Duval and the Infernal Machine (Napoleon's Police Book 1)

by Michele McGrath

  I needed to find another lodging urgently. Bourienne’s house was full and I did not want to return anyway. He already knew too much about my business. I distrusted the way he looked at me, when I asked him about the Ministry of Police. He would certainly question me if I went anywhere near him. Better to keep him in ignorance. So I’d paid my shot before I left and took everything away with me.

  The short winter day had already turned to dusk. Candles flickered in the windows and flaming torches lit the streets. They cast swathes of light and shadow over the bustling crowds. A savoury smell drew me towards a doorway. I was starving, having eaten only bread and coffee since I woke up and not much of either. I ducked into a crowded room, full of men eating heartily. I made an unexpectedly excellent meal at a reasonable cost. No wonder the place was so popular. I hoped I would be able to remember the way back to it again.

  I asked my table companions where I could find a decent lodging. Several people directed me to a nearby house, which proved to be far better than Bourienne’s establishment. Things had improved. I’d eaten well, found somewhere to stay and gained employment, all in one day. The thought cheered me up. My tiredness and strain disappeared and I decided to see something more of the city. So I hid my knapsack and went out for a stroll. Since I arrived in Paris, I’d only seen the river, the Ministry of Police and little else. Tomorrow I would have to start work but, for this evening at least, I could wander.

  I made my way first towards the Palais Royal, for I'd heard stories about the place. People called it the heart of Paris, where anything you wanted could be bought for the right price. I set off in that direction and I was walking along when my thoughts were interrupted by a murmur of voices. I turned the corner and found myself at the back of a large crowd. They were craning forward to peer at something further up the street.

  “What’s happening?” I asked the man beside me.

  “The First Consul’s coming this way. He’s going to the Opera this evening.”

  “And you’re all waiting for him?”

  I was surprised. I’d no idea Bonaparte was so popular. He's become famous, of course, for his conquests and his expedition to Egypt. But he’s not much to look at, nor is he pleasant to people. I learned that much when I camped beside him in a godforsaken marsh in Italy. He has a vile temper, so I always tried to keep well away from him. Strangely I once came close enough in a battle to do him a small service, but that’s another story. I respected him, as I’d told Fouché. Yet I certainly wouldn’t stand around waiting to catch a fleeting glimpse of him on a cold night. My informant kept staring at me oddly though and I didn’t want any more trouble. So I shrugged and began to push my way past, behind the backs of the crowd. I’d not gone far when somebody jostled me to one side and made me stagger into the wall.

  “Hey, watch where you’re going!” I shouted, annoyed, but the man who pushed me didn’t stop to apologise. A small group moved rapidly past me, almost running. The light from one of the torches fell across their faces. They had the intent expressions of people who wanted to be somewhere else immediately. I suddenly felt uneasy.

  I didn’t have much time to react. As they vanished round the corner, a blast of hot air hit me in the back and drove me forward. A loud bang nearly shattered my eardrums. I realised instantly it must be some sort of a bomb. You never forget the noise gunpowder makes. This explosion was quieter and less powerful than the mortars the artillery use, but it made enough of a mess. I’d been very lucky. The explosion only dropped me to my knees and took my breath away for a few moments. When I could breathe again, I scrambled to my feet and peered around through the dust.

  I’ve fought in many battles and seen shattered buildings with dead and injured people lying on the ground, animals too. This bombing seemed worse though, because not all the victims were men. The shrill screams of women and children mingled with the crackling of the fires — a truly eerie sound.

  I stumbled down the street, back the way I had come. I wanted to see where the bomb had exploded. As I got nearer to the crater, fewer people moved. The hole was huge and stones had been flung everywhere, maiming and killing as they flew through the air. Pools of blood, dust and mangled remains littered the ground. In the narrow streets of the city, the carnage seemed far worse than in an open field. These bystanders had no chance to escape or to fight back. I learned later that the device had been placed on the corner of the Rue Saint-Nicaise and the Rue de Malte. The clients in the popular Café d’Apollon were among those who had borne the brunt of the explosion. At least a dozen bodies lay heaped inside the shattered doorway.

