The Orphan's Tale

by Anne Shaughnessy

  He paused and his smile became vaguely vicious. "I want this effective immediately! I want to find that man!"

  "Yes, sir," said Guillart. He scanned the description, then looked up into Malet's eyes. They were glinting with securely leashed rage. He wondered what the stocky, white‑haired man had done to trigger that wrath, but he merely smiled and nodded. "It shall be done," he said. "And you asked me this morning to remind you that His Excellency will be meeting you here at 3:00 p.m."

  "Thank you," said Malet. He took out his watch and checked the time. Half an hour. He rose and paced over to the pillar that lay to the left of Guillart's desk. "Well," he said. "Disseminate this bulletin, if you please, and coordinate any information that comes in. I am depending on you - with perfect confidence, as you know."

  "You'll be in your offices?" Guillart asked.

  "M. le Prefet's offices," Malet corrected automatically. "Yes, I will."

  "I will have one of the boys bring you some coffee, then," said Guillart, eyeing Malet's cravat. It was different from the one he recalled seeing that morning. He watched Malet turn and head toward the Prefect's offices, then frowned down at the description of the man.

  Malet was intercepted by the Chamberlain, as usual, but Clerel took one look at his expression and limited himself to frigid correctness. He took himself off as soon as he had relieved Malet of his coat and hat. He gently closed the door after he left, and went back to Guillart, shaking his head.

  Malet watched the door close and then sat down, swearing, and buried his face in his hands. To see Lambert again after all those years! And to see him after facing a viper like Dracquet! Why? Why? Why?

  He was once more confronting the paradox that had troubled him ever since he had become an officer of the Law: the good man who was nevertheless a criminal under the Law. And the opposite side of the coin was Dracquet, the evil man who was not at odds with the Law. His duty was clear as regarded Vaux. Or was it?

  He raised his head and scowled out the window. Damn the man! Not only did he show up alive and healthy with a serene conscience, but he had to do so at the very moment when Malet was drawing his net tight about Dracquet! By rights Malet should concentrate his attention on pursuing the man who had been judged a criminal! After all, Dracquet had done nothing provably wrong!

  Malet pushed himself to his feet, cursing, and began pacing, back and forth, back and forth across the priceless carpet. He could have Vaux back in custody within three weeks if he set his mind to it! And he would go through the heartbreak all over again. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

  He turned on his heel and went to the window. The square before the cathedral was packed with strollers and beggars; a juggler was performing in a little clearing in the very center. Malet watched him for a moment and then turned away.

  Good. You're not hurt. You had me very worried for a moment... I mean you no harm...

  Malet could hear Vaux' voice in his mind even as he laid out the hunt that he could direct. His mind skipped over the relentless inquiries, the unceasing surveillance, the inexorable sifting through excuses and masquerades and brought him to the moment when, facing Vaux once more as the personification of the Law, he laid his hand on the man's shoulder -

  He drew up short, surprised by the picture that his mind had drawn for him, unbidden, unexpected and welcome. He had set his hand on Vaux' shoulder and said, Go in peace.

  If only it were possible!

  But was it impossible?

  He had formidable discretionary powers and the ear of the Minister of Police: could he somehow use his influence to get another with the power to say it? Of course he could! The law made exceptions, and a man like Vaux, so demonstrably good, would be certain to be freed!

  Malet felt a sudden chill. Or would he? There was always a risk -

  "Tchah!" he said. He would worry about that later. There would be time to decide what to do with Vaux when Vaux was caught. He had something more important to do just at the moment. He had a viper to trap, and he would soon be meeting with Count d'Anglars to discuss setting the trap. His lordship would be interested in a few of the things Dracquet had said in the park...

  What time was it? He looked at his watch. 2:55 p.m. He should go to the anteroom to greet His Excellency. He pushed himself to his feet, shook out his coattails, and started for the door. The strident sound of voices just outside the room made him stop, frowning.

  "I tell you, M. Chief Inspector, he does not wish to be disturbed!" It was Clerel's voice, uncharacteristically loud.

