Duval and the Infernal Machine (Napoleon's Police Book 1) Read online

  Duval

  And the

  Infernal Machine

  Michèle McGrath

  In memory of my aunt

  Nora McGrath (Nonnie),

  Who loved adventure stories & wanted to rule the world!

  Duval and the Infernal Machine

  1

  It was a strange scent, part smoke, part filth, part densely-packed humanity. My nostrils twitched with distaste at the sour odour. We still had miles to go, yet the stench of Paris came out to greet us like an evil cloud. I lived in a city once, although Grenoble was really only a small provincial town. Smells never bothered me then, for I grew up with them. Now I wondered how I would be able to breathe with so many people sharing the same air. For a moment, my mind wandered to the high mountain valley I’d camped in before my last battle. I longed to be back there again. It was hard to accept that those days had gone forever.

  Then I called myself stupid, to be so affected by a scent. I’ve smelled far worse. Stinking corpses on old battlefields reek and I’ve seen enough of them. I’d get used to Paris. I came once before with my father, when he had business in the city. We stayed in a pleasant house near the river. I remembered the bridges, the tall white buildings and the open squares. I also recalled the hovels and all the ragged people whom I wouldn’t be able to avoid this time. I had little money left from my army pay, which seemed to melt away before my eyes. I must have groaned aloud at the thought.

  The old man sitting opposite me, pointed to my stiff leg and asked, “Does your injury trouble you much?”

  A foolish question, for he saw me hobbling about before we got into the coach. Yet the old buffer looked kind and concerned. So I answered him civilly enough, “Not now.”

  In truth, the pain had gone; only the stiffness remained. I'd been weeks on my back before the bones fused and the muscles became strong enough to bear my weight again. For most of that time, I feared I would spend the rest of my life as a helpless cripple. If I was unable to walk, I'd be good for nothing. Better to have been shot.

  “What happened to you?” the old man asked.

  “The wheel of a gun carriage ran over my ankle.”As I said the words, I felt again the wet smack of mud on my face. I heard the crack of the bone, as the metal rim drove my leg down into the ground. I shuddered.

  “You were lucky not to lose your leg.”

  I nodded. “Heavy rain softened the ground and that saved me. I can still get about, although I’m no use to the army now.” I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice. I realised I hadn’t succeeded when he said,

  “That’s hard on a youngster like you. What will you do now?”

  I hesitated because I don't like telling too much about myself to strangers. Then I shrugged. What harm could it do? I was unlikely to meet any of these people again. “I’ll get a job where my lameness doesn’t matter.”

  “Well, there are plenty of jobs in Paris…” The old man started to describe all the things I might be able to do. It startled him a bit to find out how few useful skills I had, except for fighting, of course. Swordplay isn’t much use in a city among law-abiding citizens.

  “What did you do before you joined the army?” a woman passenger asked kindly, trying to help me.

  “I was apprenticed to my father. He’s a locksmith.”

  “That’s a good trade. Lots of money in keeping people’s possessions safe,” said the small man with the narrow face. He had been silently listening up to now. “A good trade — good if you’re honest and good if you’re not!”

  “Joseph! What a dreadful thing to say,” his wife exclaimed reprovingly. “Anyone would think you were a thief!” The small man laughed.

  “Why not go back home?” the old man suggested. “Your foot wouldn’t be much of a problem as a locksmith.”

  “My father disowned me,” I said. His face flashed into my mind, contorted with rage as usual. “Nothing I ever did was good enough for him. My cousin was more skilful and the favoured one. Papa was grateful when I ran away.” I tried to keep the resentment out of my voice, but again the perceptive old man heard it.

  “You're not the first son to disagree with his father, lad, or the last, come to that,” he said. He sighed, as if the words brought back some painful memory.

  “No, indeed,” the woman agreed. “My brother was just the same, but he was glad he made his peace with Papa. Tempers cool, if you give them enough time. Perhaps your father would be happy now if you returned.”

  A strange and totally unexpected pang of longing shot through me at her words. I saw again the villa with the fruit trees blossoming beneath the snow-covered Belledonne. Then I pushed the thought away. I knew how unlikely such a welcome would be. My father prided himself on never going back on his word, especially with me. I shook my head. “No. He wouldn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My father gives orders and expects to be obeyed instantly. I found that difficult enough when I was growing up. Now I’ve been in the army, we’d come to blows within days, if not hours.” I grinned. “My mother always used to say we were far too alike, when she tried to make peace between us.”

  “Wouldn’t she want you to come home?” the woman persisted.

  “She’s dead.” I frowned. I try to forget my mother’s untimely death as much as I can.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman faltered. People always do so when you tell them such things.

  I shrugged, “It all happened a long time ago,” I said dismissively, hoping she would let the subject drop.

  “Couldn’t you go back to the trade under a different master?” the man called Joseph asked me.

  “I’m too old to be an apprentice now and I wasn’t very good at the job anyway. My father was correct about that.”

  “Well, let’s see what else you can do,” the old man said, dispelling the sudden awkwardness. He had a good imagination and the other people in the carriage joined in, making a game of it.

