The Man who Killed the King

by Dennis Wheatley

  In a flash Roger saw what must have happened. While the child was being smuggled swiftly and secretly out of the Temple in the middle of the night, it had never occurred to anyone to identify him. Not until he had arrived at Maisons-Alfort, or perhaps the next day, had Robespierre had a chance to examine him closely; only then had he realised that someone had been before him in removing the real little Capet. The substitute had no value whatever as a personal hostage to barter in an emergency, but, walled-up once more, his presence in the Temple could still be used to support the general belief that the Republican Government held the King of France prisoner; so, on discovering how he had been fooled, Robespierre had taken the wretched child back.

  To Roger, the boy’s own words, “They brought me back from the country,” now held a new significance. His immature and clouded brain had been thinking of the last time he had been cast into grim solitude, not the first. The woman was not lying; she knew no more than she had said. With a muttered word he left her, and crossed the gravel to the waiting coach.

  He had intended to drive hell for leather to the coast; now he must return to Paris—and quickly. The clue to little Capet’s disappearance must lie somewhere in the Temple. He had left Fouché on guard there, with the excuse that he was going to report to Barras, but having no intention of ever again seeing either of them. By this time Fouché would be wondering what the devil had happened to him. To still suspicion in that dangerous mind he must now act exactly as if he had, all along, intended to return. That was the only way to secure a free field for new enquiries at the Temple.

  Roger’s first cast was the offices of the Comité, and his choice proved a lucky one; Barras, Tallien and several others had installed themselves there. Its entrance hall was now a centre of gruesome interest. Robespierre, his fractured jaw bound up, lay on a table in its centre; Hanriot, who had had an eye gouged out by a bayonet-thrust when the soldiers had dragged him from the sewer, was slumped in an armchair; the younger Robespierre, several of whose ribs had been broken by his fall, was slumped in another. As many guards and citizens as could crowd into the place stood gloating over the fallen despots. Forcing a way through them, Rogei gained access to Barras, and, after a few moments, succeeded by urgent signals in detaching him from two deputies with whom he was talking.

  During the drive back, Roger had realised that, for all practical purposes, he had now lost his lead in the hunt for little Capet. His investigations at the Temple might take him days, and during that time, unless special precautions were taken, it would become generally known that a substitution had been effected. Therefore, it was now to his interest to let the cat out of the bag himself, and at least gain the esteem of Barras for enabling him to take steps in time to prevent the secret becoming public.

  Having drawn Barras into a corner Roger said in a low voice, “The child is extremely ill and urgently needs the attention of a doctor.”

  “Sacré bleu! Then get him one!” exclaimed the harassed Barras impatiently.

  “No; not till you have seen him.” Roger cast an anxious glance at the men standing within a few feet of them, and added, “I can say no more here; but there are special reasons why you should return with me to . . . to the place whence I came.”

  “I am positively overwhelmed with work,” Barras protested. But on Roger’s insisting, he promised to follow him as soon as he could.

  Back at the Temple, Roger thanked Maître Blanchard for his help, and sent him home; then he mounted to the second floor of the tower to be met by Fouché, who complained querulously of his long absence.

  It was now a little before nine, so Roger had been away for just over two and a quarter hours. He shrugged the matter off by saying that it had taken him some time to locate Barras, and that he had then had great difficulty in reaching him. Having described the turmoil at the offices of the Comité and pacified Fouché, he ordered some breakfast to be sent up to him.

  To his annoyance, Fouché, instead of going now that he had been relieved, declared that he also would have some breakfast; although when, twenty minutes later, a jug of coffee and a big ham omelette were brought up, he did scant justice to his portion. With his infallible instinct he had sensed that some mystery was afoot, and sat watching Roger beneath half-lowered lids. Roger would have given a great deal to be rid of him, but it was beyond his powers to order him to leave. In spite of his companion’s disconcerting glance, however, Roger made a hearty meal, and had hardly swallowed the last mouthful when he caught the ring of spurred boots taking the stairs two at a time. Next moment Barras came striding into the room.

  Pushing his plate aside, Roger beckoned him over to the broken-down doorway. Fouché uncrossed his long legs, stood up and followed them inside. The boy still lay hunched up in the big cradle, just as Roger had left him; he was now sound asleep.

  Barras looked down at the puffy, dirt-encrusted face, swore, then glanced across at Roger. “It is years since I saw the Dauphin, but this boy bears no resemblance to the child as I remember him.”

  Roger nodded. “Nor does he to the boy who was in Simon’s care when I was last on duty here, nine months ago. That is why I insisted on your coming to see him for yourself.”

  “A substitution has taken place,” snuffled Fouché; “I felt convinced of that the moment I set eyes on him. This youngster must be twelve years of age at least.”

  “What the hell are we to do?” Barras cried, in sudden consternation.

  Fouché blew his nose. “ ’Tis simple enough. We must wall this one up again, so that the secret of our loss does not leak out.”

