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

by Michele McGrath

  I rejoined Fournier and related what I’d found out. “The men are still inside. They haven’t gone out all day. One of them must be sick, because they had a visitor who called himself a doctor. He wasn’t the local man and the doorkeeper had never seen him before. He says the men came to Paris to set up a business, unsuccessfully, or so they said. Times are hard. He thinks it won’t be long before they pack up and go back to their homes.”

  “Where did they come from? Does he know?”

  “‘Somewhere uncouth’ but that might be anywhere. The only time he’s been out of Paris was when he was in the army at Valmy.”

  “Our birds are safe for the present, then.”

  “They are, if nothing changes.”

  “Go and tell him to keep his eye on the front door.”

  “I’ve done so already. He’s on my side, as another old soldier and a fellow believer in the fickleness of women.”

  Fournier laughed. “Stay here and watch the back entrance. Tell your friend where you are. If the men leave, follow them. I’ll call out the National Guard but I don’t know how long it'll take them to get here. First of all, I’ve got to convince Laurent or Réal to ask for their help. They’ll argue, but they won’t dare forbid the search, in case you’re correct and these are the right people. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  He left me propping up the wall and trying not to think about the cold.

  11

  It was late afternoon by now and the winter day almost at an end. I told old Antoine, the doorkeeper, what I wanted him to do. I found myself a niche out of the wind, with a good view of the door. I had to leave it occasionally to stretch my legs and stamp my frozen feet, but I remained cheerful despite the chill. Fournier had trusted me and was prepared to act on my word.

  My vigil reminded me of being on sentry duty, especially one awful day up in the mountains of Italy. The snow lay deep and the enemy were all around us waiting to pounce. That is yet another story to tell when everybody is sitting snugly beside the fire, not now.

  During the wait, I had a feeling of expectation, for, in this situation, my army experience did not help me. I had to wait and find out what would happen. Nothing much distracted my attention from the future. A few people went in and out of the house, mostly women with baskets, going to buy food. I recognised none of the men. Antoine came once but he too, had seen little of importance.

  It was getting late by now. Someone had lighted a lantern down the street and candles flickered in some of the windows. Fournier had not returned. I became impatient, wondering when he would come. Then I heard a sudden scuffle of movement and footsteps behind me. I shrank back into my corner and watched. A tall man hurried along, trying to walk quietly but failing. I peered into the gloom, knowing he would have to turn towards me as he entered the building. I hoped to get a glimpse of his face.

  When he did so, I caught my breath. The white mark of his scar shone vivid on his forehead, in spite of the dimness of the light. Here, beyond doubt, was the man I had seen on the night of the bombing. I stayed absolutely still, pressed into the shadows. I even closed my eyes in case they glittered. The man entered the building and I lost him from sight. Now I was truly in a fever of excitement. I haven’t prayed much since my boyhood, only before I went into battle. Old habits, though, are hard to break and I prayed now — for Fournier to come immediately, before the man left again. I hoped he would remain inside. I did not want to follow him, for I would have to leave word with Antoine and hope Fournier would get the message correctly. If more than one of the men left and they split up, I decided I would go after the scarred man. But what good would that do me? We wanted to take them all, not just one.

  The minutes seemed endless now. Nothing more occurred. All Paris seemed to be asleep and I was the only person awake in the chill darkness. Another scuffle, louder this time.

  “Where are you?” a familiar voice hissed and I came forward out of my hiding place.

  Gilbert stood in the shadows and I caught the glint of metal in his hand. He held a long-nosed pistol.

  “Are they still inside?”

  “Yes. The scarred man also. He went into the house not long ago,” I told him. I could see the excitement on his face.

  “The man you are sure of?”

  “The very same, no doubt at all.”

  “You have done well. We will capture them now,” he said.

  “Fournier?”

  “Round the front with the National Guard. Petit is here too and others are coming. Stay where you are until we have the men in place to stop anyone getting out; then come round to me. We’ll go in the front way.”

  Within minutes, a small troop of national guardsmen came around the side of the building. I placed them by the doorway with orders to wait for the signal. Half of them were to stay there. The other half were to enter and work their way upwards, searching the rooms on both sides of the staircase. It gave me an odd feeling to issue orders again. I’ve given many others before in my life, though, and the guardsmen seemed to have no difficulty accepting my authority. I hurried round to find Gilbert and Petit waiting with another group on the corner of the street. We crept up to the house, leaving more men stationed at the entrance. We had surrounded the place; our net drawn tight. We could see lights on the third floor and on the fifth, but all the other floors appeared to be in darkness. That did not tell us anything though. People may sit in darkness or even go to bed when the light failed. I wouldn’t choose to do so myself, but everyone is different. I kept hoping the men were still there and, one way or another, Antoine and I had not missed them. If they weren’t, we would have lost them completely and would have to begin again.

  I felt apprehensive, but desperate for the action to start, the same feeling I used to have before a fight. The same clammy hands, the same breathlessness, the same resolve to do my best and a fluttering deep in my stomach. I hadn’t expected to have such feelings again, once I left the army, and I was not sure whether I welcomed them or not. I kept wishing that I had my own sword, lost in Germany with my pistols and clothes. If it came to a fight, I only carried my dagger, which never leaves me. It’s too short for most purposes and certainly no match even for a small sword, unless the wielder is unskilled.

