The Man with the Lead Stomach

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  He suggested to Bourdeau that they met up for lunch at half-past twelve, on Rue des Boucheries-Saint-Germain. It was a good choice, halfway between the district of Saint-Paul and the plain of Grenelle. In addition it was close to the Carmelite church where Nicolas’s mysterious correspondent would be waiting for him. They were both regular customers at one of these establishments famous for good wine and hearty food. Old Madame Morel, who ran a tripe-house, would be delighted to give them a good meal. The first to arrive would wait for the other. After two hours each would be free to go about his own business again. This seemed a sensible arrangement as neither knew in advance what the morning’s investigations held in store.

  Having agreed this, Nicolas bid good day to old Marie, the elderly usher, for whom he felt great affection. Once back outside he found the young groom again. With the reins under his arm, he was busily rubbing the mare down, his face red from the effort of it; the animal seemed to be enjoying it and was breathing down the boy’s neck. His reward was a handful of sous, which he accepted with a toothless grin.

  Nicolas went back along the Seine, crossed the Place de Grève and reached the Port Saint-Paul. As on every other morning, it was a hive of activity and a colourful throng was crowding aboard the river-coaches. These large covered boats, pulled along the river banks by horses, set off at times and days arranged for the convenience of passengers and trade. Nicolas had enjoyed the privilege of taking the royal coach, which went upriver every day to Fontainebleau. He halted the horse, stood up in the stirrups and gazed at the huge collection of boats lining the bank. A few moments later he had reached the Hôtel de Beauvais, the Minister of Bavaria’s residence, not far from the church of Saint-Paul. He remembered that it was in this holy place that the prisoners who died in the Bastille were buried. The turnkeys of the State fortress carried the coffins and only members of staff were allowed to be present at the services and burials.

  A huge doorman, whose arrogance was presumably intended to be appropriate to his master’s status, greeted him disdainfully and then came and went several times before opening the carriage entrance to allow the horseman to enter the Hôtel de Beauvais’s inner courtyard. Nicolas’s eye was immediately drawn to the activities of a blond young man, wearing a shirt and breeches but barefoot. With bucketfuls of water, he was washing down a muddy carriage that bore the arms of Bavaria. Nicolas was shown into an antechamber by a major-domo with a thick accent. He seemed to Nicolas to be lacking in politeness. Nicolas was becoming increasingly irritated, but fully aware that there was nothing to be gained from losing his temper, he resolved to put up with everything and remain cool and resolute. The man reluctantly told him what he already knew: that the suspect, the plenipotentiary of Bavaria’s coachman, had fled and that no one knew where he might have taken refuge. As Nicolas had neither the possibility nor indeed the intention of questioning Baron Van Eyck again, he asked to speak to the footman who had accompanied the carriage on the journey to Versailles. With a look of disgust the major-domo pointed towards the man in the shirt who was at work in the courtyard. He called the man over and ordered him to answer ‘the gentleman’s’ questions. He stayed there, wanting to hear the conversation, but was disappointed when Nicolas took the servant off in the direction of a shed.

  He opened his snuffbox and handed it to the man, who, after wiping his hands, clumsily took a pinch, all the while shifting from one foot to the other. He had a big, open, ruddy face that betrayed his unease at having to deal with someone in authority. Nicolas helped himself in turn and breathed in the snuff on the back of his hand. There followed a short session of shared sneezing. Nicolas wiped his nose in one of the fine cambric squares that Marion ironed for him each day with obsessive care. The man hesitated briefly and then did the same but used his shirt, without too much embarrassment. He was gaining in confidence and feeling less self-conscious. You cannot overestimate how reassuring and friendly it is to have a good sneeze with someone, Nicolas thought to himself. One day he had raised the subject with his friend Dr Semacgus. The navy surgeon considered that this evacuant reaction was ‘a useful social convention’; like playing cards or eating, it cleared the mind and removed depressive vapours and humours. The pleasure it induced boosted mutual confidence.

