Duval and the Empress's Crown (Napoleon's Police Book 5) Page 9

  “Is the Princess Élisa here tonight?” I asked the lackey, because, to the best of my knowledge, I had not seen her before and would not be able to recognise her. The pictures in the broadsheets are so bad, they could be anyone.

  “There she is,” the lad said and pointed.

  Élisa sat on a chaise longue, at the side of the dais, near the Empress and her daughter. She wore the dark green of Corsica, which flashed with as many jewels as she could cram onto her person. The Empress, in white as usual, appeared almost plain beside her and all the more dignified for that. I watched Élisa for a while. After all, I would have to speak with her tomorrow. Not pretty, but with eyes that looked around with interest. I believed what I had been told about her. She would miss very little that went on. The lackey also pointed out Élisa’s husband, Prince Baciocchi, who was as far away from his wife as was possible without actually leaving the ballroom. He is a tall slim man with a dark hawk-like face who was talking to Caroline’s husband. Marechal Murat was one of the sights to be seen. He was wearing a pale lemon uniform, with a peach coloured cape lined with fur tossed negligently over one shoulder. When the music ceased, Murat excused himself to Baciocchi and walked off to partner a lady. He was dancing with élan, occasionally he must have stepped on her toes, for I saw her wincing. I remembered that Murat was known as a brave and impetuous cavalry commander. He certainly danced like one.

  “I see Marechal Murat,” I said to the lackey, “but not his wife.”

  “The Princess is not present this evening. I believe she is ill.” He lowered his voice. “She is with child.”

  “I did not know,” I replied, wondering if Fournier and I had been guilty of making a grave mistake. I remember how often Eugénie had been inconvenienced with Marie-Aimée. “What a pity she is missing some of the celebrations. Let us hope she is well enough to attend the coronation.”

  A group of men were making their way into the ballroom from a side rooms. Fouché was among them, dressed as usual in black and looking like a carrion crow amid all the glitter. Beside him was a man I recognised instantly as Tallyrand, the Grand Chamberlain of the Empire and our most famous diplomat. He is unmistakable. The third man was named to me as the Marquis de Coulaincourt, another diplomat. At that moment, Fouché, who was glancing around the ballroom, lifted his eyes and saw me on the balcony. He beckoned, said something to his companions and walked towards one of the doors.

  “I have been summoned,” I said to the lackey. “Can you take me to meet Monsieur Fouché?”

  “Of course.”

  Fouché was waiting for me near the staircase which led to the balconies. He nodded to the lackey and told him to go away but to return after ten minutes or so. He then led me down a corridor and into a small room which was obviously some sort of office, from all the papers scattered around.

  “Well?” he asked impatiently.

  “I have not found it yet, Monseigneur,” I said and he snorted.

  “That is evident. If you had, you would not be here. Garnier has had no luck. He has questioned both of the workmen you mentioned. He reported to me just before I left the Ministry. Both of them maintained their innocence and denied all knowledge of the theft. Knowing Garnier and his methods, I am sure he would have obtained the information if they had any to give him.”

  “A pity.” I described how our investigation was proceeding and showed Fouché Dupré’s passport.

  “I will look into this,” he said, handing it back to me.

  “I intend to confront Dupré tonight,” I told him. “Finding the passport should make him speak to me more freely.”

  Fouché was tapping on the desk as he does when he is deep in thought.

  “Or it may force him into premature flight. Certainly he has something to hide. Whether he took the crown and still has it is debatable. Debts and an easy way out of the country are not absolute proof of guilt. By challenging him now, you chance make him run. If he is indeed part of a conspiracy you will alert the others. Your reasoning about the hiding place is interesting and might well provide the solution. Follow Dupré by all means, but don’t do anything else until you have seen Princess Caroline.”

  “Time is so short, Monseigneur.”

  “If you have made no more progress by tomorrow evening, I shall order a full search of the Princesses’ hotels and their persons. We’ll tear their palaces apart if need be.”

  I gasped and Fouché smiled his crooked smile. “In this matter, the Emperor will certainly support me. Do not doubt it.”

  “Never, Monseigneur.” I said fervently.

