He set down the fan and said quietly, "Listen to me, Michaud: I have nothing to justify arresting you. That doesn't mean that I believe you innocent. I think, in fact, that you're a criminal, but I can't prove it. As far as the rest of society is concerned, that's as good as being innocent. You're too old for this. One day you'll be caught, and I think you know it and are terrified of it. Why don't you step out of it now and go away, somewhere safe, where no one will throw you into prison? It's clear now, and you can go. I can't stop you. Yet."
Michaud lowered his eyes and was silent. After a moment he said, "What information did you want on Constant Dracquet?"
"Anything you can find," said Malet. "He's got something in the works and I want to know what it is." He leveled a very cold look at Michaud and added, "But if you leak a word, if you double‑cross me, there won't be enough left of you left to bury."
"I wouldn't think of it," Michaud said with perfect sincerity. "I am not a fool."
"Just so we're agreed," Malet said. They talked a little longer, and then he left.
After the Inspector was gone, Michaud sat down with a sigh and wiped his forehead. The Chief Inspector was right, he thought. He should go. He was too old for this. Maybe he would do as Malet suggested...
He straightened. He would do as Malet suggested - but first he would get the information, or the man would pursue him to his grave!
XXV
STRANGE NEWS FROM A FAR SHORE
"Have you considered viewing the card upside‑down, Archet?" Malet asked pleasantly two days later. "Those who suffer eyestrain, as you seem to, say that it sometimes relieves the problem."
Constable Archet, who was serving as Officer of the Day, jumped and dropped Malet's card.
"Be careful," said Malet. "You might break the glass. Are you through with it? You have been squinting at it for four minutes by my watch." He took the card back from Archet, signed the book, and then said kindly, "Try distillation of witch‑hazel. My housekeeper swears by it as a remedy for sore eyes. Otherwise, the Prefect - or his deputy - might think that you were unfit for duty and discharge you." He directed a steely smile at Archet and added, "Permanently." He went in toward the Prefect's offices without another glance.
He had a lot to think about. He wanted to review the information that he had received thus far from the operatives he had placed near Dracquet, and reconcile that with the background information and the fascinating clue that Rosalie had given him. He also needed to sit down and devote some urgent thought to the nature of the important event that Saint‑Légère had thought was coming up. All the signs pointed to it, Malet could sense it, but what could it be? Dracquet was doing very well, and all that Malet had learned of him through the years had served to confirm the impression that he was an intelligent man who did not take needless risks. This made the fact of his current personal involvement all the more ominous. He kept returning to the Duke of Rochester's comment.
The Chamberlain intercepted him halfway back to his offices. His expression was more than usually portentous and his side‑whiskers showed signs of having been recently pomaded. The sight was enough to shake Malet from his thoughts.
"News, Clerel?" Malet asked.
"Permit me to take the Chief Inspector's coat and hat," said Clerel with repressive dignity. "And then if Monsieur would be so good as to follow me back - "
"Wryfoot Fanny," Malet said.
"I beg Monsieur's pardon?" Clerel said.
"Wryfoot Fanny," Malet repeated. "She's probably heard that I am here filling in for M. le Prefet for a time. She usually makes her weekly report to my headquarters, God knows why, since she tends to cruise the Boul' Mich' in search of students - a motherly instinct, if you ask me - but she likes me for whatever reason. Have you seen her, Clerel? Amazing! Her fortune would be made if she would only sign with a raree show, fat as she is, but she persists in being a prostitute. With some success, I might add."
Clerel had been listening with an affronted expression. He said repressively, "I have no interest in the Latin Quarter or its denizens - "
"Pity, She offers a flattering discount to the Police."
Clerel's astonished stare suddenly warmed to something resembling a grin. He said with dignity, "His Excellency the Minister of Police has called. I took the liberty of escorting him back to M. le Prefet's offices. I did not think the Chief Inspector would object - if he's through with his funning."
Malet abandoned Wryfoot Fanny with regret. "Of course I don't object," he said. "Did you offer M. d'Anglars any refreshment?"
"I shall bring something suitable at once," said Clerel, but his voice was wistful.
"After you escort me to the office and announce me to His Excellency, of course," Malet said.
Clerel's face brightened.
