The Saint-Florentin Murders (35 page)

‘That’s good to know, but doesn’t get us very far.’

‘I agree, but it does narrow our search. What about the Duc de
La Vrillière’s mysterious midnight flits? Where does he go? And what about the surveillance of the Marquis de Chambonas’s mansion? That’s where we’ll pick up the threads again. And where is the second young girl from Brussels?’

Bourdeau looked at him, puzzled.

‘I fear I haven’t mentioned that to you,’ Nicolas went on, having noticed the inspector’s expression. ‘The clothes and appearance of the corpse on Île des Cygnes reminded me of something Monsieur Lenoir requested me to look into: the case of two young girls who fled Brussels for Paris. The victim is one of them, and I assume we can fear the worst for her sister. But there’s still a chance we may save her, if she’s fallen into the same hands. It’s a question of time. From my conversation with Monsieur Lenoir, I gather that the Marquis de Chambonas is protected, which means we won’t be able to take a close look at his mansion. It’s likely that he’s being cautious at the moment and that his Roman orgies are now taking place in more secluded spots.’

‘I agree with you. So we’re dependent on our spies, surveillance, and all the usual methods of a well-regulated police force.’

‘We have to wait for something to start. Then we’ll pursue the hydra, faithful Iolaos.’
1

‘The many-headed hydra.’

‘Indeed. In the meantime, I’m going to pay the minister a visit. I want to set my mind at rest.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘I’m not risking anything. I’m sure he knows all about my suspicions. My questions at Versailles regarding his silver hand
can have left him in no doubt about that. He’s aware of what we know and what we suspect. Either he’s guilty, and my words, which I hope will be blunt and to the point, can only lead to an extreme reaction, or he’s innocent, in which case he must help us and allow us to establish that he has nothing to do with these murders.’

Nicolas left the Châtelet. He was breathing more easily now. Something that had been weighing on his mind since the death of Louis XV had vanished: a nagging sense of shame and grief which had led him to feel guilty of a sin he had not committed, hurt as he was to the depths of his being by a sense of betrayed loyalty and despised trust. The force that had driven his replies to Monsieur Lenoir derived from this legitimate resentment. It seemed that the Lieutenant General of Police had understood his suffering. The reaction to statements which he himself had known were excessive redeemed in his eyes a man who, until now, had been sparing in his respect. He hoped he was not wrong in his observation; what he wanted more than anything was to get back to the former situation of devotion and loyalty.

His steps led him to the banks of the river, and he decided to let his unconscious choices guide him. With a calm mind and a sharp eye, he contemplated the spectacle of his beloved city. On Quai de la Mégisserie, he thought of Naganda on seeing a group of crimps eyeing up some likely-looking young customers. Whores, gambling, alcohol and food would be the traps laid for them. The Micmac had almost been enlisted, and only the vigilance of the police had saved him. Where was he now, that distant friend? No doubt tirelessly pursuing the mission he had set himself:
continuing to serve the King of an ungrateful country. A little further on, an old woman was stoking an oven, enveloping passers-by in smoke. The smell that assailed his nostrils as he passed told him that, instead of using decent oil or lard to fry her doughnuts, she was using pork grease, which she probably stole from the drivers who used it on the wheels of their coaches. A stocky dark-haired, bow-legged workman was devouring one of these hot, sticky delicacies straight from the oven. Coming to the arcades of the Louvre, he had a look at the second-hand clothes market. A penniless crowd frequented this place, where old clothes suspended on string were buffeted in the wind like hanged and shrivelled bodies. The police sometimes dispersed the crowd, for it was quite common for the clothes of those who had died of consumption or pneumonia to be sold here instead of being burnt. The infected clothes passed from the bodies of the dead to those of the living, and the diseases were passed on with them.

Nicolas announced his name at the entrance to the
Saint-Florentin
mansion. On the grand staircase, he passed the Duchesse de La Vrillière, who responded to his greeting with a look of terror. She seemed to have been weeping and was now getting ready to go out. She was dressed in a large grey coat with a black lining, her head covered with a grey hood. He was still climbing the steps when he heard a murmur behind him. Turning, he saw that the duchesse had stopped, and was looking at him imploringly.

