The Orphan's Tale (29 page)

He toyed with the thought of joining Dracquet for lunch, but dismissed it.
He had been serious when he told Elise that he did not break bread with Dracquet's type. He had left them behind thirty years before.

He looked out the window again.
They were crossing the Pont Neuf and approaching the Quai de l'Horloge; Malet could look east along the river and see the cathedral.

The omnibus tipped alarmingly as they reached the quay.
The woman beside him screamed and clutched at the basket on her lap, which opened and spilled kittens everywhere. Malet rubbed his ear, nodded politely as the woman apologized, retrieved three squalling kittens for her and then rapped on the ceiling of the omnibus with his walking stick.

"
Stop here!" he commanded, and pushed his way through the passengers and out the door. Once on the pavement, he cast one last contemptuous glance at the omnibus with its dispirited, plodding horses, and then turned west and walked briskly toward the Quai aux Fleurs. He had the night's haul of corpses to review.

EVENING IN
PARIS

The afternoon had melted into a light rainstorm that lasted into the evening before it finally cleared, but the wet pavement shone like silver in the lamplight that turned the mist into shrouds of silk. The mist softened the sounds of passing carriages and the clatter of hooves upon the cobblestones dwindled to a murmur. Haloes circled the street lamps, and Paris seemed to be blanketed in a soft glow.

The man moved quietly down the Rue d'Orsel toward the inn, his eyes drawn by the lights that streamed out into the mist from its wide windows.
He seemed to think himself one with the shadows, for he limited his presence to the darker side of the street and lingered in shadowed doorways.

A
group of people passed him, and he flattened himself against a wall fronted by smoothly cut stone, and lowered his face into the high collar of his dark coat. The people disappeared around the corner; he relaxed and resumed his progress toward the inn. A sudden noise startled him and he stiffened. He relaxed again, and his right hand slipped lovingly down to the cold, smooth barrel of the pistol he wore tucked into his belt.

He started on toward the inn just as a grip like a vice clamped down on his shoulder and a voice said, by his left ear,
"If you're going to attempt surveillance, my lad, then you'd best wait until your head-cold clears. You snort and sniffle so loudly, I could shoot you with my eyes closed." The voice paused and he could sense amusement when it said again, "Now turn around and let me look at you."

He was forced round unwillingly to stand with his face full in the glare of a street lamp.

"Hm," said the voice, which came from a tall, black shape against the light. "Just as I thought. Tell your master that I am still at the Rose d'Or, and I won't leave until it suits me. And tell him, further, that he's ill-served if all the sneaks he employs are as clumsy as you!"

"
I don't know what you're talking about, M. Chief Insp - "

"
Then how do you know my rank?" the man demanded. "Be off! Or I will remember that Chief Inspector Guerin has declared loitering illegal in this arrondissement and run you in to the nearest precinct!"

The grip was released; the man took to his heels.

Malet watched him go, laughing quietly to himself. What an oaf! One would think that Chief Inspector Guerin, fearing an investigation into his doings, would employ better spies than that!

He sobered after a moment.
It was almost frightening to contrast the maladroitness of that one with the very capable spies that had been set on him by Dracquet. He had been followed from the moment he left the Rose d'Or that morning, and his tailers had been very, very good. It was fortunate, he thought, that they had not been set on him before he went to Michaud.

Michaud.
He shouldered his walking stick and went on toward the inn. He had been wise to contact the man. He might be getting old, but his presence in Paris predated Dracquet's, and while he was a considerably smaller fish, his influence was, in its way, more far-reaching. He was in touch with the back-alleys, with the beggars and sneak-thieves. The prostitutes who came to him to exchange the jewels given them by their lovers for ready cash always had their ears wide open, and they didn't mind earning an extra sou or two by chatting with the man. No one feared Michaud as they feared Dracquet, and that made him a valuable tool for Malet.

Michaud had sent several messages to Malet by convoluted means known only to himself, and the information he had sent had been useful, but limited.
His sources reported comings and goings, and he gathered snips of speculation, packaged them, and sent them on to Malet.

He reported that he had been baffled by the very tight control that Dracquet maintained in his own household; he had no way of learning what was going on in Dracquet's house.
The man's control even extended to having the contents of the waste-baskets thrown in the fire under his own supervision. Malet reflected that the very impenetrability of the man's establishment only served to confirm his suspicions about the time frame in which he was working. If only there were some way to get a 'mole' into the man's house...

"
If wishes were horses, Pippin," he said in English, "then beggars would ride." He would have to do some intense thinking.

He had narrowed his focus.
He had originally thrown a wide net to catch Dracquet's target. Now, examining his haul, Malet decided that the most promising fish was Princess Victoria, the heiress of England. She was the target: he could feel it. This was the venture on which Dracquet was willing to stake his empire. It was up to Malet to ensure that the gamble failed.

In the meantime, he thought, looking up, the Rose d'Or was ahead of him, and he had to try to mend matters there after Dracquet's unspoken slur on Elise.

He entered through the kitchen, as usual. Marie was there before the fire, busy basting a roast. She looked up and smiled at him as he came in.

"
Good evening, M. l'Inspecteur!" she chirped happily. "We have been looking for you! Dinner is ready for you any time you please, and if you wish to go freshen up, I will tell Madame you have come in."

He thanked her and went through to the hallway.
Alcide was standing by the stairs, his face warmed by a wide smile. "Good evening, Inspector!" he said. "Welcome home! Let me take your coat and hat!"

