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Chapter 10: The Respectable

It became clear to Gavroche that there was little purpose in the usual inquiries surrounding the murder of Glorieux. 'No use squeezing out juice from blind eyes,' he noted even as he listened to yet another neighbor relating about how she had simply heard a body fall. "Well did anyone at least see the number of the fiacre that left this place?" he asked, gesturing to the far end of the alley.

Navet jerked his thumb towards the quay. "That old black Rotschild? Number Three Seven Three." His jaw dropped as he saw Gavroche button up his coat. "You're going after it? What about here?"

"As good as a biscuit," Gavroche said, gesturing to where someone had covered Glorieux's remains with a shawl. "The fiacre is, and maybe with someone out to do another pinching."

Navet nodded understandingly. "But you don't have anything to run with..." he trailed off before searching his own pockets and then finally producing a pen knife. "Might sting him a bit if you need it."

Gavroche clasped his hand gratefully. "Don't waste ink on this," he instructed as he pocketed the pen knife and then headed down to the Quai Montebello. Unsurprisingly he found the fiacre down near the embankment, with its doors open and the coachman smoking nearby. On seeing Gavroche, the cabbie tossed his pipe aside and fled down the street. "What, spooked!" Gavroche muttered peevishly as he continued walking hurriedly towards the Rue du Pontoise.

Upon arriving at the Prefecture he made a beeline for the commissaire's office, where he found Bahorel discussing matters with the officer of the day. "Glorieux is dead," he announced. "Right outside my door, to be square about it."

Bahorel got to his feet before motioning for the officer of the day to step out of the room. "When did this happen?"

"Just now."

"Then you should still be at the scene, questioning your witnesses and getting evidence."

"Everyone had pulled their heads in," Gavroche pointed out. "Glorieux isn't moving anymore but the man who did for him is on the run."

Bahorel shook his head ruefully. "You saw him once more, and where was he headed?"

"Down here. To wherever Beaufort is, I daresay-if we are to trust what Barrecrosse said last night," Gavroche volunteered. "The papers know that Beaufort has returned to Paris."

Bahorel swore under his breath. "Was this published?"

"I haven't checked the sheets yet, but I have word from a pair of ears," Gavroche replied.

"Give Navet my regards for his discretion," Bahorel said. He reached into a drawer and tossed over some of the bandages that they had acquired from Combeferre several nights ago. "You mean then to keep an eye on Beaufort?"

"At least till you've gotten Barrecrosse to sing," Gavroche replied as he pocketed the bandages. "Where is Beaufort lodging?"

"At the Ile de Saint Louis. There is a new hostel there fronting the Rue des Ponts," Bahorel opened another drawer and handed a single small pistol to Gavroche. "Keep that close. You don't want that wrested away from you."

Gavroche saluted grimly before tucking the pistol in his coat pocket and then making his way back outside. It was only a short walk to the bridge leading to the Ile de Saint Louis, and upon arriving at the Quai d'Orleans he immediately took notice of the Hotel Lafayette, a spacious brick house fronting a small courtyard surrounded by a high iron fence. "I'm here to speak to Inspector Beaufort," he said to the sullen porter at the gate.

"The old long nose? Right up on the second floor, the end room" the porter spat. He eyed Gavroche's uniform warily. "You're watching this neighbourhood, aren't you? That's why he's moved in. I tell you, we don't want any trouble here."

"The storm will pass over you well enough. You have a thick enough hat," Gavroche replied, saluting this porter who then began to take pains to comb out his dishevelled head of hair. Without hailing the concierge in the lobby he headed right up to the second floor and knocked four times, only to be met by silence.

As he tried the doorknob, with every intention now of picking the lock, he heard the creak of footsteps overhead. "Some council!" he muttered before creeping up a back stairway, which was far closer to hand than the guests' passage. He found himself on a narrow veranda overlooking the rear garden, but as he looked about he realized that the left extreme of this terrace had a view of some of the adjoining rooms. In one of these chambers was Beaufort, seated comfortably in an armchair while watching another gentleman pacing to and fro. This bearded stranger, evidently the chief lodger of this apartment, was clad in a loose shirt that was already fraying at the cuffs, a gray waistcoat missing a couple of buttons, and a pair of yellow pantaloons. He wore his graying hair long, but tied back with a faded sort of kerchief. When this man turned on his heel, having completed one circuit of the room, Gavroche ducked out of sight. This other's visage was distant but familiar all the same to him. 'My father has found a warm cave for himself,' he thought even as he edged closer to the terrace's railing.

"I only ask for a little, enough for my station!" the older Thenardier said plaintively as he wrung his hands. "It was only a series of cruel tricks that had me at the mercy of those scoundrels, but otherwise I have been a respectable man. I was at Waterloo, I'll remind you of it!"

"As you have, time and again," Beaufort said, crossing his arms as he cast a look of sheer ennui at Thenardier. "Your audacity in asking for more recompense is almost unheard of; it should be the duty of citizens to assist agents of justice in uncovering these matters."

"Do not misunderstand me, Inspector Beaufort. I know my right and civic duty as well as the next man," Thenardier said, holding up his hands before making a deep bow. "It is only a little assistance. As you can see, I live alone and am deprived of any succour in my advanced years. No wife at my side, no children to cheer me-not even that pension I should have had for my bravery!" He shook his head and let out a long sigh that would have been rueful if not for the vehement look in his eyes. "You have promised to help me make my fortune-"

"If you turn over those individuals who have allowed those criminals to evade justice all these years," Beaufort cut in.

Thenardier sniffed. "I have nothing to do with that sort."

"Pierre Montparnasse was undisturbed in Toulouse for seven years. He could not have arrived there without some assistance," Beaufort replied. "Your family was known to be associated with him, and your daughters have yet to disavow any connection."

