Catherine Delors

by For the King (v5)

  The lodgings contained nothing else of interest. Roch invited the Jourdan women to reenter.

  “We are taking this to the Prefecture,” he said, pointing at the sealed bundle of Saint-Régent’s belongings. “By the way, we found more than 150 francs in your boarder’s pockets. Did you know he had all that money?”

  The older woman remained silent, but Toinette opened her eyes wide. “You don’t say! When you think that he owes Mama over fifty francs for room and board . . .”

  “Here is what I am going to do, Citizen,” Roch told the widow. “I will leave with you twenty-four francs of his money as partial payment for his rent. We are taking the rest of his things. And your daughter is coming with us.”

  The woman wailed. “Oh, you can’t do that, Sir. She’s too young.”

  Roch looked sternly at her. “Then stop protecting a scoundrel who took advantage of you. He lived in your home and ate your food without giving you a sol, while his pockets were full of money. Answer me. Where is he?”

  The woman moistened her lips, opened her mouth, and seemed to hesitate. Roch waited, but no sound came. The two women had to be separated, or the mother would never talk.

  “All right then,” he said. “I am arresting Toinette.”

  Tears were rolling down the older woman’s face. “Then please arrest me with her. Please, Sir. We’ve never been apart.”

  “No. You need not worry about Toinette. I will make sure she is treated well.”

  The Widow Jourdan was now sobbing.

  “Have you a neighbor or friend,” asked Roch, “someone who could keep you company tonight?”

  “I’ve an elder sister, Marie-Luce,” intervened Toinette, patting her mother’s shoulder. “She’s married and lives on Rue Lazare. But she doesn’t get along with Mama too well, you see. You let that rotten child govern you, she always says, speaking of me.”

  Roch thought that Marie-Luce was probably right. “I will have her fetched to keep you company,” he told the widow. “And I will leave three Inspectors with you as well.”

  Toinette seemed chatty enough. He felt sure that, once separated from her mother, she would talk. He stepped back to let the girl go first out of the lodgings. They were already halfway down the first flight of stairs when he heard Widow Jourdan’s plaintive voice. “An’ about those rabbits?”

  “I don’t care,” he shouted from the stairwell. “Eat them.”

  On his way to the Prefecture, Roch was hoping that Saint-Régent had been caught at the other address provided by Short Francis. But no, Piis told him, there as well the police had been too late. Likewise, Limoëlan was no longer in the room above the pastry shop, though a long blond wig had been seized on the premises. In both places the lodgers had been arrested.

  Roch had Toinette brought to his office. He imagined what Bertrand would say of the situation. After Madeleine Vallon, after the schoolgirls from the Convent of Saint-Michel, he was making a specialty of questioning ingénues.

  Roch, in an effort to hide his somber mood, smiled at the girl. “This is a pretty dress you have, Toinette.”

  She blushed under her freckles, more from pleasure, he imagined, than from shyness. “It is, isn’t it? Monsieur Pierrot gave it to me.”

  “He did? That was kind of him.”

  “Oh, but it’s an agreement we had. You see, Mama found on the street a pug dog. It looked like it was lost. A little bitch, so pretty. I called her Mirza, ’cause once, on the street, I’d heard a lady call her pug Mirza. Mama complained that we hadn’t any money to feed her, but I said that she was so small, she wouldn’t eat much. And I’d always wanted to have a pug dog. So Mama saw that I was right, and she agreed to keep her. But when Monsieur Pierrot saw Mirza, he went wild about her, and he said he wanted to buy her to give as a present to a lady of his acquaintance. So Mama asked me if it was all right if we sold Mirza to Monsieur Pierrot, because we needed the money so much. So I said that he could have Mirza, but only if he bought me a new dress. And he did!”

  Toinette, pursing her lips, complacently straightened the folds of the skirt.

  “Certainly Monsieur Pierrot has good taste,” said Roch. “So what is the name of this lady of his?”

  “Oh, but he wouldn’t say, no matter how often I asked about her. He jus’ said she’d be mighty pleased with Mirza.” Toinette leaned towards Roch, her eyes shining with excitement. “And not only that, but he’d a collar specially made for Mirza by a jeweler. Monsieur Pierrot showed it to me. It was all real sterling silver, lined with green leather, with three little bells, and a medal with an inscription that said To My Lady. And the bells and the medal were all sterling silver too.”

