The Orphan's Tale

by Anne Shaughnessy

  "I will sweep your sidewalk for a sheet of paper and a pen and ink," he said to the man who opened the door.

  The man laughed at him. "Our paper's expensive," he said.

  Larouche shrugged. "Give me a used sheet."

  "And so are our pens."

  Larouche grinned up at him and wiggled his tooth with his tongue. "Then loan me one," he said.

  "Done and done," said the man. "Here's the broom. And here - " he held up a washed sheet of parchment, " -is your payment when you're done. And in God's name, boy, stop fiddling with that tooth while you're here. You'll scare away the customers!"

  Larouche nodded and started sweeping.

  ** ** **

  Ten minutes later he was sitting down at a desk in the back of the shop with his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, the pen in his fist, and the sheet of parchment before him.

  I have riten a masage twise befor. Draquett is haveing tofs com frome angland this tusday but he has changed the date to wen -

  He stopped. That didn't look right. There should be a 'D' there. He licked the word off and tried again:

  - wedenday -

  That looked bad, too. Père Louis had showed him how to write the word once. Why couldn't he remember it? He crossed it out and wrote again:

  - wendesday becos of winds. They are guttesicke and canot come til then thogh the princes wil be their soon. Her name is victoria.

  The tofs are named hamilton and courtenay, and cherwill -

  Larouche was pleased with that information. He had had to go into Dracquet's study and root through his papers. Dracquet had come in unexpectedly, and Larouche had dived into a cabinet and hidden for over an hour. It had given him a chance to listen to the man as he gave orders to two others concerning the affair of the mysterious 'toffs'.

  The orders had been frighteningly explicit: travel by private coach to Calais where His Majesty's private yacht lay at anchor. Once at Calais, the man was to deliver a message to two seamen employed aboard the yacht. The boat was due to sail in two weeks' time to Southampton, where Princess Victoria and her mother, the Duchess of Kent, would board her for the princess' journey to France.

  The yacht would sail from Southampton to Le Havre, and during that time the princess, who was known to be an adventurous soul, would be killed in a mishap brought about by the criminal ineptitude of its crew. An ill‑secured boom, a frayed halyard, a yard coming loose from its mast - whatever could be managed by the two assassins who had been planted by Dracquet. Payment arrangements were covered in the letter.

  The messenger was to meet three Englishmen at Calais and escort them Paris, where they would be meeting with Dracquet on Wednesday rather than Tuesday, since they didn't travel well.

  Larouche had known that if he were found, Dracquet would have no hesitation about ordering that he be put in a sack and pitched into the Seine with a stone tied around his neck. Larouche valued his life, but he lived with danger and death every day; he had emerged from the cabinet after Dracquet and the two men had left and went through the papers once again. He had wanted to make sure the Englishmen's names were spelled correctly.

  The smell of scorching paper made him look toward the fire in the grate. Three crumpled sheets of paper lay on the apron just before the fire. The nearness of the flames was making them turn brown.

  Larouche's hands were callused and tough. He had carefully scooted the crumpled pages toward him, opened them and scanned them. He couldn't make out some of the words written there, but the pages were drafts of instructions to the two assassins on the yacht.

  Monseigneur would be very interested in them. Larouche folded them away inside the front of his shirt and then coolly took three other blank sheets of paper from Dracquet's store, crumpled them, and tossed them in the fire. If Dracquet wanted the sight of burnt paper to reassure him that no one had seen his scribbling, then Larouche would gladly give it to him.

  - and ther is a milor named the duc of rochester stayin with draquet now.

  Hes got perscripshuns listed and wepans to and they meen buysines about the pirnces. The duc wants to bee king.

  I heerd they plan to sett the staje for a war and a murder wen I was in a closit an they dint no. Draquett is reel pist that lenor was kilt becos he was supost to be the mann who wil kill pirnces victoria an now thay got to make other plans.

  I got masages riten by draquett form the trash thaht he was tryin to burn. They is with this an their ant a dull word in their. I took them from the far and they are jus a little chard.

  Larouche thrust his tongue out the corner of his mouth and bit it.

  The cook says -

  He stopped. The less said about the cook the better. He spat on the paper and wiped away the words with his sleeve. The ink smeared and ran, and he had to blow on the paper to dry it.

  Draquett still sas hes out of town but isnt so dont be fooled. Ther will be guns to and goons to figt if enything gos rong. So bring lots of cops and be redy to figt.

  He considered, frowning, and then added:

  The cook is not impercated.

  I am a fiend

  That written, he corked the bottle of ink, folded the still wet paper, and wrote Paris Perfecture on the front. He thanked the shop‑owner very politely - you never knew when you might need a favor - and went out the door.

  Monseigneur would be glad to get this.

  LVI

  ENTER THE BRITISH

  "What does he mean, the cook isn't imprecated?" Malet demanded. He was holding the note at arm's length and scowling at it. "Good God! It's wet!"

  "He probably spat on it to erase something," said Guillart with a smile. "Mine do that. It makes for messy letters. And I think, my dear Inspector, he meant 'implicated'. Bear in mind that we're dealing with a little boy who hears big words and doesn't know how to spell them."

