Napoleon's Police Page 8

  “I was with him in Italy, at Rivoli, amongst other places.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “I served under his command for a while,” I said carefully. “We fought in some rough spots together but I was close to him only once, in the middle of a battle. One of the shells the Austrians lobbed at us dropped short and spooked Bonaparte’s horse. The beast bolted past me and I grabbed his reins and managed to pull it to a stop. Bonaparte thanked me for my help. That’s all, but I was near enough to find out he likes garlic.” They laughed.

  “Is he a good leader?” Gilbert asked.

  “In war, certainly.”

  “What about as First Consul?”

  “I don’t understand politics, so I can't judge.” I said, using the same answer I had given before. I'd decided it would keep me out of trouble.

  The two men exchanged glances. “You’ll need to learn then!”

  “He’s right,” Gilbert said. “Everything we do here is political.”

  “I thought the police were supposed to catch criminals and bring them to justice.”

  Fournier laughed but I didn’t like the sound. “Justice is fine, if it suits our masters. It’s always been the same, even under the old kings or so they say. You’ve been reading too much Rousseau if you believe in ideal societies. Enough innocent heads were chopped off in the last few years. Another piece of advice for you, keep your own head down, do the job you’re given to the best of your ability. Report to your superiors and forget about the rest. Then the decision and the blame are theirs and not yours.”

  My face must have looked dismayed because Gilbert added, “Fournier's given you good advice. Don’t get involved with the rights and wrongs of any case. Few of them are worth it and everybody lies to you. Learn how to survive. None of us knows our real enemies, and sometimes they are inside our own ranks.”

  “In the army, at least, I knew which way to shoot.”

  “Not here. Watch your back and your tongue. In a battle you don’t need to use brains or much discretion. Remember what we’re telling you, if you want to keep your job or even your freedom.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Make sure you do. Tomorrow you can do something more difficult than holding a horse for Bonaparte. Try and find the scélérats who tried to blow him up.”

  “I will,” I said, hoping my nervousness did not show in my voice. “Perhaps luck won't favour me but I’ll do my best.”

  “That’s all we are asking you to do.”

  Chapter 9

  The Temple area is not somewhere I would choose to spend much time. The district is crowded and noisy. The streets are narrow and most of the shops are poor. The place seemed to be home to all sorts of people. Many of them came from the provinces and more than a few from foreign countries. I judged this by their accents and the languages they spoke. The buildings seemed a strange mixture too. Former mansions stood side by side with hovels; warehouses next to tenements.

  I rented a room in a building only three doors away from the Bretons’ tavern. The lodging house was ramshackle, the bed lumpy and the coverings ragged. I’d been reluctant to change lodgings, because I liked my previous ones, but this place suited my purposes well. Its proximity gave me an excuse to use the Bretons’ tavern. I told the landlord, a man called Bost, I needed a job. He accommodated me, provided I paid him in advance. In fact he even mentioned one or two places that might be hiring workers. He was trying to be helpful, so I asked him where to find some decent food and wine.

  Bost named the Bretons’ tavern amongst others, although he said the place really catered for nobs and charged high prices. I thought, at the time, he meant the local merchants, the usual sort of ‘nobs’, but I found out this was wrong. Bost recommended their wine cellar, saying that the innkeeper imported his casks from good vineyards. He lamented the fact that he lacked such contacts himself, for the owner must be making a small fortune. People needed to be rich to drink there frequently, but I should go at least once, if I liked a good vintage. Thanks to his warning, I took enough money with me to pay my way that evening. I had almost reached the end of my resources again and I would certainly need more very soon.

  The tavern was in part of a gracious mansion, the former home of some noble or moneyed family. Perhaps they had abandoned the house during the Revolution for one wing had been damaged and boarded up. The rest of the place had been repaired and looked more substantial than the flimsy structures nearby. Inside, the high ceilings had carved plaster work all round them. I have only seen such things abroad, when we mounted guard in the centre of captured towns.

