This was the great salle des gens d'armes of the Conciergerie, the royal prison on the Île de la Cité. It had been a place of dread and darkness for centuries, and it was through here, within a space of time less than a year, that over two thousand people passed on their way to the guillotine.
Chief Inspector Malet stood in the very center of the room, his arms folded, his expression unreadably somber. The flickering candles cast faint shadows of his tall form in every direction. He often paused here on his way to question prisoners to listen to the echoes.
For the huge rooms were full of echoes. Although they had almost been extinguished by the passage of forty years, Malet's ears were sharp enough to catch them. Names shouted above the din of a frightened throng, cries of dismay and terror, the sound of footsteps dying away along the hallway, going toward the tiny room where the victims of the Terror were taken to be relieved of their few possessions, shorn and bound.
De Colberts from Normandy had been numbered among them, his scapegrace father's family. Had they thought of him then, a child of five, far away in that prison in Provence, almost the last of their line, an unwanted bastard?
Malet was not a prey to self‑pity: the question was merely one of intellectual interest. The past was past and the echoes were merely echoes. For the moment, he was waiting until the prisoner he wished to question-Jean Ensenat-was ready for him. He had a great deal to ask the man, but other visitors had come before him. Malet could pause and listen to echoes.
But real echoes intruded upon his ears, voices coming down the hallway toward him.
"If there is the slightest sign of it-the slightest sign, mind you!-we must have silence." The voice was clear and calm.
The speaker came into view as Malet watched from behind his pillar. He was beautifully dressed in the discreet height of fashion, his face cold and calm. He said, "We can't afford-"
The man beside him touched his arm and motioned toward Malet's shadow.
The first man broke off and turned slowly toward Malet.
Malet, scorning to hide, stepped into the open. His gaze met and locked upon the gaze of the other man, and they stood silently for a long moment.
"M. Chief Inspector?" came a respectful voice from the doorway behind the other two.
Malet did not turn his head. "Yes?" he said. The ceiling splintered his voice into a hundred echoes.
"He's ready for you."
Malet nodded, took up his stick, and moved into the bowels of the Conciergerie.
** ** **
Ensenat was standing in the corner of his small cell with his hands behind him. Procedure: they were tied. The man seemed frightened and defiant.
"Good morning, Ensenat," Malet said as he closed the door behind him and latched it. "I am sure you have been expecting me."
"It never takes long for vultures to gather around a carcass," Ensenat said.
"Not terribly original. Nor even terribly insulting. Sit down: I have some questions for you."
"I thought you might," said Ensenat. "But you're wasting your time. I have already given a statement to your paunchy fool of a scribbler."
Malet passed Ensenat's description of the Police Archivist with a half‑smile and sat on the hard cot as though it were a carved chair of state. "Sergeant Guillart's a force to be reckoned with," he said. "You'd be wise to remember that."
Ensenat's eyes flickered. "Well, it's all there in that statement," he said.
Malet folded his arms. "But I don't believe the statement," he said gently.
"You haven't even read it yet!" Ensenat objected.
"Nor do I ever mean to read it," Malet said with a smile. "I refuse to waste my time with lies. Why were you at the Pont Neuf last night?"
Ensenat curled his lip. "I was walking along," he said, "and some cops grabbed me by mistake! Must I be blamed because they're a lot of bumblers?"
"I have little patience with lies, Ensenat," said Malet. "I have even less with clumsy ones. Let's dispense with the sparring; it won't wash. I had the area ringed very securely. You couldn't have broken through. And I saw you myself in the thick of the fighting."
"Well, then, you're wasting your time with me," said Ensenat. "My goose is cooked."
"Your goose is cooked more thoroughly than you suspect," said Malet. "Dracquet left you right before I came-"
Ensenat made a convulsive motion.
Malet's smile widened. "I saw his face," he said. "Whatever he said to you wasn't pleasant. I am sure he told you you're on your own, that you'd get no support from him. Isn't it time to cut your losses?"
"I don't understand you," said Ensenat.