"He was the blackguard who corrupted them!" Thenardier bellowed. "I did my best to raise my girls with good morals, to prevent from raising their eyes to the gentlemen, to walk the straight and narrow. It's those foolish romantic notions that did it, that let them allow that scoundrel into our home."

"So there is a connection after all?" Beaufort pressed on.

Thenardier was pacing more quickly by now. "I almost had our fortune in hand, if not for my eldest daughter, that ungrateful hussy. We were about to make an important connection, but instead of siding with me , her dear father, she threw herself at a blood-drinking lawyer! What shamelessness! How unbecoming of a Thenardier!" He stopped and looked Beaufort in the eye. "I warrant that she has more to do with it than you know."

"On what basis you make this claim?"

"It is she who protects criminals, by allowing child-stealing convicts to rest easy in good society, by letting lawyers run about their business in the courts while she makes favors in the backrooms, and allowing scandals among those bohemian neighbours of hers-all the while turning her back on her father. Not a sou! Not a thought!"

Beaufort regarded the former innkeeper for a long moment. "Aside from the Rue Guisarde and her workplace at the Rue des Macons, what other places does she frequent?"

Thenardier stroked his beard. "What is it to you?"

"There is something I need to ascertain," Beaufort replied. "Evidently the lady is nothing to you, even if she is your flesh and blood."

"Nevertheless I have fed her, sheltered her for a number of years. She was my favoured child for a time," Thenardier said, dramatically striking his breast. "You must understand, she is my eldest-"

"If you prattle on in this manner, I will have you share her fate," Beaufort retorted coldly. "I will not allow justice to be delayed on account of sudden sentiment."

"What do you say to the price of two thousand francs? It is only a trifling sum, for a man of your means," Thenardier wheedled.

"Do you think me fool enough to deal with bounty?" Beaufort roared, now getting up from his chair. "I have paid your debts well enough, be content with that!"

"Bah, what are my loans to you? You'd just as soon jail me, you fine Inspector, had I not made myself useful," Thenardier said. "I have been nothing but your instrument-without me you never would have found where everyone was hidden in Paris. Oh they thought they were done with me yet-"

'They've dug themselves well enough!' Gavroche decided as he rushed back into the house, just in time to hear a chair fall over. He knocked twice on the door. "The police here!" he shouted. He put one hand to the pistol in his waistcoat even as he saw Beaufort step out of the room, holding Thenardier by his collar. "Good morning, Inspector Beaufort."

"What are you meddling about here?" Beaufort snarled. "Who admitted you here, Thenardier?"

"What's this, my son now a bobby?" the older Thenardier man wailed as he tried to wrest himself free of Beaufort's grip. His agog expression shifted into one of pure scorn as he looked Gavroche over. "Of all professions this had to be the one you chose! My heir, my boy-one of those drunken snitches who know nothing but to kiss the Prefect's feet-"

Beaufort shook Thenardier roughly. "Take this man into custody for conspiracy to murder as well as bribery," he ordered Gavroche.

"Gladly, and he'll sit side by side with the man who killed Glorieux, Brujon, Mangdentelle and all the otehrs," Gavroche answered. He saw his father's gaze flicker briefly to Beaufort, who remained impassive. "I had thought someone would have had eyes about that."

"You're out of your place, Detective," Beaufort snarled. "Arrest this man now!"

"Yes, while you stroll with us across the Seine to the Rue du Pontoise. There is less of miasma there."

Thenardier seized his opportunity to throw himself at Gavroche's feet. "Come now, be kind to your old father. It is only a simple misunderstanding you have chanced upon, nothing that should earn me another stay in the jug. You know important people, you can convince them I mean no harm," he whispered. "Or have you become an ingrate too?"

Beaufort laughed hollowly at this scene as he pulled a pistol from his coat. "Against the wall, both of you. I had feared this would happen from the day I heard you were assigned to the case, Detective," he said, glancing from Gavroche to his father. "A shame, as you have been useful. Your talents should have belonged to another man."

For a moment Gavroche thought of drawing his pistol but thought the better of it even as he stepped back against the wall. Yet even as he did so he saw his father suddenly reach for something in his waistcoat, giving Gavroche only a moment to evade the rusty poker aimed for his head. He grabbed the end of the metal bar and shoved hard, throwing Thenardier off balance long enough for Gavroche to take him off his feet with a well placed kick.

As Thenardier stumbled and fell to the floor, Beaufort took the opportunity to press the muzzle of his gun against the back of Gavroche's neck. "One more move and I'll shoot you where you stand."

"Where's your knife? You've done your best work with it," Gavroche asked. He drew his pistol but instead of cocking it to fire, used the firearm's butt to smash Beaufort across his right kneecap. The older detective swore with surprise, causing him to misaim and fire his own gun right into the ceiling. This allowed Gavroche to turn about and drive a heel into Beaufort's midsection, flinging the older man backwards to the floor.

Gavroche took several deep breaths before he stepped away to survey the two nearly insensible men on the floor. 'Wonder what sort of song they'll have practiced,' he thought even as he searched Beaufort's coat for a pair of handcuffs, which he used to restrain Thenardier. He also brought out his own pair of cuffs, which he likewise used on Beaufort. He then strolled downstairs and whistled to the porter. "My friend, we need a wagon for two men!" he called.

"Where am I supposed to find one?" the porter bawled.

Gavroche grinned and tossed a single franc to this man. "You may rent one at the Prefecture. Make it quick, ask for Inspector Bahorel to drive it." He jammed his hands in his pockets and clucked his tongue as he watched the porter scamper off towards the bridge, for once finding himself at an utter loss as to how to tell a tale.