Читать книгу The Châtelet Apprentice: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #1 - Jean-Francois Parot - Страница 19

It was early morning when he left the sleepy household. Only a glum and silent Catherine was up, relighting her kitchen stove. Evidently the commissioner had not returned. Nicolas made his way to the Châtelet via streets littered with rubbish from the night’s celebrations, like a receding tide. He even saw a clown in a soiled costume snoring amidst the filth in a carriage entrance. As soon as he arrived he set about writing two notes, one to Père Grégoire and the other to his friend Pigneau, to inform them of the canon’s death and of his own return. While he was taking the notes to the post office, the usual little Savoyard chimney sweep appeared with a message from Monsieur de Sartine, asking Nicolas to drop everything and come over to Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin.

When he entered the Lieutenant General’s office Nicolas witnessed a strange spectacle. Sitting in his armchair, the most serious-minded man in France seemed deep in meditation, his brow furrowed. He kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, and tossing his head to the great despair of a hairdresser’s assistant who was attempting to arrange his hair into neat curls. Two manservants were opening oblong boxes and carefully removing different styles of wigs that they placed, one after the other, on a dummy clad in a scarlet dressing gown. All Paris knew that Monsieur de Sartine had a strange hobby: he was a passionate wig collector. Such an innocent quirk could be tolerated in a man who had no other known weakness. But on this particular morning he did not seem satisfied by the display and was muttering menacingly.

Having protected Sartine’s face with a screen the assistant hairdresser applied large quantities of powder to his head, and Nicolas could not help smiling at the sight of his chief surrounded by a whitish cloud.

‘Monsieur, I am very pleased to see you,’ said Sartine. ‘Not before time. How is the marquis?’

As usual Nicolas was careful not to reply. But for once, Sartine repeated his question.

‘How is he?’

He gazed intently at Nicolas. The young man wondered if Sartine, who was always well informed, did not already know all that had happened in Guérande. He decided to remain vague.

‘Well, Monsieur.’

‘Leave us,’ said Sartine, dismissing the servants attending him with a wave of the hand.

He leaned against his desk, a position he often adopted, and, most unusually, invited Nicolas to be seated.

‘Monsieur,’ he began, ‘I have been observing you for the past fifteen months and I have every reason to be satisfied with you. Do not get carried away, you know very little. But you are discreet, thoughtful and precise, which is essential in our profession. I shall come straight to the point. Lardin has disappeared. I do not know the exact circumstances and I have some grounds for concern. As you know, I exercised my discretion in assigning him to some special cases, and he was to report back only to me. Upon your life, Monsieur, do not breathe a word of what I am telling you in confidence. Lardin enjoys great freedom in all this. Too much freedom, perhaps. However, you are too observant not to have noticed that I do sometimes question his fidelity, do I not?’

Nicolas nodded cautiously.

‘He is working on two cases,’ continued Sartine, ‘one of which is particularly delicate because it involves the reputation of my men. Berryer, my predecessor, dealt me this card, so to speak, when he left the position. I could have done without it. I must tell you, Monsieur, that Commissioner Camusot, the head of my Gaming Division and an essential cog in the police machine, has for years been suspected of protecting back-street gambling. Does he profit from it? Everyone knows that the dividing line between the necessary use of informers and unacceptable practices is a very fine one. Camusot has a henchman, a certain Mauval. He is a dangerous individual. Be wary of him. He acts as an intermediary to rig the card games with his agents. Then the police raids and arrests follow. And you know that, according to the regulations, the money confiscated …’

He gave Nicolas a questioning nod.

‘A portion of the sums confiscated goes to the police officers,’ said Nicolas.

‘There speaks a true pupil of Monsieur de Noblecourt! My compliments. Lardin was also working on another case, which I cannot tell you about. All you need to know and remember is that it is, in a way, beyond us. You do not appear particularly surprised by what I’ve said. Why must I speak to you like this?’

He opened his snuffbox, then snapped it shut, without taking a pinch.

