Читать книгу The Poisoners - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 18

Table of Contents

He was turning in sober mood along the embankment towards the dark arch of the bridge when he heard a step behind him and, turning, saw that a man had followed him from the palace; this was a tall, sallow fellow, who addressed him with a half-insolent civility, speaking French with a strong foreign accent.

"You are Charles Desgrez, an agent of police? You have been sent by M. de La Reynie, eh, to investigate the attack on Mademoiselle Malipiero?"

Desgrez nodded, scanning the speaker closely through the twilight.

"Well, before you make your report to the Chief of Police it will be to your interest to see my master."

"And who may he be?" asked Desgrez, smiling, as he clutched his hat and bent before a sudden onslaught of wind and rain.

"One who can make it worth your while to oblige him," replied the other. "Come, there is no mystery—he Is the Ambassador of Savoy, the Comte de Ferrero."

Desgrez was completely surprised by this name, which he did not connect in the least with the business he had in hand; but disguising his amazement he replied that he was at the service of His Excellency of Savoy.

"But you must come with me now," insisted the sallow young man. "It will be too late after you have returned to the Bastille."

So saying he took the young police agent's arm in a familiar way and led him along the windy quay.

"I congratulate you," he grinned. "You have not been long in the police force, you are, forgive me, a raw provincial, and this piece of good luck comes your way."

"The good luck of attracting your master's attention?" said Desgrez, feeling his way through this mysterious conversation.

"Oh, I don't know that you have attracted his attention. Any police agent who had been sent to the Louvre to-day would have received the same consideration."

"Yet you know something about me," countered the young man, "how long I have been in Paris and so on."

"Yes, it is our business to know all that goes on in the Court, and, of course, when we heard that you were taking up this case it was to our interest to find out something about you. Your very simple dossier, my dear Desgrez, is in the hands of His Excellency."

The young man smiled as if he had made a good joke.

Charles Desgrez was thinking rapidly. No one had known, save the Chief of Police himself, that he; Desgrez, was going to the Louvre to investigate the tragedy of Mademoiselle Jacquetta: it would have been quite impossible for the Ambassador of Savoy to have discovered who was going to be sent on this business. It followed then, argued Desgrez, that the attention of De Ferrero must have been attracted to himself before; was the envoy from Turin, then, interested in the Widow Bosse, in the mysterious house in the Impasse des Fleurs? Who, wondered the young police agent, could have warned him that I was concerned in this business? The hag of a fortune-teller herself or Doctor Babel, whom I do not trust at all, the fat, innocent-looking priest who lodges with him, the Italian apothecary. And how is he, the Ambassador of the Duke of Savoy, concerned in all these matters?

While Desgrez thus considered the case in which he found himself, he was keeping up a casual conversation with his companion, on whom he now and then cast a wary eye; he thought that it was quite possible that his guide had been sent to lure him into some deserted quarter, some dismal cul-de-sac, to be kidnapped or murdered, and that this sallow-faced fellow had nothing whatever to do with the great personage whose name he so freely used.

But his fear proved unfounded. His companion conducted him to the hôtel of the Ambassador of Savoy, which Desgrez knew well—it was his business to know all the principal residences in Paris.

When they were in the ornate porch of this handsome mansion, the young man said to Desgrez:

"You will not see M. de Ferrero, the Ambassador of Savoy, but M. de Saint-Maurice, who is Plenipotentiary to France, as doubtless you know. He brings the gratitude of the Dowager Duchess for the condolences of His Most Christian Majesty on the untimely death of her husband, the late Duke Charles Emmanuel II."

"That is doubtless very interesting," replied Desgrez as he followed the other into the magnificent hall of the hôtel, "but I cannot see what it has to do with me or with my business."

As he spoke he tried to recall all that he knew about the late Duke of Savoy and his Duchess, Marie de Nemours, but he possessed nothing more than the common knowledge of these Princes.

The last Duke, a relative of the King of France, had died suddenly from a chill caught while out hunting; his widow was a French Princess, gay and difficult, a favourite of the late Queen Dowager, Anne of Austria. Desgrez knew no more than this; he had not seen either the Ambassador or the Plenipotentiary.

His guide took him up wide and handsome stairs to a little chamber, richly hung with gilt leather, where a young man dressed in the extreme of fashion was lounging in a high-backed gilt chair, turning over the last copy of the Gazette de France.

"This, Monseigneur, is M. Charles Desgrez—Lieutenant Desgrez, the police agent."

So saying, Desgrez's companion bowed and left him alone with the stranger, who, putting his paper down but not rising, looked at him with half-amused interest.

This scrutiny the young Norman willingly returned; he found the gentleman not at all to his taste: he did not like either his exceptionally good-looking, smooth features, framed as they were in a quantity of glossy black ringlets, or his costume of peach-coloured velvet and silver braiding, or his air of half-insolent bravado. Charles Desgrez was quick to decide that this brilliant young cavalier owed much to his tailor and barber, to native effrontery and comeliness and that he pushed his fortunes through his success with women.

