For the King (7 page)

“The Chouans also could have done it, Citizen Prefect.”

Dubois snorted. “The Chouans! You are out of your mind, Miquel. This bears all of the hallmarks of a Jacobin atrocity.”

Bertrand, the Chief of the High Police Division, in charge of all political cases, intervened. “Maybe, Citizen Prefect, Miquel’s memory is no more reliable than those so-called lists of his. Maybe he forgot all about the Conspiracy of Daggers.” A sneer further distorted Bertrand’s misshapen face. “Now, if that wasn’t a Jacobin plot!”

Roch had always loathed Bertrand, a sort of giant, lame and almost blind in one eye. Indeed Roch had not forgotten about the Conspiracy of Daggers. A few months earlier, a police informer, a Captain Harel, had befriended a few vociferous Jacobins, prodded them, shamed them for being content with words where action was needed. Finally, under the Prefect’s supervision, Harel had hatched a plot whereby twelve men were supposed to surround Bonaparte and stab him to death during a representation of the play
The Horatii
at the Opera. The problem was that all of the supposed assassins had stayed home that night. Nevertheless, several Jacobins, including the painter Topino-Lebrun, had later been arrested and were still languishing in jail.

“Exactly, Bertrand,” opined the Prefect. “Were not the assassins in the Conspiracy of Daggers planning to stab the First Consul
at the Opera
? And pray, Miquel, where was the First Consul going during last night’s cowardly attack?
To-the-O-pe-ra.
” The Prefect detached every syllable, as though Roch had been a particularly slow-witted schoolboy. “Is not the similarity evident to you?”

There was no arguing with such nonsense. Piis himself kept silent.

Bertrand, his only eye alight with malice, intervened. “And I’d like to hear what Miquel has to say about Chevalier’s infernal machine. Wasn’t he experimenting with a barrel of powder fitted with a lighting mechanism when we arrested him?”

“Yes, precisely!” said the Prefect. “And Chevalier is a notorious Jacobin.”

“Certainly, Citizen Prefect,” answered Roch, “there is a connection between Chevalier’s device and the bomb used in last night’s attack. Yet in itself it does not prove the Jacobins’ guilt. The Chouans might simply have copied Chevalier’s idea. It is too early to exonerate anyone. I am only saying that it might be unwise to neglect clues that would lead to the Chouans. We do not know enough yet.”

“I disagree with you, Miquel,” said Henry, Chief of the Common Crime Division. “We have more than enough evidence to arrest all notorious Jacobins.”

Henry, a thin little man resembling a weasel, had been in the force since the days of the Old Regime, when the chief of Paris police was still called the Criminal Lieutenant. Henry knew every pick-pocket, swindler, forger and burglar in town. In Roch’s opinion, he even knew them a bit too well, but the man was fond of repeating that “one needed a thief to catch a thief.”

Now even Bouchesèche, Chief of the Food Supply and Safety Division, gravely nodded his approval. Bouchesèche had written a
Historical and Geographic Description of Hindustan
. He was a quiet, lumbering fellow with a high, balding forehead, and had the reputation of a fine scholar, though Roch could hardly be a judge of that, for he knew little and cared less about the geography of India. Still, until today, he had found Bouchesèche a pleasant colleague.

The Prefect pursed his lips. “So according to you, Miquel, we should ignore all the glaring clues that point to the Jacobins. We ought to wait for proof positive of their guilt before making any move, is that right? Instead we should chase after shadowy Chouans escaped from the countryside of the West?”

The Prefect’s thin, prominent nose jutted more decidedly in Roch’s direction. “Well,” he added, “I am afraid this is not how police work is done. But I can guess, along with everyone else, why you are so keen on defending the Jacobins. This is to be expected from you, Miquel, considering who and what your father is.”

Bertrand bellowed his hilarity and slapped his thigh repeatedly with his huge hand. But Roch’s anger was not directed at the brute. He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined the degree of satisfaction he would feel if his closed fist were allowed to hit the Prefect’s angular face. Unfortunately, this was not to be. So Roch swallowed the insult, steadied himself and looked straight at his superior.

“What do you mean exactly, Citizen Prefect? Unlike Bertrand, I did not catch the joke.”