"I think you do," said Malet. He folded his arms and looked Ensenat over. "Let us be blunt," he said calmly. "I know who and what you are. I know your connections, and I know how you work. You know me, and you know I have been after you and yours for years. I have been stymied before, but it's your bad luck that I am acting Prefect at the moment. Here I am, and my hands aren't tied now, and your people have cast you off. Can you fight me, all alone as you are?"
"I have nothing to gain," said Ensenat, "Fight or not. I am a dead man-"
"Maybe not," said Malet, studying his fingernails.
"What?"
"You weren't implicated in the murder. I checked your actions during that engagement and on all the previous nights' murders. It's possible you aren't implicated. And it's possible I may-mind you I said may! not be able to hold you. And you may be able to cooperate with me."
Ensenat closed his eyes and held them so for a long moment. "All right," he said with an effort. "Caught between a tiger and a viper, I choose the tiger. I will talk to you, but I will need something from you. An assurance-"
Malet's brows drew together, but he made no comment.
"My life's worthless if Dracquet thinks I am going to rat on him!" Ensenat burst out. "I have got to get clean out of here!"
"What did you have in mind?" Malet asked.
Ensenat looked up, caught his expression, and exclaimed, "Damn you! This is leading right where you wanted it-"
Malet merely lifted his eyebrows.
Ensenat drew a shaking breath. "America," he said. "I could go there and never be found. I could change my name and start again and never have to worry that he was catching up with me."
"America," Malet said thoughtfully.
"That's right. France is too hot for me, and Dracquet wouldn't want to let things slide, especially now that he's involved-" he broke off.
Malet looked up from contemplating his watch. "'Now that he's involved-' in what?" he said.
Ensenat smiled and shook his head. "Oh no," he said. "No, Inspector, I will hold my peace. It's my safeguard against you reneging."
Malet's gaze fixed and narrowed. "You're very bold. There's nothing to keep me from getting up and leaving you to your fate."
"Oh no, Malet," Ensenat said. "What'll stop you is your own greed. You have wanted Dracquet so long, you're like to choke. And now that you have him close to hand, you won't let him go. I know!"
Malet considered and then nodded. "All right," he said. "What's your price?"
"Come back when you can promise me safe passage to America and thirty thousand francs to see me established. We'll talk then."
Malet rose. "I will see what I can do," he said at the door.
"Tell them to cut me loose when you get outside," said Ensenat.
Malet nodded. "I will have you moved somewhere safer."
"I will be fine here," said Ensenat. "Just get me what I want. Be fast about it."
IV
DEATH OF A RAT
"Fifteen hundred Louis and passage free and clear to America? Informers are getting expensive. Will he be worth it?" The Minister of Police, Christien de la Haye, Count d'Anglars, sat back in his chair, steepled his impeccably manicured hands before him and watched the acting Police Prefect of Paris as he paced from the window to his chair and back again.
"I think so," said Malet over his shoulder. He
gazed unseeingly over the courtyard of the Count's house, turned after a moment, and paced back to his chair.
D'Anglars sighed and sat back. "My dear Malet," he said, "I would find it much less fatiguing if you would finally alight." He smiled at Malet's expression. "No, you don't annoy me, my dear sir. It's only that I find myself sadly reminded that I lack your energy."
Malet sat down.
"Thirty thousand francs," Count d'Anglars said again. "On what case can he give us information?"
Malet managed to convey the impression of restlessness even while sitting still with his hands folded. "Not a case," he replied. "A man."
"Indeed?" D'Anglars reached for the glass of sherry that was always poured for Malet's visits. "And who is this man?"
"Constant Dracquet."
Even as he found himself enmeshed in the trailing threads of thought and speculation that the name carried with it, d'Anglars noticed that Malet had grown very still and was watching him. He set down his glass untasted. "Dracquet, you say?" he said.
"Yes, Excellency." Malet touched the rim of his glass, but his eyes never left the Count's face. Though his expression remained suitably grave, his eyes began to dance as d'Anglars pushed himself to his feet and started to pace.
