is a rare fanfic from Arlene C. Harris and © 2002 by the author. All rights reserved. No part of this may be copied or retransmitted without the author's specific permission. This page may be linked to, but the contents may not be posted on any other page than www.pontauchange.com/Oddities/oldest_trick_in_the_book.html.
"Would you like my hat?" said Javert, holding it out in front of him. In the other hand he held his ever-present truncheon, which to him was more a badge of his office than a weapon for use in the line of duty. As the unfunny joke sank in he shouted, "Arrest everyone! Handcuffs on all!" Officers flooded the tiny room and stationed themselves in every corner.
Most of the brigands in the Gorbeau House garret were stunned into immobility, but not Thénardier, the ringleader; he grabbed for the nearest pistol and pressed the barrel to Javert's chest. The policeman merely stood by, regarding him with a cool eye.
"It will misfire," said Javert with perfect confidence.
Thénardier, who stood nearly a head shorter than the inspector, did not see the slight motion of Javert's hand as he lowered the truncheon; his gaze was firmly on its target. But when he pulled the trigger, there was no sound but a disappointing "click".
"I told you so," said Javert. He grabbed Thénardier by his ragged collar and thrust him into the arms of two waiting policeman. "Now," said Javert, sticking his truncheon under his arm, "let us see to the prisoner."
When he turned to the chair where the victim had been bound, he found it empty. It was one of those rare moments when Javert felt surprise. But it was a familiar feeling, engendered only by one person on earth, and in that moment he knew the identity of the missing man and cursed his slow wits.
"The window!" cried one of the officers; all attention focused on the broken pane and the dangling length of rope leading down two floors to the darkened streets below. Javert rushed to the window and leaned out, gritting his teeth. "That would have been the best one," he growled.
The truncheon pulsed warmly, as if responding to his inner thought. And Javert knew his quarry had not gone far. He held out the nightstick over the street and waved it back and forth, feeling the increase and decrease in warmth as it zeroed in on his prey. Then, when he knew precisely where the man was hiding, he made a quick flicking motion.
If the street had not been dark, if it had not been deserted, if this small window were not the only one facing the escape route, Javert would never have dared. But the conditions were right, and his hunch was right, and presently a struggling figure emerged into view. No cord bound him, no chain, but something stronger and something from which Javert knew he could not escape.
And then, as if miracles were sold two to a centime, the escapee levitated up the side of the building, to become level with the garret window. The man wore a look of fright as Javert had never seen on him, but he knew that was nothing compared to the fright he would get in custody.
"Valiant effort, Jean Valjean," said Javert, "but the game is over." He reached out with his free hand and grabbed Valjean's collar, pulling him into the attic with little physical effort. It was only when Valjean was handcuffed and chained between two stout officers that Javert faltered a little, leaning back against the wall, for the effort had come near to exhausting him. But he would not let anyone see that. He removed his hat and wiped his brow with the back of his hand, the hand that still held the cudgel firmly in its grasp.
"How did you do that?" asked an eager young soldier, but he was hushed by his comrades with enigmatic whispers of Gypsy magic. Javert pretended not to hear them. Let them believe what they want, he told himself. Better that than the truth.
"Take them away," he whispered. "But this one stays with me." The officers under him rushed to obey.
Once the escaped convict had been loaded into the heavy police coach, Javert retrieved from an inner pocket a small silver box engraved with a pair of crossed sticks and availed himself of a pinch of snuff. I should have done that years ago, he thought to himself, but I never had a clear chance at it before, and if I had been caught... well, my superiors would never understand.
He regarded the snuffbox before he replaced it, turning it over between his fingers. No one but him knew the significance of the crest, that it was the emblem of his school, Beauxbatons, a school no Muggle knew existed.
After all, how many policemen carry truncheons that contain the pinfeather of a griffin?