  Whatever the case, the footman’s face was now beaming and he listened with evident interest to Nicolas’s cautious preliminaries. After a few diversions to sidetrack him, Nicolas questioned him about the area he came from, Normandy, and launched into a lengthy commendation of the region, especially its horses, its cows, the lushness of its pastures and the beauty of its women. Then he finally got to the point.

  ‘Are you the driver of this coach?’

  ‘Good Lord, no, Monsieur. I’d like to, Monsieur, but for the moment I am at the back. Yes, my word, I want to for them boots and all that braiding from head to foot.’

  His eyes lit up at the impossible prospect of fiery horses, the cracking of whips and the headlong rush along lanes and streets. He pictured himself enthroned on his box, looking down at the road.

  ‘He’s bolted, curse him. But he’ll be replaced by someone just as puffed up.’

  ‘Puffed up?’

  ‘From being sat up above the others some do think themselves cleverer than the rest. But they’s still on their arses, begging your pardon, Monsieur.’

  He stopped, seeming to consider these strong words, then continued, looking thoughtful.

  ‘He were the best paid of us, and what with bringing in tobacco he could make himself a goodly sum.’

  ‘Did you know about his trafficking?’

  ‘We all did, but there ain’t none who’d talk about it. He would have had us thrown out. It was his word against ours.’

  ‘Would you mind giving me your account of what happened yesterday evening?’

  ‘I can’t say no to a gentleman what’s so kind and has tobacco what’s so nice.’

  Nicolas took the hint and invited him to help himself. Several sneezes followed, along with more staining of the shirt.

  ‘We were coming back from Versailles along the Paris highway,’ the man continued. ‘Guillaume, our coachman, looked ill at ease. Maybe his conscience wasn’t clear, what with that tobacco. But there was also the lead mare on the right: just as we were leaving the palace she had got her foot caught by the nuncio’s carriage wanting to get past. The flesh was raw. When we got to Pont de Sèvres the coachman asked the master if we could go to the river to wash the wound; the poor thing was hobbling. Then we went and got stuck in the mud. I jumped down after taking off my shoes and turning up my hose. There was muck and filth everywhere, stinking like a sewer. I ruined a nice pair of stockings.’

  Nicolas was listening intently.

  ‘It was getting dark. Near the river we come up against another vehicle. Two men were plunging a body into the water. He looked in a bad state. Guillaume asked what they were doing. They were coming back from a rout. Their friend had had too much to drink and was unconscious. He must have downed a bit to be in that sort of state, as stiff as a poker. I reckon that them coxcombs weren’t up to much good. They quickly lifted the fellow back into the carriage and made off in a hell of a hurry, begging your pardon. The animal was better; the water had helped. We set off back to Paris and at the Porte de la Conférence we were stopped by the watch and they found the tobacco. I’ll bet my wages that it’s all that mud I was washing off the carriage when you arrived what did for us. Have you ever seen an ambassador’s carriage what got muddied like that between Versailles and Paris? The excise men were bound to jump at the chance.’

  ‘All this is very clear,’ said Nicolas. ‘You have recounted it well.’

  The man felt flattered, puffed out his chest and tugged at his shirt, looking very pleased with himself.

  ‘Did you get a good look at those people you disturbed on the river bank?’

  Eyes half closed, the man seemed to be trying to gather his thoughts.

  ‘It was getting dark.’


  ‘Did they seem troubled or upset?’

  ‘No. But then it being dusk I couldn’t make them out properly. Cloaks and hats was all I saw.’

  ‘What about the drunken one?’

  ‘I saw nothing, except a wig out of place. One thing’s for sure. In his state even the dark would have given him a headache.’

  Nicolas was thinking. Unformed ideas raced through his mind once again. An inner mechanism had been set in motion but the fragility of its cogs and wheels meant that nothing should be done to hamper its mysterious workings. The purpose of his investigation came back to him.

  ‘What about your coachman?’

  ‘The police officers brought the carriage back here. No sooner had we unhitched it than Guillaume suddenly bolted. I thought it was a scalded cat, he disappeared so fast.’

