Emile Pingat was a real designer who was most prominent in the 1850-1890s. I made him 10 years older in this story than he was in the real world. Very little is known about his personal life, but his dresses were beautiful, intricate and influential.

February, 1827.

Javert unbuttoned his greatcoat as he stepped into the overly warm dress shop. He knew little of women's fashion, but this was clearly a shop for elite ladies. Mannequins were adorned with full-length dresses that billowed out around their wooden hips. Gigantic bonnets hid their unpainted faces. Surrounded as he was by silks and brocades in rich reds, rusts and golds, ruffles and lace, the shop reminded him of a trip he once made to Montsegur to retrieve an escaped convict. The man had made it to the foothills of the Pyrenees, almost to the border, before he had been caught. Javert had never seen anything quite like the colors of the mountains aflame that fall.

In the shop, the inspector's arrival created a stir. Although he was in plainclothes, the aura of authority that emanated from him was unmistakable. The quiet conversations of the ladies in different parts of the room faded into a titter, which then died into an uneasy silence. As Javert was removing his gloves, a small man erupted from behind a gauzy curtain dividing the room into more private alcoves. He was followed closely by a younger man, dressed in a matching waistcoat. "Monsieur l'Inspecteur! Thank God! I am so glad you came!"

Impassively, Javert eyed the fluttering man and the more composed youth as he tucked his gloves into his pocket. He inclined his head and said, "And you are?"

"Jacques Pingat, monsieur. I own the shop." Suddenly aware of uneasy silence in the room around him, he gestured toward the back, "This way…Let's go in the back so the customers may…" He looked at the young man who had followed him, "Emile… please… see to the ladies."

Javert followed Pingat into the mercifully cooler workroom behind the shop, while Emile peeled off. Javert could hear him complementing a customer's choice of bonnet. Off to one side was a large inclined table, scattered with drawings of dresses. There were bolts and bolts of fabric in every imaginable texture lined up on shelves and racks around the room. The entire back of the room was a wall of windows with half a dozen sewing machines lined up to make use of the daylight. Mannequins, half dressed with attire that was under construction, stood haphazardly around the room.

As they walked, Javert studied the man. Although his own clothing was utilitarian, he was somewhat familiar with male fashion, and even had an occasional use for this knowledge. This Jacques Pingat was dressed in, perhaps, the most ridiculous rendition of current Parisian fashion that someone who was actually working for a living could pull off. Great puffed sleeves were fastened back from his hands, and a dark waistcoat and light trousers accented what could only be tightly girdled waist. Javert marveled at the way the man could move easily, despite the clothing.

Pingat turned to the inspector, looking him up and down. Without thinking, he leaned in to pick a speck off Javert's greatcoat. Javert held up his hand in warning, and Pingat stepped back, startled. "Pardon," he said.

"Monsieur Pingat, I am Inspector Javert. What can I help you with?"

Pignat looked at Javert, almost like he was wondering the same thing himself. After a moment, he said, "Your coat, monsieur," Pingat answered. "It does not flatter you."

Javert frowned. "You called me here to speak of my coat?"

"Your coat must be…five…ten…years…" Suddenly Pingat blanched. "Oh, I am sorry, Monsieur," Pingat continued, flustered. "There was a theft, Monsieur Inspector. From my shop."

Showing more patience with the scatterbrained shop owner than he felt, Javert reached into his pocket and pulled out his notebook. In a slightly bored voice, he asked, "What was stolen?"

"Five dresses. Right out of the showroom."

Flipping through the pages to find a blank one, Javert asked, "When?" without looking up.

"Last night, I think. They were gone when I came in this morning."

"And they were here when you left last night?"

"Yes. They are actually our current signature pieces – featured right out in the center of the store. When I came in this morning…five naked mannequins!" He shook his head. "Those dresses…Monsieur – please? Can you find them?"

Javert had his doubts. Dresses, it seemed to him, could disappear rather easily. Glancing up at the man, he said, "I will try, Monsieur Pingat. Were they very valuable?"

