The Left Hand of Justice (8 page)

The plans for the
Left Hand of Justice
lay across her desk where she’d left them when her head had started pounding and she’d grown weary of looking at them. The Eye fixed on the long sheet of paper, edges curling up beneath the books she’d used to weight the corners down. The lenses turned to adjust themselves to her small, neat handwriting. Justice. It was a joke. The thing was at the root of all of her troubles, and it hadn’t even been built yet. A weapon like that should never be built. It had been idiotic to even draw up the plans, but the idea had possessed her one night in the wee hours: an intellectual exercise based on Ampère’s discoveries about electricity and magnetism. These forces could connect with the spiritual energy that ran through all living things—her prosthetics had proved it over and over. But could the technology be harnessed in such a way as to create a tool that would operate through force of will? She had to know.

Writing it all down had been her mistake.

Her next mistake was not destroying the plans the minute she’d committed them to paper. As soon as Javert had seen them, the project was out of her hands. That had been more than a year ago. She’d run to Hermine. Now Hermine was gone, and as sure as the sun was rising, it wouldn’t take long before the finger would point at her. It always did. Any time misfortune confounded weak and superstitious minds, those minds would find someone to blame. And blame liked nothing better than an outsider. A foreigner. A woman with a basement full of tools no one knew how to use, and a mind full of knowledge few people could comprehend.

Thunder cracked through the dawn like gunfire. Outside, the clouds burst open with a wet crash.

Last night’s fire had died down to coals, but the coals were still bleeding heat. She crossed to the fireplace and added a handful of kindling. Slowly, gently, she teased the flame back to life. When it was strong enough, she added a few larger pieces of aromatic wood. More expensive than coal, but so much more pleasant.

Too many people were after the plans. She should throw them on the fire right now. But she couldn’t bear to. Instead, she would hide them until her bags were packed and she had some idea where to go when she’d left Paris behind. Carefully removing the books from the corners of the long paper, she rolled the plans up and tucked them under her arm. A piece of glass ground under the sole of her slipper as she turned. Last month’s issue of
Annales de Chimie
leaned against the broken windowpane near the brick that had broken the window. So much for Hermine’s influence protecting her. The minute Maria had left, it seemed the whole city had turned against her.

She found a jar of glue underneath some newspapers, as well as the piece of plain paper in which she’d hidden the plans when she’d liberated them from Javert. Checking the front-door lock, she returned to the attic with these objects, the plans tucked carefully beneath one arm.

Her bedroom was her sanctuary, and she would miss it. A wine-colored Persian carpet lay over the floorboards. It had come with the house, as had the wardrobe that stood on the opposite wall. There was a vanity table—seldom used—and a low chest of drawers. So much storage. Maria had left Romania with the clothes on her back and had—always to Hermine’s chagrin—not done much to replace them. Having few possessions made it easy to keep tidy. And to move the wardrobe back from the wall. And to leave when, inevitably, her situation turned against her once more.

She knelt beside the wardrobe and smoothed the plans along the floor before folding the paper into quarters. She laid the plans on the parcel paper, painted glue around the edges of the paper, and pasted it carefully to the back of the wardrobe. Then she pushed the wardrobe into place again. It wasn’t perfect, but it would be good enough. An intruder would probably search the lab, the front room, possibly the kitchen. Even if they searched the attic room, it was unlikely they would think to look there.

She twisted the lid back onto the jar of glue and wiped her fingers on the rug. She set the jar of glue onto the vanity table and glanced longingly at her bed, her natural eye burning, her head light from lack of sleep. There was a book on the end table. Perhaps if she just—

She sprang up at the sound of footsteps in front of her house. The sky was just beginning to go gray. It was too early for visitors, too early to even be walking the streets. Her hand went to her robe pocket, where she found a small silk bag with bones and herbs. She rubbed the little bag between her fingers, feeling the delicate twig-like bird bones and the organic brittleness of the herbs. The footsteps shuffled again, and for a moment Maria thought the intruder had changed his mind. The spring-coiled tightness in her stomach eased.

And then came a firm knock upon the door.

