Читать книгу The Dream Killer of Paris - Fabrice Bourland - Страница 19

When we came out of Étampes station, the driver of an old-fashioned four-cylinder Colda called over to us.

‘Superintendent Fourier?’

‘That’s me!’

‘I am Monsieur Breteuil’s chauffeur – he’s the examining magistrate. He sent me. He’s waiting for you at the château.’

‘How considerate!’

We drove for about three miles before reaching the entrance to the estate. Two sergeants were on duty, keeping an eye on the reporters and the curious who were crowding around the gates. Ever since the publication of the much-read article in Paris-Soir all comings and goings had been carefully checked in order to try to gather any snippets of information.

The gates were opened to let us through and the car sped up the drive leading to the château.

It was a charming manor house, a relic from a rich past – one of those houses that make the Île-de-France region so appealing today. The façade was fairly wide and two storeys high. Behind the imposing main body of the building were the narrow roofs of two medieval towers which could be seen from the direction of the village.

In fact, the château hadn’t been built in the Middle Ages, but at the end of the sixteenth century and altered several times during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. One restoration project had left more of a mark than the others – there were signs that the front of the building had been added to an older section at the back or had at least been rebuilt from top to bottom along more modern lines.

As Superintendent Fourier had had time to explain to me on the journey, the Marquis de Brindillac had bought Château B— twenty years earlier to escape the hustle and bustle of the capital which had become unsuitable for the work he was carrying out.

Auguste Jean Raoul de Brindillac had been born on 28 April 1862. His father, Ernest Léon Honoré, had been an army surgeon, who in 1859 had married Marquise Joséphine Amélie de la Batte, granddaughter of a general during the Empire. They had had three children: Honoré, Auguste and Joséphine. After the death of his first wife, Auguste de Brindillac had in 1899 married Sophie Mathilde Van Doorsen, heiress of a wealthy Dutch family originally from Haarlem, with whom he had had two children: René, who had died in a hunting accident in 1926, and Amélie.

The Marquis de Brindillac, like his father before him, developed a vocation for surgery and anatomy very early on. He qualified as a doctor at the École de Médecine de Paris. An admirer of Bouillaud, and particularly Broca, he was passionate about physiology and the study of the human brain. He spent time at the laboratories of Marey, Berthelot and Vulpian. Following in the footsteps of Paul Broca, he focused his early scientific research on a better understanding of the limbic system or rhinencephalon, and on identifying the centre of speech in the brain. In 1894 he wrote a Clinical and Physiological Treatise on the Location of the Language Centre in the Brain which is still a standard work on the subject and led to him being elected to the Académie de Médecine de Paris in 1896. He was a professor of clinical medicine and physiology at the Hôpital de la Charité for a long time. The publication of his Clinical Treatise on Disorders of the Nervous System in 1909 definitively established his reputation as a leading scientist. In 1911 he was appointed dean of the Faculty of Medicine in Paris. In November 1924, he was elected to the Académie des Sciences. The Marquis was without doubt one of the country’s greatest minds.

The chauffeur parked on the drive, near the main entrance to the château, next to two saloon cars in the deep-blue colour of the French gendarmerie.

As we climbed the front steps, a short man of about sixty, whose hair and small goatee were as white as his skin, came to greet us. He was accompanied by a man who looked almost identical – same build, same pointed beard – but with slightly blonder hair, and twenty years younger. Behind him, a bald, plump individual was talking to a gendarme in the entrance hall.

‘Superintendent Fourier I presume?’ said the pale man. ‘I’m Judge Breteuil and I’ve been appointed by the Versailles prosecutor’s studyto handle this sad affair. Let me introduce Monsieur Bezaine, my clerk. Oh, and this is Monsieur d’Arnouville, the prosecutor’s deputy, who was just leaving, and Second Lieutenant Rouzé, from the local gendarmerie.’

He indicated the two men from the hall who, having seen us, had come out on to the steps to join us.

‘Monsieur, let me thank you for sending a car to the station,’ said the superintendent to the examining magistrate.

‘Monsieur Breteuil considered, quite rightly, that it was essential for you to reach the château as quickly as possible,’ the prosecutor’s deputy interjected with feigned politeness.

‘It would certainly have been a pity if we’d lost our way.’

