The Orphan's Tale (11 page)

He donned his hat, stepped out onto the street, and set off at a brisk walk, intending to head
north west, back toward the Prefecture.

He considered twirling his walking stick.
It was a magnificent fall day, he was in his usual splendid health, they were closing in on that group of vicious slash-killers and, best of all, he had miraculously been given another chance to nail Constant Dracquet.

He decided against it, finally.
Cane-twirling was appropriate for the Champs Elysees, but not a street in middle-class Paris. Besides, it was not dignified-

On the heels of that thought, like a defiant jeer, came a dark blur from the left, a blow, the sudden feel of wind in his hair, and the clatter of his hat against the pavement.

Someone had thrown a stone and knocked his hat off.

It took him a moment to understand what had happened.
He stared at the hat, bent and picked it up, and stared at it again.

Someone had thrown a stone and knocked his hat off!

No one had ever done anything like that to him before! People had stopped and were laughing at him. It was worse than being shot at!

"
Damnation!" he hissed, looking intently toward the left as he set the hat back on his head.

It was on the pavement again a moment later.
This time the stone had come from the right.

He waited some minutes before replacing it.
Nothing happened. He took a deep breath, released it, and started walking again. A second later the hat was on the ground again.

"
Best give it up, Captain!" someone called as Malet retrieved the hat for the third time.

"
You're right," Malet growled, and set off toward the Prefecture, feeling an unaccustomed itch between his shoulder-blades at the thought that the next stone might hit him on the back of the head. It was almost infuriating when no more came.

After another block he hailed a cab and gave directions to the Prefecture.
Once inside, he replaced his hat.

**  **  **

Larouche watched him, grinning, and then turned away toward the Rose d'Or. They gave generous hand-outs there, as he recalled. He was not disappointed.

THE PROVISIONAL PREFECT OF
PARIS

The bluish lips were drawn convulsively back over protruding teeth in a grotesque rictus as the clouded eyes glared upward into nothingness. The past evening's rain had drenched the hair; over the night it had frozen to a cap of ice. The room was very cold; although it was past noon, the hair was only now beginning to thaw and relax into ringlets.

Chief Inspector Malet frowned thoughtfully down into the staring eyes and then lower still to the arms, lying stiffly alongside the torso.
Something in their position made his frown deepen, and he bent to look at the elbows. He nodded and straightened after a moment. The man would be delivering no more bottles of champagne.

"
The rigor is still well established," he said. "There's no sign of it passing. This one was probably breathing his last about the time I was eating yesterday's supper. Not a good supper, unfortunately, but I don't doubt he'd have been glad to trade places with me." He spoke thoughtfully, with no hint of a smile.

It was hard to tell if the Chief Inspector was joking, so the man beside him, Inspector Layard of the Rue du Bac precinct, temporized by making a noise that lay between clearing his throat and laughing.

Malet flashed him a glance.

Layard straightened self
-consciously. "Suicide, do you think, M. Chief Inspector?" he asked. "He definitely died from hanging. There's the rope, you can see the marks on his neck from hanging-and you can see that his hands are free."

"
You say he was found at the Pont Royal?" Malet asked quietly.

"
That's right, monsieur."

Malet nodded.
He looked down at the livid face and then eyed the coarse hemp rope around the neck. "There are no splinters in his fingertips," he said. "And yet this is a very rough rope."

"
But he's a suicide!" Layard objected. "He wanted to die."

"
Most of them change their minds halfway through and start clawing," said Malet. "By all reports it's not a pleasant way to go. Of course-" he shot a sudden, uncomfortably keen look at Layard, "-he could have gotten the splinters while knotting the rope." He fell silent again.

"
Well?" said Layard.

Malet raised his eyes to the man's face.
"Oh I have no objection to a verdict of suicide," he said mildly. "Provided, of course, that you can explain to my satisfaction the fact that his arms were tied."

Layard had been on the force ten years, but this was the first time he had had to report to the acting Prefect at the morgue in the Île de France square, east of the cathedral, to review a corpse found in his bailiwick.
He had heard that Chief Inspector Malet was a stickler, and now he believed it.

"
What?" he demanded. "I saw no marks on his wrists!"

"
Here," said Malet as he lifted the corpse's arm. The body was still in the grip of rigor mortis; the arm moved stiffly. "If you look carefully," he said, "you'll see a line of bruising on the inside of his elbow. His arms were looped together behind him with a thin cord, from what I can tell. Very effective, and it doesn't mark the wrists."

"B
ut why would anyone-"

"
To disguise a murder," Malet replied.

"
But who-"

"
That, my lad, is for you to find out," said Malet with a smile. "It may be easier than you thought: this fellow has the look of a tough about him, and if you ask among the dockworkers, or whores, or other such, you may find what you need to know."

Malet glanced at the young man's expression and continued,
"Also, this particular hanging has the look of an execution about it; I have seen this man before, and he was very nervous then..." He remembered the man's behavior in the cathedral, and his own last words to him. Perhaps the man had decided to seek a better master, after all. He had lost his life for it-and gained his soul. I would have advised it even so, he thought.

Malet looked up at Inspector Layard and continued,
"I suspect that he ratted on someone, and you may wish to look into this fellow's relationship with a man who goes by the name 'Dracquet', or another named 'Benoit', his right hand man, but that's your call, of course. Keep the office of the Prefect advised on the progress of the case."