** ** **
"I know it's short notice," said Count d'Anglars, stretching his elegantly shod and trousered legs out before him. "I only just received the news, myself, but this is an event of international importance and must take precedence - alas! - over all other considerations."
Malet was feverishly casting his mind over various of his lieutenants and wondering which of them should be given charge of pursuing Dracquet while he was busy.
"I understand," he said. "Have we any idea how long Sir Robert Peel's visit will be?"
Count d'Anglars steepled his fingers before him and gazed over their tips at the sun that streamed in through the window. "His Majesty said that it would be the better part of a week, though I suspect it may be an overstatement. A great deal depends on what you and I can show him."
"But why should he take an interest in the Police system of France at this time?" Malet asked.
D'Anglars folded his hands and considered for a moment before speaking. "You may as well know," he said. "France - and especially Paris - will be receiving a visitor in the person of Princess Victoria, the Heiress Presumptive of England, in two weeks' time. Their Majesties have invited her to travel to Paris aboard their personal yacht, and King William has accepted in her behalf. She will be traveling with her mother, the Duchess of Kent. This will be the first time she has ventured outside England, and His Majesty wishes her to be well guarded."
"And so Sir Robert Peel is coming to cast an eye over the police," Malet said. He considered, frowning, and then added with ominous cordiality, "And does the King of England plan to send the Duke of Wellington over to review our armies, as well?"
Count d'Anglars sat back and laughed for far longer than Malet thought the comment really deserved. He finally said, "That's why I wish you to accompany me. You're a refreshing change from the host of sycophants and boors that I am forced to deal with each day. Never mind: you can understand the urgency of the assignment. Make what alternate arrangements you need for the next several days."
** ** **
After Count d'Anglars had departed, Malet seated himself at the Prefect's desk, propped his elbows before him, and sat back to think. So Princess Victoria, who was next in line for the throne of England, was coming to France in two weeks' time, and sailing on the King's private yacht, no less!
How tragic it could be for all concerned if something should happen to make the visit a disaster! How truly terrible if the heiress of England should be killed, for example! The succession would have to realign itself, for better or for worse. Such an event could lead to a declaration of war between France and England. And war is a very lucrative business for one who knows how to exploit it...
Malet's eyes narrowed. Dracquet had a sizeable interest in several munitions manufactories. He recalled, as well, hearing that Dracquet had been all but implicated in an unsavory business that had come to light in 1824, after the French invasion of Spain. French manufacturers had been caught selling arms and ammunition to the Spaniards at the moment they were fighting the French. Dracquet had profited from war before - but was he bold enough to plot to precipitate it?
Add to that the fact that Rosalie had told him that Dracquet had connections in
England reaching as high as a member of the British Royal Family, and he didn't hesitate at murder. Malet set the piece of the puzzle in its place and scanned the results. Yes, things did fit, though he was not perfectly certain where Rochester stood in the succession.
If he was correct, the stakes were high and so was the chance of failure. It explained Dracquet's personal involvement, and tipped Malet off to the fact that he'd best be ready to act on a moment's notice.
It also explained something else: Charles' transfer to that elementary beat had certainly not been cleared through Dracquet. The last thing that that man, busy with something very important, was likely to want would be an honest Police officer camped on his doorstep. And that indicated to Malet's mind that Guerin was probably not involved in anything worse than a protection racket.
Malet's emotions were complex. He had always hated Guerin, but uppermost in his mind was relief that the man was not the utter villain that he had feared.
Interesting, but he still had to accompany Count d'Anglars and Sir Robert Peel through Paris. Malet swore, took out his notebook and pencil, thought feverishly, and began to write.
XXVI
A SEPTEMBER AFTERNOON
"You are a beauty, aren't you?" Malet said an hour later as the bay lowered his muzzle and nibbled delicately at the handful of sweet hay Malet offered.
"That he is, Inspector!" said the Police hostler, leaning on the stall partition. "Sweet‑tempered to match. Not an ounce of vice in him!"
"Not even gluttony?" Malet asked as he hoisted the filled hay net to the upper corner of the stall and watched the stallion stretch up his head to nibble at it.
"Well, maybe that," the hostler admitted. "He does like his chow."
The stallion pulled some hay loose and munched contentedly, the wisp trailing jauntily from the side of his mouth. The mouthful finished, the horse lowered his muzzle to nudge Malet in the chest.
"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.
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