  Malet took out his handkerchief, wrapped it around his fingers and lifted the letter again. He scanned it and then frowned at the back. "You'll be interested to know, Guillart, that we're the 'Perfecture', and we're dealing with a fiend."

  "He has all the earmarks of a little fiend," Sergeant Guillart said comfortably. "A lively little lad, that one! I have enjoyed talking with him the times he's been in. He keeps saying, by the way, that this information is for 'the big Inspector with the greenish eyes'."

  Malet looked up from the note. "He seems a bright one, and he's certainly observant. And brave, if he eavesdropped on Dracquet while hiding in a closet and then had the nerve to go through his papers and rescue these from the fire. I wonder if he knew the risk he was taking." He smoothed the crumpled pages and brushed at a burned spot. "Or how extremely valuable his assistance is to us," he added. "I wonder why he is doing this."

  He stared off into space for a moment and then finally set the note aside. "Wednesday," he said. "Two days from now. I will inform His Excellency. In view of what is planned - and what we can prove - he will want to take a direct hand now. I'd best contact Lord Edwin at the British Embassy, as well. I will show him those three names: Hamilton, Cherwill and Courtenay. It appears as though the boy went to some pains to get them right, too."

  "Has Sir Robert Peel left yet?" asked Guillart.

  "I am not sure," said Malet. "He was supposed to, but they took too many pains to assure me of that, and I am not convinced... If he is in fact out of the country, I will send a dispatch to him in London. I suspect the name 'Rochester' will bring him back hotfoot."

  He twitched forward a piece of paper and spoke as he wrote. "I will send this note round to His Excellency. I am taking a great deal upon myself in going to the embassy; he may wish to meet me there and participate in any discussion there may be." He took a stick of sealing wax, held it in the flame of the lamp, and quickly sealed the paper, then rang for an office boy.

  "Give this to a messenger. Tell him it's urgent and must be delivered personally to His Excellency at once."

  Guillart waited until the boy had left. "I will recopy all these pages
for the archives," he said. "Do you want me to make you a copy, as well?"

  "One that isn't wet?" Malet asked grimly. "Of course: need you ask? I will also need copies of his other notes. Please write them out for me while I finish this memorandum, then I am off to the British Embassy at once. Tell my bodyguard to meet me at the door."

  ** ** **

  Lord Edwin Beauchamps, late a colonel of the Princess of Wales' Own Household Guard and a veteran of the Peninsular campaign and Waterloo, where he lost an arm, was delighted to receive Chief Inspector Malet, whom he had met when the Chief Inspector was escorting Sir Robert Peel through Paris.

  There had been a brief unpleasantness with one of the clerks who had thought to amuse himself with a running commentary to his fellows on the subject of the French in general and their Police in particular while Malet awaited Lord Edwin. The young man had been appalled to hear his comments rebutted in idiomatically impressive, though provincially accented, English.

  Lord Edwin had come in just then, but not too late to catch the end of the discourse, and his expression had been very grim as he escorted the Chief Inspector into his offices.

  "I beg that you can find it in your heart to overlook the boorishness of the clerks here, my dear Chief Inspector," he said for the third time. They were seated in his luxuriously appointed sitting room and enjoying a glass of very fine Madeira.

  Malet lifted his glass. "It's nothing, My Lord," he said. "Clerks are clerks. I think I cured them of any inclination to poke fun at 'foreigners' before finding out if the 'foreigners' understand English. They'll learn." He sipped the Madeira and took a bite of the thin, sweet biscuit that had been brought in with it.

  "They'll learn, all right," Lord Edwin said grimly.

  Malet suppressed a smile. He set down the wine and took out Guillart's copy of the note. "I thought, My Lord, that you would be vitally interested in this," he said in English. "It is a tip we just received concerning some doings in which I am taking an interest. The parties involved may mean something to you, and the matter they contemplate is serious enough to merit your immediate attention."

  Lord Edwin took the memorandum and the notes, scanned them quickly, and then looked up at Malet, all the color draining from his face. "Courtenay, Hamilton and Cherwill!" he said. "The Duke of Rochester! And the Heiress-Apparent--! My God! He wants to alter the succession! This is a nightmare!" He rang the bell beside his chair and directed that Sir Robert Peel be asked to wait upon them at once.

  Malet smiled and sipped his wine.

  ** ** **

  Paul Malet strolled past the Palais‑Royal. He had dismissed his bodyguard - over that young man's astonished protests - and was heading southeast toward the river, his hands clasped behind him, his head lowered slightly.

  It had been a very interesting evening. He had been right: the British had been vitally interested in the content of his informant's notes and had, in fact, been half‑expecting the sort of situation they had outlined. That was the reason for Sir Robert's continued presence in Paris, a presence that Malet had suspected all along.

  Count d'Anglars had arrived, looking as elegantly imperturbable as ever, and some urgent steps had been taken. A royal messenger had been sent posthaste to Calais with orders for the Police in Calais: keep La Patriote under constant surveillance, wait until Dracquet's message was delivered and his messenger safely away, and then place the entire crew under arrest. The messenger was to be followed discreetly until he met the three Englishmen, then allowed to leave Calais with his charges.

