Louverture closed his eyes, rubbed at them with thumb and forefinger. A confident man who nevertheless had a pathological need for attention, and felt neither fear nor excitement in taunting the police—as though the message had been composed and written by two different men. The writer, though, had not been coerced, since the letters showed no fear, so what sort of partnership was he looking at? An intelligent criminal with tremendous sang-froid, paired with an insecure, weak-willed . . . but no, it made no sense. The former would restrain the latter from any attention-getting activities, not assist in them; unless a bargain of some sort was involved, the cool-headed man having to gratify the other’s needs in order to gain something he required. Access to something he possessed, perhaps—or someone—
Well, it was a pretty play he had written: all he needed was a pair of actors to play the parts. Louverture tore a piece of paper from the pad on his desk, uncapped his fountain pen, and wrote Imagine two criminals—group like faculties on it. The first criminal, the cool-headed one, would have had little contact with the police, but the second, he very likely could not help it. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, rummaged inside for a tube labelled LOMBROSOLOGIE; rolled the paper up, tucked it in the tube, and pushed the whole thing into the pneumatic. Standing, he turned the neck of his lamp to point its beam at his bookshelf, then scanned the leather-bound volumes of the Rogues’ Gallery there. What would the excitable man’s earlier crimes have been? Nothing spectacular, but at the same time something directed at gaining attention. Public nudity, perhaps? Harassment? A man with a wife, a daughter, a sister, perhaps a domestic living in. A man with little self-control, and yet not truly poor, or else how would he have met the educated man he was partnered with? If not poor, though, his neighbours would have complained about the noise that almost certainly came from his house; Louverture took Volume 23, Noise Infractions, off the shelf and added it to the pile on the desk.
He was not sure how much time had passed when he heard the door open. He looked up from the book in front of him, expecting to see Allard with his sketches; instead it was Clouthier. Louverture stood, gave a small salute.
“Officier Principal, what can I do for you?”
Clouthier cleared his throat, brushed at his dark blue jacket with his fingertips. “It’s past six. Are we going to see your progress report today?”
“I haven’t received anything from Lombrosology or Physical Sciences yet.”
“I’m told you haven’t given orders to any of the gardiens to search or arrest anyone. Have you spent the whole day reading books?” Clouthier asked, looking around at Louverture’s desk and shelves with distaste.
“I’ve been rounding up known criminals,” Louverture said. “Doing it this way saves your men time and energy. Incidentally, are my reports not to go to Commandant Trudeau?”
“To him through me. Public safety is my responsibility, and I must respond quickly to any threat.”
“We have almost twenty days,” Louverture said mildly.
“If whoever wrote that letter is being truthful. Have you often known criminals to be truthful, Louverture?”
“Why bother to give us the letter and then lie in it? If he wanted to avoid detection, wouldn’t it have been better not to alert us at all?”
Clouthier coughed loudly. “It’s nonsense to expect him to be logical—if he were a rational man, he’d know better than to be a criminal.”
Louverture nodded. “As you say. I’ll make sure my report is on your desk before you go—how much longer were you planning on staying tonight?”
“Never mind,” Clouthier said. “Just have it there before I get here in the morning.”
“Of course. Is there anything else?”
Clouthier seemed to think for a moment, then shook his head, turned to leave. “Just keep me informed.”
Louverture waited until Clouthier was out the door, then called to him. “Oh, Officer Principal, I forgot to ask—did your canvass turn anything up?”
With a barely perceptible shake of his head, Clouthier stepped out into the hall. Though he could not help smiling, Louverture wondered whether that had been a miscalculation. It was no secret that Clouthier did not like him, a situation caused as much by his coming from outside the local Corps hierarchy as by his mixed blood. It would be best, he thought, to leave off further teasing of the lion for now. Resolving to restrain himself better, Louverture returned to his desk and began writing his report.
The next morning Louverture was reading over his notes, trying to get them to make sense. He had taken the omnibus instead of his velocipede so that he could read on his way to work, laying the pages on the briefcase on his lap, but the heat and vibration kept him from concentrating. His cap was damp with sweat, but he refused to take it off; he knew from experience how people reacted when they saw his dark, kinked hair emerge from under an officier’s hat. Not that there were many people to react this morning, the omnibus being only half-full.
He forced his mind to return to its task. If his theory was right, the second man was undoubtedly the key, but he had not found anyone in the Rogues’ Gallery that fit the profile. Could a man with such a need for attention possibly have hidden it all these years? Perhaps he had had another outlet until recently—an actor, for instance, put out of work by the theatre closings. . . .
A sudden jolt interrupted Louverture’s train of thought. He looked up from his notes, saw that the omnibus had stopped in the middle of the street; the driver had already disembarked, and the other passengers were filing off, grumbling.
“Excuse me,” he said to the man in front of him, “what has happened?”
“It broke down again,” the man said. “Third time this month. I’d do better on foot.”
Louverture followed the queue onto the sidewalk. A few of the passengers had gathered to wait for the next omnibus, the rest hailing pedicabs or walking off down the street. The driver had the bonnet open and was looking inside; Louverture tapped him on the shoulder. “What is the matter with it?”
