The Orphan's Tale

by Anne Shaughnessy

  "I am serious. Especially when I told him I had the information that would easily nail four of the biggest operators in southern France. And it did. I was the Chief Constable of Marseilles five years later."

  Elise nodded and looked around at the park. "Lift me down, Paul," she said. "I'd like to walk with you a little..."

  She smiled at him as he dismounted and reached up to set his hands around her waist. She steadied herself with her hands on his shoulders as he lifted her to the ground. She knew she was no featherweight, but he gave no indication that she was as heavy as she knew herself to be. His hands lingered at her waist, and she did not release his shoulders for a moment.

  "Thank you Paul," she said softly.

  "It was my pleasure," he replied, his voice equally quiet.

  She leaned down to gather her skirts and arrange the trailing hem over one arm while he took the reins of both horses in his right hand. He offered his left arm when her skirts were arranged to her satisfaction.

  "There's a pavilion here where we can enjoy tea," he said. "Or they have coffee and ices if you prefer."

  "Tea," she said. "It sounds lovely... It's been so long since I have done this."

  "Then I am glad I talked you into coming out this afternoon," Malet said as they went slowly down the shaded path. "I'd hoped I could pass the afternoon like this with you."

  Elise stopped and turned to face him. Her voice lowered. "You know, Paul," she said, "I'd go anywhere with you. I know I'd be safe with you - and you with me."

  His expression did not change, but his eyes warmed as he looked down at her, and he silently raised her hand to his lips.

  She smiled at him and turned her hand to touch his cheek lightly for a moment. "Do you think I am foolish?" she asked.

  "I think you're perfectly delightful," he returned.

  "That wasn't the question," she said.

  "But that is my answer," he said.

  XXVIII

  CHIEF INSPECTOR MALET ENTERS THE FRAY

  Autumn was Yvette's favorite time of year. She loved the crisp bite of the wind, the leaves that fell like gold and scarlet snowflakes and danced like troupes of gypsies before the capricious winds. It reminded her that the worst heat of the summer was past and the pageantry of Christmas was coming. It was autumn that brought the sweet‑scented late roses that she prized and planted in profusion all around the Rose d'Or.

  This autumn had been especially beautiful, and of all the magnificent mornings that she had seen, this specific morning was the finest. She awoke in time to watch the sunrise from her window, and went out to milk the inn's four cows. She kindled the fires in the kitchen and got preparations underway for breakfast, including making a pot of cinnamon coffee especially for herself and Inspector de Colbert.

  He was late to rise this morning. But that was probably because he had been very busy over the past several days entertaining a visitor from England, a man named Sir Robert Peel. The man was involved in some way with the British constabulary and was in France at the invitation of the Minister of Police to review the French Police system.

  M. Paul had spent the last four days in the company of the Count and Sir Robert. He had seemed rather grim the first day, and the rosette of a Grand Eagle of the Legion d'Honneur had been conspicuous in his buttonhole. He had brought the two to the Rose d'Or to try the ale and the food. He and Peel had spent over an hour there drinking ale and talking in English.

  M. Peel was gone now, and no doubt M. Paul felt that he'd earned a morning lying abed rather later than usual. That suited Yvette perfectly: it gave her time to prepare a proper breakfast. She had all the makings ready: she could start his breakfast when he came downstairs.

  She filled her watering‑pot and carried it out to the street. The roses were in full bloom, and although people teased her about her extravagance, she carefully watered and trimmed the plants every second day. It was time to do it again.

  She was famous for her rosebushes, and they were responsible for the presence in the inn of two guests, Aloysius Stanley from Portsmouth, and his wife, Abigail. The Stanleys loved flowers, especially roses, and they had seen them the night before and resolved there and then to stay in a place that had such magnificent blooms. They had spoken of gardening all the previous night, he in terrible French, and when they finally retired, Mr. Stanley kissed Yvette's hand and promised to send her some cuttings from his gardens.

  She took her pruning scissors and carefully cut away some flowers that had gone by, and then bent to savor their heady scent. A party of four men passed her as she straightened. She recognized René Benoit and three of Constant Dracquet's people, bruisers who made her very nervous. They usually behaved themselves at the inn, thanks to the presence of Yves' farmhands, but Yvette always tried to keep out of their way.

