Napoleon's Police

by Michele McGrath

  I turned from Lefebvre and banged on the cell door. He touched me lightly on the arm. I looked at him and found out he was holding out his hand to me. I took it and he said,

  “Thank you, Soldier, whatever happens.”

  I nodded but had no time to reply before the door opened and the guard stood waiting to lead me out.

  The apothecary’s shop was easily found and Jacques Martin, the apothecary, was inside. He was wary of me at first, but changed rapidly as I told him my tale and give him Lefebvre’s message. Then he nodded.

  “Will you help us?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Then this is what I want you to do...”

  He sent me to a nearby stables to fetch a closed carriage. One of the ostlers, Joseph, left his work and drove it for me to a street close by the prison. There we waited. After a while, we could hear some sort of disturbance. I put my head out of the window but couldn’t see anything. The shouting was coming from the direction of the prison.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, but Joseph just shrugged and did not answer.

  A few moments later, without any warning, the carriage door banged opened and several people tumbled inside.

  “Drive on!” One of them shouted. Joseph whipped up the horses and we clattered away rapidly. I shifted myself from under the burly man who had toppled onto me and looked into the grinning face of Lefebvre.

  “You made it!” I laughed, grabbing his hand and shaking it.

  “Thanks to you, Soldier. Didn’t I tell you Martin would know what to do?” He clouted the apothecary on the arm. The man was smiling.

  “How..?” I started to ask, but Martin stopped me.

  “What you don’t know you can’t tell.”

  “True enough.”

  After we had been driving for some time, going this way and that down twisting streets, Lefebvre reached up and knocked on the driver’s partition. The horses slowed and stopped.

  “We’ll let you out here, Soldier. Better for all of us if you’re not spotted in our company.”

  “Will we meet again?”

  “Do you want to? It could be dangerous for both of us.”

  I shrugged. “I’m willing to risk it. At Bourienne’s?” I asked.

  “Better not. Louis would be only too happy to turn me in for a sou or nothing at all. There’s a tavern near the Porte Denis – the Grenouille. I’ll be there tomorrow at nine. Come alone.”

  “I will.”

  Chapter 18

  The Grenouille was easily found. A small malodorous place, nestling beside the Porte Denis. I arrived a little late. My duties had kept me in the Ministry, which was in an uproar after Lefebvre’s ‘miraculous’ escape. Petit was inconsolable and everyone’s temper was frayed. I tried to act concerned along with the rest of them, but I wondered how good an actor I really was. Fournier, who knew me best, wore a strange expression on his face when he looked at me. I ignored him and left as quickly as I could.

  At first, I thought Lefebvre was not in the tavern, until someone slid into the seat beside me. I turned sharply to tell him the place was taken when he stopped me.

  “Whoa, Soldier. It’s me.”

  “What have you done to yourself?” A very different Lefebvre sat there. His fair hair had been dyed dark brown, his neat outfit replaced by workman’s clothes. He looked as if he had been out in the sunshine - his skin was now the deep tan that you see on farmers or seafarers. A bristly beard had been attached to his chin and he seemed taller. The only thing about him that had stayed the same was his eyes, which laughed into mine.

  “Dye, different clothes and lifts in my boots. It’s helpful to be friends with a chemist.”

  “I would never have known you, except for your voice.”

  “Let’s hope the others think as you do, especially that thrice damned little creep, Petit.”

  “He’s weeping over his loss.”

  “Good.” Lefebvre reached into his pocket and dropped a leather purse on the table in front of me. It clinked.

  “What’s this?”

  “My way of rewarding you for helping me.”

  The anger flared up inside me. I swept the bag off the table and onto his lap.

  “I don’t want your god-damn money. I didn’t help you for any reward.”

  “If you hadn’t come, I might not have got the message out before they came for me.”

  “We’re even then.”

  Lefebvre put the bag back on the table. “Take it. I know what the Ministry pays you and this is little enough in the circumstances.”

  “Don’t try to bribe me, Lefebvre. I don’t touch tainted money.” I don’t know why I was so cross, but no one had ever tried to buy me off before and it made me furious. I started to rise from my seat, but he caught my arm and pulled me back.

  “Why did you want to meet me then?”

  I hesitated, unsure of what I actually felt. Could he actually believe I expected payment for my efforts on his behalf? I shrugged.

  “I didn’t want to lose contact with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have few friends in Paris and torture is a ghastly business, even if the victims are murderers, let alone thieves.”

  Lefebvre leaned back in his seat. “I understand.” He gestured at the moneybag. “Take it anyway, as a gift. It’s not ‘tainted’. I didn’t steal it from anyone, if that’s what you’re thinking. Money breeds money, once you have some to start with.”

  “If you have enough money to give it away, why do you steal?” I asked, deeply puzzled.

  “Who knows?” He shrugged. “The excitement, the reputation I have earned, revenge. That’s how it started — revenge on a man who’d cheated me out of all I had by using loaded dice. When I found out I was so angry, I went to his house and retrieved my money plus some of his for interest. That’s when I discovered I had a taste for taking risks. Take it.” He pushed the bag at me again.

