Bourdeau had joined them. ‘Today, a Sunday? We’d have to get hold of the guards, and even then … No, we’ll have to do it ourselves.’
‘Then we will. We’ve been through worse things in the past. Get Old Marie to find some of those leather aprons in the torture chamber, the kind Sanson’s assistants sometimes use. Don’t forget to retrieve the weapon and examine the bodywork of the cab. The autopsy will be done tomorrow. We’ll have to inform Sanson in Rue d’Enfer as soon as possible. A member of the watch can do that.’
What followed would remain one of Nicolas’s worst memories, and he already had quite a few of those. Once the corpse had been taken away on a stretcher to the Basse-Geôle, he examined the bodywork of the cab in the minutest detail. This examination went on for so long that Bourdeau, who knew his chief, assumed he must have discovered a clue. As so often, the commissioner preferred to keep silent until he had had the chance to confirm his findings with other observations. The inspector noticed that he gave equal attention to the wheels, the insides and outsides of the doors, and the frame. Nicolas took out a small pocket knife, scraped some mud or earth from the axles, wrapped it in paper and placed it carefully in his pocket. Then they both descended into the bowels of the Châtelet. In the autopsy room, they put on leather aprons and carefully cleaned the bloodstained body. Bourdeau moved a torch closer and pointed to the coat pocket. In it was the letter which had made it possible to identify the dead man. It was unsigned, an invitation to a rendezvous in Versailles: ‘Join us in the place you know.’ Nicolas noted that it had been sent on the very day he himself had arrived at Court.
‘Is this why Rabouine said it was the younger Duchamplan?’
‘That’s the name on the address. The letter must have been delivered by hand, there’s no postmark.’
They continued to wash the body, although without undressing it. The water fell from the table in a purple stream, and there was a sickening metallic odour. No conclusions could be drawn from the mangled face. For a long time, Nicolas looked at the hands. Then he took off the shoes and stockings, and gave the feet the same kind of examination. They would have to wait for Sanson’s conclusions the following day before they could speculate any further. They went back up to the courtyard of the Châtelet. It was then that Nicolas, looking mechanically at the cab, was struck by the number: 34 NPP. Could it be the same vehicle that had driven him to Popincourt, where he had conveyed Lenoir’s instructions to the dairy farmers, and the conversation had turned to the misadventures of Marguerite Pindron’s fiancé? Closing his eyes, he tried to recall the driver’s face, but found it impossible. All he remembered was a seat stained with what could well have been blood.
‘Bourdeau,’ he said, ‘what would you say to a little visit to Boulevard Saint-Martin and then to the Duchamplan house in Rue Christine?’
‘I’d say that my orphans won’t see their father today, and that Madame Bourdeau …’
‘… will curse Commissioner Le Floch and the Châtelet, as one might expect!’
In Boulevard Saint-Martin, the inspector showed Nicolas the place where the watch had found the cab. Nicolas sniffed about, his nose to the ground, entered the vast area of the pleasure gardens, and picked something up from the muddy ground. Again, Bourdeau preferred not to ask any questions, even though the action seemed incomprehensible at first sight. They got back into their carriage and drove across Paris. Nicolas, his chin on the door and his eyes half closed, was thinking, whistling an opera aria and beating time with his foot.
‘We really mustn’t procrastinate,’ he said to Bourdeau as they were crossing Pont-Royal. ‘This has gone on far too long.’
The inspector made no attempt to find out what he was referring to.
‘Let’s go straight to our target. That mezzanine apartment in Rue Christine. I need to know what it contains right now. I’d be very surprised if it didn’t tell us something about its occupant. Do you have your picklocks?’
Bourdeau struck the pocket of his coat, making a metallic sound.
‘Good,’ said Nicolas. ‘We’ll open the door. Forget about due process and authorisation.’
‘Do you have an idea in mind?’
‘Not one, but several. Don’t be offended by my silence, Pierre. It’s only a reflection of the fact that I’m torn between various hypotheses. To reveal one would be to throw out the others. They need to remain together until the mind is able to take one last look at all of them and come down in favour of the most likely.’