"I am the Comte de Saint-Maurice," remarked Saint-Maurice coolly. "Doubtless you are surprised, M. l'agent de police, that I have sent for you."

"I am trained," replied Desgrez quietly, "to be surprised at nothing, Monseigneur."

"That is the right attitude." The young cavalier smiled, indicated a stool and begged the young police agent to be seated. "In Paris I am Plenipotentiary of Savoy, in Turin I am Grand Chamberlain to the Dowager Duchess."

His words and his information were commonplace, but Desgrez noticed that there was a shrewdness and a sparkle in his large dark eyes that were in contradiction to the insipid handsomeness of his charming features.

"Monseigneur has a distinguished position."

"I have also responsibilities. Madame, whom His Most Christian Majesty permits to be termed Madame Royale, is often homesick for Paris. She has instructed me to buy furniture, pictures, even costumes—she has a sure reliance on my taste. She also wishes me to procure for her active and able men. A French Princess—forgive me if I emphasize this point—likes to see her own countrymen about her." Saint-Maurice paused for a second, smiling at Desgrez, and then added abruptly: "Would you, Monsieur, care to take service at the Court of Turin, say in the private police force of Her Royal Highness? I can promise you good pay, every consideration and every chance of promotion."

"To what," asked Desgrez, "do I owe the honour of this offer, which is as unexpected, Monseigneur, as it is gratifying?"

"Oh," replied Saint-Maurice carelessly, "I do not waste my time here. My nominal errand is a mere formality, I have plenty of leisure for the business of the Duchess. I am a friend of M. de La Reynie. I dined with him the other night, he mentioned you, your services. I thought, that is the man for Madame Royale. I have engaged several other Frenchmen for her service."

Desgrez appeared to hesitate, as if he were dazzled and amazed by this sumptuous offer; all the while he was turning the situation over swiftly in his mind and coming to a decision. At last he said, with an air of embarrassment:

"Monseigneur, I am truly overwhelmed—this is all so surprising. I have a young wife."

"She, too, would be welcome in Turin," replied the other smoothly. "As you are both from Caen, perhaps you would not find yourselves greater strangers in Turin than you do in Paris."

Charles Desgrez quickly decided what course to take.

"If you had made me this offer a few days ago, Monseigneur," he said with an air of candour, "I should have been only too honoured to accept. But it happens that I am on a very important piece of business."

"Ah, I suppose you are not permitted to say what that business is," smiled Saint-Maurice, playing with the golden acorns that hung from the ribbons at his wrist.

With an assumed frankness tinged with stupidity, Desgrez replied:

"M. de La Reynie thinks he has put his fingers on a group of criminals engaged in some obscure conspiracy. He has entrusted me with investigating this affair. I find the work very interesting. If I am successful it will mean promotion. You can understand that under these circumstances I do not care to leave Paris."

Saint-Maurice flung down his paper and rose suddenly; Desgrez also out of respect got to his feet. He saw now that the young man was very tall with wide shoulders and narrow hips, of athletic build; there was something formidable about his strength; his dark grace, his precise, almost girlish features set off by the fleece of black curls.

"Nevertheless." he said abruptly, "I advise you to do so. Yes, Lieutenant Desgrez, I advise you to leave this affair alone. I know, on good authority, that it is not one that you, with your experience, can wisely meddle with."

"Ah, well, Monseigneur, you advise me to leave it alone—you have, then, a good idea of what it is?"

"Think over my offer and accept it," smiled Saint-Maurice. "You are a good fellow with a young wife and fair prospects. Keep clear of Court intrigue."

"Monseigneur," said Desgrez sharply, "I did not mention the words Court intrigue. I said I was investigating an affair for the Chief of Police."

"Do not let us quarrel over words," replied Saint-Maurice indifferently. "I have made my offer, I have given you my advice. You must see," he added with meaning, "the fact that I have taken the trouble to receive you privately shows I regard the affair as of some importance." He bowed, then remarked quietly: "Allow me to assure you once more, Monsieur, that you would not regret going to Turin. But really, I have no more time to waste on a trivial matter."

He struck a bell. The sallow man who had conducted Desgrez from the Louvre to the Hôtel de Savoie instantly appeared and took the young police agent down the magnificent stairs to the front door.

"I hope," smiled he confidentially, "you are pleased with your interview with Monsieur de Saint-Maurice. If he has cast a favourable eye on you, your fortune is made. He is a very great personage indeed in Turin."

"No doubt," said Desgrez guardedly, "he is the kind of man that would be successful anywhere."

"I am his secretary," remarked the other, pausing with his hands on the bolt of the front door. "My name is Cléry, Pierre Cléry. I know my master well. He is, as you say, the kind of man that would be successful anywhere. I might tell you also that he can be formidable, nay, terrible, anywhere."

With that M. Cléry opened the door and bowed Desgrez into the street. Expecting to be followed, Desgrez turned along the windy, rain-swept quay in the opposite direction to the Bastille; but after a while he satisfied himself that there was no one tracking him, so turned about and went to the Police Headquarters in the Bastille.