For the King (25 page)

“The experts are analyzing the powder to determine its provenance. I would be much surprised it were not of English manufacture.”

“And Carbon?” asked Roch.

“No trace of him there, apart from the clothes.”

Roch hit the palm of his hand with his closed fist. The scoundrel was again ahead of the police, and time was running out for Old Miquel.

“The Prefect himself will question Catherine Vallon,” continued Piis. Roch stared at his colleague in disbelief.

“Dubois?” asked Roch. “
He
, question anyone? His mother would not tell him the time of day if he asked.”

“Maybe not,” said Piis. “But in a case like this one, he wants to take credit for the arrest of the culprits. The questioning should begin anytime now.”

Soon Roch and Piis were standing against the peepholes looking into the room where important witnesses were questioned. The holes were hidden in the flowery pattern of the dingy wallpaper on the other side. Grates let them hear whatever was said in the other room. Such a system allowed several policemen to follow the proceedings without the knowledge of the suspect.

“By the way,” whispered Piis, “I must really thank you. I reread
The Golden Ass
after our conversation. You were quite right about the name
Photis
, so I replaced it with
Iris
. Listen—”

Piis’s hand was already reaching for his pocket. Roch put his forefinger to his lips. Through the peephole, he had just seen a woman enter the room, flanked by two National Guards. Indeed, Pépin’s description of Catherine Vallon had been accurate, and she resembled the traditional image of a witch. The Prefect entered in turn. He pulled a handkerchief, dusted a chair and sat at a table in the middle of the room. Catherine Vallon reluctantly followed suit and cast a malevolent look at him.

Dubois cleared his throat. “Please state your name,” he ordered.

“Again? I’ve already told those other fellows.”

An auspicious beginning, thought Roch.

“Then state it again.”

“I guess you’ve nothin’ better to do’n harass a poor ’armless woman.” She hissed, “Catherine Carbon, married name Vallon.”

“What of all those clothes found in your lodgings?”

“You want me and my daughter to go naked?”

“I mean the men’s clothes, those blue jackets in particular.”

The woman shrugged. “Then you should’ve said the men’s clothes. How’m I supposed to guess what you’re talking about?”

“So what about those blue jackets?”

“They’re my husband’s.”

“Where is your husband?”

“Dunno. He’s a good-for-nothin’ rascal that runs away chasing after whores all the time.”

“And that barrel of gunpowder found at your lodgings?”

“I reckoned those were lentils in that barrel. Never looked inside.”

“Who brought it to you?”

“Dunno. S’been a long time.”

“Did your brother, Francis Carbon, bring the barrel to your place?”

“I don’t remember, like I told you already.”

“François Carbon is your bother, isn’t he?”

“Course.” The woman pursed her lips and looked at the Prefect as though she had never faced such stupidity before. “I was Catherine Carbon ’fore I married that piece of filth Vallon. So François Carbon’d be my brother, wouldn’t he? That’s not too hard to understand, maybe?”

“When was the last time you saw your brother, François Carbon?”

The woman seemed absorbed in the contemplation of her hands. “S’been a long time. Can’t remember, really. Two months, maybe.” She picked some dirt from under her fingernails. “Dunno where he’s either, in case you’d be thinking of asking.”

Roch was furious. Any imbecile would have known that this was not how a recalcitrant suspect should be questioned. Two policemen, taking turns, were needed. That was when Bertrand’s grotesque appearance could be useful. His clubfoot, his dead eye, his gigantic frame instilled terror in the steadiest of minds. He ranted, raved, threatened, drew himself to his full height, frightened the suspect out of his or her wits. If no information was forthcoming after an hour or so, he left the room. Then another policeman, soft-spoken, friendly, someone like Piis or Roch, for instance, entered the room, offered comfort, even apologies for his colleague’s manners. By then the suspect was usually ready to reveal anything.

The Vallon woman must know of her brother’s whereabouts. Yet now, thanks to Dubois’s skill as an interrogator, she would never speak. But then all was not lost. There remained young Madeleine.