  "What he wishes and what he gets are two different things! Now get out of my way!"

  Malet recognized Chief Inspector Guerin's voice. His mouth thinned; he set his hand on the doorknob.

  Clerel's voice came again. "But I tell you, sir, he isn't to be disturbed!"

  Malet flung the door open and stepped into the anteroom.

  Clerel had been standing with his back to the door. He recoiled as though someone had jabbed him with a hot needle. "M. Chief Inspector," he said, "I do apologize for this! I tried to tell him - "

  "You did nothing wrong, M. Clerel. You may go."

  Guerin's eyes narrowed slightly as Malet spoke. He folded his arms with an ironic smile as Clerel bowed and moved back. "So you're here, Malet," he said.

  "I assume you saw my signature in the log," said Malet with the edge of an ominous smile. "And Clerel didn't say that I was out, but that I wasn't to be disturbed."

  Guerin lifted his eyebrows at Malet and pulled off his gloves. "I am afraid I will be disturbing you nevertheless," he said.

  Malet's smile began to glitter. "So I have noticed. What do you want?"

  The room was beginning to fill with silent, wide‑eyed people. Guerin looked around and then turned back to Malet. "I'd prefer to go into your office," he said.

  "We'll stay here," said Malet. "I am sure what you have to say will interest everyone here. What do you want?"

  "This is ridiculous!" Guerin exclaimed. He started to go around Malet and was effectively blocked when Malet set his shoulder against the lintel with a bland smile.

  "I said we're staying here. You may speak or not, as you choose, but you'd best choose quickly and stop wasting my time."

  Guerin looked Malet up and down and then spoke incisively. "I want to discuss your action in commandeering one of my men and sending him off to the Bois de Boulogne without first consulting me, and your intrusion into my arrondissement a week ago."

  "What is there to discuss?" Malet demanded.

  "I told you to keep your nose out of my affairs!" Guerin snapped. "Your bailiwick is the 12th arrondissement, not the 18th! Any cases pending there concern me exclusively!"

  Malet locked gazes with Guerin, who folded his arms and stared back. Neither man saw Count d'Anglars enter with Sergeant Guillart and make his way quietly through the crowd.

  Malet's gaze became very cold. "I believe you're familiar with the case that brought me into your arrondissement and sent your man off to the Bois de Boulogne," he said quietly. "It certainly does concern you, but whether it does so in the way you seem to believe is a question that only time will answer."

  D'Anglars, standing beside Sergeant Guillart, looked from one man to the other. He saw that Guillart was about to speak, and laid his hand on the other's arm to silence him.

  "I told you to keep your nose - " Guerin began.

  " - Out of your affairs: yes, you have said so ad nauseam. But you have said it for the last time. As the Provisional Prefect - "

  "The fact that you're keeping Lamarque's seat warm - "

  "Let me remind you, Chief Inspector," Malet said with a soft intentness that made the words seem dangerous, "That while I am 'keeping Lamarque's seat warm', as you phrase it, I am Lamarque! And let me remind you as well that when M. le Prefet is in Paris, I still rank you! We'll say no more about this case that brought you hotfoot here. I am handling it in full accord with regulations and your interference doesn't do you any credit! And as fo
r you: you will not show your face in these offices until M. Lamarque returns or I say that you may! Have I made myself sufficiently clear, or must I write it out and send it through official channels for everyone to read?"

  Count d'Anglars was frowning, but he remained silent.

  Guerin had come to the Prefecture expecting a quarrel, but one conducted in private. Malet's broadside had thrown him off balance, and he struck back in a way that he was accustomed to. "This is the sort of impertinence that I have come to expect from a bastard bred in a prison!" he snapped.

  A wordless murmur rose from the onlookers.

  Malet waited until it finally died away. ""We have reached the limit to my patience, Guerin," he said. "It is obvious that the only response that you can ever make in an argument that you are losing is a slur on my breeding. Well, I am tired of it. I suggest that you name your friends without any further delay so that we can pursue the topic in a more active fashion in the Place des Vosges on a morning of your choosing. Do you understand me?"