‘You haven’t been talking to Monsieur de Noblecourt this morning, have you?’ said Bourdeau with a smile. ‘Your style bears his imprint.’
‘It’s impossible to conceal anything from you. As he is wont to say, the most obvious answer is often that which is the least hidden.’
‘Which means, I assume,’ said Bourdeau, laughing, ‘that the solution is near.’
‘Much more so than if you had actually thought it within reach.’
When they reached Rue Christine, they found the courtyard of the Duchamplan house deserted. A domestic quarrel could be heard from the upper floors, but there was no sign of the caretaker. They ran to the staircase. Once on the mezzanine, Bourdeau did not take long to pick the lock, and the door opened onto a small, dark antechamber. No sooner had they cautiously entered the apartment than they heard creaking, followed by hurried footsteps. They rushed forward, trying to find their way in the darkness. They pulled open a door, discovered a wardrobe, retraced their steps and chose another door, which this time led to a foul-smelling water closet. The third was the right one. They found themselves in an untidy drawing room where the remains of meals and empty bottles lay strewn over the furniture. At the far end of the room, where the light came in through windows looking out on the courtyard, there was another door. Bourdeau grabbed hold of the handle, but it resisted. He was about to step back and rush at it with his shoulder when Nicolas stopped him, moved him aside and pointed to a small chest of drawers. They slid it across the floor and slammed it into the door, which shattered. Immediately, there was a deafening explosion, and pieces of marquetry and marble were projected into the middle of the drawing room. Bourdeau’s wig was blown off, and fell to the floor like a ball of wool, covered in splinters.
‘I think,’ he said, pale and out of breath, ‘that I owe you my life.’
‘It’s merely a first instalment,’ said Nicolas with a bow. ‘I’m still in debt to you.’
‘But how did you know?’
‘Intuition. I had a feeling there was someone armed waiting behind the door.’
Entering the room, which was quite small, they discovered an ingenious mechanism, consisting of a rifle fixed at an angle to the wall, its trigger being connected to the door by a horsehair thread wound around a pulley. Anyone entering would have been unable to escape its effects.
‘Where is he?’ asked Nicolas, regaining his composure. ‘There’s no other door, and the window’s closed. He can’t just have disappeared. Look at the fireplace, it may be similar to Richelieu’s.’3
Bourdeau took out a folding knife, opened it, and began to probe the surround of the fireplace, without finding anything. Nicolas looked under the bed, then opened a cubbyhole which led into a narrow corridor ending, after a few steps, with another door. They opened it cautiously, revealing a stone spiral staircase.
‘It’s like Sartine’s secret exit at the Châtelet,’ said Bourdeau.
The staircase took them down into a cellar, from which an openwork door led out to a little orchard. The bird had well and truly flown. They went back up to the mezzanine. Nicolas continued searching. As he walked, he trod on something. He bent down and picked up a broken pair of glasses with tinted lenses.
‘No need to look any further,’ he said. ‘Lord Ashbury must have taken refuge here after we flushed him out of the Hôtel de Russie.’ He struck his head with his fist. ‘Noblecourt was right! Isn’t it obvious that the safest hiding place was a stone’s throw from the hotel, a place where n
o one would ever think of looking for him? He’s played us, well and truly played us. Who took him in?’ he went on feverishly. ‘Clearly, his accomplice, Eudes Duchamplan, who I assume is one of his agents! The body may be his. Did he kill him, and if so, why? Did he get rid of him before he went to earth in here? What really angers me is the thought that he may already be a long way away.’
‘Who brought him food?’ asked Bourdeau.
‘He’s a master of disguise. We know now that there’s a way out. It wouldn’t have been difficult for him to come and go.’
Nicolas went back to the wardrobe at the entrance. It contained cloaks, hats and shoes. He picked up a pair of shoes and handed them to Bourdeau.
‘Keep hold of these, they may prove useful.’
Bourdeau nodded, not quite sure he understood what his chief was alluding to. The commissioner was walking in and out with long strides, as if measuring something.
‘You see,’ said Nicolas, ‘however thick the wall between this wardrobe and the drawing room, it can’t be as thick as all that, it’s impossible.’