  Dracquet's men! At this hour! Well, well!

  Yvette rubbed her lower lip thoughtfully and turned to watch them go along the street toward the courtyard.

  Dracquet had sent his men by six times, and each time they had missed their 'police officer'. They hadn't been happy, and yesterday they had been unpleasant to Claude, giving good cause to a man who already disliked them enough.

  "What do you want, messieurs?" Claude had asked finally as he wiped his hands on a towel. "The man rises early and leaves early. What are we to do? Forbid him to leave? He's a guest: I'd never be so rude, and Mme. de Clichy would certainly forbid it!"

  "Tell him that M. Dracquet is growing impatient," the leader had said.

  Claude had merely shrugged. "You'll terrify him, messieurs," he had said, politely opening the door.

  Now a motion at one of the upstairs windows, a hand drawing a curtain aside, caught Yvette's attention. She looked up and saw Inspector de Colbert gazing down at her. He saw that Yvette had caught sight of him: he pointed at the men and lifted his eyebrows.

  She nodded.

  He scowled, returned the nod, and lowered the curtain again.

  "Trouble ahead," said Yvette with a smile.

  ** ** **

  "Good Morning, Mme. de Clichy," said René Benoit with labored politeness. "Is your Police officer in today?"

  "He's not 'my' police officer, and yes, he is in," Elise replied composedly. "In fact, he hasn't come down to breakfast yet."

  "Splendid. Then maybe we can finally speak with this elusive fellow," Benoit said, sitting down. "You did give him my messages, I hope."

  "I mentioned that you had called at the inn, yes. Have you breakfasted yet?"

  "Not yet," Benoit replied. He motioned to the others to sit down. "We'll have some of your cooking, if you don't object."

  "Not at all, monsieur. Your money is as good here as anywhere else. Alcide can take your order when you're ready." She inclined her head to the man and went over to the tap.

  Elise looked up and smiled at Yvette when she came in with her watering‑can and a large bunch of roses. "Use Raoul's vase, havette," she suggested. "We can put them on the mantel in the salon, and the vase will set them off very well."

  Yvette agreed, got the vase, and sat down before the tap to arrange the flowers.

  Alcide went over to the table, spoke quietly with Dracquet's men, and then went back into the kitchen.

  "He's annoyed," said Yvette in an undertone. "And M. Paul - " She stopped as the boards over their heads creaked.

  Benoit looked up, directed a frown at them, and then sat up straighter as heavy footsteps sounded overhead, proceeded deliberately down the hallway toward the stairs and then down the steps.

  Elise turned and watched as Mr. Stanley entered the room, puffing a little, bowed to them, and sat down at a table. Other customers had come into the common‑room as well: Yvette and Marie got up and went over to them.

  Benoit nodded to one of the others, a tall, heavyset fellow with reddish hair.

  The man returned the nod. "It's taken you long enough!" he said through his teeth as he pushed himself to his feet and stalked over to Mr. Stanley. "I have tolerated y
our rudeness longer than I thought possible! Now I must insist - "

  Mr. Aloysius Stanley might be stout but he was dignified. He pulled out his spectacles, polished them on a pocket handkerchief, perched them on his nose, and subjected the henchman to a comprehensive scrutiny. Muttering something in English about 'damned silly Frogs', he finally turned to Elise and Yvette with a truly charming smile and asked for tea, cakes and cold beef in atrociously accented French. "And if I may have one of Mademoiselle's blooms for a boutonniere, so much the better!" he said.

  Benoit's face was a brief study in astonishment. He masked the expression and motioned his man to sit down again.

  "Certainly, Mr. Stanley," Elise said in English. "Please be seated. Will Madame be down shortly?"

  "Shortly," Stanley said. "I left her and her maid performing a task of - ah - some delicacy." He turned back in time to see Yvette returning with the choicest of her flowers. "Ah, my boutonniere!" he said. "Thank you, my dear Mam'selle!"

  "I would be happy to have one, too," said a quiet voice from the doorway.

