The Orphan's Tale (8 page)

Larouche looked up at the house, crooked his fingers in a rancidly obscene gesture that he should not have known, turned, and headed back to the heart of the city, his hands jammed into his ragged pockets and his mind seething with thoughts of revenge.

It wasn't his fault that the horse had been confiscated! He'd followed orders to the letter! It wasn't fair! Well, he'd fix Dracquet somehow! He'd fix him good! He would think of a way!

And
as for that cop-! The big bastard! How dared he seize him, Larouche, by the ear? That tall police officer had wounded his pride, and he was really going to smart for it now! He had made it very obvious that he was the master in that situation. Well, Larouche would be the master, and he'd see how Monseigneur Cop liked it!

**  **  **

Larouche made his way back to the Prefecture later that evening. The tall cop had come from there, and Larouche suspected that he was permanently assigned there. His clothing had been of good quality and well-tended, so he probably ranked fairly high. The man's watch chain had been an eye-catcher to one who was familiar with all types of 'turnips' and their chains.

He toyed with the idea of lifting the man's watch and then dismissed it.
He had stolen food and rags, certainly, but those were necessities of life. He had never yet picked anyone's pocket, and he didn't really want to. Père Louis would not have approved. Besides, the man had been quick, very quick for a man his size. Larouche had no desire to be haled off to prison for picking a cop's pocket.

He sat quietly in the shelter of a flower stall in the Place Louis Lepine and waited as the sky darkened above him, his eyes fixed on the archway that marked the front entrance to the Prefecture.

The lamplighters came along the street. Larouche watched as they unlocked the box that guarded the rope pulley, lowered the lamps from the posts, lit them, and then drew them back up to the cross-pieces. It took all of ten minutes, and they were laughing and chattering about a play being performed at the theater of the Port Saint-Martin that night. Larouche watched them from his shelter and then turned his attention back to the Prefecture.

No motion: Larouche frowned at the doorway.
Monseigneur Cop had not come out yet, and it was getting very dark, though the lamps cast a warm glow along the street. The man would not go out the back, if Larouche was right about his probable seniority-

He broke off in the middle of his thoughts as the door opened and the tall cop came out.
The man paused at the door, turned to make a smiling comment over his shoulder, and then stepped out into the clear September sunset. He moved straight past Larouche, toward a line of cabs.

Larouche stepped out of the booth and followed the cop at a distance, unhurried, intent, until he stepped up to a fiacre, gave directions, and then opened the door and went inside.

Larouche swore a rare oath, sprinted after the departing cab, and jumped up underneath the seat as the driver whipped up his horse and they went clattering off into the twilight.

Twenty minutes later the cop descended from the cab, paid the driver, took up his walking stick, and headed south.

Larouche looked around. They were near Montmartre; the lights of the city were spread below them to the left. He looked at the cop, who was walking along with a magnificently heedless grace, inclining his head to those who greeted him, ignoring the others.

Someone said,
"Good evening, M. l'Inspecteur!" The man answered, and Larouche whistled soundlessly. An Inspector, eh? he thought. Well, well, well!

He followed at a distance, watching the way the man walked, noticing where he turned his gaze.
A very proud man, he was convinced of it. It showed in the way he moved, in the way he held himself. Like most tall, strong men, he probably had an acute dislike of appearing ridiculous.

Well, he'd see about that!
There were ways to even a score, and this was one that certainly needed to be evened. He had an idea...

The man had stopped walking now.
He was quite alone, away from the other strollers, standing under a beech tree and looking toward the eastern horizon. The lights of Paris lay below them like a galaxy. The night sky glittered above them, and the two seemed to merge, until Larouche felt for one dizzy moment as though he had stepped off the earth and was gazing out into an infinity of stars. It was a magnificent view, and the man was leaning back against the tree and surveying the city as though he owned it.

Larouche smiled to himself.
Well, well, well, he thought again. We'll see about that!

The man removed his hat, ran his fingers through his hair and then shook his head in the evening wind.
Larouche caught the sense of a burden being set aside for the moment.

 
Larouche could see that he was tired; as he watched, the man drew a deep breath, held it a moment, and then released it. He relaxed against the tree and looked down at Paris again with a smile. He did not put his hat back on.

Larouche eyed the hat and grinned to himself.

He jammed his cold hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders against the evening's chill, and descended the heights. He found a cab just departing, swung onto the back, and waved jauntily to a couple of strollers who had seen him and were pointing.

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

"
Well, and if it isn't the Dauphin himself!" said Henri Lanusse with a gap-toothed grin the next morning. "Come on in!"

Malet smiled grimly and closed the door behind him.
He was in the Conciergerie once more, in one of its miserably small cells, gazing upon the prisoner who stood before him with eyes that tallied the years' changes.

Lanusse looked him over with almost proprietary pride.
"And how long has it been since anyone called you that?" he asked.

Malet's eyes flickered but he answered evenly as he turned Lanusse and untied the ropes about his wrists.
"Since the month of January in the year 1803. Just before I left that accursed prison. There, you're free. Sit down."

"
Thirty years, then," said Lanusse, rubbing his wrists. "Almost thirty-one. I remember how stunned we all were when Cheat-Death's hand-picked successor marched out of the prison gates and straight to the Prefect of Police for the Bouches-du-Rhone Departement and enrolled as a Constable."

