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

by Michele McGrath

  I’d waited until dusk before I went to the tavern. I hoped it would begin to fill up as the hour advanced and I was right. Nobody spoke to me, though, except to ask for the spare stools at my table. I sat drinking the deep red wine. The quality was indeed excellent but the cost was frightening. I sipped slowly, savouring the flavour, and knowing that this bottle had to last me all evening.

  I kept looking around me, but I recognised nobody. The men I had seen were not present. I made sure, looking carefully in every corner, without success. Nor did anyone speak with a Breton accent. One of my troopers came from that part of France and I remembered what he sounded like. He was a good soldier, but reckless, and he didn’t last long. A bullet got him somewhere in Italy. I tried unsuccessfully to remember the battle. God rest him, I murmured. Strange, how you never forget the prayers of your youth.

  I stayed until the crowd began to thin, feeling disappointed. This aristocratic reserve was unlikely to further my plans. I would have to return in better clothes and sit in the centre, where I'd have more chance of falling into conversation. This was a problem. I'd intended to use my dwindling funds for food and shelter and I’d lost the only good clothes I ever owned. Somewhere must sell cast-offs, though. I would have to go without several meals in order to buy myself a new wardrobe, I reflected ruefully.

  I got up early the next morning, wondering what to do. If I didn't wait until the evening to return to the tavern, I'd arouse suspicions. Few people of my age have enough leisure and funds to drink all day. I was without business acquaintances to talk to or any sort of job. There was no reason for me to be in that part of Paris, other than the one I wanted to stay secret. Fournier warned me to stay away from the Ministry. He didn't want anyone to see me there. He gave me the name of one of his snitches, who would take a message to him, if I needed to be in contact. We’d arranged to meet later in the week, to update each other. In the meanwhile, I decided to pretend to look for work, to keep up appearances with the landlord. I called on the two employers he told me about, although I intended to make sure they did not hire me. I didn’t need to try hard.

  The first one noticed my limp straight away and shook his head. “I only need able-bodied men,” he said. The second contact didn’t want any more people for now, or so he told me. Duty done, I wondered what I should do next. It was still the middle of the afternoon and time hung heavily on my hands. I wandered around the district, trying to learn its geography, in case it might come in useful.

  The area of the Temple is a place of dusty little streets and decaying buildings. Small workshops jostle beside hovels that seem as if they will fall down at any minute. Some places looked prosperous, but they were rare. Why would anyone chose to live in this part of Paris? I felt excited to be in the city, but police work did not take me to the better districts. As I tramped around, I could not help wondering if I had been mistaken not to accept the old buffer’s advice. Being a police agent demanded so much physical activity. Perhaps I should have swallowed my pride and gone home. I spent a cold and boring day, with nothing to show, except a better knowledge of the neighbourhood.

  I was glad when the light started to fade so I could return to my lodgings. I washed and changed into the new clothes I bought earlier from a pawn shop selling hand-me-downs. They were almost unworn, breeches of brown wool and a mulberry-coloured coat. I also found some shirts, including one with fine stitching on the cuffs and collar. Some woman took trouble with the sewing, but her efforts were wasted and I got a bargain.

  I am uncomfortable out of uniform and mulberry is not my choice of colour, although the coat fitted me well. Certainly I drew no more disapproving glances, when I entered the tavern again. Fewer people were in the place because it was still early, so I found an empty seat in the centre of the room. The landlord gave me a bottle of the better sort of wine and I sat there, trying to look relaxed.

  From my new vantage point, I could listen to a number of the conversations around me. Most people still talked about the ‘Infernal Machine’ and what would have happened if Bonaparte had been killed. Not enough time had passed before everyone became bored with the subject. The rumours had reached the fantastic stage by now, so they added little to what I already knew, although I listened intently. No one spoke with a Breton accent and, at first, the chatter seemed to be casual, without any personal or political opinions. I felt a bit disappointed. Foolish. I couldn't expect anyone to betray themselves for my convenience. I kept sipping the wine, making the bottle last. I hoped the situation might change before I had no further excuse to linger.

  “The First Consul started late,” someone said off to my left. “He told his driver to hurry. That’s how he escaped. If he’d gone more slowly he would have been killed.”

  “They say the bomb went off only seconds after he passed. His wife delayed to change her scarf or she’d have been blown to bits,” said another.

  “Someone told me Bonaparte shook so much when he arrived at the opera, he could hardly stand.”

  “I wouldn’t have gone at all, if it’d been me!”

  “I agree. I'd hate to have everyone’s eyes on me, after such a narrow escape.” A number of people murmured agreement and the chatter resumed.

  “The audience stood up and cheered Bonaparte for several minutes,” the first speaker said when the fuss died down. “He’d like that.”

  “No one’s ever doubted his courage, only his politics.” The last remark was murmured softly, right behind me. It was as if the man spoke his thought aloud and did not mean anyone else to hear. The undertone of hatred in his voice made me freeze. He spoke like a gentleman, but with a trace of an accent, too faint for me to identify.