‘Marquis …’

Another one! They all thought they could get round him by giving him his title, but hadn’t he himself used it when dealing with Monsieur Lenoir?

‘My cousin Madame de Maurepas holds you in high esteem,’ the duchesse said. ‘May I present you with a plea?’

‘Madame, I am your servant.’

‘Help the duc. He won’t listen to me. In fact, he’s never listened to me.’

‘Madame, you can help him by helping me. I am convinced that you know more about this affair than you have been willing to tell me thus far.’

She was twisting one of the ribbons in her wig. ‘I can’t tell you anything. There was nothing else we could do …’

‘What do you mean? Madame, I beseech you.’

‘Save him, Monsieur.’

She turned abruptly and flew rather than walked to the front steps.

Here, thought Nicolas, was something that amply justified his decision to talk to the minister at all costs. The valet did not conceal his surprise when he appeared and began by refusing to inform his master, who had told him that he did not want to be disturbed. The commissioner firmly pushed the servant aside and went on. He reached the gallery, and then the study where this whole adventure had begun. He tapped at the door and, without waiting for a reply, entered resolutely. Monsieur de La Vrillière was sitting slumped in an armchair by the fireplace. He was in shirt and breeches, with his cravat untied, and wore over his shoulders a thick brightly coloured cloth, the ends of which he had pulled tight over his chest. He had taken off his wig, and his bald cranium gleamed in the firelight. It was a pitiful sight. He looked like a sick, crushed old man. Nicolas felt compassion for someone whose manner had always been more commanding.

‘What is it?’ said the duc. ‘Why am I being disturbed, and who gave you permission?’

He had not recognised Nicolas.

The commissioner leaned towards him. ‘This is urgent, Monseigneur. What I have to say to you cannot be postponed.’

‘I’m tired.’

Nicolas dismissed the objection and gave a complete account of his investigation, omitting none of the details, not even those – and there were many of them – that incriminated the duc. He presented and commented on the various hypotheses, but the few questions he asked went unanswered. The only thing he omitted to mention, out of caution, was the practical measures he and his men had taken to discover the motivation behind this affair. He insisted on the fact that four people had paid with their lives for the sake of some obscure plot that everyone was striving to make even more obscure. In conclusion, he recalled the new King’s desire to see light cast on the various aspects of this tragedy. Last but not least, he talked of the security of the State – this to a man who had long believed himself the embodiment of it – and underlined how disturbing it was that the secret representative of a foreign power should be involved in a criminal case in which so many illustrious names were implicated.

The minister seemed increasingly overwhelmed by all this, unable to stop his head collapsing on his chest. At last, though, he pulled himself together.

‘Alas!’ he sighed. ‘I can’t tell you anything, nor do I wish to. The late King loved you and put all his trust in you. If I were to tell anyone a secret, it would be you, having known and respected you for years. But you yourself, who have served me, how can
you believe these vile slanderers and walk into the trap set by their bloodthirsty machinations? I don’t claim to be a saint, but how could I have committed these terrible murders? There is nothing, I swear to you, to link me with these horrors. Will you believe me, Nicolas Le Floch, you whom the King considered the purest of his servants? Truly, truly …’

‘Monseigneur, you only have to tell me one thing. Where were you at the times that these crimes were being committed? It’s a simple question, and requires a simple answer from you.’

The minister looked straight at him, and Nicolas was surprised to see tears running down his face.

‘I won’t tell you, even if I have to pay the price for my silence a hundredfold! Monsieur de Chambonas … Nothing will oblige me to reveal what I wish to keep to myself.’ He sighed again. ‘It is the one and only part of myself which I hold dear, along with my loyalty to the late King … Please go now.’

Nicolas withdrew, lost in thought.

A sedan chair took him back to the Châtelet, where a long wait began. He once again brought his notes up to date, trying to omit none of the elements that had continued to pile up. There were so many of them that the sheer volume made it hard for him to see his way through. On the stroke of one, Old Marie silently and considerately let him share his lunch. This turned out to be an appetising stew of cow’s udders, a dish of which the common people were fond due to its cheapness. This meal was washed down with a cheap wine, which, remarkably, was not too vinegary. Nicolas finally dozed off with his head between his
arms on the table, the accumulated fatigue of an emotionally and physically draining week crashing down all at once on his shoulders.

