Asimov's SF, March 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Louverture picked up a skull from the table nearest him; it had a spot of red paint and the words Meurtrier—Négre written on it. “It is not my skull I am concerned with today,” he said.

  "But it is such a fascinating specimen,” Allard said in full sincerity. He had asked Louverture repeatedly to let him make a detailed study of his skull: on their first meeting he had, without introduction, run his hands over Louverture's head and pronounced that he was fortunate to have the rational faculty of the Frank and the creativity of the Negro.

  "Could we stick to the matter at hand?” Louverture said.

  "Of course, of course.” Allard put down his calipers, turned his full attention to Louverture. “My sketch won't be ready for an hour or so, though."

  "Never mind that. What can you tell me about the man who wrote the letter?"

  Allard picked up the notes he had been consulting, peered through his pince-nez as he flipped through them. “He is most likely not a habitual criminal, so he will lack the prominent jaw we associate with that type. He also likely possesses a need for self-aggrandizement—a man of whom more was expected, perhaps, with very likely a prominent forehead. The need for attention suggests a second child or later, so look for a round skull overall—"

  "I wasn't aware you could tell birth order,” Louverture said, putting the skull in his hand back on the table.

  "You haven't been keeping up with the literature. It was in last Pluviose's Journal—the mother's parts, not yet stretched with birth, pinch the first child's head, rendering it more pointed than later children. All else being equal, of course."

  Louverture nodded. “Yes, of course. And—the race—?” He was accustomed to tiptoeing around the subject; most of his colleagues seemed to feel they were doing him a favor by treating him as white to his face and black behind his back.

  "A tricky question,” Allard said, apparently feeling no discomfort at the topic. In fact he was likely the least prejudiced man in the Corps, genuinely seeing black and white as scientific categories. “What we know shows significant forethought, which suggests a Frank or perhaps an Anglo-Saxon; the apparent motive, however, is irrational, which of course suggests a Negro. On the whole, I would tend to favor one of the European types. Why? Do you suspect..."

  "It's nothing,” Louverture said, letting the unspoken question hang in the air. It was the reason he had been given the case, of course: the fear that this was the work of irrationalists, believers in religion and black magic. The vodoun murders of three years previous had brought him here from Saint-Domingue, and though they had earned him his office and reputation, he had often heard whispers that like follows like.

  "I can give you a sketch for each race, if you wish,” Allard said. “It will take a bit longer, of course."

  "Take your time. The sketch will be of little use until we have a suspect to compare it to."

  Allard nodded abstractly, his attention returned to the model head in front of him. “As you say."

  Louverture tipped his cap in farewell, stepped out into the hallway and headed up the stairs toward his office, wondering how he might conduct an investigation in which he did not have a single lead. A cryptic threat to an unidentified woman, an unmailed letter delivered by an unseen hand.... Clouthier's canvass would turn up nothing, of course; if the culprit did not want a ransom, he might just as easily take a poor woman, or even a prostitute.

  By the time he reached his office, Louverture had decided that Allard's delay, as well as the no doubt slow progress of the graphologist and of Physical Sciences, gave him the excuse to do just what he had first proposed: ignore the whole matter and hope the letter-writer went away, or at least provided him with another clue. He was disappointed, therefore, to open his office door and find the graphologist's report sitting on his desk. Louverture settled into his chair, lit the halogen lamp, and began to read. Open curves, large space between letters: male. Confident pen-strokes: written cool-headed, without excitement or fear of discovery. He frowned. That did not square with the notion that the letter-writer was seeking to arouse a reaction from the police, but what other motive made sense? Correctly formed letters: well-educated in a good school. This seemed even more illogical. Anyone who received an education knew that all criminals were eventually caught, save those whose confederates turned on them first. Neat, precise capitals: a man of some authority.

