Duval and the Infernal Machine (Napoleon's Police Book 1)

by Michele McGrath

  I sighed inwardly when I realised he was my immediate superior and not Gilbert. I liked Gilbert. The army, though, had taught me to serve under commanders I disliked. I'd fought under several who gave foolish orders that needlessly wasted their men’s lives and I had survived. I would survive again.

  Petit appeared to be a very different type. Last night, in the poor light, and in the emotion of the moment, I had taken little notice of him. Today, he had discarded his cloak and I could see he wore better clothes than either Laurent or Gilbert. Petit’s linen was crisp and carefully arranged. His coat was made of fine material and cut by a good tailor, so it fitted him well. I’d seen his type before in Grenoble and I would have called him a dandy then. He even had the ready smile and easy manner. It took me a few minutes to realise that, although he smiled, his eyes never lost their cold glitter. I'd been distracted before, but it was unmistakable now. This man was no witless dandy and he, too, was no friend to me. Then I reminded myself to reserve my judgement. People are not what they seem at first sight and newcomers are rarely welcome anywhere. The only thing to do is to be meek, until you acquire enough experience. So I kept my temper and answered their questions, without giving away too many details. As soon as I could, I fell silent and listened.

  Gilbert had been turning over the sketches, while I’d been talking to the other agents. He seemed satisfied and passed them around. Laurent merely glanced at them and handed them back. Petit took more time but shook his head.

  “Don’t know them. They’re not criminals or, if they are, they’ve never come my way.”

  Rollin looked, but also did not recognise anyone.

  “Are these the men you mentioned to Gilbert?” Laurent asked me.

  “Yes. The ones who hurried away seconds before the bomb went off.”

  “Do we know if they’re connected with this?”

  “We don’t,” Gilbert replied for me. “They might be people in a hurry to get home, but the other possibility also exists. If they were the culprits, they would certainly want to be as far away as possible.”

  “People hurrying home is the more likely explanation, I would think.”

  “We can’t discard the chance that they are involved. Any evidence is better than none,” Gilbert said firmly. “At this moment, the other witnesses have told us little of value. I’ll take the sketches with me when I’m questioning the survivors again today. Someone might recognise these men and be able tell us what they were doing.”

  Laurent shrugged. “Do as you choose, but don’t spend too much time on it. I want this investigation finished and the scoundrels found. The First Consul’s furious and demanding immediate action. Once the bombers are caught, we can get back to the rest of the work we’re supposed to be doing.”

  “Like finding Maître Chagrin,” Petit murmured, with a scowl.

  “Maître Chagrin?” I asked.

  “He’s a thief,” Gilbert told me. “Specialises in rich hauls. You’d be surprised how much gold and jewels are still in Paris, despite the Revolution. He’s robbed many fine houses and jewellers’ shops. No one’s ever seen a hair of his head. We call him Maître Chagrin, Master of Grief, because he’s made so many people unhappy. Petit wants to be the one to catch him and I wouldn’t mind either. The reward for his capture is good.” Gilbert laughed but Petit did not. Then Laurent’s hand slapped the table sharply and they fell silent.

  “Enough! Get on with your work.”

  Gilbert told me to sit down opposite Rollin and handed me a bundle of papers. “Go through these statements and see if anything strikes you as unusual,” he said.

  “What sort of thing am I looking for?”

  “Criticism of the First Consul, although that’s unlikely. Few people are stupid enough to say openly what they think to an official. We can expect the plotters to be even more discreet. A phrase out of place; something that doesn’t ring true. Most of these papers will be rubbish but they all have to be read. Rollin will help you. He’s done this kind of thing before. I’ll be back later. Tell me then if either of you have found anything.”

