The three men, or others I did not know about, must have been using gunpowder in this shed recently. The grains were free from dust, so they’d only been spilled a few hours before, possibly as the men were leaving last night. No one with any sense leaves explosives around like that. This derelict yard couldn’t be the premises of a legitimate supplier to the army or anyone else. Nor did the behaviour of the three men suggest anything but the clandestine. This tucked-away place would be ideal to prepare for the bombing in the Rue Saint-Nicaise. I knew I had found something tangible to report.
I wondered again what the men took away with them. The items seemed bulky and awkward to carry. We needed to search the rooms where they spent the night, before they could dispose of the evidence. For a moment, I considered going there myself. I’ve carried out many searches in the army, but I always had several troopers around me. Now the odds were three against one and I would be asking for trouble. I decided to send a message to Fournier or Gilbert asking them to bring sufficient force to stop our quarry escaping. Certainly, I'd found enough information to question these men now. Perhaps there was an innocent explanation but I thought it unlikely. I felt a certain satisfaction, tinged with fear of making a mistake, because I would have to leave the lodging house unwatched. First though, I needed to get out of the courtyard without being seen.
I peered up and down the street. Nobody was stirring. I slipped out and tied up the rope again. I left the area and went to find the snitch. I debated whether it would be simpler to go back to the Ministry myself, but Fournier had been insistent. The snitch knew who I was when I gave him my name. He came out at once and agreed to carry the message without delay. After he left, I returned to the lodging house.
Fournier must have been easily found. Only a short time passed, before he sneaked up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin. He wore his hat low down on his forehead and a scarf wound round the lower part of his face. For a moment I didn’t even recognise him.
“Don’t do that again, you’ll give me heart failure.”
“I always thought you soldier types watched your back. I might easily have stuck a knife into you.”
Then I realised that he was alone. “Didn’t you get my message? We need more men, not just the two of us.”
“Only me in the bureau, mon brave, and I’ll need to get a special order to turn out the National Guard. For that I must have a better reason than the one you’ve given me so far. I suspect you didn’t want to tell my snitch too much, eh? So I thought I’d come and find out for myself.” I told him my tale and described the men and the yard to him.
“Are they the same ones you saw on the night of the bombing?” he asked when I had finished.
“I can’t be sure,” I replied. “They might be, but the scarred man was not among them. He is the only one of whom I am absolutely certain.”
“A pity,” he sighed.
“I agree, but I’ve never been sure about the others.”
“Bretons?”
“One came from the west, possibly Brittany.”
“These men might not be the ones we are looking for.”
“I know, but how many people use gunpowder in Paris and leave it spilled on the ground?” I snapped, for it seemed to me that he was treating my discovery too lightly. By now, I’d convinced myself I was on the right track. “No legitimate supplier would do a thing like that.”
He grinned again. “There are more than you'd imagine. Besides the army, the stuff is used in mining, amongst other things. A fair bit passes through Paris, on its way to the quarries. Don’t be annoyed. I don’t doubt you, but, if I turn out the Guard for nothing, we’re in for a row. Let’s have a look at this yard you’ve found.”
I took him there and showed him the spilt gunpowder and the evidence of the horse's presence.
“I agree with you. No legitimate contractor would store explosives in such a place — it isn’t secure enough. Anyone could get in and tamper with the stuff,” Fournier said. “Storing gunpowder without an obviously good reason has to be either suspicious or pure stupidity after the bombing. These men will certainly have to be taken in for questioning. So we must find out exactly where they are at the moment.”
“I had to leave their lodgings unwatched; I can’t be sure they’re still inside,” I warned.
“Does the place have a doorkeeper?”
“I suppose so. I didn’t want to go too close and perhaps alert them.”
“The doorkeeper will be able to tell us if they’re still here. Those old blighters never miss much.”
When we went to the lodging house, Fournier sent me in to find the doorkeeper, while he waited around the back. The man was a former soldier, who had been given the job as a reward for his past service. I shuddered at the thought that this kind of employment might have been my fate too, without the Colonel’s letter. It would have driven me mad. Our shared experiences made my task easier, especially as he was garrulous. If he’d had his way we’d have spent hours discussing old battles. On Fournier’s advice, I paid him enough for his information and to ensure his friendship in the future. I hoped the sum was too small to make him suspicious. I passed myself off as a jealous husband on the trail of my wife’s lover. I felt awkward, although he didn’t question my story and vowed he’d be pleased to help out a colleague.
I rejoined Fournier and related what I’d found out. “The men are still inside. They haven’t gone out all day. One of them must be sick, because they had a visitor who called himself a doctor. He wasn’t the local man and the doorkeeper had never seen him before. He says the men came to Paris to set up a business, unsuccessfully, or so they said. Times are hard. He thinks it won’t be long before they pack up and go back to their homes.”
“Where did they come from? Does he know?”
“‘Somewhere uncouth’ but that might be anywhere. The only time he’s been out of Paris was when he was in the army at Valmy.”
“Our birds are safe for the present, then.”
“They are, if nothing changes.”
“Go and tell him to keep his eye on the front door.”