  The 'tofs from Angland' appeared to be very big fish indeed, connected with His Grace of Rochester in an unsavory business that Peel had referred to as the 'Gloucester plot'. Malet, who knew a state secret when he encountered one, had not sought further information.

  But also, he had been very conscious of his status as a bastard. Count d'Anglars dealt with his customary courtesy, but however kind the two Englishmen may have been to Malet, they were blue‑bloods and he was not. While Lord Edwin and Sir Robert had been the soul of hospitality, Malet found himself in the awkward position of one who seeks to avoid a snub.

  Once the arrangements with the Police had been made, he had excused himself and left Count d'Anglars deep in discussion with Beauchamps and Peel.

  Malet was glad to be away from there. Steps were being taken to avert a catastrophe, and everyone had agreed that it would be best to wait until the night of the dinner, when Malet would arrest Dracquet and his guests. The British Embassy would support him when it came time to take the four Englishmen into custody in two days' time, and there would be no resultant international incident over the arrest of a Royal Duke. He could relax and stroll through twilight Paris, enjoying the glow of the street lamps and thinking of nothing in particular.

  LVII

  MONSEIGNEUR MEETS HIS OWN GHOST

  Larouche waited patiently outside the British Embassy for Monseigneur to come out again. The night was relatively mild and he had nothing better to do. He could not go back to Dracquet's house: it was too close to the time of the meeting. Larouche guessed accurately that Dracquet would be tightening security at the house until the meeting was over and whatever evil was being planned had been properly mapped out. It would be useless for Larouche to hope to get in there. He was his own man, or boy, and the evening's entertainment that appealed most to him was to follow Monseigneur.

  He had caught the man as he came out of the Prefecture with his bodyguard and followed him to the Rue St. Honoré, not wishing to annoy him, but merely to see where he went and what he did. The walk had been a leisurely one for Monseigneur.

  Larouche had been waiting for the better part of an hour, but the night was mild and he could relax and watch the strollers. The time had passed quickly.

  The light in the courtyard seemed to shift slightly and he heard quiet voices speaking a language that he didn't understand. A moment later Monseigneur emerged through the gate and paused to look up and down the street. His gaze seemed to linger on the patch of shadows that hid Larouche, but he finally turned and spoke quietly to the lower‑ranking man who accompanied him.

  Larouche heard the other man say, "But sir - !"

  Monseigneur's voice was still quiet, but the other man protested once more.

  Then Larouche heard Monseigneur say, "You have heard my command and you know my rank. Now do as you're told at once and stop wasting my time. Good night."

  The other man clicked his heels, spun about, and stalked off in the other direction, past Larouche.

  Larouche shrank back against the fence and watched as Monseigneur turned in the opposite direction and left. He waited until Monseigneur had gone half a block before going after him with soft footsteps.

  Where were they heading tonight? The river? Larouche approved: the river was one of his favorite places.

  He followed as quietly as he could, mimicking the man's strong, even walk, so different from the quick, scurrying gait of native Parisians.

  They were following the Rue de Rivoli, heading along beside the Tuileries gardens, now a soft blur of lamplight upon pale walkways. The vast, dark bulk of the Louvre lay before them on the right. Carriages clattered past, intent on the Comedie‑Francaise, lying off to their left. Monseigneur threaded his way through the tangle with a magnificent heedlessness that Larouche, who was in considerably less danger of being run over, envied.

  Monseigneur turned right at the Rue du Louvre and followed it to the Pont des Arts, where he paused to look east toward the Île de la Cité as it rose above the Seine like a great frigate at anchor. After gazing for a moment, he went to the middle of the bridge and leaned back against the railing with his arms folded behind him.

  Larouche weighed matters, then drew his oversized cloth cap farther down over his eyes and went after him, whistling through his teeth.

  Monseigneur didn't move, though Larouche knew that he was watching. The man seemed to be aware of everything that happened around him.

  Well, there wa
s no law against walking along a bridge and whistling, so Larouche walked along and whistled, his hands jammed in his pockets. When he came abreast of Monseigneur, he paused and looked the man over, aware that he was being surveyed in his turn.

  "Well?" Monseigneur said finally. He hadn't moved.

  Larouche hesitated. He could greet Monseigneur and introduce himself, and be the recipient, possibly, of a snub, or he could just stand quietly and enjoy the evening, as every citizen had the right to do.

  He leaned against the railing beside Monseigneur and looked up past the double row of bright brass buttons on the fine black cloth of the coat to the eyes that were fixed on him from beneath the brim of the hat. "Nice weather we have been having," he said.

  Monseigneur's gaze seemed to intensify, then he nodded. "Yes," he said. "You're quite right. It's been a splendid day." His voice was softer than Larouche remembered, and he caught the touch of an accent that he hadn't noticed before, but then Monseigneur wasn't trying to shout over Larouche's curses now, either.

  The man was standing quite passively, still relaxed against the railing, his head slightly lifted in the breeze that came along the river. He was showing no impatience, and he was even smiling a little.