Duval and the Italian Opera Singer (Napoleon's Police Book 6)

by Michele McGrath

  Fournier arrived promptly enough, with Lefebvre in tow.

  “What’s this?” Fournier asked.

  “The brother of the so called Didier,” I said. “Strangely, he doesn’t want to help us.”

  “Doesn’t he?” Fournier started to circle behind Evrard. Suddenly he slammed his fist onto the arm of the chair, millimetres from Evrard’s hand. Evrard nearly jumped out of his skin. “I think he will. Where is he?”

  Evrard looked as if he was about to faint, but he shook his head.

  “Lefebvre, go fetch me the instruments,” Fournier ordered. Evrard did not spot the wink that passed between them.

  “The thumbscrews you mean?” Lefebvre asked blandly and I had to stifle a giggle. I’m sure such things are hidden somewhere in the Ministry. It is a very old building, after all, built and furnished long before the Age of Reason. I have never seen any thumbscrews, for which I am grateful. Lefebvre walked away, tossing these words over his shoulder,

  “Do you want the garrotte as well?”

  The effect on Evrard was electric. He sat upright and his hands began to twitch as if he couldn’t control them. Fournier was still circling the unfortunate man, like a beast in the arena. I bent down and said softly,

  “None of this will be necessary if you tell me where your brother is.”

  “You’d let me go free?” He raised his eyes to me and I could see a glint which I thought was terror in their depths.

  “As soon as we find him. It’s Charles we want, not you.”

  “I’ll tell you, if you release me now.”

  “How would we know if you’re telling the truth?”

  “I am, I swear it.”

  “Words are easy. I’ll give you mine in return. I swear to you that, as soon as we find him, I’ll return straight away and set you free.”

  A rattle sounded outside and Lefebvre came in lugging a sack full of jangling metal. He dumped it down on the floor with a clang and proceeded to sort through it, throwing out the odd piece of twisted iron where Evrard could see it. The man’s eyes were riveted to the pile. Lefebvre was muttering,

  “It’s here somewhere. I know it is… ah!”

  He turned to me holding a small square shape. I had no idea what it was.

  “Will this do?” Lefebvre asked, dropping a nut and bolt into my hand in such a way that it was hidden from Evrard. “It should fit on his thumb.”

  “Let’s find out, shall we?” I said, advancing towards the shaking man and catching hold of his thumb with my free hand. He leaped at my touch.

  “No! No! Don’t put it on me. I’ll tell you. I will! Just don’t hurt me.”

  His head was down so I grinned at my friends.

  “Where is he then?” Fournier asked.

  “He’s gone to our mother at Clichy.”

  “What?”

  “At our mother’s place, I tell you. In Clichy.”

  It was a shock. I’d been told this piece of information before but I hadn’t believed it or followed it up. I cursed myself that I had lost so much time. We untied Jacques and left him locked in the cell.

  “What now?” Fournier asked.

  “We need to decide. The Rose and quickly.”

  On the way to the tavern, I debated what to do. First of all I had to find out it either of the others had any further information. I had not expected Lefebvre to return to Paris so soon. He told us that he had spoken to the groom, Ogier, without much success. The man would only say that he had been sent to deliver the carriage to Mercier’s and that he had done so. He had taken the vehicle and then returned to Malmaison on the stage where his brother was waiting to tell him about their mother’s illness. He had been granted leave to visit her and had been in Nanterre ever since.

  “Did you believe him?” I asked.

  “The priest vouched for him. The poor old woman’s dying and he is her eldest living child. I had just left him and I was crossing the square in Nanterre when I saw the stagecoach about to start for Paris. I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to do next, so I thought I’d come back and speak to you before I did anything further.”

  “Did you ask Ogier who gave him the order to take the carriage to Mercier’s?”

  “I did. He said that originally Jamet told him to take it to Boyer’s.”

  “Did he give him a note for them?”

  “No he did not.”

  “You sound quite certain.”

  “I am. Ogier was just about to start, when Renardin, who is Jamet’s deputy, ran out to him and told him to take it to Mercier’s instead. Renardin took the original letter away from him and gave him another in its place.”

  “Wasn’t he surprised about that?”

  “Yes but, as Ogier said, ‘What can you expect? Plans change.’”

  “He didn’t query it?”

  “He’s not the type to question anything, unless it affects him personally.”

  “This man, Renardin, will have to be questioned then. Will you do that Fournier?”

  Fournier nodded. “I’ll go and find him. Au fait, I found nothing at Saint-Cloud but that’s not surprising, since the coach was at Malmaison. At least you found the wretched thing.”

  “Then Lefebvre and I will make our way to Clichy. It may need the two of us, in case this Charles Evrard tries to flee.”

  I sent Lefebvre to our office in the Ministry to bring our pistols and my swordstick. If I went to fetch them myself, Laurent was sure to ask me all sorts of questions and waste my time. Lefebvre can handle him. He pretends to be stupid, which he certainly isn’t, but Laurent believes he is little better than a half-wit. As it happened, this precaution wasn’t necessary. No one was there, so Lefebvre scooped up the weapons and returned.

