The Man with the Lead Stomach

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  *

  Rabouine appeared, worried by their long absence. They climbed back into the carriage with him and headed towards the city. Nicolas described his eventful visit, including the mysterious intrusion. Bourdeau agreed with him that it must have been someone from outside the Ruissec family as the comte would not have needed to take such precautions when visiting his son’s rooms. However, they still had to check whether the vidame had been at home. He might have had reason to visit his brother’s bedroom. In any case, one detail had particularly struck Nicolas: the visitor made the floorboards creak but he had not heard the sound of shoes. Had the person taken the same precautions as Nicolas?

  ‘Bourdeau,’ he said, ‘the vicomte’s manservant, that Lambert fellow … I questioned him after he suddenly appeared behind me; he wasn’t wearing shoes, but in stockinged feet. He even apologised, saying he’d left his room in a great hurry. But I noticed that in fact his servant’s uniform was impeccably neat and buttoned up, and his cravat had been properly wrapped and knotted.’

  ‘What do you deduce from that?’

  ‘That without realising, we have perhaps re-enacted what happened in the room that evening. We’ve solved the mystery of the room locked from the inside, my friend!’

  ‘I don’t see how, without the key. But I know you’re going to explain what happened.’

  ‘It’s blindingly obvious! The Vicomte de Ruissec was killed in circumstances that we have yet to determine. For reasons we do not know, his murderers – and I emphasise the plural because all this presupposes accomplices – bring back the body by carriage. They go through the entrance gate into the grounds and their carriage waits in the lane; I found the tracks it left. They take the ladder, put it up against the wall …’

  ‘You make it sound as if you were actually there!’

  ‘I noticed the marks of the ladder’s feet in the earth around the rosebushes as I patrolled in the evening, after the body was discovered. Don’t forget how heavy the body was, weighed down by all that lead. Besides, remember how we got down!’

  ‘True, and you aren’t even full of lead,’ laughed Bourdeau.

  ‘The operation required two men to hoist the body up to the window …’

  ‘But you specifically said that the windows and their inner shutters were bolted. How could they have got in? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Bravo, Bourdeau. Your objection has provided me with the key to the mystery. Since everything was shut – well and truly shut – when the body was discovered, someone must have closed these windows, mustn’t they?’

  ‘I’m just not with you.’

  ‘And in order to close them, someone must have opened them first. It’s obvious. Bourdeau, Bourdeau, Lambert is one of the murderers … Everything fits. Remember the major-domo’s evidence. He sees his young master, or rather he dimly recognises him because he has poor eyesight. The vicomte does not speak to him and for a very good reason. Because if he had spoken Picard would immediately have realised that it was not his voice. Why Bourdeau? Why?’

  ‘Because it wasn’t the vicomte?’

  ‘Exactly. It wasn’t the vicomte; it was Lambert, Lambert wearing his master’s sodden cloak. Remember again the major-domo’s evidence, that’s the basis for my theory. Lambert goes up the stairs, opens the door to the apartments, goes in and locks the door. He throws the cloak and hat on to the bed. I was particularly struck by this detail; where I come from, you know, you never throw a hat on to a bed, especially not upside down.’

  ‘There’s a good old Breton superstition for you.’

  ‘Not at all. Ask people in Chinon. Lambert takes off his boots, which are the vicomte’s. He opens the shutters and the windows, and goes out and down the ladder to help his accomplice to bring the body up. They drag the body along, leaving suspicious marks on the wooden floor. They put the boots back on the body, write the note and fire a shot at the corpse. One of the accomplices escapes through the window, which Lambert closes again, and then hides himself.’

  ‘That would be far too risky. Why didn’t he just escape along the corridor? And where did he hide?’

  ‘You’re forgetting about the pistol shot that alerted the whole house. He didn’t have time to escape. He was forced to remain on the spot, trusting to luck.’

  ‘Nicolas, it’s impossible. He would have been trapped like a rat.’