  “Nay, that I’ll not allow,” said Barras angrily. “This poor little brute shall at least receive medical attention and in future be cared for properly. However, regarding policy you are right. The secret must be kept while we endeavour to trace young Capet. He must still be somewhere in France, for if the Royalists had got him out of the country we should certainly have heard of it ere this.”

  As he spoke he shook the boy awake and began to question him; but his replies were slow and sometimes meaningless. He complained of pains in his knees, which they found much swollen, as also were his wrists and ankles. Seeing that they could get little sense out of him, they gave up trying, and began to consult about his future. After some argument Fouché persuaded Barras to refrain in the interests of security from calling a doctor in for the time being. Barras asked Roger if he would remain in command at the Temple until a reliable man could be found to take charge of the unfortunate little prisoner, and as that was precisely the invitation that Roger had been angling for, he made no difficulty about accepting.

  Between them they carried the child into Louis XVI’s old bedroom, so that the one he had been occupying could be cleaned of its filth without anyone seeing him. Barras and Fouché then departed. Roger locked the door of the new prison, pocketed the key, and sent for cleaners; then, having been up for twenty-seven exhausting hours, he lay down on one of the camp-beds in the ante-room to snatch some badly needed sleep.

  Before lying down he had given orders that he was to be roused at one o’clock with a meal for the prisoner and himself. When he was called the three hours seemed to have gone in a moment, but, after he had drunk a glass of wine, he felt all the better for them. Carrying the tray of food in to his charge, he fed him with some minced chicken and fruit, sponged his face, then locked him up again.

  Now that a few hours of oblivion had refreshed Roger’s brain, he felt that he must not lose another moment of this unique opportunity to get to the bottom of little Capet’s disappearance; so he went down to the ground-floor room of the tower, ordered the whole of the Temple’s permanent staff to be paraded outside, and had them in for examination one by one.

  As Robespierre had been fooled, it now seemed extremely unlikely that the exchange of prisoners had taken place since the walling-up on the 21st of January; further, it was quite definite that it could not have occurred before November, as on that night Roger had been on duty at the Temp
le and had himself seen little Capet there. The inference was that he had been removed at the time of Simon’s departure; so nearly all Roger’s questions were aimed at finding out everything he could about the change in régime.

  The permanent staff of thirty that had been employed during the early months of the Royal Family’s captivity had been progressively reduced to fourteen by the end of the preceding December, and five of these were at present off duty. In an hour and a quarter Roger concluded a preliminary examination of the remaining nine, and while few of them could tell him more than the bare facts which he already knew, he managed to glean sufficient data to convince him that Simon was at the bottom of the substitution.

  He had resigned on the 5th of January but had not moved out until the 14th; and he had not moved far then, as he and his wife had taken lodgings in a mews just off the street behind the Temple, and were believed to be still living there. In this connection an interesting fact emerged: there was a postern gate that gave on to this street which, at times, was used by members of the staff as a convenience. No sentry was stationed there; so they could come and go without showing their passes, and on their return they knocked on the door with a large stone that lay outside for the janitor to let them in. Apparently the Simons had often used this door, and on numerous occasions after their move had come in by it to visit their old friends among the permanent employees. When they had moved out on the 14th they had left by the front gate, and their possessions had been subjected to the usual inspection; but during the next few days they had returned to collect various belongings they had left behind, among them their clean washing. For the latter purpose they had brought in a big laundry basket by the postern gate on the evening of the 19th. At nine o’clock they had ascended to the second floor and Simon had officially handed his prisoner over to the four Commissioners. The couple had then left again some hours later, going out into the dark and foggy night by the back door, carrying their big laundry basket between them.

  When Roger had finished his questioning he had little doubt that the laundry basket had been used to smuggle one child in and the other out, and he decided not to lose a moment in forcing a confession out of Simon.

  The four Commissioners who had come on duty on the night of the 8th Thermidor should have been relieved, but the coup d’état had prevented that; and as the Commune had been a Robespierrist stronghold, they were glad enough to keep out of trouble by remaining where they were. From the moment Roger had arrived soon after dawn armed with his authorisation from Barras, they had shown a scared eagerness to win his goodwill and protection; so he felt confident that he could rely on their obedience during his absence. Having sent for them, and for the Commandant of the Guard, he informed them that he had to go out on an urgent matter and could not say for certain at what time he would return; in the meantime double guards were to be posted, and in no circumstances was anyone to be allowed to enter any of the rooms on the second floor of the tower.

  Five minutes later, he left by the postern door. As he shut it behind him he hoped that he would not have to return, for if Simon was hiding the boy he meant to get him out to Passy with the least possible delay; but if another disappointment awaited him, and he had to come back, he had done all he could to ensure that the secret of the substitution was protected in his absence.

  He found Simon’s number in the mews without difficulty, but, to his chagrin, repeated hammerings on the door brought no reply. A moment later a window above the next stable was thrown up and a slatternly woman poked out her head.

