Dubois quite liked Constable Malroux.
He hadn’t been prepared to, given his convictions regarding things rural: hex signs and the like.
Here was a policeman after the Prefect’s own heart, with sound instincts and a village postmaster’s memory for detail, remarkably on a par with the First Consul’s; and he was swift to confess when he did not know something—which the First Consul was increasingly unlikely to do, as Dubois himself had observed lately, to his alarm. A man learned nothing listening to himself.
The pleasure of the man’s company, together with a glass of full-bodied local beer offered to comfort him after his journey, soon made him forget what a devil’s own time he’d had finding Pontoise. The maps of Paris’ suburbs and environs made no allowances for a questionable sense of direction; signposts in particular seemed to have been engineered to discourage visitors who hadn’t memorized every road, lane, and goat-path that wandered outside the city. In many cases they didn’t even exist—evidence of the hard winter recently passed, and the lust for firewood—and where they did, stiff winds or malicious vandalism had turned them in directions that brought him maddeningly back to a landmark he’d passed twice.
He owed his success to the occasional native who overcame suspicion regarding official uniforms long enough to point him in the right direction. Even so, night birds and not swallows welcomed him to a village only a few hours’ journey from Paris.
Malroux didn’t return his affection; but that was expected. Villagers distrusted city folk, and village authorities city police.
The air thawed when it became clear the two shared a strong dislike for Monsieur Blaq, the Ministry informant who’d insisted on joining them above the aromatic bakery where justice was sought in Pontoise. When the rat-faced menial demanded to know why the Minister had sent a city policeman instead of one of his own, the Prefect detected a glimmer of sympathy in the constable’s weary eyes. Plainly the man had been saddled upon him without his consent.
Dubois sipped from his glass of beer.
“You must understand, Citizen,” he told Blaq, “that the Ministry receives daily dozens of reports of doubtful activity, from all over the country. It can’t pursue them all, so I’m assigned to take up the slack. Common criminal behavior doesn’t normally interest the government.”
“But surely the evidence of an infernal machine—”
“A journalistic phrase, Citizen. You won’t find it in any government report. But your point’s taken. I’m here because of the intriguing nature of the weapon involved. Otherwise I’d leave things in the capable hands of Constable Malroux.”
That worthy individual rolled his shoulders.
“Quite the opposite, I regret to admit,” he said. “That’s why I consulted Dr. Eslée on the nature of the facial injury. He too thought it excessive. I assume that’s why Monsieur Blaq, assiduous public servant that he is, considered it proper to inform the Ministry.”
He sat behind a homely worktable stacked precariously with papers, some bound with cord, others poking out at all angles, like bookmarks in a zealot’s Bible. Dubois found the arrangement similar to his own, and more likely proof of an industrious mind than Fouché’s orderly regiments of foolscap. An untidy desk suggested a tidy mind. Indeed the office itself resembled the Prefect’s, absent distracting gimcrack, and small enough for a true craftsman to reach all his tools without stretching.
The intoxicating smells of warm pastry rising between the floorboards were a diversion; Dubois hadn’t eaten since dawn. But he supposed the constable took notice of them no longer through familiarity.
“I’d like a few words with this doctor.”
“Of course. Ten doors down, across from the tannery. Just follow your nose.” Malroux pinched his nostrils significantly between thumb and forefinger. He disregarded pleasant odors, noted foul ones. A good policeman.
“I’d consider it a favor if you’d accompany me. Some of these provincials—forgive me, but you know the type—shrink into their shells in the presence of a strange uniform.”
“I’ll come along, but you’ll find the doctor a man with nothing to hide.”
Blaq snorted.
Dubois looked his way. “Something, monsieur?”
“I suggest Malroux is prejudiced in favor of the locals.”
“Then it’s good I’m here, a disinterested third party, at the constable’s own request.”
Blaq shot up from his hard chair. “I’ll go along as well.”
Dubois steeled his expression. “You’re not invited. This is a Paris affair now. I’ve chosen my local liaison.”
“I represent the Ministry!”
“The Minister himself has ceded jurisdiction.” Which was technically true; although Fouché remained unaware of what use Dubois was making of the files that had been placed in his charge.
“Then I’ll accompany you as a private citizen. This is a free Republic, after all.”
“If you persist,” put in Malroux, “I must place you under arrest for interfering in a criminal investigation.”
“You can’t do that!”
Dubois interceded.
“He can. Any officer can. You’ll find it spelled out clearly in the Civil Code.”
“That hasn’t been signed into law!”
“Noted. Should you care to take it up with the First Consul, who is drawing it up—”
Blaq backed off from that line of argument. “I shall file a protest with the Ministry.”
“That’s your privilege,” Dubois said. “It’s a free Republic, as you said.”
Blaq flushed an unhealthy orange under his sallow pigment. He hastened out, banging the door behind him. The current stirred the stacked papers, freeing one to drift like a leaf to the floor.
The constable was beaming. He unstopped another beer bottle and filled both glasses to the rim.
“That was better than a physic. I’d have thrown him out months ago if I didn’t think I’d be shot for it.”
“I may yet be,” Dubois said. “But I didn’t get myself lost all day on your diabolical roads to worry about it tonight.”
“They make sense, once you get to know the place. I myself could no longer find my way across Paris without a native to guide me.”
“Nor I, some parts. Fortunately, I have a chief inspector who grew up doing odd jobs throughout the city. Not that I’d praise him in his presence. He’s insufferable as well as indispensable.”
“I’d trade him for Blaq.”
“If it weren’t Blaq it would be someone else. Perhaps even someone competent. Count your blessings, Citizen.”
Malroux groped for his watch. “We have plenty of time, Monsieur le Prefect. Eslée is a bachelor and stays up late.”
“Please call me Dubois. Only my wife uses Nicolas, and my official title annoys me nearly as much as this ridiculous uniform.”
“I like the hat.”
Dubois smiled beneath his caterpillar moustache.
“We must meet again, Citizen, when this thing is through.”
“Malroux, if you please. What thing is that?”
“Who can say? We policemen must take events as they come.” Dubois finished his beer with a flip of his wrist and put on his flat-topped cap. “Let’s talk to this remarkably honest man Eslée.”