“It is about time you caught people’s meanings, Miquel. And this is no joking matter. You have twenty-four Inspectors under your command, plus an untold number of
mouchards
, and yet you failed to get wind of this conspiracy. You and your men did nothing to prevent this. An unforgivable negligence, Miquel, and one that has not gone unnoticed in high places, I can assure you. How is it that the streets along the path of the carriage were not secured?”

Roch, his face reddening, was no longer hiding his anger. “You, Citizen Prefect, gave me strict orders not to meddle with any matters concerning the personal safety of the First Consul. That was supposed to be the exclusive province of General Duroc and his Military Police.”

“Enough, Miquel. Do not compound your incompetence by your insolence. I will not tolerate either much longer.”

Roch had no opportunity to respond. The Prefect was now looking at Bertrand and his other subordinates. “I will expect every night on my desk a detailed report from each of you. Even from you, Miquel.”

Dubois rose and announced that the meeting was over. Roch’s colleagues, casting furtive glances in his direction, left promptly. Only Bertrand tarried. Still grinning, he bent towards the Prefect, covering one side of his mouth with his giant hand, as though to share confidential information. The Prefect, smiling, nodded in silence. Roch clenched his fists to hide the trembling of his hands and returned to his own office.

10

T
he reward of 2,000
louis
offered by the Minister of Police produced immediate results. Crowds flocked to the Prefecture and waited in long lines to be heard by the next available policeman. People reported their friends, foes, neighbors and relatives for speaking ill of the First Consul, for carrying a few hundred francs in their pockets, for going to the tavern and getting drunk. Roch had to listen patiently as a man told him in hushed, breathless tones that his next door neighbor had given a dinner to “several people around a table lit by four candles” on the night of the 3rd of Nivose.

A woman described to Roch the activities of her cousin, who spent his spare time crafting miniature windmills in his attic. Those devices had always attracted the deponent’s distrust, but now it was all too clear that those were models for bombs like the one used in the Rue Nicaise attack. Roch was mesmerized by the woman’s fingers, mimicking the clockwork movement of the wings of the windmills. He had long stopped listening to her drivel. He was thinking of the meeting in the Prefect’s office. Of course his superior had always disliked him, but now the new turn of events had given free rein to the man’s animosity. Dubois was no longer afraid of Fouché. And that was very unfortunate news for Roch, who was completely dependent upon the Minister’s patronage.

Roch started when an usher interrupted the woman’s narrative and his own train of thought to hand him a note.

“From the Prefect
himself
,” announced the man with due solemnity.

Roch held his breath. For a moment he believed that he was being dismissed, without even the benefit of a personal interview with his superior. But no, the note only ordered Roch to go question a Citizen Vigier, who had reported hearing someone or something fall into the Seine River next to his bathing establishment.

This was better than anything Roch could have expected. Not only did he keep his position, at least for a while, but he remained part of the investigation. He rose, thanked the windmill woman and pushed her firmly towards the door, assuring her that he would keep her informed if her cousin were arrested thanks to her testimony. He reached for his hat and left the Prefecture.

Vigier’s Baths consisted of two separate barges, one for men and the other for women, moored next to the Pont-Royal, the Liberty Bridge, formerly the Royal Bridge. The place would have been bustling during the heat of summer, when Parisians flocked there to enjoy the pleasures of cool water, but in winter it was deserted. Yet a fine day it was, the sky the lightest shade of gray. The thin haze that rose from the river veiled the towers of Notre-Dame in the distance.

Sobry, a scowl on his face, the collar of his coat turned up, already stood on the deck of one of the barges, under a sign that advertised in bold letters:
Private and Public Ladies’ Cabins, Showers and Baths
. He watched as his men, armed with nets and long poles fitted with hooks, dredged the bottom of the river from a dozen rowboats.

“Any luck?” asked Roch.

The other man grunted. “Do I look lucky? Oh, we fished out old boots, a female fetus, a few dead dogs and of course enough animal entrails to fill the Tuileries. Those butchers from the slaughterhouses of the Châtelet toss the offal into the river. So no, no luck. Very little to show for a day spent chilling myself here.”

Sobry paused to gaze at Roch. “About you? Things going well with the Prefect?”

Roch grinned bitterly. “Who told you? Bertrand?”

