For a moment the man looked shocked and he muttered an expletive under his breath, then he said, “Poor old thing. What a way to go.”
I shrugged. “I imagine she had a quick enough death. Who’s Lamballe?” I asked, bringing him back to the most important fact he had given me.
“He’s a grain merchant. His storehouse is in the Rue du Lac, two streets over.” He pointed to the left.
“When did you see his horse last?”
“About ten or fifteen days ago. Can’t be certain. She's easy enough to shoe, but she kept kicking them off. Cost Lamballe a fair bit in replacements during her lifetime.”
“Well, she won’t do so any more.”
He nodded. “If you’re going to talk to him, say I sent you. He’ll want to know where you got his name from, because he’s a suspicious man. The grain business is difficult, especially when the harvest’s been poor and the price of bread goes up.”
I nodded. I’d heard about the hunger riots in the city but never lived through one of them. “Thank you, I’ll tell him,”
My unexpected success made all my aches and pains vanish and I rushed down the street to find Gilbert. He did not believe me at first, but, when he found out I was serious, he was just as pleased. He drew his interview with the other trader to an abrupt end and we hurried off to the Rue du Lac to find the grain dealer. Gilbert had a big grin on his face and he strode out, like a man given sudden hope. He had obviously shared my belief this search would go on for ever.
One of his employees fetched Lamballe out of his warehouse for us. He was a heavily-built man and he seemed to be prosperous enough, even in his rough working clothes. His storehouse was well stocked with sacks of grain and several men worked for him. We followed the blacksmith’s advice, for, without it, Lamballe would have told us very little. Even so, he answered our questions as briefly as possible, giving us few details.
“I sold the mare about two decadis ago,” Lamballe replied as Gilbert questioned him. “A man was leaving Paris to go back to his home. He bought the horse and a cart off me. She wasn’t up to much, but she would make the journey, if he drove her slowly as I told him to.”
“Who was he?”
“Never met him before. A peddler from some godforsaken place in the country. Laval in Brittany, he said. I might be wrong...”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t suppose he went and certainly the horse never did. Why did he say he wanted a cart?”
“He told me he had a supply of brown sugar to take back as barter for some cloth he wanted. The cart was an old one and for sale.”
“A good enough story, I suppose, since you did not question him closely.”
“Why should I?”
“No reason at all. Can you describe him for us?”
“Middle-aged, a strong accent, a red face with a scar on his forehead.”
I stiffened. “What sort of a scar?” I asked, speaking for the first time. He turned to me, surprised by the sudden intensity of my voice.
“Long and thin. It cut his eyebrow in two.”
I clutched Gilbert’s arm in my excitement. “He sounds like one of the fellows I described to you!” I hissed at him and he looked startled. I’d almost forgotten about them in the past few days and so, obviously, had he.
“What men?” Lamballe asked, frowning at me.
“I want you to look at something.” Gilbert answered him and turned to me. “Duval, go back and fetch the drawings from the bureau. I’ll wait here with Citizen Lamballe, while you’re gone, and find out if he can remember anything else.”
“What’s this all about anyway?” Lamballe asked him, as I hurried away. We’d introduced ourselves as agents of police, but we didn't tell him what we were investigating. Customs dues, gossip or grain hoarding were the usual problems in his trade. The man had seemed a bit nervous at first, but most people do when they are confronted by the police. Everyone has a bad conscience about something, even if it is only trivial, and Lamballe had been cooperative enough.
Gilbert had enlightened him by the time I returned. I took a hack both ways and found the bureau empty. I retrieved the sketches, without having to make tedious explanations to Laurent or anyone else. Gilbert and Lamballe were inside the warehouse when I arrived. Gilbert was scratching away in his battered notebook, writing up his notes. I produced the drawings and rolled them out on a work bench to show Lamballe. The one on top was the scarred man and he recognised him without any hesitation at all.
“That’s him. Whoever drew this has caught him to the life; although his eyes are a bit too far apart.”
“But you recognise him?”
