Catherine Delors

by For the King (v5)

  “Police!” said Roch. “Why did you clap your hands?”

  The man stared stupidly without answering.

  “What is the meaning of this?” asked a stern female voice behind him.

  Roch turned around and saw a middle-aged woman in a white wimple and black habit. She was breathing fast, her hand on her breast. Only then did Roch realize his mistake. Of course he should have remembered that nuns went to bed early and awoke before dawn for the first morning Mass. The entire Convent, including Francis, must be up already. The place should have been secured hours earlier.

  “Everyone in this house is under arrest, Citizen,” said Roch. “What is your name?”

  Her chin held high, the nun folded her hands inside the sleeves of her habit. “I am Reverend Mother Marie of the Infant Jesus, Prioress of this community.”

  Roch, still furious at his own mistake, had no intention of letting this woman put on airs. He looked straight at her. “I asked for your name, Citizen.”

  A certain trembling behind the firmness of her voice betrayed her nervousness. “Marie-Anne Duquesne. You interrupted the divine service on the Lord’s Day. With good reason, Sir, I hope.”

  “I can’t think of a better one. You are giving shelter to one of the Rue Nicaise assassins.”

  Mother Duquesne’s lips turned pale. “I have nothing to do with that terrible misfortune.”

  “A misfortune! In police jargon, Citizen Duquesne, we call it murder. Take me to your apartment.”

  Mother Duquesne led Roch through the courtyard, where National Guards were herding a dozen nuns and twice as many schoolgirls in black uniforms. Their excited chatter ceased abruptly at the sight Mother Duquesne, escorted by Roch.

  Her apartment was on the second story of the back building. Policemen were already busy there, emptying drawers, moving furniture away from the walls, gathering letters and papers into bundles, pulling the sheets off the bed. Mother Duquesne gasped when two National Guards ripped open her pillows with the points of their bayonets, filling the air with a shower of feathers.

  Inspector Bertier burst into the apartment. “We found his room, Citizen Chief Inspector!” he cried. “Empty, but the bed’s still warm.”

  Roch abandoned Mother Duquesne to his subordinates. He ran with Bertier across the courtyard and climbed one flight of stairs to a little room overlooking the street. Roch touched with the tips of his fingers the unmade bed. It was indeed warm. Obviously Francis had not been attending the service in the chapel. He looked out the window. It was too high for Carbon to have jumped out without breaking a limb, and the street below was teeming with National Guards. The short man was still hiding somewhere in the Convent.

  “Have you searched the rest of the floor?” Roch asked Bertier.

  “No, but a man named Buchet next door, a boarder, told me of an attic above. He thinks Carbon may be hiding there.”

  An elderly man, slightly stooped, a cunning smile on his lips, was standing in the doorway, watching the policemen.

  “Are you Citizen Buchet?” asked Roch.

  “Yes,” said the old man. “And I have the key to the attic in my pocket. This way you won’t have to force the door open. I’m always one for sparing the gentlemen of the police any trouble. If you’ll follow me . . .”

  Roch pursed his lips. The man’s zeal was suspicious in light of the sympathies of the house. He told Inspector Bertier to accompany the man to the attic. Roch remained behind and gestured to a National Guard to follow him into the apartment of the obliging boarder.

  He pushed the door open carefully. Inside sat a man, his feet to the fire, quietly warming himself. He was as Roch had pictured him: squat, flat-faced, with deep-set blue eyes and a large scar that pulled on the lid of his left eye. The only unexpected trait was the beard, unshaven for a few weeks. Its hair was tan, with darker spots, like a wild beast’s fur. Roch and the National Guard rushed to wrestle him to the ground. He did not try to run, nor did he offer any resistance.

  Roch, as he bound the prisoner’s hands tightly behind his back, felt such satisfaction as he had never known in his entire career. It was more than pride, more than the hunter’s triumph. There was hope too. Now that Carbon was under arrest, the scoundrel would lead the police to Saint-Régent, and Old Miquel would be free at last.

  38

  Carbon, his hands bounds, was escorted out of the Convent between two Inspectors. Roch followed at a few paces’ distance. Just as he was passing the front door and stepping onto the street, Roch saw from the corner of his eye something black running away very fast in the gray light of dawn.

