A/N: I've wanted for a little while to do a detective/police procedural story in this setting. So for anyone who's popping in for the first time, this is a side story set in one of my favourite massive alternate universes, post-barricades/successful revolution. In this reality Bahorel has an interesting occupation in this story...well they all do, but Bahorel as a detective is too good to pass up!
Once again, I do not own any characters made by Victor Hugo, or any historical personages mentioned. I do have a lot of OCs here.
THE CASE OF THE VANISHING HOUSE OF MONTMARTRE
Chapter 1: The Survivor
"One at the Rue Lavoisier."
"You're a little off to the left. It actually happened at the Rue Saint Nicolas."
Damien Bahorel shook his head. "The body was found at Rue Saint Nicolas but eyewitnesses said that the deed was at the Rue Lavoisier." He weighed a dart in his hand before standing in front of the map of Paris nailed to the far wall of an office at the Prefecture. He expertly threw the dart towards the lower right of the map. "The next incident was at the Barriere de la Rapee. Very brazen," he said as the dart found its mark.
"You need two darts, there was more than one body involved," Thierry Perrot said as he threw another dart at the map. The younger detective frowned at the five darts still lined up on the table in front of them. "Then the next one was a disappearance, no bodies, just a few statements at the Rue St. Louis, at the corner of Rue Poultier."
Bahorel clucked his tongue before flinging a dart at that point on the map. "No rhyme or reason," he said, stepping back to admire the map now dotted with darts of various colors. "No preferences for locations, no common perpetrators, but there is only talk of victims being called on by some elegant personage before vanishing into the dark."
"It is so out of sorts that people think it is Patron-Minette or their associates behind it," Perrot chuckled.
Bahorel shook his head. Claquesous had been killed at the barricade of the Rue de Chanvrerie, Babet and Montparnasse were both living inconspicuously in Toulouse, while Gueleuemer was in prison. Other associates such as Suzette Magnon, Mamselle Miss, Panchaud, and Deux-Millards had all been rounded up in various arrests just before or shortly after the revolution. 'Inevitably someone has taken advantage of that vacuum,' he thought grimly as he stuck a dart onto the vicinity of the Place Vendome.
Although he was no stranger to violence, the brutality of these recent incidents often turned Bahorel's stomach. 'It's not only the morgue, but it's the faces of those who can't find their loved ones there,' he thought, recalling the last tearful interview he had with the eyewitnesses at the Barriere de la Rapee. Before he could pick up another dart, he heard the door of the office creak open. "What are you boys doing to that poor map?" a husky but rich voice greeted.
"It's called an investigation, Therese," Bahorel replied, grinning at his mistress wolfishly as he watched her set down a large basket on the one clear spot on a desk. He strode over to her to lift her off her feet and kiss her soundly. "Now what are you doing here?"
"Making sure that my favourite man and my favourite cousin don't starve themselves because they forgot to get breakfast," Therese replied pertly as she smoothed down her rumpled apron. She put her hands akimbo as she looked at the map. "Is this still about all the disappearances and murders?"
Thierry nodded resignedly at his cousin. "Thirty six and counting since the end of spring."
"Still haven't gotten Gisquet and the rest to believe your theory?" Therese asked as she picked up one of the last darts. "They must be related, or at least some of them."
"Gisquet believes that two grand conspiracies are impossible in the span of one year," Bahorel said with undisguised frustration as he flung another dart at the map. Then again, this was the same Prefect of the police who had been confident that he could quash a revolution. 'His keeping his office is only a matter of convenience,' he thought as he gripped the edge of his desk.
Seeing his agitation, Therese squeezed his arms and dealt him two light blows between his shoulderblades. "All you need is one convincing clue or lead, and he'll have no choice but to consider this," she said.
"My mistress the mind-reader," Bahorel laughed as he relaxed into her touch. There were few people he knew who had a natural aptitude for deduction the way Therese had, or who could wield such a gift with such subtlety so as to catch most people off-guard with its results. It was one of the many things that delighted him during the five years or so that he and Therese had been together.
Meanwhile Thierry rolled his eyes at this blatant scene. "Come on, let's eat. Those sweet words won't feed the two of you," he said as he impatiently reached for the basket that Therese had brought.
"In a moment," Bahorel said, but before he could pull up seats for himself and his companions he heard a more harried knocking on the door. "Who's there?"
"It's me, Potier," a nervous voice greeted breathlessly. In a moment the door opened to reveal the shocked, pallid visage of another one of the Prefecture's junior detectives. Potier managed a cordial nod to Therese before hurrying in to grab Bahorel's arm. "You and Perrot are needed at the Val de Grace, right away."
Bahorel frowned at the mention of this hospital in the Latin Quartier; this institution had been quietly designated as the police's infirmary for witnesses, suspects, or individuals of interest. "For who?"
"The English journalist James Goldberg," Potier replied. "He was found at the Rue de Bellefond, just about two or three hours ago."
