Javert settled into the crackling upholstery of the hired coach. As usual, the stale scent of tobacco and human effluence puffed out, lending itself to the sparkling dust motes.
It was only a morning's commute to the small north- eastern village of Montfermeil. However, he wished he had chosen a better day to travel; celebrations in small villages near Paris were horrible.
However, once René had revealed to him that Jean Valjean had checked in with one of the officers stationed on the feeder routes outside of Paris, he sprang into action. He knew Valjean would inquire about the whore's 'child' first, if she even existed. Especially when one considered that he did not check in with his parole officer immediately.
He leant against the right side and looked out the window as the wagon jostled him along, like a child upon her father's shoulders. Row houses, cafes, and shops soon retreated against the advancing fields and farmsteads. Interspersed at random intervals, blossoming trees lent a sticky sweetness to the air. Cattle swung bells, farmhands beat the soil, and small children hummed against the melodic sway of grass.
Javert could not explain why he was spending his entire free morning on what was most likely a fool's errand. Valjean, having checked in at the gates of Paris with all necessary signatures and on schedule, would most likely still check in with the Prefecture within the next three days. He would not go through all that trouble just to discard it.
But something tore into the deepest recesses of his chest and was vigorously wrenching him towards this tiny glimpse into Valjean's next direction. Logical reasoning could not contend with that most basic instinct, that undeniable gravitational pull between two bodies.
Rolling along, Javert was roused when a barking command punctured through his thoughts. His coach stopped as a large public carriage barged forward.
Dust stuck to the window as four snorting bays pulled past. One sneezed and he flinched. A deluge of snot spattered upon his pane.
Javert sneered and immediately removed himself to the other side of the conveyance. He threw one last glance at his ruined pane and caught the face of a small girl as she leaned out the window of the passing carriage.
Her long lanky hair fell upon her dirty profile like an overgrown dying weed. Her eyes were huge as she ogled the road before her. A woman's hand began tugging at her black dress.
Javert harrumphed. He crossed his arms and turned his attention once more to the French countryside instead of ugly little children in desperate need of a shave.
As predicted, the town was infested with screaming children ricocheting off each other, like a swarm of agitated bees. Delicate lilies of the valley were given away for good luck and taken in hopes of better fortune later that night. To avoid all that unpleasantness, Javert removed himself to the roadside, only to become ensnared in the contaminous gossip that spouted from the adults congealing in the doors and windows of the closed shops and open taverns.
"The lark?"
"Yes, just left today—"
"Apparently taken?"
Javert sucked in a breath.
"Some family issues, I warrant—"
"Those poor Thenardiers…"
"Not to mention—"
"—the mother, right?"
Despite the usefulness of the exchange, the sugar-laden mouths, fake mews of worry and hearty guffaws expelled Javert from listening for more. He strode over to the Thenardiers' inn and stopped in front of the streaky windows.
Immediately, a stringy man slunk out of the door, rubbing his hands together. Javert folded his arms, whiskers bristling as he took in the dirty sergeant's coat, the shifty interplay of limbs, and the beady orbs rolling around as they assessed him right back.
"Good morning."
"How may I help, Monsieur—"
"Inspector," cut in Javert. "I am looking for information regarding an elderly gentleman that might have passed through this district." Javert paused and Thenardier did not answer.
He resumed, "Also, I have heard some stories from your neighbours about your little girl…?" He drifted off and cocked a brow.
The man began to showily rub his chin. He picked at a scab, then a few scraggly hairs.
"Ah, so that's it!" He jabbed a bony finger in the air theatrically, as one would do if they alighted upon some momentous discovery.
"You're looking for our Cosette's grandfather, no relation of course. Whitest head of hair I ever seen! The girl wasn't ours though; we good Christian souls took her in despite our own meagre condition. He came by today and retrieved her. Poor little thing was all frail and sickly, so we had to let her go."
Throughout his speech, Thenardier's hands kept messing with something inside his gaudy vest, and Javert zeroed in on the imperceptible movements.
"Turn out your pockets."
"What?"
"I said, turn out your pockets, or if you continue to be this obtuse, I can turn out your entire person," considered Javert, tapping his cudgel with a finger.
"Your choice."
Slowly, the man began to empty his pocket, but when Javert's face darkened, he disembowelled both at once. Caught in one dirty hand was a wad of banknotes. The signature of Laffitte arrested him instantly.