‘I was given to understand this morning that the police were about to open a new investigation into the death of this Pierre Ducros,’ continued the deputy. ‘The press is so powerful nowadays it can influence the decisions of the Seine public prosecutor’s studyand the Préfecture!’

‘I was under the impression that the Versailles prosecutor’s sudden volte-face was similarly influenced by the publication of a certain article.’

‘If you’re alluding to the decision to open a judicial inquiry into the affair which brings us here, you’re wrong. The public prosecutor never intended to close the case and he does not allow himself to be dictated to by anyone, especially not journalists.’

‘That is all to his credit.’

‘One thing is certain – the police don’t need another scandal.’

‘Neither does the justice system.’

‘Oh! But we haven’t reached that point yet, gentlemen!’ the examining magistrate intervened, fearing that tensions were rising. ‘Before you arrived, Superintendent, we – the prosecutor’s deputy, Second Lieutenant Rouzé and myself – were discussing the article published in Paris-Soir. At the moment, the press is doing everything it can to create a scandal. By the way, do we know who this J.L. is?’

‘His name is Jacques Lacroix. No one has seen him at the newspaper’s offices in Rue du Louvre or at his home since Tuesday. It’s a pity. I have a great deal to say to him. We’ll soon track him down though.’

‘Would it be indiscreet to ask your opinion of the two deaths, Superintendent Fourier?’ asked the prosecutor’s deputy.

‘Well, I’m only here to investigate the death of the poor Marquis! And my investigations are only just beginning. It would surely be more instructive to hear Monsieur Rouzé’s point of view since he’s been involved in the Brindillac case all along?’

The gendarme opened his mouth to speak but Fourier had not finished and turned to me.

‘By the way, allow me to introduce Monsieur Andrew Fowler Singleton. Monsieur Singleton and his associate, Monsieur Trelawney, who is currently detained in London, helped the French police with a case that was in the news last year.’

‘Singleton! Trelawney! Yes, of course, I remember it well!’ exclaimed the examining magistrate. ‘Your names certainly made the papers at the time. I didn’t realise you were so young though.’

After his initial enthusiasm, the magistrate’s face darkened, as he reflected that, all things considered, my presence would cause a few problems.

‘Good heavens, Superintendent,’ he remarked with some embarrassment towards me, ‘do you not think that this investigation has had enough publicity already?’

‘On the contrary,’ retorted Fourier, unflustered. ‘As the prosecutor’s deputy confirmed, we need all the help we can get to solve this case as soon as possible. What’s more, if, as the Versailles prosecutor’s study believed less than twenty-four hours ago, the only strange thing about this death is the rather unusual circumstances surrounding it, then everything will be sorted out in no time. The Sûreté is going to use its expertise. With the help of our friend here, I wager that the mystery will melt away within two days. If the Préfecture acts with the same efficiency, it will be all to the good.’

‘That is exactly the attitude Monsieur d’Armagnac, the Versailles public prosecutor, asked me to convey, “Everything must be resolved as soon as possible!” I am glad that, on this point, we are all in agreement.’

Standing on the top step, the prosecutor’s deputy concluded: ‘I’ve just hand-delivered the burial certificate to the Marquise. The funeral can be held this weekend. The Marquise would like the body to be returned to her today but I managed to convince her that, after five days, it was not a good idea. A van from the morgue will therefore take the body to the burial site once the date of the funeral and its location have been fixed. I’m sure that will be a great relief to the family. And now I must leave you, gentlemen. I’m expected in court.’

Monsieur d’Arnouville marched down the steps towards his car and Judge Breteuil invited us to follow him into the château.

‘I really don’t like the way this investigation is looking,’ he said. ‘You’ll see, it will be one of those cases we never manage to get to the bottom of. And I don’t like this atmosphere of suspicion everywhere either. And I’ve been landed with it just a few weeks before I retire.’

‘Well, we’re here to find the explanation, whatever it is.’

‘Dying in your sleep is allowed,’ continued the judge. ‘It was even considered to be a very good end until last Saturday.’

‘It has long been said that Charles Dickens passed away in his sleep,’ I said as we entered the building. ‘Actually, the celebrated author died of a cerebral haemorrhage.’