  "Good God!" muttered Clerel to Guillart. "He's finally gone and done it!"

  "And about time!" Guillart returned.

  Guerin hadn't spoken; the silence grew dangerous.

  Count d'Anglars stepped forward through the silent onlookers. "Good afternoon, Messieurs," he said.

  Malet's eyes had been locked on Guerin's with the narrow intensity of a creature of prey. D'Anglars' voice made him start, and he did not recover himself for a moment.

  D'Anglars turned to Guerin. "M. Chief Inspector," he said gently, "I believe you were given an order."

  "An order! If you heard - "

  "I regret that I did," said d'Anglars. "And I heard what led up to it. He is within his authority. Now go. I wish you a good day."

  "Surely you can't mean to - "

  "I am afraid I do," said d'Anglars. "You may go."

  Guerin turned pale and then red, but he remained calm. He bowed slightly to Malet, then very low indeed to d'Anglars, turned on his heel, and left.

  D'Anglars turned to the rest. "And you others have business to attend to, I am sure. See to it, if you please."

  "Monseigneur, I - " Malet began.

  "Not at all," said d'Anglars. "You were acting within your rights. And now let us go into your office. I believe we have much to discuss."

  XXXVIII

  INSPECTOR MALET EN FAMILLE

  The elephant stood in the middle of the Place de la Bastille with the majestically ludicrous dignity of its kind, its crenellated howdah sitting atop its back like a miniature castle, the draperies sweeping downward almost to the ground. Its harness was festooned with a riot of tassels, its feet braceleted with garlands of flowers. Large, long tusks curved to either side of its down‑curled trunk. The expression was ill‑tempered, and the platform, atop which it stood, looked like nothing so much as a giant blancmange.

  Made of plaster, the elephant had once been white. Now, caked with the soot of thirty years of Parisian air and crumbling into ruin, it was a shade of gray seldom seen anywhere but in a set of elderly and chronically ill‑laundered drawers.

  Napoleon had planned to cast a monumental bronze fountain in the shape of that elephant, and the plaster one was to have been the model, but wars and other diversions intervened, and the elephant had never achieved the metamorphosis into bronze. Now it was leprous with cracks and slowly crumbling away.

  The elephant wasn't crumbling away fast enough to suit Paul Malet, who had paused, as he always did, to glower at the monstrosity that, to his mind, disfigured the Place de la Bastille and took away all the effect of the gatehouse that served as his headquarters. The thing was incredibly stupid, a white elephant in every sense of the term, something that belonged in a circus or a freak show, anywhere, certainly, rather than opposite his headquarters!

  Malet had moved heaven and earth in an attempt to get the thing removed, to the secret amusement of the Prefect of Police and the Minister of Police along with half the Seine et Oise Prefecture, but he had gone down in defeat: Paris had other, more showy, monuments whose upkeep was closer to the hearts of those in power. The Place de la Bastille, associated as it was with revolutionary, if not regicidal, memories, was judged one of those uneasy spots best left alone. The elephant, although an acknowledged eyesore, was posing no threat to anyone and could be allowed to crumble away in peace.

  Everyone else might have been amused: Malet was not. Some things are not funny, and that dreadful elephant was one of them. He had gone so far as to move his offices to the side of the gatehouse away from the monstrosity, giving to his second in command, Senior Inspector Georges Plougastel, an office that was actually larger and more luxurious than his own.

  Malet clasped his hands behind his back and slowly paced around the elephant. He paused when he was once more in front of it to glare up into its eyes and swear at it before turning away to enter his headquarters.

  This structure was as magnificent as the elephant was foolish. Once the gatehouse of the Bastille, it was impressive in its own right. It overlooked the calm waters of the Porte de Plaisance and faced out to the east. Four separate drum towers gathered to form the body of the gatehouse, and the main entrance, reached from the east through a portcullis set between two of the towers, was overlooked by crenellated battlements. A green sward lay before the building, but it resembled a parade‑ground rather than a croquet lawn.