"I can't believe it," he gasped into his collar, "he paid for the kid!"
Thenardier, upon hearing this uttered cry, whole countenance took on an air of boredom.
"Like I told you, her grandfather came by and picked her up," he said, casually fanning himself with the bills. "This is what was owed to me as the child's debt."
Thenardier sighed. "You see, the child's mother is dead…"
He glanced at the Inspector from hooded eyes. Javert waited.
"We sent letters to her in Montrieul-sur-Mer, but received no response. At first, I thought she simply abandoned her child," he shrugged.
"But no!" His thin brows punctuated his distaste. "The damned wretch had to go and die on us!"
"How?"
"Apparently warming the bed of some convict parading as Mayor, the little hussy—"he reclined against his den—"or so I've heard from the mail coach when it returned."
Slowly, an insidious smile crawled upon his hollow face and nested there.
"Nothing more."
Javert's hand grappled with the handle of his weapon; the rest of his stature remained motionless.
The wolf regarded the fox; and then with a grunt and a jerky nod Javert left, posture erect as he returned to his coach. Thenardier did not tear his eyes from the Inspector, not even when fresh prey ambled into the maw of his chop-house.
After a stopping for a revitalizing cup of pitch black coffee at his customary café, Javert ascended the stairs at the Place du Chatelet for a second time that day. However, unlike the lethargic officers that aimlessly wandered the floor in the morning, the whole building was awash in excitement, not unlike that of a month before.
Javert groaned as he quickly deciphered the multitude of conversations that flowed about him. As usual, Valjean had been one-step ahead of him the entire time.
"Have Monsieur Bonheur bring me the pardoned criminal's records immediately!" shouted Javert to the front-desk sergeant who popped off his stool. He nearly fell over when his oversized boots caught on a rung.
Javert merely continued to remove his gloves, until a familiar voice distracted him.
"How many times have I told you that I cannot stand that appellation?"
Javert turned towards René Bonheur, a sparrow disengaging himself from the crowd of chattering bluejays.
He was frowning.
"It's a serious matter," replied Javert.
"Yes it is," huffed René, folding his arms, careful not to crinkle his packet of fresh paper. "But so are you, when you renege on your promises."
Javert coughed and slapped the leather on his bare hands.
"Does that mean you have the paperwork?"
"I knew you would desire it as soon as your fellow checked in with Sergeant Baudot."
"Ah, so Baudot is the assigned parole officer?"
"Apparently so."
They left the front atrium and went down the lit corridor.
"I see you didn't inquire to whether Sergeant Grosz was all right after you nearly knocked him out."
Halting in front of his dingy office door, Javert plucked one of the three keys on his ring and plunged it in the lock.
"Due to the lack of hysterics and our pompous ass of a medic, I feel that I'd be wasting my time."
René chuckled and handed Javert the report as he entered the dim office. However, Javert did not follow.
"René," lilted Javert, "If you weren't still considered child by law, I'd strangle you."
René's short curls bounced as he whirled. Javert held up the cover page, which had some unaddressed areas and unanswered questions.
"Sir," he stated, eyes narrowing. "I haven't had time to bring that issue up myself; you demanded the report."
Javert looked at the record-keeper, who withstood his gaze. Javert nodded.
"Of course."
He plopped himself down in the mean little corner chair. His legs spilled out, stealing most of the empty space. René merely shuffled to the side and surveyed the mismatched bookcase as Javert began to analyse the cover sheet.
Fragmented grumbles issued forth from the Inspector.
"…didn't even do his job! Half the page done! Half!"
He smacked the packet.
"How the hell did Ary manage to bungle this one up? I mean, he obviously has the child now. There's no way that he could have missed her..." He tapped his cheek.
"Unless he didn't bring her...actually... knowing Valjean, that's probably what he did."
Javert flipped the top sheet aside in the vicinity of his desk. It swooped underneath.
"But there's no mention of any familial connections...he didn't ask then?"
More paper flipping, he fingered through the rest of the papers, this time managing to keep them all intact.
"Shit! Either Ary is slipping in this work, or the dunderhead didn't think to ask a former convict about whether or not he had a family."
Javert tore at his whiskers, spiking them. Catching himself, he patted his hair into place before casting a questioning look towards René, who had been perusing one of Javert's dusty books.
"Where's the top sheet?"
"Under the desk." René pointed as he replaced the tome.