  The Ministry stables supplied us with a gig which would carry three people. It wasn’t fast, but it is harder for a prisoner to escape from a carriage than on horseback. We were soon bowling through the outskirts of the city. The village of Clichy is east of Paris on the south bank of the Seine. The river makes a loop to the north there, before it turns to the sea. It is a wooded place which must have been thick forest once. The trees give it a gloomy air and it is an undistinguished hamlet, to put it kindly. I had obtained his mother’s location from Jacques Evrard. She lived in a cottage close to the riverbank. Her husband worked on the barges until he was drowned in an accident a few years ago. We drove through the small town and out towards the marshes. A rutted lane led towards the water. I stopped the gig at the top of the track and tied the horse to a nearby tree.

  “This is far enough,” I said to Lefebvre. “Any further and they’ll hear us.”

  “I’ll circle around to the back of the place,” he offered, pulling out one of the pistols and a cosh, which is the weapon he prefers. He considers swordplay sissy and a waste of time.

  “I’ll come in through the front.” I took my own weapons and clicked my swordstick to make sure that the mechanism was working freely. The stick has the added advantage of compensating for my lame leg and helping my balance, as well as being used as a sword or a club.

  The cottage was in reality a tumbledown shack with cracked walls and thatch missing from the roof. Evrard, himself, did not live in comfort, but I thought the worse of him for leaving his mother in such a hovel. In fact, I hoped he’d run, so I could have the pleasure of punching him. I stopped a few metres from the door and looked over the hedges. A broken down boat lay beached between the house and the riverbank. No means of escape there. If anyone was mad enough to try, the vessel would sink under them within minutes. A horse grazed in a nearby field. Otherwise everything looked lifeless. I crept forward, taking care to avoid anything on the ground that might make a noise. I left the pistol in my pocket and unsheathed the tip of my swordstick. Not knowing how many people were inside, I did not want to fire my gun inadvertently and alert them. I was quite near to the entrance when I heard the murmur of voices inside. Then there was a commotion and a young boy shot out of the cottage and almost into my arms. Instin
ctively I caught hold of him with my free hand. He twisted and turned like an eel, his fists pounding into my legs. A man followed, shouting at him. One look and I recognised Charles Evrard. The picture had indeed been a true likeness.

  “Lefebvre, come here to me,” I yelled. I let the boy go and thrust at Evrard with my swordstick. He wasn’t expecting it and he tripped full length onto the mud. He tried to turn over but, when my steel pricked the back of his neck, his struggles ceased. An old woman came bustling out of the door on unsteady legs. She made to throw herself at me but Lefebvre came round the side of the cottage and caught hold of her. He pulled her backwards, giving me room.

  “Evrard, speak to me unless you want me to kill you right now.”

  Slowly the man rolled until he lay face upwards, staring at me.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Police. Who is that boy that just ran out of here?”

  “My nephew, the little scamp. What’s it got to do with you?” It is hard to be belligerent when you are lying in the mud with a sword point at your neck but Evrard tried. I ignored his question and asked,

  “Is his name Marco by any chance?”

  Chapter 9

  Suddenly there was a yelp from Lefebvre. The old woman had bitten him on the arm. Now Lefebvre is my best friend in the world but I have to admit that he has no finer feelings about hitting women when they attack him first. Before I could stop him he had drawn back his arm and clouted her. She dropped to the floor and, while I was distracted, Evrard rolled from under my sword point and got to his feet. He leapt at me. Stupidly I wasn’t expecting it and the blade slid neatly into his thigh. He howled and fell over again, holding onto his leg.

  “Keep hold of the old biddy,” I yelled and dropped down on my knees beside the wounded man. He lashed out at me, so I punched him hard on the jaw and he lay still. Then I was able to examine his wound. I am no surgeon, but I have seen enough injuries of this kind on the battlefield. I had carved a slice of flesh from his thigh. It was long and must be painful, but it was not serious. The injury would only lame him for a while. The blood was not spurting, so I had missed the large vessels and he was unlikely to bleed to death. I ripped his scarf from his neck and used it to bind the leg to stop the bleeding.

  “Give me your flask, Jean.” He did not answer. So I turned to see why not and found he had trussed the woman up using her own apron and belt. She looked like a chicken ready for the spit. All she could do was glare at us and scream. She did plenty of both and I wondered how long it would be before anyone came to find out what was the matter. Fortunately the cottage was isolated and far from the village.

  Lefebvre handed me his flask with a grin. “Makes a fine noise, doesn’t she?”

  I poured some of the contents of the flask onto Evrard’s wound which had the effect of bringing him round in a hurry. His hand moved but Lefebvre put a foot on his wrist pinning him down.

  “Keep still, I’m dressing your wound,” I hissed at him.

  “Why should I trust you? First you run me through, now you say you’re trying to help me.”

  “If I wanted you dead, we’d be digging your grave. Stay still I said!”

  I took off my cravat, tore it into strips and made a pad. I wet it from the flask which contained brandy and tied up the wound.

  “You’ll need a sawbones to sew it up, but that will do for the moment. You won’t die this time.”

