don't catch a tiger by baiting a mousetrap!"
"Do you have any suggestions?" demanded the first voice.
"Load your pieces with your heaviest shot and set up a tiger hunt," said the second voice.
Malet heard murmurs, then the second voice said, "You do what you want, le Noir. We're going after him."
"It's your funeral," said le Noir's voice.
"Then we'll be seeing you in hell," said the first voice. A moment later, le Noir's footsteps disappeared to the south.
Malet edged from behind the tree and gazed wide‑eyed into the darkness before him. So le Noir had left them and they were circling through the cemetery, were they, and only leaving two to guard the gate? Hm. He cast his mind over the layout and decided that the wall was too high to scale easily. The only way out was through the eastern gate, and it was guarded by only two
people. Those two were in for a surprise.
Malet seemed to hear Cheat‑Death's rasping old voice as he made his silent way back through the cemetery: In a contest between predator and prey, it is the prey who turns to fight that is in the position of strength, for surprise is strength and it buys time. Never forget it: the weaker they think you, the stronger you really are. Always attack when they expect you to flee.
He unbuttoned the top three buttons of his coat and reached inside his jacket for his Russian dagger as he moved in among the monume
nts.
** ** **
"Where do you think he went?" asked Edouard. He was only twenty‑two, and not certain he liked what was happening.
"Do I know?" demanded Villatte. "He's hard to figure out. Look, there's that hut over there - some old fellow's buried there, and they say he's got a lot of gold in the coffin with him. I'd give a monkey to get in there with a crowbar and a good, sturdy sack! Look, kid - keep watch while I take a leak!"
"Don't be all night," said Edouard. "This place gives me the creeps!" He turned and looked nervously around at the silent monuments. He could hear Villatte behind the mausoleum, fiddling with buttons, no doubt - and then he froze. He thought he heard a cry. The cry was not repeated; instead, he heard a strange, gurgling sound. "Villatte?" he said. "Villatte? Are you all right?"
He went over to the mausoleum, but Villatte wasn't there, and the side of the building looked strangely dark and wet, almost as though it had been splashed with paint -
Suddenly he knew beyond any doubt that Villatte was not all right, and he knew that he would be dead if he remained where he was. He turned, sobbing with terror, and fled west, deeper within the cemetery.
** ** **
They were standing where Malet thought they would be, half‑hidden in the shadows by the gate. He bent slightly, settled the corpse's arm more tightly about his neck, and supported it by the waist.
"Get out of the way," he said, raising the timbre of his voice slightly. "He's hurt! That fellow in there's not human!"
It worked. The two stood aside as he came through the gate, and by the time they had recognized him and moved forward to seize him, he had his pistol ready. He spun the corpse into the path of the closest man, thrust the muzzle of his pistol up under the ribcage of the second, and pulled the trigger.
The report of the gun was muffled by the assassin's body; the man jerked and was suddenly limp. Malet shoved him aside, leveled his pistol at the other, and pulled the second trigger.
He heard shouts and pounding feet coming from the north and looked over his shoulder in their direction; his attackers were coming after him in force. It was time to leave.
He turned south just as a gunshot crashed through the stillness of the night and flung him sideways against the wall of the cemetery, gasping with the stark, fiery slash of pain across his chest. He dropped to the ground, away from a second bullet that smashed into the wall as his right hand flashed forward in a motion that was pure reflex. The Russian knife spun and glittered in the starlight for the briefest flash of time before it thudded into flesh.
He heard a shuddering gasp and saw a form collapse the ground. He slowly pushed himself to his feet and went to the man, already knowing what he would find.
Pierre le Noir was curled tightly on the ground, half turned away. He was gasping, drawing great, wheezing breaths into his lungs. One hand was clenched against the ground under his head. The other was hidden from sight.
Le Noir raised his head and watched Malet's approach over his shoulder. "Cheated!" he gasped. "Damn all - all - chances!" He fixed Malet with glazing eyes and a ghastly smile. "Twice - in my - sights - You have - the devil's - own luck!"
"I have lived too long and seen too much to believe in luck." Malet's hand was pressed to his chest. "Well, you blooded me," he said. "You can take comfort from that. Why did you come back? To kill that English princess, Victoria? Is that what made you return even when I said you were a dead man if you did?"
Le Noir's mouth twisted and he drew a hissing breath. He lifted his hand; it disappeared briefly before him. A moment later Malet's knife clattered upon the ground. "Questioning - time at - last," He gasped. "Well, you have - earned it. I am - a goner." He raised his head again. "Here - " he said. " - turn me over - so I can - speak. Something to - say to you - "
Malet put his right hand in his coat pocket and took firm hold of his backup pistol as he turned the man. And unhesitatingly emptied his pistol into le Noir's chest as the man tried to raise his own weapon.
"You should have stayed dead," Malet said as the assassin subsided with a shudder, a thread of blood trailing from his mouth to spot the pavement beneath his head.
He bent and quickly checked le Noir's pockets. If he could find anything to tie this murder attempt to Dracquet, his danger and pain would not be wasted. He straightened after a moment, shaking his head. Nothing. And they were still after him.
