Catherine Delors

by For the King (v5)

  “Well, Citizen Chief Inspector,” she simpered, “you’re a young man, I must say a very handsome young man, and . . .”

  He raised his eyes. Citizen Davignon had gathered herself and mustered what was probably meant as a seductive smile. He put down his quill and looked straight at her.

  “And what?” he asked coldly.

  She bit her lip and remained silent.

  “I am afraid, Citizen Davignon, you fail to appreciate the gravity of your situation,” he continued. “Let me explain. You made a mistake by refusing to answer my questions truthfully earlier. You forced me to arrest you. This man you are protecting, this Carbon, is wanted for the Rue Nicaise attack, and his sister is also wanted as an accomplice. You are obstructing the course of justice in a case of the utmost gravity. You will find yourself among the accused, with your friends. If you are lucky, you might escape the guillotine, but you will be sentenced to many years in jail. You will only come out as an old woman, and one does not age well in prison.”

  Citizen Davignon burst into loud sobs that made the flesh of her breasts quiver like jelly. Roch now hated her. That brainless, spineless, soulless slut knew of Carbon’s whereabouts, she held the key to Old Miquel’s freedom, and yet she refused to speak, out of sheer stupidity, or, heaven forbid, because she fancied Short Francis. Roch felt the urge to slap her, but he clenched his fists under his desk and waited for the outburst to subside. When he thought she was quieting, he asked, “Are you done now?”

  She nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “Let us start then. Do you know François Carbon?” continued Roch.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And of course you knew that he is wanted in connection with the Rue Nicaise attack?”

  “No, Sir, I didn’t.”

  “You did not see his description posted on the streets, with the reward of 2,000 louis? Can you read?”

  “Yes, Sir, I can, I saw that, but I didn’t think it was him. Francis wasn’t the kind of man who’d do a thing like that.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Since last summer.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know, Sir.”

  “About his sister, Catherine Vallon? How long have you known her?”

  “About five years.”

  “So you must know the address of such an old friend.”

  Marguerite Davignon took a deep breath. “She lives on Rue Martin, in front of Saint-Nicolas Church. Number 310, between the wigmaker and the café. On the sixth floor, in front. A house with an iron gate.”

  Roch pushed away the Davignon woman’s statement and hastily wrote a note. He rose and shouted to a guard to bring it immediately to the Prefect. He returned to his seat and looked into Citizen Davignon’s eyes.

  “What about Short Francis? Does he live there with his sister?”

  “No, Sir, I don’t think so. I don’t know where he went. I swear, Sir.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “On the 28th of December, in the morning. That would have been the 7th of Nivose. I saw him at his sister’s, Sir. Just before she moved. She made coffee, and we had a little chat. Francis was nice and friendly, as always.”

  “You said you met Carbon last summer, Citizen, is that right?” asked Roch in a softer tone.

  “Yes. He was a bit raggedy then, but he’s been far better dressed of late. He wears his hair powdered now, and nice starched shirts. And silk stockings, with stripes lengthwise. And he snuffs tobacco, from a pretty snuff box, with the picture of a horseman on it. He has a silver watch too. He looks quite the gentleman.”

  So the woman liked Carbon. Indeed, all tastes were found in nature.

  “It apparently was common knowledge,” said Roch, “that Carbon slept with his sister, and with his niece Madeleine.”

  Citizen Davignon hesitated. “Well, I’m not one for meddling with what’s none of my business. Francis is fond of a joke, and you never know what nasty people’ll make out of that. Sometimes he’d have Catherine and her girl Madeleine sit in his lap and pinch them. Or he’d raise their skirts to slap their bottoms. Playfully, mind you. That’s all there was to it.”

  “He did that in front of you?”

  “Oh, yes, he’d wink at me, and I’d wink back. It was all done in good cheer. Catherine liked it too, I could tell. It’s only that Madeleine girl that kept a sour look on her face. She doesn’t promise much, that one.”