Malet nodded and unbuckled his sword
-belt, and set it on the console table by the door. "Thank you, Alcide," he said as the boy helped him out of his coat and took his hat, as well. "Have you had a good day?" he asked, and then caught sight of the boy's tie. "Very good!" he said. "You have almost got it. Come to me after supper and I will show you an easy way to tie that."

"
Oh, thank you!" said Alcide, who had been eyeing Malet's cravats with envy since he had come to the Rose d'Or. "I will! If-if it isn't any trouble?"

"N
one at all," Malet said, thinking that the lad reminded him of his housekeeper's eldest grandson, François, who was going through a titanic struggle with the difficulties of cravat-tying and looked to Malet for help and advice. "I'd enjoy it."

Alcide
was beaming, but he schooled his features to aloof propriety and said, "Dinner will be awaiting you in the private dining salon. I will escort you there after you have a chance to go to your rooms and refresh yourself."

Alcide
was waiting at the foot of the stairs when he came back down. He bowed and said, "If you will follow me, sir..."

Just like François
, thought Malet, eyeing the young man's expression.
He's play-acting.
The thought made him smile as he followed Alcide down the hallway to the dining room and preceded him through the doorway.

Elise was waiting just inside the door.
She smiled warmly when she saw him and took his arm to be led to the table. He thought she was looking very pretty. The dress of heavy, golden beige silk in a flowered jacquard weave, with a wide lace collar and cuffs and cameo belt-clasp, was one that he did not recall seeing before. She had styled her hair in a new, as well, in a cascade of curls to either side that reminded Malet forcibly of his housekeeper's spaniel, Ninon.

The thought made his eyes dance as he smiled at her, but he led her to the table in silence, drew her chair out for her, and waited for her to arrange her skirts before he sat down.

"You seem to be in good spirits tonight, Paul," she said as she smoothed the napkin over her lap. Her voice was as warm and private as a caress.

"
You could say that," Malet said, thinking of Ninon once more. "And you're in great beauty tonight."

"
Thank you," she said. She nodded to Marie, who had come in with the veal in pastry, and then turned to Malet again. "I have chilled some champagne," she said. "Remembering the last time I served you this dish - you were unable to finish it, if you recall - and all that happened afterward, I decided that you certainly merit a bottle of champagne. Alcide is opening it in the kitchen."

They heard a POP! just as she finished speaking, and Alcide emerged through the kitchen doors with a bottle and two glasses.

Elise raised her glass when Alcide had finished pouring. "A toast," she said. "To guardian angels." There was nothing in her manner to indicate that she remembered the insult of the morning. Her smile was as cordial as ever, her manner lively and affectionate with no hint of constraint. She sipped her champagne and set the glass down. "Now tell me, Paul," she said, "How did your day go?"

He was puzzled; he answered at random and then, unwilling to pretend, said,
"Mme. de Clichy - "

She opened her eyes at him.
"'Mme. de Clichy'?" she repeated. "Are you annoyed with me? I gave you leave to use my name, if you recall."

"
Elise, then," he said.

"
That's better," she said. She looked thoughtfully at the platter of veal and said, "But aren't you going to serve?"

He took up the knife, cut into the pastry, and set a portion on her plate.
Alcide came to the table with a timbale aux epinards, topped with a cream sauce. He grinned at Malet's expression, set the dish down, and left.

"
I will have some of that, as well," Elise said, and watched as he cut into the hot, molded spinach and cheese, and set the serving on her plate as well. "Thank you, Paul. Now what were you going to say to me?"

Malet frowned down at his own plate.
"What I wished to say, Mme. de - Elise, I mean - is that in view of what M. Dracquet seemed to think this morning, I will be quite willing to remove myself from - "

He stopped as Elise lay down her fork and took his hand warmly between hers.

"Let us forget Dracquet," she said. "He's no fit subject of conversation for a lady or for a man whom I view as one of the most complete gentleman I have ever had the good fortune to meet. I have given orders that he and his...people...are to be denied entrance to the Rose d'Or, no matter what they may offer to pay. As far as I am concerned, I have never met him. We shall forget that he exists and go on as we have."

She smiled across at him and added gently,
"Now do stop looking surprised, Paul, and drink your champagne before it gets warm."

Malet sipped his champagne and then, when Elise raised her glass and said,
"To friendship!" drank again.

He said without looking up,
"It might be best if I left the Rose d'Or rather than compromise you - "

"
How on earth could the friendship of a gentleman of your caliber ever compromise any woman?" she demanded. "Paul? Look at me!"

Malet cut a piece of veal and speared it with his fork.
"I don't want to compromise you," he said again.

She stared at him, touched.
Now she understood. "You think it would ruin my reputation for you to remain under my roof!" she said. The thought was touching but amusing. "Paul, you're quite gothic! There's no need to worry!"

"
But perhaps - "

"
I tell you that I will be offended if you leave!" she said.

His eyes flew upwards to meet hers.

"I am serious, and you're ridiculous," she said. "Let us have no more of this sort of talk! It's an insult to yourself!"

"
Are you sure?" he asked. "I don't want to hurt anyone I care for."

"
You can't hurt me," she said. "Ever."

XXXI

A SHADOW COMES INTO THE LIGHT

Marie Chardin set the broom against the wall and frowned down at the pile of dust and vegetable peels that she had gathered. She should sweep it up and put it in the dustbin, she knew, but she couldn't find the gride, and she didn't want to go searching for it. It was late, and she had an engagement at the theater du Porte Saint-Martin. The evening's production was an adaptation of Hugo's Notre Dame de Paris, and it promised to be an enjoyable evening.