The Saint-Florentin Murders (28 page)

Duchamplan gave Nicolas a look of commiseration. ‘As I’m sure you know, that monopoly has long since been superseded. There are more than a thousand cabs and more than seven hundred hired coaches in Paris now, and joint-stock companies have proliferated. The vehicles just have to be numbered and registered.’

‘I see. I would be grateful if you could inform me as soon as your brother reappears.’

‘I shall certainly do so, although he is often away a long time.’

In the courtyard, the shelling of beans was still going on. Nicolas offered the caretaker a pinch of snuff, which was gratefully accepted. There followed a vigorous series of sneezes.

‘You’re softening up the customer,’ said Semacgus in Nicolas’s ear.

The commissioner winked, then asked the caretaker a straight question. ‘What time did Madame Duchamplan go out?’

‘Go out? That poor pale thing, who’s always coughing? I’d like to see her go out! You must be joking, Monsieur. She’s been confined to her room for several days now.’

‘Since when?’

‘Monday, I think,’ said the man, sneezing.

‘And what about Monsieur Duchamplan’s sister?’

‘Oh, that one … For a nun, she certainly has a lot of pride. Never a greeting, never a smile. The last time I saw her come here for dinner was Sunday.’

‘What time did she leave?’

‘About ten. I had to run out in the cold to hail a carriage, at my age!’

‘Thank you very much.’

‘At your service. This snuff is good! Not like the sawdust you sometimes find. Count on me whenever you want. The name’s Taqueminet.’

As they were leaving Rue Christine, Nicolas, who was looking in the direction of Rue des Grands-Augustins, suddenly cried out and set off at a run, much to the surprise of Semacgus. He seemed to be trying to catch up with a carriage which was speeding away and which soon disappeared round the corner. Breathless and furious, the commissioner came walking back. He had to catch his breath before explaining what had just happened. He took off his tricorn and wiped his forehead, which was half covered with a bandage. Semacgus noticed blood spreading over the linen and gently reprimanded him.

‘How could you think of getting in such a state? You’ve reopened your wound. We’ll have to find an apothecary and get it seen to. Good Lord, you ran off like the fire of a fuse trying to reach Saint Barbara!’

Nicolas laughed. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not twenty years old any more! Perhaps I was dreaming, and yet I’m sure the person I saw get into that carriage is the very same person who ran away the
day before yesterday in the lower gallery of the palace at my approach. I told you about him. Lord Ashbury. I just saw him coming out of a house … The head, or one of the heads, of the British secret service. Is that fever or reality?’

Semacgus grabbed his wrist and took out his watch, then felt his forehead. ‘It’s not fever. Your pulse is fine now that you’ve caught your breath, and your forehead is cool.’

Nicolas tugged at his arm. ‘Let’s take a look at that house, I want to set my mind at rest. How stupid I am! We should have got in our carriage …’

‘There’s no point regretting that, it would have had to make a U turn!’

They walked back up Rue Christine as far as a fine-looking double-fronted building, which, according to the inscription on its pediment, was the Hôtel de Russie. A well-dressed lady greeted them.

‘Welcome, gentlemen. No doubt you wish to take lodgings in our establishment, which is so well known that the
Almanach Parisien
draws the attention of foreigners and visitors to it …’

She spoke so quickly it was impossible for Nicolas to interrupt her.

‘We only lodge persons of the first rank, who have carriages. We have richly furnished apartments, bedrooms, wardrobes, reception rooms with damask hangings and other appropriate adornments. There are very clean water closets on every floor. You can use the sheds and stables for your carriage. We don’t provide food, but we allow you to have what you need brought in from the best caterers in the neighbourhood, and we have information on the best inns in the city. I am at your disposal.’

 She gave a deep curtsey which would have made a duchess envious.

‘Madame,’ said Nicolas, ‘you misconstrue the reasons for our visit. We simply wish to have some information about a customer of yours who left barely five minutes ago and got into a carriage.’

These words immediately cast a cloud over her welcoming face, and she assumed an inscrutable, almost duplicitous air. ‘Who are you talking about? No one went out as far as I know.’

‘Madame,’ said Nicolas firmly, ‘I would have preferred not to have to remind you of your duties. I am a commissioner of police at the Châtelet. I seem to remember that the owners of hotels and furnished rooms must inform us in good time of all foreigners staying with them. Whenever a foreigner arrives, within
twenty-four
hours the Lieutenant General of Police needs to know his name, where he comes from, the reason for his visit, where he is staying, with whom he is in correspondence, and whom he receives. That supposes that the said owners are devoted to His Majesty’s interests. Have I made myself quite clear? Do you realise how much at fault you’ve been? I fear you may have to follow us to a less pleasant location to be checked and interrogated.’