  Louverture closed his eyes, rubbed at them with thumb and forefinger. A confident man who nevertheless had a pathological need for attention, and felt neither fear nor excitement in taunting the police—as though the message had been composed and written by two different men. The writer, though, had not been coerced, since the letters showed no fear, so what sort of partnership was he looking at? An intelligent criminal with tremendous sang-froid, paired with an insecure, weak-willed ... but no, it made no sense. The former would restrain the latter from any attention-getting activities, not assist in them; unless a bargain of some sort was involved, the cool-headed man having to gratify the other's needs in order to gain something he required. Access to something he possessed, perhaps—or someone—

  Well, it was a pretty play he had written: all he needed was a pair of actors for the parts. Louverture tore a piece of paper from the pad on his desk, uncapped his fountain pen, and wrote Imagine two criminals—group like faculties on it. The first criminal, the cool-headed one, would have had little contact with the police, but the second, he very likely could not help it. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, rummaged inside for a tube labeled LOMBROSOLOGIE; rolled the paper up, tucked it in the tube, and pushed the whole thing into the pneumatic. Standing, he turned the neck of his lamp to point its beam at his bookshelf, then scanned the leather-bound volumes of the Rogues’ Gallery there. What would the excitable man's earlier crimes have been? Nothing spectacular, but at the same time something directed at gaining attention. Public nudity, perhaps? Harassment? A man with a wife, a daughter, a sister, perhaps a domestic living in. A man with little self-control, and yet not truly poor, or else how would he have met the educated man he was partnered with? If not poor, though, his neighbors would have complained about the noise that almost certainly came from his house; Louverture took Volume Twenty-Three, Noise Infractions, off the shelf and added it to the pile on the desk.

  He was not sure how much time had passed when he heard the door open. He looked up from the book in front of him, expecting to see Allard with his sketches; instead it was Clouthier. Louverture stood, gave a small salute.

  "Officier Principal, what can I do for you?"

  Clouthier cleared his throat, brushed at his dark blue jacket with his fingertips. “It's past six. Are we going to see your progress report today?"

  "I haven't received anything from Lombrosology or Physical Sciences yet."

  "I'm told you haven't given orders to any of the gardiens to search or arrest anyone. Have you spent the whole day reading books?” Clouthier asked, looking around at Louverture's desk and shelves with distaste.

  "I've been rounding up known criminals,” Louverture said. “Doing it this way saves your men time and energy. Incidentally, are my reports not to go to Commandant Trudeau?"

  "To him through me. Public safety is my responsibility, and I must respond quickly to any threat."

  "We have almost twenty days,” Louverture said mildly.

  "If whoever wrote that letter is being truthful. Have you often known criminals to be truthful, Louverture?"

  "Why bother to give us the letter and then lie in it? If he wanted to avoid detection, wouldn't it have been better not to alert us at all?"

  Clouthier coughed loudly. “It's nonsense to expect him to be logical—if he were a rational man, he'd know better than to be a criminal."

  Louverture nodded. “As you say. I'll make sure my report is on your desk before you go—how much longer were you planning on staying tonight?"

  "Never mind,” Clouthier said. “Just have it there before I get here in the morning."

&nbs
p; "Of course. Is there anything else?"

  Clouthier seemed to think for a moment, then shook his head, turned to leave. “Just keep me informed."

  Louverture waited until Clouthier was out the door, then called to him. “Oh, Officier Principal, I forgot to ask—did your canvass turn anything up?"

  With a barely perceptible shake of his head, Clouthier stepped out into the hall. Though he could not help smiling, Louverture wondered whether that had been a miscalculation. It was no secret that Clouthier did not like him, a situation caused as much by his coming from outside the local Corps hierarchy as by his mixed blood. It would be best, he thought, to leave off further teasing of the lion for now. Resolving to restrain himself better, Louverture returned to his desk and began writing his report.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Louverture read over his notes, trying to get them to make sense. He had taken the omnibus instead of his velocipede so that he could read on his way to work, laying the pages atop the briefcase on his lap, but the heat and vibration kept him from concentrating. His cap was damp with sweat, but he refused to take it off; he knew from experience how people reacted when they saw his dark, kinked hair emerge from under an officier's hat. Not that there were many people to react this morning, the omnibus being only half-full.