  Malet was standing there, framed by the heavy, carved lintel. He was smiling on the people in the common‑room. His gloves were in his hand, his hat was tucked in the crook of his arm, and his coat sat negligently on his shoulders like a mantle.

  He bowed to Elise and Yvette, inclined his head to Mr. Stanley and the rest of the customers, and came into the room, walking with the negligent grace of a tiger. The gold hilt of his sword caught the light and scattered it. He passed Dracquet's men without a glance, his coat brushing past Benoit's knee. He stopped at a table just beyond Elise and Yvette, swung the coat from his shoulders and set it over the back of one of the chairs. He placed his gloves, walking stick and hat on the table beside him, and disposed himself with an elegant ease that made the sturdy, utilitarian chair seem like a carved throne.

  Elise hid a smile. It had been a magnificent entrance, a credit, had she known it, to Albertine Malet of the Opera, who had bequeathed to her son that predatory walk.

  Yvette finished setting the flower in Mr. Stanley's buttonhole. She selected another and went over to Malet to put it in place and favor him with a graceful curtsey afterward: she, too, could act.

  "Thank you," said Malet with a warm smile. "And now, Mlle. Yvette, if you'd oblige me with some coffee and a bite of one of your excellent breakfasts, I will be quite content."

  "Right away, M'sieur l'Inspecteur!" Yvette said with another curtsey.

  Benoit's eyes narrowed and he looked Malet up and down, taking in the cut and quality of his clothing as well as his bearing. He hesitated a moment before he finally leaned forward to tap one of the other men on the sleeve and nod toward Malet.

  The man, a heavyset fellow with pomaded hair and a bright, brocaded waistcoat, started and set down his cup of coffee. He went over to stand before Malet's table and frown down at him.

  Malet, engaged in polishing the crystal of his watch with a silk handkerchief, looked up and nodded to the man, then returned his attention to his watch.

  "You're the cop staying here, aren't you?" the man demanded. "The wench called you 'Inspector'."

  Malet lifted an eyebrow and subjected the man to a thoughtful scrutiny. His gaze lingered on the waistcoat while he closed the watch and returned it to his waistcoat pocket.

  "I am employed by the Ministry of Police: yes," he said at last, folding the handkerchief and putting it away as well. "I suppose that might make me a 'cop', though I disagree with the term. And I am currently staying at the Rose d'Or, but that is only a temporary arrangement."

  The man's face darkened. "Then, monsieur," he rasped, "you will kindly explain your rudeness in ignoring the messages that were left for you!"

  "And what is your name, pray?"

  "The messages were left by Constant Dracquet!"

  "Are you Dracquet?" Malet asked calmly.

  "N‑no, I am not, but - "

  Benoit, sitting at his table, closed his eyes for a moment.

  Malet's expression shifted slightly. He regarded the man with a sort of distasteful patience. He accepted a cup of cinnamon coffee from Yvette with a word of thanks, took the small pitcher of milk and added some, put his customary three spoonfuls of sugar in the cup, stirred, and then set the cup down.

  When the man started to speak again he raised a finger and then, when the man was silent, reached into the breast pocket of his waistcoat and took out his notebook. He opened the notebook, thumbed through it, frowning slightly, then closed it and put it away again.

  "Let us set aside for a moment the question of my rudeness," he said. "These messages: where were they left?"

  "They were left here!"

  "And were they addressed to me, personally?"

  "They certainly were!"

  "I beg to differ. I received no messages addressed to me by name. I doubt that these ladies - " he nodded toward Yvette and Elise, " -or anyone else here would ignore messages left for me. Did you use my name?"

  "I don't know your name, sir!" the man said through his teeth.

  Malet stirred his coffee again, set the spoon aside, and sipped the coffee, frowning again. "I see," he said at last. "You're angry because a message addressed to no one didn't reach me. Really, monsieur, you're being unreasonable and you were asking for any rudeness you and yours may have encountered from me."

  He turned away with an air of finality to smile at Yvette, who was waiting with a plate of brioches and a pot of jam. "Ah, thank you, Mlle. Yvette."