  This was a very different drinking place from any of the others I had been in lately. Even the noise was muted. They served wine in glasses instead of beakers. The clients were in keeping with their elegant surroundings. Their voices were hushed and their behaviour polite. The place reminded me of times when I accompanied my father to social events with the other rich merchants in our town. I pulled back my shoulders and instinctively spoke more quietly. Then I glanced around me and realised another problem. Fine broadcloth and velvet are unusual in taverns, but those fabrics were commonplace here. I had stumbled into the presence of gentlemen and I was not dressed well enough to be in their company. I stood out from the crowd more than I liked and would need better clothes before I came here again. Conversations stopped and people stared at me when I walked past them. I felt myself reddening as I hurried over to the bar, minded my manners and asked for a table. One of the waiters showed me to a seat in an obscure corner, after I tipped him. I would have liked a different place, for I could overhear little of the conversations around me, but I did not complain. I wanted the slight interest I had aroused to be forgotten. Fortunately this happened quickly and I was ignored for the rest of the evening.

  I’d waited until dusk before I went to the tavern. I hoped it would begin to fill up as the hour advanced and I was right. Nobody spoke to me, though, except to ask for the spare stools at my table. I sat drinking the deep red wine. The quality was indeed excellent but the cost was frightening. I sipped slowly, savouring the flavour, and knowing that this bottle had to last me all evening.

  I kept looking around me, but I recognised nobody. The men I had seen were not present. I made sure, looking carefully in every corner, without success. Nor did anyone speak with a Breton accent. One of my troopers came from that part of France and I remembered what he sounded like. He was a good soldier, but reckless, and he didn’t last long. A bullet got him somewhere in Italy. I tried unsuccessfully to remember the battle. God rest him, I murmured. Strange, how you never forget the prayers of your youth.

  I stayed until the crowd began to thin, feeling disappointed. This aristocratic reserve was unlikely to further my plans. I would have to return in better clothes and sit in the centre, where I'd have more chance of falling into conversation. This was a problem. I'd intended to use my dwindling funds for food and shelter and I’d lost the only good clothes I ever owned. Somewhere must sell cast-offs, though. I would have to go without several meals in order to buy myself a new wardrobe, I reflected ruefully.

  I got up early the next morning, wondering what to do. If I didn't wait until the evening to return to the tavern, I'd arouse suspicions. Few people of my age have enough leisure and funds to drink all day. I was without business acquaintances to talk to or any sort of job. There was no reason for me to be in that part of Paris, other than the one I wanted to stay secret. Fournier warned me to stay away from the Ministry. He didn't want anyone to see me there. He gave me the name of one of his snitches, who would take a message to him, if I needed to be in contact. We’d arranged to meet later in the week, to update each other. In the meanwhile, I decided to pretend to look for work, to keep up appearances with the landlord. I called on the two employers he told me about, although I intended to make sure they did not hire me. I didn’t need to try hard.

  The first one noticed my limp straight away and shook his head. “I only need able-bod
ied men,” he said. The second contact didn’t want any more people for now, or so he told me. Duty done, I wondered what I should do next. It was still the middle of the afternoon and time hung heavily on my hands. I wandered around the district, trying to learn its geography, in case it might come in useful.

  The area of the Temple is a place of dusty little streets and decaying buildings. Small workshops jostle beside hovels that seem as if they will fall down at any minute. Some places looked prosperous, but they were rare. Why would anyone chose to live in this part of Paris? I felt excited to be in the city, but police work did not take me to the better districts. As I tramped around, I could not help wondering if I had been mistaken not to accept the old buffer’s advice. Being a police agent demanded so much physical activity. Perhaps I should have swallowed my pride and gone home. I spent a cold and boring day, with nothing to show, except a better knowledge of the neighbourhood.