Roch waited for the end of the Vallon woman’s questioning, which failed to yield any information, and asked the Prefect’s permission to interview Madeleine Vallon. Dubois, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief, granted it with a relieved look.

Roch took Madeleine to his office. She might be more at ease there than in the cavernous peephole room. She was a tall, slender girl with a sad face, though not devoid of charm. There was none of her mother’s venomous air about her.

“Good afternoon, Madeleine. I am Chief Inspector Miquel.”

The girl muttered in response.

“I know that you would rather not be here, Madeleine, but we are investigating a horrible crime. Many people died. We need to discover who did it.” Roch looked into the girl’s eyes. “I will ask many questions, and you may not know the answers to all. That is perfectly all right. You simply need to tell me that you don’t know. Also, if I say something that is mistaken, you should tell me too.”

“And then what’ll happen?”

“I will prepare a paper that will state what you told me, and I will read it to you, and then ask you to sign it. I am sure an intelligent girl like you can sign her name.”

“Yes, Sir, I can. I can even read a bit too,” said Madeleine with the first hint of a smile he had yet seen on her face.

“That is what I would have thought. Now what can you tell me about your uncle, François Carbon?”

The smile left Madeleine’s face. She stared at Roch with frightened eyes. “Nothing,” she said. “I don’t know where he is.”

“He’s not always kind to you, is he?” asked Roch.

The girl’s lips began to tremble.

“I believe,” Roch continued, “that he did to you things that shouldn’t be done between an uncle and his niece.”

The girl twisted her hands. Her nails were bitten to the bone. Her voice caught on her words. “If I tell you, it’ll be all written down, and everyone’ll know of it.”

“Yes, it will be written down, but no one outside the police needs to know about it. There is no reason for any of it to be mentioned at trial. The judges are reasonable men. They will understand that it’s a private matter, between you and your uncle, and that it does not concern the crime.”

“And I won’t go to jail?”

“We have to keep you for some time, because you are an important witness, not because you did anything wrong. Also, we want to make sure that no one hurts you or bothers you.”

“And you won’t make fun of me?”

“No. I don’t see anything funny about this.”

Madeleine swallowed hard. “Well, my uncle came to stay with us when he arrived in Paris last summer, and in the beginning he always slept with Mama. Then one night, he slipped into my bed while I was asleep. I cried out. But Mama scolded me. She said she’d throw me out if I didn’t let him do what he liked. After that, sometimes he just slept with Mama, and he left me alone. But sometimes he slept with me, or I had to sleep with them in Mama’s bed. Oh, I hated it. I could never tell in advance what he’d want to do.” She was interrupted by a sob. “I’m ruined now.”

“You are not ruined. What he did was wrong, completely wrong, but it was not your fault. You look to me like a fine girl.”

“But I’m not! Who’s going to marry me now?”

“Some men don’t care about this kind of thing, Madeleine. I, for one, don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“No, I don’t. I have no intention to marry at this time, but if I did, all I would worry about would be to find a girl who would make a good wife. A pleasant, honest girl, a girl I could trust.” He suddenly thought of Blanche and paused until the pang subsided. “What else can you tell me about your uncle? When was the last time you saw him?”

“Two days ago, at the Convent of Saint-Michel, on Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. He has a room upstairs. Mama sent me there to bring him clean shirts. Oh, I didn’t want to go. I knew what he’d do, but I had no choice.”

Roch leaned back in his chair. He could have kissed Madeleine on both cheeks. Short Francis was still at the convent two days ago. The track was fresh.

37

S
o François Carbon had found a refuge in a nunnery, of all places. Hours before dawn on the 17th of January, the police discreetly surrounded the Convent of the Sisters of Saint-Michel. The Prefect had authorized the use of a full detachment of the National Guard, along with all twenty-four Police Inspectors. Roch had studied at length the plans of the house, which had been filed with the city of Paris at the time of the construction, ten years before the Revolution. The Convent consisted of four buildings forming a square and enclosing a courtyard, at the far end of which was a chapel. The front door opened onto Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, Our Lady in the Fields, a genteel, peaceful street, and there were no other entrances.