  “No, I thank you. I’ve been paid by the Police and I’m not in need,” I said, although I wondered how long my pay would actually last. “If you must do something for me, buy the drinks.”

  He laughed, summoned the pot boy but only ordered a cheap thin wine. He saw my frown and said when the lad left to fetch the jug,

  “If I order better in here, they’ll start wondering who we are. We’ll find somewhere else and spend the rest of this purse in comfort. In a week or so the fuss will have died down and it will be safe for me to go about again.”

  “Not if you go back to thieving it won’t. You should have heard Petit vowing his vengeance on you.”

  “I snatched the very bread from his mouth, didn’t I? Or rather, you did. You’ll be able to remember it every time you see him from now on.”

  I grinned, as I pictured Petit looking distraught. He had been beside himself when I left him. “I will, but you’ve had one narrow escape and your face is known now.”

  “This one?” Lefebvre turned and looked straight at me, laughing.

  “Your real face. I don’t imagine you’ll want to look like a seedy farmer for ever. Petit has a long memory.”

  “He won’t find me and, to answer your question, I’ll keep out of danger, at least for a while. There’s nothing much happening in Paris at the moment to tempt me.”

  “Just as well.”

  Lefebvre laughed. “I won’t put you to the trouble of rescuing me again, never fear. If you ever need help, leave a message with Martin and it will find me.”

  Our talk turned to other things and, after a little while, we left. The wine really was not good enough to make us stay longer.

  Chapter 19

  One of the messengers found me in a tavern as I was finishing my meal.

  “You’re wanted,” he told me, abruptly.

  “Who wants me?”

  “Citizen Fournier and he said you are to hurry.” I rose immediately, dropped a few coins on the table and followed him.

  “What’s it all about?”

&nbs
p; “The whole place is buzzing, but I don’t know why. Something important; has to be. You’ll find out before I do.” He signalled to a passing hack and we climbed inside.

  “Ministry of Police, as fast as you can.”

  The horse wasn’t up to much, but it was faster than walking. By the time we got to the Ministry I was seething with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. I agreed with the messenger, whatever had happened — good or bad — it was important.

  The bureau was crowded and noisy when I got there, just as it had been on the first day with Gilbert. All the seats in the room were full and the different conversations and arguments made a dreadful racket. Fournier jumped up from his seat, when he saw me and hurried over.

  “What’s going on?” I asked him, but he caught my sleeve and pulled me after him sharply.

  “Come outside where we can talk,” he hissed.

  “What’s happened?”

  “The First Consul sent a message to the Minister. He’s to go to the Tuileries immediately and to take the agents investigating the bombing with him. That means you and me, now that Gilbert’s dead.”

  He had a note in his voice I didn’t like.

  “Trouble?”

  Fournier nodded. “It could be, unlikely to be anything else really. That’s why Laurent is denying he’s had any part in the whole thing and so are the others. It’s unusual for the minions to be sent for as well as Fouché. I wonder what Bonaparte wants.”

  We soon found out. We made our way to the front door of the Ministry where a carriage was waiting. The lackey had just let down the steps as we got there. Fouché and Réal stood talking together, but they stopped immediately they saw us, another ominous sign I thought.

  “Get in.” Fouché motioned us into the carriage, a very fine one which must have once been a former noble’s possession. The seats were of velvet and soft. I had never been in such a vehicle in my life. It was well sprung too and glided rather than bounced over the cobbles. Fouché followed us in and sat down, looking out of the window and staring into the distance. Neither Fournier nor I said anything to him and the first part of the ride passed in silence. As we approached the Tuileries, he turned to us and said, “Be careful what you say in there.”

  “Citizen Minister?”

  “The First Consul will undoubtedly want to question you about the progress of this investigation. He wouldn’t send for you otherwise. Answer his questions, but don’t tell him any more than you need to and don’t speculate. Leave that to me.”

  “Of course, Minister,” Fournier said, speaking for us both.

  The carriage stopped at the palace entrance. Two lackeys in a smart uniform sprang forward and let down the steps. We all descended. Fouché had obviously been here many times before, because he did not hesitate or wait to be shown the way. He entered the building and turned immediately left at the first corridor. He walked too quickly for the messenger, who came running after us.

  “Citizen Minister!”

  Fouché stopped and cocked an eyebrow at the man, who was panting slightly and looked ruffled.

  “Well?”

  “The First Consul is currently engaged and asks you to wait for him in the small salon.”

  Fouché nodded. “Very well.”

  “If you will follow me?”

  “No need. I know the way.” Fouché strode off again with us following him like a pack of dogs. The messenger brought up the rear, looking even more put out than he had been before.

  I took my opportunity to look around the faded grandeur of the old palace. It was a gloomy place, full of corners and passages. Some attempt had been made to lighten it. There were torches and candles in plenty and the long windows had been cleaned of most of their grime. I had heard it said that the First Consul’s wife was having the place redecorated, bit by bit, but she obviously hadn’t got to this part yet. There was a smell of dust and damp old age about the place. We seemed to walk for several miles and climbed two staircases before we got to where we were meant to be. The Tuileries is huge of course, so any renovation will cost a fortune. I wondered if there was enough money in all of France to see the work completed.