Monsieur Breteuil and the clerk, Bezaine, exchanged baffled looks. Clearly, they had no idea what the British writer had to do with Château B—.

‘But as for the Marquis de Brindillac,’ I continued, ‘don’t forget the look of terror on his face. Although it’s not unheard of to die in one’s sleep, it is a little more unusual to die during a nightmare!’

‘True, very true,’ conceded the judge, rubbing his head.

We had crossed a large hall and stopped in front of a door where a servant was waiting unobtrusively.

‘The Marquise and her daughter are in the sitting room,’ explained the magistrate. ‘They, and the château’s staff, were interviewed by Monsieur Rouzé and his men during the first days of the investigation. As Monsieur d’Arnouville said, the burial certificate has just been delivered to them. The ladies are very distressed, gentlemen. Let us proceed with tact and sensitivity.’

We had come to a large stone staircase.

‘Of course,’ Fourier said. Pointing upstairs, he suggested, ‘Why don’t we leave them in peace for the moment and ask Monsieur Rouzé to show us where the Marquis was found? That will shed some valuable light on the matter.’

The magistrate agreed with this suggestion. He asked the servant to inform the mistress of the house that he and Superintendent Fourier would speak to her in a few minutes’ time and then invited us to follow him.

While the others began to climb the stairs, I stopped in front of a full-length mirror in the hall and considered my reflection. Despite all my efforts to make myself look older, my face remained as youthful as ever. It was exasperating. My bow tie and ragged moustache did nothing to improve the situation. Disappointed, I pushed my trilby more firmly on to my slicked-back hair and, frowning to make myself look sterner, caught up with the group in a few strides.

Upstairs, a corridor ran the full width of the château, dividing it into two parts of roughly equal size. On one side, at the front of the house, were the Marquise de Brindillac’s bedroom and her daughter’s apartments; on the other, Auguste de Brindillac’s rooms, consisting of the bedroom where he had been found dead, a study and a large library. This perfectly geometric distribution was complemented by two spare bedrooms and, at the back, the two circular rooms situated in the towers. The first adjoined the Marquis’s library and he used it for his experiments. The second opened on to one of the spare bedrooms but, for reasons still unknown to me, it had been sealed.

To help the reader visualise the layout of the château, I have appended a sketch of the first floor of Château B—, as well as a sketch of Auguste de Brindillac’s bedroom (see page 50).

Second Lieutenant Rouzé preceded us to the door of the Marquis’s bedroom. When the door had been forced, the servant and gardener had broken the lock so now all it needed was a push. The gendarme did this extremely slowly, as if he feared that the old scientist’s body was still lying on the bed.

The room was large. To take it all in, we had to advance a few paces into it in order to see past the area on the right-hand side of the entrance which had been turned into a bathroom with all mod cons. Pushed up against the wall, an enormous four-poster bed immediately caught the eye. Its posts, made of high-quality wood, supported large sheets of fabric on which pink, round-faced cherubs few through bucolic landscapes. From looking at the bed, neatly made under the joyously festooned canopy, the sheets and covers pulled taut without a crease, no one could have imagined the tragedy that had occurred there.

Diagram of the first floor of Château B—

Diagram of the Marquis de Brindillac’s bedroom

There were a few pieces of furniture in the bedroom (a corner wardrobe, an occasional table, a bedside table and two armchairs) but, apart from a faded wall hanging and a collection of small portraits (mainly of scientists) hung near the door to the study, the room was simply decorated. Stained-glass windows cast an unusual light, creating a subdued atmosphere conducive to reflection at any time of day.

‘So, it was here that it happened, was it?’ asked the superintendent, approaching the bed.

‘Yes,’ replied Second Lieutenant Rouzé hoarsely. ‘Last Saturday the servant from the château informed the gendarmerie that the Marquis had been found dead in his bed. I got here shortly afterwards, at ten thirty-five. Dr Leduc had arrived before me and was in the process of examining the body.’

‘Did anything strike you as strange when you entered the room?’ asked the examining magistrate.

‘The dead man’s face, sir, his face! His expression was one of indescribable terror. Never could I have imagined that such an emotion was possible at the moment of death.’

‘And yet,’ resumed the judge, slight disappointment in his voice, ‘your investigation hasn’t been able to determine the cause of this violent emotion.’

