“That’s neither here nor there, Citizen. We’re pledged to share all information in this matter. Not only by our oaths of office, but by personal agreement as well.”
Prefect Dubois spoke quietly; an effort of will. There was something about Fouché’s habitual calm that stood his nerves on end: the heavy reptilian lids, the length of lip beneath the long ecclesiastical nose, his air of knowing everything the Prefect had to say before he said it. All qualities Dubois lacked.
“Monsieur le Prefect, surely you don’t mean we must burden each other with every trifling detail that crosses our desks. Shall I run my daily rubbish past you before it’s removed?”
Dubois stood in the morning room of the Police Minister’s pleasant house in the Rue de Bac—formerly the property of a marquis, since deceased—where its master drank chocolate from a translucent cup. The lace on the small breakfast table was spotless; Fouché’s face was not. Patches of crimson stained the yellow skin. He was notoriously jealous of his time at home with his wife and children, and considered any breach an invasion.
The visitor was unmoved. “Forgive me, Citizen, but I’m a poor man. To me, two million francs is not rubbish.”
“It’s outside your jurisdiction.”
“I’m confused. Which is it, too trivial for my regal eye, or not my business? Let me be the judge in either case.”
Fouché retreated, folding his skeletal hands. With the sigh of a put-upon spouse, he reported what Gaudin had discovered, in detail and to the centime. When it came to monetary amounts, his memory rivaled the First Consul’s.
Dubois stood in awe while the Minister reeled off names and titles of British nobles he himself had never heard of and how much each had raised, ostensibly to contribute to the latest Royalist plot.
“Citizen Bonaparte thinks the men questioned in Belgium were transporting cash from those transactions to the bank in Austria,” Dubois said. “Do you agree?”
“Yes, but only on a contingency basis. The First Consul is not infallible. Had he his way, we’d still be rounding up Jacobins.”
“I don’t suppose we can count on the Austrian authorities to provide us with the details of a substantial recent deposit.”
“I’ll have to consult Foreign Minister Talleyrand on that. I am only a poor police official”—he gestured with a gold-chased spoon—“but last I heard, Austria was still allied with England. In any case they’d only confirm what we already know. The British are bankrolling a fresh assault on our chief of state. It’s consistent with their standing policy of paying others to risk their skins.”
“But what form will this assault take?”
“One can only surmise. Cadoudal isn’t so foolish as to try the same thing twice.” Fouché sipped from his cup. He was so deep in thought he left the brown stain on his upper lip. “One man may succeed where a band has failed,” he said then.
“However did you arrive at that, Citizen?”
For once the Police Minister appeared at a loss for an urbane (and disingenuous) explanation. “I—cannot say. For some reason the thought just occurred. A pipe dream. Ludicrous, when you think about it.”
Dubois was inclined to agree—until his superior changed the subject in the next breath. The notion had come so quickly he’d neglected to keep it to himself, for what advantage it might bring.
A lone assassin, thought Dubois. It bore looking into.
Fouché wiped his lips then and rose, in his silk dressing gown towering over the slight police official, and vanished through a door without remark.
He was gone several minutes by the ormolu clock on the sideboard. Waiting, Dubois pulled at his moustaches, wondering if he’d been forgotten or if the delay was intended to illustrate his own lack of importance; the Minister was not above such petty demonstrations. Crockery clattered somewhere, the blade of a shovel scraped the stone of a hearth. His host collected servants the way he did books and gimcrack. Finally he returned, carrying a sheaf of foolscap.
“I had my secretary copy this so I could study it at home. I confess this approach has been bootless so far. Perhaps that filing-case you use for a brain will spot something of minor import that will lead to something worthwhile.”
“What is it?” The Prefect was so eager for anything new he overlooked the casual insult.
“I suppose you could call it an oral history. I sent men to all the ports of call on the Channel, to interview our informants on the off chance they saw something they left out of their reports. They’re human, after all.”
“Most regrettable.” But his superior was immune to irony. “The Channel seems obvious. The English are nothing if not circumspect.”
“So much so they may choose the obvious, thinking we’ll expect they won’t. But I think they’re too clever to consider such a course as clever. Personally I expect the threat to come from the Continent, but who can say for certain? It’s a shell game either way.” He handed over the papers. “It’s a summary, of course. I’ll send round my secretary in the morning with details.”
Dubois looked at the top sheet and was dejected at first glance. The reports hinted at droning accounts of comings and goings at various inns and taverns, dictated by illiterates to semiliterates; as if half-ignorance were an improvement. It was an unpromising beginning.