  I dared not move, for I did not want him to know I’d overheard. I hoped he would say something more and I longed to look at his face. With difficulty, I remained still, forcing my muscles to relax. I tensed when I heard him speak and I was afraid he might notice my sudden stiffness. I kept listening to his movements, hoping he did not decide to leave the tavern. He did not. I waited for some minutes until someone clattered behind me, giving me an excuse to turn round. My eyes flickered over the speaker and his companions, as I appeared to search for the disturbance. A servant had broken one of the glasses on his tray.

  I hadn’t heard the three men enter. I had been too intent on listening to the other conversations. They were still muffled in their cloaks with their hats on their heads, not surprising on so cold an evening. The heat of the fire had taken some time to warm me when I first came in. Two men faced me, both young. The third sat with his back to me, so his face was hidden. He seemed older than the others, for his hair was streaked with grey.

  I strained my ears, trying to make out what they were saying above the hum of the other voices, but they spoke softly. I could not hear their words, only the lilt of their speech. I thought at least one of them spoke with the accent of the western part of the country. Whether he was a Breton or not, I did not know. Occasionally the first speaker, the ‘gentleman’, made a remark. He certainly did not have the twang of Paris.

  This little group seemed the most interesting in the place. No one else said anything significant, although many of them had already drunk enough wine to make them careless. The ‘gentleman’ and his friends did not attract much attention to themselves. I would not even have overheard the original remark, if a moment of silence had not fallen in the buzz of talk surrounding us. I decided to follow these men when they left, if only to stretch my legs. I continued to drink my wine and ignore them, until they called out to the landlord to pay their shot. When they stood up, I gave them a few minutes start before I went after them.

  They walked slowly and I kept in the shadows, strolling in the same direction. At first they stayed in a group, like friends innocently returning home. Then they split up. One man continued ahead and the other two crossed the street. I was far enough behind to slide into a passageway when the one on my side stopped, so he did not see me. He went on again. I took care to
look for a hiding place in case he glanced behind him again. He did, but he missed me in the darkness.

  In spite of their precautions, it did not seem to me that they expected to be followed. Only one man kept stopping and I always had a second or two warning. If either of the others had taken a turn, they might have spotted me. Eventually, they paused, opened a broken-down gate and closed it again behind them. I gave them time to go inside and then crept forward to peer through a crack in the wood. The gates led into a courtyard with a shed at one end. I saw little in the dim light, except the shadows of objects littering the ground. The place was small and I would have made enough noise to alert them, if I had tried to enter the yard. I retreated into a nearby entranceway and kept watch, hoping to see the men emerge.

  It was cold. The wind was sharp with frost and chilled me, even though I found a bit of shelter in a doorway. Whatever they were doing inside did not take long. When they reappeared, their outlines seemed bulkier, as if they carried things hidden under their cloaks. They walked more quickly now, like men who wanted to get a job finished. They continued down the street and turned the next corner. I ran after them, as fast as I dared and as my frozen legs would let me. I peered round the wall and I spotted them going into a house at the far end of the block. They did not come out again, although I waited for several hours. I became so cold, my injured leg went quite numb. I kept stumbling when I walked away at last.

  During the time I spent waiting, I tried to interpret what I had seen and overheard, uncertain of its value. One of these men did not like the First Consul, but many people did not. Bonaparte’s rise had been too sudden. Those who held power in the past had become disgruntled. This does not necessarily lead to assassination, of course. If it did, who among us would survive?

  One, perhaps more, of these men might come from Brittany or from further south, around the Gironde estuary. I could not be sure, but their voices reminded me slightly of my former trooper. I had only two solid facts to tell Gilbert and Fournier - the whereabouts of the yard and the house where the men presumably lodged. Yet the group definitely seemed to have acted in a furtive manner, so I decided to report what I had overheard. First, though, I would go back to both places in daylight. Perhaps I might find something more tangible to support my suspicions.

  10

  The shapes in the courtyard proved to be heaps of rubbish, left over from some previous occupation. It would be hard enough to cross the space in the daylight. I certainly would have stumbled and alerted the men in the darkness.

  The rickety gates were not locked, but tied up with rope, so I got in easily. When I shut them behind me, the yard was almost completely hidden from the street. You could see through a few cracks in the timber fences, but these only gave a restricted view. The place was ideal for people who did not want to be observed. An old disused warehouse, with large holes in the roof, stood at the far end of the courtyard. The doors were held together by a stone which I pushed aside. I closed the door behind me and lit the lantern I’d brought. I’d an idea one might be needed to examine the inside of the shed. I felt disappointed at first. It seemed to be stripped of anything interesting. At the furthest end, though, was a partition. Behind it was a section which had been used as a make-shift stable for a horse. Some straw, fodder and a water bucket had been left behind. I also discovered droppings which looked several days old. I searched around the rough walls at the height of a horse’s mane. My search was rewarded with a few strands of grey horsehair.