  I forced my way into the café, over the smouldering pieces of wood and broken glass. A young girl, near the back of the room, moaned softly. I knelt down beside her. She was bleeding profusely from a head wound. A brick had hit her and dented her skull. The light of the fires reflected in her staring eyes. As I reached out, she shuddered and stopped moving. I put my hand on her throat, searching for a pulse but found nothing at all. I carefully closed her eyelids. What a shame. She had once been pretty.

  I remembered her best of all, the first of many such victims on that endless evening. After a while, I lost count of the people I tried to help and those I couldn’t do anything for. I’ve seen enough wounds to have some idea of what to do. A lot of the injuries, though, were beyond my skill. Even the doctors, who worked feverishly among us, only saved a few.

  I attached myself to one of these doctors as his helper. I fetched water, bandaged wounds and carried the injured to the carts which ferried them to the hospitals. I was tying up yet another man’s arm, when someone touched my shoulder. I glanced up. A small man, wearing a government tricolour rosette in his lapel, was bending over me.

  “Did you see what happened here, Citizen?”

  “Not really.”

  “Anything you remember would help. We have to catch the swine who did this.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can, but I was right at the back of the crowd.”

  “Lucky for you, but come along with me. You may remember more than you think.”

  I didn’t argue; I was used to obeying orders. I lifted the man I had bandaged to his feet. He swayed a bit, but he could walk, and someone led him off to join the rest of the injured. A small crowd of us made our way towards the section house of the local commune. Once inside, they divided us into groups and an official started to ask questions. At that moment, I remembered the group of men who had hurried away from the scene.

  “That’s interesting,” the official said to me, when I mentioned it to him. “Wait behind until I finish with these others.” He did not take long, because no one else had seen anything important. Their evidence concerned things which had occurred after the explosion, not before. He soon dismissed them.

  “Now,” said the official, “come with me.”

  We went out of the room and mounted a set of rickety stairs leading to the upper floors.

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked.

  “To meet those who are in charge of investigating this outrage.”

  We reached the third landing before he stopped. He scratched on an open door and motioned me in.

  “Tell them what you told me before,” he said, “as much as you can remember. It may be important or not. They’ll decide.” I nodded and went inside.

  Two men looked up at me sharply as I entered. I sat down on the chair one of them pointed out to me. The taller one asked, “Can you tell us anything, Citizen?”

  “I don’t know if this information will help you,” I said. “Just before the explosion, a group of men hurried away from the area. They nearly knocked me down as they passed.”

  They glanced at each other for a second. “Can you describe them?” The tall one asked.

  “I’ll try. There were five of them altogether. The light from a torch shone on their faces. Two of them had wrapped their cloaks around their chins and pulled their hats down on their foreheads. So I can only tell you that they both were o
f middle height, which is not much help.”

  “What about the others?”

  “One was a young man with fair hair, or perhaps he wore powder. I couldn’t see properly in that light. He seemed better dressed than the others. At least, his cloak was of a richer material. His face was white as if he was scared.”

  “What makes you think that?” The other man asked sharply.

  “I’ve seen such faces before, in the army. He looked like a new recruit about to go into his first battle and trying hard to be brave.” I spoke the words with absolute certainty, visualising his fear in my mind.

  “Interesting. Continue, Citizen.”

  “The fourth man had a beard.”

  “What sort of a beard?”

  “Long and bushy. It hid the lower part of his face. The fifth man was tall and seemed older than the rest. He had a thin scar on his forehead, which cut his eyebrow almost in two. He must have been badly injured at sometime in the past. I remember his scar most of all.”

  “Could you identify him?”

  “Certainly I could, without a doubt.”

  “What about the others?”