  ‘What about me? Just now when the intruder came into the bedroom I was in a very tight corner. What did I do?’

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Bourdeau. ‘The wardrobe.’

  ‘I know all about wardrobes. As a child I used to play hideand-seek with … Well, never mind. It was in the chateau at Ranreuil and my favourite hiding place was an enormous wardrobe that was tall enough for an officer in the dragoons to stand up in. In the same way as I did, Lambert must have hidden in that wardrobe, fully dressed but in his stockinged feet because he had put the boots he was wearing on the dead body. After the comte and Picard had been sent away I was alone in the room with Monsieur de Sartine, who had collapsed into an armchair. We both had our backs to the door and therefore also to the wardrobe, which stands to the right of the entrance. The little light there was came from a candle and the hurricane lamp. Lambert sprung up from behind us as if by magic. Clearly it was because he had been cramped up in the wardrobe! That’s why we neither saw nor heard him come in. Add to that, Bourdeau, the fact that he was the person who gave us various pieces of information which were intended to put us off the scent. Yes indeed, everything fits.’

  ‘The audacity! How could anyone be so shameless and calculating? He’s no ordinary criminal, that’s for sure.’

  ‘And that’s not the end of it. Just now I took possession of some documents hidden in the binding of a book, which I assume to be what our intruder was also looking for. Why else would the library have been ransacked?’

  Bourdeau thought for a moment.

  ‘Nicolas,’ he ventured, ‘if your theory is right, that Lambert could well have been this evening’s visitor. Who else otherwise? The comte is ruled out; the comtesse, his wife, is dead. We know nothing about the vidame. But one thing intrigues me. I can understand that the Comte de Ruissec and his family did not want the scandal of an autopsy. On the other hand I think it’s unbelievably strange that a father who must by now be convinced – having seen the body – of how his son died, is not trying to do everything possible to find and punish those responsible.’

  ‘That is the crux of the matter, Bourdeau. There’s something else behind this murder. And we seem to be forgetting that Madame de Ruissec was also murdered. Almost certainly because she knew something and wanted to tell me about it. We have a clue that will lead somewhere. By the way, thank you for your help. I was beginning to wonder how I was going to get myself out of there.’

  ‘For once it was Anchises carrying Aeneas!’

  ‘Except that you are neither paralysed nor blind, thank God!’

  They were both impatient to return to the Châtelet in order to examine the documents Nicolas had found. They had to wake the guard and old Marie to get back into their office. Bourdeau looked for a glass lens to magnify the two documents found inside the book. The first was a drawing with coded information. It consisted of small squares placed next to one another, making up what looked like an upside down U; the second, which was handwritten, contained tiny characters that looked as if they had been formed with the point of a pin.

  Holding the lens, Nicolas was startled to decipher these words: ‘To the King’s whore …’ He could not believe his eyes. It was the original, or a copy, of the printed tract that Madame de Pompadour had showed him at Choisy. How did this text come to be hidden in a book from the Vicomte de Ruissec’s library in Grenelle? Was it connected with the information that the King’s favourite had been careful not to confide in him? Did she want to set him off on a trail whose mysteries she had already solved?

  Bourdeau suddenly let out cry. Having looked at the drawing from every possible angle
he had finally understood what it represented. He waved it about.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘It’s a plan, and not just any old plan. It’s a plan of the palace of Versailles, showing the courtyards, doors, guard posts and passageways between every building. Look.’

  The inspector indicated different points on the drawing.

  ‘Can you see? Here’s “the Louvre”, and there’s the Princes’ Courtyard, and here the Ministers’ Wing. This long rectangle is the Hall of Mirrors and over there is the Ambassadors’ Staircase.’

  ‘You’re right! And the other piece of paper seems to be the original of a scurrilous tract that Madame de Pompadour found in her apartments! This is all very disturbing. It’s a plot or something very much like it.’

  ‘I think,’ Bourdeau said, ‘the Lieutenant General of Police should be informed immediately.’

