The Châtelet Apprentice (16 page)

They were given a hearty welcome by the tavern-keeper who was relighting his stoves. Bourdeau ordered a restorative snack from his fellow townsman, and they were soon sitting down to a meal of bean soup with chunks of bacon swimming in it, followed by a gratin of hard-boiled eggs, generously washed down with several bottles of white wine. Then Bourdeau left them without a word and went off to prepare a home brew of his own. It would act as an excellent tonic, enabling Nicolas to recover from his exertions. First of all he broke up some sugar, then mixed it with pepper, cinnamon, cloves, honey and two
bottles of red wine, all of which he warmed up in a large pot. Then he poured the boiling contents into a large bowl, to which he added a further half-bottle of spirits. He set light to the whole thing and carried it back in triumph to his two companions.

Nicolas had already had a considerable amount to eat and drink but he eagerly helped himself to the piping-hot brew, the effect of which, combined with everything he'd drunk already, was to send him off into a pleasant state of drowsiness. He felt kindly disposed towards the world in general, and to those around him in particular. Though normally reserved, he now became voluble. He ventured some jokes that surprised those sitting around the table and eventually had to be helped up by his two comrades, who took him into a back room and made him lie down on a bench. They then went back to their table, asked for some pipes and slowly and contentedly finished off the bowl of flaming wine. It was one o'clock by the time Nicolas reappeared, looking stern and annoyed.

‘Monsieur Bourdeau, you are a downright traitor. From now on I shall be wary of your concoctions.'

‘Are you feeling better, Monsieur?'

‘To tell you the truth, I'm fine.'

Nicolas allowed himself a smile.

‘I'd even like a drop more …'

Bourdeau's face fell. He pointed pathetically towards the empty saucepan.

‘I see. You needed some, too …'

Nicolas restrained Bourdeau as he started to rush towards the stove to renew his experiment, and turned towards their companion.

‘So, Tirepot, you had something to tell us …?'

‘I have that, Nicolas. You know I've got a sharp eye and a good ear. That's how I am. I'm for order and bringing things out into the open. And I won't forget all that I owe you. I wouldn't be here if …'

Nicolas motioned to him to stop this story that he knew off by heart. Tirepot had been eternally grateful to him ever since the day the young man had got him out of a spot of bother. After being accused by one of his customers of stealing a purse, he had been saved only by the perceptiveness of the young policeman, who had been able to prove it had been an attempt by a jealous rival to frame him.

‘I know, Tirepot. But hurry up and tell us, there are people waiting for Bourdeau and myself and we've already wasted too much time.'

Bourdeau hung his head, pretending to be embarrassed.

‘Here we go, then,' Tirepot began. ‘Yesterday evening at Ramponneau's
1
I'd put my contraption down and was having a little pick-me-up while waiting for the crowds to come out after supper. That's when I do my best business. Yes, indeed. People are full, and the fuller they are, the more they need to empty themselves. That's life. That's how I make money. Two
tough-looking
types sat themselves down by me and in no time got through three times as much as we drank just now. One of them seemed to be an old soldier, with a military way of talking, a wooden leg and full of himself as you'd expect from someone used to the sound of gunfire. He downed the wine like nobody's business. These two gallows birds could talk all the slang they wanted, I could still follow what they were saying and I understood well enough that it was about some dirty business, past or future. But what stunned me was that while they were
bellowing away, they were handling huge piles of coins, the like of which I'd never seen before. They also talked about selling a carriage and a horse that were apparently hidden in a barn in Rue des Gobelins, in the Faubourg Saint-Marcel. Then they noticed me and left. They could have made trouble for me so I went out the back way just in case.'

‘Was the soldier's wooden leg the right or the left one?'

Without being able to explain why, Bourdeau sensed Nicolas's excitement.

‘Wait. Let me get my bearings. They were at the table on the right-hand side, one of them level with me and the other one, the veteran, opposite him, his bad leg stretched out towards me. So it was his right leg. ‘Yes, definitely. Do you know him?'

Nicolas, his brow furrowed, did not reply. He was thinking and the other two did not dare to interrupt his meditation.