"You do have a lead on him?" d'Anglars demanded after a moment. "This isn't a false alarm?" He answered his own question before Malet could speak. "No, you never play that sort of prank." He paused and then repeated, "Dracquet, you say?"
"Yes."
Count d'Anglars' elegant features warmed suddenly in an almost unwilling smile. "You have been watching a long time for this chance," he said.
Malet kept his eyes lowered as he raised his glass and sipped from it. "Yes," he said at last.
D'Anglars saw the twinkle in Malet's eye and sat down again. "Hm," he said. "And you have been blocked all these years. Oh, I have noticed. Short of turning things upside down, there was no way I could interfere." He added, almost to himself, "And I won't use the weapons of chaos, no matter what is at stake."
"Nor would I ask you to," said Malet.
D'Anglars's voice lost its smile. "We have seen too much of chaos in our lives, you and I," he said. He went on as though he had not voiced that last thought, "The damnable thing is that he presents so respectable a front. He moves in the best circles of society - in which case, my dear Malet, I find myself wondering why he makes his primary home in Montmartre, of all places! - gives parties and receptions that the crème de la crème all attend - "
"Yourself included?" Malet asked mildly.
"I?" d'Anglars raised his head as suddenly as a man who has been unexpectedly struck. "No, M. l'Inspecteur, I have not attended his receptions. I always seem to be ill at those times."
Malet smiled. "So would I be," he said.
"But all that is to the side," said d'Anglars. "Thirty thousand francs to capture the man I am certain was responsible for M. de Grandpré's assassination outside the Chambre des Deputés six years ago? Vidocq could get nothing on him, but I could sense it... And those terrible murders near Reuilly. I know he was involved in them, but there was no proof. Selling weapons to the Spaniards in 1823 - ! And all other sorts of filth and treason!"
"It's all connected," said Malet. "Like steps on a staircase. The more power the criminal gains, the greater distance he sets between himself and the actual crimes. Go‑betweens, hired assassins, spies - it's all part of the hierarchy. Destroy the web, and the spider will merely spin another. You must first kill the spider."
D'Anglars raised his sherry again and took a large swallow. "Ah yes," he said. "If anyone would know, it would be you. Some people are still puzzled by the fact that you, raised in a prison, the protégé of the greatest criminal of modern times, chose to side with the Law when you left the prison."
"They puzzle too much over the obvious."
"I have never had that difficulty, myself," said d'Anglars quietly. "Nor has anyone, honored with your acquaintance." He continued briskly, "Fight Dracquet: use the informer. The thirty thousand francs are yours, and a draft will be put in your hand tomorrow morning. I will go with you to the Conciergerie. Plan your attack as you wish, and I shall support you to the fullest extent of my power."
** ** **
"He didn't die easily," said d'Anglars through white lips.
Malet looked up from the contorted face on the pallet before him. "No, he didn't," he said. He saw d'Anglars' expression and twitched a stool forward. "Sit down," he said. "Put your head against your knees."
D'Anglars obeyed. He took out a fine silk handkerchief after a moment and blotted his suddenly damp forehead.
"He appears to have been strangled," said Jules Sonnier, the police surgeon for the 12th arrondissement. "Odd, but there aren't any marks on his neck."
D'Anglars closed his eyes.
Malet drew the collar of the man's shirt aside and frowned at the throat. He pushed Ensenat's throat with a fingertip and then bent and felt along the line of the man's windpipe. "Not strangled," he said. "He choked to death."
Sonnier leaned forward. "On what?" he asked.
"Feel his throat," said Malet. "There's something stuck there."
Sonnier obeyed and then watched as Malet ripped Ensenat's shirt open and stared at the man's abdomen, which was covered with a dark bruise.
"Just as I suspected," said Malet. He drew the torn shirt back and brushed his hands together. "Cut him open and you'll find a wad of cloth. Probably a handkerchief. It was shoved down his throat."
"But the bruise?" said d'Anglars, who had recovered a little of his color and was craning his neck to see around Sonnier.
