The Orphan's Tale (24 page)

"
He knows you," said the hostler. "He's started looking for you each morning."

Malet laughed and stroked the stallion's glossy neck.
"He's a good one!" he said. "I wish I could buy him."

"
Maybe you can," the hostler said. "He's for sale, you know. Nobody ever came to claim him. What do you think it'd take to buy him?"

"
More than I can afford. But I'd settle for a foal by him, at any rate. Has anyone thought to put their mares to him?"

The hostler grinned.
"A few have," he said. "There'll be some good foals this time next year!"

Malet patted the stallion's shoulder and stepped out of the stall.
"Maybe one of them will be mine," he said. He brushed his hands off and said, "Is my mount ready?"

"
Of course, Inspector," said the hostler. "Ready and waiting these past five minutes. He's out in the yard - though if you want me to throw a saddle on that white fellow's back, instead..."

Malet shook his head.
"It's too tempting," he said. "Maybe before he goes to the auction. Which did you pick for me today?"

"
Your favorite," said the hostler, opening the door and motioning Malet through. "Lutin."

Malet nodded to the
stable hands who were holding the tall, gray gelding. "Good choice," he said. "I have quite a spell of riding to do today."

"
Carry you all day and not tire," said the hostler. "Where do you go?"

Malet opened the saddlebags and put in a folded shirt, a purse full of coins, miscellaneous toilet articles and a sheet of paper covered with his writing.
He gathered the reins in his hands, set his foot in the stirrup and sprang into the saddle. "Here and there," he said. "I have some people to see. I will bring this fellow back tomorrow."

"
Then have a pleasant day, M. l'Inspecteur," the hostler replied with a smile, and motioned to the stable hands to open the double gates to the street.

             
**  **  **

Malet sat back comfortably in the saddle and arranged the reins in his left hand.
He had once commanded a regiment of Horse Artillery, and he had always enjoyed riding. He usually borrowed horses from the Police stables - it was one of the perquisites of a Chief Inspector - and this time he had some errands to run that would be easier done from a saddle.

And
it would be a good way to shake Dracquet's spies, who had been tailing him since the day he had gone to Charles de Saint-Légère's district. René Benoit had had the temerity to deliver a note to the desk of the Officer of the Day at the Prefecture at midmorning:

Come to my house for luncheon today.

                
Dracquet

Alain Archet had been O.O.D. when René Benoit had delivered the message, and while Malet did not like Archet, he admitted privately that the man had his good points, chief among them being an inability to tolerate poor manners among those he perceived to be criminals and a total lack of fear of such people.

He had looked Benoit up and down, made him sign in, and then refused to admit him.
Benoit had departed mouthing threats.

The fact that René Benoit was the messenger interested Malet, for Benoit was a force to be reckoned with in his own right.
He had risen from being a strong man in Dracquet's pay to the position of chief lieutenant and confidant.

Malet had made it his business to listen to whispers; he had heard that Benoit had an eye to Dracquet's empire.
The man had been one of the chief suspects in a grisly series of murders near Reuilly, involving a clique of Ultra-Royalists. Malet had solved the puzzle of the murders, but he had never quite been able to prove Benoit's complicity in them and, through him, Dracquet's involvement. But it had been a close thing.

Malet smiled to himself.
If he succeeded in bringing Dracquet down, Benoit could possibly step in as a web-spinner. But Malet intended to nail Benoit before that could happen.

He straightened in the saddle.
He had been riding at his ease, proceeding west along the Quai de la Megisserie at an easy amble, well aware that his tailers were keeping up with him. They were drawing abreast of the stone battlements of the Pont Neuf. He could see the tall old houses flanking the triangular, tree-shaded Place Dauphine at the westernmost tip of the Île de la Cité.

Time to shake them.
He dug his heels into the gray's sides as he hauled back and right on the reins. Lutin had been trained as a cavalry charger. He reared, spun round and, the reins suddenly released, broke into a flat-out gallop straight toward the spies.

Malet, leaning forward, caught a glimpse of two white, startled faces as the men threw themselves aside.
He laughed and urged the horse even faster as he clattered between the two spies, crossed the northern end of the Place du Chatelet, passed beneath the tall shadow of the Tour St. Jacques, and continued east along the Rue de Rivoli.

Time to pay a call at the Place Gredin.

              **  **  **

An
hour later, Malet, once again in the saddle, had a great deal to consider. Michaud had reported some gossip about Jean Ensenat that Malet had found useful. One of the prostitutes who came to his shop was regularly patronized by the man who had accompanied Dracquet to the Conciergerie the day before Ensenat's murder. He had told her several interesting things about Dracquet's conversation with Ensenat that day, and she had been willing to pass the word on in exchange for the price of a bottle of brandy.

"
She wrote it out in her own hand and signed it when I mentioned your name," Michaud had said, offering a sheet of good writing paper covered with a fine, spidery script that bespoke a convent education. "Said she'd do anything for 'The Inspector'."

Malet had taken the paper and scanned it, then smiled and put it in his pocket.
"Give Nanette my thanks when next she comes in," he said. "This will be very useful. If nothing else, it'll tie Dracquet in to one murder. Tell the girl to be very careful, though. By all she says, things are happening very quickly."

Michaud had nodded.
He fiddled with some silver-topped crystal bottles and then said, "Th-the deal still holds, doesn't it?"

Malet had lifted his eyebrows.

"You'll let me run when this is finished?"

"
Of course. I gave my word."