"Yes…together they were worth nearly 900 francs. They were so lovely…especially the amber. Madame la Dauphine even viewed that one, once. The color did not suit her…"

Javert looked sharply at the man. Schooling his voice before he continued, he said, "That is a lot of money. Would they be easy to sell?"

Pingat looked back at Javert, pulled from his reverie of the dresses. "To sell?" he asks, "Is that why someone would steal them? Not to wear? I had thought…" He broke his chain of thought. "My apologies, Monsieur Inspector. Perhaps they could be sold. There are rather a lot of dresses with my label on them. To someone who could find the right buyer? I imagine they would be easy to sell."

Javert strode over to the wall of windows, looking up and down at them. Without turning, he asked, "When you came in this morning all the doors were locked?"

Pingat nodded. "I unlocked the front door and checked the back myself."

"There are no broken windows?"

"No."

"Nothing looked forced or out of place, except for the missing dresses?"

"Yes. Yes, Monsieur."

Javert turned back to the designer, "And who locked up last night? Was it you?"

"No. It was my nephew, Emile."

"The youth, out in the showroom?"

Pingat nodded. "He's a genius, you know? He is going to be big. He's not even twenty but half the dresses we sell are variants on his designs."

Javert returned to the drawing desk and glanced at the sketches on the top. Up close, he could see that there were two different hands in the drawings. Idly lifting up a page to look at a sketch beneath it, he asked, "Could he have been involved in the theft?"

Pingat sat abruptly down on a stool. "You are joking. Of course not. What would he gain from that?"

"You tell me."

Pingat shook his head emphatically. "No, it was not Emile."

With a slight smile that did not reach his eyes, Javert said, "It is my job to determine that, Monsieur." Pingat shivered as he looked at Javert, realizing suddenly that this situation might spiral out of control, that Javert would not spare his nephew from suspicion on his say-so. Javert let the message sink in for a moment before he asked, "Can you describe the dresses that were stolen?"

Pingat started a description that left Javert lost after the first sentence. Casting around for a solution, Javert looked back down at the drawing table, "Excuse me, Monsieur. Do you have pictures? That may be more helpful."

"Ah….yes…" Trembling, he started to rustle around on the table. Flustered, he dropped his hands and shouted, "Emile!"

Javert tapped his pencil against his notebook as the youth came running in. "In cases like this, Monsieur Pingat, the theft is almost always an employee or someone known to the victim. Can you think of anyone who needs money? Who is in trouble? Who is dissatisfied in your employ?"

Pingat thought for a moment and then shook his head. "Not that I know of. Madame Tenare, one of my seamstresses, just had a baby, but she seems well enough. She will be back next week."

"What about competitors? Would anyone gain by taking the dresses?"

Pingat frowned at that. "Well…Albert can not stand me, but I doubt he would steal my dresses – he despises them. And Sauvageau …"

Emile spoke up. "He is in England, Uncle."

Pingat nodded his head. "Right, of course. I had forgotten." He looked back to Javert. "No…no, I do not think that another designer would do this. Not like this. They would look to ruin me in another way. Stealing a dress is too…too petty."

"Uncle, what did you need?"

"Oh, right. Monsieur Inspector would like the drawings of the dresses that were taken. Do you know where they are?"

Emile nodded. "I will get them."

As Emile sorted through papers on the desk, Javert turned to Pingat. "Do you have an office?"

"You are standing in it. We do all of our business out of the workroom."

"Well, I will need to speak your employees."

Pingat nodded.

"In private."

Pingat blinked. "Of course. Of course."

Emile handed Javert a pile of papers. "These are the dresses. This one – this one we made in maroon, not in the blue shown. Here is a color swatch."

Javert took the sheaf of papers and looked through them. Without comment about the drawings, he looked to Pingat. "I will start with talking to Emile here. Could you go and organize your other employees? I will talk with the sales staff next. If we need to, we will move on to the seamstresses."

Pingat bobbed his head and disappeared into the shop.

Javert watched as Pingat left. When he was gone, he turned to the designer's assistant. He studied the youth. The boy was much more collected than his uncle, with the cocky, immortal air of a teenager. He was going to be a slippery one when he grew up, Javert thought. Leveling his eyes on the boy, he said, "So, Emile, I am Inspector Javert. You obviously know why I am here."

