Napoleon's Police

by Michele McGrath

  “Don’t worry, I will.”

  Hours later, we’d visited most of the hospitals and the lodging houses where the injured had been taken. We had a long, cold and horrible day. Even though I’m used to seeing the victims of violence, I don't like being among those who are groaning and bleeding. At the beginning, you can do something to help. Afterwards, it’s just a matter of endurance. Most of the places we went to were rough and dirty. The helpers seemed frantic, unused to dealing with the numbers that had suddenly arrived. The patients lay on straw mattresses in the corridors, if they were lucky, while others huddled on the bare stone floor.

  At first the helpers thought we were more volunteers, come to assist them. When those in charge found out the truth, they weren’t pleased. They didn't stop us, of course, but they didn’t try to help us either. A strange attitude. All we wanted to do was find out who had caused the trouble in the first place. We picked our way through the cluttered corridors in the semi-darkness to talk to the victims. A lot of them were in no condition to answer our questions. We were both glad when Fournier decided to finish for the day. We stopped for a meal in one of the taverns before we returned to the Ministry.

  “We’ll never get any food if we go back now and there's nothing dramatic to report anyway,” he said.

  The tavern he took me to seemed to be favoured by the people who worked for the Police. I soon found out why. The stew was hot and plentiful and the bread fresh, without any chaff or grit. We drank wine, but Fournier added a lot of water to his. “I’ve still got to report to Réal, don’t forget. I need to make sense or he’ll crucify me.” He smiled, but I heard the underlying caution in his voice. Fortunately, drinking on duty has never been one of my vices. Early on, I saw a couple of drunken soldiers stumble into a river and drown before anyone could save them. I’ve been cautious ever since.

  The food and rest were welcome, though, after our awful day. My leg throbbed. I had half-forgotten the ache in the hospitals, surrounded by far worse wounds than mine. Police work seemed to be nearly as demanding as the army. I couldn’t help sighing. Then Fournier distracted me and I forgot my discomfort again.

  “What did we find out?” he asked and his tone alerted me. This was a test. I reassembled my memories of all the things we’d been told today. I had come to respect Fournier. When he interviewed the witnesses, his questions were shrewd. Sometimes, we received surprising answers. The trick was to remember what each person said, in case a pattern emerged. I remembered one thing people agreed on and I hurried to describe it to him.

  “Several barrels were in the street, outside some of the shops. The one most of the victims described sat on a cart at the corner of the Rue Saint-Nicaise and the Rue Saint-Honoré. Two men drove up, got down and walked away. They left a young girl holding the horse’s reins,” I said with a grimace. This child was certainly among the dead. “That would account for both the horseshoes and the hoops.”

  Fournier nodded. Several people had mentioned this cart and barrel to us. One man, in particular, was annoyed, because it blocked his view of Bonaparte’s carriage as it turned the corner of the street. He couldn't even get a glimpse of the First Consul. He’d bent down to fasten the buckle on his shoe after it passed and before the bomb exploded, otherwise he would never have felt any sort of annoyance again. He had been protected by the bodies of the dead and got away with some minor cuts and bruises. He was so voluble that I wished the blast had done more to him — something drastic to his tongue, perhaps. We had trouble getting away from him.

  “I agree. The explosives could have been in a barrel on the cart. Continue.”

  “If you wanted to plant a bomb, that’s not a bad place to leave it. From the other side of the square, you’d see when the First Consul’s carriage left the Tuileries. You’d be able to light the fuse and there would be enough time to escape before it exploded.”

  Fournier sat back and looked at me thoughtfully. I don’t know what I expected, but I was pleased when he said, “Well done. You seem to possess the right kind of mind for this game. You picked out most of the important points from all the rubbish.”

  I smiled. “Let’s hope so. I need the work.” I’d told him part of my history and he’d murmured something about swapping one difficult situation for another. After today, I agreed with him.

  Fournier grinned. “I’ll remind you of that remark in the future when you’re grumbling.”

  “Evening, Fournier.”

  I whipped around to find Gilbert standing behind me, looking as weary as I felt. Fournier waved him to a vacant chair. He slumped down and Fournier poured him out a beaker of wine. He didn’t add any water to this one.

  “Did you get the evidence?” Fournier asked him.

  “What do you think? I've been running after Dubois’ louts for hours. I’m not surprised Réal wanted one of us around, to make sure they didn’t destroy anything. I’ve got what little they’ve found. You were lucky you had an excuse to get out of that little errand.”

  Fournier grinned. “A man makes his own luck by good timing.”

  Gilbert laughed. “You wretch. I’d be bothered, if I thought you really bolted on purpose. You can pour me more wine to pay for that remark.” He tossed back the dregs which still remained in his beaker.

  Fournier signalled to the landlord and another bottle was delivered to us. “What was found?” he asked.

  “Only the horseshoes from some poor old nag. Want to see them?”

  “Not particularly. I imagine they’re gruesome.”

  “True.”

  “Why did you bring them here with you?”

  “Because Réal was waiting when I got back with them. He’s given me the charming task of hawking them all over Paris. He wants me to find out if any of the horse traders or blacksmiths recognises them. They’re not plain. Someone cut his mark on two of them.”

  Fournier whistled through his teeth. “That’ll take you a while. There must be dozens of blacksmiths in Paris. I can think of three places around here alone.”

  Gilbert nodded. “Hundreds more like. I'll be searching for weeks, especially as everyone else is busy doing other things. I’m on my own and I’ve no idea where to start looking.”

  “Start anywhere. Me, I'd choose somewhere near a good tavern or two."

  "You would!"

  “Take Duval with you. He’s not been assigned properly, with all this fuss going on. He’s been with me today, but your job is likely to be more difficult than mine. He’s already seen how boring police work can be. He's listened to the same story over and over again with only slight variations all day. Let him experience some of the other delightful things we get to do. I’ll clear it with Laurent.”

  “Do you want to put the poor fellow off before he’s got started?”

  “He won’t be. He’s a soldier; he’ll cope.” Fournier gave me an evil smile, but I knew a little about him by now. He’d been teasing me all day, so I took his remark in the spirit he intended, and grinned back.

  “If I can help you, Gilbert, I will,” I volunteered, since it seemed to be expected of me.

  “Ah, to be so young and eager.” Fournier murmured and Gilbert laughed. “Were we ever like that?”

  “Perhaps once, so long ago I can’t remember.” Gilbert turned to me and said, “Come with me then, but, I’m warning you, I’m starting early.”

  “Name the time and the place and I’ll be waiting,” I promised, keeping the distaste out of my voice with difficulty. I was not looking forward to another long day.

  “Porte Antoine. Six am. We’ll start there - lots of blacksmiths around the gate.” He drained his wine and put his beaker down on the table with a snap.

  “Time to be off. I need a good night’s rest. I didn’t go to bed last night and tomorrow’s going to be a bastard of a day.”

  Chapter 6

  Gilbert was certainly right about the day. I would never have believed so many horse traders and blacksmiths made a living in Paris. We started at fir
st light, combing the area around the Antoine gate. Even in that small section of the city, we must have visited a dozen stables. It seemed rather like looking for a single grain of sand on a long and storm-tossed beach.

  When we finished in that district, we moved on to another and yet another. At the end of each day, I felt tired, dispirited and in pain. I used to wonder if I would be able to go through the same thing again next morning. This life was demanding. I’d imagined sitting at a desk, writing reports and letters. Nothing could be further from the truth. At night I wrapped my leg up in bandages soaked in hot oil. This took away some of the ache, but made me sleep restlessly and I awoke every morning stiff and sore.

