The Left Hand of Justice (10 page)

“Like that chair, we all felt her wrath on occasion.”

“Did she give you those scars?”

“No. Those came courtesy of the police.”

Corbeau felt a brief pang of shame, but it was eclipsed by anger as she recognized the familiar scent hiding in the smoke. Outrage cut through the clouds beginning to fog the edges of her vision and allowed her to gather up the tendrils of thought that had begun to wander. She laughed mirthlessly under her breath. Clever, clever doctor. But not quite clever enough. She straightened, tucking her pen and paper into her coat pocket. “I see.”

“I don’t suppose you’re about to offer an apology.”

“An apology?” Corbeau really did laugh this time. “Tell me, Doctor, did you really think a Bureau agent wouldn’t recognize widow’s root?”

Kalderash’s natural eye blinked. Her plump, perfectly formed lower lip dropped open in amazement. “You know it?”

Of course Corbeau knew it. It was one of the main ingredients in the pills she’d developed while working for Vidocq. “My mother used to throw it on the fire during a difficult childbirth. Or when she needed to bring a troublesome magistrate around to her way of thinking.

“Quite frankly, I had wanted to believe a conspiracy of disgruntled servants had done away with Madame Boucher. It would have been much more plausible than some nonsense about a Gypsy sorceress and her black magic. But your actions this morning tell me there’s probably something to the hysteria going around the scandal sheets. If there was a conspiracy, I’m pretty damn sure that you were at the center of it. I’ll prove it, in fact.” She fixed Kalderash with a smoldering glare. “In the meantime, don’t even think of trying to leave the city.”

Corbeau stalked to the door, wishing for all the world she could take the woman in without a warrant. She hadn’t been convinced of Kalderash’s guilt when she’d arrived, but the inventor was a practitioner and hadn’t hesitated to use her art against her. She could protest her innocence until Christ returned. As far as Corbeau was concerned, Dr. Maria Kalderash had declared her own guilt.

“Wait!” Kalderash cried as Corbeau reached for the doorknob. The metal was cool, and its touch eased the throbbing in Corbeau’s head immediately.

Corbeau didn’t wait. She threw the door open. The cold, wet air was a needed slap in the face. She strode toward the sidewalk, pulling her coat tightly around her. The rain beat down, plastering her hair to her head and soaking her to the bone. But she didn’t care. She was going straight to the Conciergerie to get the arrest warrant from Javert. Some part of her was disappointed that it hadn’t taken even a day’s work to conclude that he’d been right. But it didn’t matter. She’d have the warrant in her hand by lunchtime. And after that, she’d take Sophie up on her offer of a hot bath and silk sheets.

The walk from the Rue des Rosiers to the prefecture headquarters on the Île de la Cité gave Corbeau time for her hands to stop shaking with fury, and her mind to return to a state of reason. She strode along the Seine, crossing a bridge to Paris’s administrative center, where she would find the Palais de Justice and, within its stone walls, Prefect Claude Javert.

As she walked up the Boulevard du Palais, the Conciergerie clock struck one. Corbeau was used to hearing its doleful toll, but rarely when she was passing directly in front of it. The clock at Notre Dame struck the hour a split second after. The combined sound shook the air around her and rattled her bones. Symbolic, she thought, of the position of the late Bureau of Supernatural Investigations—the position occupied only by herself, now—that hard place between the demands of justice and the requirements of the Church.

Hugging her shoulder bag close to her side, she blew on her hands and shoved them into her coat pockets. It had been a long time since she had allowed a suspect to rattle her like Kalderash had. It was more than the insult of widow’s root—such a transparent trick. And it was more than the sting of realizing she hadn’t figured out what Kalderash was doing until it was almost too late.

Under different circumstances, she would have found a lot to admire in Kalderash. She had to be incredibly tough, for one thing. To have found a way to rise from her circumstances, educate herself, and make her way to Paris would have been difficult enough had Kalderash been a man. Being a woman added an entirely new layer of opposition, which alone would have worn all but the hardiest of souls down. And to find herself in Paris, and to stay despite all of the city’s best attempts to drive her away—it boggled the mind.