  He forced his mind to return to its task. If his theory was right, the second man was undoubtedly the key, but he had not found anyone in the Rogues’ Gallery that fit the profile. Could a man with such a need for attention possibly have hidden it all these years? Perhaps he had had another outlet until recently—an actor, for instance, put out of work by the theater closings....

  A sudden jolt interrupted Louverture's train of thought. He looked up from his notes, saw that the omnibus had stopped in the middle of the street. The driver had already disembarked, and the other passengers were filing off, grumbling.

  "Excuse me,” he said to the man in front of him, “what has happened?"

  "It broke down again,” the man said. “Third time this month. I'd do better on foot."

  Louverture followed the queue onto the sidewalk. A few of the passengers had gathered to wait for the next omnibus; the rest hailed pedicabs or walked off down the street. The driver had the bonnet open and was looking inside; Louverture tapped him on the shoulder. “What is the matter with it?"

  The driver turned his head and opened his mouth to speak, closed it when he saw Louverture's uniform. “It's corroded, sir,” he said. “Do you smell that?"

  Louverture took a sniff; a sharp smell, like lemon but much more harsh, emanated from the omnibus’ hood. “That is the engine?"

  "The battery, sir,” the driver said. “That's sulfuric acid inside; eventually it eats away at the whole thing."

  "This happens often?"

  The driver shook his head. “They break down sometimes, but not usually like this. The scientists think it may be the heat."

  "And they're sure it's a natural phenomenon? It hasn't been reported to the Corps."

  "I suppose,” the driver said, shrugged. “Why in Reason's name would anyone sabotage an omnibus? What's to gain from it?"

  "Well, I hope they solve the problem soon."

  The driver laughed. “Me too. Much longer and I'll need another job—there'll be no one riding them at all."

  Louverture tapped the brim of his cap to the man and stepped over to the curb to hail a pedicab. He could hear the other passengers grumbling a bit when one stopped at the sight of his badge, saw the obvious annoyance of the man inside whose cab he had commandeered. He disliked being so high-handed, but he could not afford to be late: after his little dig at Clouthier the night before, the man would be looking for reasons to undermine him.

  His fears were realized when he arrived at the Cabildo at three-ninety five and the gardien at the desk waved him over. “Officier Principal Clouthier is waiting for you in the interrogation room, sir,” he said.

  Louverture tapped his cap in acknowledgment and went through the big double doors that led to the interrogation and holding areas, hoping Clouthier had not done anything that would make his job more difficult. When he arrived at the interrogation room he saw the man himself, talking to the gardien at the door to the cell.

  "Louverture, nice of you to come in,” Clouthier said, bursting with scarcely restrained smugness.

  "What's this?” Louverture asked, looking through one of the recessed portholes in the wall; he saw, inside, a dark-skinned Negro sitting at the table. “You have a suspect? How did you find him?"

  "He was in possession of another copy of the note, along with paper, pen, and ink that precisely matched those used to write the letter, according to Physical Sciences,” Clouthier said. “So we brought him in."

  Louverture took a long breath in and out. “And just how did you find this particular pen-and-paper owner?"

  "I had my men search some of the worse areas of Tremé at dawn this morning. I am not afraid to expend a little time and energy, if it gets results."

  "And I suppose he vigorously resisted arrest? I ask only because black skin shows bruises so poorly, I might not know otherwise."

  "A little rough handling only. Commandant Trudeau directed that I leave the interrogation to you."

  "Gracious thanks,” Louverture said. “If you'll excuse me.” He nodded to the gardien to open the door and went inside. The suspect was sitting on a light cane chair, his hands chained behind his back; his face, at least, was unmarked. “I am Officier de la Paix Louverture,” he said in a calm voice. “What is your name?"

  "Duhaime,” the man stuttered. “Lucien Duhaime.” He looked quickly at the door.