  Roch nodded. “Fancy that! Monsieur Pierrot must be very much in love with his lady. And he stayed at your lodgings all the time?”

  “He didn’t come very often at first. But we saw him on Christmas Eve, in the morning. That day he gave me twelve sols to go buy ten feet of wick. Get the thickest you can find, Toinette, he said, I’ll show you something funny. So when I came back with the wick, he made a little heap of gunpowder on the mantel of the fireplace, with a length of wick next to it. I was scared at first. Don’t light it, Monsieur Pierrot! I cried, you’ll wreck the mirror. It’s already cracked, and then Mama’ll be in trouble with the lan’lord. But he said, Don’t worry, Toinette, I know what I’m doing. He pulled his watch—it was a fancy watch, all gold, with several little dials—and he said that the powder must explode in two seconds, no more. Then he lit the wick with his tinderbox. The powder made a funny little pop that made me jump. But he was right: the mirror wasn’t ruined, at least not more’n before. But he wasn’t happy, ’cause he could tell by his watch it wasn’t as fast as he’d have liked. So he cut the wick shorter and shorter until the powder popped in just two seconds.” Toinette giggled at the recollection. “He’s a pleasant man, Monsieur Pierrot. He made Mama laugh, and she doesn’t laugh often.”

  Roch smiled. “So your Mama liked him too?”

  “Oh, yes. She said that she couldn’t tell me his real name, jus’ that he was a nobleman, from the West, and that he’d come to Paris to do something very important for the King, and that we should help him as best we could.”

  Toinette seemed sincere in her naïveté. She was really no more clever than she looked. “Very interesting,” said Roch. “What else happened on Christmas Eve?”

  “Monsieur Pierrot left before the morning was over. And he didn’t come back until several days later. He arrived after dinner. But he was so altered! He looked all pale. He had trouble walking. But he wouldn’t go to bed. He asked Mama for a candle and ink and paper. Mama told me she couldn’t go to sleep, with him being in the same room behind the curtain, because he stayed up all night writing. He went out the next morning for about an hour, and he returned, very sick-looking, and after that he didn’t go out for several days. Then he began to feel better, and he went out once in a while. He was never dressed the same way, sometimes like a gentleman, and sometimes like a beggar, almost. And sometimes he took his dinner with us, and sometimes elsewhere. But he came back to sleep at our place every night.”

  So Widow Jourdan had lied. She had given Saint-Régent shelter for weeks on end after the Rue Nicaise attack.

  “And when was the last time you saw Monsieur Pierrot?”

  “Jus’ last night.”

  “Last night!” Roch stared at Toinette. If Short Francis had been questioned in a timely manner, Saint-Régent would have been caught already. No, instead, precious time had been wasted on the search of Francis’s most intimate recesses, on the Prefect’s aimless questioning and on such dallying. Roch had to bite his lip to repress a rush of fury against Dubois.

  “So what happened last night?” continued Roch, trying to bring his voice under control.

  “A man came asking for Monsieur Pierrot.”

  “A man?”

  “A tall, thin man, with gold spectacles, and dark hair, cut very short, still shorter’n yours. He wore a f
ine blue coat too. He didn’t say his name. He jus’ said he was a friend of Monsieur Pierrot, and he needed to see him right away. Monsieur Pierrot looked mighty surprised to see him, and none too happy either. They locked themselves in the other room. I heard Monsieur Pierrot’s voice raised. That was the first time because, like I told you, he’s so pleasant usually. Then he left with the tall man.” She sighed. “And he took Mirza with him. Now can I go home to Mama, please?”

  “Tomorrow perhaps. You have been very helpful, but we may need you yet. In the meantime, I will make sure you sleep in a decent place tonight.”

  Roch had Toinette sign her statement and dismissed her. He was confident that the girl had told him all she knew, but her mother had much more to say. Toinette’s absence might prompt her to reconsider the advisability of protecting Saint-Régent.

