For the King by Catherine Delors Page B

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