  He cursed and, abandoning the prisoner to the care of the Inspectors, set out in pursuit of the fugitive. All he could see ahead was billows of black skirts and white petticoats. A nun, perhaps, or a man disguised as one? The fugitive had a head start of several dozen yards and was fleet-footed, but Roch was determined to catch her, or him.

  The distance that separated Roch from his prey was shrinking. Now, from her long flowing hair, it was clear that the escapee was a woman, a brunette more precisely. She turned her head around to look at him, a fatal mistake, for she tripped and fell flat on her stomach. Roch landed on her back in a moment, seized her wrists with one hand and pulled another rope from his pocket.

  The woman, spitting out dirt and loose strands of hair, turned her head sideways to look at him while he was tying her wrists. She was very young, probably no more than fifteen, with a round face and turned-up nose.

  “Stop this, you brute!” she exclaimed. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Your fault, I guess, for running away.”

  Roch pulled the girl to her feet. “And pray why were you running away?”

  “Why? But this was the perfect opportunity to escape. I had asked Mama many times to put me in another school, but she wouldn’t hear of it. So this morning when I heard all that ruckus and saw those men storming the Convent, I hid in a corner of the Chapel, behind the altar of Saint-Joseph, and waited until no one was looking to slip away. And I would have managed to run away, but for you!”

  Roch raised his eyebrows. “Really? There’s nothing more to it? Did you see that short man we arrested? Do you know him?”

  The girl stamped her foot. “How many questions am I supposed to answer at the same time? And who are you anyway?”

  Roch seized her firmly by the elbow and walked back in the direction of the Convent. “Chief Inspector Miquel, Prefecture of Police. If you don’t mind, I will ask the questions from now on. One at a time. What is your name?”

  The girl stared at Roch and smiled proudly. “Well, when Mama hears of this . . . Arrested by a Chief Inspector!”

  “Who are you?”

  “Pulchérie Fontaine, Chief Inspector. This is what I should call you, isn’t it?”

  “Citizen Chief Inspector. So what about that man we arrested?”

  “He is very ugly, don’t you think, Citizen Chief Inspector? Disgusting even.” She cast an appraising look at him. “Not like you.”

  Roch let go of the girl’s arm and pushed her in the back. “Let’s press on, if you please. Had you seen that man before, Citizen Fontaine?”

  “Yes. Three weeks ago exactly. It’s easy to remember because it was a Sunday, like today. The Sunday just after Christmas.” She stepped on tiptoes to reach Roch’s ear and lowered her voice. “I am punished every Sunday.”

  Roch could not help smiling. “You, punished? Hard to believe.” He remembered his own years at school. Saturday, not Sunday, had been his flogging day. But then Veau’s Academy had not been a religious establishment. “So what do the nuns do to you when you are punished?”

  “Nothing very pleasant, I can tell you. It’s always the same. I hear Mass on my knees at the back of the Chapel. That’s what I was doing today when your men burst into the Convent. Then the porter locks me in the little basement by the front door. He only gives me bread and water, and he leaves me there all day. Then, at half past eight at night, one of th
e sisters fetches me and takes me to the dormitory.”

  “That basement must not be a very nice place.”

  “Oh, it’s horrible! Full of rats. I can hear them scurry around me and squeak in the dark, and I have nothing to do all day but look out the tiny little window.”

  “And that little window looks out onto the street?”

  Pulchérie shook her head. “Yes, Citizen Chief Inspector, and it’s fortunate, because else I would go mad. Although the street is so quiet, hardly anyone goes by. So I pay attention to anyone who does.”

  “And you paid attention to that ugly man?”

  “Oh, yes. There’s a streetlight there, so I can see well at night. He was uglier than anyone I have seen before, uglier even than that filthy old porter. There were other people with him, a lady and a gentleman.”

  Roch stopped in his tracks and looked into the girl’s eyes. “What were they like?”

  “I can’t tell, because they walked to the far side of the ugly man. I only saw the gentleman’s boots and the lady’s skirt. And they were all walking fast. No wonder, it was raining hard.”

  “Why do you say a gentleman and a lady?”