‘Tirepot,' he said eventually, ‘you're going to search out these two rogues. Get your spies on the job, and this is for you.'

He handed him several silver
écus
and wrote down the expenditure in pencil in a small black notebook.

‘You shouldn't, Nicolas. I do it to help you. It's a pleasure and I do it out of gratitude, as true as I'm a Breton.'

‘It's not a reward. Thank you for your kind words, but the search you're going to carry out will cost you something and you may lose customers. Do you understand?'

Tirepot nodded without offering any further resistance. But from force of habit he tested the quality of the coins by biting them, much to Nicolas's amusement.

‘Do you take me for a forger by any chance? We'll meet up with you again as usual around the Châtelet, as soon as you have
some information about those two characters. You'll have to ferret them out.'

When they went outside the world looked just as uninviting and the afternoon had brought no improvement in the weather. If anything it was colder. They hurried off to the Châtelet. Nicolas was feeling better and gave a detailed account of his adventures and discoveries to an amazed Bourdeau. He had the feeling that his drunkenness, followed by a short rest, had sharpened his mental faculties and rid him of melancholy. It was as if the combined effect of a loss of blood and an intake of alcohol had purged him of his anxieties and dark thoughts. The feeling of fragility caused by the two assaults against him had given way to a steely determination.

He took stock of himself, as was his habit. In the final analysis Monsieur de Sartine had shown himself to be almost paternal. With this thought he felt a pang of grief; a picture of Canon Le Floch and the Marquis de Ranreuil came to mind and then faded, giving way to Isabelle's smiling face. He chased away these images and to cheer himself up reflected on the new trust his superior had shown in him. He was able to continue his investigation, which was now no ordinary criminal case but an affair of State. He gave a long sigh of relief and felt determined to see it through, whatever the cost to himself.

They went down into the viewing area of the Basse-Geôle which was crowded with silent groups of worried or grieving families, as well as the simply curious. Bourdeau whispered to him that the body was no longer there and that it had doubtless been taken to the examination room where the doctors on duty habitually performed routine investigations and, in the most
puzzling cases, opened up the bodies. This was a small vaulted cellar containing a large stone table with grooves in it for washing down and allowing water to drain off through a hole in the paving of the floor. The room was poorly lit by a few smoking candles, and in it a motionless figure gazed at Dr Descart's body. On hearing the sound of their footsteps he turned, and they recognised Charles Henri Sanson. Nicolas held out his hand which was taken this time without hesitation and even, he thought, with a certain eagerness.

‘I didn't expect to have the privilege of seeing you again so soon, Monsieur Le Floch. But judging from the message sent by Monsieur Bourdeau, you wish to have the benefit of my modest knowledge, as I previously offered.'

‘Monsieur,' said Nicolas, ‘I would have liked to meet you in different circumstances but the King's service makes demands that cannot be deferred. I know I can count on your discretion.'

Sanson raised his hand in agreement.

‘We presume that the corpse you are examining has some connection with the remains you were able to tell so much from yesterday.'

Nicolas wiped his brow. It seemed to him that years had gone by since his return to Paris; he was horrified to realise that he had come back from Guérande only four days earlier. He had aged considerably in those four days. Sanson was looking at him with friendly concern.

‘We are faced with a new mystery,' he said, swallowing hard. ‘The man we have here was found dead, stabbed in the heart with a lancet.'

‘It's still there,' Bourdeau interjected. ‘I didn't think I should touch the corpse, so I had it brought here as it was.'

‘I'm eternally grateful to you for being so careful, Inspector,' said the executioner. ‘It will help our examination. Monsieur Le Floch, you are asking for my opinion but I know you to be observant, accurate and able to pick out details. Would you like to be my pupil and offer me your initial comments?'

‘Master Sanson, I do indeed have plenty to learn from you.'

Nicolas pulled aside the sheet covering the body. It was now bare except for the shirt pierced by the instrument. The face was frightening. Death's handiwork was apparent in the wrinkled forehead and the deep-set eyes that were still open but darkened by an opaque membrane. The hollowed temples were matched by sunken cheekbones. The man was unrecognisable. Only the lack of chin, made more obvious by the open mouth, acted as a reminder, however exaggerated, of Descart's most striking feature when alive.