  “So, you write a fair hand and figure accurately,” the old man concluded, as the coach clattered onto cobbles. “Many people need those skills in Paris, merchants and tradesmen and counting houses. You should have no trouble.”

  I smiled and agreed with him. He had tried to help me, although I knew his optimism to be false. Other men, who’d been invalided out of the army before me, could find nothing to do at all. I left the remark unchallenged, though, because the people in the carriage were pleasant folk, especially the old man. They made the tedious journey pass more quickly with their speculations. I even gathered a few facts which might prove useful in days to come. They did not need to discover how uneasy I truly felt about my future.

  The thought made me clutch at my breast pocket, to make sure the Colonel’s letter was still there. I was flat on my back in the convent when he came and gave it to me. The regiment was moving out, leaving the wounded behind for the nuns to look after and he didn’t have much time.

  “I’m sorry to lose you like this,” he told me. “You’ve been a good soldier and a useful aide to me. This letter may be of some help to you in the future.” The colonel knew part of my story and realised that I wouldn’t be going home.

  “What is it?” I asked, taking the wafer from him and trying to smile.

  “My cousin in Paris might be able to give you employment or, if not, to put you in the way of finding it elsewhere. This is the best I can do for you at the moment.”

  “Thank you, sir. Good of you to think of helping me whatever happens.”

  “No trouble. A small repayment of the debt I owe you. I am only sorry I cannot do more.” I smiled. Once
, a few months ago, I’d saved the colonel’s life in a skirmish. He made me his personal messenger afterwards and I thought I had a bright future in the army.

  I shook the Colonel's hand, we wished each other well and said goodbye. I felt sorry as I watched him leave. He had been my commander for over three years and always treated me fairly. Many others would have left me behind without a thought, once my usefulness to them had ended — debt or no debt. I wondered if I would ever meet him again.

  Later on, when I looked at his letter properly, the name seemed to leap off the paper at me and I gasped. Everybody in France knew the name he'd written down; few people were more infamous or feared. I’d just been recommended to the devil himself!

  ‘Joseph Fouché’ I read. Fouché – the man who ordered the mass executions at Lyon during the Terror. A Jacobin regicide, he was now the Minister of Police. I stared at the letter in disbelief. Could Fouché really be the colonel’s cousin? For a second, I wondered if two men in Paris shared the same name. Yet the letter was addressed to the Ministry of Police, so there was no mistake. I cursed inwardly. Why on earth couldn’t the colonel have a less alarming relative?

  Like it or not, though, I would have to use this recommendation. No one else would speak for me. My disgrace was common knowledge in Grenoble. No merchant in that city would give me work, for fear of offending my father. I’d moved around too much in the army to make civilian friends. I was fortunate the colonel had been decent enough to try to help me.

  I decided, not without some misgivings, to go to Paris. Would Fouché employ me? Did I want him to or would I be better off somewhere else? Whenever I thought about the future, an icy shiver ran down my spine. I said nothing of this to my companions, of course. It amused me, though, to imagine how their faces would change if I told them about the letter.

  In any case, I had no time to do so. The carriage clattered through the city gates and everyone started gathering up their parcels, ready to leave. The guards waved our coach onwards and we entered the city itself. The carriage went slowly now, for the streets were winding and narrow. We made several sharp turns before we came to a shuddering stop. I climbed down, stiff and sore from all the jolting. One of the ostlers lifted down our baggage. I hoisted my knapsack onto my shoulders and picked up my swordstick. I said goodbye to the old man and the other travellers. They called out their good wishes to me, as I limped off to find some accommodation for the night.

  Paris had changed a lot since my last visit. The Revolution saw to that. Many of the buildings bore the scars of fighting on their stonework. Everything seemed to be patched up and seedy. I remembered very little of the place and I became hopelessly lost. I wandered the streets for a while. The pavements were uneven and crowded, with people jostling and shoving to get past. I needed to concentrate just to keep on my feet. Carts and horses passed me by in the narrow roadway, some of them cutting close to the seething mass of people. More than once I had to jump briskly out of their way, in order to avoid being run down. I tired easily now and I knew I would not be able to keep going much longer. I had to find somewhere quieter. So I turned down a side street. It was unlighted, but a faint glimmer at the far end looked like water. This alley might lead me to the river. I had a vague memory of our previous lodging house being alongside the Seine. That thought tempted me into foolishness.

  I was half way down the street, when I realised my mistake. Footsteps sounded behind me and a voice said, “What have we here?” The words were slurred and guttural. I reacted instinctively to their tone, rather than their meaning. As I turned round, I saw three men, burly and dressed in rags coming towards me. One carried a cudgel and swung it menacingly back and forth, like a flail. Cursing myself for a fool, I stood against the wall and raised my stick. The odds weren’t good, but I was damned if I would go down without a struggle.

  “Going to fight are you? Let’s see what a stripling like you can do!”