  “I’d know the younger man again and possibly also the bearded one, although I’m not sure about him. The other two, not at all.”

  The tall man picked up his pen and pulled a sheet of paper towards him.

  “What is your name, Citizen, and where do you live?”

  “Alain Duval...” I stopped because the tall man made a sudden noise.

  “I thought I’d seen you before,” he said, staring hard at me. “You were at the Ministry of Police this morning.”

  “Was it only this morning?” I asked. “It seems like a lifetime ago.” I’d been tired then, but it was nothing to my exhaustion now.

  The man gave a thin smile. “You were in Réal’s closet, waiting for Citizen Fouché.”

  Then I remembered him. “You came out of his room, carrying some papers.”

  “Correct. Réal said you would be working with us in future.”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Good, that makes things much simpler. Report in early and ask for me. My name’s Gilbert. I’m in Laurent’s section and so is Petit here. I’ll get Réal to assign you to help me with this case. He won’t object. He’s got other things on his mind right now. If I ask for you he won’t have to find you a place. One less task for him to do.”

  I shook hands with both of them.

  “I want you to think hard about these men,” Gilbert continued, as he led me towards the door. “Remember as much as you can. Make a note of anything that might be useful and tell me tomorrow.”

  “Do you think they are involved?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not — we’ll find out — but this is the best lead we've had all evening.”

  “An exciting way to start your career, Duval,” Petit said. He smiled although his tone was ironic.

  “It’s certainly not how I expected to begin,” I replied. “I hope the work is not always like this.”

  “Heaven forbid!” Gilbert exclaimed, casting his eyes up to the ceiling. “This kind of excitement we can all do without.”

  4

  The Ministry was in pandemonium when I arrived early next morning. Obviously most people had been working through the night, for they looked grey and harassed. I followed Gilbert's instructions and asked for him. I was shown into the same room as yesterday, but this time I was on my own. I paced, up and down. Eventually Gilbert hurried in with his arms full of papers. He beckoned to me.

  “Come along,” Gilbert said and he led me down the corridor. We went into a room where several men were working together at a long table. Everyone talked at the same time and no one seemed to be listening to anyone else. People kept coming in and going out, with intent expressions on their faces. Gilbert dropped his papers and hurried me away, out of another door and into the street.

  “Where are we off to?” I asked him.

  “I know a man who’s good at drawing faces. We’ve used him a few times before. I want you to describe those fellows you saw last night, while they’re still fresh in your memory. He’ll make sketches from your descriptions and, with luck, someone will recognise them. Witnesses often respond better to a picture, than to a description. If we’re lucky, we might be able to find out who they are and why they left in such a hurry.”

  “I would never have thought of that,” I said.

  “Making sketches was Fournier’s idea. He’s full of them and some even work. This one has proved useful in the past, so consider it your first lesson as a police agent.” Gilbert smiled.

  The artist lived in a grubby little room at the top of a nearby building. He seemed half asleep when he opened the door.

  “You’re early,” he grumbled, as he let us in. The place smelled sour and dirty dishes with the remains of food lay heaped on the table.

  “Rougier, this is Duval,” Gilbert introduced us. “I told you about him last night and what I want you to do.”

  “Where’s your money?”

  “You know the Ministry by now, Rougier...”

  “Forget it. I have other customers who pay me with cash, not promises.”

  Gilbert’s face changed. Suddenly he seemed taller and menacing. “I wouldn’t refuse, Rougier, unless you lead a truly blameless life.”

  “Of course I do. You haven’t got anything to pin on me.”

  “Don't be too sure about that,” Gilbert responded. “We can always find something if we try hard enough.”

  “I need coffee,” the artist whined. “I can’t work without it. My hand is shaking too much. See!” Rougier thrust his fist under Gilbert’s nose. Indeed it was trembling, with alcohol, sleepiness, fear or perhaps all three.

  “If that’s all! Drank too much wine last night, mon ami?”