This speech seemed to have hit home; the lady burst into tears, and made no further attempt to brazen it out. Nicolas confirmed his resolution by remaining sternly impassive.

‘Alas, alas, Commissioner, do you want to ruin me – me, a poor widow, with a family to support, working myself to death to run this establishment? I am, it is true, guilty of having neglected my duties, but only because of my good heart. The foreign gentleman, an Englishman I think, forbade me to report his presence. The
reason he’s in France is because he wants to track down a child he once had with a French lady who’s now married. Think how discreet he needs to be about something like that!’

‘Madame, I fear that is simply a tall tale which you, in your innocence, swallowed whole. Under what name did this gentleman present himself?’

‘He said his name was Francis Sefton – though he asked me in a threatening tone never to mention it – and that he bought and sold racehorses.’

‘A clever story, horse racing is becoming fashionable. When did he arrive?’

‘On 20 September.’

‘Did he have any luggage with him?’

‘Some portmanteaus. The servant girl told me that he had a lot of coats, all very different from each other, with some wigs and even some ladies’ dresses. No doubt to sell them when he returned to his island.’

‘Has he received anyone?’

‘No, nobody.’

‘Did he have a carriage?’

‘A cab came to fetch him.’

‘Has he been regular in his habits?’

‘Definitely not! He often comes back early in the morning and sometimes stays out all night. He’s been paying his weeks regularly. He left in a hurry this morning, after being away for two days, and obligingly paid for an extra week even though the week isn’t yet over. He asked me again not to say anything about his being here, because his old friend’s husband has been informed of his presence in Paris.’

‘All right, Madame. If he comes back, tell the local commissioner immediately to inform Commissioner Le Floch at the Châtelet. For your guidance, I must tell you that you risk the closure of this hotel as well as legal action if you contravene these instructions. Now show me Monsieur Sefton’s apartment.’

She led them to a cosy apartment on the first floor, comprising a bedroom, a bathroom and a small drawing room. The bed had not been slept in. Nicolas noted a bottle of port and two glasses on a pedestal table. He sniffed, then went to the fireplace: a large number of papers had been burnt. In the heap of ashes he discovered part of a sheet that had escaped the destruction. On it were only a few printed letters: ‘
elles ne
’. A newspaper, an official document, an advertisement? They would have to see.

‘Has he had a visitor?’ Nicolas asked the hostess, pointing to the two glasses.

‘No.’

He sniffed the glasses. ‘Last night, I’d say … No, he wasn’t here …This morning, then. Are you telling me that you’re behind your desk for twenty-four hours a day?’

‘Of course not, but … To tell the truth, I really don’t know what to think any more, it may have happened.’

Once again she burst into tears. Nicolas shrugged, depressed by so much thoughtlessness. Semacgus pointed out the rim of one of the two glasses. There were traces of rouge.

‘Who knows?’ said Nicolas. ‘These days men sometimes make themselves up more heavily than women. They all smear rouge and ceruse on their faces. For the moment, let’s just make a note of it.’

As soon as they had got back in the carriage – the hotel-keeper had followed them out, lamenting volubly – Nicolas tried to draw a few conclusions from their visit to Rue Christine.

‘Using a false identity, Lord Ashbury has been in Paris for two weeks. That woman’s stupidity and our own people’s shortcomings – I fear that since Sartine’s departure there has been some laxity – explain the fact that he has managed to evade all police supervision of foreigners. He comes and goes quite freely, meets whoever he likes, and even goes to Versailles for God knows what intrigue. There, he almost comes face to face with me, runs away, but finds the time and the means to have me followed and, I believe, orders me to be killed. An attempt is made outside the Comte d’Arranet’s house, and fails. What’s the reason? He assumes that I’m pursuing him. He hurries back to Paris, says he has business, receives an associate, and then escapes into the big city! But where?’

‘He may simply have set off for Calais,’ said Semacgus.

‘I don’t think so. His mission isn’t over. Somehow, I’ve got in his way. What are his intentions? I’ll tell you this: there’s no such thing as coincidence …’ Nicolas was beating the plush seat with his fist, raising small clouds of dust. ‘No one’s going to make me believe that Lord Ashbury, alias Francis Sefton, has been staying at a hotel a few doors from the Duchamplan house by mere chance. I don’t know why he has, but I’m going to find out!’