Dawn was casting a pale shadow in the eastern sky when Roch and the Police Commissioner for the district had ladders laid against the outside walls of the convent. Dozens of men climbed onto the roofs, moved the ladders up and then down to the other side.

Roch himself had already stepped down into the courtyard, whence he was surveying the operations. In a few moments he would be in control of the place. The only laggard among his men was Inspector Bachelot, a tall awkward fellow, heavy in the face and around the waist. Bachelot, puffing, caught his foot in the last rung as he stepped down the ladder. It fell to the ground with a resounding crash, while the man tripped with a cry.

Roch swore. He heard the sound of hands clapping four times, then a pause, and another four claps. This had to be a signal. The nuns had already detected their presence, and were alerting Francis to the arrival of the police. No need to worry about secrecy now. Roch shouted to his men to search all of the buildings and ran towards what he assumed to be the porter’s lodge, just inside the carriage door. A man in a coarse reddish jacket appeared.

“Police!” said Roch. “Why did you clap your hands?”

The man stared stupidly without answering.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked a stern female voice behind him.

Roch turned around and saw a middle-aged woman in a white wimple and black habit. She was breathing fast, her hand on her breast. Only then did Roch realize his mistake. Of course he should have remembered that nuns went to bed early and awoke before dawn for the first morning Mass. The entire Convent, including Francis, must be up already. The place should have been secured hours earlier.

“Everyone in this house is under arrest, Citizen,” said Roch. “What is your name?”

Her chin held high, the nun folded her hands inside the sleeves of her habit. “I am Reverend Mother Marie of the Infant Jesus, Prioress of this community.”

Roch, still furious at his own mistake, had no intention of letting this woman put on airs. He looked straight at her. “I asked for your
name
, Citizen.”

A certain trembling behind the firmness of her voice betrayed her nervousness. “Marie-Anne Duquesne. You interrupted the divine service on the Lord’s Day. With good reason, Sir, I hope.”

“I can’t think of a better one. You are giving shelter to one of the Rue Nicaise assassins.”

Mother Duquesne’s lips turned pale. “I have nothing to do with that terrible misfortune.”

“A misfortune! In police jargon, Citizen Duquesne, we call it murder. Take me to your apartment.”

Mother Duquesne led Roch through the courtyard, where National Guards were herding a dozen nuns and twice as many schoolgirls in black uniforms. Their excited chatter ceased abruptly at the sight Mother Duquesne, escorted by Roch.

Her apartment was on the second story of the back building. Policemen were already busy there, emptying drawers, moving furniture away from the walls, gathering letters and papers into bundles, pulling the sheets off the bed. Mother Duquesne gasped when two National Guards ripped open her pillows with the points of their bayonets, filling the air with a shower of feathers.

Inspector Bertier burst into the apartment. “We found his room, Citizen Chief Inspector!” he cried. “Empty, but the bed’s still warm.”

Roch abandoned Mother Duquesne to his subordinates. He ran with Bertier across the courtyard and climbed one flight of stairs to a little room overlooking the street. Roch touched with the tips of his fingers the unmade bed. It was indeed warm. Obviously Francis had not been attending the service in the chapel. He looked out the window. It was too high for Carbon to have jumped out without breaking a limb, and the street below was teeming with National Guards. The short man was still hiding somewhere in the Convent.

“Have you searched the rest of the floor?” Roch asked Bertier.

“No, but a man named Buchet next door, a boarder, told me of an attic above. He thinks Carbon may be hiding there.”

An elderly man, slightly stooped, a cunning smile on his lips, was standing in the doorway, watching the policemen.

“Are you Citizen Buchet?” asked Roch.

“Yes,” said the old man. “And I have the key to the attic in my pocket. This way you won’t have to force the door open. I’m always one for sparing the gentlemen of the police any trouble. If you’ll follow me . . .”

Roch pursed his lips. The man’s zeal was suspicious in light of the sympathies of the house. He told Inspector Bertier to accompany the man to the attic. Roch remained behind and gestured to a National Guard to follow him into the apartment of the obliging boarder.