*

Dr. Maria Kalderash lived in a two-story house set into a wall of shops and apartments along the Rue des Rosiers. The area was home to a variety of immigrants and exiles outside the city wall. All in all, a fitting place to find an outcast. Outside, most of the windows were still dark, the doors firmly bolted from within. But later that day, the area would come alive with a hundred different languages, and carts bearing comfort foods from distant homelands would spring up like mushrooms on both sides of the narrow, twisting street.

As Corbeau passed through the gray stone canyon, she was greeted by the familiar sounds of a neighborhood waking: the jangle of keys in a lock, the creak of a window opening overhead, the self-conscious scrabble of the cesspool cleaners as they collected each building’s refuse into barrels to transport to the drying yards. A sudden clap of thunder shook the air. Corbeau sighted Dr. Kalderash’s door and hurried across the muddy street just as the rain began again. Pressing as close to the house as Javert’s umbrella would allow, she rapped on the door. She heard no answer for a moment, then cautious footfall in the hallway. The door cracked open.

“Yes?”

Dr. Kalderash stood no higher than Corbeau’s shoulder, but even in the diminished light of the early morning, in the unexpected vulnerability of her dressing gown, her presence filled the doorway. Corbeau’s breath caught in her throat. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she felt the same disorienting sense of awe she had felt when she’d beheld the inventor’s picture in Javert’s carriage. Dr. Kalderash blinked her natural eye—large and liquid brown—while the mechanical one clicked and whirred as if it, too, was taking Corbeau’s measure.

It was a startling combination—a full, pleasingly feminine face, an expression of rightful suspicion, metal, and dark hair cropped shorter than Corbeau had ever seen on a woman. And there was the Eye: a surprisingly elegant nest of gears and lenses attached to a decorated leather band that buckled around the back of the inventor’s head. It left Corbeau stumbling for words.

“I have some bread and cheese if you want it,” said Kalderash.

“What?”

Kalderash’s suspicion had softened to pity, and Corbeau realized what she must have looked like. Her face was battered and swollen. Her coat was soaked, her hems muddy, her hair a straggly, tangled mess.

“If you can sew, I’ll have work for you toward the end of the day.”

“I’m sorry, there must be some mistake. My name is—”

But suspicion had returned. Kalderash’s eyes widened with panic. Corbeau followed her gaze to the insignia pinned to her lapel. “Wait,” Corbeau said.

Had the inventor trafficked with the Bureau before? It would have to have been recently, and Vidocq hadn’t mentioned it. Corbeau pushed through the door just as Kalderash tried to slam it shut. She grabbed for the inventor’s wrist, but Kalderash twisted, gave her a push, and fled down the hall. Tossing the umbrella aside, Corbeau sprang after her. The hallway wasn’t more than five long steps. As Kalderash’s hand reached for the back doorknob, Corbeau dove. They hit the floor hard, skidded across the worn floorboards, and crashed to a stop against the door in a tangle of hard-muscled limbs, damp skirts, and velvet.

“I just need to speak with you.” Corbeau panted as she pulled herself on top of the struggling woman. She twined her legs around the inventor’s and held her arms down. Kalderash was strong for her size, and Corbeau had to hold her wrists against the floor so she could catch her breath. Corbeau’s pulse raced. The thrill of physical pursuit had been one of the better parts of police work—and her favorite part of affairs. It had been a long time since she’d experienced either. She found the comparison disconcerting. Swallowing hard, she calmed her breathing.

Javert would have considered Kalderash’s flight an admission of guilt and hauled her off forthwith. But Corbeau no longer had the authority to make an arrest. Besides, it had seemed that Kalderash had reacted to the Bureau insignia specifically, rather than to the general idea of police.

“My name is Elise Corbeau. I’m a detective inspector of the Sûreté. I’ve come to ask you a few questions about your acquaintance, Hermine Boucher.”

The inventor stopped struggling and stared back up at her, her natural eye wide, the lenses of the mechanical one frantically adjusting and evaluating. Her scars weren’t as disfiguring as Javert’s description had led Corbeau to believe—just two raised, pinkish lines across tea-colored skin. Her lips were lush and dark. Corbeau became acutely conscious of the soft flesh bruising beneath her fingers, the heart beating rapidly through the velvet robe, and the mingled scents of cinnamon, machine oil, and fear. Corbeau cleared her throat.