  "We are alone,” Louverture said. “You may speak freely. Do you know why you have been arrested, Monsieur Duhaime?"

  "I didn't—I don't know how that paper got there."

  "Someone planted paper, pen, and ink in your house, without you knowing?” Duhaime opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. Louverture shook his head. “Well then, how did it get there?"

  "I don't—I don't know."

  "I see.” Louverture sighed. Now there was one man to compose the note, another to write it, a third to deliver it: too large a cast for the play to be believable. Sitting down opposite Duhaime, he realized he still had his briefcase with him; in a sudden inspiration he set it on the table and opened it with the top toward the prisoner, so Duhaime could not see the contents. “I keep the tools of my trade in this case, Lucien. Do you know what they are?"

  Duhaime shook his head.

  "The most important one is my razor."

  Duhaime's eyes widened. Louverture took out his badge, tapped on the image of a razor and metron, crossed. “This razor was given to me by a Monsieur Abelard, but it is not an ordinary razor. Instead of shaving hair, it lets me shave away what is improbable and leaves only the truth.” He peered over the open case at Duhaime. “It tells me that you wrote a note with that pen and paper, and placed it on the statue of Reason in Descartes Square, and that we must therefore charge you with suspicion of kidnapping.” Duhaime took an involuntary breath, confirming Louverture's suspicion. He took the day's paper from the case, showed the headline to Duhaime. It read Feu dans le marché: deuxieme du mois. “Have you seen this? ‘Manhunt for kidnapper.’ You've cost a lot of time and trouble, Lucien."

  "I didn't know anything about a kidnapping. I didn't know!” Duhaime tried to rise to his feet, was restrained by the chain fastening him to the table. “The man, he gave me three pieces of paper, said he'd pay if I delivered them for him. I thought it was a prank."

  Louverture leaned back, rubbed his chin. “You've intrigued me, Lucien. Tell me about this man."

  Duhaime shrugged, winced as he did so; Louverture saw his right shoulder was probably dislocated. “He was a rich man, well-dressed. A man like you."

  "A policier?"

  "No, a white."

  "A convincing story requires more detail, Lucien,” Louverture said, shaking his head sadly.

 
"He spoke well, though he was trying not to. Clean shaven, with a narrow face. He wore those little smoke-tinted glasses, so I didn't see his eyes."

  "And just where did someone like you meet this wealthy, well-spoken man?"

  "I have a pedicab. It's good money since the omnibuses started breaking down.” Duhaime looked at Louverture's unbelieving eyes, then down at the table. “I stole it."

  "Very well. Where did you pick him up?"

  "On Baronne street, just west of the Canal. He was going to the ferry dock."

  "Would you recognize him if you saw him again? Or a picture?"

  "I'll try,” Duhaime said, nodding eagerly.

  Louverture closed his briefcase, rose to his feet. “Very well, Lucien, we shall test your theory,” he said. “You'll remain our guest for the time being, andI'll see your shoulder gets looked at."

  "Thank you, officier."

  "It's nothing.” Louverture turned to go, paused. “Oh, one thing more. You said you were given three copies: we found the one you planted on the statue, and one more you had. Where is the other?"

  "I was to deliver one every night,” Duhaime said.

  "Where?"

  "The statue, first; second the newspaper; and then Reason Cathedral."

  "So you delivered the second last night? To the Pére Duchesne?"

  Duhaime shook his head. “No, sir. The other paper."

  Louverture swore under his breath, turned to the door and knocked on it harshly. The gardien on the other side opened it and he stepped through; Clouthier was still standing there, by one of the portholes in the wall. “We have a problem,” Louverture said. “The Minerve has a copy of the letter."

  "I'll send a man—"

  "It's probably too late. It would have been waiting for them this morning."

  Clouthier rolled his eyes. “Assuming your man in there isn't just telling stories."

  "He can't read,” Louverture said, forcing his voice to stay level. “How do you suppose he wrote the letters? No, he's telling the truth—and by this afternoon everyone will know that ‘she dies on the thirteenth.’”