‘The truth is,’ he went on, ‘I have no choice in the matter, and I have to confess that in this instance I am forced to try a new tack. I have here a special commission for you that will give you full powers of investigation and the ability to call on the assistance of the authorities. I will inform the criminal lieutenant and the lieutenant of the watch. As for the district police commissioners, you already know them all. Respect the conventions, however: be firm with them, but do not get into open conflict. Don’t forget that you are representing me. Solve this mystery for me, for a mystery it seems to be. Set to work immediately. Begin with the night reports, which are often very revealing. You will have to learn how to compare them and piece things together, even if they at first seem unconnected.’

He handed Nicolas an already signed document.

‘This, Monsieur, is an open sesame that will unlock all doors, including those of the gaols. Do not misuse it. Do you have any requests?’

Nicolas addressed the Lieutenant General calmly:

‘Monsieur, I have two things to ask …’

‘Two? You are suddenly very bold!’

‘First, I would like to have the services of Inspector Bourdeau to assist me in my task …’

‘You’re rapidly getting a taste for authority. But I approve your choice. It is essential to be able to judge men and their characters, and I approve of Bourdeau. What else?’

‘I have discovered, Monsieur, that information does not come free …’

‘You’re quite right and I should have thought of that first.’

Sartine went towards the corner of the room and opened the door of a strong-box. He took from it a roll of twenty louis d’or and handed it to Nicolas.

‘You will provide me with a full and faithful report of everything you undertake and you will keep an account of this money. If you run short, ask for more. Off you go. There’s no time to lose. Do whatever it takes to find Lardin for me.’

Monsieur de Sartine certainly knew how to surprise Nicolas. He was so excited as he left the study that, had it not been for the roll of gold coins weighing down his coat pocket, he would have pinched himself to check if this were not all a dream. But his pleasure at having been singled out and given an important assignment soon gave way to a nagging anxiety. Would he prove equal to the task? He already had an inkling of the obstacles that would inevitably accumulate along the way. His age, his inexperience and the intrigues that such a signal favour could not fail to provoke would further complicate his task. And yet he felt ready to face this new challenge. He compared it to the challenges taken on by the knights of chivalry whose adventures filled the volumes in the library of the Château de Ranreuil.

This thought reminded him of Guérande; he still felt sorrow when he thought about his guardian, the marquis and Isabelle …

He read the terms of the warrant Sartine had handed him:

We hereby instruct that the bearer of the present order, Monsieur Nicolas Le Floch, is, for the good of the State, charged with a special mission and shall represent us in all that he does and judges necessary to command in the execution of the instructions that we have given him. We instruct also all the representatives of the police and of the watch of the provostship and viscountship of Paris to afford him aid and succour in all circumstances, in which duty we are confident that you will not fail.

Nicolas swelled with pride as he read this, and he felt invested with a new authority. He suddenly realised what ‘the King’s service’ meant and how grand it was.

Convinced of being but a humble instrument in a task whose ramifications were beyond him, he went to the office in the police headquarters where the reports of the commissioners and the rounds of the watch were kept. He would see Bourdeau later and wanted to set about his investigation without delay, as Sartine had ordered.

Nicolas was well known to the clerks and was therefore greeted without any awkward questioning. He was given the latest night reports and immersed himself in repetitive accounts of the minor incidents that marked the days and nights of the capital in this turbulent period of Carnival. Nothing caught his attention. He was much more interested in pouring over copies of the registers of the Basse-Geôle,1 which listed the macabre remains washed up by the Seine. A net laid out downstream of Paris caught floating bodies that drifted in the waters of the river. Yet here, too, the dull repetitiveness of the accounts provided him with no clue.

A male corpse, of one said to be called Pacaud, choked by the waters.

A male corpse of about twenty-five years, without wound or bruise, but presenting signs of choking by the waters.

A male corpse of about forty years, without wound or bruise, but from the signs we have seen consider that the aforesaid individual died of a seizure.

The headless body of a child, which we consider to have served for anatomical demonstrations and to have remained underwater for some considerable time.

Nicolas pushed away the register and realised the magnitude of the task he had been set. His doubts returned. Was it possible that Monsieur de Sartine had been making a fool of him? Perhaps he did not want Lardin to be found. Entrusting such an investigation to a beginner was perhaps a way of hushing it up. He set aside these unpleasant thoughts and decided to go to the Châtelet in order to visit the Basse-Geôle and to consult with Inspector Bourdeau.