“Just a few questions. Please, Doctor.” She sat up, slightly embarrassed, and freed the inventor’s hands. When Kalderash still didn’t move, her embarrassment went from personal to professional. The Paris police had no love for Gypsies. Perhaps Corbeau had misread the situation. Perhaps Kalderash would have run from any government official—especially if she had crossed their paths when she first arrived in Paris. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Corbeau rolled off and sat next to her on the floor. “But I’m not leaving without your statement.”

Kalderash slowly pulled herself up. She patted her cropped hair into place and adjusted the Eye. Her hands were trembling, but she nodded.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“The front room.”

Corbeau rose and brushed herself off. She held out a hand, but Kalderash waved it away and rose slowly to her feet.

Even if Kalderash was innocent, Corbeau thought, as she followed her back down the hall, she had more reason than most to fear the police. The scars that marred her round face—even the blinded eye—might well have been the work of Corbeau’s colleagues. Her chin-length hair could have grown out from a shearing, a favorite police method for welcoming Gypsies to Paris. Something else lay behind her hostility as well—something Javert would never understand. It was difficult enough just being a woman, with all the attendant expectations of family, society, and church. But the moment-by-moment grind of being a woman in a man’s sphere was enough to make anyone hostile.

The original Sûreté had been a network of reformed criminals like herself. Quite a number of women had been employed as informers. A few, like Corbeau, had specialized knowledge that allowed them to carve out a place for themselves as agents and eventually, in her case, as a detective inspector. But that didn’t mean that everyone accepted her presence. From most, grudging tolerance was the best she could expect. Corbeau would have bet money that Kalderash had experienced much the same in the scientific sphere.

As Dr. Kalderash turned in to the front room, Corbeau paused to shut the front door and to pick up Javert’s umbrella and lean it against the wall. When she entered the room, Kalderash was on the other side, tending the fire. Glancing up, Kalderash replaced the poker in its rack and shut a lacquered box on the mantel.

“Sit. Please, Inspector.” The inventor nodded toward a pair of chairs flanking the fireplace.

The front room had once been outfitted for receiving. A wooden privacy screen stood along the wall opposite the window. Next to it sat a table with implements that could have been either medical or mechanical. Near the doorway was another table with a silver tea urn; Corbeau could hear the soft burbling of the water as it reached a boil. But a long time had passed since either patients or customers had come with any frequency. A guest chair sat abandoned in one corner. An untidy writing desk dominated the front window. The bookcases that lined two of the walls were crammed with books and monographs. Even the surface around the tea urn was losing its fight against stacks of journals, sketches, notes, and metalworking tools.

Corbeau took the proffered chair. It had been expensive once, but the fabric was worn shiny, and the wood had recently met with violence. She watched as Kalderash crossed to the urn and filled two cups with steaming water. She decanted concentrated tea from the pitcher on top of the urn, then set the cups on saucers. Bringing one of the cups to the table at Corbeau’s elbow, she pulled another chair near the fire to face her.

“The French are a coffee-drinking people, I know.” The doctor had regained some of her composure, but Corbeau could tell she still wasn’t happy entertaining her. “But I have so few indulgences anymore. Tea reminds me of home. So you’ll allow me this one comfort before you arrest me.”

*

“Arrest you?” the constable asked. Not a constable, Maria reminded herself. A detective inspector. That kind of mistake could cost her a beating, or worse.

“You’re here because you believe I had something to do with Hermine’s disappearance.”

Whether the inspector believed it or not was immaterial. Javert had noticed the missing plans and was marshaling his considerable resources to recover his property, and probably to punish her for good measure. The inspector was wearing the insignia of the Department of the Unexplained, and that meant trouble.

It was a nice touch sending a handsome woman to do the deed, Maria thought. Inspector Corbeau had taken her lumps recently, but beneath the dirt and bruises lay a regal bone structure, strong muscles, and a hint of rather nice curves around the chest and hips. The dress was dreadful, but probably police issue. With a little attention, she would probably be striking. Not pretty, exactly, but attractive, and just Maria’s type.