LXIII
DRACQUET AT BAY
The room was perfectly silent. Malet's words had driven all color from the Duke of Rochester's face. No one had seen the back door open to admit a squad of sergents de ville with a prisoner in their grip.
Dracquet's eyes flickered with momentary consternation before he slowly lowered his glass of wine. "I beg Your Grace to overlook the boorishness of this man," he said. "I shall send him about his business."
He turned to Malet and his voice was calm and contemptuous. "How dare you intrude in my house like this? Have the Police gone into housebreaking?" Each word was incisive and curt. He paused and added with an elegant sneer, "Or am I to take this as a sample of the manners you learned in that prison?"
Malet advanced to the table, his left hand behind his back. "Guy Matherne, alias Dragonard, alias Dracquard, alias Dracquet," he said as he took a folded document from his pocket with his right hand and laid it on the table, "I am placing you under arrest in the name of the king." He tapped the red seal on the document. "Here is the warrant, signed by His Majesty, himself. And your companions will be answering to King William of England. Will you come peacefully?"
Dracquet was thinking furiously, his eyes fixed on Malet. His hands lay on the tabletop. He started to shift in his seat. "This is absurd!" he said contemptuously. "On what charge do you arrest me?"
"You have been implicated in the attempted murder of a public official," said Malet with a smile. "Although," he added gently, "I could probably make a case for treason and sedition based on what I have just heard in the past few minutes."
Dracquet rose to his feet. "Preposterous!" he exclaimed. He lifted a little bell on the table and rang it imperiously.
"I believe your men are tied up at the moment," Malet said, bringing his left hand from behind his back. His pistol was leveled and steady.
Dracquet set the bell down and shoved his plate aside with a lightning‑quick motion. His hand emerged holding a small pistol.
"Put down your gun," Malet said with a cold smile. "Even if you hit me, you know I will kill you before I die. Put it down. And your guests had best keep their hands where I can see them."
Dracquet lowered his weapon.
"Now sit down slowly and place your hands on the table."
Dracquet kept his eyes fixed on Malet's, but he obeyed.
Lord Edwin came through the pocket doors at that moment, followed by Sir Robert Peel. Both men looked straight at the Duke of Rochester.
"Good evening, Your Grace," said Peel.
The muzzle of Malet's gun lowered a fraction of an inch.
Dracquet hurled his pistol in Malet's face, whirled and flung open the doors of the cabinet behind him, revealing a narrow passageway set into the walls of the house. He dove into the passageway as the second squad of gendarmes burst into the room with their pistols ready.
"Handcuffs on all of them!" Malet snapped over his shoulder as he rushed to the passageway. He could hear footsteps moving swiftly away from him. There was no room to fight; the passageway had been designed purely for flight. Malet hurried after the footsteps, moving sideways. He could feel coarse brick on one side and smooth wall on the other; the escape route, then, was probably relatively new, most likely an addition made at Dracquet's direction. From what he remembered of the house, they were going toward the servants' stairs. This probably opened on the landing -
He heard a door open and softly close just ahead of him as he framed this thought. The sound was followed by the snick of a lock and then the thump of a triumphant fist against the door.
Malet reached the door a moment later. His hand closed about the knob and turned. Nothing. He was locked in the passageway.
** ** **
Malet's mouth tightened. So Dracquet thought he had him caged, did he? That remained to be seen. He felt his way along the wall until he reached the outline of the door.
A splinter of light had forced its way through the edges of the door. It was enough to permit Malet to get a good look at the lock. It was a double lock, but Dracquet had only set the spring bolt. It was easily broken and even more easily forced. Ten seconds' work with his penknife sprang the bolt, and the door opened quietly outward.
Malet smiled as he silently pushed the door nearly closed - his men might be following him, after all - and stepped softly onto the landing of the servants' stair. No, Dracquet hadn't troubled to read that expensive dossier he had assembled. If he had, he would have jammed a chair up against the door instead of wasting his time with the lock.
