The Phantom of Rue Royale (8 page)

‘My son Jean and I will go with you.’

‘Our carriage is at your disposal.’

As all four were leaving, a large, mannish-looking woman in a chenille,
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her head bare and her features distorted, threw herself at the merchant, grabbed the lapel of his coat and harangued him in a shrill tone.

‘Charles, tell me everything. Where is our bird, our beauty? Who are these people? You’re hiding something, aren’t you? This is unbearable. We’ve never counted for anything in this house, unlike … It’ll be the death of me, yes, the death of me.’

Charles Galaine pushed her away gently and sat her down on a chair. She burst into tears.

‘Forgive her, gentlemen. My elder sister, Charlotte, is upset by her niece’s disappearance.’

He turned to his wife, who was watching the scene impassively. ‘Émilie, give our sister a little orange blossom water. I’m going with these gentlemen; I shan’t be long.’

Émilie Galaine shrugged her shoulders, but did not say a word. They left and got into the cab. Whether because he wished to spare his family’s feelings, or because he was indifferent, Nicolas noted that Monsieur Galaine had said nothing of where they were going. He assumed that Madame Galaine was his second wife: how else could she have a son only a few years younger than herself? All the same, her indifference was quite surprising. As for the son, he could barely conceal his anxiety – which might be brotherly concern or might just as easily be something else. The father, on the other hand, was controlling himself to perfection, which made him seem rather insensitive to the possibility that one of his nearest and dearest had died. In truth, Nicolas knew nothing about the family. This investigation had already provoked a great many questions. But the priority
was to identify the body. A heavy silence descended on the carriage. Nicolas, sitting opposite the son, saw him mechanically picking at the upholstery on the door. Bourdeau pretended to doze, but in fact he was observing Charles Galaine through
half-closed
eyes. The merchant sat motionless, staring obstinately into space.

As soon as they reached the Grand Châtelet, things moved quickly. Leaning on his son’s arm, Charles Galaine hesitantly descended the stone staircase to the old prison. All at once they were face to face with the sheet which Nicolas had sealed that very morning, and which had been carried in from the adjoining cellar. The commissioner removed the sheet from the dead girl’s face, then turned his back on the visitors. He heard a dull thud: the son had fainted. Old Marie was called. He poured a few drops of his usual revulsive between the young man’s lips, and for good measure gave him a couple of hearty slaps. The treatment was effective: the younger Galaine came to his senses with a sigh. The usher took him up to the courtyard for a little air. Charles Galaine made as if to follow, but Nicolas stopped him.

‘Please, Monsieur. Old Marie knows what he’s doing; he’s seen it all before. He’ll take care of your son. The important thing right now is that you confirm to me this girl’s identity.’

The merchant looked at the body with alarm, his eyes wide open and his lips quivering. ‘Yes, Monsieur, this is, alas, my niece Élodie. How terrible! But how am I going to tell my sisters? They were so fond of her. She was like their own child.’

‘Your sisters?’

‘Charlotte, my older sister, whom you’ve met, and Camille, my younger sister.’

They went back to the duty office where Monsieur Galaine’s identification was duly written down by Bourdeau.

‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘I have a painful duty to discharge. It falls to me to inform you that Mademoiselle Édolie Galaine, your niece, was not crushed during the disaster in Rue Royale. She was murdered.’

‘Murdered! What do you mean? What are you saying? Why would you add an extra burden to a relative already devastated by such terrible news? Murdered? Our Élodie? Murdered? My brother’s daughter …’

As a great lover of the theatre, Nicolas judged the tone false. A noble father’s indignation was a common feature of the current repertoire and was very familiar to him.

‘What I mean,’ he said, more curtly, ‘is that an examination of the body’ – Nicolas avoided the shocking word ‘autopsy’ – ‘proves beyond doubt that this girl, or woman, was strangled. Was she married? Engaged?’

He had no intention of mentioning the victim’s condition, preferring to keep that card up his sleeve, ready to play it when the moment was right. Galaine’s reaction convinced him of the rightness of this decision.

‘Married! Engaged! You’re out of your mind, Monsieur. She was a child!’

‘Monsieur, I’m going to have to ask you a few questions. There are certain things we need to confirm. We know for a fact that a crime has been committed, and the procedure will be set in motion as soon as I have presented my conclusions to the King’s Procurator, who will then refer the case to the Criminal Lieutenant.’

