Blood Is Blood

by Will Thomas

  “Was your work successful this morning?” I asked, not having any idea what it entailed.

  “We’ll find out.”

  “Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

  “None I can’t shift,” he said. “Why?”

  “I thought we might have some breakfast.”

  “And then?”

  “And then go to Paris.”

  He thought about it a moment, then nodded. “Never been.”

  I placed a call to Mac, informing him of our plans and the need for a valise for a day or so. We had no intention of dawdling or sightseeing. Finding and interviewing Perrine was my only objective.

  The next morning, Caleb arrived and we broke our fast while Mac finished packing. I kept a careful watch on Caleb and Etienne, lest they break into another fight. My customary view was blocked by planks that covered the window. I went to my room and retrieved the times table for Dover and the ferry to Calais. We had scant time, but we would get there, barring another attack. We arrived at St. Pancras station just as the express whistle was blowing, and hopped aboard. As was always the case, even with Caleb, I found myself in the smoking car. I’d be breathing fumes all the way to Paris. Caleb’s cigarette was wedged in the corner of his mouth, under the eaves of his mustache.

  “What is Paris like, in terms of safety?” he asked.

  “It has wide boulevards cutting through cramped neighborhoods and narrow streets. Then there are the apaches—local gangs in some areas.”

  “What else?”

  “The Sûreté, the Paris police, is generally considered one of the best on the continent. As for the rest, you’ll have to see for yourself.”

  “I intend to,” he replied. “I assume there’s an entertainment district. Opera or the more earthly kind?”

  “Both, I suppose.”

  Caleb nodded his pomaded hair. “Good to know.”

  We reached Dover in plenty of time to take the ferry across a placid Channel, and met the express to Paris in Calais. I looked about to see if we had been followed or if there was anyone sinister on the train, but nothing was out of the ordinary. It all seemed safe so far.

  I’ve always liked Paris. It’s so un-English. People sit at outdoor cafés and try to decide whether they shall return to work or take the rest of the day off. Italian or Spanish circus performers blow flames into the air or dance with chained bears in the open squares. Africans stroll about in long caftans. It’s a breath of fresh air after being beached in London.

  We located a café, where we ordered a meal. As I turned to help my companion, he looked up at the waiter.

  “Garçon, vous pouvez m’apporter blanquette de veau, les haricots verts, et un bouteille de Bordeaux, s’il vous plaît.”

  “My word!” I exclaimed. “You speak French! But your accent is strange.”

  “Creole. As I said, I spent a lot of time in New Orleans, keeping an eye on the Italian district. There were some feuds down there between rival gangs from Sicily.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I invited them to adopt a more civil tone in the United States of America. New Orleans doesn’t put up with that kind of nonsense. The trees there bear strange fruit, as the Creole say.”

  I stared at him, puzzled. In answer, he raised an arm and mimicked a man being hung. A chill went over me, wondering what it would be like to be a detective in such a wild, wide-open country, where one made one’s own rules and death could come at any time.

  After lunch we summoned a cab and told the driver to take us to the Deuxième Bureau. As we bowled down the street, we saw the new marvel, the Eiffel Tower, a giant steel structure, reddish brown, that dominated the city.

  “Looks like it’s about to pull up stakes and walk around the town,” Caleb remarked.

  I couldn’t decide if it was an eyesore or a work of genius, not that anyone cared for a Welshman’s opinion.

  A quarter hour later, we arrived at our destination, a granite building, anonymous save for a flag, and just enough architectural bonhomie to blend with the rest of Paris.

  “What exactly is the Deuxième Bureau?” Caleb asked.

  “It’s the office that handles statistics and counterespionage.”

  “Why aren’t we going to the Sûreté?”

  “They’ll know more about Jacques Perrine here, and his time in prison. In the past, he has gathered anarchist materials from Saint Petersburg. The files say he may have a link to the men who assassinated Alexander II.”

  With some trepidation we entered the building. The whole of the French government seemed to be represented in that single edifice. Inside, the building looked like the grand château it had once been. We were directed to a room that had been a ballroom a half century before. It was now divided into desks for statistics, and a man was awaiting us.

  “Messieurs, welcome to Paris,” he said, rising. “My name is Gerard Dacre.”

  We introduced ourselves and he led us to a desk encircled by chairs. On the wall there was a map of Paris, covered in pins. There was a single file on his desk, which he opened.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen,” he said, extending a hand. “Hmm. Jacques Perrine, anarchist, provocateur and dynamiter, sentenced to six years for his connection to an attempt upon the life of the emperor, Napoleon III. Captured with the aid of English detective Mr. Cyrus Barker.”

  “Scottish,” I said.

  “It appears M. Barker infiltrated a loosely organized group of anarchists, posing as an Irish freedom fighter. He was consulted after the group easily recognized all of the agents of the Sûreté and the Second Bureau. His work was deemed satisfactory.”

  I find Frenchmen quite entertaining, and Mr. Dacre was no exception. He was a sharp-faced fellow, all angles, with a big head and a small mustache. It seemed that every man in Paris had one. Somewhere in Paris there must be barber shops with diagrams of the various types.