They walked into the wardrobe and moved aside the clothes. The wooden wall at the back was panelled. The commissioner discovered that one of the panels had been cut along the edge: it must surely be movable. He carefully manipulated it until it came out at a right angle, releasing a mechanism which revealed the wall as a hidden door. Once through the door, they discovered, by the light of a candle, what looked like the lair of a second-hand clothes dealer, filled with female clothes – dresses, undershirts, camisoles, petticoats, shawls, lace, bodices, mantles – and a collection of wigs that would have turned Monsieur de Sartine green with envy. These wigs were hanging on nails; some were women’s, others men’s, and they were of extraordinary variety and elaboration.
‘It reminds me of our own collection of disguises,’ said Bourdeau, delighted.
There were also some women’s shoes. Nicolas compared them with the pair he had already found; they were identical in size.
Bourdeau laughed. ‘My God, you anticipated that as well!’
‘Not exactly,’ said Nicolas, who really had not imagined anything like this.
In a corner lay a man’s shirt, rolled into a ball and covered in blood. Nicolas was pondering the fact that, ever since the beginning of this investigation, they had amassed a large number of significant but contradictory clues, but had not yet found a thread to connect them. He was reflecting on this when two people entered the apartment. They turned to see the horrified faces of the elder of the Duchamplan brothers and a woman of indeterminate age, pale and red-eyed, wearing a grey dress and matching mantilla.
‘May I ask, Commissioner, what you are doing in my brother’s apartment? We heard a terrible explosion.’
Nicolas stood in front of the door to the wardrobe, concealing its contents. ‘Have you seen your brother again since my last visit?’
‘No. What’s happened here?’
He was trying to push Nicolas aside to see inside the wardrobe, but Bourdeau had blown out the candle.
‘Someone has been living here,’ declared Nicolas sternly. ‘Did you know that?’
‘Certainly not.’
Nicolas made a signal to Bourdeau, who stood aside and relit the candle.
‘Well, then, what can you tell me about this bazaar? Don’t you have any useful comment to make about a closet of old clothes worthy of the Temple?’
Duchamplan looked around, more aghast than surprised. The woman, who had moved closer, was clinging to her husband’s arm. She had started trembling.
‘You must tell him,’ she moaned. ‘You can’t keep quiet. You’ve delayed too long.’
‘Tell me what?’ growled Nicolas, threateningly. ‘What are these women’s clothes?’
‘Old oddments from my wife’s trousseau.’
‘Indeed?’ said Nicolas. ‘I congratulate you, Madame, on having such elaborate wigs to wear, and on being able to get rid of such adornments when they are still almost new. I can quite understand that you cast them off! The shoes, too, I assume?’
‘Certainly, Monsieur.’
‘In that case, let’s see, Madame. Would you please try these on?’ He handed her some dancing slippers covered with white lace.
‘But, Commissioner, what is the point of that?’
‘I advise you, Madame, to do as I say.’
She hesitated, wrung her hands, and looked at her husband. Finally, she burst into sobs.
‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘I have no wish to deceive the law. These shoes are not mine, nor are the clothes.’
‘Thank you, Madame, I wanted to hear you say it. It was perfectly obvious to me that they weren’t your size. So whose are they? Does your younger brother, Monsieur – your brother-in-law, Madame – sometimes wear women’s clothing?’
‘That may occasionally happen,’ said Duchamplan, embarrassed. ‘I assume it’s just a game, some harmless amusement, a carnival joke, the stuff of masked balls and—’
‘How often?’ asked Nicolas.
‘Several times a week,’ said the woman, with a kind of spite.
‘Alas,’ said Duchamplan, ‘I fear my younger brother is perversity itself. He has become accustomed to dressing up like this for parties. I have no idea what he does at these parties … but I’m always terrified to see the state he’s in when he returns.’
‘Did your elder sister know about these practices?’
‘She surprised Eudes some time ago. He made up some vague story about helping the Duc de La Vrillière to seduce some girls, the go-between being none other than our brother-in-law Missery, the minister’s major-domo.’