Michaud had nodded.
"So you did," he said, almost in a whisper. The next words came out in a rush. "I don't understand it. You're letting me run - but you're going all out to bury Dracquet - "

"
Well?"

"
I don't understand it. Why?"

Malet had pulled on his gloves and turned toward the window.
His eyes had sharpened for a moment; a shifting shadow had resolved itself to the form of a ragged, wild-haired little boy scurrying away across the square. He watched for a moment - the boy had looked familiar - and then turned back to Michaud.

"
You're a crook, Michaud," he said. "Dracquet is a murderer. I tolerate crooks if I can't prove anything against them. I never tolerate murderers. Help me catch this murderer and you can leave with my blessing." He had set his hat on his head at an angle and swept out the door.

Now Malet rode northwest along the Rue de Bretagne, which took him close to his house in the Marais.
He nodded to those who greeted him and, when he reached the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, turned north and spurred to a trot.

The streets were redolent with the smell of cooking food, and dogs darted here and there and snarled over bits of bone and meat flung down by passing vendors.
He was approaching the old stone triumphal arch, called the Porte Saint-Denis, that straddled the street, channeling the clamorous traffic beneath it.

A
cocoa-seller, burdened with a square wooden cask strapped to his back, scurried across the street almost beneath the gray's hooves. He turned and grinned up at Malet and offered cocoa in a none-too-clean cup, then shrugged when Malet shook his head.

The Porte Saint
-Denis rose above them, its white stone disfigured by the grime of a hundred and sixty years of smoke and soot. Malet could see the words LIBERTÉ EGALITÉ INDIVISIBILITÉ carved at the top.

A
tangle of beggars shouted for alms beneath it and blocked the way of the passers-by. One of them caught sight of him and elbowed his companions in the ribs with a grin.

Malet ignored the man.
He drew rein, checked his watch and then looked around. A confectioner's shop was just before the arch. He took out his snuffbox, opened it, surveyed the candies inside, and then smiled wryly and dismounted.

"
Hold your horse for a sou, Gov'nor!" cried the beggar who had first seen him, a seedy fellow of middling height with a crooked smile.

Malet surveyed the man from head to foot, his nostrils wrinkling fastidiously, before he handed the reins over.
"See you take care of him," he said, "Or I will have your hide for a doormat."

"
Coo-ee, Gov'nor!" said the man, whose grin was more pronounced. "Keep your pants on! I will guard 'im with my life!"

Malet favored the man with a frosty nod and went inside, pausing at the door when the man said,
"My sou!"

"
You'll get it when I come out," he snapped.

He bought a handful of toffee candies, paid the shopkeeper, and went outside again to find the beggar holding his horse with every appearance of innocence, except for the knowing smirks of the others.

"All square?" he said.

"
All square, Cap'n!" the man said, handing the reins back and slapping Lutin on the shoulder.

"
Then stand aside," Malet said. He flipped the man a coin, mounted Lutin, and rode east again along the Boulevard Saint-Martin past the smaller, darker twin of the Porte Saint-Denis, the Porte Saint-Martin.

When he was well along, he reined the horse to a walk and turned to open the saddlebag.
As he had expected, the coin purse was gone along with the folded shirt. As he had also expected, two closely-written sheets of paper had been set in their place.

Inspector Gilles d'Arthez of the 12th arrondissement had quite a lot to report, by the look of it.

Malet smiled grimly, opened the sheets, and began to read. He folded them away after a moment and drew a deep breath.

A
rrivals and departures, all very discreet, and at all hours of the day and night. Curtained coaches, cloaked visitors - all very interesting. And d'Arthez had kept careful count of those of Dracquet's household that he saw coming and going, and it appeared that the household had swelled by about three people. d'Arthez had caught voices speaking English - Hm, thought Malet - and curtains were always drawn in the house by day and by night.

d
'Arthez had been good enough to keep careful track of René Benoit's activities as well as those of Dracquet. It would come in very handy. The next report was due in two days.

English voices, Malet thought again.

He drew a deep breath and consulted his watch. Two o'clock. The day was still young. He turned his head to look northwest. The Rose d'Or was not far away, and he recalled seeing a very nice little sorrel mare in the stable. She was obviously a lady's mount: Elise de Clichy's, perhaps? Did she ride?

He looked up at the sky, which was the sort of clear, exuberant blue only achieved in early autumn.
The air was crisp, spiced by a breeze from the west that smelled of mown hayfields and late roses. The streets were filled with brightly clad people enjoying the beautiful day, and flower-sellers at every corner offered roses and carnations. He knew cafes where you could buy ices, or enjoy tea and coffee along with thin, crisp, buttery almond tuiles.

He loved to talk with Elise and watch her bustle about the Rose d'Or.
How much better it would be to venture out in this splendid weather and enjoy the beauties of Paris with her beside him! It would be splendid to take her to one of those cafes. Not even the strictest-minded person would find anything to make him raise his eyebrows at such an outing.

But did she ride?

Malet drew the reins between his fingers and thought for a moment and then smiled. There was one way to find out.

A RIDE THROUGH
PARIS

"Take three cloves, Georgine. You'll have two extra in case the toothache persists." Elise unlocked the small wooden box and shook the cloves into her palm, then gave them to the girl standing beside her. "Tell your mother I have never known them to fail."

Georgine smiled at her, sketched a curtsey, and went skipping off.

Elise watched her go, conscious of a sudden ache in her heart. If Marie-Françoise had lived, she would have been just Georgine's age.