Duval and the Italian Opera Singer Page 3

  “This one is different, Sire.”

  Napoléon stepped back, an arrested look on his face. “You cannot mean that you believe her? You are not usually such a fool.”

  “The evidence seems to support her story.” Fouché took the rolled up portrait which I had carried and opened it on the desk, turning it so the Emperor could see it.

  I was watching Napoléon’s face closely and I saw his expression change. “Did you get this from my mother?” he asked angrily.

  “Madame Mère knows nothing about this matter. This is a copy made from a portrait in the possession of the boy’s mother.”

  “And who is his mother?”

  “An opera singer called Maria Carla Contini. She says she was with you for a few days in Milan at the time of Marengo.”

  Napoléon’s brow creased as he tried to remember. “Maria Carla?”

  “She asked me to give you this, Sire.” I stepped up to the desk and laid the cameo bracelet on top of the portrait. “You gave it to her. Apparently, you used to call her ‘Cara’ and you made love in the garden of a villa where nightingales sang.”

  He looked up and laughed. “I did, did I? How poetic and most unlike me but I was younger then and no doubt foolish. I remember the girl, vaguely. Young and quite pretty, with a dimple in one cheek. Good voice but not powerful. Guiseppina did not like me to pay attention to her and she was much more exciting. Have you seen this boy, Duval?”

  “Yes, Sire, several times.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “He is a fine little lad who looks like you as you were when I caught your horse at Rivoli.”

  The Emperor laughed again. “Yes, I was grateful to you that day. You saved me from a nasty fall and, more importantly, from losing my dignity. In your opinion, is this child my son?”

  “He has your features and your expressions, Sire. Features we are born with, but expressions are hard to counterfeit unless there is someone present to be used as a model. So the boy is unlikely to have been taught to copy you. He is too young to be natural in such a situation and I would swear he is quite innocent. Our evidence confirms that Carla Contini has only been in Paris for a short time and she says she has never seen you for four years.”

  “And?”

  “I am not a betting man, Sire, but if I was, I would wager that he is yours, provided that you confirm that you slept with his mother.”

  “Oh, I did. A pleasant girl although lacking Grassini’s spice.” He stared into the flames in the elegant fireplace for a moment or two. Then he said softly, “If I can have children of my own…” He looked up. “You realise the implications, Fouché?”

  “Of course, Sire and so does Tallyrand.”

  “Did you discuss this matter with him?” He sounded annoyed.

  “He is your foreign minister, Sire. Anything to do with the succession to your crown is important to him. He waits only for your confirmation that the child could possibly be yours, before he draws up a memorandum on the various options for you to study.”

  For a moment or two, I expected Napoléon to flay Fouché with his tongue but he obviously thought better of it.

  “Perhaps it is just as well,” he said softly, as he sank into a chair.

  “What would you like me to do next, Sire?” Fouché asked.

  “First, I want to meet this child. What is his name?”

  “Marco, Sire.”

  “If he is mine then that must be changed. Bring the girl and her son to see me tomorrow evening. Until I meet them, this is to go no further, not even to Tallyrand.”

  “I understand, Sire.”

  I was pleased that Carla would have her opportunity to speak to the Emperor but it was not to be. When I went to deliver the good news, Sofia met me at the door, her smile fading when I asked for Carla.

  “But Carla is not here, Alain. She and Marco have gone.”

  Chapter 4

  “Gone? Gone where?” I gasped. “I have come to take her to the Emperor this evening!”

  Sofia looked shocked. “There must be some mistake, Alain. She is already at the palace. A carriage came for her yesterday and she went off quite happily, thinking all her hopes were about to be fulfilled.”

  “Yesterday the Emperor did not even know she was in Paris,” I said grimly, looking around. There were people walking on both sides of the street. We could not discuss this on the doorstep. “Whoever called did not come from the Police or the palace. Let me in and tell me all about it.”

  I sat down on one of the kitchen stools and took out my notebook. Sofia did not join me immediately. She reached for a bottle that stood on a shelf and two beakers. She put these on the table and poured out a dark brown liquid into each of them.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Nocino, of course. Taste it.” I did so. It was sticky, sweet and tasted of walnuts. Suddenly I was back in my grandmother’s kitchen at Christmas.

  “I was only ever allowed a couple of sips when I was growing up,” I said, feeling the fire running through my veins.

  “Quite right. It’s powerful, but it’s a drink for courage and we need it this morning. I am afraid something has happened to them,” Sofia said. “Now ask me your questions and I will do my best to answer.”

  Her story was relatively simple. Yesterday afternoon a man in an elegant carriage had called at her home and asked for Carla by name. He told them that he had come from the palace to take Carla and her son to the Emperor. He waited with Sofia in the kitchen while they dressed in their best clothes and they all left.

  “Can you describe the coach?” I asked her.

  “It was very shiny. It glittered in fact.”

  “What colour was it?”

  “Dark green. It was pulled by two horses. Nice, well fed beasts with glossy coats.”

