Floats the Dark Shadow (2 page)

Chapter Two

Seductive evening, friend of the criminal,

Enters like an accomplice, a stalking wolf….

~ Charles Baudelaire

LEAVING the Palais de Justice, Inspecteur
Michel Devaux, detective of the Sûreté, inhaled deeply, clearing away the stink of the jail with the scent of incipient rain. Cold, moist air prickled his skin. Above the glare of the arc lamps, lowering clouds swallowed the stars, the waning moon thin as a fingernail paring. He glanced up at the corner of the Conciergerie, where the oldest clock in Paris told him it was just after midnight. The adrenaline of the hunt and arrest had drained away during the questioning of his prisoner. His body ached for home and sleep but his mind remained watchful. He could spend an hour playing his guitar instead of staring at the ceiling, unreeling horrors. The axe murders had been particularly gruesome, the killer’s grandmother and her equally ancient maid hacked into pieces.

Yet the hunt for the killer had served as distraction from even uglier childhood memories. Twenty-six years ago yesterday, the Paris Commune had claimed rulership of the city. Two months later their reign ended in slaughter. His own life ended then.

Ended and began again.

Music might ward off all kinds of blood-drenched nightmares.

The March wind gusted and the rain came down cold and sharp as needles. Michel turned up the collar of his jacket and set out across the Île
de la Cité
. The pale limestone of the city looked ghostly in the night. The Right Bank was all but silent, but looking over to the Left he caught glimpses of the activity always brewing in the
cafés
of the student quarter. He made his way past Notre Dame, where the illuminated carvings of kings and saints glistened with rain. Soon its rooftop gargoyles would be gushing. He crossed the small bridge to the tiny Île Saint Louis, and turned to follow the slant of the quai down toward his apartment.

A man stood under the trees at the far point of the island, his shape dark against the lamp-lit shimmer of the inky water. Michel knew no one had followed him from the detectives’ bureau, but any detective could have enemies lying in wait. On guard, he continued to approach, listening for other movements to the side or behind. No one else. The shadowed figure struck a match, cupping it against the rain as he lit a thinly rolled cigarette. The quiver of light revealed one of Blaise Dancier’s henchman, his
âme damnée
, Jacques le Rouge. For a damned soul he had an oddly angelic face, though his hair was red as hellfire. “Le Rouge” was not for the hair, but for the throats he cut. The red scarf around his neck was deliberately provocative. Michel stopped, waited. Jacques gave a brusque nod toward the Right Bank. Moving forward, Michel saw a carriage waiting just across the Pont Louis-Philippe.

Intrigued but not apprehensive, Michel followed Le Rouge over the bridge to the waiting carriage and climbed inside. With a sharp snap of the whip, the coachman set off through the narrow cobbled streets of the sleeping Marais district, where the lavish abodes of sixteenth century aristocrats were now the crowded homes of poor Jews. The road smoothed as they moved into increasingly fashionable areas. Rain drumming on the roof was the only sound. The street lamps sent stray slices of light through the carriage windows, showing Michel his companion watching him with ice blue eyes. Normally, he tried to bribe someone like Jacques le Rouge to give up tidbits of information about his employer, but Dancier tossed gifts to beggars bigger than Michel’s bribes. And a bribe wouldn’t have worked with the taciturn Le Rouge. Michel already knew he was utterly loyal. Blaise Dancier could inspire that.

Criminel extraordinaire
, Dancier had done it all—thief, pimp, assassin. Michel could not bring himself to call such a man a friend. Neither would he deny that he enjoyed Dancier’s company and valued their odd alliance. Still, Michel was surprised when the coachman entered the courtyard of Dancier’s home on the far side of L’Opéra Garnier. Usually any exchange of information took place somewhere neutral. He understood that a meeting at Dancier’s townhouse was intended as a compliment. He felt extremely curious and slightly annoyed at the unwanted intimacy. Also, very slightly, complimented. No doubt, Dancier was equally ambivalent about him.

Michel descended from the carriage and crossed to the door. It opened before he knocked. The man who admitted him was an impressive combination of muscle and
maître d'hôtel
manners. He took Michel’s wet jacket, then led him to the salon. Dancier was waiting, deliberately casual, perched on the edge of his desk, brandy snifter in hand. He waited till the butler departed, then lifted the Baccarat decanter on the tray beside him. “Cognac?”

Michel
recognized the bottle as Napoléon’s favorite. One taste could be counted as a most extravagant bribe. He smiled a little—after all, courtesy was important.
“Thank you.”

As Dancier poured the amber liquid, Michel idly wondered if the decanter was stolen or perhaps actually purchased from some fine shop on the grand boulevards. Dancier handed him the other snifter. Michel inhaled the rich aroma, letting it tease his senses as he silently thanked his lover for her tutelage in such matters. Lilias’ skills went far beyond the erotic. He took a small sip. As expected, the cognac was sumptuous, fruit melted into amber fire. Michel nodded his compliments, relishing hints of apricot and honey, a tinge of cinnamon.

“Courvoisier. On
ly the best.” Dancier gestured with the snifter, indicating the brandy, the glass, the whole room.

“Of course.” Rather fantastically, Michel had imagined Dancier surrounded by a vast piratical treasure trove of stolen booty. Not so. The salon was elegant in the most modern style, paneled and furnished with fluid and rhythmic woodwork that looked almost alive. The velvety wallpaper was a riot of autumn leaves, vivid as splashes of flame. A strange chandelier of crimson lilies coiled overhead, a multi-headed hydra, beautiful yet sinister.