  “I see. When did you last see Catherine?”

  “Three days ago, at her new lodgings. Francis wasn’t there. She said he wasn’t living with her anymore.”

  “Where did she say he lives now?”

  “She wouldn’t tell. She said she didn’t like my questions about Francis. She looked like she’d had a bit too much to drink, and it wasn’t coffee, if you get my meaning. She got angrier and angrier, and finally she accused me of sleeping with him. She said she’d tell my husband when he came back from Rennes, and he’d give me a good whipping. She even said I was nothing but a dirty trollop.”

  “Imagine that! So you slept with Francis?”

  Citizen Davignon put her hand to her heaving breast. “Me, Sir? No, never!”

  Roch found her show of indignation a bit excessive, but he smiled amicably.

  “I understand how it all happened, Citizen Davignon. Your husband is away most of the time, and you are fond of company. You felt lonesome. You met Carbon, a dashing, well-spoken man. Who could blame you if you took a liking to him?”

  The Davignon woman shook her head vigorously in denial. Roch gazed at her for a moment. He was sure that she was hiding something, maybe something of such crucial importance as Short Francis’s whereabouts, but there was nothing more to be had from her now. Not until she had spent some more time in the coop. He finished writing her statement and pushed it towards her.

  The woman signed the sheet of paper and raised her eyes to Roch with a hopeful look. “So I am free to go now, Citizen Chief Inspector?”

  “Are you joking? You are still not telling the truth.”

  “But I gave you Catherine’s address, Sir!”

  “There’s much more you haven’t told me.”

  Her lower lip quivered. She began to whimper again. “There, there, Citizen,” he said, “do not make yourself unhappy. You are going to stay with us, right here at the Prefecture, until you decide to tell me all you know. The coop should be empty soon, and you will have the place to yourself. Until tonight, that is. In the meantime, do not hesitate to call the guard should you remember anything.”

  Citizen Davignon, in tears, was led out of Roch’s office.

  36

  The Prefect must have reached the conclusion that it behooved him at this point to display some zeal. He acted promptly on the note Roch had sent him during Marguerite Davignon’s questioning. While the woman was signing her statement on Roch’s desk, Catherine Vallon and her daughter Madeleine were arrested at their new lodgings.

  Roch, once he was done with Citizen Davignon’s questioning, stopped to talk to Piis in the corridor. A search of Catherine Vallon’s lodgings had yielded men’s clothes, including three blue jackets, in addition to a barrel of gunpowder, ingots of lead and bullet molds.

  Roch whistled. “Quite a catch!”

  “The experts are analyzing the powder to determine its provenance. I would be much surprised it were not of English manufacture.”

  “And Carbon?” asked Roch.

  “No trace of him there, apart from the clothes.”

  Roch hit the palm of his hand with his closed fist. The scoundrel was again ahead of the police, and time was running out for Old Miquel.

  “The Prefect himself will question Catherine Vallon,” continued Piis. Roch stared at his colleague in disbelief.

  “Dubois?” asked Roch. “He, question anyone? His mother would not tell him the time of day if he asked.”

  “Maybe not,” said Piis. “But in a case like this one, he wants to t
ake credit for the arrest of the culprits. The questioning should begin anytime now.”

  Soon Roch and Piis were standing against the peepholes looking into the room where important witnesses were questioned. The holes were hidden in the flowery pattern of the dingy wallpaper on the other side. Grates let them hear whatever was said in the other room. Such a system allowed several policemen to follow the proceedings without the knowledge of the suspect.

  “By the way,” whispered Piis, “I must really thank you. I reread The Golden Ass after our conversation. You were quite right about the name Photis, so I replaced it with Iris. Listen—”

  Piis’s hand was already reaching for his pocket. Roch put his forefinger to his lips. Through the peephole, he had just seen a woman enter the room, flanked by two National Guards. Indeed, Pépin’s description of Catherine Vallon had been accurate, and she resembled the traditional image of a witch. The Prefect entered in turn. He pulled a handkerchief, dusted a chair and sat at a table in the middle of the room. Catherine Vallon reluctantly followed suit and cast a malevolent look at him.