"Someone held him with the handkerchief ready," said Malet, "while another punched him in the stomach, forcing the air out. And then they crammed the handkerchief down his throat. It would be drawn farther down his windpipe with every breath he tried to take."
"Good God!" said Sonnier.
"Sometimes condemned men do that to escape execution," Malet said thoughtfully. "I always thought the rope or the guillotine would be less painful."
"People are fools at best," said Sonnier, "And frightened people more so." He sighed and folded his arms. "Do you need me any more, Inspector?"
Malet shook his head. "No, M. le Docteur," he said. "You may go. And thank you."
"Shall I perform an autopsy?"
Malet frowned and looked over at d'Anglars. "Monseigneur?" he said.
D'Anglars shook his head. "If M. Malet is certain of the cause of death, there's no need to - to cut the corpse. His family might be grieved."
"He has none," Malet said flatly. "He came from filth, dealt in filth, and died a filthy death at the hands of filthy men. He left no offspring and had no wife."
The bitterness in his voice made d'Anglars raise his eyebrows, but he said nothing.
"Doctor," said Malet as Sonnier reached the door. "Send the guards in, if you please. I want to speak with them."
The doctor nodded and left.
"Will it accomplish anything?" asked d'Anglars.
"It'll shake them up," Malet said grimly.
** ** **
"Do you remember seeing anyone - anyone! - coming along this hallway within the past day?" Malet asked.
The four guards shook their heads.
"Come now," said Malet. "You must have seen something. Think back."
There was no answer. Malet had expected none. His smile thinned. "Nothing, again!" he said. "Your memories are completely clear." He paused the space of time it took to draw a deep breath, then spoke again. "Then let me tell you something that you should keep at the very front of your minds.
"While you played cards - " he nodded toward a white‑faced young man, " - or relieved yourself - " this to a paunchy, middle‑aged man, " - or drank the wine you weren't supposed to have at your post, and carefully looked anywhere but where you were supposed to be looking, you became accessory to a murder, and that is a crime. And crime is my concern. So: from now on I will be watching you
: your every step, your every move. One slip - only one! - and you'll be mine." He nodded toward the corpse on the pallet. "I will show as much mercy toward you as you showed this poor piece of offal! You have my word on that. Do you understand me?" He paused for a moment, then jerked his head toward the door. "Now get out of my sight!"
D'Anglars watched them scramble toward the door and then lowered his eyes to the corpse. "We're stalemated again," he said.
"Yes," said Malet.
V
AT NOTRE‑DAME: MESSAGE AND REPLY
The music throbbed in the night air, low and tremulous, more felt than heard. The sound soared to a crescendo and then ceased as though it had been cut off, making the miscellaneous noises of the late September evening suddenly loud and painful.
The thin‑faced man hovering at the corner of the building that bordered the square before Notre Dame drew a deep breath and took a closer grip of the heavy package cradled in his arms. Vespers was concluded, and the faithful would be leaving the cathedral. Malet would be among them, and the man would be able to deliver the package and the message to him and be finally free of the fear that had gripped him since the moment that afternoon when Constant Dracquet had put the package and the message into his shrinking arms and told him to find Malet and deliver them.
The messenger looked up at the facade of the cathedral. The great stained glass rose, glowing from the torchlight behind it, seemed to float above the triple portals that opened on the west. The Virgin was enthroned in the center with the Child on her knee, crowned and haloed, holding a scepter, surrounded by hues of sapphire and ruby. She seemed to be gazing reproachfully at him. The Child's hand was raised in blessing, but His head was turned away.
The messenger looked down from the window to the center portal. Torches, set in sconces to either side, threw the crowded carvings into stark light and shadow. Christ, enthroned in majesty, raised his hands above the last judgment of mankind. The dead, in the lowest register, stirred and jostled each other in their struggle to emerge from their tombs. Above them, the blessed turned adoring faces up toward Christ as the damned were led away in chains.
The Orphan's Tale Page 3
