Authors: Anne Shaughnessy
"
Oh," said Lanusse. "What's the price?"
"
I want you to tell me everything you know about a man I am going after."
"
Whatever you say, Dauphin!" Lanusse said, beaming.
"
His name is Constant Dracquet," said Malet.
Lanusse's eyes widened.
"You're going to tangle with him?" he demanded. When Malet nodded, he said, "Whew! I don't envy anyone nearby when you come to blows!"
Malet smiled grimly and said nothing.
"By God!" said Lanusse after a minute's wide-eyed thought, "Dracquet's finally coming head-to-head with the one who can fettle him, and at a time when he's puffed bigger'n a pouter pigeon with ideas and dreams! Shit!" He drew on his cigar, blew out a cloud of smoke, and sat back. "He's had it coming," he said. "And I will be on the side of the angels at last! Get out your notebook and start writing, Dauphin! I got a lot to tell you! Mind you, it's all what some fancy lawyer called hearsay at a trial I was at, but you're welcome to it!"
** ** **
Lanusse spoke at some length while Malet wrote in his notebook. When he was finished, Malet set his gold pencil back in the notebook, bestowed both in his breast pocket, and looked Lanusse over with a calm, measuring eye.
"
And there's one other thing," he said.
"
Anything, Dauphin," said Lanusse.
"
That you clear out of Paris," said Malet grimly. "And, you go straight."
Go straight.
Lanusse shrugged philosophically. He had been wanting to do just that for years, but things had always prevented him. Maybe now he would be able to, if he didn't let himself get lazy. "Well, Dauphin," he said. "I will try. But I still don't understand why you're doing this. for me."
Malet lifted his eyebrows, and Lanusse saw just for a moment, remote and dim, those same eyes, wet with tears, set in a younger face.
It had been on the battlements of Toulon prison, overlooking the sea.
Never mind, lad, Lanusse had said then, his arm flung awkwardly around the shoulders of a fourteen-year-old boy who had been gazing out at the ocean.
Never mind. He's beyond hurt now, and God's welcoming him home. You can remember the things he taught you, they're still with you. And you haven't lost him, he will always be there, inside you, when you need him.
The boy had turned against his shoulder and wept with the racking pain of utter heartbreak.
For a moment it had been like comforting a nearly grown tiger cub before the boy had reared back and pushed away.
But Lanusse remembered, and so, he saw, did the man that the heartbroken boy had grown into.
"Just so you try, Lanusse. I will put in the words to make your path smooth. I don't-" he paused, his brows drawn together. He took a long breath and spoke again. "I don't want you to die in prison. I want you to die comfortably in your bed of old age, and I am giving you a chance to do just that."
"
Thank you, lad," Lanusse said quietly. "I won't disappoint you. And is there anything else?"
"
Just this. I am embarking on a war. Tell your cronies to clear out of my way-"
"
A war?"
"
A war," Malet repeated. "I want room to fight, and anyone who steps on my toes won't have enough left of him to weep over when I am through with him. Spread the word."
Lanusse was suddenly serious.
"I hear you clear as a bell, Inspector," he said.
THE AMBUSCADE
Larouche spent the night burrowed into the hayloft of a livery stable not far from the Jardin des Plantes.
He arose early the next morning, begged a stale roll from a street hawker by the Pont d'Austerlitz, ate it, and then gathered a handful of stones. He went back to the Jardin des Plantes to practice his throwing, to the distress of the park's large population of fat pigeons. When he was satisfied that he was in practice, he hurried to the Prefecture to wait for the man he was now referring to in his mind as 'Monseigneur l'Inspecteur'.
The man had still not arrived there after three hours, and Larouche was getting annoyed.
Had he been mistaken about the man's rank and assignment? He frowned and looked at the rock in his hand. It was possible. What was he to do? He pondered the question. That cop needed to be taught a lesson by Larouche, but finding him might well be impossible.
Or maybe not.
He had several plans that might work. Cops like him did not vanish without a trace. He could be found.
He looked up at the facade of the Prefecture just as the door opened and the man came out of the building.
Larouche swore. What time did he arrive there, then? Six in the morning? Well, it made no difference: there he was, and Larouche and his rocks were waiting. He lifted the one in his hand, took careful aim-and stopped. Only a fool assaulted a cop in his own territory!
He tucked the rock in his pocket and set out after the man, who had hailed one of the line of cabs that was always before the building.
Larouche jumped on the back and rode along through the city, clutching his shirtful of rocks and thinking vengeful thoughts.
They crossed the Seine at the Pont au Change, followed the Rue St. Denis briefly to the Rue des Halles, and then caught the Rue Montmartre, which they followed until it reached the
church of Notre Dame de Lorette. North of the church they turned right to the Rue des Martyrs, which they followed into the 18th arrondissement. Larouche, peering forward, could see the butte of Montmartre towering ahead of them.
The fiacre came to a halt outside an inn whose sign named it the Rose d'Or.
It was close to Dracquet's house; Larouche had been there once or twice to beg a hand-out. The people there were generous; it was a favorite haunt of the teamsters and workmen, and one of the owners, a pretty, dark-eyed woman, always had a treat for him. The younger cop from the day before lived there. That was about all Larouche knew of the place, and he wondered why 'Monseigneur' had decided to go there.
He shrugged, selected a comfortable perch in the nearest tree, and disposed himself to watch.
There would be plenty of time to nab Monseigneur l'Inspecteur, and this was a good area in which to do it. His pride would be in rags before Larouche was through with him.
He selected a nice, hefty stone and waited, smiling...
