“From war to peace. From the army to the police for us both.” The Frenchman poured two glasses of red wine. “Toour survival.” He sipped, eyeing Tennant over the rim of his glass. “How are you, my friend?”
Jules Picard would understand. Still, Tennant kept to himself the dizzying bouts of disorientation, the suffocating fear of enclosed spaces, the nightmares, and night sweats that left him shivering. He had survived a bombardment and a live burial in the Crimea. He doubted the memory would ever leave him.
“A little stiffness in my leg,” Tennant said. “Especially on cold, foggy days.”
“Are there any other kinds in London?”
Tennant smiled. “A handful in August. And you, Jules?”
“Well enough. What is it you Britishers say? Mustn’t grumble.” Picard set his glass aside. “Alors… down to business. I have news about this villain, Romilly, and his latest venture.”
“Which is?”
“Running guns out of Lyon.”
“What sort of weapons are we talking about?”
“Stolen ones from our arms factory at Saint-Étienne. Five thousand of our very latest bolt-action rifles, to be precise.”
Tennant sighed. “The man is nothing if not resourceful. In London, it was kidnapping, prostitution, and pornography. Have the guns changed hands?”
“We hope to prevent that in Lyon.”
“You said to pack a bag for overnight. What is the plan?”
“The army will supply a force of heavily armed gendarmes to seize the weapons. The soldiers get their guns back, the Paris police arrest the criminals, and you—”
“I want Romilly.”
“I regret that won’t be possible. I offer a chance to be ‘in at the kill,’ as the hunters say, but we retain custody of the fox.” Picard tapped the table. “An arrest on French soil requires a trial in a French court.”
“Romilly is an Englishman. He must face a—”
“Trial by an English jury? That, my friend, is always unpredictable.No, Monsieur Romilly will enjoy a long, unhappy stay on Devil’s Island. Many ‘guests’ of our emperor never leave.”
“You have a point.” Tennant hesitated. “Very well, Jules.”
“The train leaves Paris in thirty minutes.” Picard stood and clapped Tennant’s shoulder. “Cheer up, Richard. Ten years in a disease-ridden penal colony in the French tropics? An English hanging might be preferable.”
The gendarmes parted company with Tennant, Picard, and his officers at the station in Lyon, the soldiers heading for a warehouse outside the city. The policemen left for Lyon’s central square, La Place du Change, and a rendezvous with the local police.
When they arrived at the plaza, Picard asked Duclos, the sergeant in charge, “Where is our pigeon?”
“Romilly is at the café opposite. At a table under the striped awning,” Duclos said. “His wiry drinking companion is Jacques Morin. A villain with fingers in every dirty pot.”
“Très bien,”Picard said. The lieutenant tapped an officer on the shoulder. “Vous allez.”The Paris copper sauntered across the plaza, joining two of Picard’s men loitering on Saint-Jean Cathedral’s steps.
Morin threw some bills on the café table and tapped Romilly on the shoulder. The two men crossed the plaza at a rapid pace and headed down the Rue Saint-Jean.
“Merde,” Duclos said. “He’s spotted your officers.”
“No matter,” Picard said. “I have four men posted at the turning to the river.” The lieutenant signaled his remaining two officers. “Follow me.”
Duclos grabbed Tennant’s elbow. “Let them go, Inspector.” He tipped his head. “This way.”
Tennant eyed Picard’s progress. Then he joined the Lyon coppers heading in the opposite direction.
“I told him not to fill the square with his men,” Duclos growled. “But these Parisflicsthink they’re God almighty.”