  So I did not, as I intended, speak to Dupré that evening. I waited at the Tuileries until he left and then followed him to Princess Pauline’s home. They did not go there alone. Her husband went in the same carriage and so did the man I had seen dancing with the Princess earlier. Dupré did not seem happy at all.

  9

  9 Frimaire, Year XIII

  (Friday, November 30, 1804)

  I spent a cold and miserable few hours watching Princess Pauline’s hôtel but neither Dupré nor his mistress emerged again. I left as one of the church clocks chimed five and made my way to Fournier’s rooms. His wife, Berthe, was already awake and served me bread, cheese and freshly made coffee which were very welcome. Fournier had been dozing in his chair when I arrived, but he perked up as I came in and gave me a report. He searched Saint Victor’s dwelling while the equerry was dancing at the ball. Saint Victor lived in an apartment, rather grander than Dupré’s, from the description. Although Saint Victor was often on duty with one of the Princesses, he still lived there, returning most nights. He kept a servant, an elderly man who had worked for him for years, according to the concierge. This servant always went to the tavern as soon as his master departed. Apparently, he was usually gone for a long time.

  “I thanked the concierge for the information and left,” Fournier told me. “I went round the corner and slipped back into the house. I searched Saint Victor’s apartment but except for some bad poetry, I found nothing of interest.”

  “How did you get in?” I asked because I hadn’t given him the Emperor’s authorisation. It was still in my pocket.

  “Lefebvre isn’t the only one who can open locked doors,” Fournier said with a wink.

  “So we’re no further?”

  “Not with Saint Victor, not yet. What about you?”

  I told him my story.

  “Not much there,” he sighed when I finished.

  A tap on the door and Berthe let Lefebvre in. He was grinning.

  “You look as if you are big with news,” I said, hopefully.

  “I am, up to a point.” He flung himself into a chair and took the beaker Berthe offered him. “I’ve not found the crown, but I have found a link between Simon, the servant, and Saint Victor, which may explain why and how the false message was sent.”

  “Go on then, tell us.”

  “It’s simple enough. Saint Victor is courting Madame de Herlay’s daughter, Cécile. When he called to see her yesterday, he said that he had forgotten an urgent note which had to be taken to the jeweller Margueritte. Cécile asked their head lackey to deliver it immediately. The man told me he gave Simon the note to take to the workshop right away.”

  “You got that from the lackey?”

  “Yes I did and Simon confirmed it. By the way, Soldier, you owe me two francs for that piece of information.”

  “When I get paid, you will too. Saint Victor took a risk, trusting the letter to someone else.”

  “Well, he could hardly take it himself. Someone would be sure to ask awkward questions. It’s a servant’s job. He’s above that these days. The note was innocent enough and it was sealed. It took a while for him to admit it, but Simon has never been taught to read. I asked him because he seems a bit gormless, not the sort of lad to stick to his books. The head lackey can read but he was most indignant at the suggestion that he would open any letter entrusted to him. If it hadn’t been for his dignity, I thought
he would have thumped me,”

  “Just as well he didn’t,” I said. Lefebvre fights dirty. “So we are a little further ahead. Saint Victor deliberately tried to entice Monsieur Margueritte away from his workshop, not one of the workmen. Garnier got nothing from Robart or Jacques, by the way.”

  “Therefore Simon and Jacques are innocent.”

  “So it would seem. How did Saint Victor know Madame de Herlay would not be at home at the time he asked Monsieur Margueritte to call?”

  “Madame de Herlay and Cécile regularly call on an old friend on Thursdays. Saint Victor knew that and undoubtedly encouraged or assisted the Princesses to visit the workshop at the right time.”

  “You’ve done well,” I said. “Do you think Saint Victor was acting on his own initiative or someone else’s?”

  “He’s not that bright,” Fournier mused, “or so they say. He’s brave and a good enough soldier but he’s better at taking orders than giving them. There’s no evidence that he’s dishonest either. One of the Princesses’ ideas perhaps?”

  “They’re the most obvious suspects and unfortunately, they are looking more and more guilty with each piece of information we receive.”

  “You haven’t forgotten Dupré?”

