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

by Michele McGrath

  Fournier grinned. “A man makes his own luck by good timing.”

  Gilbert laughed. “You wretch. I’d be bothered, if I thought you really bolted on purpose. You can pour me more wine to pay for that remark.” He tossed back the dregs which still remained in his beaker.

  Fournier signalled to the landlord and another bottle was delivered to us. “What was found?” he asked.

  “Only the horseshoes from some poor old nag. Want to see them?”

  “Not particularly. I imagine they’re gruesome.”

  “True.”

  “Why did you bring them here with you?”

  “Because Réal was waiting when I got back with them. He’s given me the charming task of hawking them all over Paris. He wants me to find out if any of the horse traders or blacksmiths recognises them. They’re not plain. Someone cut his mark on two of them.”

  Fournier whistled through his teeth. “That’ll take you a while. There must be dozens of blacksmiths in Paris. I can think of three places around here alone.”

  Gilbert nodded. “Hundreds more like. I'll be searching for weeks, especially as everyone else is busy doing other things. I’m on my own and I’ve no idea where to start looking.”

  “Start anywhere. Me, I'd choose somewhere near a good tavern or two."

  "You would!"

  “Take Duval with you. He’s not been assigned properly, with all this fuss going on. He’s been with me today, but your job is likely to be more difficult than mine. He’s already seen how boring police work can be. He's listened to the same story over and over again with only slight variations all day. Let him experience some of the other delightful things we get to do. I’ll clear it with Laurent.”

  “Do you want to put the poor fellow off before he’s got started?”

  “He won’t be. He’s a soldier; he’ll cope.” Fournier gave me an evil smile, but I knew a little about him by now. He’d been teasing me all day, so I took his remark in the spirit he intended, and grinned back.

  “If I can help you, Gilbert, I will,” I volunteered, since it seemed to be expected of me.

  “Ah, to be so young and eager.” Fournier murmured and Gilbert laughed. “Were we ever like that?”

  “Perhaps once, so long ago I can’t remember.” Gilbert turned to me and said, “Come with me then, but, I’m warning you, I’m starting early.”

  “Name the time and the place and I’ll be waiting,” I promised, keeping the distaste out of my voice with difficulty. I was not looking forward to another long day.

  “Porte Antoine. Six am. We’ll start there - lots of blacksmiths around the gate.” He drained his wine and put his beaker down on the table with a snap.

  “Time to be off. I need a good night’s rest. I didn’t go to bed last night and tomorrow’s going to be a bastard of a day.”

  6

  Gilbert was certainly right about the day. I would never have believed so many horse traders and blacksmiths made a living in Paris. We started at first light, combing the area around the Antoine gate. Even in that small section of the city, we must have visited a dozen stables. It seemed rather like looking for a single grain of sand on a long and storm-tossed beach.

  When we finished in that district, we moved on to another and yet another. At the end of each day, I felt tired, dispirited and in pain. I used to wonder if I would be able to go through the same thing again next morning. This life was demanding. I’d imagined sitting at a desk, writing reports and letters. Nothing could be further from the truth. At night I wrapped my leg up in bandages soaked in hot oil. This took away some of the ache, but made me sleep restlessly and I awoke every morning stiff and sore.

  I had almost forgotten my dramatic arrival in Paris and my first acquaintance, Lefebvre. Then, late one evening, I passed by Bourienne’s tavern on the way back to my lodgings. I felt a sudden longing to talk to anyone other than a blacksmith, a horse dealer or a colleague. I wanted to spend time with someone unconnected with our dreary unending search. So I went inside, hoping he might be there.

  The place was much as I remembered, although a little less crowded and smoky than before. I pushed my way through to Bourienne. He stood exactly where we had left him, as if he never moved at all. I ordered wine and asked him, “Do you remember me?”

  He nodded and frowned. “You’re that friend of Jean Lefebvre.”

  “Seen him tonight?”