  He broke the brioche, spread jam on it, took a bite, took another sip of coffee, chewed, and swallowed, ignoring the man, who was still standing before him, breathing heavily through his nose.

  "The message," said the man with an effort, speaking slowly and distinctly, "was directed to Inspector de Saint‑Légère's replacement."

  Malet took another bite of brioche. "Which I am not," he said calmly. "No wonder it never reached me. It doesn't concern me. And now, monsieur, if you have nothing further to say to me, I have yesterday's Globe, which I haven't read yet. Good morning."

  He unfolded the paper, scanned the front page, and then opened it to the Police section. After a moment he took out a gold pencil and made a notation beside one of the articles.

  Benoit shifted in his chair, trying to get his man's attention.

  The man did not see him. "I am not finished with you yet, monsieur!" he said through his teeth.

  "But I am finished with you, sir," Malet said cordially. "You have been a boor. I don't suffer fools gladly, but I am even less inclined to put up with the bad manners of self‑important oafs like you. Good morning, sir!"

  Benoit was shaking his head. His men were muttering among themselves.

  "I am certain your commander will be interested in your rudeness!" the man said through his teeth. "I don't think that he will take it kindly when a complaint for disrespect is lodged against you! I will certainly inform M. Rameau - "

  "What has Inspector Rameau to say to anything?" Malet demanded. "He's certainly not my superior!"

  "Then tell me who is!"

  "The man's name is Valery Lamarque," said Malet. "That is, he's my immediate superior. If you like, I can write down his name for you. You'll have trouble reaching him for some time: he's taking the waters at Plombières. I suggest you approach Christien de la Haye, Count d'Anglars, who is his superior." He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the other's face, and added with calm deliberation, "And you may wish to use my name: Malet. That is M‑A‑L‑E‑T. Paul V. Malet, to be exact. My rank is Chief Inspector. If you think you need help remembering it, I will be happy to write it on your forehead for you."

  Benoit had sat forward as Malet said his name. He looked to Elise like a man who has drawn a terrible hand of cards after having wagered everything he owned on it. As Elise watched, he whispered something to the man sitting closest to him, which sent the man scurrying from the room.

  Malet was still speaking. "Now if that is all you have to say, then I sugges
t you leave. You're annoying me, I am certain that you are annoying the ladies, and you have annoyed this gentleman here, from what I heard while I was coming down the stairs."

  He looked up, motioned to the other men, and said, "And that goes for your friends, as well. Out! Or I will call the guard and have you thrown out!"

  The man glared down at him, his eyes flashing. He looked up as Benoit came up beside him, and moved back.

  "Maybe the messages were misdirected," said Benoit. "But I am delivering the message now: M. Constant Dracquet wants you to call upon him tomorrow at noon."

  Malet appeared supremely unimpressed by this announcement. "And what is your name?" he asked.

  "René Benoit," the man answered.

  "Ah," said Malet. "The pimp." He poured himself more coffee and busied himself with creaming and sweetening it to his satisfaction.

  "'Pimp'?" Benoit repeated.

  "Among other things," Malet said, setting the sugar aside. "You had a hand in that series of murders near Reuilly, where the victims were found without their heads. Interesting piece of work, that: how fortunate for you that that one whore enjoyed your company so much - and that she died when she did. But was it wise? Your master is looking for respectability now that he's made his millions, and you nearly made yourself a liability."

  Benoit stared at him, shaken. "What do you mean?" he demanded. His voice had risen a little.

  "I am reciting facts. You and I have nothing to say to each other, and I have nothing to say to your M. Dracquet, either. I suggest you leave now before I lose all patience with you and your friends and have you all thrown out!"

  He and Benoit traded glares. "You will regret this, monsieur!" Benoit snapped at last, and strode from the room.

  "You terrify me!" Malet called after him.

  The tallest of Dracquet's men rose and glared down at Malet, who gazed imperturbably back at him. "You'll regret it, you bastard!" he snarled through his teeth, and followed the rest out.

  The patrons in the common room looked at one another in shocked silence.

  Malet seemed thoughtful, but he finished his coffee and raised his eyes as Elise came over with his breakfast. Claude was with her, looking a little white about the mouth. Alcide was standing behind them.