  “No, he could well be part of the conspiracy. Maybe he put a side bet on the outcome to help himself out of debt just in case Pauline doesn’t rescue him again.”

  “So how do we prove it and find the crown? We’ve only got today and tonight left.”

  “I still think it’s still at Caroline’s,” Fournier said. “The equerries don’t have it in their private apartments. I doubt they’d be foolhardy enough to keep it in their rooms in the Princesses’ hôtels. You told me the other two sisters were at the ball and Caroline wasn’t.”

  “She’s got a good enough excuse, she’s pregnant,” I told them.

  “It doesn’t usually slow her down,” Fournier said. “She likes balls, or so they say. This is her fourth brat anyway. She’s supposed to have danced the night away before she had her third. Go and see if she will receive you, Alain.”

  “Shall I go with you and chat to her servants?” Lefebvre asked and I nodded.

  “What about me?” Fournier queried.

  “Take your pick, Pauline, Élisa or the women at Margueritte’s?”

  “You saw Pauline and Dupré yesterday and got nothing from them. I doubt I can do any better. I’ll leave Élisa to you. I hear she’s difficult. So I’ll talk to the jeweller’s women.”

  “Very well. You may be lucky, although I would not wager on the outcome.”

  “I agree but it has to be done. We’d look fools to be harassing the Emperor’s family if by any chance one of them had seen something which would help us.”

  We had broken our fast by now and I smartened myself up as much as possible, helped by Berthe. She found me a clean shirt of Fournier’s and his second best jacket, which was more presentable than my own. He howled when he saw her hand it to me.

  “Must you give away my clothes without asking me, woman?”

  “You’ve got your best jacket on, you can’t wear this one as well,” she replied tartly.

  “Whenever Alain borrows anything from me, he brings it back in rags!”

  “He won’t this time. He’s going into respectable company for a change.”

  Fournier hooted. “You call Bonaparte’s relatives respectable?”

  We went out of the house and Fournier left us. Lefebvre and I decided to walk to Caroline’s hôtel. I was sleepy and my head felt fuzzy from my sleepless night. The cold clear air helped to wake me up. I suppose I had not been looking too closely at my surroundings. Certainly I did not see anyone following us. Lefebvre must have been in the same condition, for it is rare for him to make a mistake. As it was we had no warning. We had nearly reached our destination when Berthe’s prediction became dramatically wrong.

  We stopped at a corner of the street as we prepared to go our separate ways. I was supposed to approach the front of the building, Lefebvre the servants’ quarters at the back. Suddenly an arm came round my throat, a hand was clapped over my mouth and something very hard struck me on the back of the head. My world went dark and I knew no more.

  When I came to my senses, I was lying on a stone floor with someone tugging at my hands. I tried to move them, only to discover they had been tied behind my back. I lifted my head. Then the pain hit me and I groaned.

  “Keep still and let me cut you loose,” a familiar voice hissed in my ear. I opened my eyes but could see nothing. We had been plunged into inky blackness. I could feel Lefebvre’s hands on my arms and hear the sawing of his knife.

  “What happened?”

  “We’ve been kidnapped!”

  “Why?”

  “How should I know? There.”

  The last strand of my bonds parted. I pulled my hands free, rubbing at the soreness in my wrists.

  “How did you get yourself untied?” I asked.

  “I’ve been tied up before. I take precautions or I’d have gone to the guillotine long ago. I keep a knife in the hollow heel of one of my boots. I always have and it’s come in useful in the past. I could just reach it when I knelt up. Whoever tied us doesn’t know much about his business. He’s an amateur, not like some.” Lefebvre’s voice was scathing.

  “Well let’s thank heaven for that,” I muttered.

  I scrambled to my feet and immediately had to clutch at the wall, which was fortunately nearby, or I would have fallen down again. I was giddy and when I put my hand to my head, it came away sticky with blood. I leaned against the wall until my senses stopped reeling and my eyes cleared. Then I realised that the room was not as completely black as I had thought. A faint square of light outlined the doorway and filtered through the keyhole.

  “Are you all right?” I asked Lefebvre who was fumbling on the floor.

  “I’ll live. I’ve a hard head. Got it!”

  “Got what?”

  “My pick-lock.”

