For the King (24 page)

Roch suppressed a start of disgust. “Really, Citizen?”

“And not only that, but he slept with little Madeleine as well.”

“Who is little Madeleine?”

“Madeleine Vallon. That’s Catherine’s daughter. His niece.”

“Where did Carbon and his womenfolk go?” asked Roch.

“I wish I knew, because Catherine Vallon owes me forty francs for rent. She’s a nasty woman, Sir, always looking for a quarrel. But she was like ass and shirt with that other wench upstairs, Marguerite Davignon. They’d take coffee together, with that Carbon fellow, almost every day. I guess that’s where my rent money went. I’m sure the Davignon woman knows where her friend Vallon went, but she won’t tell me.”

“Where is this Marguerite Davignon?”

“Oh, she’s here all right. Third floor, left door.”

Roch rushed out up the stairs, followed by two Inspectors. He knocked at the left shaky door on the third floor with his closed fist and yelled, “Police!”

The only response was a woman’s shrill cries. Roch kicked the door with the sole of his boot. It flew open with a crashing noise as rusty nails were pulled out of the frame. A woman, holding a petticoat with both hands in front of her ample, naked body, was standing at the far end of the room. Skirts, breeches, a man’s coat, various undergarments were strewn on the chairs, the table, the floor, as though a storm had hit the place. One could distinguish a tremulous shape in the bed. Roch pulled on the sheets and uncovered the terrified face of a man. Long, thin, red-cheeked, it did not answer to the description of any known suspect.

“Who are you?” asked Roch.

The man opened his mouth without uttering a sound.

“You are under arrest,” said Roch. “Get out of bed!”

“I can’t!” cried the man. “I’m naked.”

Roch pulled further on the bedsheets and completely uncovered the fellow, who was lying curled in a ball on his side, his knees under his chin. Roch turned to the woman.

“Who is this?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” she said.

“Oh, you don’t? And who are you?”

“Marguerite Léger, married name Davignon.”

“So you are married?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And where is your husband?”

“He’s not in Paris. He drives the stagecoach to Rennes.”

Roch felt sorry for the man. It was not easy work, being out in all weathers. It was dangerous too, especially driving to Rennes, in the West. Any wood along lonely country roads could hide a band of Chouans armed to the teeth. Roch, given his personal situation, was not inclined to cast the first stone at an adulteress, but he could not help disliking the Davignon woman.

“So while your husband earns a living freezing his ass on the seat of his stagecoach,” he said, “you keep his bed warm with your lover?”

“But Deniau doesn’t usually stay the night!” replied the woman in an indignant tone. “He always leaves around eleven, but last night he’d forgotten his papers. I told him that he’d be arrested by a patrol, that he’d better stay till dawn. If I’d known . . .” She frowned, as if struck by a sudden idea. “My husband won’t learn of this, will he?”

“So you say this man is called Deniau, but he has no papers? About you? You have your papers?”

The woman, still holding her petticoat in front of her with one arm, opened the drawer of the nightstand with her free hand. She handed Roch her
Carte de Sûreté
. He perused it.

“At least you haven’t lied about your name,” he said. “And where is Catherine Vallon?”

“I don’t know her.”

“She is your best friend. Where did she move?”

“She . . . she didn’t say.”

“And what of that brother of hers, François Carbon? Where is he?”

Citizen Davignon shook her head vehemently. “I don’t know, Sir.”

Deniau was howling as two Inspectors pulled him from the bed. Roch squatted to pick up a pair of breeches from the floor and threw them at him.

“You, be quiet,” he ordered. He turned back to Citizen Davignon. “You are under arrest too.”

She stared at Roch. “But I didn’t do anything wrong. And I have my papers!”

“You are giving shelter to a man who hasn’t any. And you are lying to a police officer. Now will you please dress and follow us?”

The woman did not budge.

“Fine,” said Roch. “We will take you to the Prefecture naked then. But we will need to wrap you in a blanket for the sake of decency.”

“No!” she wailed. “Wait, I’ll dress.”

“Then make haste.”

