The Orphan's Tale (41 page)

"
I will see to it," said Guillart.

"
Thank you." Malet headed back toward the Prefect's office. Once there, he found a pile of papers requiring his attention. Some of them appeared to be personal items; he set them aside to review later that afternoon, and took care of the rest as quickly as he could. He rose and checked his watch. Ten minutes after two. Time to go to Mercier's headquarters.

**  **  **

Everything was in place by six o'clock. The various chief inspectors had departed for their headquarters after having seen to placing their men. As he had expected, Plougastel had raised a fuss, and been seconded, surprisingly, by Chief Inspector Fougeroux. Malet had resolved the problem by gently reminding them all of his rank.

Now things were settled: Malet would leave the Prefecture at seven forty
-five, walk to Le Chasseur Affamé, arriving by eight, and eat a leisurely supper. He would walk back to his house by way of the Rue de Rivoli, turn left on the Rue Vieille du Temple, and follow that street of palaces past the Hotel de Rohan with its beautiful frieze of the Horses of Apollo over the stable entrance. His street, the Rue Regnaud, opened abruptly to the right just past the Hotel de Rohan. The entire route encompassed winding streets bordered by high houses. It was the perfect area to plan an ambush.

He sat back in his chair and checked his watch one last time.
Six fifteen. He sighed and looked at the papers on the desk. He had cleared away all the ones pertaining to business, and only the obviously private ones were left. He had time to read them before he left the Prefecture.

Intriguing.
Malet opened it and read.  An invitation from the Minister of Finance requesting.

…the Honour of The Presence of Paul V. Malet Chief Inspector, Provisional Prefect of Police At a Dinner To Be Held On Thursday, the Tenth of October…

Malet sighed. An invitation to a formal dinner at one of the great houses on the Rue de Grenelle, and he could not accept. He did not care for Parisian high society, which had not shown itself to be much different from the criminal high society that he had met through Cheat-Death's patronage, but it would have been pleasant to speak with TiTi, a prostitute he had known from his days as Police Commissioner in Vautreuil, who had risen to be the mistress of the Minister of Finance. Their friendship had been a longstanding and warm one, and he always enjoyed seeing her.

But it wasn
't to be.

It was too late to send his regrets; he would send a letter tomorrow and apologize for his lateness in replying.

He tucked the invitation in his breast pocket and lifted the packet. Guillart's cover note was very brief:

Chief Inspector:

Results were obtained on the all points bulletin that you mandated far sooner than we had expected. In view of what I had perceived to be the urgency of your request, I am placing this information at your disposal for review. If you need any further information, I will be happy to send out any instructions you may deem appropriate.

Malet's hand shook as he set the note down. So soon! He riffled through the materials and saw the name: Jacques Fanchon, and an address barely three streets from Malet's own home. And the rest of the information - He scanned it. Vaux had adopted a child, lived quietly and took an active part in community welfare. He attended mass daily, gave to the poor. Nothing had changed.

He set the papers aside.
Nothing had changed. He was dealing with a very good man who was still a criminal in the eyes of the law. He had to face the heartbreak all over again unless he could find a way to obtain a pardon. If he approached the Attorney-General, or any of the judiciary -

But they had disregarded his pleas in Vaux
' behalf all those years ago, why should they listen to him now? He could see the heartbreak starting all over again, and he was not sure he would be able to bear it.

There had to be something he could do!
Surely, surely things had changed! There was no indication that Vaux was planning to leave Paris, and the situation with Dracquet arguably was of greater urgency. He could draw breath and take some time to plan. If only it were not necessary!

Malet gently folded the packet and started to place it in his breast pocket.
He changed his mind. He did not want this concern to hinder his action that evening. There would be time the next day, when he could do some thinking. He placed the papers in the drawer of the desk and closed it with a thump.

What time was it?

He looked at his watch. He had over an hour before he had to go to Le Chasseur Affamé. He was unsettled and off-balance. He needed to collect his thoughts, to refocus. He would be risking his life this night and he could not be distracted. He would go apart and relax for a while.

He left his office and headed for the door.

Chamberlain Clerel was still at the Prefecture. He saw Malet and said, "Is the Chief Inspector leaving for the night?"

"
Yes, Clerel," said Malet. "I will be going to supper at 8:00 if anyone asks. Le Chasseur Affamé, at the Place du Chatelet. I am expected."

"
Very good, Monsieur," said Clerel. He seemed hesitant. He added, without his usual pomposity, "You will be careful, won't you? Things do not feel quite right tonight..."

Malet nodded.
"I am always careful," he said.

"
Then good night, Inspector. And God keep you."

Malet went out the door.
He thought he heard someone give a muffled cheer, but he saw no one on the street. A line of fiacres waited on the street, as always. He went to the nearest one and opened the double doors in the front.

"G
ood evening, Inspector!" the driver said. "Montmartre again this evening?"

Malet climbed into the fiacre.
"If you please," he said. He would be able to breathe freely at Montmartre.

              LAROUCHE TAILS MONSEIGNEUR

Larouche had been bored for the past several days. He had had difficulty finding food and shelter, for the weather was turning cold, and he had spent most of his time hunting shelter and warmth among the crowded back streets of the central Parisian arrondissement, where the poor clustered.

