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

  “Why did you want to meet me then?”

  I hesitated, unsure of what I actually felt. Could he actually believe I expected payment for my efforts on his behalf? I shrugged.

  “I didn’t want to lose contact with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have few friends in Paris and torture is a ghastly business, even if the victims are murderers, let alone thieves.”

  Lefebvre leaned back in his seat. “I understand.” He gestured at the moneybag. “Take it anyway, as a gift. It’s not ‘tainted’. I didn’t steal it from anyone, if that’s what you’re thinking. Money breeds money, once you have some to start with.”

  “If you have enough money to give it away, why do you steal?” I asked, deeply puzzled.

  “Who knows?” He shrugged. “The excitement, the reputation I have earned, revenge. That’s how it started — revenge on a man who’d cheated me out of all I had by using loaded dice. When I found out I was so angry, I went to his house and retrieved my money plus some of his for interest. That’s when I discovered I had a taste for taking risks. Take it.” He pushed the bag at me again.

  “No, I thank you. I’ve been paid by the Police and I’m not in need,” I said, although I wondered how long my pay would actually last. “If you must do something for me, buy the drinks.”

  He laughed, summoned the pot boy but only ordered a cheap thin wine. He saw my frown and said when the lad left to fetch the jug,

  “If I order better in here, they’ll start wondering who we are. We’ll find somewhere else and spend the rest of this purse in comfort. In a week or so the fuss will have died down and it will be safe for me to go about again.”

  “Not if you go back to thieving it won’t. You should have heard Petit vowing his vengeance on you.”

  “I snatched the very bread from his mouth, didn’t I? Or rather, you did. You’ll be able to remember it every time you see him from now on.”

  I grinned, as I pictured Petit looking distraught. He had been beside himself when I left him. “I will, but you’ve had one narrow escape and your face is known now.”

  “This one?” Lefebvre turned and looked straight at me, laughing.

  “Your real face. I don’t imagine you’ll want to look like a seedy farmer for ever. Petit has a long memory.”

  “He won’t find me and, to answer your question, I’ll keep out of danger, at least for a while. There’s nothing much happening in Paris at the moment to tempt me.”

  “Just as well.”

  Lefebvre laughed. “I won’t put you to the trouble of rescuing me again, never fear. If you ever need help, leave a message with Martin and it will find me.”

  Our talk turned to other things and, after a little while, we left. The wine really was not good enough to make us stay longer.

  19

  One of the messengers found me in a tavern as I was finishing my meal.

  “You’re wanted,” he told me, abruptly.

  “Who wants me?”

  “Citizen Fournier and he said you are to hurry.” I rose immediately, dropped a few coins on the table and followed him.

  “What’s it all about?”

  “The whole place is buzzing, but I don’t know why. Something important; has to be. You’ll find out before I do.” He signalled to a passing hack and we climbed inside.

  “Ministry of Police, as fast as you can.”

  The horse wasn’t up to much, but it was faster than walking. By the time we got to the Ministry I was seething with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. I agreed with the messenger, whatever had happened — good or bad — it was important.

  The bureau was crowded and noisy when I got there, just as it had been on the first day with Gilbert. All the seats in the room were full and the different conversations and arguments made a dreadful racket. Fournier jumped up from his seat, when he saw me and hurried over.

  “What’s going on?” I asked him, but he caught my sleeve and pulled me after him sharply.

  “Come outside where we can talk,” he hissed.

  “What’s happened?”

  “The First Consul sent a message to the Minister. He’s to go to the Tuileries immediately and to take the agents investigating the bombing with him. That means you and me, now that Gilbert’s dead.”

  He had a note in his voice I didn’t like.

  “Trouble?”

  Fournier nodded. “It could be, unlikely to be anything else really. That’s why Laurent is denying he’s had any part in the whole thing and so are the others. It’s unusual for the minions to be sent for as well as Fouché. I wonder what Bonaparte wants.”

  We soon found out. We made our way to the front door of the Ministry where a carriage was waiting. The lackey had just let down the steps as we got there. Fouché and Réal stood talking together, but they stopped immediately they saw us, another ominous sign I thought.

  “Get in.” Fouché motioned us into the carriage, a very fine one which must have once been a former noble’s possession. The seats were of velvet and soft. I had never been in such a vehicle in my life. It was well sprung too and glided rather than bounced over the cobbles. Fouché followed us in and sat down, looking out of the window and staring into the distance. Neither Fournier nor I said anything to him and the first part of the ride passed in silence. As we approached the Tuileries, he turned to us and said, “Be careful what you say in there.”

  “Citizen Minister?”

  “The First Consul will undoubtedly want to question you about the progress of this investigation. He wouldn’t send for you otherwise. Answer his questions, but don’t tell him any more than you need to and don’t speculate. Leave that to me.”

  “Of course, Minister,” Fournier said, speaking for us both.

  The carriage stopped at the palace entrance. Two lackeys in a smart uniform sprang forward and let down the steps. We all descended. Fouché had obviously been here many times before, because he did not hesitate or wait to be shown the way. He entered the building and turned immediately left at the first corridor. He walked too quickly for the messenger, who came running after us.