The young man nodded. "Yes, Monsieur."

"So, why don't you tell me about last night?"

Boldly meeting Javert's eyes, Emile replied, "It was pretty normal. We closed up the shop at around five. Uncle left. I stayed to work on a design. I guess I went home around seven, when my candle burned out."

Looking back, steely and hard, without a trace of a smile, Javert asked, "You were here by yourself?"

If he had not been looking for it, Javert could have missed it. Got you, he thought. Emile said, "Yes," after a little too long.

Javert raised an eyebrow. "Let's try that again. You were here by yourself?"

Emile looked down, coloring. After a moment he almost whispered, "No."

"Good choice," Javert remarked, pleasantly. "Now, tell me what actually happened last night."

Emile glanced up, "Are you going to tell Uncle?"

"That depends on what happened."

The boy turned away from Javert. He walked across the room and came to a stop in front of the wall of windows. Looking out into the cold winter sun, he said, "I was here with…a grisette". We were…uh. You know."

"And who is this grisette?"

"Suzanne. Suzanne Gonin. She works here."

"I take it this was not the first time?"

The silence lasted for several seconds. "No sir."

Javert left the desk and walked over to where he could look Emile in the face. "Look, Emile." Javert waited for the kid to look up. "I do not care what you do with a girl. My job is to figure out what happened to the dresses. So, what do you know about that?"

Emile had started shaking his head before Javert finished talking. "Nothing. Nothing, sir. I swear it. We left together. There was no one in the shop but us. When we left, the dresses were there. Nothing was out of place."

"And you locked up after you left?"

"Of course."

"Where are your keys now?"

"In my coat."

"Show me."

The boy walked across the room to a rack where the employees' coats were hung and rummaged in the pocket of a coat. Failing to find the key in the first pocket, he tried another. And another. In increasing panic, he tore the coat off the stand and searched it again. "They are not here!"

"What a surprise," Javert remarked dryly as he watched the panicked boy fumble with the heavy coat.

"I must have dropped them!"

When Javert did not reply, Emile looked at the inspector, his eyes wide. Javert stood, rooted to the ground, and looked right back into the boy's eyes. The silence stretched out between them. Javert watched as the boy's expression slowly took on a look of horror mingled with understanding. "Tell me," he said.

"When I…when I was walking her home…" Emile started, "It was cold and the wind cut right through your coat, you know?"

Javert nodded curtly. "Go on."

"I put my arm around her. She…I…My pockets, of my coat, Monsieur, I lined them with velvet cuttings so they would be warm. She put her hands in my pocket. But surely…she did not take the keys. They must have fallen out."

Javert looked directly at Emile and waited for him to continue.

"Suzanne wouldn't have…" Javert watched as Emile reconsidered the events of the previous night. He saw the flash of uncertainty cross Emile's face before he clenched his eyes shut and turned away, leaning with one hand against the wall. In an anguished whisper, he said, "She took them from my pocket."

Javert said nothing. He watched as Emile put the pieces together.

Emile turned and slumped against the wall, the pain of betrayal plain on his face. "Monsieur, please, you must realize that I did not…I had no idea…"

"I believe you, Monsieur Pingat. It seems likely that..." he looked back down at his notebook, "Mademoiselle Gonin was involved. If she took the dresses, do you have any idea what she would do with them?"

Passing the coat to one hand so he could use the other to push himself up, Emile answered. "I do not know. I can get you a list of our clients who she sells to but I can't imagine why they would want stolen dresses. But…perhaps…."

"Yes?"

"It is nothing."

"No, go on."

"About a week ago, maybe? She brought a friend of hers in. At closing. To see the dresses. The shop girls do that sometimes."

"Do you know anything about this friend? A name? "

Emile shook his head. "No. I am sorry, sir."

"Very well," Javert said. Emile looked nervously at the police inspector, wondering what was coming next. "We are done, for now, boy." He gripped Emile on the shoulder as he walked back into the shop, perhaps in approval, perhaps as a warning.

"Monsieur Pingat," Javert called from the doorway. "I need to speak with Mademoiselle Gonin next."