  I tried hard to do as he bid me, but the light wasn’t good and the writing cramped. Rollin worked beside me on his share of the papers. From time to time he cast a glance at me, as if he was challenging me to find anything but he said nothing. Before long, I began to tire and my mind wandered. I started to listen to the conversation of Laurent and Petit. They talked about last night, naturally, although they kept flicking through their piles of papers at the same time. They seemed to be able to skim the words with ease, while carrying on an intense discussion. I envied their skill. Even Rollin could do it, although he was slower than the others. I would have to acquire the same ability, if I stayed in the Ministry long enough. Then a small man opened the door and came into the room.

  “Found anything, Fournier?” Laurent asked him.

  I looked at the newcomer with interest. Here was the man who thought of using an artist to sketch the faces of wanted people. Gilbert had admiration in his voice when he spoke about him. Fournier scrubbed at his hands with a dirty cloth. The knees of his breeches were soiled, as if he’d been crawling around on the ground.

  “They used a mixture of gunpowder and shrapnel,” he said, throwing himself into a chair.

  “The usual, in fact. Most of these plotters don't understand explosives. If they did, their bombs would be far more effective.”

  “Let’s hope they don’t learn then,” Fournier said. “This one killed enough people.” He caught sight of me. “Who’s this youngster?”

  “Duval, he’s come to join us. A friend of the Minister, or so we're told.” There was scorn in Laurent’s voice.

  “My name is Alain Duval,” I said, holding out my hand to Fournier and ignoring Laurent. “I don’t know where such a ridiculous rumour started. I met the Minister for the first time yesterday. We simply have an acquaintance in common.”

  “An important one obviously enough. Not many people here get to meet the great man himself, just by asking,” Petit said.

  For a moment I was tempted to react to the sarcasm, but I bit back my words. Any show of temper would certainly be used against me in the future.

  The small man raised his eyebrow as he shook my hand. “I’m Claude Fournier,” he said. “You picked an exciting time to join us, Duval.”

  “An unusual one, I sincerely hope.” I smiled. I liked him. His smile was without malice. Neither he nor Gilbert filled me with the same uneasiness I felt for Laurent and Petit. I’ve had to develop an instinct for such things, ever since I ran away from home at fifteen. It’s saved me on more than one occasion and I never ignore the feeling when it comes.

  “Heaven forbid, if it isn’t. We’d all be in the asile de fou with the other imbéciles.” Fournier laughed.

  “How many are dead?” Laurent interrupted.

  “Not sure, perhaps a couple of dozen. A lot more injured, of course, and some of those won't live.”

  “The First Consul had a lucky escape.”

  “The plotters bungled their timing.”

  “We’ve got to find them fast before they try again,” said Laurent.

  “They say Bonaparte's in a tearing rage. They only missed him by seconds. His wife, his daughter and one of his sisters are among the injured,” Fournier said. “They were in the second carriage and were going more slowly than the First Consul. One of their horses was killed and they barely escaped.”

  “They were injured, you say?” Laurent asked.

  “His wife fainted. The girl cut her hand on some broken glass, but his sister was fine in spite of being pregnant.”

  “Fortunate,” Petit murmured.

  “Indeed. What state do you think Bonaparte would be in if any of them had been seriously hurt?”

  “I wouldn’t want to know!”

  “Nor me.” A murmur of assent came from the others.

  “Find anything else?”

  Fournier grinned. “The Préfect, Dubois, had his men c
rawling all over the place, looking for clues. Knowing that lot, they probably destroyed more than they found. Before I left, Dubois told me he'd discovered some barrel hoops and three horseshoes with bits of a grey nag attached.”

  “They’d need a lot of gunpowder to make a hole that size. The bomb might have been hidden inside a barrel and left on a cart,” Petit said thoughtfully.

  “Makes sense,” Laurent agreed, then he shot to his feet. I turned and saw the burly man, Réal, had come into the room in time to overhear the last comments.

  “What’s this about a nag?”

  “Bits of one have been found at the scene, Citizen, along with some hoops from a barrel. Fournier’s just brought the word,” Laurent told him.

  Réal nodded. “Right. Fournier, I want to hear about this. Come with me,” he said and beckoned. Then he looked at me. “You too, Duval. The rest of you get on with your work.”

