I started next day wishing our search would finish. Gilbert only laughed at me when I mentioned the notion to him and he was right. “What are you grumbling about?” he said as we sat down at the end of another frustrating day. “You’re free, walking around the city, not tied to some bench in a workshop, and you’re being paid. Besides having my company, of course, which is a pearl beyond price!”
“It certainly is!” I agreed with a grin. “But speaking of being paid, I’m getting short of money...”
“Is this a subtle way of asking me to buy the next bottle?”
“Actually no,” I said, feeling myself reddening. Unfortunately I can’t stop the blood rising when I’m embarrassed, which is why I never play cards. My face always gives me away. I hadn’t expected Gilbert to interpret my words like that. “I only wanted to know when I'll be paid.”
“Soon. The pay's irregular, but better than you were used to in the army, from what I hear.”
“We were usually in arrears, but we lived off the land. I can’t do such things here.”
“No, indeed. Start pilfering and they’ll soon clap you up. Ask Picot when you go back to the bureau if you’re short. He works on the second floor. He’ll advance you something on account and sort it out later. For tonight, I’ll buy our next bottle.”
I protested and put some coins on the table. He swept them up into his hand and gave them back to me.
“Keep them. You can pay tomorrow.”
I thanked him and didn’t insist. I’d been worried about paying for my lodgings because the landlord was becoming impatient. I said I’d go to see Picot early the next day and join Gilbert later on.
When I arrived at the Ministry next morning, there was no one in the bureau except Rollin. He had his coat on, as if he was about to leave.
“Can you tell me where to find a man called Picot?” I asked him.
“Upstairs. Room at the far end of the corridor. Short of money?”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t fancy your chances. Picot’s tight-fisted.” He stood back suddenly and put his fingers to his nose. “What have you been doing? You reek.”
“Visiting stables, looking for the owner of the horse that got blown up.”
“Rather you than me, but you’re probably used to the stink by now.” He walked out before I had a chance to reply.
Picot did advance me some money and told me when I could expect the rest. He didn't give me much, just enough to pay the landlord and a little over for my immediate needs. The world seemed less bleak with some coins to jingle in my pocket again.
On that very day too, the eighth one of our search, everything changed. I returned from seeing Picot and we moved into the Faubourg du Temple. We were both heartily sick of the task by now. Gilbert, though, kept saying police work was all about boredom and I’d better get used to it, as he'd had to do.
After our first day in the Antoine district, Gilbert and I worked separately. We went to the same area, but took different streets. We were able to talk to more people and we covered the ground more quickly. Because I was so new to the Ministry of Police, Gilbert obtained a pass for me, to be shown if anyone questioned my authority. Very few people did and they backed off immediately when I produced the paper. It was very useful, at this time and later on.
Three horseshoes had been found in the Rue Saint Nicaise after the bombing. What happened to the fourth one no one knew. Perhaps the nag only had three legs to begin with. Nothing would have surprised me by now. Gilbert gave one of them to me, complete with part of the hoof and bits of grey horsehair, grisly indeed. The shoes had a small mark, a ‘v’, cut into the inside curve. They had obviously been fashioned with care by a man skilled in his trade and proud of his handiwork. This fact made us think we would be able to find him eventually, if we lived long enough.
I met Gilbert as arranged and divided the streets. I went off into yet another small blacksmith’s shop, no different from the others I'd visited before.
“Do you recognise this shoe?” I asked again, expecting the usual negative reply.
This blacksmith said, “Yes, it’s one of mine.”
“You’re sure?” I tensed. Had he really said the words I’d been longing to hear? I couldn't believe our search might be over at last.
“This is my mark, look.” He showed me the ‘v’. “V's my initial, ‘V’ for Vadim. I always mark them so I’m sure the shoe’s mine, if anyone comes in to complain. You wouldn’t believe the trouble I have with some customers, Citizen.”
“This particular shoe - do you remember the horse you made it for?”