  “Oh, the man’s boots looked like fine leather, in two colors, like fancy riding boots. And the lady . . . well, she was dressed like a lady. Her gown was ruined by the rain, but I could see the hem was embroidered, a really pretty Greek pattern.” She looked down and winced at her black dress. “I wish I wore something like that, instead of this hideous uniform.”

  Roch resumed his walk at a slower pace. “And then what happened to those three people?”

  “I couldn’t see them anymore, but I heard the front door open, and then close with a clang. That’s all.”

  “And what time was it?”

  “Oh, just before Sister Caroline fetched me to take me to the dormitory. So it must have been close to half past eight.” She cocked her head to the side. “Say, Citizen Chief Inspector, since I’ve been so helpful, do you think you could untie me?”

  “For you to slip away again? Certainly not. You are too valuable a witness.”

  They had now reached the Convent’s door. “Ah, no!” cried Pulchérie. “Don’t take me back there!”

  “Have no fear. You are coming with me to the Prefecture. I will have you sign your statement, and I will send word to your mama to fetch you. You can tell her all about your adventures.”

  39

  An hour later, Citizen Fontaine mère, outraged at the idea of finding her daughter at the Prefecture of Police, took Pulchérie off Roch’s hands. He walked to the office of Division Chief Bertrand, to whom Carbon had been delivered.

  When Roch pushed the door open, he paused a moment at the sight of Short Francis, stark naked, bent over the desk. The man’s stubby, hairy legs were spread wide while Bertrand, grinning from ear to ear, performed a thorough search of his person. Four of Roch’s Inspectors were also there “to prevent any escape attempt,” explained Bertrand. Roch, as he was watching the scene, would have been hard-pressed to tell which of the two men, his colleague or Carbon, he found more loathsome.

  Roch wondered whether Bertrand had received the Prefect’s authorization to proceed in this manner. It was not done unless a man was considered likely to be hiding keys, springs or similar devices on his person, or already sentenced to a term of imprisonment. But Bertrand, as Chief of the Second Division, was in charge of political crimes. So now Carbon belonged to Bertrand.

  Bertrand was taking his time pawing every part of Short Francis’s body. His grin became still broader whenever his victim yelped or twitched. He ordered the man to stand, to open his mouth, to lie down on the table, to kneel while his hair was inspected, and finally to squat and cough. Each part of the search was conducted at a leisurely pace, and in a deliberate manner. Yet nothing was found.

  At last Bertrand ordered Short Francis to sit on the desk, and bound his hands behind his back. Carbon’s feet could not reach the floor and his legs dangled like those of a child. His clothes had been piled on a chair. Inspector Bachelot examined them, one at a time, feeling linings, emptying pockets.

  The Inspector deposited on the desk a snuffbox, lined with tortoise shell and adorned with the picture of a horseman. Roch picked up the object and examined it. The Lambel woman, the grain merchant’s wife, had been right: it bore the legend H.M. King George III. This was the snuffbox Marguerite Davignon had so admired.

  Next Inspector Bachelot found, pinned inside of Carbon’s shirt, a white silk medallion. It was embroidered in gold thread with a heart crowned by flames and a cross, and the motto In hoc signo vincemus. Roch remembered enough Latin from his years at Veau’s Academy to know that it meant “By this sign we shall win.” It was the image of the Sacred-Heart-of-Jesus, which the Chouans used as a battle sign.

  Chief Bertrand seized the medallion between two fingers, thick as sausages, and shook it in front of Carbon’s face. “And pray what is this?” he asked.

  “A girl gave it to me, back in Brittany.”

  Bertrand guffawed. “A girl!” He looked down at Carbon’s genitals. “Some wenches aren’t disgusted by anything, I guess.”

  Inspector Bachelot hastened to proceed with his search of Carbon’s clothes. He pulled from the waistcoat pocket a gold watch, enameled in blue and decorated with pearls. Roch frowned. Marguerite Davignon had said that Short Francis owned a silver watch. She had not mentioned any gold, pearls or enamel, though she had been attentive enough when it came to Carbon’s finery. Had Carbon acquired this expensive trinket after he had left his sister’s place? And under what circumstances?

  Bertrand squinted at the watch. “Look at this! Is it another present from a sweetheart of yours? This one must be mighty rich.”

