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

by Michele McGrath

  “He wasn’t pleased at first but we worked well together, when he got over his chagrin.”

  “Would you describe him as a friend?”

  “He wasn’t an enemy, but he kept himself to himself, if you know what I mean.”

  Unfortunately I did.

  “Did he have any friends here?”

  “Not really. There was a girl in the village he used to see occasionally.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Julie. Her father keeps the local tavern, the Coq Rouge. She should be able to tell you more than I can.”

  “I’ll go and talk to her.”

  Before I left, I made Jamet give up the letter about painting the carriage. He was reluctant at first. I showed him Fouché’s authorisation again and told him that I needed to show it to an expert to prove his innocence. Eventually he agreed and I carried it away with me. Then he took me to the place where Renardin used to sleep. Although Fournier had already searched it and found nothing, I wanted to see it for myself. You can often get a feeling for a suspect by examining their surroundings.

  Renardin must have departed in a hurry. His possessions had been tidied up now but Jamet told me that they had been left scattered over the floor. The man had grabbed the things that mattered to him and fled. I spent a while looking through the dingy clothes, the single boot and the brush that had been left behind. None of these items told me where he had come from or where he was now. I searched the space around his palliasse and found nothing. Then I turned it over and discovered a hole in the straw, which Fournier had told me about. I put my fist into it but there was nothing inside. There had obviously been something hidden in the mattress but, whatever it was, Renardin had taken it with him. I had not expected Fournier to miss something and he had not.

  I gave up and went down into the yard to find Fournier. He, too, had drawn a blank. I told him about the girl, Julie, and he offered to go down to the village to talk to her.

  “What are you going to do next, Duval?”

  “Ask the major-domo if he has any records of the man at all.”

  “Unlikely, I would have thought.”

  “I agree, but Jamet’s are not very helpful. I might be lucky. I’ll pick you up in the village when I’m finished.”

  He nodded and set off down a shortcut that Jamet had shown us. It connected the château to the hamlet.

  Chapter 14

  I turned towards the main house and went in search of the major-domo. He is the head of all the servants and should have some useful information. The man proved to be one of those supercilious people who are too fond of their own dignity, like Duplan. He had the same trick of peering down his nose as if it was beneath his dignity to talk to me. So he wasted no time in directing me to the clerk who kept the palace records. This man, whose name was Albert, was much more helpful. He pulled down several ledgers and showed me the entries that related to Renardin. I looked at wage payments, the issue of new uniform, breakages he had to pay for and other uninteresting items.

  “Nothing else?” I asked wearily when I had finished with the last book.

  “What are you looking for, Monsieur?”

  “Where he came from originally, perhaps a previous address, relatives? Anything that might tell me where he has gone now.”

  Albert scratched his head and then opened a chest in a far corner of the room. He rummaged about in it and brought out a large box which contained a sheaf of papers.

  “These are the oldest records here, Monsieur. Renardin was one of the staff who arrived with the Empress when she bought Malmaison.” He smiled. “She was only Citoyenne Bonaparte then. Renardin worked for her when she owned the small house in the Rue des Victoires.”

  “So he knows her well then?” I asked wondering where the next answer would lead me.

  “Certainly she often asked for him to drive her when she went out.”

  “Did he do any other jobs for her?”

  “That I am not sure, Monsieur. Nobody told me anything like that and I’m not one of his intimates. If he did do other work, there is no record of it here.”

  “Is there anyone who might be able to tell me about his origins?”

  “If Jamet can’t, then only the Empress herself, Monsieur.”

  I nodded. “I’m not authorised to question the Empress, as you may expect and I have already spoken to Jamet. Thank you for your assistance. You have been most helpful.”

  “It has been my pleasure, Monsieur.”

  When I left him, I felt little the wiser. In fact, I had drawn almost a complete blank at Malmaison. I only hoped that Fournier had had better luck with the girl, Julie, in the village. He was nowhere in sight when Georges and I drove into Rueil-sur-Seine. It seemed to be a pretty enough place, obviously made richer by its proximity to the home of the new rulers of France. I asked a passer-by where I could find the inn belonging to Julie’s father. He pointed towards a long low building in the centre of the community. When I started to enter the tavern, I was nearly knocked over by Fournier, hurrying out.

  “Oh, there you are. Good.”

  We climbed into the carriage and I asked, “Did you get anything?”

  “Renardin has no taste in women.”

  I laughed. “Ugly was she? Please tell me you found out more than that?”

  “I did. To answer your questions in order: this Julie’s not the prettiest girl I’ve ever met, but she’s not that bad either. I’ve seen worse. She has a vicious temper though.”

  “Not like you to fail with a female. You’ve told me that you pride yourself on twisting them around your little finger. Had some difficulty with this one?”

  “Not at first when she thought I was interested in her, but you should have heard her when she realised I wasn’t. My Berthe is a turtledove in comparison, even when she’s in a rage. I posed as a cousin of Renardin, who wanted to get in touch with him.”

  “Did she tell you where he’s gone?”

  “She’s not as stupid as that or else she doesn’t know. I’d guess the latter.”