  He rubbed his hands over his face. The stubble on his cheeks felt rough under his palms. The dull pain of a headache had settled behind his eyes. The past two nights, the one spent preparing the arrest of Short Francis at the Convent, and the other listening to the man’s questioning, had been exhausting, more so than the mere lack of sleep could explain. It was certainly infuriating to have missed Saint-Régent by a matter of hours. And time was not stopping for Old Miquel. Barely nine days remained now.

  Hopefully Carbon’s arrest would pacify Fouché while the hunt for Saint-Régent continued. Roch decided to go home. He could not go on any longer without rest, and he needed to reflect on the evidence that had been gathered so far.

  43

  Roch awoke around midafternoon, more tired than when he had gone to bed in the morning, his mind still clouded by lingering shreds of dreams. His father, still in jail, but oddly cheerful, had made an appearance, and so had Short Francis, with his spotted blond and brown beard, in all his loathsome nakedness. Blanche too, smiling her innocent smile, as though nothing had happened. That was more painful than even the thought of Old Miquel.

  It was only after Roch had drunk a bowl of vegetable bouillon that he felt refreshed. He removed his shirt and put on a nightgown. He asked his maid to warm water for his bath and in the meantime went to the parlor. Its furniture had been handsome, in the manner fashionable twenty years before the Revolution. Now the velvet of the drapes and upholstery, once perhaps a vibrant buttercup hue, had turned a dull, dusty shade of yellow. His maid, in spite of his instructions, persisted in lining the chairs along the walls, like soldiers at a revue. Paintings of cows grazing in muddy meadows, framed in gold, completed the decor.

  Roch dragged the most comfortable chair next to the window. He sat, his chin resting on his hand, staring at a few passersby in the street below. It was a fine afternoon, with a pale blue sky lit by a white winter sun.

  First he realized that things were not as hopeless as he had felt before. He must have been worn out then by fatigue and the disappointment of Saint-Régent’s close escape. In fact, much progress had been made over the past few days. Short Francis, one of the two men the Minister wanted, had been caught. An ugly man, whose ugliness was more than skin deep, deceitful, devious, cunning in his own stupid way.

  Roch thought of the note found in Short Francis’s coat, with its odd capitalized handwriting. PLEASE KEEP VERY QUIET, DEAR FRANCIS. He could not rid himself that there was more to this missive than met the eye. The letter from George found at Widow Jourdan’s lodgings was useful too. For one thing, the Prefecture’s handwriting experts had confirmed its authenticity. It showed that George was not in Paris. He directed the conspiracy from afar, hidden in some farm or château in the West.

  And then the questioning of François Carbon, in spite of the Prefect’s unforgivable ineptitude, had revealed much. The short man had lied aplenty. Yet he had revealed the true names and addresses of Saint-Régent and Limoëlan, and had not hesitated to incriminate Bourmont, his former General and employer. But Carbon had steadfastly protected another person, the woman who, with Limoëlan, had taken him to the Convent. At first he had not mentioned her at all, then, when he had realized that the police knew of her, he had said that three ladies had accompanied them. He had tried at all costs to draw attention away from that one woman.

  As for the note found on Short Francis, why was its author so worried that Francis would leave the Convent, a place where the man seemed to feel safe and comfortable? And it repeated with desperate insistence the warning not to trust anyone but the author. Trust was obviously a commodity in short supply among the conspirators. No more so, Roch thought with bitterness, than between himself and his colleagues. Did he, for one, trust the Prefect? Or Fouché? Or Bertrand? Or anyone else within the police?

  And who was the author of the capitalized note? Limoëlan, as Short Francis had stated? But Short Francis had lied on other points, in particular to protect the unknown woman, the lady, as Pulchérie had called her, who had taken him to the convent. She too might have written it.

  And now something else pointed to a woman: the pug dog. To Saint-Régent, presenting it to his lady had been worth the risk of having the silver collar specially made by a jeweler, at a time when his life was at stake. He must be in love to take such a chance.

  Were Saint-Régent’s lady and Carbon’s lady one and the same? Perhaps, but the gold embroidered hem of the skirt described by Pulchérie could belong to hundreds of women in Paris.