THE ROSE D'OR RECEIVES A VISITOR
The Rose d'Or was a neat establishment, built on the site of another inn that had been destroyed by fire in 1693 when Montmartre was still a little village safely outside Paris. It was a rambling stone building, several stories high, with a gabled roof. The inn proper bordered a cloistered, shaded courtyard edged with beds of roses and chrysanthemums. A good-sized stable with a walled, cobblestoned yard opened onto the street.
"
Well, he's gone, Brutus," said Elise de Clichy, who owned the inn. She was speaking to the large, black gelding tethered to a ring in the stableyard. The horse was a particular pet; he delicately thrust his muzzle against her chin, begging a kiss. She complied with a faraway smile. "I suppose I will miss him." She shook herself slightly, smoothed Brutus' soft nose, and went back into the inn.
Elise de Clichy had been surprised when Charles de Saint
-Légère had told her the night before that he was being transferred to the mounted gendarmerie at the Bois de Boulogne for an unspecified length of time, and that he would be leaving early the next morning. She suspected that the transfer had something to do with the sudden, unexplainable interest that a man named Constant Dracquet had taken in Charles, and the appearance of that magnificent bay stallion over a week before.
Charles had mentioned, as well, that another Police officer would be coming to lodge at the Rose d'Or in his place.
Elise had found that interesting. Something odd was afoot: the Paris Police had had nothing to do with Charles de Saint-Légère's arrangement with the Rose d'Or.
She had not troubled Charles with her speculations, but smilingly refused an urgent offer of marriage, the tenth Charles had made in the year since he had come to live there.
She had Claude, the older of the two men who helped at the inn, escort him to a coach. She had pressed a packed lunch on him, containing several of her sugar cakes, laughingly made him promise to write, and then went back into the inn.
He would be coming back, so it was useless to mope.
She had an inn to run, and the morning rush was coming.
Still...
She paused to gaze out the door one last time. She was fond of Charles, and she was honest enough with herself to admit that her feeling for him was a little deeper than mere fondness. It was best to wait and see. He would be back.
Elise had known suffering in her life, even though she had not yet reached her twenty
-ninth year. She had known love and disappointment and grief. They had almost driven her mad, and in the end she, born a lady, had turned her back on the glittering world of the Faubourg St. Germain and become an innkeeper. She did not have time to brood over the past, and she could indulge her passion for sheltering strays and lost souls.
Charles de Saint
-Légère was neither of these. He had originally come to the Rose d'Or upon his return to France in 1832 when Christien L'Eveque, Elise's close cousin and dear friend, had told him that the landlady brewed the finest English style ale in Paris. She did: it had been the best he had ever tasted, and he had told her so. Their conversation had been an interesting one, and when it was finished, he was one of the inn's employees, rooming there at a reduced rate in exchange for his services as a sort of watchman.
Charles had promptly fallen in love with Elise.
She had refused or laughed off at least ten proposals of marriage in the year since he had come there.
Elise knew she would miss him, but she could sort out her emotions while he was gone.
She smiled, closed the door, and went back into the inn.
Later, as she was preparing a batch of gingerbread, Yvette, her co
-owner, came to her with the news that a gentleman had called at the inn and was asking to speak with her personally. He was in the small salon. 'Lise had best watch her step: he didn't seem one to trifle with.
Elise laughed at Yvette as she untied her apron, and said,
"When have I ever tried to 'trifle' with our customers, havette? You should know better. Did you invite him to sit down?"
"
I drew a chair forward for him, but he only nodded to me and went to the window," Yvette said, shivering a little. "Be careful, Elise! He's armed!"
"
I will bring my pistols," Elise said dryly. "But haven't you looked at some of our customers? They're all armed!" She set her apron aside and went to the small salon.
Elise had no doubt that this man was probably quite unalarming.
Yvette had a justifiable terror of men with weapons, but she tended to see threats where none existed.
She paused outside the room.
A medium-crowned hat, a pair of gloves and a fine, silver-topped walking stick were lying neatly on the table outside the room. A caped greatcoat of good, black cashmere was laid across the chair beside them. They were of excellent quality, to her mind hardly the sort of items that a terribly dangerous man might purchase and wear.
She opened the door and stepped into the salon, and promptly changed her mind about the innocuousness of her visitor.
A tall, broad-shouldered man was standing by the fireplace, one foot propped on the forepaw of the dog-shaped andiron, his hands loosely clasped behind him. He was looking thoughtfully out the window, but he turned as she opened the door, and directed a slightly frowning gaze at her.
His hair was thick, dark, and graying, and his eyes were a very light brown, almost green, set under straight, dark brows.
They seemed to see everything about her, from her overall appearance to the smudge of gingerbread batter on her wrist.
The scrutiny did not unsettle Elise.
She had encountered his kind before, those who miss nothing, remember everything, and often find a use for some trivial item noticed years earlier. The ability was quite an asset, depending on the walk of life. This man wore a light, straight sword: he was probably the Police officer Charles had mentioned, though differing from the ones to which Elise was accustomed as an eagle differs from a kestrel.
She met his gaze without embarrassment and started to greet him, but before she could speak he unclasped his hands, inclined his head, and bowed to her.
She had been judged a lady; the unexpected courtliness of the gesture disarmed her.
She smiled at him and held out her hand.
"I am Elise de Clichy, Monsieur," she said. "I was told you wished to speak with me."
He bowed over her hand and returned her smile with some warmth.
His smile was pleasant: it softened the clear lines of a face that had the calm aloofness of a statue without it.