Pingat came over, "Monsieur – I am sorry! She is off today."

"Of course she is. Well, her address then?"

Emile spoke up from behind Javert. "I'll get it, Monsieur."

"Are there any of the sales girls who are close to her?" Javert asked.

Pingat thought for a moment. "Yes…Marie Laurent. Let me get her."

Leaning against the doorframe as Pingat went to fetch the shop girl, Javert reflected on the conversation he had just had with Emile. I handled that well, he thought to himself. He thought about his snuff box, but was not sure if taking snuff would be appropriate in a ladies' shop, so he left it in his pocket.

Pingat returned with a small woman in tow. In her mid-twenties, Javert thought. Clean, healthy-looking. Well turned out. Looking over the dress that she wore, Javert guessed that Pingat provided his sales staff with clothing because it seemed unlikely that someone who would take this job could afford a dress like that. Next to him, she barely came up to his armpits.

"This is Mademoiselle Marie Laurent." Pingat said. "Marie, the Inspector would like to ask you a few questions."

Marie was pale and trembling, "Am I in trouble?"

Javert gestured into the back room, "Please, allow me ask a few questions, Mademoiselle," he said with remarkable gentleness.

With an encouraging pat from Pingat, Marie went into the backroom, followed closely by Javert. Javert pulled two stools together and sat himself on the smaller one, so that when Marie sat they were almost eye-to-eye.

"Mademoiselle," Javert began. "What can you tell me about the dresses that were stolen?"

"Nothing, Monsieur," she said. "Please! I can't lose my job! I did not take them, I swear!" She was on the verge of tears.

Javert shook his head, "Mademoiselle," he began. "Please, collect yourself. At this point, I have no reason to think you are involved. I am just…" He paused to consider his words, "unfamiliar with the intricacies of the fashion business, and I need to learn more of this shop and how it runs. Will you help me with that?"

Marie had calmed as Javert spoke. By the time he finished, she gave him a wide-eyed nod.

"Let's try a different starting place. Can you tell me what it is like to work here?"

"Oh, this is a good job, monsieur. I am very lucky to have it. Monsieur Pingat pays us on time and he never stints us on our commissions."

"And the…conditions are good?"

"Most of the time, yes. Some of the customers can be a bit…" she paused and pursed her lips, "demanding," she settled on after a while. "But Monsieur is proud of his work. If there is a real issue, he takes care of it personally."

"How long have you worked here?"

"I am going on my seventh year, monsieur. I hope I will keep this job till I get too old. Monsieur Pingat wants the sales girls to be young. As long as my looks hold out…"

"Is that true for most of the other sales girls? They come and stay?"

"Except for the ones who do not make it out of the apprenticeship. The first two years are hard. There is so much to learn."

"Is it common for girls to not make it?"

She nodded. "Maybe half? There is a lot we need to be able to do. Everything from knowing the current fashions to talking up the customers to basic alterations. The big alterations Emile now does, but we adjust hems and take in waistlines and things like that."

"And what happens to the sales girls who get too old?"

She shrugs. "After ten or fifteen years in Monsieur Pingat's house, finding a job does not seem to be hard. Some go on to manage the wardrobes of their customers. Some of the other houses will take us. Sauvageau caters to an older customer than Monsieur Pingat does, for example."

"Is there a lot of competition among the sales girls?"

Marie paused for a moment before answering, "Yes," she said. "But that would not be a reason to steal dresses."

Javert nods. "I imagine not."

"Emile told me that sometimes the sales girls bring their friends in? To see the dresses?"

She nodded. "Yes. Monsieur Pingat does not mind, so long as it is after hours. He figures it is good for business, if people are talking about how beautiful the dresses are. He especially likes it when we bring ladies' maids in, because then they go and talk to their mistresses about the dresses. It brings in new customers, that way. It is good for us, too. More commissions."

Javert looked at Marie. She had calmed down considerably. Now, he was ready to ask the hard questions. "You have been very helpful, Mademoiselle. We are almost done. I have just a few more questions."

Marie looked back at him. "Very well, Monsieur."

