The Orphan's Tale

by Anne Shaughnessy

  "Whew!" said Claude. "You made him mad!"

  "I meant to."

  "Why?" demanded Claude.

  "Are you really Chief Inspector Malet?" Alcide demanded, wide‑eyed.

  "Yes, I am," Malet said, and sipped his coffee.

  "Why didn't you say so at once?" Alcide asked.

  "Will you shut up?" snapped Claude. "He has better things to do than listen to your impertinence!" He turned back to Malet. "That one fellow meant murder," he said. "Maybe we should tell the Police!"

  Malet smiled, speared a piece of beef with his fork and raised it to his mouth. "You forget that I am the police for the moment," he said after he had finished chewing. "And as for why I made Benoit mad, why, 'Haste makes waste', and I want to make them rather hasty. I think I succeeded." He added more kindly, "Don't worry. I can take care of myself."

  "Was it wise?" asked Elise.

  "It was politic," said Malet.

  "But it was also dangerous. I saw their faces as they left, and especially Benoit's."

  "I am not afraid of him. I am beyond his weight, and he knows it."

  "You shouldn't frighten small men," said Elise. "They'll kill you."

  Malet shrugged. "They're welcome to try," he said. "I don't give much for their chances of success."

  Elise was silent for a moment. Finally she laid an urgent hand on his sleeve and said, "Please be careful, Paul. You could be hurt if you get involved with someone like Constant Dracquet."

  Malet took her hand in his for a moment. "I am a Police officer," he said. "I have to get involved with people like him. Should I resign from the Force and let him continue unchecked? I can't do that. You would think worse of me if I did." He smiled and released her hand. "Never mind. He's the one who will be hurt. Wait and see."

  XXIX

  HUNTER AND QUARRY

  Constant Dracquet himself arrived the next morning as Elise was sipping a cup of tea with Yvette at breakfast. He entered the dining room quietly, smiled around at the patrons, and then directed a look at Malet that made Elise feel suddenly cold.

  Malet seemed to sense the look, for he raised his head. His eyes narrowed fractionally and he set down his cup as he saw Dracquet.

  Dracquet turned to Elise and bowed.

  Elise had only seen Constant Dracquet once, but she recognized him immediately. He seemed to radiate elegance and danger. His garments were cut of the finest cloth available, with a discreet artistry that must have commanded a top price. His hair was impeccably trimmed, his hands well‑manicured, and his jewelry just what a gentleman should wear. His voice was quiet and cultured when he spoke.

  "Madame de Clichy?" he asked.

  She inclined her head.

  "My name is Constant Dracquet," he said with a smile. "You must permit me to apologize for some unpleasantness that occurred yesterday morning. I assure you that I was almost as disturbed by it as you must have been, and perhaps more so because it distressed a lady. That aside, I hope you will permit me to compliment you on the fine reputation enjoyed by your establishment."

  "The first matter is forgotten, monsieur," said Elise. "And I must thank you for the second even as I disclaim."

  "Madame is too modest," Dracquet said. "And now, if I am truly forgiven, might I trouble one of your servants to provide me with some coffee?"

  "It is no trouble, monsieur," said Elise.

  Dracquet bowed again and then turned toward Malet, who was engaged in spreading jam on a piece of toasted bread. Malet looked up as he watched, and their gazes met. The scrutiny was a sober, measuring, unsmiling one.

  The silence lengthened until Dracquet suddenly smiled and sat down at Malet's table. "Please permit me to apologize for my maladroit assistants and introduce myself," he said. "I am Constant Dracquet."

  "How do you do?" said Malet. "I am Paul Malet."

  "I do very well," Dracquet said with undiminished suavity. "And all the better for seeing you at last, though I believe we have encountered each other before. I left those messages for you."

  "I believe it was established yesterday that the messages were left for no one in particular," Malet said gently.

  Dracquet's smile broadened slightly. "Come now, Chief Inspector," he said. "Running rings around a pack of quarter‑wits is nothing for a man of your talent. Where's the merit in it? Whatever they thought, I know who you are now."