At five o’clock, Bourdeau and Rabouine appeared and woke him from a strange dream. In it, an unknown man had been working an automaton, like those of Vaucanson, its right arm, equipped with a silver hand, cutting the throat of another doll whose face, he was horrified to discover, was the Queen’s. He struggled and tried to intervene, but an unknown force held him still, as if paralysed.

‘We have news,’ announced Bourdeau, ‘important news! And on all fronts!’

‘It’s about time,’ said Nicolas, now completely awake. ‘I was beginning to despair!’

‘Well, you won’t be disappointed. We’ve gleaned two pieces of information which, I believe, should give us something to keep us occupied for a while and help us make progress.’

‘Don’t keep me on tenterhooks. My wait and Old Marie’s wine made me doze off, otherwise I would have been dying of impatience. I’m listening.’

‘It’s your head wound, it’s healing up but it’s also getting you heated. Right, listen to this. Rabouine here, who’s quite a good-looking fellow beneath his gangling exterior, sometimes combines business with pleasure. Mademoiselle Josse, better known under her
nom de guerre
of La Roussillon, a vivacious brunette with a pretty face, has a soft spot for our spy. She’s constantly teasing him and, if he consented, would make him her beau.’

Rabouine, whose face had turned red, lowered his head.

‘In short,’ continued Bourdeau, ‘one thing leading to another, she tells him all her gossip. She’s really a terrible gossip, and can never keep anything to herself. Anyway, she tells our man here that she’s been feeling increasingly guilty about the kind of things that go on at parties organised by … can you guess who?’

‘The Marquis de Chambonas?’

‘No. A suitor whose description she gave to Rabouine. He can take over from here.’

‘The description matches Anselme Vitry, but in the light of what you’ve discovered it’s much more likely to be Eudes Duchamplan.’

‘And why does this girl complain about such parties? They should be part of her usual activity.’

‘She’s a good girl, and she’s had enough of the vile acts she’s seen committed. In addition, one of her prostitute friends caught a terrible disease from these parties, the kind you don’t catch in a convent or when you’re celibate. She doesn’t want to have anything more to do with that kind of debauchery. She was invited to another party this evening, and refused.’

‘This is all well and good,’ said Nicolas, ‘but I need something more concrete if we’re going to be able to do anything about it. Where, when, how?’

‘I should say, Monsieur Nicolas,’ said Rabouine, ‘that her gossip isn’t just idle chatter. She’s let me in on a number of secrets in case anything unfortunate should happen to her. It was a kind of guarantee for her.’

‘I understand. Carry on.’

‘A cab is supposed to be coming to fetch her from the corner of Rue des Vieilles Tuileries and Passage du Manège at ten o’clock
this evening. She doesn’t know where the party will be held. The previous times, they took place in private houses or in underground quarries. She’s also noticed that she wasn’t necessarily invited on every occasion.’

‘How is it that she has finally agreed this time?’

‘I persuaded her.’

‘In return for what?’ asked Bourdeau.

‘Our protection and support. She’s been very sensible and has put together a little nest egg. As a native of Bordeaux, she wants to move back there and take up an honest profession.’

‘Well,’ said Nicolas pensively, ‘that should be possible. Anything else that might be of use to us?’

‘Yes! The guests at this party have to wear masks and show a card, the ace of hearts, half torn in the middle. Which means that one of our men could certainly get in.’

Nicolas took a piece of paper and started writing, speaking as he did so.

‘Gather all our men together, including the spies. Inform the French Guards and the watch. We’ll need men around the quarries near the Observatory and spies to track any unusual movement of carriages. I doubt that the surveillance will be easy. It’s quite likely that these people don’t use the official entrance, and I know that many private houses have special access via the cellars – that’s our misfortune! Remember, Pierre, the cellar of the Lardin house in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux. Apart from that, we’re going to need people at Montparnasse …’