  I was glad when the light started to fade so I could return to my lodgings. I washed and changed into the new clothes I bought earlier from a pawn shop selling hand-me-downs. They were almost unworn, breeches of brown wool and a mulberry-coloured coat. I also found some shirts, including one with fine stitching on the cuffs and collar. Some woman took trouble with the sewing, but her efforts were wasted and I got a bargain.

  I am uncomfortable out of uniform and mulberry is not my choice of colour, although the coat fitted me well. Certainly I drew no more disapproving glances, when I entered the tavern again. Fewer people were in the place because it was still early, so I found an empty seat in the centre of the room. The landlord gave me a bottle of the better sort of wine and I sat there, trying to look relaxed.

  From my new vantage point, I could listen to a number of the conversations around me. Most people still talked about the ‘Infernal Machine’ and what would have happened if Bonaparte had been killed. Not enough time had passed before everyone became bored with the subject. The rumours had reached the fantastic stage by now, so they added little to what I already knew, although I listened intently. No one spoke with a Breton accent and, at first, the chatter seemed to be casual, without any personal or political opinions. I felt a bit disappointed. Foolish. I couldn't expect anyone to betray themselves for my convenience. I kept sipping the wine, making the bottle last. I hoped the situation might change before I had no further excuse to linger.

  “The First Consul started late,” someone said off to my left. “He told his driver to hurry. That’s how he escaped. If he’d gone more slowly he would have been killed.”

  “They say the bomb went off only seconds after he passed. His wife delayed to change her scarf or she’d have been blown to bits,” said another.

  “Someone told me Bonaparte shook so much when he arrived at the opera, he could hardly stand.”

  “I wouldn’t have gone at all, if it’d been me!”

  “I agree. I'd hate to have everyone’s eyes on me, after such a narrow escape.” A number of people murmured agreement and the chatter resumed.

  “The audience stood up and cheered Bonaparte for several minutes,” the first speaker said when the fuss died down. “He’d like that.”

  “No one’s ever doubted his courage, only his politics.” The last remark was murmured softly, right behind me. It was as if the man spoke his thought aloud and did not mean anyone else to hear. The undertone of hatred in his voice made me freeze. He spoke like a gentleman, but with a trace of an accent, too faint for me to identify.

  I dared not move, for I did not want him to know I’d overheard. I hoped he would say something more and I longed to look at his face. With difficulty, I remained still, forcing my muscles to relax. I tensed when I heard him speak and I was afraid he might notice my sudden stiffness. I kept listening to his movements, hoping he did not decide to leave the tavern. He did not. I waited for some minutes until someone clattered behind me, giving me an excuse to turn round. My eyes flickered over the speaker and his companions, as I appeared to search for the disturbance. A servant had broken one of the glasses on his tray.

  I hadn’t heard the three men enter. I had been too intent on listening to the other conversations. They were still muffled in their cloaks with their hats on their heads, not surprising on so cold an evening. The heat of the fire had taken some time to warm me when I first came in. Two men faced me, both young. The third sat with his back to me, so his face was hidden. He seemed older than the others, for his hair was streaked with grey.

  I strained my ears, trying to make out what they were saying above the hum of the other voices, but they spoke softly. I could not hear their words, only the lilt of their speech. I thought at least one of them spoke with the accent of the western part of the country. Whether he was a Breton or not, I did not know. Occasionally the first speaker, the ‘gentleman’, made a remark. He certainly did not have the twang of Paris.

  This little group seemed the most interesting in the place. No one else said anything significant, although many of them had already drunk enough wine to make them careless. The ‘gentleman’ and his friends did not attract much attention to themselves. I would not even have overheard the original remark, if a moment of silence had not fallen in the buzz of talk surrounding us. I decided to follow these men when they left, if only to stretch my legs. I continued to drink my wine and ignore them, until they called out to the landlord to pay their shot. When they stood up, I gave them a few minutes start before I went after them.