  There was nothing soft or playful about this final remnant of the Bastille: it was a splendid architectural expression of the adjective 'mighty', and to the dirty, plaster elephant anywhere near it was, to Malet's mind, a joke in the very poorest of taste.

  ** ** **

  "M. l'Inspecteur, there is a visitor asking for you," said Constable Guizot. "Chief Inspector Paul Malet, acting as Provisional Prefect, requests the favor of an interview."

  Senior Inspector Georges Plougastel nodded at the man. "Thank you, Armand," he said. "I will be down at once. Is the coffee ready?"

  "Yes, M. l'Inspecteur."

  "Then be a good fellow and bring some here as soon as you can, will you?" asked Plougastel as he rose and buttoned his jacket.

  The man bowed and withdrew.

  Plougastel descended the stairs to the waiting room. Malet was standing quietly and looking around with an odd lift to his eyebrows. He looked up and smiled as Plougastel came into the room.

  "You might have warned me," Plougastel complained as he came forward to clasp Malet's hand warmly. "I thought you had forgotten us. How long has it been since you were here? Is this an inspection?"

  Malet shook his head. "Only a social call, Georges," he said. "I have some things to do, and I was coming right by here. Besides, I am a little homesick."

  "The elephant's still there, Paul," said Plougastel, hiding a smile. He was one of the few whom Malet addressed by his first name: he was one of only two people in Paris, with the occasional exception of the Prefect, who used Malet's first name.

  "Pity," said Malet. "I was hoping you'd succeed where I failed."

  Plougastel chuckled at that. "But Paul, I happen to like it," he said.

  Malet sighed.

  "Come upstairs," said Plougastel. "I have had some coffee brewed - "

  "How did you know I was coming?" Malet asked as Plougastel took his arm and led him toward the stairs.

  "You usually take a few minutes to stalk around the elephant and curse at it," Plougastel said. "I watched you: it was ample notice!"

  They went to Plougastel's office, a well‑appointed place, and found that coffee and biscuits had already been brought in and set up on a small table beside the fire. The men had apparently decided that M. Chief Inspector needed something more substantial and toothsome than coffee alone: they had also brought a plate of crisp toast swimming with butter and dusted with grated cheese, some strips of crisp bacon, more toasted bread, and a pot of brandied apricot conserve.

  Plougastel waved Malet to the most comfortable chair, resigned himself to the inevitable protest, insisted
, set the table between himself and Malet, and sat down on the other side of the fire.

  "You didn't come here just to swear at the elephant, I am certain," he said as he poured coffee and warm milk into a large cup and handed it to Malet. "What's afoot? You look as splendidly healthy as ever," he added as he took a plate and heaped it with ginger biscuits, cheese toast and bacon before handing it to Malet. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

  Malet took the cup and sipped at it, then set the cup down. He grinned at Plougastel and selected a slice of bacon. "More than I expected," he said.

  Plougastel laughed at that. "Is the inn pleasant, then?"

  "Very much so. It's on the Rue d'Orsel, Georges. Very pretty, with an attractive courtyard. The building itself is well laid out, and the cooking - "

  "Ah, we come to the crucial part," Plougastel murmured, sipping his coffee.

  Malet shot him a disgusted look. "One must eat," he said. "And at least I am not protruding in the waistcoat - unlike some others I could name!"

  Plougastel, who at forty was attempting to submit gracefully to the depredations of middle age, patted the modest bulge of his stomach and said, "Not all of us have discovered the fountain of youth, my dear Paul, and some of us have actually learned to sit still, which burns off less energy. Besides that, it takes a larger volume of food to keep your frame stoked, as I know to my cost!"

  Malet, who was in the act of reaching for another strip of bacon, began to laugh. "All right, all right," he said. "You have made your point. But Georges, the food is delicious, and the people there are very kind."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes," said Malet. "They made me welcome - "

  "You sound surprised," Plougastel observed. "You know, Paul, it isn't such an odd thing for people to take a liking to you. They do it all the time."