“I’ve done so already. He’s on my side, as another old soldier and a fellow believer in the fickleness of women.”
Fournier laughed. “Stay here and watch the back entrance. Tell your friend where you are. If the men leave, follow them. I’ll call out the National Guard but I don’t know how long it'll take them to get here. First of all, I’ve got to convince Laurent or Réal to ask for their help. They’ll argue, but they won’t dare forbid the search, in case you’re correct and these are the right people. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
He left me propping up the wall and trying not to think about the cold.
Chapter 11
It was late afternoon by now and the winter day almost at an end. I told old Antoine, the doorkeeper, what I wanted him to do. I found myself a niche out of the wind, with a good view of the door. I had to leave it occasionally to stretch my legs and stamp my frozen feet, but I remained cheerful despite the chill. Fournier had trusted me and was prepared to act on my word.
My vigil reminded me of being on sentry duty, especially one awful day up in the mountains of Italy. The snow lay deep and the enemy were all around us waiting to pounce. That is yet another story to tell when everybody is sitting snugly beside the fire, not now.
During the wait, I had a feeling of expectation, for, in this situation, my army experience did not help me. I had to wait and find out what would happen. Nothing much distracted my attention from the future. A few people went in and out of the house, mostly women with baskets, going to buy food. I recognised none of the men. Antoine came once but he too, had seen little of importance.
It was getting late by now. Someone had lighted a lantern down the street and candles flickered in some of the windows. Fournier had not returned. I became impatient, wondering when he would come. Then I heard a sudden scuffle of movement and footsteps behind me. I shra
nk back into my corner and watched. A tall man hurried along, trying to walk quietly but failing. I peered into the gloom, knowing he would have to turn towards me as he entered the building. I hoped to get a glimpse of his face.
When he did so, I caught my breath. The white mark of his scar shone vivid on his forehead, in spite of the dimness of the light. Here, beyond doubt, was the man I had seen on the night of the bombing. I stayed absolutely still, pressed into the shadows. I even closed my eyes in case they glittered. The man entered the building and I lost him from sight. Now I was truly in a fever of excitement. I haven’t prayed much since my boyhood, only before I went into battle. Old habits, though, are hard to break and I prayed now — for Fournier to come immediately, before the man left again. I hoped he would remain inside. I did not want to follow him, for I would have to leave word with Antoine and hope Fournier would get the message correctly. If more than one of the men left and they split up, I decided I would go after the scarred man. But what good would that do me? We wanted to take them all, not just one.
The minutes seemed endless now. Nothing more occurred. All Paris seemed to be asleep and I was the only person awake in the chill darkness. Another scuffle, louder this time.
“Where are you?” a familiar voice hissed and I came forward out of my hiding place.
Gilbert stood in the shadows and I caught the glint of metal in his hand. He held a long-nosed pistol.
“Are they still inside?”
“Yes. The scarred man also. He went into the house not long ago,” I told him. I could see the excitement on his face.
“The man you are sure of?”
“The very same, no doubt at all.”
“You have done well. We will capture them now,” he said.
“Fournier?”
“Round the front with the National Guard. Petit is here too and others are coming. Stay where you are until we have the men in place to stop anyone getting out; then come round to me. We’ll go in the front way.”
Within minutes, a small troop of national guardsmen came around the side of the building. I placed them by the doorway with orders to wait for the signal. Half of them were to stay there. The other half were to enter and work their way upwards, searching the rooms on both sides of the staircase. It gave me an odd feeling to issue orders again. I’ve given many others before in my life, though, and the guardsmen seemed to have no difficulty accepting my authority. I hurried round to find Gilbert and Petit waiting with another group on the corner of the street. We crept up to the house, leaving more men stationed at the entrance. We had surrounded the place; our net drawn tight. We could see lights on the third floor and on the fifth, but all the other floors appeared to be in darkness. That did not tell us anything though. People may sit in darkness or even go to bed when the light failed. I wouldn’t choose to do so myself, but everyone is different. I kept hoping the men were still there and, one way or another, Antoine and I had not missed them. If they weren’t, we would have lost them completely and would have to begin again.
I felt apprehensive, but desperate for the action to start, the same feeling I used to have before a fight. The same clammy hands, the same breathlessness, the same resolve to do my best and a fluttering deep in my stomach. I hadn’t expected to have such feelings again, once I left the army, and I was not sure whether I welcomed them or not. I kept wishing that I had my own sword, lost in Germany with my pistols and clothes. If it came to a fight, I only carried my dagger, which never leaves me. It’s too short for most purposes and certainly no match even for a small sword, unless the wielder is unskilled.
Gilbert took charge of the whole operation and with a few quick words, he organised us into small parties.
“Fournier and Petit, go to the third floor, where the lights are. Duval and I will carry on to the fifth. The rest of you form groups of two. Make sure that you search every dwelling and all the possible hiding places. Let’s have a man stationed on every flight of stairs in case anyone bolts. Charge in when I give the word. Break down the doors if you have to.”