‘A first impression. We know from the witness who discovered the body and from the inspector, that there was no trace of blood on the victim nor round about. Is it possible to stab someone without spilling blood? In short, I notice that the face seems flushed, the mouth excessively open and that dark stains appear here … and again here …'

His fingers moved lightly over the face of the corpse.

‘… of a nasty blackish colour,' Nicolas finished. ‘They are strange.'

‘Yes, indeed,' Sanson said approvingly, ‘you have followed the correct method: dispassionate observation which leads to the right question, without involving the emotions or the imagination. Before you came I studied only the face, and I can already tell you that it taught a modest physician like me a great deal. If that was all I had seen I would have concluded that the
victim had been strangled, and perhaps also poisoned. The lancet makes things more complicated.'

Sanson went up to the stone slab. He examined Descart's head, leant over, sniffed, muttered a few inaudible words, then put two fingers into the dead man's open mouth and delicately removed from it something that he carefully placed on his handkerchief. He held out his find to the two policemen.

‘What do you think, gentlemen? What is this?'

Bourdeau put on his spectacles. Nicolas, with the eyesight of a young man, was the first to reply:

‘A tiny feather.'

‘It certainly is a feather. Where does it come from? From a cushion or a pillow? I leave you to work that out. But what can we conclude from this, Monsieur Le Floch?'

‘That the victim was suffocated …'

‘… And not strangled, since there's no sign of strangulation around the neck. And, as a man of this age would not let himself be suffocated so easily, it's safe to bet that he was drugged beforehand. There's still a strange smell around his mouth …' ‘But in that case, Master Sanson, what has the lancet got to do with all this?'

‘That's up to you to find out; it's outside my field. But there are some situations in life where truth and simplicity are the best way of fooling people. This
mise en scène
with the lancet seems to me to be intended to lead people astray, and what makes that even more likely is …'

He leant over the chest of the corpse again. He slowly drew out the lancet.

‘… that this lancet did not in fact have the power to kill. It didn't enter the heart and it didn't touch any of the vital organs.'

Nicolas thought for a moment before putting his question.

‘But if the blow from the lancet was not fatal, could this careful arrangement mean that the culprit had no knowledge of anatomy?'

Bourdeau smiled. He was following Nicolas's train of thought step by step.

‘Probably. It seems to me that the murderer did not want to kill and leave a bloody mess. He then fabricated a cover-up for some mysterious reason that it's your job to elucidate. In doing so he made two mistakes. The first was by wanting to give the impression of a fatal wound to the heart, even though no blood was spilt, and the second was by not striking in the right place. My first instinct was to conclude that he was ignorant of anatomy. However, my second reaction is to say to myself that this whole
mise en scène
was the work of a murderer who had clearly thought through everything he did, and who on the contrary possessed the necessary knowledge.'

‘But in that case,' said Nicolas, ‘why did he make so many mistakes? Because in both hypotheses the mistakes remain …'

‘Let me make myself clear,' explained Sanson. ‘The murderer uses a drug to make his victim dizzy. He suffocates him, sets the scene and his error with the wound from the lancet gives a particularly vicious twist to the crime. It is deliberate. If he is a physician, he'll take advantage of this to proclaim his innocence by relying on the fact that such a basic mistake could not have been made by a medical man.'

Bourdeau and Nicolas looked at each other, amazed at the young executioner's expertise and the prospects it opened up.

‘I haven't forgotten those black marks of yours,' Sanson continued. ‘It so happens that when a dead body is lying
stretched out, the face turns bluish before very long as the blood stops circulating just below the skin. On the other hand those parts in contact with the ground – the shoulders, buttocks and the backs of the legs – take on a purplish-pink tinge. I conclude from this, too hastily perhaps, that the victim was suffocated face down and maintained in this position for some time. Besides, look how this colouring affects the whole front of the body. This phenomenon occurs about half an hour after death and attains its full effect only after five or six hours. Until then it's possible to delay the process by altering the position of the body but after that the change of colour becomes permanent and quickly darkens, eventually turning a violet-black colour.