The Châtelet Apprentice (22 page)

He looked at the sleeping Semacgus and asked Bourdeau to go and wash, and then to come back to him. He wanted to be alone with the suspect. Bourdeau obeyed, though not without showing his disappointment at being sent away. In fact Nicolas
had his own reasons for not wanting a witness to his interview with Semacgus. He justified it, though not very convincingly, by telling himself that he needed to maintain an air of mystery, and therefore his authority, in the eyes of his deputy. The reality was rather more prosaic: since he had not told Bourdeau the whole truth about his adventures the previous day and the night he had spent at La Satin's, he did not want to be caught red-handed disguising certain facts.

Nicolas hesitated for another moment before shaking Semacgus by the shoulder. He was reluctant to disturb the sleep of a man threatened by such serious accusations and towards whom his feelings had never wavered. Semacgus sighed and straightened up, knocking his hat to the floor. The fleeting expression of fear on his face disappeared when he recognised Nicolas.

‘Monsieur Bourdeau's wine has a stronger narcotic and soporific effect than the most concentrated opium solution,' he yawned. ‘Goodness, I was in a deep sleep. But you're looking very serious, my dear Nicolas …'

He got up, took a chair and sat astride it.

‘It's presumably thanks to you that I've been put up in this room. I'm grateful for it.'

There was both gratitude and irony in his voice.

‘I think you can indeed thank me for it,' Nicolas smiled. ‘You might have spent the night in one of those delightful locations known as “Barbary” or “The Chains”. Or, better still, we could have received you in “Comfort's End”, famous for its reptiles and filth, or even “The Pit”, an inverted cone in which, with your back bent and your feet in water, you would have had ample time to meditate on the disadvantages of not trusting your friends.'
4

‘Oh, I see. I take that as a jibe in my direction, but it's one that requires some sort of explanation from you.'

Nicolas sat down on the other chair.

‘I didn't want anyone else present at this conversation,' he continued. ‘It's not an official interrogation. That will come later perhaps, but for the moment I simply wanted to talk to you about certain events in the most open way possible. Don't see this as malice or slyness on my part. You may well consider it somewhat ingenuous, but that is a part of who I am that I wish to preserve for as long as I can. However, that particular fortress is under attack and you are partly responsible …'

Semacgus listened without any particular sign of emotion.

‘You have not at any point played straight with me. Ever since our meeting in the Basse-Geôle you have been evasive, vague and secretive. Let us go back over things, if you will. You told me that you left La Paulet's at three o'clock in the morning. Such preciseness surprised me at the time, coming from someone who'd been at a rout. From that moment on you were a suspect …'

‘In Lardin's murder?'

‘A suspect. You're the one who has referred to the commissioner's hypothetical murder, and for the second time. You are also guilty of concealing the truth, since you stated that you had fallen for Louise Lardin once and once only. However, it appears from reliable evidence that your relationship with your friend's wife continued and is perhaps still going on as we speak. Lastly …'

Nicolas took out of his coat pocket a blank piece of paper and pretended to read from it:

‘“Declared having received one
louis d'or
to state and
affirm that the aforesaid stranger had stayed with her until three o'clock in the morning and not to admit that he had left well before. Questioned on this point said and repeated that the aforesaid stranger had left, without anyone whosoever having been able to see him, via the secret door into the garden through which gamblers withdraw in the event of a police raid. Questioned as to when he left, the aforesaid prostitute replied: ‘A quarter past midnight.'” The name of this prostitute is La Satin. There's no need to ask whether you know her, is there?'

‘Nicolas, you're asking the questions and giving the answers. What's more, does all this have anything to do with Dr Descart's murder?'

‘That remains to be proven, I admit. I'm simply trying to make you understand that a magistrate who didn't know you and who was examining your testimony with respect to Lardin's disappearance would, in all sincerity, have reason to doubt your statements. Now imagine this same magistrate coming across you again in a murder case and, what is more, the murder of a man with whom you had, to say the least, stormy relations, and that this was common knowledge. Piece together this whole
combination
of circumstances and impressions and you can draw your own conclusions about the outcome. You should realise then how lucky you are to be dealing with me, a friend, who as it happens has discretionary powers over the investigation into both cases and who hopes that you have nothing to do with either of these two tragic events. So consider my position and decide whether the moment has come to be open with me about what really happened and how you were involved.'