  Gilbert took charge of the whole operation and with a few quick words, he organised us into small parties.

  “Fournier and Petit, go to the third floor, where the lights are. Duval and I will carry on to the fifth. The rest of you form groups of two. Make sure that you search every dwelling and all the possible hiding places. Let’s have a man stationed on every flight of stairs in case anyone bolts. Charge in when I give the word. Break down the doors if you have to.”

  With that, we crept upwards, leaving two guardsmen outside every door and another guarding the stairs. Fournier and Petit stopped on the third floor, while Gilbert and I went up to the fifth. Our chests heaved by the time we got there, but we both tried to make as little noise as possible. At one point I wondered whether my game leg would slip and betray our presence but my luck held and we reached the top landing unchallenged.

  When we were all in position, Gilbert shouted, “Now!” down the stairwell. We burst open all the doors at once. I stumbled after him into the room, in time to see three men’s startled faces. Someone sent the lantern spinning towards us which crashed into the wall behind my head. I flinched and ducked. That action saved me, for almost immediately there came a double crack of pistol shots. I launched myself forward and grasped the legs of one man, knocking him to the floor. After that, we fought together, groping at each other in the darkness. I punched him and he hit me on the side of the head, which made me roll over. My assailant got to his feet and both he and another man tripped over me. I grabbed one of their ankles as they passed and hung on. The man was frantic to get away. He twisted and wriggled like an eel, but he knew none of the tricks my first sergeant had taught me. Soon he lay gasping on the ground in front of me, all the air driven out of his body. He wasn’
t going anywhere for a long time.

  I peered round, trying to see what had happened to Gilbert and the rest of the plotters but nothing moved inside the room. One man, though, had certainly escaped, for I could hear the sound of his feet running down the stairs. I leapt up and ran out onto the landing, screaming, “Get him! Don’t let him escape!”

  A pistol shot echoed around the walls and a sudden scream.

  “Got him!” a voice shouted up to me.

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, he’ll live.”

  Satisfied, I returned to the room. The winded man lay where he had fallen, breathing in agonised gasps. I climbed over him and felt my way further into the darkness.

  “Gilbert? Where are you?”

  I could see very little, but I heard a groan from the other side of the room.

  “Gilbert?” I hissed again.

  “Here.” His voice was very faint. “Help me...”

  I stumbled towards the sound, knelt down and passed my hand over his chest. It came away wet; he’d been wounded in a bad place. Men can live with such wounds; I’ve seen it, but it’s rare if the lungs have been pierced. This blood was spurting and frothy. Gilbert must be bleeding inside his chest, which is always fatal. I had to do something immediately for him to have any chance at all.

  “Stay still. I’ll get help,” I told him and ran out to call down to the others, “There’s a man badly injured up here, fetch a surgeon right away!”

  “One of them?”

  “No! One of us! Gilbert.”

  A confused murmur of voices and then the pounding of footsteps. Some were going down and others were coming up to me. Then Petit appeared.

  “Where is he?” Petit raised his lantern and I could see Gilbert’s face for the first time. His skin was white, with that faint touch of green which confirmed everything I already knew. Dying men often look like that before the end. I pulled off my jacket and ripped one of my shirt sleeves. Then I pushed the cloth down on top of his wound and held it in place. It made me feel better, although I knew the gesture to be futile. Not even the finest surgeon in Paris would be able to save Gilbert’s life now.

  “What happened to him?” Petit asked.

  “He’s got a knife wound, I think, but I didn’t see it happen. I was fighting with that man over there. There were three of them here when we burst in. One went down the stairs but I’ve no idea what happened to the third.”

  “There’s a smell of powder here.”

  “There were a couple of pistol shots when we entered. Gilbert fired and a shot came towards us.”

  Petit walked forward holding up his lantern. The body of the third man lay crumpled against the wall. Petit knelt down beside him and put a hand on his chest.

  “He’s alive but he’s bleeding.” Petit fumbled on the ground. “There’s a knife lying by the wall. He’s probably the carrion who stabbed Gilbert. Anyway he’s not going to move far. He’s got a bullet hole in his leg to slow him down.”

  Petit put his lantern down and walked over to the body of my assailant. His eyes were open, but he shook his head as if he was still dazed.

  “What did you do to this one?”

  “Threw him. He’s winded, that’s all.”

  “You were supposed to be watching Gilbert’s back, weren’t you?” Petit asked, accusingly. “I thought a good soldier always did that!”

  “I didn’t see Gilbert once we were inside the room. Too much happened all at once and there was no light.”

  Petit grunted and turned away. His unjustified accusation had made my temper rise but, with an effort, I controlled it. Now was neither the time nor the place for an argument. Petit stirred my assailant with his foot, holding his own dagger inches from the man’s throat.

  “Get up, you, or I’ll stick this into your gizzard,” he growled.