  I stood up and glanced around. Neither Evrard nor the old woman would be able to go anywhere. Then I realised that I had completely forgotten about the boy. I had been so pleased to see him unharmed but events had overtaken me. Now he had a head start. What would he do? France was a new country to him so he was unlikely to have friends in the area and he had at best only a few words of the language. There were two possibilities. He could run away as far as possible and hide, or perhaps curiosity would keep him nearby to find out what was happening. If I had been him I would have stayed, so it was worth a try. I shouted out in Italian,

  “Marco, it’s Alain, I’ve been searching for you to take you home to your mother.” Nothing. It seemed as if my words echoed in a void. I tried again with no better results.

  “He’ll be long gone by now,” Lefebvre said.

  “Perhaps but I’d want to find out what was going on, if I was him.”

  “But you’ve always been nosey.”

  “These two aren’t going to move. Help me search for him. Save us going further afield if he’s still around here.”

  “I don’t speak Italian.”

  “Just call his name and ‘Alain ti vuole’.”

  “Which means?”

  “Alain wants you.”

  “I’ll try.”

  So Lefebvre and I separated and started to call out to him. I went several hundred yards from the house and stood near some trees. I was beginning to think that we’d have to go back to the village and ask for volunteers to help us find him. Then I heard a rustle above my head. There he was, clinging to the trunk of a small tree and all but hidden amongst the leaves.

  “Marco! Come down, it’s me, Alain. Don’t you recognise me?”

  “The policeman.” He slid from the branch and dropped into my arms.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “What did they do to you?” His face was dirty and tears had made channels down his cheeks.

  “They took me away and wouldn’t let me go back to Mamma.”

  “Where is she?”

  “The other man had her.”

  “What other man?”

  “This man’s brother.” I almost jumped.

  “How do you know that?”

  “He called him ‘frère’ which is like ‘fratello’.”

  So Jacques Evrard was not an innocent after all. He was more deeply involved in the plot. Thank heaven he was safely locked up in the Ministry cells.

  “Is his name Jacques?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I held the little lad close to me and carried him back to the cottage. Evrard had crawled away from the spot he had fallen but he had not gone very far. The old woman had not even made the effort, but Lefebvre was better than me at tying knots.

  “So you found him then?” Lefebvre said, coming from the opposite direction. “Where was he?”

  “Up a tree.”

  “Let me look at him.”

  I stood Marco on his feet and turned him gently to face Lefebvre, but I kept my arms around him. Lefebvre seemed startled.

  “Good God. I though you were dreaming but this boy could be his. He has the great man’s stare.”

  “Other people think that or they wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble to hide him.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Take Marco back to Paris and find his mother as quickly as possible. Apparently Evrard’s brother took her away and he hasn’t seen her since.”

  “Did he?” Lefebvre went over to the prone man and hauled him to his feet. He screamed.

  “Was that painful?” Lefebvre asked. Evrard glared at him and nodded. “That pain is nothing compared to what I’ll do to you if you don’t tell me where Carla Contini is.”

  “Jacques took her and said he would keep her safe,” Evrard muttered. “He wouldn’t say where. He thought it would be better that way.”

  “Go on.” Lefebvre reached down and pulled my carefully tied cravat from his wound. The blood immediately ran down his leg. Lefebvre thrust him to the ground and held his booted foot over the wound. “Speak or I swear you’ll never walk properly again.”

  The man snivelled but he said nothing. He had some courage, I’ll give him that, until Lefebvre’s kick made him rear upwards. His scream was an agony to the ears.

  “More.” Lefebvre raised his boot again.

  I had hold of Marco, turning his face away from the scene. The old woman was writhing and shrieking but she could not move.

  “There is no more!” Evrard snarled, when he had finished squirmi
ng and could speak again. “I’d tell you if I could. They didn’t pay me enough to suffer this.”

  “Who paid you?” I asked quickly, signalling Lefebvre to put stop.

  “Don’t know their names.”

  “Oh yes, you do. Again, Jean.” As Lefebvre moved to kick him, Evrard shouted,

  “The man spoke like an aristo, but he had his face covered by a mask so I didn’t see it. He has fair hair and he’s about your height.”

  “That description would fit half the men in Paris. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Pity. Then tell us this — why did he employ you to kidnap the mother and child?”

  “He knew I needed money. How, I don’t know. I’m sick of working for Duplan and I want to open my own shop. Duplan’s rich. He lives like an aristo but he pays me a pittance. This man offered me gold if I did what he wanted and no questions asked.”

  “What did he want you to do exactly?”

  “To take the boy and his mother and keep them safe until he decided what to do with them.”

  “Why didn’t he simply tell you to kill them?”

  “You’ll have to ask him that. Perhaps he thought I wouldn’t murder a child.”

  “Would you?”

  “I’d happily strangle that little blighter. He’s a pest from Hell.” He glared at Marco, who was still in my arms. Marco must have understood the tone if not the words because he stuck his tongue out at him.

  “How many people did you tell about wanting money for your own shop?” Lefebvre demanded after a glance at me.

  “A few.”

  “Who exactly?”