Inspector Bachelot was gaping at the woman’s half-exposed thighs and breasts. Roch shoved him to make him turn around. Behind them, Citizen Davignon made little unhappy noises, half hiccups, half sniffles, as she dressed.

At the Prefecture, Roch led Citizen Davignon to the coop, the vast cage holding the prostitutes arrested during the night. It was quite full at this time of the morning, for the whores had yet to be taken for arraignment to the Police Court. Marguerite Davignon, like any new arrival, was greeted by much cheering as a guard unlocked the gate and pushed her inside.

“Look, girls, this beauty’s dressed like an honest woman!” cried one of the harlots. “What’s she here for, my love?” she shouted to Roch as he was leaving for his office upstairs.

“Whoring,” he shouted back without turning around. The cheers turned into hoots. The harlots did not like unfair competition.

Roch questioned first the fellow arrested with Citizen Davignon. He was so shaken that he had some trouble stuttering his name and occupation, René Deniau, poultry merchant. No, he did not live in the Biré house. He only went there to keep his good friend Marguerite Davignon company whenever her husband happened to be away. No, he had never seen or heard of anyone named Catherine Vallon or François Carbon. His business was only with Marguerite. He always tried his best to avoid her neighbors and their prying eyes.

The man seemed to be telling the truth, but he would stay in custody until his story was verified. Roch could not think of a more dismal conclusion to a night of passion than an early-morning arrest. That might be the end of that romance.

Roch pulled his watch. Eight o’clock already. Hopefully the Davignon woman had simmered long enough in the coop. In any case, time was of the essence.

When she appeared, escorted by two National Guards, he noticed that she limped. She seemed to have lost one of her shoes. The cap and kerchief she had worn upon her arrival were missing, and her cheeks were covered with brown smears. Roch, after a glance at her disheveled state, seized a quill and a sheet of paper. He pointed to a chair, in which she sat gingerly. He began writing the usual opening phrases of her statement.

“Well, Citizen Chief Inspector,” she simpered, “you’re a young man, I must say a very handsome young man, and . . .”

He raised his eyes. Citizen Davignon had gathered herself and mustered what was probably meant as a seductive smile. He put down his quill and looked straight at her.

“And what?” he asked coldly.

She bit her lip and remained silent.

“I am afraid, Citizen Davignon, you fail to appreciate the gravity of your situation,” he continued. “Let me explain. You made a mistake by refusing to answer my questions truthfully earlier. You forced me to arrest you. This man you are protecting, this Carbon, is wanted for the Rue Nicaise attack, and his sister is also wanted as an accomplice. You are obstructing the course of justice in a case of the utmost gravity. You will find yourself among the accused, with your friends. If you are lucky, you might escape the guillotine, but you will be sentenced to many years in jail. You will only come out as an old woman, and one does not age well in prison.”

Citizen Davignon burst into loud sobs that made the flesh of her breasts quiver like jelly. Roch now hated her. That brainless, spineless, soulless slut knew of Carbon’s whereabouts, she held the key to Old Miquel’s freedom, and yet she refused to speak, out of sheer stupidity, or, heaven forbid, because she fancied Short Francis. Roch felt the urge to slap her, but he clenched his fists under his desk and waited for the outburst to subside. When he thought she was quieting, he asked, “Are you done now?”

She nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Let us start then. Do you know François Carbon?” continued Roch.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And of course you knew that he is wanted in connection with the Rue Nicaise attack?”

“No, Sir, I didn’t.”

“You did not see his description posted on the streets, with the reward of 2,000
louis
? Can you read?”

“Yes, Sir, I can, I saw that, but I didn’t think it was him. Francis wasn’t the kind of man who’d do a thing like that.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Since last summer.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“About his sister, Catherine Vallon? How long have you known her?”

“About five years.”

“So you must know the address of such an old friend.”

Marguerite Davignon took a deep breath. “She lives on Rue Martin, in front of Saint-Nicolas Church. Number 310, between the wigmaker and the café. On the sixth floor, in front. A house with an iron gate.”

Roch pushed away the Davignon woman’s statement and hastily wrote a note. He rose and shouted to a guard to bring it immediately to the Prefect. He returned to his seat and looked into Citizen Davignon’s eyes.