  The man shrugged. “Only the usual.”

  Gilbert laughed and the atmosphere changed again. “I’ll send you coffee to calm your nerves. Get on with the sketches and make it quick.” He turned to leave and then grinned. “I’ll even authorise a chit for the rest of the money, if you do a good enough job.”

  “These Ministry types! Think they own the world,” Rougier muttered as the door shut after Gilbert.

  “Don’t they?”

  Unexpectedly the man laughed. “A few of them act as if they do, but Gilbert’s one of the better sort. He’ll make sure I get paid so I’ll work for him again. A couple of the others are real scoundrels. Watch your words when you’re around them. You sit here while I get my things. After the coffee arrives, we’ll start.”

  The brew tasted thin and bitter, but it had a miraculous effect on the little man. His eyes brightened and his trembles ceased. He became businesslike and his fingers flew across the paper. I described the men I’d seen. The artist asked shrewd questions and made me remember more than I thought possible. Two of the sketches were only outlines, of course, and not much use to anyone. The pictures of the other three men were quite good, although no one could call them perfect. Even after a few hours, you forget whether a face was round or square or a nose pointed or squat. Yet, in the end, the likenesses were recognisable to me and Rougier sat back with a sigh of satisfaction. Then he pulled more sheets of paper towards him.

  “What now?”

  “Wait while I make some copies. Gilbert is sure to want more than one,” Rougier said. “Go and buy yourself breakfast and bring me some too. These will be ready for you when you get back.” He didn’t offer to pay me for his food, but I went anyway. I was hungry, because I had been in too much of a hurry to eat before I left my lodgings. I ate some bread and cheese at a small shop nearby and I bought a loaf for the artist.

  He was as good as his word and had finished by the time I returned. He handed me two separate rolls, tied up with tape. “Tell Gilbert, these are on account. If he wants any more copies, he’ll have to pay me first. I can’t eat empty promises.”

  I took the sketches off him and handed him the loaf. “E
at that, but I’ll pass on your message for you.”

  I went back to the Ministry. As I entered the doorway, a young man who stood talking to one of the messengers came over to me. “Are you Duval?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you. I’m Rollin," he said. "Citizen Gilbert told me to take you to him immediately when you arrived.”

  Rollin was tall and languid-looking, but there was nothing languid in the glance he shot at me as I walked beside him. “Is it true what they are saying about you?” he asked.

  “What are they saying?”

  “You’re some sort of relative of the Minister’s.” His tone was both curious and hostile.

  “They’re wrong about that.” I hesitated, but I knew I would have to tell my story at once, or this silly rumour could bring me unwanted enemies.

  “My former colonel is Fouché’s cousin. He gave me a recommendation. I only met the Minister for the first time yesterday.”

  “We should all have such a recommendation. Brings you to his notice.” His envy was in every word. “Here we are.”

  He led me into the room where Gilbert had left his papers earlier. Rollin took a seat at the end of the long table, leaving me standing there, the focus of all eyes. The room had emptied by now. Only Gilbert and a couple of others remained. I recognised one of them as Petit, the man who had been with Gilbert on the previous evening. Gilbert rose when I came in.

  “This is our new recruit, Duval,” he announced. Then he motioned me over to a small man with a bald head and pince-nez glasses on his nose. “Let me introduce you. This is Laurent, the head of this section. You will report to Laurent or to me when you have been assigned to a task. Petit, of course, you met last night and Rollin this morning.”

  I greeted them all and they murmured a conventional welcome but, somehow their words didn’t ring quite true. Their faces remained stiff and blank and I wondered if rumour was already doing its evil work.

  Laurent was older than the others, with a lined face and a sour mouth. He stooped slightly and walked with a shuffle, as if his back hurt him. At first, I made allowances for him, because I thought he was in pain, until I learned better. Sourness came naturally to him and needed little cause to provoke it. I pitied his family, having to put up with him all the time.