"
You were a pack of fools, then, if you were that astonished," said Malet. "I gave all of you plenty of warning over the years you knew me, and if Cheat-Death thought I was in the least grateful to him for his teaching, then he was a gull as well as a filthy murderer. I told him to his face that I'd turn on him when I got free, just before I left."

Lanusse shook his head.
"The shock killed him untimely-"

Malet snorted.
"The man was in his eighties," he said. "He had a full life of crime behind him."

"
Untimely," said Lanusse. "He never recovered from it. I can remember him peering ahead of him like he was staring at a ghost and saying over and over again, 'Betrayed! Betrayed!' In that grating old croak of his."

 
Malet was unmoved. "He led a long, fruitful life of betrayal and murder," he said. "How many times did he tell me never to take anyone for granted? And yet he never thought to look askance at me."

"
Maybe he loved you," said Lanusse.

Malet cocked a scornful eye at him.
"He loved no one but himself, and nothing but power, and he hated everything else." he said. "He was smart enough to realize that he wouldn't live forever, and he wanted to pass his power on to one who could, he thought, cause society as much havoc and consternation in its use as he did. It pleased him to make use of me-nobly born, as he liked to think-to be his heir. I was a weapon that came readily to his hand, to be used against those he hated. A weapon that needed to be honed and balanced. That's all."

Lanusse was listening to him with his mouth half
-open. "You always did talk like one of the poets, and you're doing it again," he said. "I couldn't understand you, but you always were grand to listen to."

Malet expression was suddenly rueful.
"No," he said, "You never did understand. But it doesn't matter."

Lanusse looked Malet over again and said,
"The Dauphin... Y'know, if he didn't love you, then why didn't he kill you after you left? He could have, you know."

Malet looked thoughtful for a moment, but he spoke over him.
"I thought I'd look in on you and see what was happening," he said. "You're getting old now-"

"
Not likely to get much older," said Lanusse. "Could it be you like me?"

Malet frowned.
"Why should I feel any affection for you?" he demanded. "You're a blasted crook."

Lanusse was hurt.
"A blasted crook who snuck you sweets," he said. "How could you forget? You used to like me a little, remember?"

"
I remember," said Malet. "There wasn't much harm in you. You always were a gnat rather than a hornet. Only marginally harmful. I read your statement to Sergeant Guillart: what possessed you to get involved in that foul piece of crime? You were almost free and clear of danger, and then to dirty your nose in this piece of folly at your age-!"

"
I heard of easy pickings," said Lanusse. "I never knew of murder-" he broke off at Malet's snort.

"
There are those," said Malet, "who take care not to hear what upsets them."

"
I am one of 'em," said Lanusse. "I admit it. I never had much to recommend me, at any rate, but skill with the locks-and I had a good pupil in you, as I recall! Well, let be, let be. I have got my cigars-"

"
And a few more," said Malet, raising his hand to his pocket and taking out a packet wrapped in brown paper.

Lanusse took it with a grin.
"Much obliged," he said. "It'll make the time pass faster." He sat down and clasped his hands over his stomach with an attempt at a smile.

Malet watched him in silence.

"I wish-" Lanusse began. "No," he said after a moment. "I won't say it. I know you, Dauphin. I watched you learn from the finest crooks in the world, and I watched you turn your back on them. I guess you did the best thing." He added, "I know you did the best thing."

Malet smiled grimly.
"I did the only possible thing," he said.

"
Maybe," said Lanusse. "If you could only-"

"
If I could only what?"

Lanusse drew a deep, shaking breath.
"See your way clear to giving me another chance," he said in a rush of words. "I don't want to die! I never hurt anyone! I-I thought it was just cutting in for some easy money! That was the only night I got involved in that. D'you think I'd have got involved in murder if I'd a' known? No sir! You know me! You were like one of my kids, a little! You know I'd never do that!" He looked piteously at Malet, who had remained as aloof and stern as a carved sphinx, and fell silent.

Malet's expression did not change.
"Do you think that I can set aside thirty years of duty for the sake of a few sweets given to a skinny little boy thirty-nine years ago?" he asked, but his voice had not hardened. "Is that why you gave me those sweets? Because you wished to ingratiate yourself with Cheat-Death's successor?"

Lanusse's moment of terror had passed.
"I snuck you the treats because you were a skinny little kid," he said with dignity. "No other reason. Kids die, and you might have died, too. How was I to know what I stood to lose or gain? You were all alone, except for that American sailor who took you under his wing."

He paused to think, which was almost a physical activity for him.
"You know," he said, "They all beat their brains over why you turned, but I am thinking he was the reason. He became your papa, and he was a good 'un. He taught you the way to go. I remember now, how you were, learning the locks and such from me. Like you were learning how to use a weapon, not like an apprentice crook. When your papa died your heart was broke. I remember now, you standing all alone and looking out over the sea..."

He took out one of the cigars, accepted a match from Malet, lit the cigar, and sat back in a cloud of blue smoke.
"Well," he said, "You turned, and here you are. So why're you here?"

"
I am springing you," said Malet.

"
What?" demanded Lanusse.

"
You heard me," said Malet. "But there's a quid pro quo."

"
What's the breakteeth words you're throwing at me?" Lanusse demanded. "Squid?"

Malet sat back and regarded the man thoughtfully.
"It would be a terrible thing, Lanusse," he said, "if you were to awaken one day and find you'd grown to be as stupid as you're always pretending to be."

Lanusse looked hurt.
"D'I deserve that?" he asked.

"
You did," said Malet. "But to answer your question, it means it'll cost you."