‘It is indeed vital to discover why he came to France,’ said Semacgus, ‘especially as it’s a clandestine visit. And there are also these Duchamplans, who seem to me very much involved in all these mysteries.’

‘I didn’t want to take things too far by going back up to see the
wife. We must give them the false impression that they’re safe. It won’t hurt them to wait. As for the younger brother, I get the feeling he won’t be back very soon. I find it hard to believe that the motive for the murder in the Saint-Florentin mansion is financial gain. These people are very well off. What is it then?’

‘You must calm down, or the fever will come back.’

‘I fear I’m going to have to start all over again. Lenoir has assigned me to so many different cases they’ve made me lose the thread of the main one. We must question Missery again. Where did he find Marguerite Pindron? I’ll also need to have a conversation with the Duchesse de La Vrillière. The rumour of her good relations with Madame de Maurepas may help me … Last but not least, I need to find the Pindron girl’s young man. He’s the real mystery. The duchesse’s young Norman maid told me his name is Aide.’

‘Did she have a Norman accent?’ Semacgus suddenly asked, slyly.

‘Indeed she did, a very strong one.’

‘Then we’ve found the lover. Your Aide is quite simply Eudes, the first name of the younger Duchamplan. Missery, if he’s telling the truth, ought to confirm that, and it would explain many things.’

‘Thank you, my dear Guillaume. That’s the second time today you’ve been a great help. And your coachman saved my life. However, even though it opens up some interesting avenues, it doesn’t solve everything. There are elements in this case that are being deliberately hidden from us.’

Semacgus called to the coachman to take them to Rue de la Joaillerie, to the shop of Monsieur Nicaise, the apothecary.

Nicolas recognised the apothecary: Monsieur Nicaise had bandaged him up once before, during his investigation into the disappearance of Commissioner Lardin. Semacgus and he conferred for a short time after examining the wound. They rejected the use of spirits, tinctures and balms: the wound was not serious enough to warrant it. In addition, such remedies, far from speeding up the healing process, delayed it, often turning a simple wound into an ulcer. They stopped the blood from flowing but made the injured parts callous. The two men settled for a common agglutinative plaster to close the wound. As the bullet had burnt and ripped the skin, they cleaned it with calcined alum and placed over it a plaster of breadcrumbs and milk mixed with olive oil, to be changed three times a day. Listening to them, Nicolas thought they were discussing him as if he were a chicken they were getting ready to cook.

Night was falling by the time the carriage dropped them at the entrance to the Grand Châtelet. Bourdeau and Rabouine were waiting for them in the duty office. The inspector was very concerned about the consequences of Nicolas's wound. He still
felt mortified, blaming himself for not having been with his friend at such a dangerous moment.

‘Bourdeau likes people to try and kill you just so that he can save you,' said Semacgus, provoking general laughter.

‘Well, now, my bloodhounds,' said Nicolas, ‘any news?'

‘First,' said Bourdeau, ‘about the sweet box, because that's what it in fact is. We went to the Johac mansion in Rue
Saint-Merri
, where there's a large shop selling all kinds of precious boxes, including snuff boxes, in vast quantities, all different from one another and all in the latest fashions. I would never have thought there were so many, in gold, silver, enamel, pasteboard, shell, ivory, Irish leather, shagreen and God knows what else!'

‘I see you were dazzled.'

‘Shocked, rather, by this display of pointless luxury. What it all cost could have fed a great many starving mouths.'

‘Ah,' said Semacgus sardonically, ‘here comes Rousseau again!'

‘You may mock, but the day will come … Well, now's not the time. Anyway, we showed them the box. Although they weren't absolutely sure, they all thought it was the work of a master. One of the assistants, the oldest of them, suggested that although there was no signature, it might be from the hand of Robert-Joseph Auguste, a highly regarded maker, who lives in Rue de la Monnaie. We found him and questioned him. He's a silversmith who supplies the leading courts of Europe. He formally identified his work from his hallmark, the pointer's head.'

‘But who was the buyer?'

‘I'm coming to that,' said Bourdeau, amused by Nicolas's impatience. ‘This is going to surprise you. The box turns out to
have been ordered by the Comte de Saint-Florentin, Duc de La Vrillière, the current Minister of the King's Household.'

‘Let's take things one at a time. Was he sure it was him?'

‘No, because he didn't come in person. He sent a messenger. But Auguste, who appears to know the Court, recognised this messenger as a person of quality. In addition, he paid the full amount in one go.'

‘Which is not always characteristic of a gentleman these days,' remarked Nicolas with a smile. ‘Did he provide you with a description?'

‘Medium height, a haughty expression, bulging eyes, expensive clothes. Powdered wig.'