"What can you tell me about the dresses that were stolen?" Before she started, he amended his question. "Wait. Not a description. I have drawings. But…Monsieur Pingat mentioned they were the signature pieces. What does that mean?"

"Oh. Well, all the designers do it. Every season, they have a few dresses they go all out on. They are not dresses that are necessarily meant to sell as they are. Instead, they are dresses that are meant to show off the current style, the most interesting ideas the designer has." She looked at Javert, a slight smile on her face. "Shall I give you an example from men's clothing?"

Amused that he had been so shrewdly read, he assented. "Sure."

"Take your greatcoat."

Javert sighed. Not the coat again. "What about my coat?"

"That coat is was made…1818? 1820? Something like that. Stand up, let me show you."

Playing along, Javert stood. "See, the coat falls from your shoulders in a nearly straight line. There is the slightest of curve at the waist – that is how you can tell it is from around 1820. If you were to go to a men's shop now, the coats would be like so." She reached up to his shoulder. "The shoulders would be wider, the waist would be brought in. It might be belted. The lapels would be much wider. The coat they had on display would take these characteristics a bit beyond what a gentleman such as yourself would wear. The shoulders would be–" She gestured with her hand, "More pronounced. The waist would be–" She grinned as she modeled a tiny hourglass with her hands. "Well, maybe not that extreme, but you get the idea."

"So, you are saying that the dresses that were stolen were such models? A bit…exaggerated?"

"Yes, but for someone who knew what they were doing, they could be altered relatively easily. At the end of the season, we generally do that to make room for the new pieces. Well, Emile or Monsieur Pingat do those alterations. Not the sales girls."

Sitting back down, a bit self-conscious about his coat, Javert looked at Marie. "What can you tell me about Mademoiselle Gonin?"

"Oh, Suzanne. What do you want to know?"

Javert shrugged causally. "Whatever you can, tell me. Is she good at her job? Does she fit in here? Whatever comes to mind."

"Well, she is terribly funny. She is also very good with the clients. I have never seen anyone else work such magic. She can wrap a skeptical client around her finger and suddenly the lady is leaving with a whole new outfit – right down to the petticoats. It is quite amazing. And, once we close up..." Marie giggled and looked towards the door, lowering her voice to sotto voce. "The impersonations she does of the clients are hilarious. We aren't supposed to make fun of them, but some of them are so ridiculous." Marie mimed some exaggerated mannerisms that Javert had seen on noble ladies.

Javert nodded and said, "Go on, mademoiselle. Please."

Marie stopped her impression and went on. "Anyway, she's been working here four, five years? She came a bit after me. She is a good sales girl, but only barely tolerable at alterations. She often pays one of us to do her alterations for her out of her commission."

"Is that allowed?"

Marie shrugged. "Monsieur Pingat does not care, so long as we don't shirk our own customers." After a pause, Marie added, "She could not have altered those dresses. Not without ruining them."

"What do you know of her family?"

"Not much. So far as I know, she lives in a boarding house for single women. She is not from Paris, but I do not know where she is from. She has a bit of an accent but I can't place it." Marie paused to chew her lip. "A week or so ago, she brought in someone to look at the dresses. Anna, I think her name was? Not sure about that." Marie frowned. "I did not like her. Don't know why, but something about her was just…off."

"Anything else you can tell me of this Anna?"

"She was also not from Paris. I would guess she was from up near the German border. Tall. Long blonde hair. Her clothes were nice, but out of fashion – maybe four or five years old." Marie looked at Javert. "Monsieur. She was odd. When we bring girls in, they come to look at the dresses. Admire them, touch the fabrics. Anna was not interested. She took a cursory look and then stood around looking bored. It was…it was, well, insulting."

Javert wrote down this description. "That is very helpful. Anything else you can tell me?"

After a moment, Marie shook her head. "No. Not than I can think of right now."

Javert nodded. "Very well. If you can think of anything else, Monsieur Pingat knows how to reach me."

Armed with the drawings and Suzanne Gonin's address, Javert set out. After being in the infernally warm shop for the last hour, the chill of the February air bit right through his coat. Stuffing his gloved hands into his pockets, he walked quickly.