  “No, thanks be to providence.”

  “Why do you dislike him so much?” The man’s attitude seemed even more hostile than I remembered.

  Bourienne laughed, a hoarse dry cackle, without any amusement. “What a question to ask me! Answering you would take me days! Let’s just say I’ve got my reasons. I wouldn’t let him into this place from choice, but he pays me and his money’s as good as anyone else’s. I have to make a living and I don’t need to love my customers. If you’ll take some advice, you’ll avoid the dirty salaud like the plague.”

  “What harm has he done to you?”

  “He harms everybody he meets. I’m only one of many.”

  “Well, he helped me. He saved my life and my purse on the night we came here before.”

  “Did he indeed? Unlike him to do something for somebody else, unless they paid him first. You can think yourself lucky. If I were you, I’d leave it at that. Paris is a big city and it’s easy enough to avoid him. All you have to do is not come in here and ask for him.”

  “But I am here asking for him. He said that you’d know where to find him.”

  “I do, more’s the pity.”

  “Thanks for your warning. Now, tell me where he is.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be foolish, don’t blame me when you get into trouble. When he’s not guzzling here, he's usually at the Vache Rouge.” He told me which way to go.

  I finished my wine and left. I'm perverse, or, at least, my father used to say I was and Bourienne’s attitude annoyed me. I was determined to meet Lefebvre again, if only to spite him.

  The Vache Rouge was nearby and easy to find. This was a different type of tavern from Bourienne’s, dimly lit and gloomy. They used tallow dips rather than candles, as only poor people do. The place was not doing well, or its clients did not want their faces to be seen too clearly. I had a notion both of those reasons were true. I groped my way forward, peering into the shadows as I passed. I went up to the bar and called for some wine.

  Then I spotted Lefebvre. He sat at a table against the wall, talking to a couple of men. I began to walk over to them. One man looked startled, as a tallow dip flared up and cast light over my face. Strange, because I had never seen him before. He said something to his companions. The two strangers got up and made their way out of the tavern. They gave me a nod as they passed, but I noticed they kept their faces turned away from me. Their manner was furtive, which made me wonder what their business was with Lefebvre. Why did they leave so hurriedly and why did they try to stop me identifying them?

  Lefebvre greeted me with a grin. “Hello, Soldier, glad to see you again. Did Bourienne tell you where to find me?”

  I dropped into one of the vacant chairs. “He did, but he was most reluctant to do so.”

  “He would be. He thinks I’m spawn of the devil and he usually tells people to avoid me at all costs.”

  “Why?”

  “Bourienne and I go back a long way. We’re related after a fashion. He married my sister, God help her. I didn’t like the way he treated her and told him so. We’ve had our differences and even come to blows more than once. She’s dead now, poor wench. She died young thanks to him. He doesn’t like me and it's mutual. But he sells good wine to me cheap, because I know too much about him for his comfort.”

  “I don’t think I’d drink in a place, if the landlord hated me like that.”

  “I annoy him, which amuses me. Anyway I give him my money because my sister left a child, poor little scrap. He’s with an aunt in the country. Some of Bourienne’s profit goes to keep him there, so I wouldn’t
like the man to be ruined.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t, but forget it. The tale's unpleasant. What have you been doing with yourself? Found a job yet?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have...” I hesitated, seeking the right words, “Just in an office, but the pay's good enough.”

  “An office, you say? Strange.”

  “What’s strange?”

  “Jouneau said he saw you coming out of the Ministry of Police the other day, talking to one of their agents.”

  “Did he indeed?”

  “Are you working there, or is it a deadly secret?”

  “I am and yes, I'd prefer to keep it quiet.” I proceeded to give him an edited version of the story. A change came over him. I was to observe similar expressions again, whenever I told anyone what I did. The expression was partly distaste, partly fear and partly curiosity, all mixed up together. In Lefebvre’s face, curiosity dominated, but he seemed afraid too and I wondered why.