  “Did you find out anything that is useful?”

  “Renardin comes from the Fauberg Saint Antoine.”

  “That’s a big place.”

  “His father still lives there on the Rue de Charonne. He’s a carpenter who made this Julie a trinket box. Quite a pretty thing. She showed it to me. Apparently Renardin had been apprenticed to his father until they had a row and he left. As you did, mon ami, so you should sympathise with him. The two of them made the quarrel up eventually and Julie says Renardin goes to visit his home from time to time. I got that much before I asked one question too many and she turned on me like a lioness protecting her cubs.”

  I laughed. “I would have liked to see that.”

  “You should have taken my place! Are we off to the Faubourg Saint Antoine now?”

  “We are.”

  The workshop in the Rue de Charonne proved to be in a better area than I had expected. It was solidly built, unlike some of its neighbours, and relatively clean. I left Fournier outside with instructions to find out if there were other exits from the property in case our quarry was there and tried to escape.

  “Can I help you, Monsieur?” Renardin Senior came out of the back room of the workshop to greet me, wiping his hands on his apron. He was a tall middle aged man who looked people in the eye. He stood there like an honest tradesman with nothing to hide. If I had not known his trade before, the sawdust on his clothes betrayed him. I felt rather sorry for him. He might easily be ignorant of his son’s affairs.

  “Perhaps you might be able to,” I said to him. “I believe you once made a trinket box for a Mademoiselle Julie whose father keeps the Coq Rouge tavern in Rueil-sur-Seine?”

  His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Indeed I did.”

  “I want to commission another one as a present for my wife. Mademoiselle Julie told me she had been given it by your son, Léon, who had asked you to make it for her.”

  “You have come all
the way from Rueil just to find me?”

  I shrugged. “I liked the box and I don’t live far from here. I visited the château and stopped at the Coq Rouge to break my fast. I chanced to see it there. Well, can you make me another one?”

  “When do you want it for?”

  “In a few days time, if that is possible.”

  Renardin nodded. “It is.”

  “Very well then. What will the charge be?”

  “A franc? A lot of work goes into getting the detailing correct.”

  “That is acceptable.” As I said the words, I wondered if I should have bargained with the man but it was too late now. I hoped I hadn’t raised his suspicions by saying too much.

  Renardin smiled. “Is it for a special occasion, Monsieur?”

  “To mark the birth of my son, I hope, or perhaps the baby will be another daughter. Either way, my wife deserves a present for all her hard work. Do you have children yourself, Monsieur?”

  “Two sons and three daughters, all grown up now and gone.”

  “A fine family.”

  “Indeed.” He did not look very pleased but his tone was even. “Return here on Friday and the box will be ready for you.”

  I thanked him and left. Fournier was waiting for me around the corner.

  “Well?” I asked him.

  “There’s another entrance on the inside of the courtyard. It has big doors as if Renardin has his goods delivered through them.” I followed him into the yard and he pointed. “There they are.”

  “Anyone come out?”

  “Not since I’ve been here. Nobody was stirring that I could see. What about you?”

  “Only the man himself. No sign of a wife and he told me his children were grown up and had left home.”

  “Do you want to set a watch about the place?”

  “Probably. We’ll also make a few discreet enquiries among the neighbours, I think.”

  I scribbled a message to Réal and hurried off to find a courier. Fournier took up a position where he could observe both entrances. As soon as I had sent the courier, I returned and swapped places with Fournier while he headed up the street to question the people living nearby. I waited for reinforcements to arrive. They took their time, despite the fact that I had marked my note urgent. I wondered if Laurent had any hand in the delay, but then I tend to blame him for most things that go wrong in my working life.

  When the men eventually turned up, I quickly gave them their instructions and I was pleased that they seemed to be less half-witted than usual. They asked a few sensible questions and then settled down to their vigil. I began to work down the opposite side of the street to Fournier, without having much success. No one seemed to have seen anything or know the Renardins, except for the bare facts that they kept the carpenter’s shop and the old man did fine work. I was discouraged and beginning to be annoyed. Surely somebody should have been more curious about their neighbours? They couldn’t all be blind!

  Fournier came to find me and he was smiling.

  “What have you got?” I asked, more in hope than in expectation.

  “The Renardin brothers, all three of them, are friendly with a family called Brissot who live in the Rue de la Paix.”

  “So?”

  “They’ve been friends for years apparently. The lads used to make mischief together. When they grew up, they terrorised the area. A couple of them ended up in prison and the others seemingly mended their ways. Our friend, Léon, was said to be the best of them.”

  “And who told you all that?”

  “A Madame Richard. Nasty tongue on her but she lived in the same house as these young louts when they were growing up. She was glad to see them leave, or so she told me.”

  “And how does this help us?”

  “The youngest Brissot, Adrien, still lives with his parents. He’s had a friend visiting him lately. The old woman thinks it’s Léon but he’s changed a lot since she saw him last and she wouldn’t swear it’s him.”

  “Worth a try anyway. Let’s go.”