  Nicolas felt he had done his duty. The investigation had been carried out quickly; a report would be given to Monsieur de Sartine, who would then give an account of it to Choiseul. Assurances would be made to the Minister of Bavaria and everything would be in order again. A minor excise incident would fade into oblivion; its cause had been simply pride and wounded feelings and, blown up out of all proportion, it would be deflated just as quickly. There was nothing more to it. The name and description of the coachman would be circulated to the commissioners and the intendants of the kingdom, and with a little luck the man would be caught and sent to the galleys. Nicolas returned to his mare, who was munching the heads off a few late-flowering roses along a whitewashed wall.

  The horse took him safely via Pont Neuf and Rue Dauphine as far as the crossroads at Bussy. On Rue des Boucheries-Saint-Germain Nicolas was back on familiar ground. A quarter-past one had just struck. In the small tavern with its worn and knife-scored tables, old Madame Morel clasped him to her ample bosom. His new status as police commissioner at the Châtelet had in no way diminished her affection for him. She was pleased to have him as a regular customer and, possibly, also pleased to know someone whose help she could call upon if need be. She secretly served pork offal in violation of police regulations and of the privileges granted to pork butchers. She knew his tastes and immediately brought him a glass of cider accompanied by a plate of crackling cut into strips, which tasted crisp and crunchy. Bourdeau appeared a few moments later.

  Making the choice of what to eat was something they both took very seriously. The mistress of the house reappeared and they asked her advice.

  ‘My dear boys,’ she said with the motherly familiarity that was one of her charms, ‘I’ve been keeping two dishes for you on the corner of my stove, without knowing when you’d be coming. First a soup of lamb giblets—’

  She broke off to rearrange her décolletage, which had been disturbed during her show of affection.

  ‘I’m going to let connoisseurs like you into the secret. Into the pot I put four or five pounds of nice beef, whatever cut you like …’

  ‘Chuck?’ said Bourdeau.

  ‘Chuck, if you like; it’s a good part, nice and tasty. When it’s been well skimmed I add some fat and the lamb giblets. You mustn’t skimp on salt, nutmeg, thyme and even some lettuce hearts or handfuls of sorrel – though this herb tends to alter the colour – and of course a few white onions. After skimming and reducing it well, I give it body and flavour by adding a few egg yolks diluted in some good vinegar. And it will warm you up into the bargain, because it’s starting to get pretty chilly despite that impudent sun.’

  ‘And what’s there to follow?’ said Nicolas.

  ‘For your main course, one of my very special dishes: pork faggots. I’m a good soul and I’ll tell you exactly how I make them: I chop up liver with a third part of fat, herbs, a crushed clove, pepper, nutmeg, garlic and three egg yolks. I make the meat balls, which I then wrap tightly in caul. I cook them in an oven dish with a little melted fat and a dash of white wine. Add some mustard and it makes you want to lick your fingers.’

  The two friends applauded and the hostess disappeared. They could now talk freely.

  ‘Did your visit to Grenelle yield anything new?’ asked Nicolas.

  The inspector looked doubtful. ‘I was given a very rude reception by the master of the house, as arrogant as ever, just like the picture you’d painted of him. Had it not been for Picard’s help I would have come away with almost nothing. As to the key, things are not very clear. There was indeed a duplicate but it’s thought to have been lost during the work carried out after the mansion was bought. So on that score nothing’s definite.’

  ‘Any other observations?’

  ‘Not really. I did a general inspection of the vicomte’s rooms again. It’s impossible to enter or leave them except, as you might expect, through the door or the windows. I even checked the chimney flue, at considerable risk to my uniform.’

  He rubbed the front of his doublet, which still bore some blackish marks.

  ‘On the other hand I was struck by the titles of the books in the library closet. They were an odd assortment for a young man, works of piety and theology.’

  ‘So that struck you as well, did it? We’ll have to look into this.’

  ‘As for the dressing room …’ Bourdeau did not finish his sentence but gave Nicolas a knowing look.

  Old Madame Morel reappeared carrying a piping hot tureen. They leapt on the food and for a considerable while thought of nothing else.

  ‘There’s just one thing missing from this meal,’ said Bourdeau, ‘a good bottle of wine. Cider is a very poor accompaniment to these tasty morsels.’

