The Orphan's Tale (5 page)

"
It's all connected," said Malet. "Like steps on a staircase. The more power the criminal gains, the greater distance he sets between himself and the actual crimes. Go-betweens, hired assassins, spies - it's all part of the hierarchy. Destroy the web, and the spider will merely spin another. You must first kill the spider."

D'Anglars raised his sherry again and took a large swallow.
"Ah yes," he said. "If anyone would know, it would be you. Some people are still puzzled by the fact that you, raised in a prison, the protégé of the greatest criminal of modern times, chose to side with the Law when you left the prison."

"
They puzzle too much over the obvious."

"
I have never had that difficulty, myself," said d'Anglars quietly. "Nor has anyone, honored with your acquaintance." He continued briskly, "Fight Dracquet: use the informer. The thirty thousand francs are yours, and a draft will be put in your hand tomorrow morning. I will go with you to the Conciergerie. Plan your attack as you wish, and I shall support you to the fullest extent of my power."

**  **  **

"He didn't die easily," said d'Anglars through white lips.

Malet looked up from the contorted face on the pallet before him.
"No, he didn't," he said. He saw d'Anglars' expression and twitched a stool forward. "Sit down," he said. "Put your head against your knees."

D'Anglars obeyed.
He took out a fine silk handkerchief after a moment and blotted his suddenly damp forehead.

"
He appears to have been strangled," said Jules Sonnier, the police surgeon for the 12th arrondissement. "Odd, but there aren't any marks on his neck."

D'Anglars closed his eyes.

Malet drew the collar of the man's shirt aside and frowned at the throat. He pushed Ensenat's throat with a fingertip and then bent and felt along the line of the man's windpipe. "Not strangled," he said. "He choked to death."

Sonnier leaned forward.
"On what?" he asked.

"
Feel his throat," said Malet. "There's something stuck there."

Sonnier obeyed and then watched as Malet ripped Ensenat's shirt open and stared at the man's abdomen, which was covered with a dark bruise.

"Just as I suspected," said Malet. He drew the torn shirt back and brushed his hands together. "Cut him open and you'll find a wad of cloth. Probably a handkerchief. It was shoved down his throat."

"
But the bruise?" said d'Anglars, who had recovered a little of his color and was craning his neck to see around Sonnier.

"S
omeone held him with the handkerchief ready," said Malet, "while another punched him in the stomach, forcing the air out. And then they crammed the handkerchief down his throat. It would be drawn farther down his windpipe with every breath he tried to take."

"
Good God!" said Sonnier.

"
Sometimes condemned men do that to escape execution," Malet said thoughtfully. "I always thought the rope or the guillotine would be less painful."

"
People are fools at best," said Sonnier, "And frightened people more so." He sighed and folded his arms. "Do you need me any more, Inspector?"

Malet shook his head.
"No, M. le Docteur," he said. "You may go. And thank you."

"
Shall I perform an autopsy?"

Malet frowned and looked over at d'Anglars.
"Monseigneur?" he said.

D'Anglars shook his head.
"If M. Malet is certain of the cause of death, there's no need to - to cut the corpse. His family might be grieved."

"
He has none," Malet said flatly. "He came from filth, dealt in filth, and died a filthy death at the hands of filthy men. He left no offspring and had no wife."

The bitterness in his voice made d'Anglars raise his eyebrows, but he said nothing.

"Doctor," said Malet as Sonnier reached the door. "Send the guards in, if you please. I want to speak with them."

The doctor nodded and left.

"Will it accomplish anything?" asked d'Anglars.

"
It'll shake them up," Malet said grimly.

**  **  **

"Do you remember seeing anyone - anyone! - coming along this hallway within the past day?" Malet asked.

The four guards shook their heads.

"Come now," said Malet. "You must have seen something. Think back."

There was no answer.
Malet had expected none. His smile thinned. "Nothing, again!" he said. "Your memories are completely clear." He paused the space of time it took to draw a deep breath, then spoke again. "Then let me tell you something that you should keep at the very front of your minds.

"
While you played cards - " he nodded toward a white-faced young man, " - or relieved yourself - " this to a paunchy, middle-aged man, " - or drank the wine you weren't supposed to have at your post, and carefully looked anywhere but where you were supposed to be looking, you became accessory to a murder, and that is a crime. And crime is my concern. So: from now on I will be watching you: your every step, your every move. One slip - only one! - and you'll be mine." He nodded toward the corpse on the pallet. "I will show as much mercy toward you as you showed this poor piece of offal! You have my word on that. Do you understand me?" He paused for a moment, then jerked his head toward the door. "Now get out of my sight!"

D'Anglars watched them scramble toward the door and then lowered his eyes to the corpse.
"We're stalemated again," he said.

"
Yes," said Malet.

AT NOTRE
-DAME: MESSAGE AND REPLY

The music throbbed in the night air, low and tremulous, more felt than heard. The sound soared to a crescendo and then ceased as though it had been cut off, making the miscellaneous noises of the late September evening suddenly loud and painful.

The thin
-faced man hovering at the corner of the building that bordered the square before Notre Dame drew a deep breath and took a closer grip of the heavy package cradled in his arms. Vespers was concluded, and the faithful would be leaving the cathedral. Malet would be among them, and the man would be able to deliver the package and the message to him and be finally free of the fear that had gripped him since the moment that afternoon when Constant Dracquet had put the package and the message into his shrinking arms and told him to find Malet and deliver them.