  The tiny sliver of light from the keyhole was suddenly blocked as he inserted something into the hole, turning it this way and that. Something clicked. He put a shoulder to the door and it opened.

  “Can you walk?” he asked me.

  “To get out of here, of course I can.”

  “Quietly then.” Lefebvre pulled the door wide and looked around. Then he slid out and waited until I joined him. He turned and used his instrument, a funny shaped object with a lot of levers and spikes, to lock the door behind us, before slipping it inside his coat.

  “That may buy us a little time,” he whispered, “if they think we’re still in there.”

  We stood in a narrow passageway with a set of steps at one end. Light and air filtered through a dusty grill in the wall beside the stairs. It was a bit dim, but, after our time in the cell, the brightness made my eyes smart. No one seemed to be about as we crept forwards. No sound came from above to alert us to anyone nearby, so we went upwards. I was nervous and unhappy, because I had a thumping headache and my weapons had been taken from me, my pistol, my knife and my swordstick. Unlike Lefebvre’s, my knife had not been hidden in a secret place. He still had his in his hand as he led the way up the stairs. We climbed and the air became less musty. The clean scent of wine reached my nose as we came out into a room containing casks and racks of bottles. We walked between the rows to another staircase. This time we could hear people talking above us. Then footsteps started to descend. Quickly we hid ourselves. A man passed us, carrying a jug and a loaf of bread. He went down the stairs that led to our prison.

  “Quick.”

  We hurried up the stairs he had come down and found ourselves in a kitchen where three men and several women were busy cooking. Lefebvre took one glance, pushed a man flying and snatched up the long knife which lay on the table in front of him. I grabbed a spit iron, just in time. One of the cooks came at me but thank God, I have never forgotten my old training. I tripped him and bashed him over the head with the rod. By
this time the women were shrieking and running away, like a flock of hens from a fox. The third man tried to jump Lefebvre. He stumbled and fell down on his backside, grasping his arm which was streaming blood. We ran for the door, thrusting aside anyone who got in our way. Fortunately it wasn’t locked. We broke through and were out in the street, twisting down alleyway after alleyway until we were sure no one was following us.

  Then I leaned against a wall to catch my breath, which was hissing through my teeth. My head was pounding and Fournier’s second best coat had developed several rips. He was going to murder me, or perhaps Berthe for lending it to me.

  “Where are we?” I asked Lefebvre. “Any idea?” I had been so busy running that I had not bothered to keep track of our direction. This part of Paris is a rabbit-warren. You have to be born and bred in the place and nosy into the bargain, to make sense of the muddle. Fortunately, Lefebvre is all of those things.

  “The door we came out of opens onto the Rue d’Égalité,” he replied.

  “How do you know that?”

  “A wench I once visited lives further down the street, or used to. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her. It’s an interesting thing, Soldier, the Rue d’Égalité runs at the back of Princess Caroline’s hotel.”

  “That bitch! So that’s where we were.” I swore and then I thought about it. “No, she wouldn’t kidnap us. We’re Police agents for God’s sake.”

  “All she has to say is that she didn’t know who we were. We were loitering and her servants thought we were thieves. They locked us up while they made some enquiries. That would take them a while with Paris so busy. Until after the coronation perhaps. Murat and Caroline would be all apologies, of course, afterwards.”

  My temper was rising but then I had a sudden thought that sent an icy cold shiver down my back. Hurriedly, I ran my hands over my clothes, looking for the Emperor’s authorisation. If I lost that, Caroline and her sisters could legitimately refuse to speak to me until I obtained another copy, which would waste precious time which we did not have. My purse was still in my coat. So were the keys to my apartment and to my files in the bureau. I fumbled with anxiety until I remembered. I had put the authorisation into the wide turn back of my sleeve to have it ready at hand to be displayed to the Princess. Fournier had told me that it was a useful place to hide something I did not want to be stolen, better than my pocket, which was the first place a pickpocket would try. I had followed his suggestion. Thank heavens I had. We would have been in trouble if it had not been there because I had given Fournier Fouché’s earlier warrant, thinking I had no further need of it. I pulled the authorisation out and breathed a sigh of relief.