  “Oh, no, not at all!” exclaimed Short Francis. “I bought it with my own money.”

  Inspector Bachelot finally opened a red leather portfolio found in a coat pocket, and pulled a folded sheet of paper. Bertrand perused it, then handed it to Roch. It was written, all in capital letters, in an awkward, obviously disguised hand.

  PLEASE KEEP VERY QUIET, DEAR FRANCIS. DO NOT GO OUT FOR ANY REASON WHATSOEVER, AND TRUST ME, AND ONLY ME. DO NOT PLACE YOUR CONFIDENCE IN ANYONE ELSE, EVEN THOSE YOU BELIEVE TO BE YOUR FRIENDS, OR MINE, BECAUSE THEY WOULD BETRAY YOU.

  UNFORTUNATELY, I CANNOT CALL TODAY, BUT I WILL VERY SOON, AND WILL KEEP YOUR SISTER INFORMED, SO BE SURE TO REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE. I WILL NEVER FORSAKE YOU. I LOOK FORWARD TO THE PLEASURE OF SEEING YOU AGAIN.

  The search was now complete. Roch expected Bertrand to allow Short Francis to dress, and then take his statement forthwith. Instead, Bertrand shoved the man off the table and called for two National Guards to take him to a cell.

  Bertrand fixed his sole good eye on Roch. “I know what you’re thinking, Miquel. Oh, yes, I’d be delighted to question this scoundrel myself, and with me he’d sing in no time.” Bertrand shrugged. “But, what do you know? The Prefect wants to do it. And it won’t be until late this afternoon, because he says he has other things to do right now.”

  Roch did not comment. He was astonished at the delay, and dismayed to hear that the Prefect insisted on questioning yet another important suspect. Yet this was excellent news for Short Francis. Bertrand’s interrogation methods were appalling. Indeed they were no better than the question, the torture that had been an official part of criminal investigations before the Revolution.

  After the arrest of the suspects in the Conspiracy of Daggers last November, Roch had heard on several occasions howls of pain and terror coming from Bertrand’s office. When confronted by Roch, Bertrand had scoffed and boasted of his favorite technique, very simple, yet efficient. He cocked the hammer of a gun and then released it on the suspect’s fingers, crushing them, one bone, one joint at a time.

  Roch had reported this to the Prefect, who had dismissed his concerns on the grounds that the search for information of vital importance to the safety of the Nation justified such means. Roch disagreed. Most of w
hat could be obtained in this manner was false confessions or information that reflected what the suspect thought Bertrand wanted to hear. Roch had argued in vain that a skillful interrogator could obtain better information without disgracing himself and the entire police.

  “In the meantime,” continued Bertrand, “we have all those ci-devant nuns and that gaggle of schoolgirls from the Convent on our hands. I’ll take the nuns, they can be tough.” He sneered. “Do you think you can handle the schoolgirls?”

  Roch shrugged at the jibe. For the first time felt some sympathy for Mother Duquesne. He was headed for his office when a guard handed him a note from the Prefect asking him to report, along with all Division Chiefs, to Piis’s office. Attached were a list of more than ninety names and addresses of suspected Chouan leaders, and a copy of an order from the Minister of Police himself to arrest them all.

  40

  Limoëlan was almost running in the direction of Rue d’Aguesseau, looking up at the house numbers. For Saint-Régent had moved. One fine morning he had packed all of his things and left the Guillous’ lodgings. All without warning.

  But Limoëlan knew that Saint-Régent, even before the attack, had discreetly secured lodgings elsewhere. That reflected poorly on the trust the man placed in his chief, his old comrade Limoëlan. Of course Saint-Régent, since the failure of the attack, had good reason to be wary. Any day his fate could be sealed by an order from George. Yet this morning Limoëlan’s purpose was purely benevolent.

  Hiding Francis in the Convent of Saint-Michel, Limoëlan realized now, had been a mistake. In Mother Duquesne herself his trust was not shaken. She was no fool and must have suspected the truth, but betraying Francis would have been betraying Blanche, and she would never do that. But many other people might have talked: another nun, a pupil, a boarder. The thought of Blanche herself crossed his mind as well. The little hussy was becoming more unreliable by the day.