‘But, Monsieur, my family, my wife … I must tell them …’

‘That’s out of the question. When did you last see your niece?’

Monsieur Galaine seemed to have come to terms with the situation. He reflected for a moment.

‘As a member of the furriers’ guild – one of the great trade associations, as you know – I’d been invited to the city festivities. We first met at the house of one of our number, near Pont Neuf. I saw my niece that morning. In the evening, she was due to go to Place Louis XV to see the firework display with my sisters and our maid, Miette. As for me, I got to the square rather late, when the crowd was already very large. In the crush I was separated from my colleagues. I was trapped beside the swing bridge in the Tuileries, and I looked on as the disaster developed. Then I helped with the search for victims until early this morning. When I got home, I was informed of my niece’s disappearance, and I set off for La Madeleine cemetery.’

‘Right,’ said Nicolas. ‘Let’s go through that in order. What time did you get to Place Louis XV?’

‘I couldn’t say for certain. We were quite merry, having drunk a few bottles during our banquet. It must have been about seven.’

‘Could the other members of your guild confirm your presence at that banquet?’

‘You only have to ask them: Monsieur Chastagny, Monsieur Levirel and Monsieur Botigé.’

Nicolas turned to Bourdeau. ‘Take the addresses, we’ll check. Did you meet any other acquaintances during the night?’

‘It was so dark and there was so much excitement that it was almost impossible to recognise anyone.’

‘One more thing. Do you have any idea how your niece died?’

Monsieur Galaine looked up, and an expression of something like bewilderment crept over his face. ‘What am I supposed to say to that? You haven’t told me anything about the circumstances of her death. All I saw was her face.’

It had been a deliberate ploy on Nicolas’s part to only uncover the dead girl’s face thereby concealing the marks of strangulation on her neck. ‘All in good time, Monsieur. I simply wanted to know what you felt. One more point and we’re finished. When you got back to Rue Saint-Honoré early this morning – about six, I think you said – who was in the house? Naturally, your answer will help us to draw up a list of occupants.’

‘My son Jean, my two sisters, Camille and Charlotte, my daughter Geneviève, who’s still a child, Marie the cook, our maid Miette and …’

It did not escape Nicolas’s notice that he hesitated a moment before continuing.

‘My wife and also … the savage.’

‘The savage?’

‘I see I’m going to have to explain. Twenty-five years ago, at our father’s request, my older brother, Claude Galaine, went and settled in New France. The idea was to dispense with middle men and buy furs directly from the trappers and the natives. That way we reduced our expenses and were able to lower our prices in Paris, where there’s fierce competition in the field of luxury goods. But I’m straying from the point. My brother got married on Île Royale, also known as Louisbourg, in 1749.’

Now that Galaine was talking shop, he had become a great deal calmer.

‘The English attacks on our colonies grew more frequent. My
brother decided to return to France with his family. His daughter Élodie was just a baby. He obtained a passage on a vessel in the squadron of Admiral Dubois de La Motte, but it was attacked and in the confusion he was separated from his daughter. The return voyage was a disaster. Decimated by illness, ten thousand sailors died before the squadron reached Brest.
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My brother and my sister-in-law did not escape this calamity. My niece, though, survived, and a year and a half ago she was brought back to me by an Indian servant carrying a copy of her birth and baptism certificates. For seventeen years she had been raised by nuns. Since then, she’s been like a daughter to me.’

‘And what about this native? What’s his name?’

‘Naganda. He’s from the Micmac tribe.
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He’s a sly one; I don’t know what to do with him. Just imagine, he got it into his head that he would sleep across the doorway of my niece’s room! As if she had anything to fear from our family! We had to put him in the attic.’

‘Presumably he’s still there?’

‘It’s perfectly all right for him, though I’d have preferred to put him in the cellar.’

‘I imagine that’s where you keep the hides,’ said Nicolas curtly.

‘I see you know the demands of my trade.’

‘I’m going to ask you to step into the antechamber. I need to speak to your son.’

‘Couldn’t I stay? He’s a very sensitive boy, and I’m sure he’s very upset about his cousin’s death.’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll see him soon enough.’

Bourdeau accompanied the witness into the room next to the office of the Lieutenant General of Police, and returned with
Jean Galaine. The young man was very pale and was sweating profusely. Nicolas knew from frequent observation that excessive sweating denoted an imbalance of humours, but that it could also be produced by exhaustion or anxiety. When Nicolas told him his cousin had been murdered, he grew even paler, and for a long time he was speechless.