The driver turned his head and opened his mouth to speak, closed it when he saw Louverture’s uniform. “It’s corroded, sir,” he said. “Do you smell that?”
Louverture took a sniff; a sharp smell, like lemon but much more harsh, was emanating from the omnibus’ hood. “That is the engine?”
“The battery, sir,” the driver said. “That’s sulphuric acid inside; eventually it eats away at the whole thing.”
“This happens often?”
The driver shook his head. “They break down sometimes, but not usually like this. The scientists think it may be the heat.”
“And they’re sure it’s a natural phenomenon? It hasn’t been reported to the Corps.”
“I suppose,” the driver said, shrugged. “Why in Reason’s name would anyone sabotage an omnibus? What’s to gain from it?”
“Well, I hope they solve the problem soon.”
The driver laughed. “Me too. Much longer and I’ll need another job—there’ll be no-one riding them at all.”
Louverture tapped the brim of his cap to the man, stepped over to the curb to hail a pedicab. He could hear the other passengers grumbling a bit when one stopped at the sight of his badge, saw the obvious annoyance of the man inside whose cab he had commandeered. He disliked being so high-handed, but he could not afford to be late: after his little dig at Clouthier the night before, the man would be looking for reasons to undermine him.
His fears were realized when he arrived at the Cabildo at three ninety-five and the gardien at the desk waved him over. “Officier Principal Clouthier is waiting for you in the interrogation room, sir,” he said.
Louverture tapped his cap in acknowledgement and went through the big double doors that led to the interrogation and holding areas, hoping Clouthier had not done anything that would make his job more difficult. When he arrived at the interrogation room he saw the man himself, talking
to the gardien at the door to the cell.
“Louverture, nice of you to come in,” Clouthier said, bursting with scarcely restrained smugness.
“What’s this?” Louverture asked, looked through one of the recessed portholes in the wall; he saw, inside, a dark-skinned Negro sitting at the table. “You have a suspect? How did you find him?”
“He was in possession of another copy of the note, along with paper, pen and ink that precisely matched those used to write the letter, according to Physical Sciences,” Clouthier said. “So we brought him in.”
Louverture took a long breath in and out. “And just how did you find this particular pen-and-paper owner?”
“I had my men search some of the worse areas of Tremé at dawn this morning. I am not afraid to expend a little time and energy, if it gets results.”
“And I suppose he vigorously resisted arrest? I ask only because black skin shows bruises so poorly, I might not know otherwise.”
“A little rough handling only. Commandant Trudeau directed that I leave the interrogation to you.”
“Gracious thanks,” Louverture said. “If you’ll excuse me.” He nodded to the gardien to open the door and went inside. The suspect was sitting on a light cane chair, his hands chained behind his back; his face, at least, was unmarked. “I am Officier de la Paix Louverture,” he said in a calm voice. “What is your name?”
“Duhaime,” the man stuttered. “Lucien Duhaime.” His eyes darted to the door.
“We are alone,” Louverture said. “You may speak freely. Do you know why you have been arrested, Monsieur Duhaime?”
“I didn’t—I don’t know how that paper got there.”
“Someone planted paper, pen and ink in your house, without you knowing?” Duhaime opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. Louverture shook his head. “Well then, how did it get there?”
“I don’t. I don’t know.”
“I see.” Louverture sighed. Now there was one man to compose the note, another to write it, a third to deliver it: too large a cast for the play to be believable. Sitting down opposite Duhaime, he realized he still had his briefcase with him; in a sudden inspiration he set it on the table, opened it with the top towards the prisoner, so Duhaime could not see the contents. “I keep the tools of my trade in this case, Lucien. Do you know what they are?”
Duhaime shook his head.
“The most important one is my razor.”
Duhaime’s eyes widened. Louverture took out his badge, tapped on the image of a razor and metron, crossed. “This razor was given to me by a Monsieur Abelard, but it is not an ordinary razor. Instead of shaving hair, it lets me shave away what is improbable and leaves only the truth.” He peered over the open case at Duhaime. “It tells me that you wrote a note with that pen and paper, and placed it on the statue of Reason in Descartes Square, and that we must therefore charge you with suspicion of kidnapping.” Duhaime took an involuntary breath, confirming Louverture’s suspicion. He took the day’s paper from the case, showed the headline to Duhaime. It read Feu dans le marché: deuxieme du mois. “Have you seen this? ‘Manhunt for kidnapper.’ You’ve cost a lot of time and trouble, Lucien.”
“I didn’t know anything about a kidnapping. I didn’t know!” Duhaime tried to rise to his feet, was restrained by the chain fastening him to the table. “The man, he gave me three pieces of paper, said he’d pay if I delivered them for him. I thought it was a prank.”
Louverture leaned back, rubbed his chin. “You’ve intrigued me, Lucien. Tell me about this man.”
Duhaime shrugged, winced as he did so; Louverture saw his right shoulder was probably dislocated. “He was a rich man, well-dressed. A man like you.”
“A policier?”
“No, a white.”
“A convincing story requires more detail, Lucien,” Louverture said, shaking his head sadly.