  5

  We both got up and followed Réal down the corridor and up the stairs into his office. “Give me your report, Fournier, since you’ve already given it to the rest of the world.”

  I settled back in my chair and listened as Fournier repeated his experiences. The investigation had started even before the injured had been removed. Agents from both the Ministry and the Préfecture had been out all night, searching the streets and talking to the witnesses. They added little to the information I already knew.

  “Anyone been questioned about a horse or a barrel?” Réal asked Fournier, when he finished.

  “No, Citizen. Dubois’ men only just found the pieces. I was coming in to report to you, as soon as I had cleaned the mud off my breeches. I'll put something down on paper for you immediately.”

  “That can wait. Get one of the others to go back to the site and collect the evidence. I don’t trust Dubois to take proper care of anything he finds. He’s careless and we’ll be blamed in the end if we don’t catch the culprits, not him. You go and talk to the witnesses again before you write your report. Find out who remembers a horse and a barrel. Recruit some more agents and take Duval along. He’s new and needs the experience. You can show him the way we work.”

  Fournier nodded. “Certainly, Citizen, I’ll go immediately.”

  “And this time, if you find anything, come to me first, muddy or not.”

  “Yes, Citizen, as you say.”

  He dismissed us and we left hurriedly. I kept silent for a moment. Réal’s tone had been caustic and Fournier looked flushed, either with anger or annoyance; I couldn’t decide which. The silence became so uncomfortable; I decided to speak at last. “Réal’s a formidable type, isn’t he?” I said to Fournier.

  “Goes with the job. He’s Fouché’s eyes and ears, not a man to cross.” Then he grinned and his whole face lightened. “I might have expected the bastard would find out I was back. He doesn't often come into our room. He usually sends the messenger to fetch us, so he caught me off my guard, but it’s been a long night. Just as well I had something to tell him. You don’t want to see him in a rage, believe me.”

  “I can imagine. Thanks for the warning, I’ll remember.”

  “You’d better. This place is a madhouse to work in and most of us aren’t entirely sane as a result. We should have a sign up saying ‘Beware. In here, lunatics rule.’ ” He grinned as he pointed to the door of our office.

  Fournier went in and said,

  “The chief wants someone to collect the evidence from Dubois and bring it here.”

  Laurent looked up with a frown. “What’s stopping you from doing it yourself?”

  “He’s given me another task he wants done right away. Oh and I’m to take Duval with me.”

  Laurent nodded. “You’d better go and do it then. Gilbert you tackle Dubois. He’ll listen to you and he won’t to Rollin.”

  Gilbert stood up from the table where he had been reading. “I get all the good jobs, me.”

  A little while later, when we had left the Ministry, I queried Fournier about something which puzzled me. “Why doesn’t Réal trust Dubois and his men? I thought the police all worked together.”

  Fournier laughed heartily.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked with some annoyance in my voice.

  “You really are from the provinces! In theory you’re right. Police officials ought to help each other. In reality they work at cross purposes, more often than not. Everyone hopes to get the glory and not the blame. No one wants to share any credit. At the moment, we’re the favoured ones, because the First Consul, Bonaparte, had Jacobin leanings at one time. He used to be a friend of the younger Robespierre, Augustin, before they chopped his head off. So Bonaparte and Fouché have known each other for years. Some say Fouché knows him too well for his own comfort. It wouldn’t take much to make his favour to swing, though, and Réal doesn’t want that to happen. Keep your own counsel and, if Dubois’ people ask you anything, be discreet.”

  “Don’t worry, I will.”

  Hours later, we’d visited most of the hospitals and the lodging houses where the injured had been taken. We had a long, cold and horrible day. Even though I’m used to seeing the victims of violence, I don't like being among those who are groaning and bleeding. At the beginning, you can do something to help. Afterwards, it’s just a matter of endurance. Most of the places we went to were rough and dirty. The helpers seemed frantic, unused to dealing with the numbers that had suddenly arrived. The patients lay on straw mattresses in the corridors, if they were lucky, while others huddled on the bare stone floor.