‘That won't get us very far! But good work all the same!'

‘I have something even more curious, if possible,' said Rabouine, straightening his thin body. ‘That particular wagon only covers the left bank of the river. It leaves from Pont des Tournelles. We found the driver. Where? At the police station in the Port aux Tuiles. He told us a really unbelievable story …'

‘Yet another one!'

‘This morning, about one or one thirty, he got down to pass water near the Fort des Tournelles. He had already begun his shift outside the walls. He exchanged a few words with a man who wanted a light for his pipe. To thank him, this individual offered to buy him a drink in a low tavern. Our driver claims to have drunk too much and can't remember anything else after that. He came to on the river bank, stripped of his clothes and money, surrounded by boys and outraged women shouting, “What a mess!” He was taken to the police station, but couldn't give any other details.'

‘To cut a long story short,' said Bourdeau, ‘he can't throw any light on what happened to his load. The fact remains that an unknown person, having got the driver drunk, stripped him and presumably put on his clothes to deceive the night watchman on Île des Cygnes. What about the next stops on the itinerary? you will ask. The wagon didn't stop to pick up anything between Quai Saint-Bernard and the Gros Caillou, much to everyone's surprise.'

‘But how in heaven's name,' said Semacgus, ‘could the guard at the incinerator on Île des Cygnes not notice anything?'

‘He's half asleep by the time he opens the gate. It was pitch dark. There was a new moon.'

Nicolas consulted the calendar in the
Almanach royal
for 1774, which as usual was lying on the table. ‘That's correct, new moon on 5 October, the feast day of Sainte Aure, the abbess. Well, gentlemen, I'm very pleased with your work. Let's sum up. The body was dumped on the wagon between one and one thirty, two at the latest, by an unknown person who got rid of the driver. Bearing in mind the estimate of the time given by Dr Semacgus here, I think we can state without too much fear of contradiction that the murder was committed somewhere quite close to Quai des Tournelles.'

‘Unless,' said Bourdeau, ‘it was taken there to put us off the scent.'

Semacgus seemed puzzled. ‘I wonder about this elaborate staging. They could have just hidden the body, if they wanted to be sure it would go into the incinerator.'

‘That's precisely what the criminal didn't want,' replied Nicolas. ‘If he had let the wagon do its usual round, the body of
the unfortunate victim would have been well hidden and would never have attracted attention and been discovered. Of course, there was still a risk it might not have been, but the gamble paid off and the body was found. It's also obvious that whoever did this knew that the round existed. All of which brings us back to the idea that the solution to this mystery can be found in the area of Pont des Tournelles.'

‘Water,' Semacgus went on, ‘and consequently the river, are ever present in this case. What our friends here don't know is that the body of the victim, who was raped, was covered with evaporated soapy water. What do you make of that?'

At this point, Old Marie appeared, bearing Nicolas's beautiful grey coat, now perfectly cleaned. Nicolas checked that the bloodstains had left no trace that might have condemned Master Vachon's masterpiece to the attentions of the second-hand clothes dealers. The art of the cleaners was more than a match for the dangers of a dirty city. But Marie was shaking his head sadly.

‘I didn't find anything about your foreigner, Monsieur Nicolas, although I looked in all the registers. He must have slipped through the net.'

‘Don't worry,' said Nicolas. ‘His name is Francis Sefton, and he arrived in Paris on about 20 September. He's passing himself off as a racehorse merchant. And for good measure, let me tell you that the lover of Marguerite Pindron is very likely to have been young Duchamplan, first name Eudes.'

‘Good Lord!' said Bourdeau. ‘Where did you find that out?'

‘It was all thanks to Dr Semacgus's knowledge of the Norman accent.'

The doctor invited the company to dinner at an inn in Rue Montorgueil chosen as much for its reputation for good food as for its proximity to Noblecourt's house. He did not want to tire Nicolas out, knowing how trying his night and day had been. At first, the conversation of the four guests continued to turn around the case that had brought them together. A hamper of oysters gave Nicolas the opportunity to assert that he loved this mollusc when it was white and fat, which scandalised the rest of the table, except for Semacgus, who did not give an opinion, but merely stated that he could not imagine any other joy for the oyster than health, which pleased everyone. A macaroni pie followed. The final course was a dish of sheep's tongues in parcels, which they enjoyed so much that the host was treated to a drink and asked to conform to tradition and detail all the stages of the making of this delight. What you had to do, he said, was cut the tongues in half and fry them in a little oil with parsley, chopped shallots, diced chives and mushrooms, salt, pepper and nutmeg. When they had cooled, you had to place them, one by one, between thick slices of bacon then wrap them in paper. Once they were wrapped, you grilled them and served them when they were simmering. As a final touch, before serving you sprinkled a little veal juice over them. Wild applause greeted this poem, before a dish of late vineyard peaches appeared to refresh both mouths and heads. Semacgus accompanied Nicolas back to Rue Montmartre, where only Catherine was still up, dozing by the fireplace in the servants' pantry. He did not wake her, but was unable to escape the vigilance of Mouchette, who spat at him, doubtless angered by an absence she found unacceptable. But she was not one to
bear a grudge; no sooner had Nicolas got into bed than he heard her purr and felt her weight on his chest and her little cold nose come to rest against his cheek. He fell asleep immediately.

