Conspiracy

by Iain Gale

  Macpherson nodded. ‘Perhaps. If that’s how best to tackle him.’

  ‘I need to impress him. He’s bound to test me, but I can play him at his game.’

  Macpherson nodded. ‘There is perhaps a way in which I can help to convince him of your commitment to his cause. And of course to your own pocket. I have an idea, but it will mean losing two of my agents.’

  Keane shook his head. ‘No, let me do something of my own first. I want to see how far he’s prepared to go.’

  *

  It was clear to Keane that the best way to convince Fouché of his ability would be to impress him on his own territory, deep in the demi-monde of the brothels and gambling dens of the Palais-Royal. He contemplated how best to do it. Of course, to stage a show in a brothel would not be beyond his powers, he thought, but, enjoyable as it might be, it would be unlikely to have the desired effect. Far better and more obvious to put on a demonstration at the gaming table.

  He looked at Macpherson. ‘Fouché’s a gambler, you said?’

  ‘Yes, inveterate. He can’t stop. High stakes too. And he operates his own gaming house. At least that’s what they say. It might just be a story. But he certainly plays every night at the Palais-Royal.’

  ‘Then that’s where I’ll meet him. On his own territory. Let’s see if I can’t take some money from him, the more the better. I suspect he’ll want it back. Then we’ll see where that leads us.’

  Macpherson shook his head. ‘This is a daring scheme, Keane, and it might just work. But I wonder, is it not perhaps merely rash? Why not let me try my idea?’

  Keane shook his head. ‘And risk losing two good men? No. We’ll do it my way. Trust me, sir. I know what I’m doing.’

  He rose abruptly from the table. ‘Silver should be on his way. We have an escort?’

  Macpherson nodded. ‘As I said, captain, four men. All trusted. They await my word.’

  ‘Then you had best summon them, sir. We have no time to lose.’

  They found Silver with Archer in the house’s small dining room, nursing a cup of coffee.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  Archer replied, ‘He’s as ready as he’ll ever be, sir.’

  ‘What got into you, man? Brandy of all things.’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I suppose I’m just unhappy. I miss my Gabby and I ain’t cut out for this sort of life. I miss Spain and the boys, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Silver, so do I. Well, you’re in luck. You’re going back.’

  Silver looked up. ‘Are we, sir?’

  ‘Just you. Mr Macpherson here is providing an escort and you’re taking this note to Wellington.’

  Producing a paper from his pocket he handed it to Silver. It was folded heavily, bound with a red ribbon and sealed with red wax.

  ‘Wellington himself, mind. Don’t go giving it to anyone else. No matter how important they say they are. This is for Major Grant’s eyes only.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I understand.’

  ‘Right, get your kit together. You leave as soon as the escort arrives.’

  Half an hour later, Keane and Archer watched as Silver and the four horsemen rode along the rue du Faubourg, westwards, towards the boundary of the city.

  Archer spoke. ‘I know what you’re thinking, sir. You’re wishing it was you in his place, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Archer, of course I am. Is it that obvious? And aren’t you? Come on, we’re late for our appointment with Lady Luck.’

  *

  It was approaching five in the afternoon as Keane and Archer walked together towards the Palais-Royal.

  They entered from the rue du Faubourg and made their way quickly across the gardens to the arcade on the right, which housed most of the gaming houses. The most opulent lay in the centre of the galleries and it was here that they headed, in search of Fouché.

  The entrance through the pillared colonnade was guarded by two huge liveried doormen and the two men had to pass through a smaller door to gain access to the entrance hall. Here a wide staircase swept before them to the upper rooms and they climbed, guessing that this was where the gaming tables would be found. Turning right on the landing they found themselves in a huge salon with a gilded ceiling and crystal chandeliers. A dozen large gaming tables draped in green cloths lay around the room, which was filled with people, men and women, all of them displaying conspicuous wealth. Keane knew instinctively that this was the place. But he also knew that this room would not be where Fouché would be found. He would have his own inner sanctum. That was Keane’s goal.

  He had not penetrated far into the room when he noticed Jadot seated at one of the gaming tables. The policeman saw Keane and acknowledged him. Keane smiled but continued purposefully on to the caisse.

  He had always been a gambler. When first in his old regiment, he had played cards on campaign with his fellow officers. Had learnt from them how to play and, importantly, how to cheat and how to trust to luck. It was one of the things he missed most since his new role had taken him away from the mess and he had had little chance to use his skills and his instinct.

  He suspected that he would be a little rusty now but knew it would soon come back. After all, so much of it was luck. The trick was not to underestimate the imponderable. So far Keane’s good fortune had held out although, as the old saying went, having been lucky at cards all his life, he had had little lasting luck with the fair sex. And he was quite aware that one day, either in the gambling house or on the battlefield, fortune would take a turn and his luck would run out. But he would deal with that day and its deadly consequences whenever it found him.

  He had unearthed the five thousand francs that Grant had cleverly had sewn into the lining of the Irish uniform, and with this in his pocket he approached the banker.

