Free For the King by Catherine Delors

across the bridge, my poor little girl!” Citizen Peusol was now sobbing.
    Roch sat up. “I need to talk to that Jeanne right away. What is her full name?”
    “I can’t tell you. You’d arrest her. Then people’d say that I am nothin’ but a moucharde an’ that I cause trouble to the neighbors. I’d lose my good name.”
    Roch sighed with exasperation. “Of course I will not to arrest Jeanne, but she must give us a description of that man she saw walking away with Marianne. Do you not want us to find out what happened to your daughter? How old is Marianne, Citizen?”
    “She’s fifteen, jus’ like Jeanne.”
    Roch shook his head. A fine idea it was to send two girls of fifteen to sell cakes in front of barracks! The man who had lured Marianne away could have been a pimp.
    Roch remembered the day when Old Miquel had taken him to Rue Tire-Vit, Pull-Cock Alley. He was fourteen then, and had stared at the women, reeking of strong perfumes, and still stronger animal odors, the bodices of their garish dresses pulled down low enough to reveal their nipples. The whores, mistaking the older man’s purpose, had pointed out Roch to one another, giggled and called to them sweetly, enticingly. His father had given him a shove on the shoulder.
    “Take a good look at these, son,” he had said. “Smell them. Infected with horrible diseases that’ll rot your privates. Leeches, all of them, waiting to take whatever money’s in your pocket.”
    Old Miquel’s lessons were not lost on Roch. He had kept from that visit a distaste for prostitutes, though, as a policeman, he had learned how helpful they could be as informers. He was always dismayed to see yet another girl join the legions of Paris whores. Now he could picture young Marianne, her face painted white and red, clad in a soiled satin dress, peddling her allurements on Pull-Cock Alley.
    “What does your daughter look like, Citizen Peusol?” Roch asked.
    “Well, she’s red hair, an’ a big nose. An’ she’s very much marked by the smallpox. She was taken awful sick when she was nine.”
    That settled it. Marianne would have been safe from any pimp. But the mention of red hair gave Roch a pang. He remembered the skull of the charred body lying in the middle of Rue Nicaise.
    “An’ she’s a bit of a squint too,” continued Citizen Peusol. “God knows her brothers tease her enough about it, poor thing. They tell her one of her eyes says shit to the other.”
    Now Roch felt his anger rising. Was Marianne chosen for the grim task of holding the horse’s bridle because of her looks? Would the criminals, those cowards who had run away to save their own skins, have sacrificed a prettier girl?
    The Peusol woman joined her hands in a gesture of supplication. “What do you think happened to her, Sir? It can’t have been her on Rue Nicaise?”
    “What was Marianne wearing that day?”
    “Oh, that’s easy, ’cause she’s but one set of clothes. A skirt with blue an’ white stripes, an’ her gray woolen jacket. She’s grown much this year, so it’s quite a bit too small for her. An’ of course her blue kerchief on her head. We’re not rich, but I wouldn’t let my daughter out on the street with her hair uncovered.” The woman continued, her voice quavering. “So it can’t be her, eh, Citizen Chief Inspector?”
    Roch sighed. This was not going to be easy. It never was. He rose and put his hand on the woman’s shoulder.
    “I am sorry, Citizen Peusol. You will have to be brave. Yes, actually, this seems to match the description of the girl some witnesses saw that night. It may indeed have been your daughter.”
    The woman burst into a wail. “Oh, I knew it. I knew it, but I didn’t want to hear it.” She raised her eyes to Roch. “She was a nice, sweet girl. She’d never hurt anyone in her life. Why did they kill her? Can I see her? I want to see her. Jus’ one last time.”
    Roch remembered the blackened, faceless remains of the girl. One of her