  “He was released by order of the French government.”

  “What?” I cried. “Jacques Perrine was released?”

  “Oui, six weeks ago. He’s served his sentence and was a quiet prisoner. There was no reason to continue his incarceration.”

  “Did you keep a record of anyone who visited him while he was in prison?”

  “Of course we did,” Dacre said. “Here it is! Just as M. Bertillon’s methods of identifying criminals has revolutionized detective work, our statistics will revolutionize tracking them. Thieves tend to use particular methods. All their procedures are carefully taken down. For example, the areas which are most frequently robbed are recorded and marked on a map, like this one here. Thieving along a certain street is cross-referenced with released criminals known to live in the area. Scientific, you see. It will revolutionize everything.”

  “You French are known for your revolutions,” Caleb drawled.

  Dacre took it as an insult, bristling slightly.

  “So, who came to visit him at La Santé?” I asked.

  “Only his daughter and son-in-law.”

  “And their names?”

  “Monsieur and Madame Alphonse Mercier.”

  “Where is Perrine now?” I asked, to turn their attention back to the matter at hand.

  “He was in Paris until last week,” Dacre said. “One of our agents tracked him to Calais, suspecting he was going on to Russia. He—”

  Dacre turned the page and read with his finger on the paper.

  “He escaped. They lost him on the train. They suspect he jumped from it before it reached Calais. He is forbidden to legally leave the country. We assume he has gone on to Saint Petersburg to meet other anarchist associates.”

  “I’m sure that’s not going to stop him,” I said. “Do you have his last known address?”

  The French statistician took a slip of paper and copied the address on it and then handed it to me.

  “I hope this is helpful,” he said.

  Caleb Barker rose to his feet in that informal American way he had.

  “I hope so, too,”
he said.

  We left the building feeling a little crestfallen.

  “If we came all this way for that, it wasn’t worth the fare,” Caleb growled.

  “Let’s visit this neighborhood, then,” I said, tapping on the paper.

  We jumped onto an omnibus that would take us near Perrine’s last known address. In a few minutes, we had arrived in the Rue Gris, a draggled, down-at-heel street in the 14th Arrondissement. It was not yet evening, but streetwalkers stood looking bored on the street corners, awaiting their first clients. Cats attempted to rub against one’s ankles and horses pulled carts through the narrow streets. We reached Perrine’s door, and knocked upon it. A small, wizened woman, likely a concierge, answered the door.

  “Oui?”

  “Is Monsieur Perrine here?” I asked.

  “Non. Il a disparu,” she said dismissively.

  Disappeared. Of course, we knew that.

  “Avez-vous un paquet pour nous?”

  “Non.”

  He’d left nothing behind. I asked if we could go upstairs to see his room, but she refused.

  “Ce n’est pas possible.”

  I asked if he had any friends nearby, but she was finished answering my questions. She shrugged and slammed the door in our faces.

  “Very interesting method, Mr. Llewelyn,” Caleb said.

  “I thought you were going to ask her something.”

  “You were charming her all by your lonesome. Let’s go.”

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “Up and down the alley. Maybe we can uncover something.”

  “It’s better than nothing,” I said.

  We walked along the street from one end to the other several times. Unfortunately, we were obvious, two men in expensive suits patrolling a dingy street full of dilapidated buildings. We might as well have walked about waving our arms and shouting. It wasn’t getting us anywhere.

  Then a young man came down the street and stopped, observing us. He had a dark complexion and a wispy chin beard. He wore a cloth cap, a scarf stuffed into his waistcoat, and cracked French military boots on his feet. He was as down-at-heel as the street he lived in. Also, he was particularly interested in us.

  “There is another behind you,” Caleb said in a low voice.

  “I hear him.”

  They climbed from stacks of old packing cases, dark alleys, and door eaves. Their leader, if such he was, was still a youth. None of them looked older than eighteen.

  “Donne-moi ton porte-monnaie.”

  He wanted our money.

  “No, you little cur,” Caleb replied.

  All the boys stepped forward. There were more of them than I anticipated, perhaps a dozen. And they had knives, every one of them.

  “Apaches,” I said in a low voice to Caleb.

  “I’ve dealt with apaches before. These are no apaches.”

  With a gesture from their leader, all of the youths stopped. Each of their hands were held up near their heads, a blade in the right, and they moved with the stiff gait of savateurs, French pugilists. The dark one came forward as if we, the gang, and the entire quarter were his.

  Caleb muttered an oath under his breath. The boy cursed and pulled a blade from his pocket, a large jackknife with a yellow handle. He came forward, weapon poised, until he was mere inches from Caleb’s chest.

  “You don’t understand what you’re doing!” I wanted to shout, but I held my tongue.

  Suddenly, Caleb was upon him, kicking his feet from under him and clutching him from the knot in his scarf. He pushed the boy to the ground and straddled him. Pulling out his own knife, he pinned the lobe of the youth’s ear to the cobblestones. The lad screamed in surprise.

  Two youths jumped onto my back, trying to cut my throat. One actually nicked my chin. I tossed both to the ground. When they tried to come at me again, I pulled a pistol from my waistband and aimed it at them. The two immediately ran away. So much for resolve. Or their leader’s orders, for that matter.