  I had almost forgotten my dramatic arrival in Paris and my first acquaintance, Lefebvre. Then, late one evening, I passed by Bourienne’s tavern on the way back to my lodgings. I felt a sudden longing to talk to anyone other than a blacksmith, a horse dealer or a colleague. I wanted to spend time with someone unconnected with our dreary unending search. So I went inside, hoping he might be there.

  The place was much as I remembered, although a little less crowded and smoky than before. I pushed my way through to Bourienne. He stood exactly where we had left him, as if he never moved at all. I ordered wine and asked him, “Do you remember me?”

  He nodded and frowned. “You’re that friend of Jean Lefebvre.”

  “Seen him tonight?”

  “No, thanks be to providence.”

  “Why do you dislike him so much?” The man’s attitude seemed even more hostile than I remembered.

  Bourienne laughed, a hoarse dry cackle, without any amusement. “What a question to ask me! Answering you would take me days! Let’s just say I’ve got my reasons. I wouldn’t let him into this place from choice, but he pays me and his money’s as good as anyone else’s. I have to make a living and I don’t need to love my customers. If you’ll take some advice, you’ll avoid the dirty salaud like the plague.”

  “What harm has he done to you?”

  “He harms everybody he meets. I’m only one of many.”

  “Well, he helped me. He saved my life and my purse on the night we came here before.”

  “Did he indeed? Unlike him to do something for somebody else, unless they paid him first. You can think yourself lucky. If I were you, I’d leave it at that. Paris is a big city and it’s easy enough to avoid him. All you have to do is not come in here and ask for him.”

  “But I am here asking for him. He said that you’d know where to find him.”

  “I do, more’s the pity.”

  “Thanks for your warning. Now, tell me where he is.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be foolish, don’t blame me when you get into trouble. When he’s not guzzling here, he's usually at the Vache Rouge.” He told me which way to go.

  I finished my wine and left. I'm perverse, or, at least, my father used to say I was and Bourienne’s attitude annoyed me. I was determined to meet Lefebvre again, if only to spite him.

  The Vache Rouge was nearby and easy to find. This was a different type of tavern from Bourienne’s, dimly lit and gloomy. They used tallow dips rather than candles, as only poor people do. The place was not doing well, or its clients did not want their faces to be seen too clearly. I had a notion both of those reasons were true. I groped my way forward, peering into the shadows as I passed. I went up to the bar and called for some wine.

  Then I spotted Lefebvre. He sat at a table against the wall, talking to a couple of men. I began to walk over to them. One man looked startled, as a tallow dip flared up and cast light over my face. Strange, because I had never seen him before. He said something to his companions. The two strangers got up and made their way out of the tavern. They gave me a nod as they passed, but I noticed they kept their faces turned away from me. Their manner was furtive, which made me wonder what their business was with Lefebvre. Why did they leave so hurriedly and why did they try to stop me identifying them?

  Lefebvre greeted me with a grin. “Hello, Soldier, glad to see you again. Did Bourienne tell you where to find me?”

  I dropped into one of the vacant chairs. “He did, but he was most reluctant to do so.”

  “He would be. He thinks I’m spawn of the devil and he usually tells people to avoid me at all costs.”

  “Why?”

  “Bourienne and I go back a long way. We’re related after a fashion. He married my sister, God help her. I didn’t like the way he treated her and told him so. We’ve had our differences and even come to blows more than once. She’s dead now, poor wench. She died young thanks to him. He doesn’t like me and it's mutual. But he sells good wine to me cheap, because I know too much about him for his comfort.”

  “I don’t think I’d drink in a place, if the landlord hated me like that.”

  “I annoy him, which amuses me. Anyway I give him my money because my sister left a child, poor little scrap. He’s with an aunt in the country. Some of Bourienne’s profit goes to keep him there, so I wouldn’t like the man to be ruined.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t, but forget it. The tale's unpleasant. What have you been doing with yourself? Found a job yet?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have...” I hesitated, seeking the right words, “Just in an office, but the pay's good enough.”