  He handed the man two thousand francs and was presented with a handful of tiny gold ingots as tokens. He returned to Archer, who was standing by one of the gaming tables in the large hall, staring at the game in progress.

  Keane was taken aback at one aspect of the gaming room. He had been expecting the favoured game here to be vingt et un, but instead it was baccarat. The new fashion. It was similar to faro, his particular favourite, and he was well acquainted with the rules although he had played only a few times.

  Archer stared at the cards as they flashed across the tables. ‘It is fascinating, sir, isn’t it? You can’t help but admire their belief in themselves.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you had better get yourself a little of that self-belief, James,’ Keane said, and handed Archer a small handful of the gold ingots. ‘There you are, lieutenant. There’s five hundred to reinforce the illusion of your elevated social position. Shall I explain the rules?

  ‘While each table is controlled by a croupier, each of the players takes a turn at being banker. They’re all dealt two cards. You have to have two or three cards adding up to nine points, or as close to nine as possible. Court cards and tens count for nothing and aces are a point each. When you reach double figures it’s the second number that counts. So a nine and a ten is nine, not nineteen. When two cards add up to nine it’s called a “natural”. If I have six or seven I can stand. Everything turns on the number five. With five in your hand you can ask for a card or you can choose not to. Are you following me?’

  Archer looked bemused. ‘Yes, sir, completely.’

  ‘It’s really quite simple. It’s said to be a favourite card game of Bonaparte himself. All you have to do is make sure that you have more than your fair share of “natural” eights and nines.’

  He looked at Archer. ‘Wait here for me. I might be some time. That man over there –’ he pointed to Jadot, who was looking away from them – ‘you’ve met Jadot. He’s Macpherson’s mole in the Sûreté. If anything goes wrong here, go with him. Do whatever he says.’

  ‘Sir, I —’

  ‘Got it?’

 
; ‘Yes, sir. I understand.’

  Leaving Archer at the table to try his own luck, Keane walked across the room to Jadot, to whom he had sent a note with Archer, earlier in the afternoon. He pointed towards the inner sanctum.

  ‘Get me in there, can you?’

  ‘Of course. It’s all arranged.’

  Jadot gave Keane a small billet and then, getting up from his own game, parted company with him and walked over to where Archer had taken a seat at one of the outer tables.

  Keane walked up to the entrance to the salle privée and after flashing the paper at the doorman was shown inside through the small doorway that separated the two rooms.

  The inner room was hung with heavy crimson drapes, trimmed with gold bullion to give an air of opulence. Once inside, Keane walked across to the gaming tables. There were four in the room, all of them occupied and each one draped in a dark green cloth, in the centre of which was a rectangle made up of alternating red and white squares. The place smelt of stale sweat and alcohol and it all positively reeked of the new aristocracy of Bonaparte’s Paris.

  At one of the tables a young man had evidently just had a win, for the wine was flowing in greater quantity than elsewhere and those around the table were smiling and clustering close to the winner with the insincerity of those desperate to acquire a modicum of borrowed luck. The other three tables had the more usual tang of mixed nervousness and ennui. Keane chose the one with the fewest players and sat down, placing a silver snuffbox and his pile of ingots on the table beside him.

  The table was busy, with six of the ten places taken. There was a French general and next to him a man in outrageously expensive clothes. On his left sat a hugely fat man with spectacles and a bald head. The fourth player was a woman. Keane thought that he recognized her from the previous evening. She was attractive and of noble bearing, although age had left her face with heavy lines, and the figure that in her youth must have been so supple now sagged within her white dress which was nevertheless stunning, with a very low décolletage. As he approached she smiled at him and widened her eyes in an obviously flirtatious gesture. Keane nodded and smiled politely in response. Beside her sat a small man with a face like a weasel and orange hair to match and beside him was a splendidly dressed officer of the Chasseurs à Cheval. It was without doubt a wealthy table and Keane knew that he would have his work cut out to explain the presence there of a humble Irish lieutenant.

  He found a chair at the sixth position, next to the ageing society beauty, who turned to him the moment he sat down, as he had known she would.

  ‘How delightful. Another military man. We haven’t met, I think. Madame d’Ecrambier.’

  Keane nodded and kissed the hand she offered him. ‘Of course, madame. Your fame outdoes you, but does not do justice to your beauty.’

  She smiled. ‘What gallantry, captain. One doesn’t expect it from the military these days.’ She shot a glance to the general, who pretended not to have heard. ‘It is captain, is it not? I find military matters so confusing.’

  ‘Yes, madame, captain it is indeed. Captain James Williams at your service.’

  ‘You’re Irish, I’ll guess. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, madame, indeed you are. Fighting for the empire and the emperor, long may he reign.’

  ‘Indeed, captain, long may he reign, and may the heavens protect him in Russia. Oh dear, perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. But you’re bound to know where he is, aren’t you?’

  She looked at him. ‘Tell me, what can have brought you to our little table? You’ve certainly brought it some colour, and I hope some of your native luck.’

  ‘Well, madame, I don’t usually play cards in this way. But I have just inherited a little money. From my uncle. He had a farm, in the old country. And I thought I might indulge myself and try my luck.’