  “It’s no use knocking,” she called down, “there’s no one there. They only come here to collect their letters, and for a few hours now and then.”

  Roger heard this revelation with rising excitement. He had hardly dared to hope that he would find little Capet within a stone’s-throw of the Temple, as it had seemed improbable that Simon would keep him prisoner in the first place in which he would be looked for should the substitution be discovered; but the fact that he had another address, at which he actually lived, suggested that he still had the boy, instead of having passed him on to Hébert or Chaumette, as Roger had feared would now prove to be the case.

  Eagerly he questioned the woman. She could give him no information and did not think her neighbours could either, as the Simons kept themselves very much to themselves, and where they got to for most of the day and at nights had long been a matter for speculation in the mews. However, at Roger’s pressing, she suggested that he might try Citizen Sauret, who owned the drinking-shop on the corner, as he was an old crony of Simon’s.

  Citizen Sauret proved to be a typical dark-browed, middle-aged sans-culotte, and Roger wasted no time in mincing matters. Having decided that a firm bluff would be the most likely policy to produce swift results, he told him he had definite information that he knew Simon’s other address.

  With a surly scowl the man denied it; so Roger drew a pistol from his sash, pointed it at him, and said, “Heads are rolling fast today, Citizen, and a different type of heads from those which fell yesterday. Either you give me the information I require, or I place you under arrest, and I’ll see to it that yours goes into the basket before the end of the week.”

  Sauret collapsed under the threat, and admitted to knowing that the Simons had rooms in the former Convent of the Franciscans.

  Roger told him that should he find that he had lied he would return and have him hauled off to prison, then he hurried back through the postern door and crossed the Temple garden to its stables. The Convent lay in the Rue Marat, a mile and a half away on the far side of the Seine; so he had decided to ride there. It was a little after three o’clock when, having borrowed the charger of one of the officers of the guard, he rode out of the front gate, now, once more, in high hopes that within half an hour he would be well on the way to earning a hundred thousand pounds.

  As he rode southward the narrow streets became more and more crowded. No trial was needed to condemn Robespierre and his friends, as they, together with those members of the Commune who had stood by them to the last, had all been outlawed the previous night. The Convention had only to decide which of them were to die and have them formally identified; so the execution had been fixed for four o’clock that afternoon. For it, the guillotine had been moved back from the Porte St. Antoine to its old position in front of the Tuileries, so that the maximum number of citizens might enjoy the spectacle of the Terrorists being brought to book for their heinous crimes. During recent months the great mass of the people had become too sickened by the daily slaughter to watch executions any longer, but today they had come out in their thousands, and their cheerful faces as they streamed westward showed their delight at the downfall of the tyrant.

  At every corner the throngs of people crossing Roger’s route impeded his progress; so it took him nearly half an hour to reach the Convent. Leaving his horse to be held by a lad, he went in, and soon found the two rooms occupied by the Simons. In the living-room a grey-haired woman was sitting crying with her face buried in her apron, and two others were endeavouring to console her. At the sound of his entry she lowered her apron, and he at once recognised her as Madame Simon. Saying that he wished to speak with her, he abruptly ordered the other two from the room.

  While they were shuffling past him, it struck him as fortunate that Simon was not there, as, if they had the boy hidden away in a cellar or an attic, it should be easier to force the truth out of the woman on her own. As soon as the door had closed, he said:

  “Citoyenne, I must warn you that your position is serious. It is known to us that on leaving your post at the Temple, you and your husband removed Charles Capet in a laundry basket. Only immediate obedience can save you. Take me to him.”

  She stared at Roger with tear-dimmed eyes and shook her head; but she did not seek to deny it, and muttered after a moment, “I cannot, Citizen. Alas! You ask more than I can perform.”

  Her words had such a ring of truth that they instantly dashed Roger’s hopes;
but his fresh disappointment was submerged in a sudden wave of alarm, for there was something about the phrase she used which suggested that the boy was dead.

  Striding forward, he seized her by the shoulders and cried, “What, woman! Do you mean that it was not enough for the two of you to poison that child’s mind, and that you allowed him to die whilst in your hands?”

  “No, Citizen, no!” she protested shrilly. “We were both fond of little Charles, and would have done him no harm. We did only as we were told. We would have liked to keep him with us, but we dared not refuse to obey the orders we were given.”

  Greatly relieved, Roger said in a kinder tone, “Tell me exactly what happened, and I will not deal harshly with you.”

  “He spent the first night with us in the mews,” she sniffed. “Then, when it was dark next evening, we brought him here. The night after that Simon took him to the country.”

  “To whom? And where?”

  “I do not know, Citizen; Simon has always refused to tell me.

  “How long was Simon away from Paris?”

  “Well above three weeks.”

  Her reply suggested that Simon had taken the boy on a considerable journey; but it was possible that the whole time had not been employed in travelling, and that having delivered his charge Simon had remained at the new hiding-place for a while to see him well settled in before returning. After a moment Roger asked: