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Chapter 6: The Troubles of Informants

Despite all attempts at haste and the timely provision of a fiacre, darkness had already fallen fast by the time Gavroche returned to the Rue de Pontoise. The foyer of the Prefecture's headquarters was busy with agents preparing for the night patrols as well as some others who'd made a few early arrests. In the middle of this hustle and bustle Gavroche espied another detective waving to him. "You're needed at the Prefect's office," this man said to him.

'Probably about Glorieux's squawking,' Gavroche decided as he headed upstairs. En route he espied Tolbert and Minette ducking into a corner near the stairs, only to be catcalled by several agents standing around nearby. "There'll be more of a tale there later," Gavroche laughed to himself before knocking on the door of Delessert's office.

"Enter," Delessert growled from inside the room. The Prefect set aside some letters he'd been reading before levelling a reproving look at the younger detective. "I have just been informed that you have been absent without leave. Instead of returning directly here after making your arrest, you absconded once again for parts unknown."

"It was to clarify evidence concerning the investigation," Gavroche answered quickly. He could just hear the crinkling of the stolen letter as well as its translation in his waistcoat pocket, and he couldn't help but wonder if Delessert could detect this sound as well. "I had to set something straight about the victim's connections."

"An English resident by the name of Victoria Hastings, known to be living with Aimery Jourdain-or better known as Glorieux. Both of them were imprisoned in 1832 and 1830, respectively, and subsequently released on parole. They are certainly known to the Prefecture," Delessert said in a level tone as he put his hands on the desk. "If you were investigating, you were out of bounds as you had duties to discharge with regard to your prisoner."

"And what if there was important evidence-"

"That will remain to be decided, Detective Thenardier," Delessert interrupted. "In any other circumstances you would be considered a meddler and a busybody, and a hindrance to the exercise of the law. This is not something I will tolerate within my Prefecture. Are we clear?"

It was all that Gavroche could do to keep a straight face at the gall in the Prefect's tone. "Understood, Citizen," he said with a salute.

Delessert looked at him for a long moment, as if weighing some matter on his mind. "Consider this your first and final reprimand. This is your first case with the Prefecture, and some lapses are to be expected. Next time however I will not be so tolerant-" he began before another knock sounded on the door. "What is it?"

"It's about Tolbert, Citizen," a gruff voice replied.

Delessert sighed deeply. "Show him in." He shook his head as he looked at Gavroche. "Do not let me catch you with such imprudence. Having women in these premises, even on official business, is nothing but courting trouble."

Gavroche only saluted once more by way of reply before quitting the room. As he walked down the corridor he caught sight of Tolbert shaking his head, his jaw set as he walked away from Minette. As for the woman she was quickly fanning herself, perhaps to draw attention away from her furrowed brow and pursed lips. Upon seeing Gavroche she merely shook her head before mumbling some excuse and stalking off down the hallway. "Citizenness Debault-" he called.

"I'd stay out of that merry scene if I were you," Bahorel warned as he emerged from a nearby office. His usually cheery face was taut and grim. "I am certain you were at least on this side of the Seine," he added in an undertone.

Gavroche nodded slightly. "I visited the Rue Guisarde, to set a paper straight."

Bahorel's eyes narrowed. "A paper that you got from the crime scene, I am certain?" He gritted his teeth when Gavroche did not make an immediate reply. "You cannot simply get civilians involved in this! What if this suspect decides to go after your siblings, or heaven forbid, your nephews or Laure?"

"Ponine and Enjolras were the ones who offered to help first," Gavroche argued. "They know how to be careful about these things."

"All the same you should have cleared this move with the Prefecture before getting your sister involved," Bahorel chided. "Have you got a copy of her translation of the letter?"

Gavroche reluctantly handed over the folded papers. "Food for moths now?"

"I'll see to it that it does not go that way," Bahorel assured him. He rubbed his temples as he regarded Gavroche again. "Have you any word from Frassin?"

"None," Gavroche answered. Now that he thought about it he had not heard any word from his friend since much earlier in the day. "Perhaps I should check at the Quai de Montebello."

"He will not be there; I advised young Jean Brujon to remove, and Frassin will be watching him from afar." He clapped Gavroche's shoulder. "For now, you have the evening off. Drink to the fact that Delessert was not too harsh on you. There will be much to do in the morning aside from questioning your friend Glorieux."

"Here, and not in La Force?"

"He's only here for questioning. You believe him to be innocent, so he said?"

Gavroche had to hide his smile at the stern yet knowing tone in Bahorel's voice. He saluted before hurrying downstairs to the small yard at the back of the building, where the agents often gathered to eat, spar, and exchange news and gossip. Even before he stepped outside he could already hear the raucous cheering that usually signalled the end of a match.

"There you are Thenardier," one of the older agents greeted. "Scuttlebutt has it that you're another brawler too."

"With my fists or with my feet?" Gavroche asked before he was suddenly shoved into the middle of the circle. He had just enough time to dodge a large fist aimed for his jaw, giving him barely a second to counter with a jab to his opponent's nose. The burlier agent facing off against Gavroche growled before rushing at him but Gavroche sprang forward with a flurry of punches at his face before swiftly taking his opponent's keens out from behind him. The other agent went down with a yell but grabbed at Gavroche's arm to pull him to the ground as well.

"That's a draw!" the older agent yelled before Gavroche could get to his feet. He extended his hands to help up both opponents. "Now where did you learn to do such a thing?" he asked Gavroche.

Gavroche brushed some dust off his coat. "At home," he replied nonchalantly.

"From Citizen Enjolras, I am certain," the older constable remarked.

"My sister helped a bit too," Gavroche added, smirking at the surprised expressions of his comrades. 'Ponine could deal most of these gents a fouette before they could even get their boots together,' he thought, rubbing his jaw right where he'd been dealt a blow the very first time he'd gone sparring. It was then that he caught sight of Bahorel talking furtively with a messenger in the hall. Something about the older detective's countenance had Gavroche quitting the practice ring and coming forward. "What has the crow brought?" he asked in an undertone.

"We're needed at Picpus," Bahorel said in an undertone. "Frassin is at the Combeferres'."

Gavroche's gut twisted at the mention of his colleague being at the home of a physician. "What happened to Brujon?"

Bahorel shook his head. "It would appear they were ambushed, judging by this note from Combeferre. Frassin is lucky to live to tell the tale."

'Someone has a hand of lightning,' Gavroche thought as he followed Bahorel out to the street and hailed a fiacre. Not even Montparnasse at his most desperate and brazen had taken so many lives in such a short span of time. This very disquieting thought was enough to still Gavroche's tongue from all chatter throughout the entire trip to the Quai d' Austerlitz, then across to the neighbourhood of the Rue de Bercy, a little south of the Faubourg Saint Antoine.

Twenty years ago this quarter had been known as Picpus, and had lingered so even throughout the early days of the 1830s. Nowadays the name Picpus was no more and the area was referred to simply as "Bercy". This name had also been bestowed on the railway station being constructed in this vicinity, near the entrance to the Bercy road leading out of Paris. The old houses in this vicinity were giving way to residences refurbished in the 'classic Greek' style, complete with marble columns set up in gardens of low trimmed hedges. On the whole it made the neighbourhood seem far less forbidding, if one could ignore the dismal tolling of the bells from the still extant convent of the Bernardines.

Gavroche and Bahorel found the windows shuttered at the Combeferre house, but light could still be seen in little points through the slats. "There's discretion for us," Bahorel noted as he rang the bell near the doorway. "We got Combeferre's message, my dear Claudine," he greeted the woman who opened the door a crack.

"How very timely, Bahorel," Claudine Andreas-Combeferre greeted amiably. As usual she wore her chestnut hair pinned away from ehr face but covered by a kerchief as if she'd just been at work. She paused to pat her slightly rounded middle, which could not be concealed even by her thick blue woollen dress. "Good to see you too, Gavroche. Your brother Neville was here just yesterday."

"He'd turn your books into his mattress if he could," Gavroche quipped as they followed her into the front room. If he sniffed he could just pick up on the acrid tang of metal mingled with spirits, a sure sign that someone had recently been into the house's laboratory. "How did Frassin come tripping up here?"

"Francois and I found him in the street. You should go right up and he'll tell you about it," Claudine explained in a hushed voice. "The other young man we found, we had him buried at Pere Lachaise. Citizen Frassin said we should do so."

Bahorel gritted his teeth. "I should have wanted to take a look, but well one must do the decent thing." He laughed when Claudine had to tug down her dress over her midsection. "You'd better hope there's just one little fellow in there."

"Francois and I have our doubts," Claudine replied with a knowing sigh

"He will owe you an apology then. Two is a bit much."

"Two amiable ones. You on the other hand should be making your apology to Therese every day. Three sons in four years are more than enough!"

"Why if she is charming and so am I, then whose fault is that?" Bahorel retorted as they followed Therese upstairs. He nudged Gavroche. "You'd better marry a woman with such cheek; anyone quieter would be the death of you!"