“Certainly I do. No mistake. He called himself Moreau but, from what you tell me, that won’t be his name.”
He shuffled through the other sketches, looking at them all. Then he stopped. “This fellow was hanging around outside the yard on the day I sold the horse and cart.” He pointed to the sketch of the young man who I called in my mind ‘the frightened conscript’.
“Oh? What was he doing?”
“Loitering. I only spotted him for a moment, so I can’t tell you anything about him. He stood in the street, peering in through the gates. A lot of folk do that, right nosey they are. I usually ignore them, but I remember this one because he seemed better dressed than most people around here. Also he had this thin wispy moustache, as if he had trouble growing it, not like mine.” He stroked a loving finger across his top lip. Obviously he was proud of his bushy growth.
“Maybe he was waiting for the man who called himself Moreau.”
“Perhaps. He seemed to be waiting for something or someone.”
“Did they speak to each other?”
“Don't think so. He was gone by the time Moreau left.”
“Could you identify him?”
“Possibly, I’m not sure. The scarred man — no question. This one?” He shrugged. “Perhaps. I’d have to put it to the test.”
My eyes met Gilbert’s and he nodded. We wouldn’t get any further information. Lamballe had already given us what we needed to know, indeed more than we had hoped.
“Thank you, Citizen. You’ve been very helpful,” Gilbert said.
“Glad to help you. Nasty thing to happen. All those people dead and my poor old mare as well.”
“If you remember anything else..?”
“I’ll come and tell you.”
I rolled up the sketches and we left him.
“This calls for a celebration,” Gilbert said. “May a long time pass before I meet another blacksmith or go into another stinking stables.”
“I’ll drink to that!”
We went into the nearest tavern, for an early lunch.
“What have we found out today?” Gilbert asked me, after we’d toasted our success and the unexpected end of our search in some decent wine. Both Gilbert and Fournier had formed the habit of making me recount what had happened every day. They kept testing me, to make sure I remembered everything of importance. I'd become used to their quizzing by now and my memory had sharpened. Perhaps that was the point of the exercise.
“A man, with a Breton accent and a scar, bought a grey horse from Lamballe. The horse wore shoes marked with a ‘v’, standing for ‘Vadim’, the blacksmith. She died in the Rue Saint Nicaise. The scarred man hurried away from the scene. On the day he sold the cart, Lamballe also spotted the young man in the good clothes who looked frightened.”
Gilbert nodded. “Continue.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“What are you thinking?”
“Who comes from Brittany and is well dressed?”
“Tell me.”
“A lot of the former nobles never emigrated. They hid themselves during the Terror and the local peasants supported them. They want to do away with the Republic and have a Bourbon on the throne again. They’re called a special name which I can’t remember.”
“‘Chouans’ is the word you’re looking for. Don't know the exact meaning in
the barbarous language they speak there, something about owls I think. And you are right. Someone from Brittany is unlikely to be a fervent Republican.”
“So, if they are Chouans, what do we do next?” I asked.
“First we go back to the witnesses and the people living in the Rue Saint-Nicaise. Now we’re sure these men had a horse at the scene, we’ll find out if anyone else recognises the drawings. They may be able to tell us where the nag was taken, after she left Lamballe’s. Someone may even have seen them driving around the Rue Saint-Nicaise. The more evidence we can find the better. Better still if we find the men themselves.”
“That’s unlikely, surely? If I’d planted a bomb, I wouldn’t stay around long enough to be taken by the police and condemned to death.”
“People do strange things - a fact you’ll discover for yourself on this job. It’s almost unbelievable what happens. Some villains seem to want to be caught. These men might be still here and with good reason. Plotters aren’t the most cautious of people or they wouldn’t do what they do, especially bombers. Handling explosives and setting them off takes a certain kind of warped courage. Their own survival can’t be of much importance to them. This bomb failed to kill the man they wanted it to, so they may stay here to try again. They don’t realise you saw them and we made drawings of their faces. Nor do they know about Lamballe’s identification. They probably think they’re safe enough for the present. They've found out how to make a bomb and where to plant it, so they might repeat what they did before. One day another one will go off, more people will be killed and they might even be lucky this time. Bonaparte could die.”