  “Citizen Minister!”

  Fouché stopped and cocked an eyebrow at the man, who was panting slightly and looked ruffled.

  “Well?”

  “The First Consul is currently engaged and asks you to wait for him in the small salon.”

  Fouché nodded. “Very well.”

  “If you will follow me?”

  “No need. I know the way.” Fouché strode off again with us following him like a pack of dogs. The messenger brought up the rear, looking even more put out than he had been before.

  I took my opportunity to look around the faded grandeur of the old palace. It was a gloomy place, full of corners and passages. Some attempt had been made to lighten it. There were torches and candles in plenty and the long windows had been cleaned of most of their grime. I had heard it said that the First Consul’s wife was having the place redecorated, bit by bit, but she obviously hadn’t got to this part yet. There was a smell of dust and damp old age about the place. We seemed to walk for several miles and climbed two staircases before we got to where we were meant to be. The Tuileries is huge of course, so any renovation will cost a fortune. I wondered if there was enough money in all of France to see the work completed.

  Fouché stopped at last in front of a doorway and the messenger hurried to open it for him. We entered a small room, which obviously had been renovated in the latest fashion. They had copied the colours and styles of the Roman Empire, which I had heard was the latest fashion. I can’t say I liked it much; it’s not very comfortable. The chairs were full of knobs and awkward pieces of wood which stuck into you when you sat down.

  We were the only ones waiting there. At one point Fournier started to say something, but Fouché shook his head at him and silence fell again. I wondered who might be listening to us. I remembered my childhood tales of secret passages and walls with ears, but it was difficult to imagin
e such things amid all this modern splendour. I felt uncomfortable and irritated as a result.

  We were not kept waiting long, certainly nothing like I had experienced in waiting for Fouché himself, that first time at the Ministry. A lackey entered and bowed to Fouché.

  “The First Consul will see you now.”

  He led us down another corridor and into a large room. There was a desk at the far end. We had to cross almost the whole space before the man sitting there raised his head and looked up at us. There he was, wearing the green field uniform of a colonel in the chasseurs and his hair was brushed neatly back from his forehead. He had put on weight since I had last seen him and he no longer looked half starved. His eyes flickered across our faces and they were returning to Fouché, when they stopped and came back to me. He stood up suddenly.

  “I know you,” he said, his eyes drilling into me. “We’ve met before. Not here in Paris — where?” Fouché and the others had turned sideways to look at me too.

  I nodded. “Yes, General. We met in Italy. I once served under your command.”

  He thought for a moment and then said, “Rivoli. I remember. You caught my horse when it bolted.”

  I just stared at him, stunned at his recall of an incident that was years ago and trivial at best. For the first time I understood how he was able to remember all the many facts he needed to govern a great country like France. His memory must be truly phenomenal, if he could recognise the face of a man he had met so briefly and so long ago.

  “You have left the army?”

  I pointed to my game leg and said, “Yes, General, I was wounded and honourably discharged. Citizen Fouché was kind enough to offer me alternative employment.”

  Unexpectedly he laughed. “So you have become one of my spies instead! Well, well.” The mention of Fouché’s name recalled Bonaparte to the matter at hand. He tuned to the Minister and said, “I’ve read your report but you’ve left things out. I want to know exactly what you have found out so far.”

  Fouché proceeded to outline our investigation to him, step by step, occasionally asking Fournier and myself to clarify various points. Bonaparte listened mainly in silence, pacing up and down the room, only interjecting one or two short questions. When we had finished he stood still and stared at Fouché.

  “This is all very fine and I can understand your deductions, but you have arrested the wrong people. This bunch of godforsaken Royalists aren’t responsible for trying to kill me this time.”

  “No, I assure you. All the evidence points to their guilt and they have even confessed to the crime.”

  “Everyone confesses to everything under torture. I’d confess to raping my own mother and so would you. You’ve got the wrong people, I tell you!”

  “If I’ve missed something, I apologise to you. Please tell me, who should we have arrested?”

  Suddenly the whole atmosphere in the room changed. Bonaparte slammed his fist onto his desk. “Your friends the Jacobins, the blood-drinking Septembrists, the Versailles assassins, the brigands of 31 May, the conspirators of Prairial,” he roared. “You know them all as well as I do, better even, that’s why you are sheltering them!"

  “I am not! If they are guilty they must pay the price but I tell you, there is not a shred of evidence to suggest that they had anything to do with it.”

  “Then find me some!” Bonaparte snarled. “If I were the Minister of Police in such circumstances, I would find sufficient to condemn them. Otherwise, I would hang myself in despair for dereliction of duty!” He swung round to Fournier and me. “You are the two men who have spent most of the time on this investigation. You have been wasting your time running after these Royalists. I don’t know why, but I will find out, I promise you.”

  I have never admired Fournier more, because he stood up straight and looked Bonaparte in the eye. “Because our evidence pointed to a Royalist plot, no more and no less.” His voice was very calm but he had braced himself, waiting for the reply.

