Authors: Anne Shaughnessy
The engineers had tried: the gateway was beautifully arched, with a keystone carved in the shape of a gargoyle and a massive iron grating that looked like a portcullis from some venerable fortress, but the fact remained that it was a sewer.
There was no disguising the murky, gray waters that dripped into the blue-green Seine, or the attendant smell. Or the fact that it spewed its foul waters into the river just beneath the bridge. It was enough to drive the fashionable away.
The quai served by day as a gathering place for beggars of all sorts with military backgrounds of varying degrees of veracity, as well as those women who claimed to be their wives, widows, daughters and bastards.
By night it lay relatively quiet, except for one old beggar who always sat alone beneath the bridge, by the sewer outlet, and sang operatic arias for the passers-by, when he wasn't mumbling to himself and wringing his hands.
He often took shelter in the culvert, which he unlocked with a bootleg key he had obtained somehow, and he made his bed on the stone shelf that had been built into its wall.
That night the old man was warbling a solo from 'The Barber of Seville' in his reedy old voice, to the derision of a passing boatload of country folk. He yelled an insult back at them and picked up his song where he had left off.
The aria finished, he sat down with his back to the wall of the quay and stared before him, toothlessly chewing on a piece of dried bread and smoothing his hands before him in a strangely aristocratic gesture.
This had been his place for the thirty years since he had been released from the soldiers' hospital and told that he was as well as he was ever going to get, and they needed their beds for those who were really ill. He had seen many changes along this river; the only thing that had remained unchanged was the dome of Les Invalides, and now that he was getting old, he needed to keep it always before him.
He closed his eyes and hummed
'the song of the warrior-prince' from Massinissa.
"
Do you like it?" he asked when he had finished. No one, listening, would have heard an answer; he didn't hear one, himself, but then he didn't expect to. He was talking to his ghosts, and ghosts seldom make sound.
As he sat, he could see them behind his eyelids.
The great armies that had marched from Paris across the face of Europe had returned as ghosts, sometimes resplendent in their trappings, sometimes tattered and bleeding. He often spoke to the pale silent ones who crossed the river above him.
He always sang for them.
His voice was quavery and cracked, but his singing was the only gift an old beggar could give. The ghosts were grateful for it.
He smiled and took a deep breath.
It was late and he would be going to sleep shortly, but he should be singing. He lived to sing. And, it seemed, from the hollow, halting sound of approaching footsteps echoing along the culvert, he would have an audience shortly.
He opened his eyes and, still singing, watched the heavy iron grating swing slowly outward, propelled by a bloody hand.
The culvert was always filled with shadows and mist; the water in the sewers was warmer than that of the river, and steam rose constantly from it. As he watched, the fog swirled, became more solid, and the figure of a man emerged in a billow of mist and crumpled to its knees beside him.
The old man kept singing, but he looked the ghost over very carefully, and smiled when the specter raised its head and looked at him.
It was one of the wounded ones; the pavement was spotted with red, and the ghost
's right hand was holding a reddened cloth to its breast. Wounded and exhausted, the beggar saw; the ghost had collapsed backward against the wall of the quay and was breathing in gasps. Its hair was plastered to its forehead and clung in dripping tendrils to the back of its neck.
He finished singing and smiled at the ghost again.
"Good evening," he said politely.
The ghost drew a deep, shuddering breath and nodded.
"Good evening," it said. Its breathing seemed to be steadying a little.
"
You should close the grating," said the beggar. "Close it and lock it. You never know what might come out on nights like this. I will lock it for you."
He got up and did that, then returned to his seat and surveyed the ghost respectfully.
"You're one of the wounded ones, I see," he said. "I am sorry for you. But you know, I have always wanted to ask: can you still feel pain even now?"
The ghost had raised its head and watched as the old man slammed the grate shut and locked it.
"I think I have been like this forever," it said, pushing its damp hair from its eyes. Its exhausted gaze sharpened after a moment. "Where did you get that key?" it demanded.
"
Somebody gave it to me," said the beggar. He looked the ghost over and nodded. "I wonder..." he said. "You're not in uniform. You must be from Russia."
The ghost was lifting the cloth from its chest and reaching gingerly inside the breast of its jacket with its right hand.
It withdrew its hand with a hiss of pain and looked up. "I beg your pardon?" it said.
"
You were in Russia," the beggar repeated obligingly. "I can tell. The worst of you come from there. You're always worn out, always bleeding, and you're never wearing overcoats. There are so many of you... What was your rank?"
The ghost
's expression was an odd mixture of wistfulness and irony. "I was the Dauphin once," it said.
"T
hen you did survive the Terror!" said the old beggar. "But you were killed in Russia... I am so sorry for you... That's why I always sing for you. D-do you like my singing?"
The ghost frowned at him, but it pushed to its feet and stared at the grate and then across the river.
"Les Invalides is over there, isn't it?" it asked, pointing.
The beggar was cut to the heart by the ghost
's refusal to answer his question. He said, "Oh, they can't help you once you're dead, you know. I am always telling you folk that, but you never listen. Your comrades always go there. I suppose you will, too. Send them my love and tell them I will keep singing for them..."
"
I will," said the ghost. It sounded a little grim. It paused, though, and looked down at the beggar with a slightly softened expression. "And I didn't thank you properly for everything," it said gently. "Your singing is beautiful. I have enjoyed it."
The old man beamed up at him.
"Oh I am glad," he said. "I will sing this aria for you." He raised his voice once more.
The ghost gazed down at him for a moment.