The messenger looked up at the facade of the cathedral.
The great stained glass rose, glowing from the torchlight behind it, seemed to float above the triple portals that opened on the west. The Virgin was enthroned in the center with the Child on her knee, crowned and haloed, holding a scepter, surrounded by hues of sapphire and ruby. She seemed to be gazing reproachfully at him. The Child's hand was raised in blessing, but His head was turned away.

The messenger looked down from the window to the center portal.
Torches, set in sconces to either side, threw the crowded carvings into stark light and shadow. Christ, enthroned in majesty, raised his hands above the last judgment of mankind. The dead, in the lowest register, stirred and jostled each other in their struggle to emerge from their tombs. Above them, the blessed turned adoring faces up toward Christ as the damned were led away in chains.

The messenger looked away from the procession, his heart pounding, caught by the sudden fear that he might see his own face among those of the damned.

He was afraid of his master, but even more of this task. To do as he was bid was, to his mind, tantamount to putting his head in a lion's mouth. He had heard whispers, and he had read the message enclosed with the package. No one, receiving that message, would fail to perceive the insult, least of all a man like Malet.

The two iron
-bound timber doors beneath the arch of the portal swung slowly inward; like the opening of the sluices of a dam, the motion released a flood of the faithful that streamed out from the cathedral.

The messenger took a deep, shaking breath and stared fearfully at the faces and forms that passed him.
Twenty minutes later the stream of worshipers had dwindled to nothing, and Malet had not come out. The Place du Parvis was getting cold; he stepped within the cathedral and looked around.

A
stoup of holy water was before him. Memory stirred; he dipped his hand, crossed himself, and started up the nave. The tiers of arches, stretching right and left, soaring upward to the high, vaulted ceiling, frightened him. He turned and ducked left, into the close safety of the ambulatory, and came to a trembling halt.

A tall man in a caped black coat was pacing toward him down the passageway.
His head was lifted, but his eyes were downcast. He held a good black beaver hat in the crook of his left arm; his right was tucked behind him. His step was slow, pensive, deliberate. A sword clanked softly in a scabbard at his side. The messenger had only seen Chief Inspector Malet once, at a distance, but he had not forgotten.

The messenger darted behind a pillar and watched the man's approach, wondering if he dared step out and stop him.
The speculation was cut off as the man paused before a rack of votive candles and gazed down at them with an almost archangelic detachment.

His eyes lifted to the dark windows in the small chapel set beyond the rack.
The golden glow of flames threw his face into stark highlight, sparking green glints in the shadowed, brooding eyes, pooling at the corners of the mouth that was held in a straight, grim line, catching and turning to fire the threads of silver that were woven into the thick cap of dark hair.

The eyes lowered again and fastened on the candles.
The messenger heard the clink of coins, then a soft clatter as the man set a coin in the offering box and lifted an unlit candle. He touched the wick to one of the many flames before him, waited until the candle was burning, then set it on a wrought iron spike in the rack. He gazed at the candle for a moment, then went to his knees upon the prie-dieu before the rack, set his hat on the kneeler beside him, rested his elbows on the railing, and lowered his head to his folded hands.

The messenger hesitated.
If he stepped forward now Malet would not be likely to make a grab for him. They were in a church, after all. But the prospect of disturbing him made him uneasy. It would be like nudging a tiger with his elbow.

He finally cleared his throat.
"M. l'Inspecteur," he said.

Malet raised his head.
"Yes?' he said.

"
I-I have a message to deliver to you."

Malet's hands were still clasped before him, and he had not looked at the messenger.
"A message?"

"
Yes - and this," the messenger replied, offering the package.

Malet looked over at the messenger.
His eyes encountered the package. "Open it," he said.

"
But it's wrapped," the messenger objected.

"
Then open the wrappings."

The messenger obeyed, and uncovered a long, wooden box with the name of a wine merchant on it.

"Open the box," said Malet.

The messenger frowned at the lid, located a small brass hook, and unclasped it.
He lifted the lid to show a jeroboam of very fine champagne - Chateau Mallebranche. The messenger offered it to Malet.

Malet's expression did not change.
"No," he said. "Put it on the floor." When this was done he said, "And what was the message?"

The messenger offered the note.

Malet opened the paper and read it aloud. "'To console you for so resounding a defeat.'" His voice was low and soft in the quiet dimness of the cathedral. The man refolded the note and tucked it into the inside breast pocket of his coat. "This is unsigned," he said. "Does your master have a name?"

"
Sir, I-I may not say."

Malet
considered in silence for a long moment. He finally said, "Tell Constant Dracquet that my sword is not broken, and victory in one battle doesn't guarantee victory in the war." He paused, still on his knees, and his voice grew a little less remote. "And as for you, my friend: take care that you don't discover one day that the name of your master is a far more dire one than you originally thought. Good night." He lowered his head once more against his folded hands.

The messenger gazed for a moment, his heart pounding, then turned and hurried down the ambulatory to the doorway and stepped out into the cool night.
He turned to look back at the portal of the Last Judgment, his eyes raising fearfully to the line of damned souls.

His heartbeat increased; his gaze flickered from the severe serenity of the judging angel to the contorted, mocking grins of the demons guarding the damned.
And the faces of the damned themselves, as twisted with fear and despair as he felt his own soul to be -

He stopped, his breath fluttering to a halt in his throat.
But why did they despair? The only thing holding them on the path to Hell were their own hands gripping the chain. If they would only release their hold and open their hands, they would be free. It was their choice -