  I could see Bonaparte’s cheeks purpling with his anger. Fouché was obviously alarmed, because he said quickly, “I will give orders that the investigation of the Royalists is to be called off. We will examine the Jacobin groups more thoroughly. There will doubtless be enough information found against them to proceed.”

  “See you do. A word of warning — none of you will speak of this meeting to anyone. What has been said here remains in this room and between the four of us. I will know who to blame if the matter leaks out.”

  “We will not mention the subject of our meeting with you to another soul.” Fouché said. “Yet I have to warn you that calling off the investigation so soon after this meeting will lead to speculation.”

  “Let it. As long as there is no confirmation, the talk will die down quickly enough, well before the guilty parties are brought to justice. All you have to do is remain silent and carry out your duties as I have ordered.”

  “Yes, General.” This was the only answer we could give, but I, for one, was seething inside and I was not on my own. As we left the room, I could not help seeing the look on Fouché’s face. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes looked spiteful. He did not say anything at all until we got into the Ministry building. Then he told us to come with him to his room. Réal was waiting for him and came forward, as if to follow us. Fouché motioned him aside and we went through to his inner office alone.

  Fouché’s anger is a very different thing to Bonaparte’s, I found out that day. Bonaparte is noisy and blusters. Fouché, on the other hand is cold and sharp, like a knife sliding into your heart.

  “Let us be quite clear about what has just happened, so there are no mistakes,” Fouché said to us, as we stood before his desk. “Neither of you will mention anything about the meeting at the palace today. Neither of you will discuss the investigation which is now finished. I will suspend all the activity immediately. You will both be assigned to other duties, more productive ones, I trust. If one word gets out about this affair, you will lose both your jobs and your liberty. Bonaparte means what he says. Everyone will speculate, but you will not to join in or answer any questions put to you. Least of all will you confirm that the change of direction is as a result to the First Consul’s direct orders. This prohibition applies whether you are speaking with your colleagues or your superiors. If there are problems, you will refer the person to me and I will handle him. Do you understand me?”

  “We understand, Citizen Minister,” Fournier said, before I could say anything at all.

  “Very well, you may go.”

  We hurried out and passed Réal without speaking to him. Once we reached the corridor, Fournier clutched my arm and pulled me down the stairs. He did not release his grip until we were outside the building, on the other side of the street where we could not possibly be overheard. Then I shook his hand off.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything. I know how to hold my tongue if I’m ordered to,” I told him angrily.

  He shrugged. “I’m sure you do, but you don’t really know what this place is like yet. It’s full of people who will jump on your every word and twist it to suit them. Laurent, for example, would be delighted if you started cackling. If we do precisely what we have both been told, shut our mouths, never mention the investigation again, we’ll survive. Do what you’re assigned to do and forget it ever happened. If you don’t, you’ll be out of here and into prison so fast you’d think you’d grown wings. Fouché means what he says and he’s the most vindictive man I’ve ever met.”

  I nodded thoughtfully, but I had to ask, “What will happen to the men we know are guilty? The men who killed Gilbert?”

  “There’s more than enough to condemn them, without the bomb plot. They’ll meet the ‘Widow Maker’ for his death, but they won’t go there alone. They’ll have plenty of Jacobins to keep them company.”

  “Even though we know they’re innocent.”

  Fournier rolled his eyes at me. “Jacobins are never innocent! If they’re not guilty of this outrage, th
ey’ll be guilty of something else. Fouché knows that, he was one of their leaders not very long ago. That’s why he didn’t argue it out. Bonaparte understands him and he’s well informed. He had enough information from his friend Augustin Robespierre, before they chopped off his head. We arrested a few Jacobins even before this last bomb went off, a scribbler called Metge and Chevalier who’s a chemist. He’s certainly capable of making bombs and we found some explosives in his house. Both of them were in prison long before this bomb went off, though, so it wasn’t Chevalier’s work.”

  “Doesn’t Bonaparte know that?”

  “Certainly he knows, but guilty or innocent doesn’t make much difference to him. He’ll have his own reasons for saying what he did and sending us off in the wrong direction. As First Consul, he doesn’t have to tell us what they are and we’re unlikely to find out. He gives the orders and we obey. Even Fouché does that, as you just saw.”

  “It’s hardly justice.”

  “Justice is a luxury neither of us can afford while we work for the Police, remember that. If you want to do the right thing, become a priest — although I don’t guarantee it even then. Why do you think I dragged you out here? I thought I’d warn you, that all.”

  “I should thank you, I expect.”

  Fournier smiled at the reluctance in my voice. “You should and you will in time. I can wait for the moment you realise I’ve done you a good turn.”

  20

  Ironically, some weeks later, I saw Limoëlan again. We’d arrested and deported over a hundred Jacobins to a slow death in Guyana, by then. Metge and Chevalier were dead also as well as the Chouans, Saint-Régeant, Villeneuve and Carbon, the man with the scar. Their politics differed in some respects, but their fate was exactly the same. Dressed in red, the traditional mark of the parricide or an unintentional killer, they were guillotined on the Place de Grève on the 1st Floreal. I didn’t go to watch it happen, but I did not weep for any of them. They’d killed, or planned to kill, enough innocent people and they all deserved their sentence.