“What about Short Francis? Does he live there with his sister?”

“No, Sir, I don’t think so. I don’t know where he went. I swear, Sir.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“On the 28th of December, in the morning. That would have been the 7th of Nivose. I saw him at his sister’s, Sir. Just before she moved. She made coffee, and we had a little chat. Francis was nice and friendly, as always.”

“You said you met Carbon last summer, Citizen, is that right?” asked Roch in a softer tone.

“Yes. He was a bit raggedy then, but he’s been far better dressed of late. He wears his hair powdered now, and nice starched shirts. And silk stockings, with stripes lengthwise. And he snuffs tobacco, from a pretty snuff box, with the picture of a horseman on it. He has a silver watch too. He looks quite the gentleman.”

So the woman liked Carbon. Indeed, all tastes were found in nature.

“It apparently was common knowledge,” said Roch, “that Carbon slept with his sister, and with his niece Madeleine.”

Citizen Davignon hesitated. “Well, I’m not one for meddling with what’s none of my business. Francis is fond of a joke, and you never know what nasty people’ll make out of that. Sometimes he’d have Catherine and her girl Madeleine sit in his lap and pinch them. Or he’d raise their skirts to slap their bottoms. Playfully, mind you. That’s all there was to it.”

“He did that in front of you?”

“Oh, yes, he’d wink at me, and I’d wink back. It was all done in good cheer. Catherine liked it too, I could tell. It’s only that Madeleine girl that kept a sour look on her face. She doesn’t promise much, that one.”

“I see. When did you last see Catherine?”

“Three days ago, at her new lodgings. Francis wasn’t there. She said he wasn’t living with her anymore.”

“Where did she say he lives now?”

“She wouldn’t tell. She said she didn’t like my questions about Francis. She looked like she’d had a bit too much to drink, and it wasn’t coffee, if you get my meaning. She got angrier and angrier, and finally she accused me of sleeping with him. She said she’d tell my husband when he came back from Rennes, and he’d give me a good whipping. She even said I was nothing but a dirty trollop.”

“Imagine that! So you slept with Francis?”

Citizen Davignon put her hand to her heaving breast. “Me, Sir? No, never!”

Roch found her show of indignation a bit excessive, but he smiled amicably.

“I understand how it all happened, Citizen Davignon. Your husband is away most of the time, and you are fond of company. You felt lonesome. You met Carbon, a dashing, well-spoken man. Who could blame you if you took a liking to him?”

The Davignon woman shook her head vigorously in denial. Roch gazed at her for a moment. He was sure that she was hiding something, maybe something of such crucial importance as Short Francis’s whereabouts, but there was nothing more to be had from her now. Not until she had spent some more time in the coop. He finished writing her statement and pushed it towards her.

The woman signed the sheet of paper and raised her eyes to Roch with a hopeful look. “So I am free to go now, Citizen Chief Inspector?”

“Are you joking? You are still not telling the truth.”

“But I gave you Catherine’s address, Sir!”

“There’s much more you haven’t told me.”

Her lower lip quivered. She began to whimper again. “There, there, Citizen,” he said, “do not make yourself unhappy. You are going to stay with us, right here at the Prefecture, until you decide to tell me all you know. The coop should be empty soon, and you will have the place to yourself. Until tonight, that is. In the meantime, do not hesitate to call the guard should you remember anything.”

Citizen Davignon, in tears, was led out of Roch’s office.

36

T
he Prefect must have reached the conclusion that it behooved him at this point to display some zeal. He acted promptly on the note Roch had sent him during Marguerite Davignon’s questioning. While the woman was signing her statement on Roch’s desk, Catherine Vallon and her daughter Madeleine were arrested at their new lodgings.

Roch, once he was done with Citizen Davignon’s questioning, stopped to talk to Piis in the corridor. A search of Catherine Vallon’s lodgings had yielded men’s clothes, including three blue jackets, in addition to a barrel of gunpowder, ingots of lead and bullet molds.

Roch whistled. “Quite a catch!”