And there was her work. Kalderash was best known for her toys, but Corbeau suspected that the Gin Liver and Stomach Bypass had merely been a means to a financial end. Dr. Kalderash’s home had the untidy look of someone who lived and breathed research. What was Kalderash working on now? The mess suggested it was something all-consuming. Of course Kalderash wouldn’t have taken an agent of the la Sûreté into the heart of her research. She had to have a workshop somewhere. Corbeau would have given her eyeteeth to see it.

Finally, there was no denying that, under other circumstances, Corbeau would have found Kalderash attractive. It was a strange and disconcerting sensation, and the feelings that it had stirred up—feelings she’d thought long behind her—were both exciting and panic-inducing. Images and impressions flashed through her mind: the Eye, which made the inventor seem simultaneously imposing and frail; soft flesh beneath her fingertips as she’d held Kalderash to the floor; the inventor’s own curious blend of sweet and mechanical scents; the dry, choking smoke, which even still filled her nostrils.

It was a shame the inventor was guilty and that the only satisfaction Corbeau would gain would be to see her in a prison cell.

Corbeau’s chest tightened as she approached the Palais de Justice. She had been to the building once or twice, but Vidocq had always had his agents out in the field. Even after being promoted to detective inspector, Corbeau wasted precious little time in those lofty halls. It was only after Vautrin had clipped her wings that Corbeau had spent more time indoors than out—and that had been at the local office.

The bleak, brown walls of the former palace loomed over a long courtyard that sat some twelve feet below street level. It was an imposing fortress on the outside. Inside, one wing housed a labyrinth of offices belonging to the prefecture and shadowy groups vaguely affiliated with the Ministry of the Interior. The other wing of the building contained the Conciergerie, the prison. During the great revolution, the Conciergerie had housed over one thousand prisoners plus the revolutionary tribunal. Now only the most infamous prisoners were kept within the cells. Corbeau wondered whether Kalderash’s crimes would earn her a place there.

Corbeau’s hands began trembling again. It was silly to be intimidated by this place of mere stone and suggestion. Especially considering that the prefect of police himself had hired her to do exactly what she was doing. But she wasn’t unaware of her position as a decommissioned police inspector, as the last remaining member of a bureau disbanded with prejudice. And she wasn’t unaware that she looked like something dredged up from the bottom of the Seine. Taking a deep breath and forcing her thoughts to still, she ran a hand through her hair. She brushed off her face with the sleeve of her coat and smoothed the coat down over the dress that she would toss onto the fire at the nearest possible opportunity. Then she began to walk to the entrance.

As she approached the gate, she was relieved to see a familiar face. “Laveau, it’s good to see you,” she said to the guard.

As he recognized her, an easy smile spread across his face. “Inspector, as I live and breathe.” Laveau was several years younger than she was. He’d been one of the Bureau’s last hires and had held his job an entire three months before Vautrin had given him the sack.

“You look well,” Corbeau said. “The uniform suits you.”

Laveau brushed an imaginary speck from the thick wool coat that covered his stout form most impressively. The hat that covered his well-tended dark hair looked warm. “I thought you were long gone.”

“I would have been, if Vautrin had had his way.”

At the mention of the chief inspector, Laveau’s expression turned sour. “You must have friends in high places.”

“For better or for worse,” Corbeau said. “That’s what brings me here, actually. I’ve come on the prefect’s business.”

Laveau gave a low whistle. “Better you than me. Is he expecting you?”

“Eventually.”

“Right through those doors.” Laveau gestured with his heavy head. “Abandon hope all ye who enter,” he said under his breath as Corbeau walked toward them.

The complex that housed the Palais de Justice had been built as a royal residence. Though it hadn’t been used that way for over a hundred years, the building still commanded respect and awe. The doors opened up onto a high-ceilinged entryway lit by tall windows. At the point where the entryway narrowed into a long corridor, a stern-featured gatekeeper sat at a long desk. The desk was empty save for a ledger where the fortunate ones granted entrance would sign their names. Though Corbeau and the gatekeeper were the only ones in the vast hall, the air vibrated with the low hubbub of voices behind the closed doors that opened onto either side of the corridor. One couldn’t help but feel small in such an environment, and Corbeau was certain that this was, to some degree, the point.