He had lived hand to mouth, digging through scrap heaps for every bite of food he consumed and every rag of clothing on his back.
He swallowed his pride and begged for alms beneath Lemaire's frieze of the Last Judgment on the pediment of the church of Sainte Marie-Madeleine near the Place de la Concorde. He was small and dirty and underfed; he collected very little money.

He shivered in the cold and wondered how he could get some warm clothes to fit him.
He thought he might go to the flower-seller's grandson after all. Then the weather had broken once more and it was warm enough to leave the reeking throngs of beggars. He decided that he had earned a little fun; time to go in search of Monseigneur.

He had waylaid the man outside the Prefecture that morning and knocked his hat to the ground with a clatter.
It had startled an oath from Monseigneur's lips that had made Larouche chuckle.

He had caught him at mid
-afternoon, as well, when he was in the company of several other cops of obvious seniority. The attack had occasioned smiles and laughter, and though Monseigneur had smiled, too, that smile had been very grim.

Larouche had done nothing further until evening.
He had snatched some food from strollers near the cathedral, who had abandoned their picnic blanket to blink at the twin towers and point at the spire. Larouche had eaten well. He had half a chicken wrapped in a napkin and tucked beneath his shirt for that evening's meal.

It was growing dark: time for Monseigneur to leave the Prefecture.
Larouche skipped across the Pont de L'Archeveché to the Quai de Montebello, and then waited in the shadow of the Conciergerie, by the Quai des Orfevres. He had been alert to any attempts to catch him, but Monseigneur didn't seem to be the type to send others to fight in his place. Although he had noticed a knot of men waiting near the end of the street...

He decided that they weren
't Police after watching them carefully. Probably enterprising pickpockets. Whoever they were, they didn't concern Larouche or Monseigneur.

Larouche was beginning to respect the man.
Had he looked closely into his own heart he might have discovered a feeling of liking. Monseigneur was a haughty, proud man, but he fought his own battles and took his defeats honestly.

Larouche had a pocketful of rocks and a lively will to mischief that evening.
He greeted Monseigneur's emergence from the Prefecture with a hastily smothered crow of triumph. Monseigneur paused to look up and down the street, then summoned a cab.

Aha! thought Larouche, It
's Montmartre this evening! And no wonder: the sky was clear and bright, the air, though crisp, still held some warmth, and there was a wind. A beautiful time to look out over Paris.

He hurried to the cab and swung up to the back as it pulled away from the front of the Prefecture.
He noticed that another carriage, apparently a private one, followed them.

Once at Montmartre, Larouche gave Monseigneur a good head start and then followed him up to the summit of the
Butte. He felt a moment's panic when he couldn't locate the man: had he lost him? Then he relaxed and took a stone from his shirt. No time like the present, and there he was.

Monseigneur was walking slowly along beneath the evening sky.
The briskness was gone from his walk and he was obviously tired and sad.

Larouche paused and lowered the stone.

Why was Monseigneur sad? He had so much to be grateful for. He was warmly clothed, he obviously ate well, and he had a place to sleep at night. Was it possible that someone's heart could ache even when it was housed in a healthy body?

Larouche knew the answer even as he formed the question.
His was a wiry little body, and he had seldom been really sick, and yet the year after Père Louis' death had been the worst of his life. He had wept every night, and he had thought himself the loneliest soul in the world.             

Could such a thing have happened to Monseigneur?

Larouche eyed him once more, troubled by a sudden feeling of commiseration. There was something straight-forward and steely about the man, he was one who fought his own battles and would never compromise, no matter what was at stake. And, it seemed, his heart could ache, as well.

Larouche had a sudden urge to run to him and take his hand and tell him how cold it was and how difficult it was for him to keep from becoming a thief and a catamite and one of those who scouted for criminals and ran their errands.
It was hard to remember what Père Louis had said about honor and virtue when it was cold and food was scarce and there were six people to quarrel over each crumb that fell to the ground. He had the feeling that Monseigneur would understand.

But he couldn
't do it. It would be a sort of surrender. He would surrender to no one.

Larouche had come to throw rocks: his target was there and the rock was in his hand.
He lifted the rock again as the man paused by the portals of St. Pierre de Montmartre and raised his head to gaze up at the stars. Now was the time to let fly, now, when he was looking upward with such weariness and longing. It would be like a blow to the face.

Larouche lowered the rock and turned away.
There would be time later. He moved toward the deepening shadows at the corner of the street to wait until Monseigneur was ready to move on.

He froze suddenly.
The shadows were alive with danger, and he caught a snatch of words. What were they saying? Larouche moved closer.

"
...Make it count!

...Best shot...

"
Won't know what hit him..."

The shadows separated into four cloaked and muffled men.
Their clothing was good, but they had an indefinable quality to them that spoke of those who kill for money. He saw the fellow with the gray-smudged chin holding something that glinted wickedly blue-black in the starlight. He was slowly raising it to shoulder level, steadying it -

Larouche bit off a yell as the blue glint began to level.
He launched himself at Monseigneur, who was standing with his back to them and gazing out over the city, and struck him squarely behind the knees. The blow folded Monseigneur over and hurled him flat to the ground as the night splintered into a roar of sound.