  ‘You haven’t played baccarat before?’

  Keane shook his head. ‘Sadly not, madame. But why not give it a try, says I? Anything once. Besides, it’s not as if I can lose the whole of my fortune in one little game or one night, now, is it?’

  The general sniggered.

  Madame d’Ecrambier gave a warning. ‘Captain, if there’s one thing this is not, it is a “little” game. Just take care.’

  At that moment a concealed door in the far wall opened and two men walked across to the table. Keane recognized one of them immediately as Fouché. The other, a thin man of around six feet in height and with long white hair which fell about his collar, he did not know, although from the deference which was shown him by servants and players alike, Keane guessed that he must be someone of national importance. They moved towards the table and without a word sat down, the tall, thin man at position three and Fouché in the banker’s place, opposite Keane. Fouché placed a large glass of red wine beside his place and his guest did the same.

  Fouché recognized Keane immediately and raising an eyebrow smiled and, turning his head, whispered something to his partner before speaking across the table.

  ‘Captain Williams. We meet again and so soon. What a pleasure. Do you know Monsieur Talleyrand?’

  So, thought Keane, Talleyrand. The arch spymaster and the most infamous turncoat of the empire. Keane had not known that he was in Paris and suspected that it was because Bonaparte was not in the city that he could show his face here. And perhaps there was another reason.

  ‘An honour, sir. And may I thank you again for the ball last night.’

  ‘The pleasure was entirely mine, captain. And I am pleased that you found it so diverting and were perhaps able to indulge yourself a little.’ He looked at Keane with a grin which implied that he knew all about his interlude with the acrobat. Keane wondered how, but presumed that such information was bread and meat to Fouché.

  Without further ado, Fouché cut the slab of six packs of playing cards which the croupier had placed on the table and laid the cards down on the green cloth, close to the squares.

  The croupier announced the bank at one thousand francs. Fouché took one of the cards and moved it to the general before taking one for himself and repeating the moves.

  The general lifted his cards very slightly, looked at them and turned to Fouché. He shook his head. ‘Non.’

  Fouché turned over his own two cards. Five of clubs and four of hearts. A natural.

  The croupier said, ‘Nine to the bank,’ and removed the two losing cards.

  The general asked for two more cards and Keane settled down to watch the action. It was a long game, and by the time the general had lost all of his money to the bank, Keane was more than ready to begin.

  ‘Banco.’

  Fouché looked at him and smiled. ‘Captain, welcome.’

  He took the four cards one by one and dealt them, two to Keane, two to himself. Keane flipped up the corner of each of his cards and without hesitation turned them over to reveal the five of spades and the four of hearts.

  Madame d’Ecrambier gasped and smiled. The general shook his head.

  Fouché raised an eyebrow and turned over his own cards. The ten of spades and the jack of diamonds.

  The croupier spoke with almost religious zeal – ‘Le baccarat’ – before pushing the pile of ingot tokens across to Keane.

  The game began again and Keane continued to win.

  Before long he was conscious that a crowd of onlookers was gathering. There were the usual pretty girls among them, waiting to see who would be their benefactor for the night, a few dandies, intrigued by the winner, and a couple of Fouché’s thugs. They stood out in the crowd. One was thin and sallow with a face like a skull and the other heavy-set, with a bull neck and a red face. With them stood Colonel Harrison.

  Within the hour Keane had increased his two-thousand-franc holding to no less than six thousand and he could see that Fouché had lost heavily.

  Curiously, Talleyrand had not taken any part in the game
but had merely sat and observed. It was almost as if the two men had been expecting Keane to be there, to play. And the only way they would have known that would have been if Jadot had told them. Which, Keane reasoned, he must have done. And he began to see how he, even he, was being manipu­lated like a puppet by other forces.

  What he had thought was a scheme of his own making, a plan to impress Fouché with his sangfroid, had become something bigger. He was uncertain as yet as to what. But he knew that this was more than a mere attempt to infiltrate the staff of the ex-head of the secret police. Why else would Talleyrand himself be watching his every move?

  Fouché smiled at him and nodded to the croupier, who spoke again in his best liturgical voice: ‘Un banco de huit mille.’

  Keane calculated the state of his funds. The two thousand plus his winnings of four plus the original three thousand less Archer’s five hundred. Eight thousand five hundred francs. He could either bet it all or walk away. If he lost, then he would be almost cleaned out. If he won, then Fouché himself would have lost tens of thousands. He looked across the table. Saw the raised eyebrow. It decided him.

  ‘Banco.’

  There was an audible gasp from around the table.

  Fouché leant towards him. ‘You’re a very brave man, Captain Williams. I like that.’

  Fouché dealt four cards. Keane looked at his own and turned them as one. The nine of diamonds and the three of spades. It was not a natural, but it might just be enough.

  Fouché looked at his own cards. ‘Carte.’ He drew another card and turned all three over. Two aces and a ten. Game to Keane.

  Keane smiled as the croupier pushed the pile of ingots across the table towards him and looked at Fouché. ‘Just one of those nights, I suppose.’