The inspector’s enquiries had been just as fruitless as his own. Nicolas did not know how to tell the inspector about Monsieur de Sartine’s commission. He found it simpler to hand him the Lieutenant General of Police’s orders, without saying a word. When he had read them Bourdeau looked up and, examining the young man with a kindly smile, said simply:

‘This really is news. I always knew you’d go far, and fast. I’m happy for you, Monsieur.’

There was respect in his voice and Nicolas shook his hand, touched by these words.

‘However,’ continued Bourdeau, ‘your problems are far from over. You must not underestimate how difficult it will be. But you have full authority and, if I can help, you know you can count on me.’

‘On that very point, Monsieur de Sartine has allowed me to take an assistant. To tell the truth, I’ve asked for someone to help me. I’ve put forward a name. Yours, in fact. But I’m very young and inexperienced and I would quite understand if you said no.’

Bourdeau was pink with embarrassment.

‘Don’t worry. Here we are operating outside the rules. I’ve been observing you since you joined us and age has nothing to do with it … I’m flattered that you thought of me and I would like to work under you.’

They remained silent for a moment and then it was Bourdeau who continued:

‘This is all very well but time is short. I’ve already spoken to Commissioner Camusot. He hasn’t seen Lardin for three weeks. Did the Lieutenant General tell you?’

Nicolas reflected that Monsieur de Sartine was deluding himself about the secrecy of the enquiries and did not reply to the inspector’s question.

‘I should like to visit the morgue. Not that I’ve found anything in the reports, but no stone must be left unturned.’

Bourdeau held out his open snuffbox to Nicolas, who for once helped himself liberally. This little ceremony was a well-established routine in the Châtelet before facing the stench of the Basse-Geôle. Nicolas was well acquainted with this sinister place; he had been there with Lardin. It was a loathsome cellar, a vile hole, lit only by a half-window. A metal grating and a ramp separated the decomposing bodies from those members of the public allowed in to view them. To prevent the bodies from decaying too quickly, salt was thrown at regular intervals onto those that were most decomposed. It was here that the bodies washed up by the Seine or found on the public highway were identified – or cast back into anonymity.

Visiting time had not yet begun but a man was already there in the dank corner of the vault. He was carefully studying the sorry remains laid out on the flagstones and amongst them Nicolas was surprised to recognise those described in the reports. But there was a great difference between the coldness of the records and the sordid reality. He had not paid any attention to the silent, shadowy figure and it was Bourdeau who pointed out the unusual presence with a nudge and a wink. Nicolas went up to the stranger.

‘Monsieur, may we know what you are doing here and who allowed you in?’

The man turned round. With his forehead against the grating, lost in contemplation, he had not heard them approaching. Nicolas jumped with surprise.

‘Why, it’s Dr Semacgus!’

‘Yes, Nicolas, it is indeed me.’

‘This is Inspector Bourdeau.’

‘Monsieur … But you yourself, Nicolas, what ill wind brings you to this place? Still learning your trade?’

‘Why yes, and what about you?’

‘Do you know Saint-Louis, my servant? He hasn’t been seen since Friday and I’m very worried.’

‘Since Friday … Doctor, this place does not seem to me to lend itself to conversation. Shall we go back to the offices?’

They found themselves in the antechamber of the room where Nicolas had waited for his first interview with Sartine. Now the usher greeted him politely. Nicolas fondly remembered himself as a timid boy from Brittany, and then became annoyed with himself for being wistful about the past. His early life was over and done with; he had to devote himself entirely to his current assignment. They went towards a shabby-looking office used by the duty policemen. Nicolas requested that Semacgus wait a few moments and went in alone with Bourdeau.

‘What a strange coincidence,’ he said. ‘You don’t know the doctor and so you won’t be as surprised as I am at the occurrence of two such similar events.’

He remained thoughtful for a moment, then went on:

‘Guillaume Semacgus is a navy surgeon trained at the school in Brest. He spent a long time at sea on the King’s ships, then sailed with the Compagnie des Indes. He stayed for several years in our trading post in Africa, at Saint-Louis in Senegal. He’s a scholar and an eccentric, a well-known anatomist. He’s also a friend of Lardin’s. I’ve never understood why. It was at Lardin’s house that I met him …’

An idea crossed his mind but he preferred to keep it to himself.