  “An office, you say? Strange.”

  “What’s strange?”

  “Jouneau said he saw you coming out of the Ministry of Police the other day, talking to one of their agents.”

  “Did he indeed?”

  “Are you working there, or is it a deadly secret?”

  “I am and yes, I'd prefer to keep it quiet.” I proceeded to give him an edited version of the story. A change came over him. I was to observe similar expressions again, whenever I told anyone what I did. The expression was partly distaste, partly fear and partly curiosity, all mixed up together. In Lefebvre’s face, curiosity dominated, but he seemed afraid too and I wondered why.

  “How in the name of all the hells did you manage to find a job like that?” he asked me.

  So I told him about the colonel’s relative. When I’d finished, Lefebvre sat back with a sigh. “And here’s me thinking you were just an innocent. I didn’t realise you possessed famous friends.”

  “Infamous may be the better word and he’s not my friend. I’ve only met the man once.”

  “Rather you than me. What’s he like?”

  “Not as I imagined him to be,” I said and described Fouché to him.

  “Interesting?”

  “Very.”

  “So are you one of these fools who are running round all over Paris looking for bombers under every stone?”

  I laughed. “I am. Can you tell me anything which would help us?”

  “No. I was nowhere near the place.”

  “I was,” I said and told him that story too.

  “Well, you lead an exciting life, Soldier,” he said when I had finished. “Next time I see you, you’ll probably be one of the Consuls yourself!”

  “God forbid! I'm just glad to be alive and have enough money to buy my bread...”

  “And wine,” he interrupted me. “Don’t forget the wine! Here, garçon!”

  “I haven’t been paid yet!” I protested.

  “Don’t worry, I told you I’d pay the next time we met. One of these days I may need a favour from you, now you’re in such an exalted position.” He laughed and I laughed with him, little knowing how prophetic his words would prove to be.

  “What do you think about these bombers?” I asked him.

  “They’re fools, whoever they are. They killed or injured dozens, yet they missed the man they intended to kill. Any farmer with a shotgun could do better. Enough people hate Bonaparte in this city and can fire a rifle. Why didn't those idiots do so?”

  “Don’t know. Using a bomb seems stupid to me too. What sort of men do you think they are?”

  “Hundreds of different groups want to rule France. This might
be the work of any of them, take your pick.”

  “Such as?”

  “Bonaparte’s coup at Brumaire wasn’t bloodless and neither was his little adventure in Egypt. He lost a whole army there and they all had friends and relatives. Add those who fell from power because of him. Throw in some Jacobins on the one hand and Royalists on the other. It’s a wonder he’s survived this long.”

  “He’ll survive,” I said, certain of the fact. “He’s a man who wins battles and the army is loyal to him.”

  “The ones who fought under him perhaps. What about the troops who follow other generals?”

  “For instance?”

  “Bernadotte, Massena, Moreau’s old pals. You must know them even better than I do.”

  “You’re right.” I turned the idea over in my mind. I hadn’t thought about it quite like that. Then I discarded it.

  “No. One thing I’m sure of. These plotters weren’t soldiers or, at least, not good ones. A soldier would use a rifle, as you said, or hold his nerve sufficiently to set a bomb off at the right time.”

  “No doubt you’re right.” Lefebvre sounded as if he had lost interest, so I dropped the subject and we spent the rest of the evening in idle conversation. I can’t say I found out much more about him than I had before. Certainly I learned absolutely nothing about the men he was with when I came in. ‘Some friends’ was how he described them and changed the conversation abruptly.

  For once, I was not tired. On the contrary, I seemed to be refreshed by different company and a change of scene, however unsavoury. “Do you often come to the Red Cow?” I asked Lefebvre as we were leaving.

  “From time to time, when I fall out with Louis yet again.”

  “I’ll look for you here or at his place then.”

  “Do that.”

  “I’m buying next time,” I said, hoping I might have enough money by then. We said our good nights and parted.