  "Am I to congratulate you for that?" Malet asked with equal suavity. "Knowing my identity isn't difficult. All anyone has to do is come up to me and ask my name."

  Dracquet laughed and sat back in his chair. "My men are fools, as I said. They mistook your rank and your purpose here and overstepped their authority. But really, what were they to think?"

  "I wasn't aware that you considered capacity for thought a prime qualification in your minions."

  Dracquet shrugged off the comment. "I concede the point," he said. "But they had learned that another Police officer was staying at this inn and assumed that his duties were the same as M. de Saint‑Légère's. For that matter, I hadn't realized that you were the same man as M. de Saint‑Légère's replacement. The realization was something of a surprise, but not an unpleasant one, and it saves me from duplicating my efforts."

  "How fortunate for you," said Malet ironically.

  "But it does appear that you and I may be having some dealings," Dracquet said, easily ignoring Malet's less than cordial interjections. "The prospect could be a pleasant one, and I am certain that we could work well together."

  Malet sipped his coffee, set it down, and said in a meditative voice, "Do you think so? then listen to this: 'Constant Dracquet, sometimes known as Conrad Dracquard, Conrad Dragonard or Guy Matherne. The last is believed to be his true name. In appearance he is of medium height with brown hair and eyes and a scar on the left cheek that appears to be from the cut of a whip. Born, in the province of Burgundy, of bourgeois parents. He currently calls himself a Bonapartist, though he claimed Royalist leanings during the Empire. He didn't serve in the armies, and is known to have been in close contact with parties in England. A thick scar on his left thumb is surmised to be an attempt to disguise a brand in the shape of a 'v'. First appeared in Paris in the latter part of 1815 with a considerable amount of money.'"

  "Fascinating," said Dracquet as he took out a gold toothpick and used it. "Do continue."

  Malet shrugged. "Why belabor the point?" he asked.

  "Ah? And where do you get your information?" Dracquet asked, amused.

  "My usual sources. I can be thorough when something piques my interest." He smiled at Dracquet and added, "I knew a man from Paris named Dracquet. He was the last of his family; there were no cadet branches. Interestingly enough, he lived in the quarter of town that you occupy, at the same address. Also interestingly, he's been dead for twenty‑one years. He was shot by a sniper during Bonaparte's Russian campaign."

  "And so?" Dracquet said. "What does all of that prove?"

  "Nothing, unless you dislike the thought of soiling the name of an otherwise honorable family."

  "Coffee," Dracquet said to Alcide, and waited while a cup was poured for him. He added milk and some sugar, sipped, and set the cup down, then raised smiling eyes to Malet.

  "Paul V. Malet," he said. "The 'V' stands for 'Valentine'. Born in the prison of Toulon on February 14, 1788, the product of a liaison between Paul de Colbert, Vicomte de Beaumesnil, in Normandy, and an opera dancer who had taken the stage name 'Albertine Malet'. Exhaustive inquiries have revealed that she was probably Antoinette, the only daughter of the noble Mallebranche family of Chalons, which was exterminated during the Terror of 1793.

  "Raised in the prison of Toulon, which he left at the age of fifteen to join the Police, in which he has served continuously except for the years 1811 through 1814, during which time he was in the Horse Artillery, where he rose to the rank of full Colonel. Known to use a pseudonym when it suited him.

  "In appearance he is tall in stature and graying, with hazel eyes. He's current
ly clean‑shaven, though he has worn a mustache in the past - " He broke off as Malet yawned politely behind his hand. "Do I bore you, Chief Inspector?" he asked.

  Malet raised his cup of coffee. "Your sources forgot to mention the scar on my chin," he said blandly. "I'd think it rather obvious."

  Dracquet shrugged. "I was about to mention it along with the scar from that saber wound that slants across your upper left thigh," he said.

  "Touché," said Malet. "Your information is impressively accurate."

  "I paid an impressive price for the accuracy," said Dracquet.

  "It must be expensive to hire people to peek through windows while I bathe," Malet observed. "I wonder if it's worth it."

  Dracquet ignored the jibe. "I have admired you for years," he said. "I admit it willingly. I have long wanted to make your acquaintance. I see that it was worth the wait."