‘He’s served by two black slaves whom he treats very well. Saint-Louis acts as his coachman and Awa, his wife, as his cook. He lives alone in Vaugirard.’

Another idea occurred to him, which he likewise set aside.

‘Let’s go and take a formal statement from him.’

Nicolas opened the door and invited Semacgus to enter. In broad daylight the man appeared well built, of a type that would not go unnoticed. He was much taller than Nicolas, who was himself of more than average height. He wore a dark coat of military cut with brass buttons, a brilliant white cravat and soft leather boots, and was leaning on a cane with an exotically sculpted silver pommel. His dark-eyed face was large and florid, and he radiated a calm authority. He sat down at a small table on which Bourdeau spread out his papers, having sharpened his quill. Nicolas remained standing behind the doctor.

‘Dr Semacgus, you will be so kind as to give us your statement …’

‘Nicolas, don’t take this badly, but where does this self-assured tone come from and by what right …?’

It was Inspector Bourdeau who replied:

‘Monsieur Le Floch has been delegated special powers by Monsieur de Sartine.’

‘Very well, but you will understand my surprise.’

Nicolas did not react to this.

‘Doctor, what do you have to say?’

‘As you wish … On Friday evening I was invited by a friend to a midnight meal. It’s Carnival after all. I was taken to Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré by Saint-Louis, my servant, who occasionally drives the small cabriolet I own. At three in the morning I could find neither my coachman nor my carriage.’

The quill scratched the paper.

‘For the last three days I have been going around the hospitals and, as a last resort, I came to the Basse-Geôle, in case …’

‘You came outside the opening hours,’ commented Nicolas.

Semacgus managed not to show his annoyance.

‘As you well know, I pursue the study of anatomy and Lardin has given me a note allowing me to enter at any time to examine the bodies laid out in the morgue.’

Nicolas suddenly remembered that this was true.

‘Could you tell me the name of this friend who invited you on Friday evening?’ he asked.

‘Commissioner Lardin.’

Bourdeau was about to say something but a stern look from Nicolas stopped him.

‘Where exactly was this party?’

The doctor smiled wryly and shrugged his shoulders.

‘In a disreputable place well known to the police. At La Paulet’s, the Dauphin Couronné in Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré. You can eat on the ground floor, play faro2 in the cellar and on the upper floors enjoy the girls. A real Carnival paradise.’

‘Are you a regular customer?’

‘And what if I were? But no, that isn’t the case. I was invited by Lardin, which came as rather a surprise. I did remember that he was keen on this sort of entertainment, but he had never invited me to take part before.’

‘Did you find it enjoyable?’

‘You’re very young, Nicolas. The food was choice and the girls were pretty. When the occasion presents itself I don’t deprive myself of such pleasures.’

‘At what time did you arrive?’

‘Eleven o’clock’

‘And you left when?’

‘At three o’clock, as I already told you.’

‘Did Lardin leave with you?’

‘He’d made himself scarce long before. And with good reason, after all that commotion.’

‘What commotion?’

‘Well,’ smiled the doctor, ‘we were masked … Lardin had had a lot to drink, wine and champagne. A little before midnight, a man entered the room. He bumped into Lardin, or the other way round. Lardin tore the man’s mask off. I was surprised to recognise Descart. As you may be aware, he’s my neighbour in Vaugirard. I got to know him at Lardin’s; Madame Lardin is his cousin. It’s thanks to him that I found a house on my return from Africa. Descart at La Paulet’s! This was the world gone mad. They came to blows immediately. Lardin was beside himself, frothing at the mouth. He accused Descart of wanting to take his wife. Descart retreated and Lardin left shortly afterwards.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes. As for me, I went upstairs, with a girl. But does all this really have anything to do with the disappearance of Saint-Louis?’

‘And the name of this girl?’

‘La Satin.’

‘Did Descart recognise you?’

‘No, it was not yet midnight and so I still had my mask on.’

‘Was he recognised?’

‘I don’t think so. He put his mask back on immediately.’

Nicolas felt slightly embarrassed to be giving such a grilling to a man he had always liked, a natural reaction given the kindness Semacgus had always shown towards him.

‘I must inform you of another disappearance,’ he said. ‘Commissioner Lardin has not been seen since Friday evening. You are apparently the last person to have seen him.’