  Dubois cleared his throat. “Please state your name,” he ordered.

  “Again? I’ve already told those other fellows.”

  An auspicious beginning, thought Roch.

  “Then state it again.”

  “I guess you’ve nothin’ better to do’n harass a poor ’armless woman.” She hissed, “Catherine Carbon, married name Vallon.”

  “What of all those clothes found in your lodgings?”

  “You want me and my daughter to go naked?”

  “I mean the men’s clothes, those blue jackets in particular.”

  The woman shrugged. “Then you should’ve said the men’s clothes. How’m I supposed to guess what you’re talking about?”

  “So what about those blue jackets?”

  “They’re my husband’s.”

  “Where is your husband?”

  “Dunno. He’s a good-for-nothin’ rascal that runs away chasing after whores all the time.”

  “And that barrel of gunpowder found at your lodgings?”

  “I reckoned those were lentils in that barrel. Never looked inside.”

  “Who brought it to you?”

  “Dunno. S’been a long time.”

  “Did your brother, Francis Carbon, bring the barrel to your place?”

  “I don’t remember, like I told you already.”

  “François Carbon is your bother, isn’t he?”

  “Course.” The woman pursed her lips and looked at the Prefect as though she had never faced such stupidity before. “I was Catherine Carbon ’fore I married that piece of filth Vallon. So François Carbon’d be my brother, wouldn’t he? That’s not too hard to understand, maybe?”

  “When was the last time you saw your brother, François Carbon?”

  The woman seemed absorbed in the contemplation of her hands. “S’been a long time. Can’t remember, really. Two months, maybe.” She picked some dirt from under her fingernails. “Dunno where he’s either, in case you’d be thinking of asking.”

  Roch was furious. Any imbecile would have known that this was not how a recalcitrant suspect should be questioned. Two policemen, taking turns, were needed. That was when Bertrand’s grotesque appearance could be useful. His clubfoot, his dead eye, his gigantic frame instilled terror in the steadiest of minds. He ranted, raved, threatened, drew himself to his full height, frightened the suspect out of his or her wits. If no information was forthcoming after an hour or so, he left the room. Then another policeman, soft-spoken, friendly, someone like Piis or Roch, for instance, entered the room, offered comfort, even apologies for his colleague’s manners. By then the suspect was usually ready to reveal anything.

  The Vallon woman must know of her brother’s whereabouts. Yet now, thanks to Dubois’s skill as an interrogator, she would never speak. But then all was not lost. There remained young Madeleine.

  Roch waited for the end of the Vallon woman’s questioning, which failed to yield any information, and asked the Prefect’s permission to interview Madeleine Vallon. Dubois, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief, granted it with a relieved look.

  Roch took Madeleine to his office. She might be more at ease there than in the cavernous peephole room. She was a tall, slender girl with a sad face, though not devoid of charm. There was none of her mother’s venomous air about her.

  “Good afternoon, Madeleine. I am Chief Inspector Miquel.”

  The girl muttered in response.

  “I know that you would rather not be here, Madeleine, but we are investigating a horrible crime. Many people died. We need to discover who did it.” Roch looked into the girl’s eyes. “I will ask many questions, and you may not know the answers to all. That is perfectly all right. You simply need to tell me that you don’t know. Also, if I say something that is mistaken, you should tell me too.”

  “And then what’ll happen?”

  “I will prepare a paper that will state what you told me, and I will read it to you, and then ask you to sign it. I am sure an intelligent girl like you can sign her name.”

  “Yes, Sir, I can. I can even read a bit too,” said Madeleine with the first hint of a smile he had yet seen on her face.

  “That is what I would have thought. Now what can you tell me about your uncle, François Carbon?”