He was suddenly unutterably weary. The breast of his jacket, shirt and coat were becoming sodden, and the wound itself, a long gash from right shoulder to left collarbone where the bullet had caught him just as he turned, was beginning to throb. He was far from friends and safety and the night was still young.
"You knew you had to face a reckoning at my hands," he said to le Noir under his breath as he retrieved his dagger and wiped it on the skirts of the man's coat. He straightened and frowned at the blood on his hand and then looked up at the sky. "I warned you, you ignored me, and you have paid your shot just as I said you would," he said. "It only remains to see if I will be required to pay mine tonight."
He heard voices behind him; he whirled and ran down the slope of Montmartre at top speed, taking the route that Larouche had followed, praying that no one would be awaiting him at the base of the butte. If all else failed, he could go into the sewer...
XLVII
THE TRAP SPRUNG
"Let me understand you," said Christien L'Eveque. "You were hiding in the cemetery because you didn't want to be killed by the target of your assassination attempt." He frowned over at his second, Junior Inspector Narcess. "Where did you find him, again?"
"By the wall, at the farthest western end of the cemetery," Narcess answered.
"Who were you trying to assassinate?" L'Eveque asked. His normally happy expression had vanished, to be replaced by a formidable scowl.
"A c‑cop," answered the prisoner.
"And what was this cop's name?" L'Eveque persisted with ominous gentleness.
"I don't know," the prisoner said. "He w‑was tall, with a black coat - "
"What!" gasped Narcess.
L'Eveque looked decidedly grim. "You don't trouble to learn who you plan to kill, eh?" he said. "What else was there?"
"A black coat with capes. We saw him at the summit of the butte, and took a shot at him, but he killed one of us there - "
"There's an officer to see you, M. l'Inspecteur," said the O.O.D., putting his head in at the door, "He says it's urgent."
L'Eveque rose and went to the door. He turned and said, "Keep him talking, Narcess." He went out and said to the O.O.D., "Where is he?"
The man nodded toward L'Eveque's office. "In there," he said.
L'Eveque found Georges Plougastel warming his hands before the stove just inside the door. He seemed pale and shaken. He looked up and nodded as L'Eveque entered.
"What is it, Georges?" demanded L'Eveque.
"That priceless idiot Malet has vanished!" said Plougastel.
"What!"
"He set a hare‑brained trap for assassins! He was to be the bait - "
"Oh no!"
"Oh yes," Plougastel said grimly. "And Pierre le Noir was to be the quarry! Don't look at me like that, Christien. The man really is alive and in Paris. He - Malet - was to take supper at that restaurant that he likes at the Place du Chatelet. He was to eat there at eight and then walk to his home - and he has vanished into thin air!"
"What? Wait a minute, it's ten‑thirty now!"
"That's right," said Plougastel. "He didn't show at the restaurant, and they started getting nervous. I went to the Prefecture, and Clerel said he left there at seven, or a little before. Clerel said he seemed distracted - "
"Paul?"
"He got some bad news just before he left. One of those cops hurt during that uproar in the 5th the other night died, and his widow wrote Paul. Clerel found the note in the Prefect's desk. It must have knocked Paul off his stride."
L'Eveque nodded thoughtfully. "Way off," he said. "But it's unlike h
im to drop things completely. What did he do when he left?"
"He took a cab - God alone knows where! - and I was hoping to find him here! How can such a brilliant man be such a dunce? I told him he was being foolish and so - God save the mark! - did Emile Fougeroux! And we have had no word at all, no leads, nothing!"
"Good God!" said L'Eveque.
"That's not the worst of it," said Plougastel. "I had to go to the house of the Minister of Finance, interrupt a formal dinner, and tell Count d'Anglars what's happened."
L'Eveque whistled soundlessly.
"The man's really pissed off!" said Plougastel. "He told me he'd warned Paul against just such a bird‑witted venture, and now it seems Paul's gone and ignored him. There's going to be hell to pay! By God, Christien, if he's been kidnapped - ! It would kill me if anything's happened to him!"
"He wasn't kidnapped," L'Eveque said grimly. "God pity his kidnappers if he had been! No, he was here, all right - "
Plougastel raised his hand to his mouth. "'Was'?" he gasped. "Is he dead, then?"
"Not dead," said L'Eveque. "Not yet."
"Damn it, man, where is he, then?" demanded Plougastel.
"I don't know," said L'Eveque. "But I think I know what happened. I have been questioning someone we brought in a half hour ago. We found him shivering and cowering in the cemetery, babbling that he didn't want to die. He just finished telling me that he was part of an assassination attempt. The target was a tall man in a black coat. A cop, he said - "
"By God - !"
"No, wait," said L'Eveque. "You don't understand yet! We have five bodies laid out on slabs in the morgue at the moment. One was shot at close range, two were shot point‑blank - you can see powder burns around the wounds and the clothing's charred at the entry holes, too - and one had his throat slit. The last one had his chest shot to pieces, but it appears that he was knifed, too. This fellow looks familiar - he's got a mark on his chin - "
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