A long silence followed this speech which Nicolas had delivered in an assertive tone, frequently emphasising his words
by hitting the grimy surface of the table with the palms of his hands. Semacgus stood up with a thoughtful look on his face, took a few steps around the cell, sat down again and then, with a sigh, began to speak.

‘I'm touched, my dear Nicolas, by your words and by the feelings behind them. I hadn't realised how lucky I was to have a friend as the investigator. Forgive me, but your rise has been so swift that, despite the respect I have for you, I was far from trusting in your abilities, as the circumstances warranted. So I beg you, let's forget all about my past equivocation. I'm ready to answer all your questions. But I warn you, what seems obvious can sometimes be misleading. These are the words of an innocent man.'

‘My friend, that is what I wanted to hear. I'm first going to ask you to explain – Bourdeau has already provided me with details of the discovery of Descart's body – the circumstances that led up to you meeting him on the evening of the day before yesterday.'

Semacgus thought for a moment, then began:

‘At about nine o'clock someone rang my doorbell. Awa, who waits incessantly for news of Saint-Louis, rushed to the door. On the floor she found a letter folded into four and closed with sealing wax. Not knowing what to do with it she brought it to me immediately. I opened it …'

Semacgus rummaged in the cuff of his right sleeve and took out a small note that he handed to Nicolas.

‘No address,' he noted. ‘No mark on the sealing wax. Let's see … “Come to the house this evening, I shall be waiting for you at half past five. Guillaume Descart.” The piece of paper has been torn …'

‘That's how it was when Awa gave it to me. But Descart was thrifty, not to say miserly.'

‘Could Awa have cut a piece off?'

‘Impossible. She can't read, and look at the whole thing: the folds match up, even with the traces of sealing wax.'

‘That's true. What was your first reaction on reading the note? Descart's writing must have been familiar to you.'

‘Yes, indeed. During the period when we saw each other more frequently he would send me clients who were unworthy of his skills. So I recognised his writing perfectly well. To tell the truth I was puzzled by how laconic the letter was, but he was an odd character and I took the invitation at face value, as a request for a talk. I did rack my brains about the purpose behind it. Our last meeting – you were there – had come to an abrupt end. I wasn't really expecting an offer of reconciliation.'

‘You said to Bourdeau that only something serious, something concerning the exercise of your profession, could explain this request to meet.'

‘True, it was possible that he wished to inform me of the current state of his application to get me, a navy surgeon, banned from practising medicine. He delighted in this sort of provocation.'

‘Why did you arrive at Vaugirard early?'

‘I had to leave a herbarium of tropical plants at the Jardin des Plantes. I'd left myself plenty of time. The weather looked threatening, so I went back to Vaugirard and I didn't think it a crime to turn up at Descart's a little in advance.'

‘When you discovered Descart's body, did anything strike you?'

‘I was beside myself, because I immediately realised the trap
I'd fallen into: I was a ready-made suspect. I confirmed that he was dead. I saw the lancet. It reminded me of our argument about bleeding and that in this way the weapon used for the crime would also constitute evidence against me. I saw nothing else. Don't forget that all I had to see by was a candle stub.'

Nicolas made no attempt to break the silence that had fallen. Semacgus put his head in his hands.

‘My friend,' said the young man, ‘certain facts known to me alone lead me to believe that your account is truthful. But now you are going to have to account to me for what I can justifiably call a pack of lies. At what time did you leave La Paulet's establishment last Friday?'

‘You're asking me a question and you already know the answer.'

‘I wanted to hear confirmation of it from your own lips. That doesn't explain why you concealed it from me the first time. Why all the play-acting with that prostitute?'

‘You are forcing me to admit something that I wanted to hide from you so as not to compromise a third party …'

‘With whom you have not broken off relations and who you continue to see …'

Semacgus stared at Nicolas.

‘I am no longer surprised that Monsieur de Sartine put you in charge of this enquiry. You stay one step ahead of the game. You'll be a formidable adversary for the criminal fraternity.'