The blacksmith turned the hoof over and over in his hand, running his fingers through the remaining coarse strands of horsehair.
“From the colour of this hair, I’d say it was Lamballe’s old mare. I don't shoe many greys but she’s one or, at least, she was, if this is hers. She had small hooves and a habit of pecking. The front always wore down before the rest of the metal, just like this one has. What’s happened to her?”
“She got blown up by the bomb in the Rue Saint-Nicaise.”
For a moment the man looked shocked and he muttered an expletive under his breath, then he said, “Poor old thing. What a way to go.”
I shrugged. “I imagine she had a quick enough death. Who’s Lamballe?” I asked, bringing him back to the most important fact he had given me.
“He’s a grain merchant. His storehouse is in the Rue du Lac, two streets over.” He pointed to the left.
“When did you see his horse last?”
“About ten or fifteen days ago. Can’t be certain. She's easy enough to shoe, but she kept kicking them off. Cost Lamballe a fair bit in replacements during her lifetime.”
“Well, she won’t do so any more.”
He nodded. “If you’re going to talk to him, say I sent you. He’ll want to know where you got his name from, because he’s a suspicious man. The grain business is difficult, especially when the harvest’s been poor and the price of bread goes up.”
I nodded. I’d heard about the hunger riots in the city but never lived through one of them. “Thank you, I’ll tell him,”
My unexpected success made all my aches and pains vanish and I rushed down the street to find Gilbert. He did not believe me at first, but, when he found out I was serious, he was just as pleased. He drew his interview with the other trader to an abrupt end and we hurried off to the Rue du Lac to find the grain dealer. Gilbert had a big grin on his face and he strode out, like a man given sudden hope. He had obviously shared my belief this search would go on for ever.
One of his employees fetched Lamballe out of his warehouse for us. He was a heavily-built man and he seemed to be prosperous enough, even in his rough working clothes. His storehouse was well stocked with sacks of grain and several men worked for him. We followed the blacksmith’s advice, for, without it, Lamballe would have told us very little. Even so, he answered our questions as briefly as possible, giving us few details.
“I sold the mare about two decadis ago,” Lamballe replied as Gilbert questioned him. “A man was leaving Paris to go back to his home. He bought the horse and a cart off me. She wasn’t up to much, but she would make the journey, if he drove her slowly as I told him to.”
“Who was he?”
“Never met him before. A peddler from some godforsaken place in the country. Laval in Brittany, he said. I might be wrong...”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t suppose he went and certainly the horse never did. Why did he say he wanted a cart?”
“He told me he had a supply of brown sugar to take back as barter for some cloth he wanted. The cart was an old one and for sale.”
“A good enough story, I suppose, since you did not question him closely.”
“Why should I?”
“No reason at all. Can you describe him for us?”
“Middle-aged, a strong accent, a red face with a scar on his forehead.”
I stiffened. “What sort of a sc
ar?” I asked, speaking for the first time. He turned to me, surprised by the sudden intensity of my voice.
“Long and thin. It cut his eyebrow in two.”
I clutched Gilbert’s arm in my excitement. “He sounds like one of the fellows I described to you!” I hissed at him and he looked startled. I’d almost forgotten about them in the past few days and so, obviously, had he.
“What men?” Lamballe asked, frowning at me.
“I want you to look at something.” Gilbert answered him and turned to me. “Duval, go back and fetch the drawings from the bureau. I’ll wait here with Citizen Lamballe, while you’re gone, and find out if he can remember anything else.”
“What’s this all about anyway?” Lamballe asked him, as I hurried away. We’d introduced ourselves as agents of police, but we didn't tell him what we were investigating. Customs dues, gossip or grain hoarding were the usual problems in his trade. The man had seemed a bit nervous at first, but most people do when they are confronted by the police. Everyone has a bad conscience about something, even if it is only trivial, and Lamballe had been cooperative enough.