It only remained to find the man, but that shouldn't be hard. After a split second of concentrated thought, Malet ran up to the next floor and went down the hallway toward the front of the house, where the library was.
The frantic, partially hushed rattle of paper coming from a room down the hall proved him correct. He abandoned all caution and sprinted toward the sound. He set his hand on the doorknob and turned, but the heavy mahogany panel remained unmoved.
Malet swore and shook the handle. No time to pick the lock now. He set the left barrel of his pistol against the lock and pulled the left trigger.
The door shuddered.
Malet could hear feet on the stairs two floors below. "This way!" he shouted.
The sounds in the next room became louder, more urgent.
Malet cocked the right hammer of his pistol, set the barrel against the lock, and fired again. The door boomed inward and crashed against the wall to show the interior of a study, whose book‑lined walls glowed with the ruddy light of a leaping fire.
Dracquet was crouched before the fire, setting piles of paper on the flames. He looked up and smiled as Malet came in. "You were long in coming," he said as he riffled through another pile of papers and set them, too, on the flames, and then rose.
The edges of the piles were beginning to blacken.
Malet stepped forward.
Dracquet lifted a poker. "No closer," he said. "I prefer transportation to execution. We'll just let these burn."
"No we won't," Malet said, moving closer.
Dracquet raised the poker like a sword. "I heard two shots," he said, casting a quick, sideways glance at the papers. "You carry a two‑barreled pistol by all reports. You haven't had time to reload, so your pistol is useless. And I have a theory they didn't teach you to fence in prison."
"They didn't," Malet said as he stepped forward. His sword was in its sheath.
Dracquet's smile intensified as he closed with Malet, the heavy brass poker raised over his head for the killing stroke.
Malet took another step forward. "Drop it," he said. His eyes never left Dracquet's face.
Dracquet's fingers tensed on the grip of the poker. "Stand back!" he snarled as the poker reached the zenith of its arc and swung downward.
Malet stepped under the swing and blocked Dracquet's arm with his left wrist as his right fist connected with the point of the man's chin in a powerful overhand that snapped Dracquet's head violently sideways. The poker flew from Dracquet's hand, glanced from Malet's gold bullion epaulet and clattered to the hearth. A left hook to the stomach a split second later laid Dracquet flat on the floor and gasping for breath.
Malet took advantage of the respite to drop a Chinese rug over the fire.
"I did learn swordplay in Marseilles when I went into the Police, however," he said conversationally as he lifted the rug, surveyed the smoldering papers, and slid them from the flames to the hearth apron with the discarded poker.
"My beat took me past the house of none other than Rouault the elder, who took a liking to me and offered to teach me free of charge. It was good discipline for a lonely young bastard fresh from the prison. No, don't move or I will deck you again with the best will in the world! 'One plain little girl', indeed! And the next time you try to burn evidence - though you won't live so long, I promise you! - I suggest you crumple the papers first. Stacks don't burn well, and there's enough here, from what I can see, to earn you an appointment with th
e guillotine."
LXIV
RAVELINGS FROM THE SPIDER'S WEB
Dracquet, his co‑conspirators and his household staff, were taken in irons to the Palais de Justice, where they were questioned at some length and then consigned to the prison of the Conciergerie.
The case against them was very clear: Princess Victoria would set sail for France aboard Louis‑Philippe's private yacht, and would die under very suspicious circumstances. The Englishmen, under the direction of the Duke of Rochester, had arranged for inflammatory information to be sent throughout England showing that the mishap had been caused by connivance between the House of Orleans and the Duke of Cumberland. One of the documents that Dracquet had tried to throw in the fire had detailed four possible avenues of disseminating this material and listed the 'proof' that could be produced to incriminate Cumberland and Louis‑Philippe.
The French aspect of the conspiracy dealt with various munitions manufacturers and the avenues through which Dracquet would secure their cooperation. Suppliers, schedules - all had been set forth in theory under a war date of December 29, 1833. Various threads tying in with Bonapartist interests had been included, as well.