It paused to take a coin from its pocket, handed it to the old man, and then it left.
The chuckle of the river against the quay closed like a curtain behind the uneven sound of its footsteps.
** ** **
Well, well, well!
A government key! How on earth had that beggar gotten his hands on it? The question occupied Malet's attention for the forty seconds it took him to pass from the quay up to the bridge and then cross the river. He could hear the man singing.
However the old man had obtained the key, it had saved his life by gaining him time.
His pursuers were probably still behind him. He had hoped to lose them finally in the twisting length of the old Montmartre sewer, but he was beginning to believe this evening was one of ill omen for him.
For all that Malet was familiar with their convolutions, his passage through the sewers had been harrowing; he had encountered Clerel
's dreaded coat-snatchers, who had not wanted to content themselves with merely snatching his coat. In the end he had had to fire his pistol in the stone tunnel, against his better judgment, to keep from being knifed. A ricochet had struck him along the ribs, and now he was bleeding from two wounds. That had been over an hour ago.
He had some breathing time, but it had been bought at a high price.
The night was growing colder; his breath seared his lungs, and he would have to stop and rest soon. He pressed his hand against his chest. His entire right side felt wet. The wounds themselves were not severe, but each beat of his heart was costing him blood and draining his strength. He had to go to earth somewhere, and he had a trump card. Where was he?
He looked around.
The dome of Les Invalides was before him, and it wasn't much farther to 30-32 Rue de Grenelle. He drew a deep, shaking breath and reached into the breast of his jacket...
The singing stopped abruptly.
He could hear the beggar saying, "No, I have seen no one but ghosts tonight. Ghosts are the only thing I ever see..."
He hurried off.
** ** **
There it was, No. 30
-32 Rue de Grenelle. He was almost safe now. He looked the high, wide house over, and considered. It was too shadowy in the back, and the front was a very satisfactory jumble of carriages and horses. He judged it wise to go to the front door. He took a deep breath and went up the three steps to the door, where a very superior sort of footman looked him over. "Yes?" he said. He didn't add 'Monsieur'.
Malet tried to straighten.
"I must see Mme. Descaux at once," he said.
The footman looked him up and down.
He seemed to be taking in every detail of Malet's dishevelment. His slightly flared nostrils indicated that he had caught a fetid whiff of the sewer. "This is neither a bar nor a boxing establishment, Monsieur," he said with awful precision. "We give soup at the back door during the day. If you return then, I am certain we'll be able to accommodate you. Good evening." He started to sign to one of the throng of coachmen in the courtyard.
Malet frowned at the man.
"Let me in at once!" he said. "I am an officer of the Police and this is an emergency!"
The footman was almost as tall as Malet, and impressively built.
"You're drunk and filthy!" he snarled. "Be off before I call the Watch!"
Malet took his hand from the breast of his jacket and took out the invitation, which was now wet with blood.
"I have an invitation," he said gently.
"
It's all right, Louis," said someone behind Malet.
Malet turned and saw TiTi Descaux
' coachman.
The man stepped forward and opened the door.
"This one's a particular friend of Madame, and he does have an invitation: I know, for I delivered it just this afternoon. She'd be disturbed if he were hindered in any way. Come on in, Monsieur. The night's too cold for you to be out without a coat."
Malet drew a deep, shaking breath, and stepped out of the night.
"I must ask your pardon," he said. "I'd never have intruded in such a state, but I have been followed - "
"
You have been wounded," said the coachman with sudden concern. "There's blood on you. Can you walk?"
Now that there was no need for fighting or fleeing, Malet was feeling decidedly dizzy.
He nodded nevertheless and took a step forward. It was a mistake; he staggered and clutched at the coachman's arm to keep from falling.
"
Just barely," said the coachman, steadying him. He nodded to the footman. "Louis," he said, "tell Monseigneur that Chief Inspector Malet is here and wounded, and then send for a doctor at once! And you, Inspector - " this to Malet as he set a strong, reassuring arm about his waist, " -let me help you to warmth and a chair."
Five minutes later Malet was sitting at the large oak table in the kitchen with his head buried in his arms while the coachman issued a volley of orders to various servants, who came running with bowls of warm water, glasses of wine, a blanket, and bandages.
Malet was content to let everyone else hurry about; he was shaking with exhaustion, and his various injuries were beginning to throb with a dull, grinding ache. All he wanted to do was sleep.
He heard a lady
's voice approaching the kitchen door. The words were indistinct, covered by a hum of other voices.
Malet started to push himself to his feet as the door opened.
He caught a glimpse of the hem of a gown of sherry-brown silk.
"
You did well to bring him inside," said TiTi, resplendent in silk and lace with topazes in her hair. "If he had been made to wait outside - !" She hurried to him and turned him back toward the chair. "My dear M. le Commissaire!" she said. "You're wounded! Sit down!"
Deeply conscious of his dishevelment, Malet said,
"I beg your pardon, Madame, for disturbing you in this fash - " He looked up and broke off. Standing behind TiTi Descaux, in full formal evening attire, were the Minister of Finance, the Minister of War, and a distance from them, his arms folded before him, his elegant features marred by a wrathful frown, Count d'Anglars, the Minister of Police.
Malet sat down with a moan and buried his face in his arms again.
PAYING THE PIPER:
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
L
'Eveque had taken many reports in his life, but never in the state rooms of the Luxembourg Palace, with the deponents being the Ministers of War, Finance, and Police, as well as the acting Prefect of Police, in the presence of six Chief Inspectors. But then this particular crime had many unusual aspects to it.