  ‘By tomorrow morning, or rather in a few hours’ time. Until then let’s rest a while. It’s going to be a hard day. I shall go to Versailles to investigate and you will be my eyes and ears at the Theatines.’

  ‘I really don’t like leaving you on your own in these circumstances.’

  ‘Come on, Bourdeau. Nothing can happen to me at Court. Don’t worry.’

  Saturday 27 October 1761

  After a few hours of fitful sleep, Nicolas left Rue Montmartre very early. He wanted to catch the Lieutenant General of Police at his toilet. After normally rising at around six o’clock Monsieur de Sartine liked to extend his early morning routine by having breakfast, reading the first reports from Court and the city and receiving anonymous-looking emissaries.

  Although he was early, Nicolas missed his superior; by the time he arrived his carriage had just left the Hôtel de Gramont. A minor official informed him that Monsieur de Sartine was on his way to Versailles for a meeting with Monsieur de Saint-Florentin. He would be spending the night at the palace as he was due to attend Mass and have an audience with the King as he did every Sunday. Nicolas asked for a carriage. All this was working out quite well: he intended to carry out some enquiries at Versailles. He wanted to find out more about the vidame and Mademoiselle de Sauveté. Both would certainly have stayed behind in Paris for the funeral service for the vicomte and his mother at the church of the Theatines. That would leave him time to find Truche de La Chaux and to question him on some pretext or other. He still did not know exactly what, as officially no investigation was taking place; he decided to leave it to chance, which often presented the opportunity he was looking for.

  As Nicolas went over Pont de Sèvres, thoughts of two people crossed his mind: one was the Marquise de Pompadour, whose chateau of Bellevue he could see on the hill, its terraces gleaming in the splendour of the rising sun, and the other was the Minister of Bavaria. From the window of his cab he could see the muddy bank of the Seine, the setting for the strange scene that had been described to him. He urgently wanted to question the coachman but the Minister of Bavaria’s servant had not yet been found.

  Nicolas reached Versailles late in the morning and directed his carriage to the palace forecourt. He had taken great care over his clothes: a dark grey coat, a delicate lace cravat and cuffs, silver-buckled shoes, a new tricorn and a sword at his side. His carriage was put away and he noticed Monsieur de Sartine’s coach and horses nearby. He walked towards the wing of the palace that housed the ministers’ offices. He had to push his way through a bustling, noisy crowd of petitioners, minor officials and businessmen thronging on the main steps. After submitting to some courteous questioning by an usher he managed to have a note delivered to his superior. In terms intended to intrigue the Lieutenant General, Nicolas emphasised how urgently he needed to meet him and to inform the minister, Monsieur de Saint-Florentin, of an extremely serious matter.

  Nicolas knew Sartine well enough to expect a swift response because the commissioner was well known for never sounding the alarm without good reason. And he did not have long to wait. A footman came for him, and led him through a maze of corridors and staircases. A door was opened and he entered a vast office. Two men sat eating at a pedestal table near a window looking out over the grounds. He recognised the minister, to whom he had already had the honour of being introduced, and Sartine. One o’clock chimed on the chimneypiece clock, topped by a figure of Victory crowning a classical-style bust of Louis XIV with laurels. Nicolas gave a deep bow.

  ‘You know Commissioner Le Floch, of course,’ said Sartine.

  The rotund little man in his tight-fitting coat glanced furtively at the new arrival, then after looking away, cleared his throat before speaking.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Nicolas found it hard to believe that this shy, blushing figure before him enjoyed the King’s confidence and held such extensive powers. The minister still retained the King’s favour, despite his unpopularity and the undisguised contempt that certain members of the royal family showed towards him. But one thing explained the other: the man was totally devoted to the King and his lack of brilliance simply added to his merit in the eyes of a monarch who had little liking for new faces and habits. His wife, whom he neglected in favour of his mistress, was well thought of by the Queen and was now her favourite confidante. This double good fortune further strengthened the minister’s influence. Yes, who could have believed that this unprepossessing, paunchy little man, next to whom the austere Sartine looked like a knight in shining armour, was the enthusiastic dispenser of lettres de cachet and grand master of the King’s own justice?