‘Don't flatter me, Semacgus. Explain rather why you went to find Madame Lardin that night. Her husband had just walked out of the Dauphin Couronné in a rage and you must have thought it very likely that he would go back home?'

‘You're making me go into the sordid details, Nicolas. It had
always been agreed between Louise and myself that when she put a lighted candle in the window of her bedroom it meant that the coast was clear. Also, knowing Lardin, it was a safe bet that in his anger he would do the rounds of all the gambling dens until dawn. So there was not much risk for me.'

‘Until what hour did you stay in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux?'

‘Six o'clock. I very nearly bumped into Catherine who was just starting work.'

‘Have you seen Madame Lardin again since that day?'

‘No, not at any point.'

‘You knew that Descart was her lover, you told me so. Didn't that embarrass you at all?'

‘You're cruel, Nicolas. Passion makes us do many things that morally we disapprove of.'

‘You told me before that Catherine also knew about Descart. Do you think she shared this knowledge with Marie?'

‘Without the slightest doubt. Anything that could harm Louise was a blessing as far as Catherine was concerned. She had no secrets from Marie, who hated her stepmother. Beneath that prim schoolgirl look of hers, and despite her age, she has a very passionate temperament. She adored her father, and he felt the same way about her.'

Nicolas was thinking. Was it possible that sweet little Marie … He thought again about the footprints found in Vaugirard which were such a close match to the shoes found in the young woman's bedroom in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.

‘Semacgus, how can you love Louise Lardin?'

‘I don't wish you to know the reasons. All I will say is that the worst thing is to love someone you have no respect for. Nicolas, do you have any news of Saint-Louis?'

‘None at all and I don't want to raise your hopes on that score.'

Semacgus bowed his head and turned towards the wall, downcast.

‘My friend,' Nicolas continued after a silence, ‘there's one more thing I have to ask you. For your safety as well as for the proper conduct of the investigation I need to keep you under lock and key. I'm hoping for a successful conclusion as soon as possible. I have no confidence in the cells in the Châtelet because anyone can get in. I'm going to have you taken to the Bastille. I can assure you it's preferable. Your life depends on it. Staying in some cells here is as good as taking a dose of arsenic – it inclines some people to strange acts of suicide, and this is a fact. The investigation then stops and the true culprits are never punished. These two cases involve some pretty unsavoury characters.

‘What else can I do other than put myself in your hands?'

‘Nothing, I agree. But don't lose confidence. Work on your book. I'll see to it that you have everything you want in the Bastille. Give me a list of what you need. To the outside world you will no longer exist; that will reduce the risks. Trust me.'

Semacgus gave Nicolas a look of resignation. Nicolas said goodbye to him, carefully locked the cell and set off in search of Inspector Bourdeau. He eventually discovered him in the duty room sitting down to a bowl of soup, courtesy of old Marie.

Nicolas felt guilty at having had to exclude the inspector from his interview with Semacgus in such a cavalier fashion, but Bourdeau spared Nicolas's embarrassment by silently handing him two letters. One bore his address written in tall, firm handwriting and was closed with a red wax seal bearing a gold device with a blue stripe inlaid with three silver sardines.
5
He
recognised it as Monsieur de Sartine's. The other, in a delicate hand, made his heart jump for joy. He counted the number of days that had passed since his last meeting with Isabelle. It had been more than a week, which was the time needed for mail to get from Guérande to Paris. The letter must have been posted the previous Saturday at midday or on Monday. He put it away in his shirt, next to his skin, intending to read it later at leisure. He opened the Lieutenant General's letter. The message was laconic and said that the weekly audience the King accorded to Monsieur de Sartine every Sunday at Versailles had been postponed because His Majesty was accompanying Madame de Pompadour to her château at Choisy. This circumstance ‘provided extra time to clear up swiftly the matter in question'. He ended by encouraging Nicolas ‘to spare nothing and no one in order to succeed'. By the time Nicolas had finished reading it Bourdeau had become more amenable, since his sulkiness never lasted very long. Without a word Nicolas gave the inspector Descart's note and, while his deputy was examining it, he had to restrain himself from taking Isabelle's letter out again.