‘That is true, sir. There was nothing to go on. I fear that it will be the same today …’

‘We’ll see, we’ll see,’ cut in Fourier. ‘Did the Marquise, or anyone else in the house, notice anything out of place? Or that anything had disappeared?’

‘No, nothing had been touched.’

The superintendent opened one of the two windows to let more light into the room and poked his head outside to assess the height. I joined him, to see for myself.

‘I think the theory of criminal activity is looking increasingly unlikely,’ he muttered, tugging at his moustache.

It was at least fifteen feet from the bedroom window to the ground. It was impossible to get down the wall using only one’s bare hands, particularly as there was a bed of flowering shrubs just beneath the window, which ran right along the façade of the château, and anyone landing there would have left clear traces.

Obviously, there remained the possibility of a ladder. But given that, on the morning of the Marquis’s death, the windows had been found locked, just like the doors, then either scenario would imply that one of the three people who had entered the room together (the Marquise, the servant and the gardener) was an accomplice who had closed the window without the other two knowing. Admittedly, this seemed far-fetched.

‘Well, as you said, Superintendent, we must look at the problem from all angles.’

While Judge Breteuil questioned Second Lieutenant Rouzé and the clerk, Bezaine, recorded the information in his little notebook, I moved over to the four-poster bed and lightly tapped the wall with my hand. In detective novels the policeman always does that when confronted with a case of murder in a locked room. A secret passageway hidden behind a piece of furniture or a bookcase, a door concealed in a thick wall, and all of a sudden an impenetrable mystery finally begins to unravel.

‘Are you looking for something, Monsieur Singleton?’ enquired the examining magistrate with an almost comical air of bemusement.

‘I’m checking that the walls aren’t hollow in places and that there are no doors, niches, cavities or secret alcoves. You’d be surprised at the ingenious hiding places in these old houses.’

The operation didn’t yield any results and after a few minutes I dropped to my knees and meticulously examined the floorboards.

‘Absolutely nothing!’ I said in frustration, getting up. ‘This room leads to two others, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, the study and the library,’ replied the gendarme.

‘Were the doors opening on to the corridor locked in these three rooms?’

‘Yes, they were.’

‘And this one,’ I continued, pointing to the door in front of me, between the corner wardrobe and one of the armchairs. ‘Was it closed like it is today?’

‘Yes, but not locked. Actually, there is no lock or bolt.’

‘And what about the door to the library?’

‘That one doesn’t have a lock either.’

‘So these three rooms are a single space in which one can move about freely.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Singleton,’ said Fourier, seeing where my thoughts were leading, ‘don’t you waste your time. Dupuytren, go and search the study and the library. See if there’s anything unusual about the floor or walls.’

The faithful Sûreté constable, who until then had been discreetly standing by, calmly carried out the order.

‘Why don’t we have a look at the other rooms?’ continued Fourier.

‘An excellent idea,’ said the judge, inviting us to go first with a gesture of his hand.

The so-called study, where Dupuytren had rolled up a large threadbare rug and pushed it against the wall in order to begin examining the floor, was a kind of antechamber between the bedroom and the library. It was filled with heavily laden bookshelves (in fact, the entire room was collapsing under the weight of words) and its only furniture was a desk buried under a heap of papers, notes, notebooks and magazines, and a worn armchair.

A few steps away, a second door opened on to the library, the most imposing room of the three and also the most suffocating. Bookshelves took up every inch of space; they covered entire walls and surrounded the windows and door frames. It was as if the idea of having shelves right up to the ceiling had tickled the old Marquis. Against this backdrop of paper, leather and ink, a large mirror hung over the fireplace. Nearby, a wing chair, a desk and, in the middle, an immense table, also covered in paper, were the only pieces of furniture.

On the other side of the library, a large old door, rounded at the top, had been left open. Through the doorway we could see into the work room in the middle of one of the château’s towers. Was it the thickness of the heavy door which had managed to hold back the frenzied march of books? In any case, the room didn’t seem to suffer from the same excess. ‘Only’ four or five hundred books occupied the shelves between two narrow windows. Otherwise, the room was remarkably austere, mellow and peaceful, particularly as a bed (yes, a bed, a little camp bed with a pillow and thick blanket) had pride of place in the middle, like an invitation to sleep and dream.