"Ah." Gripping the edge of the desk, Javert stooped his tall frame, laid the papers on the ground and began swiping under the desk.
"We will need to inquire about Sergeant Baudot's report writing," he muttered to the mahogany. "While this sort of slovenly reporting might pass for actual policework in the provincial towns, we cannot have this mucking up our system."
Fingers pinched the errant sheet and snatching up its companions, he sprang off the floor. He leant against his desk as he began to scrutinize another page.
René rocked upon his heels as he waited for Javert to finish mouthing the words aloud to himself. So he nearly fell over when the Inspector dashed into his personal space.
"See here!"
Bewildered, René tried desperately to read the paper thrust into his face, but it kept shaking with the Inspector's excitement. It also didn't help the poor man that Javert's broad finger covered up most of the lines.
"This address is false; it doesn't exist!"
"What?' He pushed his glasses. "Even I know there are homes upon that street."
"Yes, and their addresses start at 11 and continue to 30, but," Javert grinned, "there is no number 13 at the Rue de Chalet."
René let out a gasp. "That's true, so that means—"
"Yes, our dear Monsieur Valjean is lying to the police," smirked Javert.
Night had crept in unnoticed. Quickly, Javert observed the open timepiece upon his desk; he had exactly fifteen minutes before he was required to patrol his beat. He placed all of his notes regarding irregularities within Valjean's parole papers into a pile and placed them atop the books on the tallest shelf.
However, the Inspector also wanted to reassess the Coypel case that afternoon as well. Removing a messy stack of mismatched parchment, yellowed paper work, and a precariously placed ceramic mug, he unearthed a slim folder. It was labelled with a smudged flowing scrawl and he pulled it off the table. A gnawed pencil fell out and he quickly gathered it up and took it between his teeth.
Opening the thin folder, he quickly reviewed his notes. Tightly wound handwriting nested among doodles in the margins. The Coypel kidnapping was an atypical case for the Paris Prefecture in that it involved the son of Handel Coypel, a prominent counterfeiter. Because of the situation, no one deigned to even hear out his case.
Javert was at once riveted when he learnt of the details, and volunteered to investigate himself. He was thumbing through small sheets of clustered notes when loud caterwauling smacked him out of his reverie.
Scowling, he shoved the notes into his cavernous coat pocket along with the pencil stub and a fresh handful of paper. He replaced the folder under the stack as before, seized his cudgel and walked to his door.
To his left and crowding the small corner, huddled three of his fellow sergeants. The front desk sergeant, Grosz, was clutching a small gold frame as they rapidly conversed among themselves.
Javert, blanketed by the shadows of his office, rested against the jamb.
A moustached man, dressed to the nines, rounded upon Grosz.
"Édouard, why the hell is she back? We spent all of last week chasing random strangers off her property, just to ease whatever nonsense she's housing upstairs!" he hissed agitatedly.
"Did her dog die again?" piped up the other man from underneath a crop of flaxen hair.
"No, apparently this time it's her kid." Grosz handed the frame over to him.
"Damn."
"Pass the picture, Paul," demanded the flashy sergeant.
More wailing infested the corridor and blond man handed it over.
"You know, with all that lace and cotton, the poor thing resembles one of Renoir's sweetmeats he's always receiving," commented Grosz.
"Ha, Renoir, this one's yours then!" Paul punched him in the shoulder. "Go and find that lady's bonbon!"
"Are you shitting me? I worked with her twice already; it's obviously your guys' turn."
"Ah, but you're forgetting the asinine purse hunt Édouard and I had to go on a month ago!"
Renoir flung his hands in the air.
"Let's just get the straws!"
"Oh, man, they're under Renoir's desk," whispered Grosz. "I don't want to confront her again!"
"Never mind those."
Javert towered over the bickering trio, smirking at their sudden discomfiture.
"I'll take her, but you have to do me each a favour."
They tossed a look amongst themselves. A chin jerk from Renior and a nod from Grosz sent all three turning to Javert in wary silence.
"I need you to investigate your quartiers regarding the whereabouts of the pardoned convict, Jean Valjean."
Sergeant Grosz began, "But I don't have—"
"You do now. You're taking mine," commanded Javert. He eyed the sullen faces for any sign of further interruptions. Satisfied, he resumed.
"His parole officer had been fed false information on his lodgings, so we need to find out where he really lives. It's highly suspicious that he pulled a stunt like this. So be on the look out for a man with an extremely muscular build; he has the strength of an oxen team. His hair is completely white, but he's still young, so don't let that fool you."