  "And I confess to a certain curiosity regarding yourself," Malet said with the hint of a bow.

  "I trust your curiosity has been satisfied," Dracquet said. "It has been a source of - entertainment is, perhaps, the word - for me."

  "It's been satisfied in part," Malet said, ignoring what Elise had perceived to be a coolly phrased insult. "There is still much to discover, though. And, as I said, I can be thorough when something piques my interest."

  Dracquet smiled and sipped his coffee. "But, Inspector, we must inevitably resign ourselves to the fact that each of us is a mystery to the others, mustn't we?" he asked softly.

  "Must we?" Malet asked with equal gentleness.

  Their eyes met again.

  Elise felt suddenly frightened. It was like watching two fencers circling, their swords ready. She turned away. Her full sleeve caught the handle of her spoon and knocked it to the floor. The clatter made both men turn toward her.

  Malet's expression was unreadable, but Dracquet swept a glance up from her toes to her face that sent the blood scorching her cheeks. The knowing quality of his sudden smile betrayed his conclusions; Elise felt her cheeks flame. She rose and left the room with her chin lifted. She could feel the eyes of both men on her as she went through the door.

  Dracquet masked his expression and turned back to Malet. "I must speak with you," he said, dropping all pretense of courtesy.

  "Here I am," said Malet with a slightly glinting smile. "Speak."

  "In private," said Dracquet.

  "I am a busy man just now."

  "Don't be foolish. Come to my house at noon and dine with me. My cook is superb."

  "I have eaten too much over the past several days. My appetite is rather jaded."

  "Come at noon, nevertheless," said Dracquet. "I won't take no for an answer."

  "Then I won't say no," said Malet.

  "Excellent," said Dracquet. He set a gold Louis beneath his saucer, rose, and left.

  Alcide came over to take the cup, and he stared at the coin.

  "Keep it," said Malet. He was frowning out the door in the direction that Dracquet had taken. His frown eased and he rose and set his napkin aside. He added, "The coin will be worth something when he's dead." His sword‑belt lay atop his coat on the chair beside him. He took them both and went out.

  ** ** **

  Malet found Elise standing before the fireplace in the large salon. She had wrapped a cashmere shawl around her, as though to fight a chill. She looked up as he came into the room, and her mouth tightened. She turned away toward the window.

  "I am sorry, Elise," said Malet. His voice was very gentle.

  "I feel smirched," she said.

  "You shouldn't," said Malet. "It's no worse than if someone splashed mud on the hem of your gown. It's more shame to him than to you or to me."

  Her shoulders stiffened.

  He set his coat and sword‑belt aside and said quietly, "You have to understand: there is no such thing as honor or honesty. Everything has a price. Virtue is a commodity that can be purchased, and a woman's virtue is the cheapest. Love is nonsense easily seen through by those who have learned to leave myths to the children and the dreamers."

  He gazed unseeingly out the window and continued, "The more cold‑bloodedly you calculate, the farther you will go. You must use others like post‑horses, and change them without pity when you have worn them out - "

  Elise had been watching his expression as he spoke. She seized him by the lapels and shook him. "Paul!" she gasped. "Surely you don't believe that!"

  Malet, looking down into her troubled eyes, wanted to kiss her and tell her to stop fretting. Instead, he covered her hands with his own and smiled down at her.

  "No," he said gently. "But he does. He chose to believe it. It's second nature to him now, but he made a choice once. I wonder if he remembers when it was." His voice had lowered, and he seemed to be talking to himself, though he was still holding her hands against his heart. He released them after a moment.

  "I told you of the filth that I encountered in the prison," he said. "And I told you that I left it behind me. He took the opposite way: he sought it out and chose to wallow in it. You can find all sorts of valuable things if you don't mind fishing in a sewer. Shrug him off, he's not worth anything more."

  He put on his coat and then settled his sword‑belt about his waist and buckled it.

  Elise watched him. Her eyes were wide and considering, but her expression was reserved.

  Malet took his gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. You made a dish of veal in a pastry recently," he said. "You may recall that I didn't do it justice - "

  "I remember the evening very well," she said.