“God forbid,” I said with a shudder, remembering the bodies and the groans of those who had been wounded.
7
I had been to the Rue Saint-Nicaise only once before, so I never knew the place in happier times. Perhaps it had not always been so dreary and melancholy. The crater had been filled in and the road was rough but usable again. Not all of the sets had been replaced properly, though. The carts bumped over them, shaking some of their contents out onto the dirt. Others swerved suddenly and we saw several near accidents as we approached.
The buildings nearest to the crater seemed shaky, as if, any minute, they would tumble down upon our heads. Wooden props against their walls held them precariously upright, the timbers groaning with the strain. Others, further away from the blast, were more stable but their windows had been boarded up. They were still lived in, even though the rooms must have been grim, with the natural light blocked. A few glimmers could be seen through the cracks in the wood, as if candles burned inside. People wandered about, but fewer than I would have expected in the centre of the city. The bleak atmosphere and gloom seemed to hit us like a blow immediately we turned the corner.
A couple of Dubois’ police agents still stood around, looking bored. They greeted Gilbert with a relief that quickly turned to dismay when they found out that we hadn't come to relieve them. Gilbert introduced me and we passed the time of day.
“What’s happening now?” Gilbert asked them.
“Nothing. Can't think why we’re here. The bombers are long gone and we’ve even questioned the neighbourhood cats! Everything’s been cleared up, as much as they’re going to do for now. There’s no money for anything more, but they always say that, of course. An engineer came round yesterday and told us so. It’d be different if one of the nobs lived here; they’d find the cash then. The square’s back the way it was, except for the windows boarded-up and some of the shops still closed. We can’t buy our bread at the widow’s shop any more, naturally enough. A pity because the woman's a good baker.”
“Oh? Why do you say ‘naturally enough’? These others are open and they’re nearer to the blast.” Gilbert glanced around. Several shops were operating up and down the road.
“The woman’s daughter got blown up in the explosion.”
“Unfortunate.”
“Very,” he agreed dryly. “The girl was young and they didn’t find enough of her to bury, so that makes it worse for her mother. The neighbours tell us she’s still in a terrible state.”
“I don’t suppose she told you anything useful?”
“I didn't question her myself, thank providence, but I heard she’s not making a lot of sense. The girl had only turned fourteen and was a bit simple. Not that it matters to a mother. Try her yourself. You might get something more out of her, now the first shock is over.”
“Not a bad idea. We will,” Gilbert said and we left the other agent standing there, looking bored and cold.
“Are we going to the bread shop?” I asked.
“Why not? It's as good a place to start as anywhere else and I believe the man when he says he’s questioned everybody. He's reliable enough for one of Dubois’ lot.”
The shop was on the ground floor of a propped-up building. The door was new and tightly locked. I had a sudden image of the old one being blasted apart. Gilbert hammered hard on the rough wood. A key turned in the lock and a chain rattled, then the door was jerked open. A middle-aged woman stood confronting us, her face wrinkled and her eyes red-rimmed from prolonged weeping.
“What do you want? Can't you see we’re closed?” she asked sharply, starting to shut the door in our faces again. Gilbert put his foot into the jamb.
“We’re not here to buy bread from you, Citizeness. We’re police agents and we would like to speak to you about what happened when the bomb exploded.”
“I won’t talk to you. Go away and leave me in peace!”
“Don’t you want to find the swine who killed all these people? We’re searching for them and we need your help. Wasn’t your own daughter one of those unfortunates?”
“My Marianne!” she wailed and seemed to crumple up. Tears flooded down her face, but she pushed open the door and stood aside, letting us enter. The room she showed us into was a poor place and none too clean. Little or no housework had been done since the tragedy. Dirty dishes lay around and the hearth was heaped with smouldering ashes. The fire had never been cleaned out for days and was barely alight.