  I found nothing further until I was leaving. Then I noticed some dark grains scattered on the hard-packed mud of the floor. I knelt down and picked up a handful. I held them to my nose and sniffed. Then I dropped them as if I’d been stung and jumped back in alarm. The smell of gunpowder is unmistakable to any soldier. I blew out the lantern and hurried outside. I’d been extremely lucky not to cause an explosion. I brushed the remaining grains from my hand with something like horror. A cold sweat broke out on my brow and I propped myself up against a wall for a few minutes to calm down. I felt dizzy with fright. The Artillery was never my profession, but I realised I might easily have lost my fingers. A man with one hand and a lame foot is no use to anyone. What a narrow escape!

  The three men, or others I did not know about, must have been using gunpowder in this shed recently. The grains were free from dust, so they’d only been spilled a few hours before, possibly as the men were leaving last night. No one with any sense leaves explosives around like that. This derelict yard couldn’t be the premises of a legitimate supplier to the army or anyone else. Nor did the behaviour of the three men suggest anything but the clandestine. This tucked-away place would be ideal to prepare for the bombing in the Rue Saint-Nicaise. I knew I had found something tangible to report.

  I wondered again what the men took away with them. The items seemed bulky and awkward to carry. We needed to search the rooms where they spent the night, before they could dispose of the evidence. For a moment, I considered going there myself. I’ve carried out many searches in the army, but I always had several troopers around me. Now the odds were three against one and I would be asking for trouble. I decided to send a message to Fournier or Gilbert asking them to bring sufficient force to stop our quarry escaping. Certainly, I'd found enough information to question these men now. Perhaps there was an innocent explanation but I thought it unlikely. I felt a certain satisfaction, tinged with fear of making a mistake, because I would have to leave the lodging house unwatched. First though, I needed to get out of the courtyard without being seen.

  I peered up and down the street. Nobody was stirring. I slipped out and tied up the rope again. I left the area and went to find the snitch. I debated whether it would be simpler to go back to the Ministry myself, but Fournier had been insistent. The snitch knew who I was when I gave him my name. He came out at once and agreed to carry the message without delay. After he left, I returned to the lodging house.

  Fournier must have been easily found. Only a short time passed, before he sneaked up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin. He wore his hat low down on his forehead and a scarf wound round the lower part of his face. For a moment I didn’t even recognise him.

  “Don’t do that again, you’ll give me heart failure.”

  “I always thought you soldier types watched your back. I might easily have stuck a knife into you.”

  Then I realised that he was alone. “Didn’t you get my message? We need more men, not just the two of us.”

  “Only me in the bureau, mon brave, and I’ll need to get a special order to turn out the National Guard. For that I must have a better reason than the one you’ve given me so far. I suspect you didn’t want to tell my snitch too much, eh? So I thought I’d come and find out for myself.” I told him my tale and described the men and the yard to him.

  “Are they the same ones you saw on the night of the bombing?” he asked when I had finished.

  “I can’t be sure,” I replied. “They might be, but the scarred man was not among them. He is the only one of whom I am absolutely certain.”

  “A pity,” he sighed.

  “I agree, but I’ve never been sure about the others.”

  “Bretons?”

  “One came from the west, possibly Brittany.”

  “These men might not be the ones we are looking for.”

  “I know, but how many people use gunpowder in Paris and leave it spilled on the ground?” I snapped, for it seemed to me that he was treating my discovery too lightly. By now, I’d convinced myself I was on the right track. “No legitimate supplier would do a thing like that.”

  He grinned again. “There are more than you'd imagine. Besides the army, the stuff is used in mining, amongst other things. A fair bit passes through Paris, on its way to the quarries. Don’t be annoyed. I don’t doubt you, but, if I turn out the Guard for nothing, we’re in for a row. Let’s have a look at this yard you’ve found.”

  I took him there and showed him the
spilt gunpowder and the evidence of the horse's presence.

  “I agree with you. No legitimate contractor would store explosives in such a place — it isn’t secure enough. Anyone could get in and tamper with the stuff,” Fournier said. “Storing gunpowder without an obviously good reason has to be either suspicious or pure stupidity after the bombing. These men will certainly have to be taken in for questioning. So we must find out exactly where they are at the moment.”

  “I had to leave their lodgings unwatched; I can’t be sure they’re still inside,” I warned.

  “Does the place have a doorkeeper?”

  “I suppose so. I didn’t want to go too close and perhaps alert them.”

  “The doorkeeper will be able to tell us if they’re still here. Those old blighters never miss much.”

  When we went to the lodging house, Fournier sent me in to find the doorkeeper, while he waited around the back. The man was a former soldier, who had been given the job as a reward for his past service. I shuddered at the thought that this kind of employment might have been my fate too, without the Colonel’s letter. It would have driven me mad. Our shared experiences made my task easier, especially as he was garrulous. If he’d had his way we’d have spent hours discussing old battles. On Fournier’s advice, I paid him enough for his information and to ensure his friendship in the future. I hoped the sum was too small to make him suspicious. I passed myself off as a jealous husband on the trail of my wife’s lover. I felt awkward, although he didn’t question my story and vowed he’d be pleased to help out a colleague.