A/N: Thanks to anyone who is reading this fic. More reviews please? I'd love to hear more theories and twists from everyone.

Chapter 3: The Roster of the Shadows

The Place Mambert, owing to its proximity to the quays as well as to the main roads, was regarded in those days as something of a transit point for many of the residents of the Latin Quartier. 'In short, a perfect place for eyes to roost,' Gavroche decided as he opened the shutters of his rented room overlooking this busy street, just in time to catch sight of a procession of covered wagons headed towards the bridges. "More birds to the coops," he muttered, recognizing the insignia of the Parisian prisons. It had become practice lately to transport prisoners under the cover of night or early dawn, in order to avoid the double indignities of the noontime sun and jeering crowds.

He turned at the sound of a light rapping at the door. "The sun's risen ahead of you, Navet!" he drawled.

"No, I've been ahead of it," Bernard Avril retorted as he opened the door. Despite the fact that he was blinking away sleep from his eyes, he was still evidently peeved at the use of his old sobriquet. "Your business has kept me late at the printers."

Gavroche quickly perused the fresh newsletter that his neighbor handed to him. An article towards the bottom of the front page was titled: 'Foul Play at the Invalides: Burglar Found Dead in Garret'. He clucked his tongue as he read through the brief but lurid details of the incident. "This did not come from the police report."

"Inspector Bahorel wouldn't let our man have it; he said it was the Prefect's orders. Someone else sang," Navet replied cryptically before shaking his shaggy blond hair out of his eyes and patting his well pressed cuffs. "I still cannot believe it though—the Lace Eater was not the sort to get into the big games like Panchaud or even Montparnasse. I had thought he'd cross over a little more quietly since he's gone straight and all."

"Going straight is what Ponine and Zelma have been doing. No one's heeded Mangedentelle, that's all," Gavroche said as he set down the newspaper and went to fetch a fresh cravat from a chest of drawers crammed between his bed and a table that served as a desk. In addition to these necessities his lodgings were furnished with two extra chairs, as well as a washstand with a mirror. As simple as these amenities were, Gavroche took great pride in them; these were all his own and he had made sure not to importune any of his siblings for help with initial expenses.

Navet yawned as he occupied one of these extra seats. "We should go for breakfast at your sister's house again. The concierge has given all the bread to her church friends again."

Gavroche quickly donned his morning coat but deliberately left it unbuttoned. "That nest is too far. I know just the place though," he remarked as he grabbed his hat. "There is that place by the quay, where we can get eggs and brioche."

"I don't understand why you like brioche so much, especially when there are good croissants to be had," Navet sniffed.

"Pooh! The crumbs!" Gavroche chortled as they quit the apartment and headed down to the Quai Montebello, a narrow embankment overlooking the cathedral of Notre Dame. Most boatmen eschewed this pier in favor of the longer Quai de la Tournelle nearby, and so this small stretch of riverbank had been given over to a sort of marketplace. The two young men bought two boiled eggs and four pieces of brioche and then seated themselves on a rail near the bridge leading to the Ile du Palais. The morning was cool yet sunny, but already a stirring breeze from the south threatened to turn the white clouds into ominous thunderheads.

"I saw your colleague Tolbert prancing up the street," Navet said at length. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "He has a new friend with fine eyes."

"Her name is Citizenness Debault," Gavroche remarked.

Navet snorted. "So you have met! What do you make of her?"

"Fine eyes and a sharper tongue," the detective remarked before taking a bite of brioche. "Now what of your recent appointments?"

"She is not particular-to me or to anyone," Navet replied morosely. "She does have a cousin coming into town though-"

Gavroche shook his head but before he could take another bite of bread a sharp report cut through the morning air. He immediately caught sight of passers-by fleeing from a ramshackle house on the waterfront, just moments before another gunshot pierced the rising din. He rushed towards this building, just in time to catch sight of a tall, cloaked figure leaping into a carriage. "Stop the fiacre!" he cried but the hackney coach swiftly charged up a side street before disappearing into what appeared to be a carriage-gate. Gavroche dashed forward and pounded on this gate, only to hear the telltale scratch of footsteps making an escape into some back court. Try as he may he could not find this hidden passage, nor could he readily find any help in sight. "What I wouldn't give for a proper hound and not a cab!" he huffed before swiftly walking back to the Quai Montebello.

As he approached the house where he'd begun his futile chase he heard a click from someplace in the shadows. He took a step back and cleared his throat. "That shot will bring the entire Prefecture on you, my friend."

A choked noise came from the gloom. "What are you doing in that cognes dress, young Thenardier?"