Rochester had been taken back to London under heavy guard, and the French authorities had replaced his name in the official reports with the notation 'R________'. Word had come from above that the sooner Rochester's involvement was forgotten the better.
"Will Princess Victoria come to Paris now?" Malet asked.
d'Anglars hesitated before he answered. "I believe not," he said. "His Grace of Rochester will meet with his death in a hunting accident in a week's time. He is an aficionado of antique firearms, and one that he had purchased and attempted to fire will malfunction and kill him one morning when he is out hunting quail alone. Naturally, the death of one so close to the throne will send the entire house of Hanover into mourning, and it would be most improper for Princess Victoria to travel at all."
"They're allowing him to quit with honor," Malet said. "While Dracquet and the others will be guillotined."
The disapproval in his voice made d'Anglars look up from a frowning study of his hands. "In all fairness," he said, "That is all they can do. They can't afford the scandal, not at the moment." He added softly, "You are descended from noble stock and you are a very just man: admit that justice is being done in its own - odd - fashion."
But Malet did not address the appeal. "My opinion is valueless," he said. He added, "I am sorry to hear that the princess won't be visiting. She would have loved Paris at Christmastide."
d'Anglars smiled, but he merely said, "I have had some part in reviewing the other documents retrieved from Dracquet's house. The murder of de Grandpré is covered there, and several assassinations that had puzzled the Police from several outlying prefectures. Smuggling, extortion - the man kept very precise records. Very foolish of him, I think."
"And Guerin: any news of his involvement?" asked Malet.
d'Anglars looked thoughtful. "So far, no. Nothing pertaining to him personally has been found."
Malet nodded.
"Shall I inform you if anything is discovered?"
Malet drew a deep breath and then released it. "No," he said. "I will learn along with everyone else if anything comes to light. I am content with that. I don't wish to gloat over anyone's downfall, least of all his. He was - and, I think, still is - a fine officer. I hope he isn't implicated."
"So be it," said d'Anglars. He looked Malet over and added, "As for you, my dear sir, you're obviously exhausted. You have given very generous credit to your child informer and the honest young inspector who first brought this matter to your attention, but I do not for a moment forget that it was your unfailing diligence and intuition that made this triumph possible. I suggest that you clear your desk at the Prefecture, and then take a well‑earned rest."
** ** **
Malet was only too happy to obey Count d'Anglars. He took time to 'spring' Dracquet's cook, whom the stone‑thrower had cleared of any involvement, and then went to his home in the Marais, where he bathed and changed his clothing. He went back to the Prefecture to take care of one or two items before going to the Rose d'Or.
The coup had taken its toll. Over thirty‑six hours had passed since Malet had slept. He ached, and what he needed, he knew, was a leisurely cup of coffee well‑laced with brandy, and then a good night's sleep. There would be time for that shortly.
Although d'Anglars had offered the use of his carriage, Malet decided to walk to the Prefecture. He had a lot to consider.
Elise was the most urgent consideration. He could speak openly once he was away from the Rose d'Or. His heart seemed to flutter, just for a moment. Would she have him if he offered? Was it possible? Oh surely it was! Surely he could have no doubts after that night at Montmartre! He was illegitimate, but he wasn't a nobody. His was a position of power and influence, and although he did not have the entree to society that he thought she merited, she did not seem to set any store by such considerations.
And, really, they made no difference, as long as he could make her happy. That thought held him as he approached the Prefecture. His happiness had always taken second place to the happiness of those he loved. If he couldn't make her happy -
He ruthlessly cut off the train of thought before it could be completely formed. He would think that through later.
Sergeant Guillart was waiting for him at the door of the Prefecture.
"Congratulations," he said. "You're a hero."
Malet shook his head. "I acted on tips given by an honest man and a courageous little boy," he said. "It is they whom you should congratulate, not me." He paused and added, "And if that little boy ever comes by, find out his name, would you? And where he lives. I...would like to know."