"By Hercle! What was he doing there?" Bahorel exclaimed as he got out of his seat, nearly turning the chair over. He had just seen the man the day before, making quite the scene in the vicinity of the Odeon where he'd been unfortunate enough to come across the more artistic denizens of the quartier. 'Perhaps someone took more umbrage than usual,' he thought. "What else happened?"
"He was receiving visitors last night and he was invited to join one of them at a bistro-"
"Say no more," Thierry said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is getting too much."
Bahorel found a pin on the desk and put it on the map, right at the Rue de Bellefond. "Potier, you must go to the Hotel de Ville and notify Feuilly and our friends at the consulate. They will not be happy to hear this news, but Citizen Goldberg's welfare is still their concern." He clapped Thierry on the back. "Get your coat."
Therese stamped her foot petulantly. "You will go without your breakfast?"
"We will enjoy it while walking," Bahorel said apologetically. "We need your eyes on the map," he added as he handed her the remaining darts and a list of places to mark on the map. "Tell us later or send word if you notice something unusual."
Therese huffed before examining the list and putting a dart right on the Rue du Petit Gentilly. "This will be a quarrel, Damien."
"It is necessary work."
"Not us, I was referring to the consulate."
Bahorel nodded grimly by way of acknowledgment before he kissed Therese and then grabbed his own coat and hat. He walked quickly to where Thierry was frantically looking through some notes. "Forget that. We're in new territory now that someone has come out alive," he said.
Thierry tossed his notes over his shoulder and wiped his brow. "What are we to ask?"
"First we have to make sure that he is even willing and able to talk," Bahorel said as they headed outdoors to hail a fiacre. 'Given how the others were when they were found, it's a wonder that Citizen Goldberg is even alive at all,' he thought.
Half an hour later, the two inspectors arrived at the Val de Grace hospital, located in a slightly quieter part of the Latin Quartier. Even from the hospital lobby they could hear the ear-splitting shrieks of the place's most recently admitted patient. "He's feverish and delirious, Citizens!" an aide shouted when he caught sight of Bahorel and Thierry. "He's not fit for questioning!"
Bahorel sighed at this statement of the obvious. "Where is his physician?"
The aide winced at the sound of swearing coming from upstairs. "Still busy, as you can hear. I can fetch his assistant."
"I'll talk to him," Thierry said, making a discreet motion upwards.
"Take your time," Bahorel said before letting his colleague talk to the obviously distressed aide. In the meantime he discreetly made his way to a small room at the far end of the hospital's wards, steeling himself against the increasingly frenzied sounds coming from that vicinity. From the doorway he saw four burly men using leather straps to tie Goldberg to the wrought iron bedframe. The journalist was swathed in bandages and bathed in a cold sweat as he raved and howled incoherently against his captors. A harried physician was inspecting a jar of leeches nearby, only to put them down.
Bahorel saluted the physician. "How is he?"
The physician started and then shook his head when he saw Bahorel. "He is of no use in an inquiry when he is in this state, Citizen. You can see that he's been poisoned."
"And you do not know the antidote?"
"The symptoms are unlike anything I have ever seen before. He was unconscious when he was brought in but once he awoke he got more agitated. I have to treat next the people who were hurt when they first tried to treat him."
Bahorel frowned as he considered the injured man as well as his obviously exhausted caretaker. "If you wish, I can bring in a friend who may be of assistance in finding an antidote."
"Yes, yes that would be appreciated," the physician said. "This friend-"
"The chemist-"
"Yes, yes, but isn't he busy at the Sorbonne?"
"He will see the importance of the matter," Bahorel said confidently. "Was there anything notable at the scene when he was found?"
"Only his notebook, but otherwise he was just like any other mauling victim," the doctor said wearily. "I cannot let you take his papers as evidence just yet, but I can let you look at the contents."
Bahorel nodded gratefully. "That would be very helpful, thank you." He glanced towards Goldberg, who'd now screamed himself hoarse and was trying to catch his breath. "How are you doing there, Citizen?" he asked.
Goldberg took a few deep breaths before fixing his blank gaze on Bahorel. "Don't get into a carriage, whatever you do," he said in barely intelligible French.
"A carriage?" Bahorel asked.
Goldberg nodded frantically before looking to his bonds and trying to shake himself loose. "I have to stop them! They'll be around tonight again!"
"Citizen, you have to go. We need to sedate him," the physician called. He laid a hand on Bahorel's shoulder. 'If he gets more agitated his heart might give out."
Bahorel swore under his breath but the sight of Goldberg in a rage once more was more than enough to convince him to step out into the hallway to wait while the physician gave the injured man a dose of laudanum. 'The drug had better not addle him when he wakes,' he thought.
After a few minutes the physician emerged, this time holding out a tattered pocketbook. "I fear the writing may be undecipherable."
"Better a scrawl than nothing," Bahorel reasoned as he opened the notebook to its latest entry. As he expected the entire text was in English, however this was only a slight difficulty in comparison to the fact that many of the lines were crossed out, smeared with mud or dotted with blood. 'A half-scrawl then,' he decided as he searched for a pencil in his coat pocket and copied down the more readable portions into his own pocketbook. It would take some work to decipher these garbled words and whatever horrors were hidden in between the inkblots.