Gavroche smirked even as for a moment the image of MInette's pert face came to mind. Yet all thoughts of this vanished on hearing Frassin's groans of pain from a room at the end of the hall. 'The sound of a man who has been very nearly done for,' he thought even as the odor of carbolic soap assailed his nostrils. He waved to Combeferre, who was stepping out of the sickroom. "How is he?"

"Alive. I've had to give him a dose to ease the pain, so he may be sleepy before long," Combeferre said gravely as he wiped his spectacles. "He stands a chance yet."

"In your hands he'll be walking before long," Bahorel replied confidently. "It may be much to ask, but can he stay here instead of us moving him to the Val du Grace, as per procedure?"

"Of course. He'll be safer in this house, I gather," Combeferre said. He clasped Gavroche's shoulder. "I'm sorry that your first case is taking a morbid turn."

"It wouldn't be much of a tale otherwise," Gavroche remarked. Even so nothing could quite prepare him for the sight of his friend lying in bed, his face swathed in bandages and his arms entirely covered by slings and gauze. The dim light and flickering shadows from the candles around the room could not obscure the severity of Frassin's injuries. "Looks like only your nut is sound," Gavroche joked weakly.

"Not so sure about that," Frassin said, his voice surprisingly strong though cracked from some disuse. He raised his hand as if to indicate wherein he'd been struck upside the head. "Brujon fled to the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. I followed him there, and we were talking on the Rue de Charonne when it happened."

Gavroche rolled his eyes at the mention of this overly long street. "Accosted?"

"No, ambushed. That man—he was smart enough to wear his face muffled-tried to take Brujon off by the collar. I told him that I'd arrest them both, and I got knocked down for it," Frassin said. He winced in pain and blinked, as if holding languor at bay. "He had a cudgel."

"Don't strain yourself," Bahorel advised. "Let the sleeping draught work."

"You have to know, Inspector. That man left me alive. It was Brujon he wanted," Frassin said. He tried to raise himself on his elbows only to collapse with a cry of pain. "When I came to, I was in some cellar. I heard Brujon crying in the room above me, that way one does when there's a tooth aching or knocked out. The man-I think it was him-was asking him to give up names and addresses. Brujon wouldn't, and then I heard something like pliers being brought out, and then there was a hot poker..." Frassin gritted his teeth as he shook his head. "He passed without saying a word."

"I've seen torture before, and what I saw that happened to Brujon was inexplicable. Either he was particularly recalcitrant, or you have a sadist for an opponent," Combeferre warned as he checked the injured man over. "Be careful or you might open up your wounds, my friend."

Frassin nodded slowly as he shut his eyes. "You know what the odd thing was?" he whispered. "When I woke up again, on the street this time, my coat was gone and everything in the pockets."

"Everything?" Bahorel repeated. "Even your notes?"

Frassin opened his eyes slowly. "They were in my wallet. I had several francs there-"

'Now there is the problem,' Gavroche realized even as he heard Bahorel swear loudly. "I don't see you writing much," he pointed out.

"Brujon told me a few things, where we could go, and I was telling him where he couldn't go," Frassin murmured drowsily. "I had to cross out some places-"

"Now by Hercle, there's the problem!" Bahorel exclaimed. He sighed when he saw Frassin's eyes widen, clearly startled. "You rest now. I'll mention the matter to Delessert. You'll get some leave yet."

Frassin nodded again, managing a smile as he sank back down on the mattress." When I was sure that Brujon was done for, the man washed his hands and went into the church of Saint Marguerite. It was almost time for Vespers."

'He would have been long gone from the Marais by then,' Gavroche realized, recalling now that this was the same hour when he'd been at the Rue Guisarde. He glanced at Frassin, only to find the man already fast asleep. "When I spoke to the elder Brujon he did not mention there being anyone of note in that neighbourhood," he remarked.

"No Brujon has eyes all over Paris. This now leaves only poor Glorieux as our informant. That is, if he is not too deep in mourning so as no vengeance can be aroused in him," Bahorel said as he got to his feet. "Thank you for your help, Combeferre," he said to the physician."I hope I have not brought danger to your door."

"Hardly so; I am only doing my part," Combeferre answered amiably. "As for you, you'd better be careful. I've stitched you both up too often for my liking."

"He's shaping up well," Bahorel said proudly as he pounded Gavroche's shoulders. "You'll have less to worry about just yet."

"I'm a physician and more importantly a friend. It is my job." Combeferre went to a drawer and pulled out several rolls of gauze that had already been soaked in camphor and some other medications. He pressed them into Bahorel's and Gavroche's hands. "These will prove useful till one can get to a hospital or clinic. I only hope you will have no actual need for them."