Semacgus’s reply was simple and surprising.

‘It was bound to happen.’

Bourdeau’s quill started to scratch away again even harder.

‘What do you mean?’

‘That Lardin, despising the whole human race as he did, was bound to attract trouble.’

‘He’s your friend …’

‘Friendship does not preclude clear-headedness.’

‘May I point out that you’re talking about him as if he is dead …’

Semacgus gave Nicolas a pitying look.

‘I can see that the job is growing on you, police officer. Your apprenticeship is apparently over.’

‘You haven’t answered me.’

‘It’s only an intuition. My concern is much more for my servant, who you seem to be forgetting about entirely.’

‘Saint-Louis is a slave. It’s in their nature to run away.’

The brown eyes looked at Nicolas sadly.

‘Those are rather conventional ideas for a young person and they don’t suit you, Nicolas. Besides, Saint-Louis is free; I freed him. He has no reason to run away. Especially as his wife, Awa, is still at home.’

‘Give an exact description to Monsieur Bourdeau. We will look for him.’

‘I hope he’ll be found. I’m very fond of him.’

‘One more question. Did Lardin have that ever-present cudgel of his on Friday evening?’

‘I don’t think so,’ replied the doctor.

He looked at Nicolas again, this time with a flicker of amused curiosity.

‘That will be all, Doctor,’ said the young man. ‘See Bourdeau about Saint-Louis.’

When Semacgus had withdrawn, the two policemen remained deep in thought for a long time. Bourdeau drummed the desk with his fingertips.

‘For a first interrogation, no one could have done better,’ he said at last.

Nicolas did not respond to this comment which nevertheless pleased him.

‘I’m going back to Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin,’ he said. ‘Monsieur de Sartine must be told about all this immediately.’

Bourdeau shook his head.

‘Not so fast, young man. It’s time to eat instead. In fact it’s well past lunchtime. Besides, the Lieutenant General is not available in the afternoons. Lunch is on me. I know a little hostelry that serves decent wine.’

After walking along Rue de la Grande Boucherie, which backed onto the Châtelet, they entered a small street, Rue du Pied-de-Boeuf. Nicolas had by now become used to the way of life and even the smells of this district. The butchers slaughtered cattle in their shops and blood ran down the middle of the streets, where it congealed at the feet of the passers-by. But this was nothing compared with the odours from the melting-houses for animal tallow. Bourdeau negotiated his way between ruts and puddles, oblivious to the stench. Nicolas, who had just returned from Brittany and could still feel the ocean’s breath on his skin, put his handkerchief to his face, much to his companion’s amusement.

The inn was welcoming. Its customers were shop boys and notaries’ clerks. The innkeeper was from the same village as Bourdeau, near Chinon, and his wine came from there too. They sat down to a fricassée of chicken, bread, goat’s cheese and a jug of wine. Despite the unappealing nature of the walk, Nicolas did credit to the ambigu3 and tucked in heartily. The conversation was taken up with planning their campaign: informing Monsieur de Sartine; carrying out enquiries in Vaugirard and Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré; questioning Descart and La Paulet, and continuing to go through the police reports.

It was almost five o’clock when they went their separate ways. Nicolas discovered that Sartine was not at his home; he was at Versailles, summoned by the King. He thought for a moment of going to visit Père Grégoire, but the Carmelite monastery was a long way off and it was getting dark, so he sensibly decided to return to Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.

Things had definitely been going on in the house during his absence. No sooner had he got inside than again he heard two people talking, this time in Madame Lardin’s drawing room.

‘He knew everything, Louise,’ said a man’s voice.

‘I know, he made a terrible scene. But for heaven’s sake, Henri, explain why you were in that place at all.’

‘It was a trap. I can’t tell you anything … Did you hear a noise?’

They stopped talking. A hand had been pressed against Nicolas’s mouth, another pushed him into the darkness and dragged him into the pantry. He could see nothing and heard only heavy breathing. He was released. He felt someone’s breath and smelled a fragrance that seemed familiar to him, then the footsteps receded and he found himself alone in the dark, watchful and motionless. A little later, the front door closed and he heard Louise Lardin returning to her rooms on the first floor. He waited a few moments more, then went up to his garret.