  One man advanced and one circled around to my left, preparing to jump me from the side. This was an old trick I had often used myself. I clenched the stick in my hand and clicked the lever set into the handle. A foot of sharpened steel sprang out from the end. The first man had already started to leap towards me and did not stop in time. He squealed as my bayonet pierced his shoulder. Before I managed to pull the blade out, another man landed on top of me. I ducked and took the blow meant for my head on my upturned arm. If I hadn’t, the fight would have been over right away. The impact forced me to my knees and the pain made my eyes blur. I knew I had lost, but I still struggled to raise my sword for a last thrust. Then someone yelled.

  “Christ, not another one,” I thought, but I was wrong. The press of bodies around me lessened and I managed to scramble to my feet. My sight cleared. Three men were struggling, one against two. The newcomer had joined the fight on my side. What an unexpected mercy! I charged back into the fray, whipping my blade into the arm of the man with the club. He dropped it, as I hoped he would, and squealed. At the same time my rescuer felled his own opponent with a mighty punch and left him lying on the ground. The first man still lay slumped against the wall, with his hand clapped to his wound. When I moved towards him he scrambled up and ran off.

  “Come on,” my rescuer said, “let's get away from here.”

  I looked around the scene and realised what he meant. Two bodies lay still and my sword stick dripped with blood. We needed to leave before anybody arrived to ask us awkward questions. I was the victim, not the attacker, but I was a stranger here. Mistakes are often made in such circumstances. I did not want to spend my first night in Paris locked up in one of its gaols. We hurried away, stumbling down the alley towards the river. When we gained the riverbank, I stopped and turned to my rescuer.

  “Thank you, friend. You saved me - my purse certainly and probably my life.”

  His eyes gleamed in the flickering light of a nearby lantern. “You’re wondering why I bothered to help you, since we are strangers to each other.”

  I laughed, for he had read my thoughts accurately enough. “Why did you?”

  “I didn’t like the odds and one of those men is no friend of mine. About time someone tackled him; he needed a lesson. You’d have given him one too, if he'd been alone, but he always makes sure he's with his cronies.” He held out his hand and said, “My name’s Jean Lefebvre.”

  “Duval, Alain Duval.” We shook hands. “I should know better than to go down a side street like that.”

  “Lucky I spotted you. They wouldn’t have left you alive, in case you could identify them.”

  “I’ve little enough to repay you...”

  He shook his head, stopping me. “Buy me a bottle of wine and we’re even. As I said, Bouchier had it coming.”

  My heart gradually stopped thumping and my breathing eased. My leg, forgotten in the heat of battle, began to throb again and made me limp more than I usually do. Lefebvre glanced at it.

  “An old wound," I explained to him. “I strained it in the fight.”

  “I thought you must be a soldier. You handle yourself well and don’t know when you’re beaten. There’s a drinking shop up ahead. You’d better rest for a while if you want to use that leg tomorrow.”

  The tavern was big and set back behind some railings. Once it might have been a coach house, for it had wide doors. The place seemed to be popular. People were coming and going and I heard singing inside. We pushed our way into the tap room. The din increased as soon as the door opened. The room's rough walls had been stained brown from all the smoke and the place reeked of cheap tobacco.

  We went up to the counter where the innkeeper was pouring some thin red wine into clay beakers. He shot me a suspicious look when he realised I was unknown to him, but obviously Lefebvre wasn't. He greeted him with a frown.

  “Wine?” he asked us gruffly.

  “Your best,” I answered and tossed several coins onto the stained surface. I could ill afford them, but, except for Lefebvre’s help, they would have been in Bouchier’s
pocket, not mine.

  The innkeeper muttered something under his breath. He pulled down another jug from the shelf behind him and pushed it towards us. “Easy to see you’re not buying, Jean,” he commented to my companion.

  “You’ve had enough of my money, at the prices you charge me,” Lefebvre retorted and turned away before the man responded. We sat down at one of the trestle tables.

  “Been in Paris long?” Lefebvre asked me, after we toasted each other and the successful outcome of the fight.

  “Just arrived.”

  “Thought so. No one here uses side streets alone in the dusk. A fine welcome to the city for you.”

  “At least I survived, thanks to you. I’d forgotten I wasn’t in uniform any more or in a garrison town full of soldiers. Stupid of me; I’ll remember better in future. Your good health!” I raised my beaker to him again and he nodded.

  “Stay among the crowds and keep your purse well hidden. Do that and you’ll manage well enough. You staying here or passing through?”

  “Staying here, if I can find any work. I’m finished with the army.”

  “Got somewhere to sleep?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You can stay here if you want to. I sometimes do myself, when the wine gets to me. This is about as good as you’ll find tonight. Ho, Louis!” He waved to the innkeeper, who pushed his way over to us, although I sensed his reluctance.

  “Another jug.”

  “Haven’t you had enough yet, Jean?” he asked.

  “Not when I’ve found a new friend with money,” Lefebvre said. “This is Bourienne, Duval.” He introduced us. “Bring us another bottle and a better one than this swill, if you please.”

  The man snorted. “Go away and take your friend with you. Some of us do a hard day's work and you’re keeping me from my bed.”

  “You’ll get your hands on your latest whore soon enough, you lecher. Now do as you’re asked or I’ll tell her a thing or two she won’t like.”