  “Your purse,” Caleb growled at the squirming youth.

  The boy was bleeding, the point of the blade piercing his ear. He tried to demur, but ultimately surrendered a small reticule. Still staring him in the face, Caleb pocketed it. Off in the distance, I heard the sound of a man running in sturdy boots. The sound slapped off the walls on either side of the street. I recognized the sound for what it was, no matter what country or language.

  “Police!” I cried.

  Suddenly, everyone scattered like mice. My companion let go of the scarf and the youth fled as fast as his broken officer’s boots could carry him, clutching his newly pierced ear. He tripped and cried out again. Then he gained his footing and was off.

  Too late, a puffing policeman arrived at our feet. He put his hands on his knees and breathed in and out for a moment before speaking.

  “Messieurs,” he said. “Do you have your papers?”

  We gave them to him. He longed to find fault with them, but was defeated.

  “Where did this blood come from?” he demanded, pointing at the small crimson pool on the ground.

  “From his chin,” Caleb told him, nodding at me.

  “What happened to it?”

  We would do the investigation no good if we spent the night in a Parisian jail. I considered the options and made a decision. Without further ado, I hiccupped and looked bleary-eyed at Barker’s brother.

  “What happened to it?” I repeated.

  “You don’t remember? How much wine did you drink? You cut it on a nail.”

  I turned back to the policeman. “I cut it on a nail. Where are we? Is this the way to the Left Bank?”

  “That is a lot of blood for such a small cut.”

  “Look, Officer,” Caleb said. “There is blood, here is a wound. My friend is bleeding and drunk and we are lost. Can you direct us to a proper thoroughfare?”

  The gendarme gave me that expression that I had seen on constables’ faces all over London: do I arrest this fellow or not? I knew the arrest would involve a lot more paperwork than he was willing to perform. He turned and raised a finger.

  “Go down this road to the corner, turn left in the next street, and walk for three blocks. You cannot miss the Rue de Maine.”

  “Merci, monsieur.”

  “Take yourselves home as soon as possible, and I don’t mean your hotel room.”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  He marched off more sedately than he had arrived.

  “Come on,” Caleb said. “I came here for more amusement than those insolent tykes. I need some food and some improper entertainment.”

  “Let’s go,” I said. “But I’ll settle for the food, myself.”

  We took ourselves to a brasserie a few streets away and ordered beer and a plate of pommes frites. The waiter looked at us disapprovingly. Caleb leaned back and stretched, coincidentally showing him the handle of a pistol stuffed into his coat pocket. After that, the service was excellent.

  “Where’d you get the revolver?” I asked.

  “At the Colt Company merchant in London.”

  “I thought it was illegal to purchase a firearm if you are foreign.”

  “It is, but if one is a law officer who had to leave his weapons at home, but still requires protection, one is able to borrow some for a price, while in London.”

  “And that’s legal?”

  Caleb looked at me over his beer. “You’re really consumed with this ‘legal’ business.”

  “I’m an ex-thief,” I said. “And I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

  I reached for my beer and something crinkled in my pocket. I withdrew it.

  “What have you got there?”

  “It’s the list Dacre gave me. The people who visited Perrine in his cell.”

  “Take a look at it, then.”

  I did; I unfolded the sheet and looked at it.

  “Antoine Mercier visited twice.”

  “And his wife?” Caleb asked.

  “Perrine’s daughter.
” I crushed the paper in my hand.

  “What is it?”

  “His daughter’s name is Camille.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  We went to a hotel where I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling and contemplated all we had learned. Camille Archer was definitely involved in the bombing, as far as I could tell. Her accomplice was likely her husband, Antoine Mercier. We knew Perrine had left the country, and we knew that maddening girl had been to see him before he was released from prison.

  This premise was logical. Perrine hated Barker. His daughter would do anything for her father. Mercier would help his wife destroy the man who put her father in prison. She visited him, commiserated with him, and possibly even helped him plan the attack.

  Was she French? I wondered. Did she show a trace of an accent? At that hour, one o’clock, one’s mind plays tricks. I convinced myself that she had a slight French accent when she spoke, a kind of rhythm to her speech that was not English. Then I convinced myself I was imagining things. Surely, however, it was too much of a coincidence that the woman’s name was the same as that of the one who had visited Perrine along with his son-in-law. It all fit together.

  I was eager to relate this information to my employer. The only other thing we had learned on this trip was that Les Deux Magots had a fine selection of beer.

  There was a knock on the door. Reluctantly, I opened it and looked out. Caleb stood there smartly dressed, with his bowler hat set at a jaunty angle.

  “Interested in the night life?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m engaged.”

  “Are you sure your engagement extends all the way to Paris?”

  “It does, indeed.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  He left and I returned to my bed, where I must have lain deep in thought for half an hour. Finally, I remembered I was in Paris. Of course, I wouldn’t follow Caleb Barker, but I could walk along the Pont Neuf, or see the Paris Opera House again, with its golden statues. I could tour the Left Bank or Montmartre, where the artists lived in cold garret rooms and poured out their hearts onto canvas.