  Roch was startled out of these thoughts when the maid knocked at the door and announced that his bath was ready. He thanked her and went to the little water closet. There he disrobed and stepped into the copper tub. He closed his eyes as he felt the warmth of the water envelop his skin and slowly dissolve his weariness. The comfort of the bath conjured a vivid image of Blanche. Why was it always coming to mind when he wanted a woman?

  He shrugged. What a fool he had been! Not so much fooled by her than by himself. He must have loved her, for that was love indeed: the pursuit of the wisp of an illusion. Roch was still angry with Blanche, he was impatient to clear his mind of her, and there was no better way to achieve this end than to replace her, fast, before too many regrets could take hold and fester.

  His first thought was of the jewelry store on the Quai des Orfèvres where he had bought the ill-fated ring. The young woman there had seemed eager to become acquainted with him. Yet, given the nature of his purchase, she might ask questions that Roch felt no inclination to answer, truthfully or otherwise.

  Then Roch remembered the shopgirl who had smiled at him from the window of the Five Diamonds millinery shop. Of course, she too would be painfully linked to the memory of Blanche. He would normally have preferred a bourgeoise like the pretty jeweler, a better educated, probably less demanding woman, but he had no time to waste on the quest for true love. The shopgirl would do for the moment.

  He resolved to go to the millinery. He would ask the shopgirl to show him dozens of spools of ribbon and solicit her advice, as though it were a gift meant for another woman. Then he would make a purchase and present it to her. She would blush and feign surprise. The rest was no less easy and predictable. He had earned these few hours of blissful oblivion.

  He stepped out of the tub and put on his nightgown. Still warm from the bath, he shaved carefully and put on the clean clothes the maid had laid for him on the bed. He left in the direction of the Five Diamonds millinery. He was turning onto Rue du Pélican when his attention was attracted by a man, clad in a well-cut blue coat, walking straight at him. He was almost as tall as Roch, with an elongated face that matched his slim figure. He wore gold-framed spectacles. Limoëlan.

  It did not take the man a moment longer to read Roch’s expression. He turned on his heels and fled. He was fast. Roch shouted Catch thief! the cry most likely to grab the attention of passersby. Several men moved towards Limoëlan to stop him, but quickly withdrew when they saw him pull a pistol from under his coat. Roch ran after him and did not bother to draw his own firearm. There was no time to load it, and in any case the street was busy in the late afternoon. It would have been impossible t
o shoot without risking injuring an innocent.

  Apparently Limoëlan felt no such qualms. He stopped and quietly turned around to aim at Roch. His pistol must have been already loaded. Roch sought refuge in the corner of a carriage door. He heard the detonation, then the whistling of the bullet. People around ran away shrieking. Murderer, thought Roch.

  When he cautiously looked out from the carriage door, Limoëlan was nowhere to be seen. He must have turned onto the smaller, quieter Rue Coquillère already. Roch did the same and now pulled his pistol. There was still no trace of the man. Roch walked to the end of the street, which opened on to the much larger Rue du Louvre. Limoëlan could have mixed with the passersby there, or he might be lying in wait anywhere, behind a door, in a staircase, at a window, his pistol reloaded, ready to aim and fire again. The chase was useless. Roch cursed and turned around. His encounter with the assassin had extinguished any flicker of desire for the shopgirl.

  44

  Roch, after a good night’s sleep, was at his office at dawn the next morning. He was surprised to see Inspector Bachelot already waiting for him, hat in hand, pacing at the foot of the rickety corkscrew stairwell. Roch had often suspected that his promotion to the rank of Chief Inspector had caused some resentment among the Inspectors, formerly his equals. Most had more seniority than he in the police, and some were far older. That was the case with Bachelot, who was over forty and did not look a day younger.

  “What are you doing here, Bachelot?” asked Roch, frowning. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching Widow Jourdan?”

  Bachelot’s flabby jowls trembled. “Well, Citizen Chief Inspector, she doesn’t need watching anymore.” He stammered. “She . . . she’s dead.”

  Roch glared at the man. “Follow me,” he said curtly.

  Roch led the way to his office. He slammed the door shut and sat behind his desk without inviting Bachelot to have a seat.