  “Did it have any markings, such as a coat-of- arms?” The imperial and official carriages were all dark green, the colour of Corsica, the Emperor’s birthplace. They also had the Imperial arms painted on their doors.

  “I did not notice any.”

  “How many servants?”

  “Two. The driver and a man who rode beside him.”

  “Did they wear a livery?”

  “They wore dark clothes, but they did not match each other. They didn’t wear wigs,” she replied. If the carriage had, indeed, come from the Emperor, his servants would certainly wear the palace uniform. “Anything else about them that you can remember?”

  “Only that they did not turn towards me, so I did not really see their faces.”

  “That’s strange. You’d think they would be interested in watching what was happening.”

  “I’ve only just remembered that now, Alain.”

  “Did the other servant not get down and help Carla and Marco to climb into the carriage?”

  “No the man who came to fetch her did that himself. He said his name was Didier and he was employed in the Emperor’s household.” A false name almost certainly, but easily checked.

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He was of medium height. His hair was brown and his eyes looked black.”

  “Was he clean shaven?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any scars or marks that would distinguish him?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “He had on a dark coat, light breeches and top boots, well polished ones. I thought he seemed like someone who paid attention to his appearance. There was a scent of violets when he moved.”

  I wrinkled my nose. I dislike perfume on a man, especially violets.

  “Did he have an accent?”

  “He was French. Certainly not Italian, of that I am sure. It took me a while to realise what he was saying. I find it hard to tell where people come from in France. He spoke a few sentences to Carla but his Italian wasn’t very good. He made a few silly mistakes. It sounded as if he had learned a few phrases by heart but did not understand them properly. ”

  Sofia�
��s description could have applied to just about anyone in Paris. Then I thought of Rougier.

  “Sofia, there is an artist who draws faces. We use him a lot in the Police when we are looking for suspects. Would you be able to describe this man Didier’s face to him well enough for him to make a sketch for me?”

  Sofia screwed up her eyes. “I can try.”

  “Come with me, please.”

  “I must tell my neighbour that I have gone out so, that Giovanni won’t wonder where I am if he gets home before me.” Giovanni was her husband but I had not met him yet. He worked long hours in a workshop.

  In a very short space of time we were on our way. I called up a hackney and we arrived at Rougier’s. He answered my knock promptly but his face fell when he saw who it was.

  “Hello. Rougier.”

  “Why are you here again? Can’t you leave a man in peace?”

  “Now here I was imagining you would be grateful to earn another franc from me. I’ll go away if you don’t fancy the job.”

  He pulled the door open. “Come in since you’re here.”

  I let Sofia enter before me. The room was in much the same state as it had been before but it smelled a bit fresher. Perhaps he had emptied the chamber pots. Nevertheless there was a look of disgust on Sofia’s face when she turned around.

  “This lady is going to describe a man to you. I want you to sketch his face so, with luck, we can recognise him.”

  “I’ll do my best, but everything depends on how accurate the description is.” He dumped some clothes off a rickety chair and gave it a cursory brush with his sleeve. “Sit here, Madame, and we’ll make a start. Duval, I need coffee, lots of it, hot and strong. Fetch it, will you?” I grinned at the sight of Sofia’s faces as he issued his orders. Perhaps she expected me to shout at him but shouting at Rougier does not work. He never changes. He is rude, manipulative and a rogue but the quality of his skill compensates for his failings.

  I went to get the coffee. I took my time, chatting to the proprietor of the shop and having a quick drink myself. Rougier was just finishing off the first sketch when I arrived back. He fell on the coffee and downed it straight, wiping his lips on his sleeve.

  “That’s better.” He held up the sketch for me to see. “Do you recognise him?”

  I looked hard at the picture but I didn’t. I glanced at Sofia. “Is this the man?” I asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “No, Rougier. He’s a stranger to me. How about you?”

  The artist stood back, frowning. “That’s a funny thing but I think I do. I’ve certainly seen him somewhere before. Somewhere strange.”

  “What do you mean strange?”

  “A place I don’t usually go.”

  “Can you remember where?”

  “No. Not at this moment. Perhaps later.”

  “Tell me if you do, won’t you?”

  “How much is it worth to you?”

  “A lot if it’s true; a punch in the nose if you lie to me.”

  Rougier laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Duval. You don’t wrap your words up in fine phrases. Not like some. I always know exactly where I am with you.”

  “Make me two more copies now, please.”

  His fingers flew and the pictures did not take long to complete. I thanked him and paid him his money. I was just escorting Sofia to the door when a thought struck me.

  “Rougier, where have you been lately that you don’t usually go?”

  “Can’t think of anywhere but I must have been. Sorry, Duval. If I do remember, I’ll come and tell you.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while if you do.”

  I put Sofia into a hackney and sent her home, promising her to call when I had some news. Then I went to the Rose, hoping to find Lefebvre there. I admit I was shaken to discover that Carla and her son had been spirited away. I needed a drink and time to bring some order of my chaotic thoughts. Who had taken them and where would they likely to be? I found Fournier not Lefebvre sitting in our usual booth. He is another one of my friends but he’s older than either Lefebvre or I. His suggestions are often excellent, including realising Rougier’s usefulness to the Police.