An older woman got to her feet, as we came in. Her face reddened with anger. “Why can’t you leave her alone?” She raised her fist and snarled at us.
“Don't, Jeanne. I let them in,” the other woman managed to say through her sobs. She sank down onto one of the stools. Jeanne put her arm around her comfortingly, but she continued to scowl.
“It’s dark in here and we brought something to show to both of you. Can you give us some more light, if you please?” Gilbert asked and the old woman got up and pulled another lantern off one of the shelves. She lit it with a spill from the sultry embers of the fire. The tallow inside the lantern flared up and gave a feeble light. I wiped the table clear with my sleeve and spread out the drawings. I pushed the dirty plates aside and held the corners of the papers flat with some beakers. Citizeness Pensol, the girl’s mother, peered at them and shook her head.
“You don’t recognise any of these men?” Gilbert asked
“No, I’ve never seen them before...”
“Oh, but look, Elisabeth!” Old Jeanne interrupted her. “That’s the man who paid Marianne to hold his horse for him, I’m sure it is.”
Jeanne leaned over Citizeness Pensol’s shoulder and stabbed her finger down at one of the men. It was one Lamballe hadn’t recognised; the one with a bushy beard.
“Give it to me,” Citizeness Pensol pulled the drawing towards her and held it closer to the lantern light. “No. I don’t know him. You were the one who saw these men, Jeanne, not me. I only glanced up the road to watch for you, because I didn’t think you’d get through the crowd carrying all those baskets. Once I spotted you coming, I went back inside.”
“You're right, of course. You weren’t with us; I’d forgotten.”
Gilbert glanced at me and asked, casually enough, “What’s this about Marianne holding a horse?”
“Marianne was looking after a horse and cart when the bomb went of
f...” Jeanne said, with a shudder. “Otherwise, she’d have been home and safe.”
Citizeness Pensol shrieked and dropped the drawing onto the table. She fell back into a chair, her hands over her face. Her friend put her arms round her protectively, hugging her close and rocking her like a baby. “Now look what you’ve made me do!”
“Calm yourself, Citizeness, I beg you,” Gilbert said to the mother, and he turned to her defender. “I’ve only made you do what everyone must. We want no more girls like Marianne blown up by scoundrels in this city. The First Consul’s alive, so the plot failed and those swine will try again,” he told her severely. “We've got to make sure that doesn’t happen. Now tell me everything you remember. It's important or I would go away and leave you in peace.”
The woman took a deep breath. She straightened up and then she began to tell her tale,
“Marianne and I were coming back to the shop. We’d been delivering bread further down the road. Old Phillippe in the alehouse sold out, because so many people had come to see the First Consul. He wanted to make as much money from the crowds as he could. Phillippe is a good customer and Elisabeth told us to take some loaves over to him. People were blocking both sides of the road and we had to fight our way through, walking almost in the centre of the roadway. A cart came past and stopped ahead of us. Two men climbed down, the driver and another man who'd been sitting in the back, smoking. One of them asked Marianne if she would like to earn a few sous. She said, ‘Yes, of course’. He wanted her to hold his horse for him, while he and his friend fetched something from one of the houses.”
“Was the cart empty?”
“No. There were some goods in it covered with sacking.”
“A barrel, perhaps?”
“Might have been. The size and shape would be right, but it might have been piled-up boxes. I’m not sure.”
“Very well. Continue.”
“‘We’ll only be gone a few minutes,’ the man said to us. ‘We’ll be back long before the First Consul comes. The horse is docile. She won’t pull away from you; you’ll have no trouble with her.’ Then he and his friend walked off. I said I would take the baskets back to the shop and I left Marianne there. I’d only got through the door, when the bomb went off. I was thrown to the floor with wood and glass all over me. Poor Marianne didn’t stand a chance in the open street so near to the explosion.”
Duval and the Infernal Machine (Napoleon's Police Book 1) Page 6