  At first the helpers thought we were more volunteers, come to assist them. When those in charge found out the truth, they weren’t pleased. They didn't stop us, of course, but they didn’t try to help us either. A strange attitude. All we wanted to do was find out who had caused the trouble in the first place. We picked our way through the cluttered corridors in the semi-darkness to talk to the victims. A lot of them were in no condition to answer our questions. We were both glad when Fournier decided to finish for the day. We stopped for a meal in one of the taverns before we returned to the Ministry.

  “We’ll never get any food if we go back now and there's nothing dramatic to report anyway,” he said.

  The tavern he took me to seemed to be favoured by the people who worked for the Police. I soon found out why. The stew was hot and plentiful and the bread fresh, without any chaff or grit. We drank wine, but Fournier added a lot of water to his. “I’ve still got to report to Réal, don’t forget. I need to make sense or he’ll crucify me.” He smiled, but I heard the underlying caution in his voice. Fortunately, drinking on duty has never been one of my vices. Early on, I saw a couple of drunken soldiers stumble into a river and drown before anyone could save them. I’ve been cautious ever since.

  The food and rest were welcome, though, after our awful day. My leg throbbed. I had half-forgotten the ache in the hospitals, surrounded by far worse wounds than mine. Police work seemed to be nearly as demanding as the army. I couldn’t help sighing. Then Fournier distracted me and I forgot my discomfort again.

  “What did we find out?” he asked and his tone alerted me. This was a test. I reassembled my memories of all the things we’d been told today. I had come to respect Fournier. When he interviewed the witnesses, his questions were shrewd. Sometimes, we received surprising answers. The trick was to remember what each person said, in case a pattern emerged. I remembered one thing people agreed on and I hurried to describe it to him.

  “Several barrels were in the street, outside some of the shops. The one most of the victims described sat on a cart at the corner of the Rue Saint-Nicaise and the Rue Saint-Honoré. Two men drove up, got down and walked away. They left a young girl holding the horse’s reins,” I said with a grimace. This child was certainly among the dead. “That would account for both the horseshoes and the hoops.”

  Fournier nodded. Several people had mentioned this cart and barrel to us. One man, in particular, was annoyed, because it blocked his view of Bonaparte’s carriage
as it turned the corner of the street. He couldn't even get a glimpse of the First Consul. He’d bent down to fasten the buckle on his shoe after it passed and before the bomb exploded, otherwise he would never have felt any sort of annoyance again. He had been protected by the bodies of the dead and got away with some minor cuts and bruises. He was so voluble that I wished the blast had done more to him — something drastic to his tongue, perhaps. We had trouble getting away from him.

  “I agree. The explosives could have been in a barrel on the cart. Continue.”

  “If you wanted to plant a bomb, that’s not a bad place to leave it. From the other side of the square, you’d see when the First Consul’s carriage left the Tuileries. You’d be able to light the fuse and there would be enough time to escape before it exploded.”

  Fournier sat back and looked at me thoughtfully. I don’t know what I expected, but I was pleased when he said, “Well done. You seem to possess the right kind of mind for this game. You picked out most of the important points from all the rubbish.”

  I smiled. “Let’s hope so. I need the work.” I’d told him part of my history and he’d murmured something about swapping one difficult situation for another. After today, I agreed with him.

  Fournier grinned. “I’ll remind you of that remark in the future when you’re grumbling.”

  “Evening, Fournier.”

  I whipped around to find Gilbert standing behind me, looking as weary as I felt. Fournier waved him to a vacant chair. He slumped down and Fournier poured him out a beaker of wine. He didn’t add any water to this one.

  “Did you get the evidence?” Fournier asked him.

  “What do you think? I've been running after Dubois’ louts for hours. I’m not surprised Réal wanted one of us around, to make sure they didn’t destroy anything. I’ve got what little they’ve found. You were lucky you had an excuse to get out of that little errand.”