Nicolas rose refreshed by a dreamless sleep. Catherine, who was shocked by nothing after the horrors of war, changed his plaster and bombarded him with questions. Given the hour, Monsieur de Noblecourt had not yet rung, so Nicolas wrote him a little note to reassure him and to give him a brief summary of the progress of his investigation. As he was planning to visit Bicêtre, he would have to appear in a manner befitting the solemnity of his office. He put on his black magistrate's gown. The width and length of the sleeves allowed him to conceal two loaded pistols. He gave up the idea of wearing a wig, which would compress his wound and stop it healing. He took his ivory rod, the symbol of his authority.

Before he left, it occurred to him that the presence of Lord Ashbury demanded a degree of caution. In spite of his cumbersome attire, he would have to leave Noblecourt's house by an unusual route. With Poitevin's help, he placed a ladder against the wall between Noblecourt's garden and that of the neighbouring house. Thanks to this ploy, he was able to leave through a carriage entrance leading to Rue du Jour, opposite the convent of the Daughters of Sainte Agnès.

From there, he got to Rue Coquillière, where he hired a cab for the day. He left Paris through Faubourg Saint-Marceau, which was just waking up. He was struck once again by the hustle and bustle of the countless taverns serving adulterated brandy, cheap
wine and cider to a sinister-looking collection of characters – and sometimes even to children.

Barely a league separated Bicêtre from the centre of Paris. Nicolas, leaning out of the window, suddenly saw on the horizon a huge building on the top of a hill to the right of the road to Fontainebleau. From that distance, the hospital looked like a palace, its bright mass towering over the surrounding countryside with its vineyards, windmills, and, in the distance, the Seine. It seemed to Nicolas that this ideal location must be of great benefit to the sick. The air there must be pure, not to be compared with the miasma enveloping hospitals in the city. But he changed his mind when he began gradually to smell a stench that reminded him of the great knacker's yard at Montfaucon and the incinerator on Île des Cygnes.

His carriage arrived at the main entrance just as an elegant coupé was coming to a halt ahead of it. A man dressed all in black got out and gave him a friendly wave. As Nicolas approached, he recognised Dr de Gévigland, who had treated Jean Missery at the Saint-Florentin mansion. He took off his tricorn and returned the doctor's greeting.

‘I didn't think I'd see you again so soon,' he said. ‘I'm more delighted than I can say. Have you come to see a patient?'

The doctor smiled but appeared embarrassed. ‘Believe it or not,' he murmured, ‘I've come to buy a few corpses.'

Nicolas, hardened by his experience of the Basse-Geôle, did not bat an eyelid. ‘For anatomical purposes, I assume?'

Gévigland's black eyes grew even more sombre, as if drowning in sadness. ‘Alas, I wish that were the case, but it so happens that for a long time now I've been studying the bodies of
those suffering from venereal diseases or, more precisely, I've been performing autopsies in order to assess the side-effects of the remedies inflicted on them, from which, most of the time, they die. Sometimes, the cure is deadlier than the disease.'

‘What methods do they use here?'

‘Rubbing with mercury ointment, sulphur baths and a prolonged diet. Patients are immersed four at a time for several hours in the same bathtub, because there aren't enough of them. Nor is there enough access to water. One single very deep well, inadequate channels, and thousands of inmates! Is this your first visit here?'

‘My duties have never brought me here before. All I know is that Bicêtre is both a prison and a hospital.'

‘A prison for the most repulsive dregs of humanity, a hospital for the most terrible of diseases, and a tomb for the incurably insane. May I suggest you visit the place in my company, unless you're here on urgent business …?'

‘I'm here in connection with my investigation into the case with which you are familiar. I am looking for a man who's suffering from venereal disease, the victim's former fiancé. Is he still here? I have no idea. In the meantime, I'll gladly follow you.'