She cleared her throat.

“Inspector Elise Corbeau for Prefect Javert.”

The gatekeeper was of similar build to Laveau, but of a soft composition that betrayed the fact that he spent as much time sitting in his chair as Laveau did walking back and forth in front of the Conciergerie doors. As Corbeau approached the desk, he looked up from the scandal sheet he was perusing. “I wasn’t aware that the prefect had an appointment at this time.”

“I don’t have an appointment. But I guarantee he’ll want to see me.” The gatekeeper scrutinized her with a hardened eye. “Corbeau. Detective Inspector,” she repeated.

The officer pursed his lips and looked away, clearly searching for an excuse not to leave his chair. As Corbeau opened her mouth to speak again, a door opened in the back corridor. She held her breath as the familiar form of Chief Inspector Vautrin stepped out into the hallway. Corbeau froze. The bruises his fingers had raised around her neck throbbed dully. She wanted to duck back out the door, but the movement would only catch his attention.

What was he doing here, this morning of all mornings?

Granted, Vautrin had more right to be here than she did. Although he commanded the local office, his administrative duties brought him to the Palais often. Probably more often, now that he was currying the favor of the Church and King. All the same, the memory of their encounter earlier sent a cold shiver through her bowels. Her hand went instinctively to her neck, where his baton had, not twelve hours before, pinned it to the wall. As she willed him to keep moving, he stopped as if sensing a disturbance in the ether. Slowly he turned. His face filled with fury as he recognized her.

“What are you doing here, Madame?”

“I’m here on the prefect’s business.”

“Your business is what I say it is.” A cunning expression crossed his face. “Which reminds me, you didn’t report to work this morning.”

“You know very well why.”

The sharp edges of his mouth turned up. “I do. And I have to say, if your side projects are going to interfere with your job, I don’t think even the prefect can justify keeping you on.”

Corbeau’s headache was returning. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She was there at the behest of Javert himself. Even if Vautrin fired her, Javert would still keep paying her. Wouldn’t he? She forced herself to remain calm. “Where’s Lambert?” The struck-by-lightning look on his face was almost worth what came next.

“Armand Lambert,” she said, turning to the gatekeeper, who had been watching their argument as if it were a game of tennis. “Footman to Hermine Boucher, the sordid details of whose kidnapping are plastered all over the front page of your newspaper, there. Lambert was one of the last ones to see Madame Boucher before she disappeared, which makes him a vital witness in the prefect’s investigation.” She caught the gatekeeper’s eye and pointed to Vautrin. “He was last seen in this man’s company.”

“Get out,” Vautrin said.

“What have you done with him, Chief Inspector? Is he being held next door for the crime of having a nightmare?”

“Get her out of here!”

“Or perhaps your priest could tell me.”

Vautrin’s face went purple with rage.

Corbeau’s mouth went dry as she realized she had pushed too far. Not only did she have no idea what was going on in the Montagne Ste. Genevieve, but whatever was happening, Vautrin had his greasy, sticky fingers all over it. And she had gone against everything Vidocq had taught her and tipped her hand before she had all the facts. But she’d made her bed. The worst thing she could do now would be to back down. “Where’s Lambert?” she asked again.

Vautrin tensed forward then caught himself. If the building hadn’t been filled with their superiors, Vautrin would have gone for her throat right there and then. A door opened in the corridor, the sound echoing off the high stone walls as some bureaucrat poked his head out to see what the commotion was about.

“I am Inspector Elise Corbeau,” Corbeau said, raising her voice so that anyone who was interested could hear clearly. “I’m on an assignment for Prefect Javert. Chief Inspector Vautrin is concealing—”

“You are nobody!” thundered Vautrin. His words filled the high chamber. “I allowed you to pour my coffee and clean the offices as a favor to the prefect, but you didn’t show up to do even that this morning! As of this moment, you are no longer employed by the Sûreté. She does not belong here! Guard, see her out!”

The gatekeeper’s head bobbed back toward her. “Madame—”

“I’m here at the request of the prefect. I need to see Prefect Javert.”

“Escort her out, or you’ll be scrubbing chamber pots in the Conciergerie for what’s left of your miserable career!”