Gilbert had enlightened him by the time I returned. I took a hack both ways and found the bureau empty. I retrieved the sketches, without having to make tedious explanations to Laurent or anyone else. Gilbert and Lamballe were inside the warehouse when I arrived. Gilbert was scratching away in his battered notebook, writing up his notes. I produced the drawings and rolled them out on a work bench to show Lamballe. The one on top was the scarred man and he recognised him without any hesitation at all.
“That’s him. Whoever drew this has caught him to the life; although his eyes are a bit too far apart.”
“But you recognise him?”
“Certainly I do. No mistake. He called himself Moreau but, from what you tell me, that won’t be his name.”
He shuffled through the other sketches, looking at them all. Then he stopped. “This fellow was hanging around outside the yard on the day I sold the horse and cart.” He pointed to the sketch of the young man who I called in my mind ‘the frightened conscript’.
“Oh? What was he doing?”
“Loitering. I only spotted him for a moment, so I can’t tell you anything about him. He stood in the street, peering in through the gates. A lot of folk do that, right nosey they are. I usually ignore them, but I remember this one because he seemed better dressed than most people around here. Also he had this thin wispy moustache, as if he had trouble growing it, not like mine.” He stroked a loving finger across his top lip. Obviously he was proud of his bushy growth.
“Maybe he was waiting for the man who called himself Moreau.”
“Perhaps. He seemed to be waiting for something or someone.”
“Did they speak to each other?”
“Don't think so. He was gone by the time Moreau left.”
“Could you identify him?”
“Possibly, I’m not sure. The scarred man — no question. This one?” He shrugged. “Perhaps. I’d have to put it to the test.”
My eyes met Gilbert’s and he nodded. We wouldn’t get any further information. Lamballe had already given us what we needed to know, indeed more than we had hoped.
“Thank you, Citizen. You’ve been very helpful,” Gilbert said.
“Glad to help you. Nasty thing to happen. All those people dead and my poor old mare as well.”
“If you remember anything else..?”
“I’ll come and tell you.”
I rolled up the sketches and we left him.
“This calls for a celebration,” Gilbert said. “May a long time pass before I meet another blacksmith or go into another stinking stables.”
“I’ll drink to that!”
We went into the nearest tavern, for an early lunch.
“What have we found out today?” Gilbert asked me, after we’d toasted our success and the unexpected end of our search in some decent wine. Both Gilbert and Fournier had formed the habit of making me recount what had happened every day. They kept testing me, to make sure I remembered everything of importance. I'd become used to their quizzing by now and my memory had sharpened. Perhaps that was the point of the exercise.
“A man, with a Breton accent and a scar, bought a grey horse from Lamballe. The horse wore shoes marked with a ‘v’, standing for ‘Vadim’, the blacksmith. She died in the Rue Saint Nicaise. The scarred man hurried away from the scene. On the day he sold the cart, Lamballe also spotted the young man in the good clothes who looked frightened.”
Gilbert nodded. “Continue.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“What are you thinking?”
“Who comes from Brittany and is well dressed?”
“Tell me.”
“A lot of the former nobles never emigrated. They hid themselves during the Terror and the local peasants supported them. They want to do away with the Republic and have a Bourbon on the throne again. They’re called a special name which I can’t remember.”
“‘Chouans’ is the word you’re looking for. Don't know the exact meaning in the barbarous language they speak there, something about owls I think. And you are right. Someone from Brittany is unlikely to be a fervent Republican.”
“So, if they are Chouans, what do we do next?” I asked.
“First we go back to the witnesses and the people living in the Rue Saint-Nicaise. Now we’re sure these men had a horse at the scene, we’ll find out if anyone else recognises the drawings. They may be able to tell us where the nag was taken, after she left Lamballe’s. Someone may even have seen them driving around the Rue Saint-Nicaise. The more evidence we can find the better. Better still if we find the men themselves.”
