leaves only the truth.” He peered over the open case at Duhaime. “It tells me that you wrote a note with that pen and paper, and placed it on the statue of Reason in Descartes Square, and that we must therefore charge you with suspicion of kidnapping.” Duhaime took an involuntary breath, confirming Louverture’s suspicion. He took the day’s paper from the case, showed the headline to Duhaime. It read
Feu dans le marché: deuxieme du mois
. “Have you seen this? ‘Manhunt for kidnapper.’ You’ve cost a lot of time and trouble, Lucien.”
“I didn’t know anything about a kidnapping. I didn’t know!” Duhaime tried to rise to his feet, was restrained by the chain fastening him to the table. “The man, he gave me three pieces of paper, said he’d pay if I delivered them for him. I thought it was a prank.”
Louverture leaned back, rubbed his chin. “You’ve intrigued me, Lucien. Tell me about this man.”
Duhaime shrugged, winced as he did so; Louverture saw his right shoulder was probably dislocated. “He was a rich man, well-dressed. A man like you.”
“A policier?”
“No, a white.”
“A convincing story requires more detail, Lucien,” Louverture said, shaking his head sadly.
“He spoke well, though he was trying not to. Clean shaven, with a narrow face. He wore those little smoke-tinted glasses, so I didn’t see his eyes.”
“And just where did someone like you meet this wealthy, well-spoken man?”
“I have a pedicab. It’s good money since the omnibuses started breaking down.” Duhaime looked at Louverture’s unbelieving eyes, then down at the table. “I stole it.”
“Very well. Where did you pick him up?”
“On Baronne street, just west of the Canal. He was going to the ferry dock.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again? Or a picture?”
“I’ll try,” Duhaime said, nodding eagerly.
Louverture closed his briefcase, rose to his feet. “Very well, Lucien, we shall test your theory,” he said. “You’ll remain our guest for the time being, and I’ll see your shoulder gets looked at.”
“Thank you,
officier
.”
“It’s nothing.” Louverture turned to go, paused. “Oh, one thing more. You said you were given three copies: we found the one you planted on the statue, and one more you had. Where is the other?”
“I was to deliver one every night,” Duhaime said.
“Where?”
“The statue, first; second the newspaper; and then Reason Cathedral.”
“So you delivered the second last night? To the Père Duchesne?”
Duhaime shook his head. “No, sir. The other paper.”
Louverture swore under his breath, turned to the door and knocked on it harshly. The gardien on the other side opened it and he stepped through; Clouthier was still standing there, by one of the portholes in the wall. “We have a problem,” Louverture said. “The Minerve has a copy of the letter.”
“I’ll send a man—”
“It’s probably too late. It would have been waiting for them this morning.”
Clouthier rolled his eyes. “Assuming your man in there isn’t just telling stories.”
“He can’t read,” Louverture said, forcing his voice to stay level. “How do you suppose he wrote the letters? No, he’s telling the truth—and by this afternoon everyone will know that ‘she dies on the thirteenth.’”
“Perhaps it’s a good thing,” Clouthier said, shrugged. “It will make people alert; when he strikes, someone will see him and report it to us.”
“It will make people panic. With an unfocused threat like this, we’ll be sure to get mobs beating anyone they think is suspicious.”
“In the poorer neighbourhoods, maybe; we’ll set extra patrols in them. But this is not Saint-Domingue, my friend: most of the people here are entirely too rational for that.”
“I hope so,” Louverture said. Something was nagging at him, some overlooked detail; it slipped away as he probed for it, like a loose tooth.
“At any rate, we still have
Feu dans le marché: deuxieme du mois
. “Have you seen this? ‘Manhunt for kidnapper.’ You’ve cost a lot of time and trouble, Lucien.”
“I didn’t know anything about a kidnapping. I didn’t know!” Duhaime tried to rise to his feet, was restrained by the chain fastening him to the table. “The man, he gave me three pieces of paper, said he’d pay if I delivered them for him. I thought it was a prank.”
Louverture leaned back, rubbed his chin. “You’ve intrigued me, Lucien. Tell me about this man.”
Duhaime shrugged, winced as he did so; Louverture saw his right shoulder was probably dislocated. “He was a rich man, well-dressed. A man like you.”
“A policier?”
“No, a white.”
“A convincing story requires more detail, Lucien,” Louverture said, shaking his head sadly.
“He spoke well, though he was trying not to. Clean shaven, with a narrow face. He wore those little smoke-tinted glasses, so I didn’t see his eyes.”
“And just where did someone like you meet this wealthy, well-spoken man?”
“I have a pedicab. It’s good money since the omnibuses started breaking down.” Duhaime looked at Louverture’s unbelieving eyes, then down at the table. “I stole it.”
“Very well. Where did you pick him up?”
“On Baronne street, just west of the Canal. He was going to the ferry dock.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again? Or a picture?”
“I’ll try,” Duhaime said, nodding eagerly.
Louverture closed his briefcase, rose to his feet. “Very well, Lucien, we shall test your theory,” he said. “You’ll remain our guest for the time being, and I’ll see your shoulder gets looked at.”
“Thank you,
officier
.”
“It’s nothing.” Louverture turned to go, paused. “Oh, one thing more. You said you were given three copies: we found the one you planted on the statue, and one more you had. Where is the other?”
“I was to deliver one every night,” Duhaime said.
“Where?”
“The statue, first; second the newspaper; and then Reason Cathedral.”
“So you delivered the second last night? To the Père Duchesne?”
Duhaime shook his head. “No, sir. The other paper.”
Louverture swore under his breath, turned to the door and knocked on it harshly. The gardien on the other side opened it and he stepped through; Clouthier was still standing there, by one of the portholes in the wall. “We have a problem,” Louverture said. “The Minerve has a copy of the letter.”
“I’ll send a man—”
“It’s probably too late. It would have been waiting for them this morning.”
Clouthier rolled his eyes. “Assuming your man in there isn’t just telling stories.”
“He can’t read,” Louverture said, forcing his voice to stay level. “How do you suppose he wrote the letters? No, he’s telling the truth—and by this afternoon everyone will know that ‘she dies on the thirteenth.’”
“Perhaps it’s a good thing,” Clouthier said, shrugged. “It will make people alert; when he strikes, someone will see him and report it to us.”
“It will make people panic. With an unfocused threat like this, we’ll be sure to get mobs beating anyone they think is suspicious.”
“In the poorer neighbourhoods, maybe; we’ll set extra patrols in them. But this is not Saint-Domingue, my friend: most of the people here are entirely too rational for that.”
“I hope so,” Louverture said. Something was nagging at him, some overlooked detail; it slipped away as he probed for it, like a loose tooth.
“At any rate, we still have
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