  “How in the name of all the hells did you manage to find a job like that?” he asked me.

  So I told him about the colonel’s relative. When I’d finished, Lefebvre sat back with a sigh. “And here’s me thinking you were just an innocent. I didn’t realise you possessed famous friends.”

  “Infamous may be the better word and he’s not my friend. I’ve only met the man once.”

  “Rather you than me. What’s he like?”

  “Not as I imagined him to be,” I said and described Fouché to him.

  “Interesting?”

  “Very.”

  “So are you one of these fools who are running round all over Paris looking for bombers under every stone?”

  I laughed. “I am. Can you tell me anything which would help us?”

  “No. I was nowhere near the place.”

  “I was,” I said and told him that story too.

  “Well, you lead an exciting life, Soldier,” he said when I had finished. “Next time I see you, you’ll probably be one of the Consuls yourself!”

  “God forbid! I'm just glad to be alive and have enough money to buy my bread...”

  “And wine,” he interrupted me. “Don’t forget the wine! Here, garçon!”

  “I haven’t been paid yet!” I protested.

  “Don’t worry, I told you I’d pay the next time we met. One of these days I may need a favour from you, now you’re in such an exalted position.” He laughed and I laughed with him, little knowing how prophetic his words would prove to be.

  “What do you think about these bombers?” I asked him.

  “They’re fools, whoever they are. They killed or injured dozens, yet they missed the man they intended to kill. Any farmer with a shotgun could do better. Enough people hate Bonaparte in this city and can fire a rifle. Why didn't those idiots do so?”

  “Don’t know. Using a bomb seems stupid to me too. What sort of men do you think they are?”

  “Hundreds of different groups want to rule France. This might be the work of any of them, take your pick.”

  “Such as?”

  “Bonaparte’s coup at Brumaire wasn’t bloodless and neither was his little adventure in Egypt. He lost a whole army there and they all had friends and relatives. Add those who fell from power because of him. Throw in some Jacobins on the one hand and Royalists on the other. It’s a wonder he’s survived this long.”

  “He’ll survive,” I said, certain of the fact. “He’s a man who wins battles and the army is loyal to him.”

  “The ones who fought under him perhaps. What about the troops who follow other generals?”

  “For instance?”

  “Bernadotte, Massena, Moreau’s old pals. You must know them even better than I do.”

  “You’re right.” I turned the idea over in my mind. I hadn’t thought about it quite like that. Then I discarded it.

  “No. One thing I’m sure of. These plotters weren’t soldiers or, at least, not good ones. A soldier would use a rifle, as you said, or hold his nerve sufficiently to set a bomb off at the right time.”

  “No doubt you’re right.” Lefebvre sounded as if he had lost interest, so I dropped the subject and we spent the rest of the evening in idle conversation. I can’t say I found out much more about him than I had before. Certainly I learned absolutely nothing about the men he was with when I came in. ‘Some friends’ was how he described them and changed the conversation abruptly.

  For once, I was not tired. On the contrary, I seemed to be refreshed by different company and a change of scene, however unsavoury. “Do you often come to the Red Cow?” I asked Lefebvre as we were leaving.

  “From time to time, when I fall out with Louis yet again.”

  “I’ll look for you here or at his place then.”

  “Do that.”

  “I’m buying next time,” I said, hoping I might have enough money by then. We said our good nights and parted.

  I started next day wishing our search would finish. Gilbert only laughed at me when I mentioned the notion to him and he was right. “What are you grumbling about?” he said as we sat down at the end of another frustrating day. “You’re free, walking around the city, not tied to some bench in a workshop, and you’re being paid. Besides having my company, of course, which is a pearl beyond price!”

  “It certainly is!” I agreed with a grin. “But speaking of being paid, I’m getting short of money...”

  “Is this a subtle way of asking me to buy the next bottle?”