  ‘So, Nicolas, I assume that some matter is sufficiently grave to warrant your pursuing me even here.’

  Nicolas assumed that Monsieur de Saint-Florentin was already well acquainted with the details of the case, and he acted on this. He was careful, however, not to put Sartine in a position possibly at odds with other instructions from higher up. He skilfully outlined the unusual circumstances of his visit to Grenelle, knowing from experience that the great of this world rarely stoop to the humdrum details of police operations. He ended by showing the papers he had discovered, making no mystery of the fact that one of them matched the printed tract found at Choisy by the Marquise de Pompadour.

  ‘Aha!’ said Saint-Florentin. ‘The young man has the ear of our friend the marquise!’

  The minister examined the papers. He ordered Nicolas to fetch a magnifying glass from his desk and bring it. Nicolas could not help noticing that the instrument was lying on top of a pile of lettres de cachet ready to be signed. Monsieur de Saint-Florentin studied the documents carefully and then handed them to Sartine.

  ‘The tract is nothing unusual,’ said Sartine. ‘I have a dozen or so like this which are seized every single day. But the drawing is intriguing.’

  Nicolas coughed. They looked at him.

  ‘Allow me, gentlemen, to put forward a theory. In my opinion this sketch represents the palace. Look at the cipher in this little square; it seems to correspond to this office.’

  Monsieur de Saint-Florentin blinked, deep in thought. He took the document and examined it closely once again.

  ‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘Your deputy is right, Sartine! This is much more serious. These plans may be an attempt at working out the layout of the palace and moreover, they contain secret information to which we do not have the key but that probably relate to the ciphers. Do you not agree, Monsieur?’

  ‘I fear so, Monsieur.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed … I think I’m going to alter the course of these investigations. Listen, Sartine: this must remain secret. I do not want anyone to trouble the King with all this …’

  Nicolas recognised almost word for word a concern expressed by the marquise.

  ‘However, having had to temper the legitimate ardour of our commissioner, much to my regret and for reasons that you will appreciate, I am anxious for this matter to be resolved. I am said to be conciliatory, a friend of order and harmony, but I value above all common sense and everything I have just heard is precisely that. I will not go back over the measures already ta
ken, instead I shall turn a blind eye and give my approval to investigations based on, let us say, individual initiative – yes, that’s a good way to put it.’

  He began to laugh, then suddenly appeared serious again, as if annoyed at having let himself go, and he continued with an air of authority of which Nicolas would not have thought him capable.

  ‘Commissioner Le Floch will gather information about this case by the use of any means he may deem appropriate. In particular he will take as proven that the Vicomte and the Comtesse de Ruissec were murdered. He will unravel the motives behind their deaths. Finally, under your authority, Lieutenant General of Police, he will attempt to solve the mysteries surrounding these papers and seek to explain their connection with the crimes we are dealing with. There we are: your task is urgent but needs total discretion. Total and utter discretion.’

  He went to his desk, took two lettres de cachet, signed them, furiously sprinkled them with powder and then, after shaking them, handed them to Nicolas.

  ‘Finally, here are two blank weapons that you have the authority to charge and use!’

  He sat down again and turned to the contents of his plate, without showing any further interest in Nicolas. Sartine signalled to him that it was time to leave. He bowed, went out and found himself back in the palace forecourt, feeling somewhat dazed. Since the start of this case the authorities, with all their orders and counter-orders, had treated him like a plaything and seemed to have no clear idea of how to proceed. The irony of the situation struck him even more after this last audience with the two most important members of the police force in the kingdom. He had been sent to investigate, then the same authority had taken matters back into their own hands, influence had been exercised from various quarters, blowing hot and cold, and finally he had just been put back on track. His mind was made up: he would do his job without worrying too much about the consequences.