He pulled on his gloves and swept a glance round at the rows of corpses laid on their tables, and said almost off
-handedly, "We have had quite a haul today, especially that slashing victim. That's the eighth, and the newspapers have gotten wind of them. Let's hope we're not so lucky tomorrow. Gentlemen- " He nodded to the others in the room and went to the door.

Layard watched as the Chief Inspector moved away.
He reflected glumly on the meaning of the word 'stickler'-and then forgot his reflections as Malet turned and smiled warmly at him.

"
And by the way, M. Layard," said Malet, "You did an excellent job noting all the details when the body was found, and then following up by taking measurements. Not enough people do that. You'll find it invaluable in your investigation. Good day."

Layard, suddenly aware of the respectful gazes of the constables around him, was filled with the warm feeling that he had just been publicly honored.
He watched Malet pass between the silent rows of corpses and out of the cold room; as the man turned he smiled and raised his hand in a half-salute.

**  **  **

Malet left the icy rooms of the morgue and stepped out into sun-drenched air that seemed mild by comparison. Corpses had long ago ceased to bother him, but he was always glad to leave the morgue, and he had been viewing the bodies there since just after noon. He paused just outside the doorway to don his hat and gaze westward at the apse of the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris. The worn, shabby stones seemed to glow in the golden mid-afternoon sun.

"
And was there anything noteworthy, M. l'Inspecteur?" asked a voice to his right.

Malet frowned slightly and looked over at a man who had come up beside him.
"Nothing out of the ordinary, M. Franck," he said with thinly veiled distaste. Franck was a lead writer for Le Moniteur, a press organ that Malet considered only slightly above a scandal sheet. "A collection of corpses in varying stages of decay."

"
And-?"

"
And nothing else," Malet said briskly as he headed toward the Rue du Cloître Notre-Dame. He accorded a cold nod to the man and started to push his way through the crowd of beggars and rubber-neckers who jammed the square outside the morgue.

Franck stepped directly in front of Malet.

"You're blocking my path," said Malet.

"C
ome now, Inspector," said Franck. "I hear there's another slash victim in there. Is it true?"

Malet tried to step around the man, but Franck followed him.

"Another slash victim," said Franck. "That makes how many in the past two months? Eight? Nine? Was this one tortured to death like the others?"

Malet stopped, looked Franck up and down and said,
"I believe I have been courteous with you up to now, and it has given me no results. Will you stand aside, or must I resort to stronger methods?"

Franck moved out of Malet's way with a half
-smile, then fell in beside him. "You have never given the press any cooperation," he said. "I don't understand why. We keep the public informed, that's all. We can be a very dangerous enemy-"

Malet halted and turned to face him.
"So can I," he said softly. "Are you threatening me, M. Franck?"

"
Not at all," said Franck with a shrug and a smile. "I only seek to discover why you despise us."

"
I don't despise the press," said Malet with frosty cordiality. "I simply have a distaste for those who, sitting in a sewer, feel the need to add to it."

"
Indeed!" said Franck, who appeared to be torn between his personal indignation at the insult that he had just been offered and his professional appreciation of a well-turned phrase.

"
Indeed," said Malet.

"
In return for that gratuitous insult, M. Malet," said Franck, "I should think you would at least grant me leave to view the corpses."

"
You have a point," said Malet after a moment's thought. He reached into the breast of his jacket and took out a notebook. He opened it, took out a gold pencil from his pocket, wrote swiftly, and then tore out the page and handed it to the man.

"
Give this to the guard at the door," he said. "Tell him to show you number eight first."

Franck took the note in astonished silence and watched as Malet turned and continued on toward the Prefecture.

Malet was smiling to himself as he strolled down the Boulevard du Palais. Number eight was a 'floater' that had been pulled from the Seine the evening before. It had been dead for so long that the fatty tissues had turned to dark brown corpse-wax, and the features were distorted to a nightmare's rendition of a human face. There was no stench, but the river scavengers had eaten away great chunks of flesh. It was not the sort of thing anyone liked to view right after eating. M. Franck was in for an unforgettable afternoon if Malet was any judge of people.

There might be some repercussions from his sojourn in the morgue.
Malet considered for a moment and then shrugged. Or maybe not. If all went according to plan, there would be no more slash-victims after another day or so. The trap was nearly read to be sprung; it only required the right day.

He dismissed Franck after a moment and turned his thoughts to the afternoon's activities.
He had a campaign to plan, one he had been wanting to pursue for years, and he was looking forward to it. And it would be nice to be able to give a figurative black eye to Chief Inspector Guerin of the 18th arrondissement.

Guerin had been the ranking Chief Inspector in
Paris up until Malet's arrival from Picardy, where he had been Commissioner of Police for the city of Vautreuil. Malet had been placed in a position senior to Guerin, and the man had taken that fact, coupled with Malet's illegitimate birth and prison upbringing, as an insuperable insult. Their dealings had always been frigidly cold.

A
lexandre Guerin, as the Chief Inspector in charge of the 18th arrondissement, had rebuffed all Malet's attempts to secure his collaboration in pursuing Constant Dracquet. He had done it in such a way that Malet had begun to wonder if Guerin's refusal might perhaps be triggered by more than mere personal dislike.

But things were just a little different now.
A strong lead against Dracquet had come at a time when he had all the power and latitude of the position of Prefect at his disposal. And-only conceive of it!-the matter in question, an ethics problem, was one that could properly be handled only by the Prefect of Police or his stand-in.