Renior straightened and replied testily, "Now, if we do see him or find out anything, do you want us to confront him?"
Javert levelled him a glare for a full second before responding.
"No. That duty is mine."
Renoir snorted. The other two men nervously hid their hands behind their backs.
Javert smiled, releasing his teeth.
"You see, we cannot endanger you by placing you in confrontations with old bread-thieves and little girls."
He thrust out his massive hand and allowed the sergeants to place the preliminary notes and the locket into his palm. Without even tossing another glance into their corner, he marched past the darkened offices.
Javert scanned the elementary report in his hands. The ramblings of both Sergeant Grosz and the victim were translated quickly as he made his way to the front desk.
When he appeared around the corner, the bejewelled lady who was merely blubbering into her pudgy hands immediately burst into renewed tears. Javert winced as he shielded himself behind the desk. He closed his eyes and inhaled a fortifying breath.
"My poor Michel!" she sobbed into her heavily perfumed handkerchief.
"Madame Vuillard, I will be the Inspector that will be documenting your case today," he announced, rising his voice. "As I understand, your son was taken from his bed in the middle of the night, unbeknownst to you, your husband, or your son's nurse."
Lip quivering, she gave a frenzied nod that sent the coiffure in to a fit atop her round head. Javert pinched the bridge of his nose, desperate to rid himself of the harsh smell of withered flowers.
He coughed. "Though I am aware the Sergeant before me took notes regarding your case, I would like to hear the details in your own words."
Like removing the stopper from an overfilled cask, Javert unleashed a torrential downpour upon the entire station. Sergeant de ville and officers were derailed from their courses and the spattering of civilian visitors stood gobsmacked at the onslaught.
"Ohh, Michel, didn't deserve any of that…such a sweet boy—I swear! Someone help me! I'll pay any amount—just taken without a sound! And they didn't take any money…how are they supposed to feed Michel? Why couldn't they have taken one of those horrid little gamins—"
With resounding force, Javert braced himself on the desk, snapping the lady out of her tirade.
"Madame! Please cease! I cannot help you if you insist on relying me information in this manner!"
Her eyes bulged and her nose sniffled as it tried to absorb the excess moisture that decorated her made-up face.
Javert brought up his hand up, palm out.
"I know it's difficult," he consoled, voice sharp, "but your cooperation is essential if you desire the safe return of your son!"
She nodded, flesh jiggling.
"If you may, can you restate what happened leading up to the disappearance of your son?"
Javert licked the tip of his eaten pencil and waited as the woman gathered herself.
"We-well," she stammered, "Nothing strange happened before this, except some letters I had received."
Javert's quirked an eyebrow.
"Letters?"
"Yes, some really strange letters. I mean, they didn't sound scary or anything—"
"Let me decide that, Madame," interjected Javert. He leaned in closer. "What did these letters say?"
"Uhh," hedged Madame Vuillard as she tried to evade the Inspector's piercing eyes. "It just reported things that my son had done. Playing outside with the dog, falling down, piano lessons; like those reports schoolmasters give to parents."
Javert straightened. Passing his tongue over his lips, he began muttering to his cravat. Bewildered, the lady began to play with the multitude of rings adorning her fingers.
She had moved onto her gold bracelets when Javert interrupted.
"Can you retrieve every single letter you had received of this nature and bring it to this prescient?"
He stepped out from behind the desk, notes in hand.
"When you come back, you must ensure the letters are delivered to Inspector Javert."
The spoken command roused the woman from her stupor, and smeared her in splotches of salmon. Her hands rolled into fists as she trudged up to the Inspector.
"Excuse me?" she exclaimed haughtily. "Why should I let you read personal things about my son?"
"Because," he responded toothily, "I do believe we have something of monstrous value here."
Commissaire Lautrec had taken two fortifying cigarettes that day instead of one due to the eternal exasperation of having his most difficult subordinate fused with his most prodigious one. Not only did Javert take on another project that no one would touch, but within an hour, he managed to unearth a lead. At the same time, his interest in the former convict Jean Valjean was beginning to interfere.