Gavroche was silent for a moment; this voice was not entirely unknown to him, but seven years had done a good deal to roughen it. "You're not doing much better yourself, little Brujon."

Out of a doorway stepped a young man of about twenty four years of age. His pallid face would have been handsome if not for a pug nose and some missing teeth. His eyes were red-rimmed and wild, as if he was still in the thick of a long chase. This was not the much feared Brujon of the Seine departments, but rather a young scion of his house. The difference between him and his sire was made even clearer by the uncertain way he held on to his pistol. "Did you pinch him?" he inquired tremulously.

Gavroche shook his head. "Who is he?"

"I don't know but I'm sure he's the one who did for the others," Brujon replied. "He came to my apartment with a gun; I gave him a sounding, that's all."

'At least there's no blood about,' Gavroche noted; has there been someone hurt or killed on the premises, there would surely be a larger uproar. "Who are the others?"

Brujon paled even further and moved as if to close the door. "No one that concerns you."

"Mangedentelle is dead. I was there when they found his body," Gavroche cut in. He clucked his tongue when Brujon stopped in his tracks. "So even if I wasn't some bobby, I'd like to know."

"What's it to you?" Brujon spat. "You've gone respectable these past seven years, and you don't know how it is to live with a lingre at your back."

"I remember," Gavroche retorted. "Well if you want to hold on to that peashooter and your knives while you sleep, I shall be on my way."

Brujon grabbed his arm. "Not if you can save my life, at least. I don't know what's gotten the others or why, but I'm not my Pa. I've had nothing to do with his pickings ever since he ended up in La Force the second time around. At least he's safer where is."

'He's right about that,' Gavroche thought as he looked at Brujon again. He could almost see the runny-nosed boy he'd met time and again during jobs with the older members of that dynasty. "Well you're going to have to come with me to the Prefecture and talk to Inspector Bahorel. He's a good chap," he finally said. "He won't just tell the Prefect."

Brujon was quiet for a moment. "What can he do?"

"A great many things," Gavroche said nonchalantly. "More than your holding a gun by the wrong end anyway."

Brujon sighed before tucking the gun in his coat and stepping out. "I'm keeping this. Don't you try anything funny, Thenardier."

"Gavroche! Where are you?" Navet called from up the street. The newspaperman paused as he saw who Gavroche was talking to. "Was he the one who did it?"

"No he was the one who almost got popped," Gavroche replied. He nodded to Brujon. "You remember my comrade Navet?"

"It is Citizen Avril," Navet corrected drily. "Jean Brujon, I presume?"

Brujon managed a smile as he shook Navet's hand. "You remember."

"What with your mug, of course!" Navet laughed. He clapped Gavroche on the back as they stepped out into the sunlight of the quay again. "Any chance of seeing you at the Cafe du Foy later?"

"Depending if you have your crows about," Gavroche said, knowing all too well of the habits of some of Navet's colleagues. "Give my compliments to Citizenness So-and-So."

Navet rolled his eyes before tipping his hat. "You stay safe there!" he said before turning towards the bridge leading to the Ile du Palais.

"Now that's one who's done finely for himself," Brujon laughed hollowly. "Are you going to handcuff me or something, Detective?" he asked Gavroche.

"As a joke between friends?" Gavroche quipped as they began walking towards the Rue de Pontoise.

Brujon snorted. "I haven't forgotten that it was your oldest sister who helped put my father in La Force," he said brusquely. "Your other sister and your daron aren't much better."

'It's just as well that we're out of the business,' Gavroche thought as they reached the Prefecture's door. He made sure to step in first and wave to the porter, who already had a baton out. "He's with me."

The porter lowered his weapon. "You'd better hurry on up, Thenardier. They've already left to pursue the lead at the Invalides."

Gavroche shrugged even as he looked at Brujon, who was mouthing the word 'biscuit'. "They can always eat the crumbs," he scoffed before leading his companion to Bahorel's office and knocking twice.

Bahorel was still clutching a sheaf of paper when he opened the door. "I'm taking over today for the commissaire. You're late," he said firmly.

"I had an important meet on the road. There was a shot fired in the area of the Quai Montebello, and directed at this fellow," Gavroche replied before lightly shoving Brujon forward. "May I introduce Citizen Jean Brujon."

The older inspector hardly even blinked at the surname. "Thankfully you are unscathed, Citizen," he said as he shook Brujon's hand. "Perhaps you can tell me more about it?"

Brujon glanced at Gavroche. "Will he get to listen?"

"Since apparently he has been left behind by today's expedition, he should," Bahorel replied, giving Gavroche a stern look before showing him into his office. He motioned for the two young men to take their seats. "So what is this tale?"