‘So your sister knew …’
For a moment, he envisaged a new scenario – Sister Louise of the Annunciation informs the Duchesse de La Vrillière, and the duchesse confronts the minister – but it did not get him very far.
‘I ought to have both of you incarcerated until this affair has been settled,’ said Nicolas. ‘But I will trust in your good faith. You will remain confined to your home. Rest assured that you will be watched day and night by my men. Please withdraw.’
Once the couple had gone out, he picked up the bloodstained shirt and wrote something down in his little black notebook.
‘Wouldn’t those two be better off at the Châtelet?’ asked Bourdeau.
‘It’s possible they’re being watched by someone other than ourselves, and I don’t want to raise the alarm. In any case, as I’ve discovered here, I’m not the only one to take precautions and leave by the back way!’ He told Bourdeau about his departure from Rue Montmartre. ‘Is the British embassy under surveillance?’
‘Permanently, since the peace treaty. Of course, routine may have set in.’
‘Lord Ashbury may try to find refuge there, so we need to tighten the surveillance. What have we found out so far about the growing of pineapples?’
‘Rabouine is going through the list at the Châtelet and has flooded Paris and the suburbs with spies. He may have found what you’re looking for by now.’
‘I fear for your Sunday, Pierre. Your family will curse me.’
‘They’re used to it after a quarter of a century!’
They closed up the secret passage, barricaded it to prevent anyone coming in from outside, and placed seals on the front door. It did not take them long to get back to the Grand Châtelet, where Rabouine was waiting for them, looking very excited.
‘I would guess your search went well,’ said Nicolas, ‘judging by that air of smugness.’ He placed the bloodstained shirt on the table.
‘Judge for yourself,’ said Rabouine, waving a paper. ‘Of all the residences on the list, only one attracted my attention, for two reasons.’
‘Tell us what they were.’
‘The first is that the person who lives there is in our records. He appears in Marin’s daily reports, once intended for Monsieur de Sartine and now for Monsieur Lenoir, on the information gathered by our inspectors and spies. He comes into the categ
ory dealing with prostitution and licentious behaviour, and inhabits the borderline between vice and crime.’
‘He’s got us hooked!’ said Bourdeau, sitting with his elbows on the table and his head on his folded hands.
‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, it appears that the man in question is very well known in the world of vice. Why?’
‘Yes, why?’ said Nicolas impatiently. ‘Come on, Rabouine, get to the point! We don’t have much time, and you’re keeping us waiting.’
‘All right. He’s the grand master of a libertine society known as the Order of Happiness. His followers vow to make each other happy. They’re an androgynous group, who like men to become women, women to become men, and all points in between …’
‘And where do they meet?’
‘Sometimes at the grand master’s mansion in Montparnasse, which is where he has his greenhouse of exotic plants. Sometimes in the quarries at Vaugirard, sometimes in other places we have yet to discover.’
‘This is indeed most strange! And the second of your reasons?’
‘This lover of young flesh, whose influence within the society seems to increase with every passing day, is none other than the Marquis de Chambonas, who married Mademoiselle de Lespinasse-Langeac, the illegitimate daughter of the Duc de La Vrillière and the Beautiful Aglaé.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Bourdeau.
‘And that’s not all,’ Rabouine went on. ‘The only motivation for the marriage was to shore up Chambonas’s failing fortune. But when things didn’t live up to his expectations, he unearthed a nasty secret he’s been using to blackmail the minister: the Beautiful Aglaé is said to have once married a certain Comte Sabatini, who was wrongfully deported to the West Indies on the minister’s orders.’
‘Let’s not waste any time,’ said Nicolas. ‘I want the Marquis de Chambonas’s mansion to be put under surveillance immediately. What Rabouine has just told us matches the information we had from Restif, the things La Paulet hinted at to me, and what we found in Rue Christine. Bourdeau, take this shirt and go straight to the Saint-Florentin mansion. Find the minister’s valet and spare no effort to discover if the shirt belongs to his master. Last but not least, and I don’t care how we get it, I must have, as soon as possible, a detailed report on the Duc de La Vrillière’s movements over the past week so that we can check his alibis.’
The Saint-Florentin Murders Page 29