“You missed a good
savate
session tonight,” Dancier told him.

“It was worth it and I made good use of my skills.”

“I hear you kicked the chopper in the throat—sent him ass over ears down the stairs.”

“It seemed expedient. He came at me with an axe.”

“A louse who cuts up old ladies—why not just shoot him between the eyes?” When Michel refused to respond to that, Dancier shrugged and went on, “What kick?”

“
F
ouetté.
”

They’d met through their
savate
teacher, an acknowledged master, a student of the man who had taught Dumas. Michel had taken several classes, Dancier private lessons. The master suggested the two meet and spar. Reluctantly, they’d agreed and found he was right. Physically they were well matched. Michel had an advantage of height and weight, and had trained himself to an implacable calm. Dancier was thirty-seven, five years older than Michel, but possessed whipcord strength, lightning reflexes, and a dynamic, almost manic energy. He claimed fire flowed in his veins instead of blood and scoffed that Michel might as well have ice water. They had become sparring partners in life as well, always
en garde
against a false step, a hard kick, a dirty trick that might shatter their tentative alliance.

“At first I just wanted cane fencing lessons, figuring I could learn a new trick or two. But
la savate
—I thought I already knew all there was to know about the old shoe.” Dancier displayed a highly polished pair of boots, their gleam mocking the old sailor’s shoes that gave the sport its name. “One demonstration taught me I was wrong. The man put me on my ass.” His eyes narrowed slightly at the memory and he adjusted his jacket with a sharp tug. Vain and prickly as a cat, Dancier kept himself perfectly groomed, dark hair in artful curls, mustache in perfect twists. His clothes were impeccably cut, ostentatiously expensive, and blatantly gaudy. Catching the dubious glance at his magenta waistcoat, Dancier lifted his eyebrows in a delicate shrug. “I make fashion. When they copy me, they tone it down. No testicles.”

Michel considered Dancier might need an extra helping to defend his sartorial choices. Blaise scanned Michel’s clothes in turn. “And you—just how do you do it, Devaux? You make a
flic’s
salary suit look like
haute couture
.” He added an almost lascivious wink.

“I’ll introduce you to my tailor.” The conversation, however amusing, seemed pointless. Michel went to the heart of the matter. “Why am I here?”

Dancier began to prowl the room. For all its richness and innovative ornament, the space was not cluttered, allowing Dancier’s movement free rein. Michel was used to the restless energy, but surprised at Dancier’s hesitation in voicing his request. Was it something Michel would have to refuse?

“You weren’t supposed to catch the axe man on your own,” he complained. “I had my men on it.”

“You wanted to dispatch him yourself?” It made no sense to Michel. Nothing in the case should interest Dancier, only a man who slaughtered two harmless old women in hopes of claiming an inheritance. “Did you know one of the victims?”

Dancier swiveled, impatient. “No. I wanted to make you a gift.”

Michel understood instantly. “A bargaining chip?”

Dancier paused and leaned back against the desk, examined his manicure. “Give a gift, get a gift.”

“And what gift did you want in return?”

“I’m missing a couple of kids,” Dancier said. “I want you to investigate.”

Michel felt a cold sinking in his gut. Cases involving children were the most disheartening. He was surprised that Dancier would engender a debt for what was likely to be a futile task. There would be a reason. “Tell me.”

“Jamet was a great little pickpocket. Smart kid. Funny. A couple of weeks ago, I sent him to get me some tobacco. He didn’t come back. Broad daylight yet no one sees him vanish.”

A hundred things might have happened. Especially to a boy caught picking pockets. “You looked at the morgue?”

“Right off. He wasn’t there.”

Michel waited. There must be more.

“I’m a better boss, true?” Dancier asked, his eyebrows stabbing upward.

Michel nodded, watching the other man resume his prowl. Dancier had a personal code of honor. He took good care of the people who worked for him as long as they didn’t cross him. Like any crook, he was greedy to the core, but unlike most, he was greedy for admiration, for affection, as well as money. Like Machiavelli’s Prince, he knew it was better to be feared than loved, better still if you could manage both.

“The boy’s got no reason to leave. He stays with me, he knows he can work his way up—like Jacques did. The good life.” He paused. “I checked. No rival tried some cheap ploy to eat into what I control.”

“Few would dare.” Michel knew of a couple, but they’d have paid the boy to spy.

“Jamet was a pretty boy, so I even asked at a few of the houses. Most of the madams, they wouldn’t try anything like that. Not with any kid that works for me.”

Michel was six when the Commune fell. Children that young had been shot by the government troops. Orphans were taken into the workhouses of the Daughters of Charity. Michel had escaped those fates, but might as easily been snatched off the street and trained in crime. Trained by someone far crueler than this man. Dancier did not put his kids in brothels. “You said a couple of boys.”

Dancier paused again. There was a flash of something in his eyes. Guilt? “About six months ago, there was another kid. His trainer’s in the ragpicker racket. One day the kid is just gone. The trainer is in fits—this kid is so good at looking pathetic it brings in extra. I searched, but not much. I didn’t like the kid, you know? A whiner. Good riddance.” He grimaced.

“So, you think two?” Michel asked.

Again Dancier hesitated. “Just two of mine.”

“There are others.” Michel didn’t bother to make it a question. He felt a sudden frisson, an intuition that Dancier was right. Their eyes met. Dancier squared his shoulders, a typically belligerent gesture, yet Michel suspected it was from the same sort of chill that trickled along his own spine.