  The man groaned, but he climbed unsteadily to his feet, still shaking his head as if it hurt him. Petit looked at Gilbert and then at me. He shrugged.

  “I’ll take this man below and then come back for the other one. He won’t be able to move without help. You stay here with Gilbert until the sawbones arrives. Right?”

  “Right, but leave the lantern with me, so the surgeon has some light to treat him by.”

  Petit put down the lantern and led my captive out of the room. “For all the good it’ll do,” he muttered. I disliked agreeing with him, but he was right.

  Gilbert kept gasping and blood foamed from his mouth with every heave of his straining chest. I took him in my arms, holding him up and pressing the compress tightly against him. It had become completely soaked and almost useless by now, but his breathing had eased a little in the new position. I had a sudden, fleeting image of the last man I had held in my arms as he died. Pierre. Christ, so long ago.

  “Can I do anything for you?” I asked Gilbert.

  I did not expect him to answer me, but he struggled for a moment and then coughed up great gout of blood which spilled down over my hand. It seemed to clear his throat, for he said distinctly, “Françoise, my wife...” His voice trailed away.

  I leaned closer. “Yes?” His lips were still moving, but I could no longer make any sense of the sounds. Then he coughed again and his eyes rolled back, until only the whites were showing. I laid him down gently and stood up, knowing he was gone. Then I bent down again to close his eyelids.

  I walked out of that room, away from the metallic smell of blood and sat on the stairs with my head in my hands. I wondered what on earth was happening to me. I shook and tears streamed down my face, yet I hardly knew Gilbert. I had not felt like this since my best friend was killed beside me, when we charged at Montebello, in another lifetime. I respected Gilbert and I would have liked to know him better, but he was not Pierre or any of my other friends who died. I suppose that in a battle you are hot, frenzied and desperate to survive or, at least, to sell your life as dearly as possible. Assassination, in this dark and tawdry lodging house in the middle of a great city, seemed somehow different and it made my stomach churn. I think I would even have vomited, if my thoughts had not been almost immediately distracted. Someone came charging up to me from below.

  “Where is he?” a voice called out.

  I controlled myself with an effort and leaned over the banister rail. “Are you the doctor?”

  “Yes.” The man was panting, portly and obviously not used to climbing stairs in a hurry.

  “There’re two of them in here, but you’re too late for one. He’s dead. The other one’s over in the corner.” I pointed out the man with the leg wound, who had started to moan. I stood aside to let the doctor through and went down the stairs. I needed to go outside, where the icy air might take my sickness away. Petit could search the room I’d left and remove the two men. As I got to the bottom of the stairs, someone pushed through the crowd that had gathered around the doorway.

  “What happened to Gilbert, Duval?” Fournier asked urgently as he flashed his lantern over me. “Petit said he was wounded and you’re covered in blood! Are you hurt?”

  “No. The blood’s not mine. Where have you been?” I asked. Then he turned his head and I realised he had been injured too, a savage cut across his forehead. He was trying ineffectually to staunch his blood with a rag. I took the cloth from him and bound up the injury so the blood did not drip down into his eyes.

  “That cut’ll need stitching,” I said.

  “I’ll live. Gilbert?”

  “I’m sorry. He was knifed in the chest. The doctor’s with him now, but there’s nothing he can do. Gilbert died before he got here.”

  Fournier slumped against the wall and ran a hand across his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated and he nodded.

  Then he said, “You don’t make many friends on this job, but he was one of mine. We worked together for a long time. He was a good man.”

  We were silent for a moment or two and then, when he raised his head again, he asked, “How many were there?”

  “Three
in the room when we broke in. One’s still up there wounded. Petit brought another down here before the doctor came and the third fled down the stairs. A fourth man, the one who has the scar, went into the house before you arrived. So there should have been four...”

  “And we’ve only got three. The man on the staircase is scarred, so he’s in the bag. Did you recognise any of the others?”

  “No, but the light was bad.”

  “I wonder where the fourth man went.” Fournier swore volubly. “He’ll never come back here, that’s for certain. The whole neighbourhood’s in an uproar. He’ll keep well away. If he’s any sense, he’ll leave the city now he knows we’re onto them.”

  “He must have left before we surrounded the place. I didn’t see anyone, but he might have sneaked past the doorkeeper.”

  “Where is the doorkeeper?”

  Antoine came forward as soon as I beckoned to him.

  “No, indeed, no one passed me or I would have come to tell you about it,” he said when I questioned him. “But, of course, someone might have left when I turned my back. I had to make my meal. I wasn’t facing the door all the time, so it’s possible, I suppose. I’m sorry, Citizen, I did do the best I could.”

  I nodded. There was no point in saying any more. I hadn’t wanted to tell him to watch every minute, so the fault was mine more than his. The fourth man had vanished. Nothing we could do about it. Fournier agreed. We both went back to the foot of the stairs.

  Fournier put his foot on the bottom step and glanced upwards. Then he said, “I’ll see Gilbert's body removed and make sure the place is properly searched. You go back to the bureau and write up the report, as much as you know so far. Réal is sure to want it immediately, especially as we lost a man tonight.”