“He spoke well, though he was trying not to. Clean shaven, with a narrow face. He wore those little smoke-tinted glasses, so I didn’t see his eyes.”
“And just where did someone like you meet this wealthy, well-spoken man?”
“I have a pedicab. It’s good money since the omnibuses started breaking down.” Duhaime looked at Louverture’s unbelieving eyes, then down at the table. “I stole it.”
“Very well. Where did you pick him up?”
“On Baronne street, just west of the Canal. He was going to the ferry dock.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again? Or a picture?”
“I’ll try,” Duhaime said, nodding eagerly.
Louverture closed his briefcase, rose to his feet. “Very well, Lucien, we shall test your theory,” he said. “You’ll remain our guest for the time being, and I’ll see your shoulder gets looked at.”
“Thank you, officier.”
“It’s nothing.” Louverture turned to go, paused. “Oh, one thing more. You said you were given three copies: we found the one you planted on the statue, and one more you had. Where is the other?”
“I was to deliver one every night,” Duhaime said.
“Where?”
“The statue, first; second the newspaper; and then Reason Cathedral.”
“So you delivered the second last night? To the Père Duchesne?”
Duhaime shook his head. “No, sir. The other paper.”
Louverture swore under his breath, turned to the door and knocked on it harshly. The gardien on the other side opened it and he stepped through; Clouthier was still standing there, by one of the portholes in the wall. “We have a problem,” Louverture said. “The Minerve has a copy of the letter.”
“I’ll send a man—”
“It’s probably too late. It would have been waiting for them this morning.”
Clouthier rolled his eyes. “Assuming your man in there isn’t just telling stories.”
“He can’t read,” Louverture said, forcing his voice to stay level. “How do you suppose he wrote the letters? No, he’s telling the truth—and by this afternoon everyone will know that ‘she dies on the thirteenth.’”
“Perhaps it’s a good thing,” Clouthier said, shrugged. “It will make people alert; when he strikes, someone will see him and report it to us.”
“It will make people panic. With an unfocused threat like this, we’ll be sure to get mobs beating anyone they think is suspicious.”
“In the poorer neighbourhoods, maybe; we’ll set extra patrols in them. But this is not Saint-Domingue, my friend: most of the people here are entirely too rational for that.”
“I hope so,” Louverture said. Something was nagging at him, some overlooked detail; it slipped away as he probed for it, like a loose tooth.
“At any rate, we still have plenty of time before the thirteenth of Fructidor. Let us hope all the attention doesn’t cause our man to move up his timetable.”
Louverture nodded, frowned. “Yes, that is strange. Nearly twenty days till then, but only three letters.” He turned to the gardien by the door. “Have him moved to a holding cell, and see that his shoulder gets looked at.”
The gardien looked from him to Clouthier, who gave a small nod.
“I’d best give the Commandant the news,” Clouthier said, then tapped his cap and headed for the stairs.
Watching him go, Louverture wondered how much of his theory could be salvaged. If Duhaime was telling the truth—and Louverture felt sure he was—he had been right about the culprit having a confederate, but he was still left with the impossibility of the letter having been written and composed by the same man. He followed his line of thought up the stairs to his office. When the inescapable conclusion of your assumptions seems impossible, he thought, question your assumptions. His theory depended on at least one of the culprits needing to gain attention for his actions, and the letter to the Minerve certainly supported that; the Père Duchesne would not print it without approval from the Corps. If that
was not the motive, though—or one of the motives—everything that followed from it changed; but what other motive could account for everything?
He opened the door to his office, saw four of Allard’s sketches sitting on his desk. Two were the ones they had discussed, assuming a single culprit: one version was white, one black. The other two, both white, were a split version of the first, the one having the physiognomy of a cautious, intelligent man, the second one emotional and impulsive. None of them much resembled anyone he had seen in the Rogues’ Gallery volumes the night before. He looked them over, wondering if any of them might be the man Duhaime said had hired him. The first two faces were like nobody he had ever seen, impossible configurations of rationality and impulsiveness; the fourth could be almost anyone. The third, though . . . he narrowed his eyes, imagining that man wearing smoke-tinted glasses. He looked a bit like Allard himself, or perhaps one of the men from Physical Sciences. Someone intelligent, certainly. Louverture tried to imagine what his next move would be. Did he know his messenger had been captured? If so, would he find another one, or would his purpose have been achieved with just the first two letters delivered? Would he be lying low or enjoying the chaos that the story in the Minerve would surely spark? No way to know without understanding his motive, and the more Louverture stared at the sketch the more he doubted that this man was seeking a thrill.
Louverture rolled up the sketches, his head starting to feel like a velodrome from the thoughts whizzing around in it. He was missing something, he knew that—some detail, just out of his reach—and he knew that chasing it around and around would not make it appear. Time to do things Clouthier’s way: he would have photostats of the sketches made, give them to gardiens assigned to where Baronne crossed the canal and to the ferry dock. Perhaps he could even make some of those snickering stagières pretend to be pedicab drivers, in hopes the culprit would come to them seeking another messenger. He imagined the man was too smart for that, but all it would cost was time and energy.
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