  They walked slowly and I kept in the shadows, strolling in the same direction. At first they stayed in a group, like friends innocently returning home. Then they split up. One man continued ahead and the other two crossed the street. I was far enough behind to slide into a passageway when the one on my side stopped, so he did not see me. He went on again. I took care to look for a hiding place in case he glanced behind him again. He did, but he missed me in the darkness.

  In spite of their precautions, it did not seem to me that they expected to be followed. Only one man kept stopping and I always had a second or two warning. If either of the others had taken a turn, they might have spotted me. Eventually, they paused, opened a broken-down gate and closed it again behind them. I gave them time to go inside and then crept forward to peer through a crack in the wood. The gates led into a courtyard with a shed at one end. I saw little in the dim light, except the shadows of objects littering the ground. The place was small and I would have made enough noise to alert them, if I had tried to enter the yard. I retreated into a nearby entranceway and kept watch, hoping to see the men emerge.

  It was cold. The wind was sharp with frost and chilled me, even though I found a bit of shelter in a doorway. Whatever they were doing inside did not take long. When they reappeared, their outlines seemed bulkier, as if they carried things hidden under their cloaks. They walked more quickly now, like men who wanted to get a job finished. They continued down the street and turned the next corner. I ran after them, as fast as I dared and as my frozen legs would let me. I peered round the wall and I spotted them going into a house at the far end of the block. They did not come out again, although I waited for several hours. I became so cold, my injured leg went quite numb. I kept stumbling when I walked away at last.

  During the time I spent waiting, I tried to interpret what I had seen and overheard, uncertain of its value. One of these men did not like the First Consul, but many people did not. Bonaparte’s rise had been too sudden. Those who held power in the past had become disgruntled. This does not necessarily lead to assassination, of course. If it did, who among us would survive?

  One, perhaps more, of these men might come from Brittany or from further south, around the Gironde estuary. I could not be sure, but their voices reminded me slightly of my former trooper. I had only two solid facts to tell Gilbert and Fournier - the whereabouts of the yard and the house where the men presumably lodged. Yet the group definitely seemed to have acted in a furtive manner, so I decided to report what I had overheard. First, though, I would go back to
both places in daylight. Perhaps I might find something more tangible to support my suspicions.

  Chapter 10

  The shapes in the courtyard proved to be heaps of rubbish, left over from some previous occupation. It would be hard enough to cross the space in the daylight. I certainly would have stumbled and alerted the men in the darkness.

  The rickety gates were not locked, but tied up with rope, so I got in easily. When I shut them behind me, the yard was almost completely hidden from the street. You could see through a few cracks in the timber fences, but these only gave a restricted view. The place was ideal for people who did not want to be observed. An old disused warehouse, with large holes in the roof, stood at the far end of the courtyard. The doors were held together by a stone which I pushed aside. I closed the door behind me and lit the lantern I’d brought. I’d an idea one might be needed to examine the inside of the shed. I felt disappointed at first. It seemed to be stripped of anything interesting. At the furthest end, though, was a partition. Behind it was a section which had been used as a make-shift stable for a horse. Some straw, fodder and a water bucket had been left behind. I also discovered droppings which looked several days old. I searched around the rough walls at the height of a horse’s mane. My search was rewarded with a few strands of grey horsehair.

  I found nothing further until I was leaving. Then I noticed some dark grains scattered on the hard-packed mud of the floor. I knelt down and picked up a handful. I held them to my nose and sniffed. Then I dropped them as if I’d been stung and jumped back in alarm. The smell of gunpowder is unmistakable to any soldier. I blew out the lantern and hurried outside. I’d been extremely lucky not to cause an explosion. I brushed the remaining grains from my hand with something like horror. A cold sweat broke out on my brow and I propped myself up against a wall for a few minutes to calm down. I felt dizzy with fright. The Artillery was never my profession, but I realised I might easily have lost my fingers. A man with one hand and a lame foot is no use to anyone. What a narrow escape!