  The lodging house in the Rue de la Paix was in a far worse condition than the one housing Renardin’s father. It looked as if it was barely standing upright and about to collapse at any minute. The walls were pockmarked with bullet holes. There had obviously been heavy fighting here in the recent past. It is certainly not the only building so marked in Paris, far from it. The Revolution had merely added another layer of dilapidation to certain parts of the city.

  “Which floor?” I asked Fournier.

  “Fourth,” he replied and I grimaced. The stairs looked as if they would come away from the wall if anyone was brave enough to climb them. . I have known cleaner kennels. The stink in the stairwell was indescribable.

  “At least there can be no rear entrance to the Brissots’ apartment,” I said and started upwards.

  The steep steps groaned as I climbed but they held me. I was puffing when I reached the right landing.

  “You’re getting flabby, mon vieux,” Fournier teased as he joined me.

  “Speak for yourself,” I retorted, but I was glad to see that his chest was heaving just as much as mine. He has more excuse though, for he is older and has never been a soldier. I shall have to go back to practising my swordsmanship again. I have rather shirked it lately since Eugénie became pregnant again. She was quite ill in the early months and I stayed to help her, but my lack of exercise had obviously had a bad effect.

  We stood still until we had both caught our breath and then I hammered on the door Fournier indicated to me. There was no sound inside for a few moments. My hand was raised to knock again when I heard a shuffle. Instinctively both of us moved forward, which proved to be the wrong thing to do. Bolts were drawn, the door flung open and, before we could react, two young men rushed out, back handing us as they did so. I cannoned into Fournier, catching his face with my shoulder. He teetered towards the railing and I grabbed hold of his jacket to prevent him going over. If he had fallen from that height, I’d be telling Berthe she’d just become a widow. The thought made me go cold all over.

  “Get after them, Alain, don’t mind me.” Blood was gushing from his nose where I’d caught him.

  I hobbled after the fugitives, realising that the awkward fall had also raxed my lame leg, aggravating the injury that had ended my military career. Cursing, I made what speed I could but, unsurprisingly, by the time I reached the street, my quarry was long gone. Of course, none of the passers-by had seen anything. They never do. It’s safer that way.

  I climbed back upstairs to find Fournier. The door of the apartment was ajar and I could hear him panting worse than he did before. He looked awful, with blood staining his upper lip, his chin and a non-too-clean kerchief. He had not been wasting his time though. A middle aged woman was backed up against the wall of the room, brandishing a ladle and hissing at him. As I came in, she surged forward, ladle aloft as if she would break it over his head. He caught her wrist, broke her hold and flung the ladle into the far corner of the room. Then he belted her and she stumbled to the floor. I grabbed his arm and hauled him back, feeling amazed. I had never seen him hit a woman before in all the years we had worked together. His nose must really hurt for him to lose his temper that badly.

  “Easy, mon brave!”

  Fournier allowed me to pull him away. I took a quick glance around. Only the woman was left in the apartment, which was little more than a single room with closets attached. Three beakers stood on the rickety table.

  “What has she told you so far?” I asked Fournier.

  “Nothing at all,” Fournier mumbled through the folds of his kerchief, which was stained with fresh blood.

  I went over to the woman, hauled her to her feet and sat her down on a stool. She was pale except for the glowing red mark on her right cheek.

  “Are you Madame Brissot?” I asked.

  “What’s it to you, fils de salope? How dare you and that lout come in here and beat me up in my own home. When my husband comes back, you’ll be f
or it!”

  “On the contrary, when your husband comes back, you’ll be in gaol.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Assaulting a police agent. You won’t like it in prison, Madame Brissot. Nasty things happen inside those places, especially to women.”

  “I can look after myself,” she said but her face had changed and her lips became bloodless.

  “Tell me what I want to know and you won’t have to find out.”

  She looked at me and she seemed to shrink into herself.

  “Let us start again. Are you Madame Brissot?” This time she nodded.

  “You have a son called Adrien?” Another nod.

  “Was Adrien one of the two men who just ran out of here?” No answer.

  “Madame, to the best of our knowledge, he has done nothing wrong except pushing us over. We need not arrest him if you continue to answer our questions truthfully. Do you understand?”

  “D’accord,” she muttered.

  “Was the other man Léon Renardin?” A nod. “Where has he gone?”

  “Why should I know that? He said he was in trouble and came to my son for help. That’s all he told us. We’ve known him for years, so of course we agreed to give him a hand. What’s he done now to bring the police on his trail?”

  “Kidnapped a boy, one of the Emperor’s favourites. Léon’s in a real mess this time. I’d keep your family out of the affair, if I were you, friend or no friend. So tell me— where is he likely to go?”

  “His father’s?”

  I nodded. It was logical, but if Renardin did so, the guard we had set had a good chance of apprehending him.

  “Where else?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does he have any other friends in the area?”

  “There was a girl he used to go with once. He still sees her sometimes.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Christiane Moulin. She lives in the Rue du Bac over the tobacconist’s shop.”

  “Thank you, Madame. We’ll leave you alone now.”

  I motioned Fournier, who was still snuffling, to go out ahead of me.

  “You won’t come back and arrest us, will you?” she asked and there was fear in her voice.