He could not decide what he thought of this case. Part of him thought it was a frivolous waste of time. Dresses? Really? Was that what the police spent their time on now? But 900 francs worth? It took him the better part of a year to earn that kind of money. Walking by the station house, he remembered his orders and he stopped in to make a quick verbal report before continuing on. Administrative trivia like that annoyed him, but those orders could not be conveniently forgotten. Not anymore.

He decided to walk rather than taking a fiacre, so that he was seen on the streets. As he walked, he warmed up. It was a thin hope, but a few of his informants had been known to turn up with random information. These dresses seemed a quirky enough theft that maybe word might have gotten out.

Javert arrived at Suzanne's building half an hour later without running into any of his informants. Waiting for him was the newly promoted Sergeant Piche and the rookie Constable Ast. He had requested them as backup when had stopped in at the precinct office. He sent Ast to guard the back and left Piche out front, and then he went in. It took a brief conversation with the portress, involving his police identification card and his defining some very clear expectations, before he was admitted to her rooms. This was a woman's boarding house, the portress had explained. Men are not allowed in it.

I am a police inspector, investigating a crime, he had explained back. I am allowed where I need to go.

He asked her if she had noticed anything about Suzanne's comings and goings over the last few days, and she said that Suzanne had missed dinner last night, but that was hardly unusual. She seemed to come home late several nights a week. She had her doubts about Suzanne's suitability for staying in this house. This house did not allow That Sort of woman to live in it.

Javert stood outside Suzanne Gonin's rooms with the portress listening for a moment before he knocked. To his surprise, he heard a groan and a muffled curse. "Go away!" a sleepy voice said from inside.

He rapped more firmly on the door. "Police! Open up!"

That was a mistake. His deep voice carried through the halls of the woman's boarding house and suddenly the hall erupted in noise. Behind the doors there were shouts of surprise. Other doors opened and women in their undergarments and undone hair peeked out. Javert suddenly found himself surrounded by alarmed women and the air filled with their high voices.

Putting his fingers to his lips, Javert let out an ear-piercing whistle. Silence descended into the chaos. "Ladies," he announced. "That is enough. I am here to talk to Mademoiselle Gonin," he said. "The rest of you, please go about your business." Somewhat reluctantly, the doors began the close and the hall quieted down.

After a minute, the door in front of him opened. The woman was wrapped in a dressing gown and there was a sleeping cap on her head. Rumpled hair protruded from beneath the cap. "Can I help you?"

"Mademoiselle Gonin?" he asked.

The woman in the doorway said "Yes?" at the same instant as the portress said, "That's 'er!"

"I am Inspector Javert. I need to ask you a few questions. May I come in?"

Eyeing Javert, she let her eyes linger as they slid from his face, down his body, to his feet, pausing suggestively along the way, before they came back to his face. With a speculative smile, she pushed open the door all the way and turned to walk back into the room, her hips swaying suggestively as she walked away from him. Javert took a step into the room and watched her through narrowed eyes, completely unamused. The portress stood in the door behind him.

The room was a nondescript sort of room, not unlike a feminine version of the room Javert lived in. Functional, with minimal personal touches, it served as a place to sleep and little more. There was a rumpled, recently occupied bed on one side of the room, and a small table with two chairs looking out of the room's only window. The window was open, despite the cold. There was a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. The door of the wardrobe was standing partially open and Javert could recognize a dress that was similar in style to the dresses he saw the other girls wearing at Pingat's, among an assortment of other feminine attire.

"Mademoiselle," he began. "I am here to talk to you about …

There was a shout from outside. "Stop!"

Three steps took Javert to the window. Sergeant Piche was tearing down the an alley after a blonde woman. "Ast!" Piche shouted as he ran. "Ast! I need you!"

A deep frown creased his forehead as he turned to look back at Suzanne. She met his eyes for just a moment and he could see the self confidence, the arrogance that she had greeted him with turn to fear. There was a very short pause. He started moving just an instant after she did. Suzanne made a break for the door and she tried to shove the portress aside but her bulk was too much for Suzanne to shift. Javert took two large strides over to her and pinned her to the wall with one arm. With his free hand, he wrestled the cuffs onto her. "Mademoiselle, you are under arrest."