  “Actually no,” I said, feeling myself reddening. Unfortunately I can’t stop the blood rising when I’m embarrassed, which is why I never play cards. My face always gives me away. I hadn’t expected Gilbert to interpret my words like that. “I only wanted to know when I'll be paid.”

  “Soon. The pay's irregular, but better than you were used to in the army, from what I hear.”

  “We were usually in arrears, but we lived off the land. I can’t do such things here.”

  “No, indeed. Start pilfering and they’ll soon clap you up. Ask Picot when you go back to the bureau if you’re short. He works on the second floor. He’ll advance you something on account and sort it out later. For tonight, I’ll buy our next bottle.”

  I protested and put some coins on the table. He swept them up into his hand and gave them back to me.

  “Keep them. You can pay tomorrow.”

  I thanked him and didn’t insist. I’d been worried about paying for my lodgings because the landlord was becoming impatient. I said I’d go to see Picot early the next day and join Gilbert later on.

  When I arrived at the Ministry next morning, there was no one in the bureau except Rollin. He had his coat on, as if he was about to leave.

  “Can you tell me where to find a man called Picot?” I asked him.

  “Upstairs. Room at the far end of the corridor. Short of money?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Don’t fancy your chances. Picot’s tight-fisted.” He stood back suddenly and put his fingers to his nose. “What have you been doing? You reek.”

  “Visiting stables, looking for the owner of the horse that got blown up.”

  “Rather you than me, but you’re probably used to the stink by now.” He walked out before I had a chance to reply.

  Picot did advance me some money and told me when I could expect the rest. He didn't give me much, just enough to pay the landlord and a little over for my immediate needs. The world seemed less bleak with some coins to jingle in my pocket again.

  On that very day too, the eighth one of our search, everything changed. I returned from seeing Picot and we moved into the Faubourg du Temple. We were both heartily sick of the task by now. Gilbert, though, kept saying police work was all about boredom and I’d better get used to it, as he'd had to do.

  After our first day in the Antoine district, Gilbert and I worked separately. We went to the same area, but took different streets. We were able to talk to more people and we covered the ground more quickly. Because I wa
s so new to the Ministry of Police, Gilbert obtained a pass for me, to be shown if anyone questioned my authority. Very few people did and they backed off immediately when I produced the paper. It was very useful, at this time and later on.

  Three horseshoes had been found in the Rue Saint Nicaise after the bombing. What happened to the fourth one no one knew. Perhaps the nag only had three legs to begin with. Nothing would have surprised me by now. Gilbert gave one of them to me, complete with part of the hoof and bits of grey horsehair, grisly indeed. The shoes had a small mark, a ‘v’, cut into the inside curve. They had obviously been fashioned with care by a man skilled in his trade and proud of his handiwork. This fact made us think we would be able to find him eventually, if we lived long enough.

  I met Gilbert as arranged and divided the streets. I went off into yet another small blacksmith’s shop, no different from the others I'd visited before.

  “Do you recognise this shoe?” I asked again, expecting the usual negative reply.

  This blacksmith said, “Yes, it’s one of mine.”

  “You’re sure?” I tensed. Had he really said the words I’d been longing to hear? I couldn't believe our search might be over at last.

  “This is my mark, look.” He showed me the ‘v’. “V's my initial, ‘V’ for Vadim. I always mark them so I’m sure the shoe’s mine, if anyone comes in to complain. You wouldn’t believe the trouble I have with some customers, Citizen.”

  “This particular shoe - do you remember the horse you made it for?”

  The blacksmith turned the hoof over and over in his hand, running his fingers through the remaining coarse strands of horsehair.

  “From the colour of this hair, I’d say it was Lamballe’s old mare. I don't shoe many greys but she’s one or, at least, she was, if this is hers. She had small hooves and a habit of pecking. The front always wore down before the rest of the metal, just like this one has. What’s happened to her?”

  “She got blown up by the bomb in the Rue Saint-Nicaise.”