‘Are you Jean Galaine, son of Charles Galaine, master furrier, residing in Rue Saint-Honoré?’ Nicolas asked at last. ‘How old are you?’

‘I’ll be twenty-three on Saint Michel’s day.’

‘Do you work in your father’s shop?’

‘Yes. I’ve been learning the trade. I’ll be taking his place one day.’

‘What were you doing last night?’

‘Walking on the boulevards, looking at the fair.’

‘What time was that?’

‘From six till late at night.’

‘Weren’t you interested in the firework display?’

‘I’m scared of crowds.’

‘There were plenty of crowds on the boulevards. Can anyone testify to having seen you last night?’

‘About midnight I had a few glasses of beer near Porte
Saint-Martin,
with some friends.’

‘What are their names?’

‘They were just casual friends. I don’t know their names. I’d drunk a lot.’ He took out a huge handkerchief and wiped his brow.

‘Indeed? And was there a particular reason why you were so thirsty?’

‘That’s my business.’

Despite his mild appearance, Nicolas thought, this young man was proving to be distinctly uncooperative.

‘You are aware that we are dealing with a murder and that the smallest detail may be of major importance? Do you have an alibi?’

‘What does that mean?’

Nicolas was struck by his interest in the detail while being apparently unconcerned about the overall picture.

‘An alibi, Monsieur, is proof of someone’s presence in a place other than where a crime has been committed.’

‘So that means you know when and where my cousin was killed.’

The young man was certainly demonstrating an unassailable logic and a great deal of composure. He was perceptive and quick-witted, and probably a lot craftier than he had at first appeared.

‘That’s not the question here. You’ll learn these details in due course. Let’s get back to your whereabouts last night. What time did you return home?’

‘About three in the morning.’

‘Are you quite sure of that?’

‘My stepmother can confirm it for you. A cab dropped her off and she got into an argument with the coachman. He was telling her that at three in the morning the fare was double. Then …’ He bit his lip. ‘Nothing that would interest you.’

‘Everything is of interest to the police, Monsieur. Does it have some connection with your stepmother’s late return? You won’t tell me? That’s up to you, but we’ll find out everything in the end, believe you me.’

The interrogation could have been pursued, but Nicolas was impatient to learn more about this family. The young man could wait.

They rode back to Rue Saint-Honoré in grim silence. Nicolas was going over the answers the two Galaines had given him. He was surprised at their lack of curiosity about the circumstances of their relative’s death. The father had not insisted, and the son had asked no questions. It was nearly six by the time the carriage stopped outside the Deux Castors. Nicolas had forbidden the two men to converse with the other members of the family, and had decided to lock them in the office. He had to strike while the iron was hot, without giving any of them the opportunity to consult each other or to agree on a story. It occurred to him for a moment that he might be jumping the gun. After all, there was nothing to indicate that he was dealing with a domestic crime, with one of the Galaine family as the culprit. And yet his intuition told him that this was the right way to go, and the mystery of a hidden or aborted child strengthened that belief. Unless he was attempting to conceal his niece’s dishonour, the uncle showed no sign of being aware of the situation.

Was it a question of honour? Nicolas Le Floch had often had to deal with matters of family honour during his career in the police force. Among the nobility, an arrogant obsession with the purity of the blood could lead the finest souls astray. Was he not himself the bastard child of this outdated concept? In bourgeois houses, too, honour was invoked whenever there was any offence against the rules of civility, any transgression of the
established order, any possibility of censure from prying neigh bours that could lead to a whole family being tarnished for the sins of one of its members. Was that what had happened here? Some magi strates issued warrants for arbitrary arrests in broad daylight. From this point of view, the
lettre de cachet
was an advance, for it was only issued once every precaution had been taken to avoid scandal. Whereas a judicial arrest inevitably caused a fuss, a
lettre de cachet
preserved a family’s honour, as the wrongdoer was removed from the world, and his or her ignominy disappeared into some secret dungeon or convent cell. The family whose honour had been offended allowed the Lieutenant General of Police to pry into its secrets, and in return the King buried the sin forever. Had Élodie Galaine died because of an exaggerated conception of honour? Had someone been so perverse as to prefer her death to her salvation?