Four hours later, it was mid-afternoon and Javert stood outside the cell where he had left Suzanne. He was carrying a portfolio, a cup of water and half a baguette. The stationhouse had half a dozen holding cells like this one, and at the moment, the only other one that was occupied contained a drunk, snoring on the floor. They would keep prisoners here for hours or a few days, at most, before sending them off to La Conciergerie to await trial.

The holding cells were in the basement, below the stationhouse proper. The only light came from a couple of lamps hung in the aisle that separated the two rows. As they were below ground level, the cells were musty and foul smelling much of the time. However, in the winter, while they were never warm, they were also never cold.

Suzanne was still wearing her dressing gown and she sat huddled on the bench in the cell, with a dirty blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She was shivering. In her misery, it took her a moment to notice him standing there. When she looked up at him, he saw that the insolence had faded to a familiar hollow eyed fear.

He grimly tightened his lips as he looked back. This would be an exercise in filling in the blanks, making the case for the prosecutor. Sometimes, these interrogations were challenging, a battle of wits. This one, though, would not be. He looked back down the row towards the constable who was on duty, "Constable Tierry, is it?"

The man nodded.

"Would you let me in? And, bring a chair."

"Sure thing, Inspector."

The constable carried a wooden chair down the row. He set it down as he took out a heavy key that he used to unlock the door. Javert watched as Suzanne's eyes followed the constables movements, but she did not move from the bench. The constable brought the chair in and then withdrew, allowing Javert to enter. Javert heard constable lock the cell behind him.

Javert held out the baguette and the water to Suzanne. Uncertainly, she reached for them and he gave her a nod. "Take them," he said. She took them, drinking the water in a few thirsty gulps.

He pulled the chair over so he was about a foot away from her and sat down. Without speaking, Javert opened the portfolio and spread the drawings of the dresses on the bench. Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, he silently looked at her. The silence spread from seconds into a minute as she nervously chewed on her bread. Javert sat, immobile, watching her as her eyes traced the long, graceful lines of the dresses.

Suzanne sighed. "You found the amber one, right?"

Javert nodded slightly. "It was not very well hidden, under your bed."

"Monsieur," she said after a while, her voice tired and defeated. "What happens now?"

"We are going to talk. Based on what you say, we'll see."

She nodded. "I understand."

"Let's start with something easy. Can you tell me what happened to the other four dresses?"

Suzanne shook her head. "No, I am sorry, Monsieur. Anna had buyers lined up. It was my job to get the dresses, she was taking care of the rest."

"Anna?"

"Anna LaPont."

"The blond woman."

"Yes."

"Who jumped out of your window?"

"Yes."

Javert frowned. "That is too bad."

"Why?"

"She got away."

Javert watched the emotions war on Suzanne's face. Relief…anger. He saw her jaw clench and then she looked at him with the muscles on her face all tight. "Look Suzanne," he said. "You have been caught in possession of stolen goods. There is no question as to your guilt in the matter. I need to ask you questions about what happened. About Anna's involvement. If you cooperate with me, help me out, I will tell the judge and maybe he will be lenient. If not..." he let the statement hang.

Suzanne looked down. Javert watched her, waiting until she looked up. When she did, he asked his next question. "Why did you steal the dresses?"

"Anna needed money," she said. "She said she could sell them, if I could get them out of the shop."

"What did she say she needed the money for?"

"Her father was sick," she looked at Javert. "Monsieur, can you understand? When I was growing up, my dad died and it was so hard. I wanted to help out."

With a wry smile, Javert nodded. "Yes, I think I can understand that. Did you ever meet her family?"

"No, they live up near Strasbourg. I am from Nantes. I have never been to the east."

"I see."

Javert leaned forward and adjusted the drawings so they were lined up. Then he asked, "Whose idea was it, to steal the dresses?"

Sitting back in his chair, Javert watched as Suzanne considered the question. "It was her idea to steal from the shop at the start, but I do not remember which of us came up with the plan for the dresses."