“That’s unlikely, surely? If I’d planted a bomb, I wouldn’t stay around long enough to be taken by the police and condemned to death.”
“People do strange things - a fact you’ll discover for yourself on this job. It’s almost unbelievable what happens. Some villains seem to want to be caught. These men might be still here and with good reason. Plotters aren’t the most cautious of people or they wouldn’t do what they do, especially bombers. Handling explosives and setting them off takes a certain kind of warped courage. Their own survival can’t be of much importance to them. This bomb failed to kill the man they wanted it to, so they may stay here to try again. They don’t realise you saw them and we made drawings of their faces. Nor do they know about Lamballe’s identification. They probably think they’re safe enough for the present. They've found out how to make a bomb and where to plant it, so they might repeat what they did before. One day another one will go off, more people will be killed and they might even be lucky this time. Bonaparte could die.”
“God forbid,” I said with a shudder, remembering the bodies and the groans of those who had been wounded.
Chapter 7
I had been to the Rue Saint-Nicaise only once before, so I never knew the place in happier times. Perhaps it had not always been so dreary and melancholy. The crater had been filled in and the road was rough but usable again. Not all of the sets had been replaced properly, though. The carts bumped over them, shaking some of their contents out onto the dirt. Others swerved suddenly and we saw several near accidents as we approached.
The buildings nearest to the crater seemed shaky, as if, any minute, they would tumble down upon our heads. Wooden props against their walls held them precariously upright, the timbers groaning with the strain. Others, further away from the blast, were more stable but their windows had been boarded up. They were still lived in, even though the rooms must have been grim, with the natural light blocked. A few glimmers could be seen through the cracks in the wood, as if candles burned inside. People wandered about, but fewer than I would have expected in the centre of the city. The bleak atmosphere and gloom seemed to hit us like a blow immediately we turned the corner.
A couple of Dubois’ police agents still stood around, looking bored. They greeted Gilbert with a relief th
at quickly turned to dismay when they found out that we hadn't come to relieve them. Gilbert introduced me and we passed the time of day.
“What’s happening now?” Gilbert asked them.
“Nothing. Can't think why we’re here. The bombers are long gone and we’ve even questioned the neighbourhood cats! Everything’s been cleared up, as much as they’re going to do for now. There’s no money for anything more, but they always say that, of course. An engineer came round yesterday and told us so. It’d be different if one of the nobs lived here; they’d find the cash then. The square’s back the way it was, except for the windows boarded-up and some of the shops still closed. We can’t buy our bread at the widow’s shop any more, naturally enough. A pity because the woman's a good baker.”
“Oh? Why do you say ‘naturally enough’? These others are open and they’re nearer to the blast.” Gilbert glanced around. Several shops were operating up and down the road.
“The woman’s daughter got blown up in the explosion.”
“Unfortunate.”
“Very,” he agreed dryly. “The girl was young and they didn’t find enough of her to bury, so that makes it worse for her mother. The neighbours tell us she’s still in a terrible state.”
“I don’t suppose she told you anything useful?”
“I didn't question her myself, thank providence, but I heard she’s not making a lot of sense. The girl had only turned fourteen and was a bit simple. Not that it matters to a mother. Try her yourself. You might get something more out of her, now the first shock is over.”
“Not a bad idea. We will,” Gilbert said and we left the other agent standing there, looking bored and cold.
“Are we going to the bread shop?” I asked.
“Why not? It's as good a place to start as anywhere else and I believe the man when he says he’s questioned everybody. He's reliable enough for one of Dubois’ lot.”
The shop was on the ground floor of a propped-up building. The door was new and tightly locked. I had a sudden image of the old one being blasted apart. Gilbert hammered hard on the rough wood. A key turned in the lock and a chain rattled, then the door was jerked open. A middle-aged woman stood confronting us, her face wrinkled and her eyes red-rimmed from prolonged weeping.
Napoleon's Police Page 6