With that, we crept upwards, leaving two guardsmen outside every door and another guarding the stairs. Fournier and Petit stopped on the third floor, while Gilbert and I went up to the fifth. Our chests heaved by the time we got there, but we both tried to make as little noise as possible. At one point I wondered whether my game leg would slip and betray our presence but my luck held and we reached the top landing unchallenged.
When we were all in position, Gilbert shouted, “Now!” down the stairwell. We burst open all the doors at once. I stumbled after him into the room, in time to see three men’s startled faces. Someone sent the lantern spinning towards us which crashed into the wall behind my head. I flinched and ducked. That action saved me, for almost immediately there came a double crack of pistol shots. I launched myself forward and grasped the legs of one man, knocking him to the floor. After that, we fought together, groping at each other in the darkness. I punched him and he hit me on the side of the head, which made me roll over. My assailant got to his feet and both he and another man tripped over me. I grabbed one of their ankles as they passed and hung on. The man was frantic to get away. He twisted and wriggled like an eel, but he knew none of the tricks my first sergeant had taught me. Soon he lay gasping on the ground in front of me, all the air driven out of his body. He wasn’t going anywhere for a long time.
I peered round, trying to see what had happened to Gilbert and the rest of the plotters but nothing moved inside the room. One man, though, had certainly escaped, for I could hear the sound of his feet running down the stairs. I leapt up and ran out onto the landing, screaming, “Get him! Don’t let him escape!”
A pistol shot echoed around the walls and a sudden scream.
“Got him!” a voice shouted up to me.
“Is he dead?”
“No, he’ll live.”
Satisfied, I returned to the room. The winded man lay where he had fallen, breathing in agonised gasps. I climbed over him and felt my way further into the darkness.
“Gilbert? Where are you?”
I could see very little, but I heard a groan from the other side of the room.
“Gilbert?” I hissed again.
“Here.” His voice was very faint. “Help me...”
I stumbled towards the sound, knelt down and passed my hand over his chest. It came away wet; he’d been wounded in a bad place. Men can live with such wounds; I’ve seen it, but it’s rare if the lungs have been pierced. This blood was spurting and frothy. Gilbert must be bleeding inside his chest, which is always fatal. I had to do something immediately for him to have any chance at all.
“Stay still. I’ll get help,” I told him and ran out to call down to the others, “There’s a man badly injured up here, fetch a surgeon right away!”
“One of them?”
“No! One of us! Gilbert.”
A confused murmur of voices and then the pounding of footsteps. Some were going down and others were coming up to me. Then Petit appeared.
“Where is he?” Petit raised his lantern and I could see Gilbert’s face for the first time. His skin was white, with that faint touch of green which confirmed everything I already knew. Dying men often look like that before the end. I pulled off my jacket and ripped one of my shirt sleeves. Then I pushed the cloth down on top of his wound and held it in place. It made me feel better, although I knew the gesture to be futile. Not even the finest surgeon in Paris would be able to save Gilbert’s life now.
“What happened to him?” Petit asked.
“He’s got a knife wound, I think, but I didn’t see it happen. I was fighting with that man over there. There were three of them here when we burst in. One went down the stairs but I’ve no idea what happened to the third.”
“There’s a smell of powder here.”
“There were a couple of pistol shots when we entered. Gilbert fired and a shot came towards us.”
Petit walked forward holding up his lantern. The b
ody of the third man lay crumpled against the wall. Petit knelt down beside him and put a hand on his chest.
“He’s alive but he’s bleeding.” Petit fumbled on the ground. “There’s a knife lying by the wall. He’s probably the carrion who stabbed Gilbert. Anyway he’s not going to move far. He’s got a bullet hole in his leg to slow him down.”
Petit put his lantern down and walked over to the body of my assailant. His eyes were open, but he shook his head as if he was still dazed.
“What did you do to this one?”
“Threw him. He’s winded, that’s all.”
“You were supposed to be watching Gilbert’s back, weren’t you?” Petit asked, accusingly. “I thought a good soldier always did that!”
“I didn’t see Gilbert once we were inside the room. Too much happened all at once and there was no light.”
Petit grunted and turned away. His unjustified accusation had made my temper rise but, with an effort, I controlled it. Now was neither the time nor the place for an argument. Petit stirred my assailant with his foot, holding his own dagger inches from the man’s throat.
“Get up, you, or I’ll stick this into your gizzard,” he growled.
The man groaned, but he climbed unsteadily to his feet, still shaking his head as if it hurt him. Petit looked at Gilbert and then at me. He shrugged.
“I’ll take this man below and then come back for the other one. He won’t be able to move without help. You stay here with Gilbert until the sawbones arrives. Right?”
“Right, but leave the lantern with me, so the surgeon has some light to treat him by.”
Petit put down the lantern and led my captive out of the room. “For all the good it’ll do,” he muttered. I disliked agreeing with him, but he was right.
Gilbert kept gasping and blood foamed from his mouth with every heave of his straining chest. I took him in my arms, holding him up and pressing the compress tightly against him. It had become completely soaked and almost useless by now, but his breathing had eased a little in the new position. I had a sudden, fleeting image of the last man I had held in my arms as he died. Pierre. Christ, so long ago.
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