“No, not Bertrand. Another sort of animal, of the weasel kind: Henry. You were begging for trouble, Miquel, with your Chouans. Everyone knows the Jacobins did it.”

“No one knows any such thing yet.
I
certainly don’t.”

“Then you should. The First Consul himself said so the other night at the Opera. Piis was there, sitting in the box of some fellow aristocrat, and he told me about it. According to him, Bonaparte promised that the Jacobins would pay, and pay dearly for the attack, and he said it aloud. He meant to be heard by everyone.”

“Bonaparte was furious,” said Roch. “Quite understandable at the time. By now he will have quieted and realized that there is no evidence pointing one way or the other.”

“I am not privy to what he has realized yet, but I would not bet a
sol
on Fouché’s future. They say the First Consul has given him no more than a week to prove the Jacobins’ innocence. How can that be done in such a short time? Fouché will be fortunate to avoid arrest himself. He is a former Jacobin, after all, and Bonaparte has never trusted him.”

“Bonaparte owes Fouché everything. His coup last year would never have succeeded if Fouché had not looked the other way.”

“Bonaparte expects more than that from his followers. Fouché was content to do nothing, wait for the outcome, and then side with the victor.”

“Doing nothing was already a great deal for a Minister of Police, when he had to know of Bonaparte’s projects.”

“Maybe, but Fouché didn’t rally to Bonaparte’s banner until the result was clear. Would he have hesitated a moment to arrest Bonaparte if the coup had failed? No, believe me, Bonaparte has tolerated him so far, but he will seize this opportunity to rid himself of the man.”

Sobry looked intently at Roch. “Everyone at the Prefecture knows you to be Fouché’s creature. It was fine, of course, as long as Fouché was powerful, but now it puts you in a dangerous position. Switch allegiances, friend, before it is too late. What is stopping you? Loyalty? Fouché himself has betrayed everyone and everything in due time. Go to the Prefect
today
. Tell him that you realized your error, that you are now absolutely convinced of the Jacobins’ guilt. He won’t be fooled, of course, but he might spare you when Fouché falls, in a few days.”

Roch remained silent. He was staring straight ahead at the river. It ran slowly like molten lead in front of his eyes.

Sobry shrugged. “Always stubborn as a mule, I see. Oh well, have it your way, Miquel, but don’t be surprised if you find yourself sharing Fouché’s fate, whatever it may be.”

Roch felt the need to change the subject. “So what has Citizen Vigier to say?” he asked. “I came here to question him.”

Sobry waited a minute before answering, then nodded in the direction of one of the houses on the embankment. “I already talked to him. He lives right there. He only heard a splashing noise shortly after eight last night. Since his baths are closed in this season, he didn’t come out to see what it was. He didn’t think anything of it until he learned of the attack this morning.”

“He didn’t hear the explosion? He must be deaf as a pot! From here, the racket would have been enough to awaken the dead. Much louder than any splash in the river a few minutes later.”

Sobry grinned. “You will question Citizen Vigier yourself, of course, but he didn’t strike me as the sort of man who would come out by himself in the dark. Especially if there were any chance of a risk to his personal safety.”

“So what do you think that splashing noise was?”

“Could be anything, related or not to the attack. Perhaps one of the assassins jumped into the river, but he must have had a damned good reason to do so. No one could survive more than a few minutes in the river in this season. Perhaps the man was burnt by the explosion and wanted to quell the pain.”

“Or perhaps the assassin did not jump into the river at all. He could have thrown something away.”

“If he did, we have yet to discover what it was.”

Roch went to take the statement of Vigier, who had nothing more to say, and again joined Sobry on the deck of the barge until dusk. The Seine only yielded more garbage as they looked on.

11

I
t was full dark when Roch reached the Prefecture after his afternoon at Vigier’s Baths. The streetlights barely pierced the fog that rose from the river. He did not follow Sobry’s recommendation to go to the Prefect to express contrition. Instead, he was content to prepare his daily report to his superior, along with an unofficial copy he would send discreetly to the Minister. Then, with his colleagues, Roch spent the rest of the night in his office, receiving more statements from witnesses, or people who fancied themselves witnesses. Hundreds of men and women were still patiently waiting for their turn to be interviewed.