  The smile left Madeleine’s face. She stared at Roch with frightened eyes. “Nothing,” she said. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “He’s not always kind to you, is he?” asked Roch.

  The girl’s lips began to tremble.

  “I believe,” Roch continued, “that he did to you things that shouldn’t be done between an uncle and his niece.”

  The girl twisted her hands. Her nails were bitten to the bone. Her voice caught on her words. “If I tell you, it’ll be all written down, and everyone’ll know of it.”

  “Yes, it will be written down, but no one outside the police needs to know about it. There is no reason for any of it to be mentioned at trial. The judges are reasonable men. They will understand that it’s a private matter, between you and your uncle, and that it does not concern the crime.”

  “And I won’t go to jail?”

  “We have to keep you for some time, because you are an important witness, not because you did anything wrong. Also, we want to make sure that no one hurts you or bothers you.”

  “And you won’t make fun of me?”

  “No. I don’t see anything funny about this.”

  Madeleine swallowed hard. “Well, my uncle came to stay with us when he arrived in Paris last summer, and in the beginning he always slept with Mama. Then one night, he slipped into my bed while I was asleep. I cried out. But Mama scolded me. She said she’d throw me out if I didn’t let him do what he liked. After that, sometimes he just slept with Mama, and he left me alone. But sometimes he slept with me, or I had to sleep with them in Mama’s bed. Oh, I hated it. I could never tell in advance what he’d want to do.” She was interrupted by a sob. “I’m ruined now.”

  “You are not ruined. What he did was wrong, completely wrong, but it was not your fault. You look to me like a fine girl.”

  “But I’m not! Who’s going to marry me now?”

  “Some men don’t care about this kind of thing, Madeleine. I, for one, don’t.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, I don’t. I have no intention to marry at this time, but if I did, all I would worry about would be to find a girl who would make a good wife. A pleasant, honest girl, a girl I could trust.” He suddenly thought of Blanche and paused until the pang subsided. “What else can you tell me about your uncle? When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Two days ago, at the Convent of Saint-Michel, on Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. He has a room upstairs. Mama sent me there to bring him clean shirts. Oh, I didn’t want to go. I knew what he’d do, but I had no choice.”

  Roch leaned back in his chair. He could have kissed Madeleine on both che
eks. Short Francis was still at the convent two days ago. The track was fresh.

  37

  So François Carbon had found a refuge in a nunnery, of all places. Hours before dawn on the 17th of January, the police discreetly surrounded the Convent of the Sisters of Saint-Michel. The Prefect had authorized the use of a full detachment of the National Guard, along with all twenty-four Police Inspectors. Roch had studied at length the plans of the house, which had been filed with the city of Paris at the time of the construction, ten years before the Revolution. The Convent consisted of four buildings forming a square and enclosing a courtyard, at the far end of which was a chapel. The front door opened onto Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, Our Lady in the Fields, a genteel, peaceful street, and there were no other entrances.

  Dawn was casting a pale shadow in the eastern sky when Roch and the Police Commissioner for the district had ladders laid against the outside walls of the convent. Dozens of men climbed onto the roofs, moved the ladders up and then down to the other side.

  Roch himself had already stepped down into the courtyard, whence he was surveying the operations. In a few moments he would be in control of the place. The only laggard among his men was Inspector Bachelot, a tall awkward fellow, heavy in the face and around the waist. Bachelot, puffing, caught his foot in the last rung as he stepped down the ladder. It fell to the ground with a resounding crash, while the man tripped with a cry.

  Roch swore. He heard the sound of hands clapping four times, then a pause, and another four claps. This had to be a signal. The nuns had already detected their presence, and were alerting Francis to the arrival of the police. No need to worry about secrecy now. Roch shouted to his men to search all of the buildings and ran towards what he assumed to be the porter’s lodge, just inside the carriage door. A man in a coarse reddish jacket appeared.