The day after Javert sent Sergeant Grosz on his beat, Lautrec called Javert to his office, to inquire as to why he felt the need to delegate tasks when he did not have the authority to do so. Instead of answering, Javert fanned an array of reports upon his pristine desk and began to lecture him about the discrepancies of Valjean's parole papers. When he couldn't verbally contribute anything, Javert merely continued, and moved onto the strange case of Madame Vuillard and the covert letters she received before the disappearance of her son. He also reviewed his condensed notes upon the Coypel kidnapping case, much like a tutor and his student before exams.
Before he excused Javert from the room, he asked a single question of the man, more out of curiosity, rather than for rebuke.
"If he checked in as he has been doing thus far, why couldn't you wait a week until he came back to confront him?"
At this, the confidence Javert had exuded was instantly banked, and he looked down at his buttons for a minute before answering:
"I am not sure."
Despite his greatest efforts, Javert had only obtained a small bit of information from one of the sergeant de villes that stated he saw a bulky sailor of a man, who sported a crop of pristine hair in the area of Saint- Marcel.
After a week of barely concealed agitation, Lautrec called Javert once again to his office.
"Did you bring your notes from last week?"
A curt nod.
"Good, because there is something of note here, and I want your opinion."
Javert instantly perched his tall frame upon the edge of the left chair.
"What was the previously recorded address?"
"Number 13, Rue de Chalet." Javert didn't even look at the papers in his hands.
"Ah, and here's the crux of the matter." The Commissaire passed the paper over where it was quickly snatched by eager fingers.
Ice blue eyes darted to and fro, scanning the page. His whole body tensed as he bore upon the address.
"It now says No.50-52Boulevard de l'Hôpital."
"Exactly. The Gorbeau tenement, a place that does exist," stated Lautrec. "What do you think?"
"A filthy hole, perfect for someone that wants to hide but…"His attention reminded glued to the page as he played with the hair at his nape.
"But, why would he provide a false address before, and then turn around and give us another address? Very peculiar…and if this proves to be his true one, I don't know what to make of it. I mean—he was sighted in this area—but what of the girl? It still makes no mention…did he toss the goods?"
Lautrec waited until his mumblings trickled down into soft hums before he brought the man back into their conversation once more.
"So we are in agreement in our conclusions upon this."
Javert leaned back in the chair.
"I would like you to confront this man."
Slowly Javert removed himself, and sat at the edge of his seat again.
"What?"
Lautrec held out his hand for the paper, while the left opened a drawer and removed a slip of paper and pencil.
"Yes, we need to get to the bottom of this. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, and all that," he muttered, jotting the address.
"Plus, I confess that I am quite curious on what is going on upstairs. I trust your skills in obtaining his intentions and motive." He placed the note in the Inspector's palm.
He stood up and gave a small bow of his head.
"I am not sure I am capable of such feats with this particular man," said Javert softly as he left.
The stars blinked down upon Javert as he sought them above. They did not lend their pinpoints of light upon this mockery of a residence. Even in the languishing gloom, Javert could make out the ugly façade with its cracked windows and crumbling eaves.
A rat scurried from his boot as it caught a bit of trailing garbage.
He knocked at the door and was confronted by the wife of Charon. With folds of skin washing over her non-descript eyes, twisting veins, and her cavernous mouth, fitted with two rattling teeth, Javert instantly plunged his exposed hands into his coat pocket.
"Excuse me," he greeted, removing the slip of paper, but keeping it close to his person. "I am here to visit a friend, who gave me this address to see him by."
The crone didn't even look at the paper.
"Ah, you're here for Monsieur, no doubt," she cackled.
Javert took a small step back, as the lady hopped down from the threshold.
"Ah, yes, Monsieur is my only tenant at this time," she continued, gesturing for him to enter. "He's alone in this place."
Javert levelled a questioning glare, but she merely opened her grinning mouth wider, causing Javert to remove is gaze elsewhere. She directed him upstairs and left him alone in the narrow confines of the musty hallway. She had placed a small wood candlestick upon the warped flooring when Javert made no move to take it.
He took out his cudgel from the inside of his coat, and raised a fist. However, within an inch of puncturing the decrepit wood, he stopped. His enormous hands hung as his sides; the cudgel swayed limply from his fingers. The candlestick, abandoned upon the ground, spit bits of light upon the rusting door handle.
Turning his back, he hunched in on himself, and reread the address. His thumb rubbed upon the faint text: No. 50-52 Boulevard de l'Hôpital. Then he pocketed it, along with his weapon.
He wiped his hands upon his coat briskly. Steeling both fists, he released a ragged breath and sharply rapped the door.