Guillart snorted, but he made no other comment. "Are you going back to the Rose d'Or?" he asked.
"As soon as I go over a few things, yes," Malet said.
Guillart opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a letter. "Then would you oblige me by carrying this to Mme. de Clichy?" he asked.
Malet looked at the handwriting on the cover and recognized it as Inspector de Saint‑Légère's. He took it almost gently and gazed at the inscription on the front, noticing the faintly foreign look of the handwriting.
Guillart eyed Malet's expression and said, "Are you all right, Inspector?"
"I am fine. I will be the better for a good rest - as would you, my dear Guillart. Go home. And send my love to your good lady - and the children." He frowned at the letter. "Guillart," he said softly, "Did that letter to the Bois de Boulogne go out with the dispatches as I had requested the day I arrested Dracquet?"
"It did," Guillart answered. "I saw to it myself. It went out in the first packet of messages."
Malet nodded.
"She sent to inquire urgently after you several times," Guillart said.
"I see," said Malet, but he did not appear to be truly listening.
Guillart smiled and gathered his papers. "It's been a long month," he said. "We have all of us have earned a rest."
"That we have," Malet said. He was still frowning at Saint‑Légère's letter.
** ** **
Charles de Saint‑Légère! For all that Malet had been bringing his letters to the Rose d'Or, he had all but forgotten about the man. Now all his virtues rose up in Malet's memory, vivid and strong. Young, well‑bred, at ease wherever he went! The words repeated themselves in Malet's mind during his ride to the Rose d'Or with the letter burning in his breast pocket. He had formed such a sincere respect for the man, it was hard to think of him as a rival. But there he was.
He drew a deep breath and expelled it. What had he to fear from the man? If it came to a fight between them, Saint‑Légère would be the loser. Malet had all the killer skills, honed to a nicety, that had been developed in a prison. He could be a cutthroat, and he had a bred in the bone ability to act. If it came to war between them, how could he fail?
The man wa
s young and open‑hearted. Malet was older, and wiser far beyond his years, with the control born of years of strife. He could make Saint‑Légère look like a fool if he wished.
Or, since he was the Provisional Prefect, he could arrange the man's exile to a far prefecture. Why, the Prefect of Puy de Dome, headquartered in Clermont, to the south, owed him a considerable favor, and he would be more than happy to repay it by burying an obscure Junior Inspector. Nothing could be easier.
Malet's heart rebelled even as he toyed with the thought. He remembered how Saint‑Légère had stood before him and detailed his constructive demotion at Guerin's hands for his refusal to accept a bribe. To do such a thing to anyone would be a trick worthy of Constant Dracquet.
And there was, as well, the possibility that Elise loved Charles de Saint‑Légère. He had seen the letter she had written him sitting openly on the mantel. What had been in the letter? In hurting the man, Malet might well hurt the lady, and that was unthinkable. But did she love him?
He thought back to their embrace along that twisting street near the Butte. With the memory of her alive and passionate in his arms, her lips against his, the words she had spoken, he could have no doubt of her feelings for him. Could he?
None at all. Malet released his breath in a long sigh and sat back. None at all, unless -
Suddenly his certainty crumbled. Out of sight, out of mind - wasn't that the old adage? What if she really loved Saint‑Légère? What if she had only forgotten her feelings for the man? It was far‑fetched, but it was a possibility, and it had to be faced. Malet could not win her by a trick.
What should he do then?
He put his hand up to the letter. The possibility of throwing it out the window occurred to him, but he dismissed the thought. Even if the act itself were not despicable, Saint‑Légère would be writing again. Was Malet to intercept each letter?
There was, after all, only one thing to do.
** ** **
Elise was sitting quietly in the salon as he came in. She looked up and saw him, and her entire face seemed suddenly to glow. She abandoned all pretense of decorum and hurried forward to take his hands, laughing and crying at once while Yvette looked on with a wide, relieved smile.
The Orphan's Tale Page 38