  Fouché stopped at last in front of a doorway and the messenger hurried to open it for him. We entered a small room, which obviously had been renovated in the latest fashion. They had copied the colours and styles of the Roman Empire, which I had heard was the latest fashion. I can’t say I liked it much; it’s not very comfortable. The chairs were full of knobs and awkward pieces of wood which stuck into you when you sat down.

  We were the only ones waiting there. At one point Fournier started to say something, but Fouché shook his head at him and silence fell again. I wondered who might be listening to us. I remembered my childhood tales of secret passages and walls with ears, but it was difficult to imagine such things amid all this modern splendour. I felt uncomfortable and irritated as a result.

  We were not kept waiting long, certainly nothing like I had experienced in waiting for Fouché himself, that first time at the Ministry. A lackey entered and bowed to Fouché.

  “The First Consul will see you now.”

  He led us down another corridor and into a large room. There was a desk at the far end. We had to cross almost the whole space before the man sitting there raised his head and looked up at us. There he was, wearing the green field uniform of a colonel in the chasseurs and his hair was brushed neatly back from his forehead. He had put on weight since I had last seen him and he no longer looked half starved. His eyes flickered across our faces and they were returning to Fouché, when they stopped and came back to me. He stood up suddenly.

  “I know you,” he said, his eyes drilling into me. “We’ve met before. Not here in Paris — where?” Fouché and the others had turned sideways to look at me too.

  I nodded. “Yes, General. We met in Italy. I once served under your command.”

  He thought for a moment and then said, “Rivoli. I remember. You caught my horse when it bolted.”

  I just stared at him, stunned at his recall of an incident that was years ago and trivial at best. For the first time I understood how he was able to remember all the many facts he needed to govern a great country like France. His memory must be truly phenomenal, if he could recognise the face of a man he had met so briefly and so long ago.

  “You have left the army?”

  I pointed to my game leg and said, “Yes, General, I was wounded and honourably discharged. Citizen Fouché was kind enough to offer me alternative employment.”

  Unexpectedly he laughed. “So you have become one of my spies instead! Well, well.” The mention of Fouché’s name recalled Bonaparte to the matter at hand. He tuned to the Minister and said, “I’ve read your report but you’ve left things out. I want to know exactly what you have found out so far.”

  Fouché proceeded to outline our investigation to him, step by step, occasionally asking Fournier and myself to clarify various points. Bonaparte listened mainly in silence, pacing up and down the room, only interjecting one or two short questions. When we had finished he stood still and stared at Fouché.

  “This is all very fine and I can understand your deductions, but you have arrested the wrong people. This bunch of godforsaken Royalists aren’t responsible for trying to kill me this time.”

  “No, I assure you. All the evidence points to their guilt and they have even confessed to the crime.”

  “Everyone confesses to everything under torture. I’d confess to raping my own mother and so would you. You’ve got the wrong people, I tell you!”

  “If I’ve missed something, I apologise to you. Please tell me, who should we have arrested?”

  Suddenly the whole atmosphere in the room changed. Bonaparte slammed his fist onto his desk. “Your friends the Jacobins, the blood-drinking Septembrists, the Versailles assassins, the brigands of 31 May, the conspirators of Prairial,” he roared. “You know them all as well as I do, better even, that’s why you are sheltering them!"

&n
bsp; “I am not! If they are guilty they must pay the price but I tell you, there is not a shred of evidence to suggest that they had anything to do with it.”

  “Then find me some!” Bonaparte snarled. “If I were the Minister of Police in such circumstances, I would find sufficient to condemn them. Otherwise, I would hang myself in despair for dereliction of duty!” He swung round to Fournier and me. “You are the two men who have spent most of the time on this investigation. You have been wasting your time running after these Royalists. I don’t know why, but I will find out, I promise you.”

  I have never admired Fournier more, because he stood up straight and looked Bonaparte in the eye. “Because our evidence pointed to a Royalist plot, no more and no less.” His voice was very calm but he had braced himself, waiting for the reply.

  I could see Bonaparte’s cheeks purpling with his anger. Fouché was obviously alarmed, because he said quickly, “I will give orders that the investigation of the Royalists is to be called off. We will examine the Jacobin groups more thoroughly. There will doubtless be enough information found against them to proceed.”

  “See you do. A word of warning — none of you will speak of this meeting to anyone. What has been said here remains in this room and between the four of us. I will know who to blame if the matter leaks out.”

  “We will not mention the subject of our meeting with you to another soul.” Fouché said. “Yet I have to warn you that calling off the investigation so soon after this meeting will lead to speculation.”

  “Let it. As long as there is no confirmation, the talk will die down quickly enough, well before the guilty parties are brought to justice. All you have to do is remain silent and carry out your duties as I have ordered.”