  “Where have you been hiding yourself?” he asked me.

  “On a new case.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Very but I can’t give you all the details as yet. The Patron would have my head if I did. However, look at this.” I unrolled the picture of the mysterious man who called himself Didier. Fournier looked at it with the same expression as Rougier.

  “His face looks familiar. Who is he?”

  “This man abducted a woman and her child yesterday.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “It’s something I have to find out.”

  “Is she important then?”

  “She might be.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Carla Contini. She used to sing at the Opera in Milan.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “You wouldn’t. She was only in the chorus and now she’s lost her voice. I’m looking for her for another reason, not her singing.”

  “Tell me about the abduction then. You don’t need to give me the reason behind it.”

  “I couldn’t anyway although I could make several guesses. This is what the witness said…”

  I proceeded to tell Fournier what Sofia had told me. At the end, he asked,

  “So the coach was painted the same colour as the imperial carriages?” I nodded. “Did this Sophia tell you it was very shiny?”

  “Yes, she said it glittered. What are you getting at?”

  “Carriages glitter when they have been freshly painted. If this Didier borrowed a coach then he could have changed the original colour and then changed it back when he had finished with it.”

  “Paint it twice, you mean?”

  “Yes. It’s unlikely to be dark green now. I’d change it immediately. If I had abducted anyone, I’d expect to be the object of a search. After all, there was a witness able to describe the carriage to you. It would be hard to disguise the shape, but the paint is easy enough. I’d call at the carriage makers and find out who has had a vehicle painted in the last few days, especially if it was painted twice, once from the original colour to green and then back again. That’s unusual enough to be remembered. The workers would know who owned it or, at the very least, who paid them to do the work.”

  “There must be hundreds of carriage makers in Paris,” I groaned.

  “There are, but not many of them cater to the tastes of the aristos. Most workshops turn out hand carts or wagons. From your description, this was a fairly sumptuous affair which might have come from the palace. It wouldn’t be entrusted to just anybody.”

  “Good point.” I glanced up and saw Lefebvre approaching. He sat down with a sigh.

  “I’m as dry as a desert. Wine, for the love of God.”

  After he had slaked his thirst, I showed him the picture of the unknown man and told him our reasoning so far. He looked at the portrait carefully and then shook his head.

  “Don’t know him at all. About the carriage, Fournier’s likely to be right. There’re only two top class coach makers in Paris, Boyer Brothers and Mercier’s. A green vehicle painted or, even better, repainted recently will be remembered. You might be lucky.”

  “Green could have been its original colour and it was not painted at all,” I objected.

  “Unlikely. Only newly painted coaches shine and green is usually reserved for official vehicles which have an insignia of some kind. A green coach without a crest is rare.”

  “But they do exist. The Bonapartes are not the only Corsicans in Paris. I shall follow your advice though and talk to these two firms. Fournier, if you should remember where you saw this man it would be helpful.”

  “Let me have that sketch,” he replied. “I’ll take it home with me and keep looking at it. Perhaps it will jog my memory.”

  I left it with him a
nd went out to visit the two firms of coach makers. Trust Lefebvre to know who they were. In his past life as one of the most notorious thieves in Paris, the information would have been very important. Rich people sometimes hide their valuables inside their coaches, after all.

  Chapter 5

  I drew a complete blank at Boyer Brothers. In fact, the owner looked at me as if I was crazy. He told me that his coaches were perfect when they were finished and he did not make a practice of repainting them.

  “Why don’t you try Mercier’s?” he said with a sniff. “No doubt his customers are less satisfied with their work.”

  I grinned but did not answer him. I took my leave and went off to Mercier’s, which fortunately was not far away.

  “No, Monsieur, no carriage was painted here twice. That would be most unusual.”

  I felt my shoulders sag although, in my job, I was used to clues which led me nowhere. I was turning away when the owner, Mercier, said something more.

  “There was a very odd thing which happened in the last few days, though.”

  “What was that?” I asked rather listlessly. His negative answer had depressed me.

  “An imperial carriage arrived the day before yesterday and we were ordered to remove the insignia on the panels, painting them green like the rest of the bodywork. The following day, the coach was returned and we were told to paint the crests back on again.”

  “How odd! Has that ever happened before?”

  “Never.”

  “Was there a reason given? Some damage or change to the coat-of-arms perhaps?”

  “No reason, no damage and no change. We were at a loss to account for the instructions but, as you realise, Monsieur, it is not sensible to question orders from the Emperor’s family or their servants.”

  “True. Then the carriage, without its insignia, would appear to be a simple coach and not one of the imperial fleet?”

  “Exactly, Monsieur. Even stranger, they paid me cash for the job once it had been completed to their satisfaction.”

  “Did they, by God?” I exclaimed. Nobody in government ever pays their bills promptly. Traders often wait weeks if not months. “Who asked you to do this?”