  ‘Our hostess isn’t allowed to serve any. As she’s already looked on with suspicion by the pork butchers she doesn’t want to get the wine merchants’ backs up. She told me in confidence that they sent in their spies to check whether her establishment was sticking to the rules.’

  ‘I have the feeling,’ said Bourdeau, ‘that she keeps aside some pitchers of decent wine for certain customers.’

  ‘Not for us. She thinks she’s really got us by the throat on this one …’

  ‘I know how keen you are on her pig trotter fricassée. And for the law to break the law …’

  ‘It’s probably my position that intimidates her, and where wine is concerned she doesn’t dare take the risk.’

  Bourdeau sighed. The calm look on his face, which some people were too easily taken in by, was a picture of contentment. He enjoyed these feasts with just the two of them.

  ‘Let’s get back to our case, Nicolas. What do you expect to find in the Carmelite church?’

  ‘Everything points to the message being from the Comtesse de Ruissec. It’s a well-formed female hand. Who else would it be?’

  ‘As I left Grenelle the comte asked for his horse and carriage to go to Versailles.’

  Old Madame Morel brought in a large earthenware dish containing the faggots that crackled in their golden brown caul.

  ‘So, my boys, what do you think of this? And here’s the mustard.’

  ‘We think it’s delicious as usual, and my friend Bourdeau was also saying that it deserved to be washed down with some wine …’

  The hostess put a finger to her lips. ‘The day has yet to come when I take the risk on a pitcher of wine that could attract some unwelcome attention. Not that I suspect you of wanting to get me into trouble but there’s always some evil individual hanging around who’d be only too pleased to catch me out, to the great satisfaction of you know who.’ She looked around her fiercely and withdrew.

  ‘You’re right, Bourdeau. She didn’t take the bait. Where were we? Oh, yes, Versailles … That’s not a good omen. Our man is going there for news and to complain to his protectors.’

  ‘Unfortunately yes. He has the privilege of eating at Court.’

  They remained silent for a time.

  ‘Are you still convinced that we are dealing with a murder here?’ Bourdeau asked eventually.

  ‘Yes, I am. I won’t say why just yet; I’ll wait for Sanson’s conclusions. Once we’re sure, we’ll have scored a point over
the murderer and stolen a march on those who would like to stop justice taking its course. Then there will still be much left to do: why, who, how …’

  The meatballs melted in their mouths; they wiped their plates clean with crusts of bread.

  Having eaten his fill, Bourdeau lit his pipe. ‘The body is to be opened up this evening at about nine o’clock. Don’t forget your snuff …’

  Nicolas smiled; it was an old joke between them. When a body was to be opened up in the Basse-Geôle the inspector advised Nicolas to make liberal use of snuff.

  At three o’clock they went their separate ways. Nicolas decided to ride to the Carmelite monastery at walking pace. As soon as he had arrived in Paris he had fallen in love with the city and enjoyed nothing more than ambling through the streets in a daydream. He had acquired a detailed knowledge of the different districts, which had surprised Sartine on several occasions. This was very useful to him in his job. He carried a map of the great city inside his head. In a trice he could transport himself there in his imagination and find the smallest blind alley. By going through Rue du Four and Rue du Vieux-Colombier he reached Rue Cassette, went past the Benedictine nunnery of the Holy Sacrament and entered Rue de Vaugirard, on which stood the main entrance to the Carmelite monastery. The sound of his mount’s hoofs echoed along the deserted street. He stopped, moved by the sight of the place where he had spent his first days in Paris. It was from there that he had set off one morning for an audience at the Châtelet with the Lieutenant General of Police.

  Rabouine really was still the most discreet spy on his team. There was not the least sign of his presence. Where on earth could he be hiding? He was there, though, watching him. Nicolas could feel it. He had enough time to visit his old friend Père Grégoire. After tethering his mare, he stepped into the familiar corridors of the monastery, crossed a courtyard and entered the dispensary, where the air was thick with the smell of medicinal herbs. An elderly monk, with spectacles on his nose, was weighing herbs on a pair of scales. Nicolas rediscovered the strong odours that not so long ago had befuddled his senses. He coughed and the Carmelite turned round.