  He nodded. "If I could try it again...?" he said wistfully.

  "I will make it tonight," she said. "And I will fix my own brandied apricot tart for you."

  He smiled at her and said, "That would be good."

  She watched him go to the door. "Paul - " she said. When he turned she said, "You aren't eating with him at noon."

  "No," he said. "I don't break bread with his sort."

  She nodded. As he went out the door she said, "Paul, be careful." She did not hear his reply. She turned back to the window and smoothed her shawl about her shoulders as she watched him pass through the courtyard to the street.

  ** ** **

  Malet left the Rose d'Or and, after some thought, cut over to the Rue de Rochechouart in the hope of finding a cab. His encounter with Dracquet had made him late, and he thought it might be faster to ride to the morgue on the Île de la Cité than to walk. For once there were no fiacres in sight, but he did see an omnibus lurching along toward him, hauled by two lathered, dispirited horses. He watched the overgrown carriage with annoyance, taking special note of the passengers all but hanging out the windows and draped over the railing at the top of the second level, to their peril.

  Malet swore viciously, cast a quick, despairing look up and down the street, surrendered to the inevitable, hailed the ungainly vehicle and climbed aboard after handing the driver five centimes.

  It was the only the second time he had taken such a conveyance since they had made their debut in force on the streets of Paris five years before. He decided, as he squeezed into a seat that had been made available to him by his fellow‑passengers who, seeing his sword and his expression, had compressed themselves, that it was a wearying and inconvenient method of transportation, and one to be avoided at all costs in future.

  And slow, too, he thought disgustedly as they made their way down the crowded Rue de Montmartre toward the Pont Neuf. He turned to catch a glimpse of the bustling market of Les Halles, to his left, and turned squarely into a sneeze from a fellow passenger.

  He froze the fellow with a glare as he reached for his handkerchief. For this slow, uncomfortable, unsanitary ride he had paid five centimes! He could go faster than this on foot! He drew a deep, annoyed breath that further compressed his fellows, expelled it, and scowled out the window as he thought of Dracquet.

  The man now knew who he was and why he was at the Rose d'Or. The gauntlet that he had thrown do
wn at the precinct at the Rue des Trois Frères had been picked up. Battle had been joined.

  He suspected that Dracquet wanted to persuade him to join whatever he was planning: the invitations to lunch had been too open to be attempts to ambush and murder him. Whatever Dracquet was planning - and Malet had not forgotten the Princess' projected visit, Dracquet's association with the Duke of Rochester and the people Inspector d'Arthez had heard speaking English - he obviously thought he had a good shot at winning him over.

  He toyed with the thought of joining Dracquet for lunch, but dismissed it. He had been serious when he told Elise that he did not break bread with Dracquet's type. He had left them behind thirty years before.

  He looked out the window again. They were crossing the Pont Neuf and approaching the Quai de l'Horloge; Malet could look east along the river and see the cathedral.

  The omnibus tipped alarmingly as they reached the quay. The woman beside him screamed and clutched at the basket on her lap, which opened and spilled kittens everywhere. Malet rubbed his ear, nodded politely as the woman apologized, retrieved three squalling kittens for her and then rapped on the ceiling of the omnibus with his walking stick.

  "Stop here!" he commanded, and pushed his way through the passengers and out the door. Once on the pavement, he cast one last contemptuous glance at the omnibus with its dispirited, plodding horses, and then turned west and walked briskly toward the Quai aux Fleurs. He had the night's haul of corpses to review.

  XXX

  EVENING IN PARIS

  The afternoon had melted into a light rainstorm that lasted into the evening before it finally cleared, but the wet pavement shone like silver in the lamplight that turned the mist into shrouds of silk. The mist softened the sounds of passing carriages and the clatter of hooves upon the cobblestones dwindled to a murmur. Haloes circled the street lamps, and Paris seemed to be blanketed in a soft glow.

  The man moved quietly down the Rue d'Orsel toward the inn, his eyes drawn by the lights that streamed out into the mist from its wide windows. He seemed to think himself one with the shadows, for he limited his presence to the darker side of the street and lingered in shadowed doorways.