Javert nodded slowly. "So this has been going on for a while?"

"Since last summer."

Javert nodded. "Okay. Will you tell me the whole story?"

Javert watched as she thought about it. She nodded.

"Last summer, Anna and I were walking in the park." Her eyes were distant, not looking at Javert, but over his shoulder. "There were some beaux gosses, playing football. It was a warm day and they were in their shirt sleeves." She glanced at Javert, her cheeks coloring slightly.

Javert nodded his head, "Go on," he said.

Slowly, Suzanne took a breath. "We were sitting under a tree, watching the game. I looked over at Anna and she seemed so sad. I…I asked her what was wrong. She said, she was worrying about her family. Her dad was very sick and her mother was having trouble providing for her brothers."

She glanced at Javert again. This was the hard part in an interrogation for Javert. One wrong word, one wrong look, and she would stop talking. Keeping his face deliberately neutral, he gave her a slight nod.

"I asked her if there was anything I could do to help. She said…she told me that her father was in a bad way, but some money would help put food on the table. I told her…well… I get paid enough to live on, but…" she shrugged, "I live on commissions, Monsieur, which means that some months are better than others. I need to keep a bit on hand so I don't starve on the bad months, you know?"

"Of course," Javert replied. "That is very sensible."

"She…she…" Suzanne closed her eyes and looked down, chewing her lower lip. Javert watched her, leaning forward slightly. After a moment, she looked up at him. "She…she asked me to steal things from the shop, so we could sell them, and send the money to...to her family."

"And you went along?"

"Not at first. No, not at first. But she…she convinced me."

Javert nodded. "Go on," he said quietly.

"We started small. I took a pair of beaded gloves. I don't think they were ever missed. I gave them to Anna and she sold them. She showed me what she got – nearly as much as we would have gotten in the store." Suzanne looked down at her hands, twisting them. She continued in a whisper. "It felt good to send that money to her family. To know I was helping."

Javert nodded encouragingly. As she told the story, he began to wonder about Anna. Anna's story. Anna letting Suzanne take all of the risk. Anna reaping the profit. Anna, he thought, was likely to be not what she seemed to Suzanne.

After a moment, she went on. "I … I went after Emile. He made it easy to get access to the shop, after hours." She looked down, "Is he going to get in trouble?"

Javert shrugged slightly. "I do not know. I will be talking with him."

She nodded. "I….I did not mean to hurt him. He's young. He fell for me harder than I intended." She twisted her dressing gown in her hands.

"Let's go on with your story. Can you tell me what else you stole?"

"Some scarves, a bonnet and once even a whole bolt of fabric."

"And then, last night, the dresses."

"Yes," she said.

"So let me see if I have got this right. You stole…what? Maybe a thousand francs worth of merchandise from Pingat's over the last few months, and you never saw a single sous yourself? You sent it all to Anna's family?"

"I was just trying to help!" she said

"I know," he said. "I know."

The interview went on for hours. Javert walked her through her story, backwards and forwards until he had it complete, he had what the prosecutor would need.

Suzanne was a thief, she broke the law. There was no question what she deserved. But…no, he told himself, there are no buts. He shook his head. The problem was Anna LaPont. Anna LaPont would have to wait for another day.

Author's note #1: This story was written as an exercise to explore Javert's interrogation styles with different people. My Javert owes a lot to Robert Goren (Law and Order: CI).

Authors note #2: I am perhaps the least fashionable person imaginable. I do not know where this story came from. I am sure there are traces of The Devil Wears Prada, coming through, which was very funny (the book, not the movie). I had a lot of fun looking at 1810s to 1830s French clothing as I researched this. For those of you who do know something about fashion, I have probably mangled a great deal, and I would be happy to have corrections or comments. See the version on AO3 for links to my sources.

Authors note #3: This story owes a huge debt to my betas: Carmarthen and lsl. Both of them immensely improved the story by pointing out all kinds of problems, from factual to storytelling. Thank you. Miss M also beta'ed another story I wrote in parallel and her comments directly improved this story.

This was my first attempt at writing case fic. I learned a lot but there is still a lot of room for improvement. Critical reviews are welcomed.