"Inspector, I have not been a thief," Brujon began as he held up a hand. "I've been an apprentice at the glazier's for some years now, and have risen up now to one of the skilled hands. The man who was after me was more likely after my father."

"Why would you say so?" Bahorel asked.

"I'm a Brujon," the beleaguered witness said. "Isn't that enough?"

"Brujon or not, you saw a crime in commission, or rather were the object of it," Bahorel insisted. "What happened then?"

"I was in my lodgings when he knocked," Brujon said, sitting back more easily in his chair. "I don't know what he told the porter downstairs, but he said he had a message for me. I had just enough time to wrestle him before he took his knife to my throat, and that allowed me to get my gun."He drew the pistol out of his coat and set it on the table. "My knock me down," he signified.

Bahorel carefully inspected the weapon. "You injured him?"

"I wish I had," Brujon muttered. "The shot went into the wall. He fled. I was too stunned to move; it was as if all the life had gone out of me. Then I went down to go out by the backdoor since I knew that people in the street had heard it, and that was when Thenardier here found me."

"You did not get a good look at your...assailant?" Bahorel asked.

"He was in a coat. He was no mere burglar, Citizen, but an assassin," Brujon said more loudly. "No scars on his face to mark him, that was clear to me."

Gavroche gritted his teeth at this circumlocution. "You mentioned others?"

"In time," Bahorel warned. "Did you get any warning prior to this?" he asked Brujon.

"None, I only know. It has happened before," Brujon said. "You mentioned Mangedentelle. Well I know of what happened to him, and I think it was the same knife. Carmagnolet was done for in a ditch this year, and there was the raid on that house in Montmartre, then that business involving Laveuve's new boys in the Champ de Mars."

Bahorel nodded gravely. "You have proof that these incidents are related?"

"No one's saw the hand behind them and lived," Brujon admitted. "I know though. Why else would they all be happening just now?"

"We'll examine the facts presently," Bahorel replied. "Did anyone else see what happened in your lodgings, Citizen Brujon?"

Brujon shook his head. "The man left and not even Thenardier saw him." He shifted in his seat. "I will pay dearly for this, I know."

"It would be worse if you'd kept silent," Bahorel pointed out. "If you have nothing more to add, then you may go about your business. We'll definitely make inquiries in your neighbourhood."

Brujon nodded stiffly before standing up. "Thank you for your help, Inspector," he said before heading to the door.

"To you as well," Bahorel called after him. He was quiet for a while as he regarded Gavroche. "An old friend of yours?"

"We only played together once or twice," Gavroche explained.

"I'll have someone keep an eye on him for his own safety," Bahorel said. "The crimes he mentioned were all unsolved mysteries. They all transpired prior to your training here at the Prefecture."

'Which could not have been too long ago,' Gavroche realized. "I will be at the Invalides then," he said as he got to his feet.

"No, there is much paperwork that needs to be finished," Bahorel replied. "I wanted Tolbert on it, but the Prefect said that the Invalides matter was urgent."

It was all that Gavroche could do not to groan even as he saluted Bahorel and then made his way up to the Prefecture's archives, which were housed in a room that was dusty in the summer but had a tendency to be musty in the wetter months. Gavroche found a warm corner, which he filled up with the reports and paperwork that Tolbert had not finished the day before. His hands itched as he reviewed all these depositions and accounts; many of these manuscripts were more fitting for a fireplace than an editor's desk. "Maybe he intends to stock up on kindling," he laughed to himself after a time as he set aside the reports and got up to peruse some shelves stacked with binders and portfolios of past cases.

Before pulling out a volume he checked his coat for a pocketbook he'd taken to keeping on his person only lately, mainly as a means of tracking expenses. He opened to a blank leaf and brought out the stub of a pencil to make this list and these corresponding notations:

Panchaud-still in La Force

Brujon—one in La Force, one by the river, the rest still about

Boulatruelle-in prison till two years ago, since then unseen

Laveuve.—boys gone, haven't heard of the man

Finistere.-was quiet even before the revolution

Homere-Hogu-rumored to be in Marseilles, or so he told someone before leaving

Mardisoir—murdered on the job

Depeche-left Paris

Fauntleroy—is he still alive?

Glorieux-unseen

Barrecarrosse -unseen

L'Esplanade-du-Sud.-left Paris and went Sud

Poussagrive.-unseen

Carmagnolet. -in a ditch

Kruideniers-unseen

Mangedentelle—passed

Les-pieds-en-l'Air. -last heard of five years ago

Deux-Milliards.-still in prison

He surveyed this list, constructed from what memory he had of these names from his childhood. "More gaps than teeth!" he muttered before grabbing a portfolio from the shelf.