‘I’ve got it,’ said Nicolas. ‘This is how I see things. Cadilhac doesn’t want to negotiate directly, so he sends one of his friends. It could all happen in a church, which would be suitably dark.’
‘Camusot won’t deal with a stand-in.’
‘Please, let me finish. He’ll deal with a stand-in if the original is there, a few steps away, inaccessible but near. On an organ gallery for example, letting himself be seen. I can imagine him waving his hand in a mocking way.’
‘Are you planning to raise him from the dead?’
‘No, but I know you well enough, Pierre, to be sure you’ve carefully saved Cadilhac’s clothes. The lowliest of our spies, or you, or I, can play the part of Cadilhac, in the shadows and at a distance.’
Bourdeau was rubbing his hands with enthusiasm. ‘Sounds perfect to me. We still have to decide on the wording and the place.’
‘We have to find something intriguing, something like “Cut stone doesn’t bring in much. More demand for the paper, which will go to the highest bidder. To find out more, come on Tuesday 17 May, at seven in the evening …”’ – Nicolas thought for a moment – ‘“to the great hall of the thermal baths at the abbey of Cluny. Come alone and unarmed. We will be on our guard.”’
Bourdeau shook his head, unconvinced. ‘The content is fine, the form much less so. It sounds like something written by a commissioner at the Châtelet, not by Cadilhac. It has to be redrafted.’ He took a sheet of paper and a quill, and started writing, crossing words out a few times. ‘There you are. I just hope you like it. “To be honest, stones from Meaux, once divided up, won’t keep my milk boiling for long. There’s much more of a demand for paper. I’ll give it up to the highest bidder, for there are some very interested customers, men of the highest taste, who even like pagodas. Come this Tuesday, 17 May, at seven in the evening, to the great hall of the baths of Julian. And no tricks.”’
‘Yes!’ exclaimed Nicolas happily. ‘That’s really good! I still have to find suitable paper and a clumsy hand.’
‘And poor spelling,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Old Marie will do it.’
‘Impossible. Camusot used to work here. He’d recognise the handwriting.’
‘All right. We’ll find someone. Now we could just send the letter through the post.’
‘There’s a risk it would be opened, or wouldn’t arrive at all. We must be sure it reaches its destination in time. The trap must be foolproof. The purpose of this encounter isn’t to arrest the man but to try and follow the chain to the main link. We’ll have to reconnoitre the place in the evening, at the same hour as the one we’ve chosen for the meeting. This is a real puppet show, and we have to play it properly.’
‘Who’ll play the role of Cadilhac?’
‘I will,’ said Nicolas.
‘That’s a very bad idea and I won’t let you get involved. What if our man recognises you, even at a distance, and shoots you down, eh? How would I explain that to Monsieur de Sartine? Besides, you’re the only person who has the whole of this case in his head. Anyway – and this seems to me the clinching argument – you don’t look anything like Cadilhac.’
‘I sense a criticism in your words. Don’t worry, you’ll know everything … when I’m sure of my facts. As for your argument, I accept it, though reluctantly. Who to turn to, then? Our people won’t be up to it. Rabouine, perhaps?’
‘No,’ said Bourdeau, ‘he’s also known to Camusot. We mustn’t neglect any detail. The man was about fifty, quite sturdy, with a grey moustache. With a toupee, I could do it. Don’t worry, I’ll wear a breastplate under my doublet, which in any case will give me more of a paunch and make me look more like him.’
Nicolas thought this over for a moment. ‘I don’t really like it,’ he said at last. ‘But it seems as if I’ll have to resign myself. We just need to be very careful, and leave nothing to chance. We’ll visit the place, preferably in disguise. There must be some old rags in our stocks here that’ll make us unrecognisable. In the last resort, I think only you and I should be inside the hall itself. On the other hand, we’ll need a tight ring round the area defined by Rue Saint-Jacques, Rue du Foin, Rue de La Harpe and Rue des Mathurins. Nothing and no one will be able to enter or leave without immediately being reported. Those who leave will be followed. I’m going to write to Pelven, who used to be a sailor and is now the doorkeeper at the Comédie-Italienne. He’s an old associate of mine. He’ll have you admitted there, and one of the members of the company will help you to make yourself up so that you look exactly like Cadilhac.’
‘But the theatres are closed for a month because of the King’s death.’
‘He’ll find a way, you can count on that. Take him a plug of tobacco and a bottle of brandy from me.’
‘Let’s not forget something,’ said Bourdeau pensively. ‘We’re taking all these precautions, but our adversaries may well be taking them, too. I might be followed myself after the meeting. We’ll have to keep an eye open for that.’
‘Your carriage will go down Rue des Deux-Portes to Rue Hautefeuille. A haycart conveniently overturned after you’ve passed will do the trick.’
‘And you?’
‘I’ll be there to back you up. I’ll get there some time before you, in order not to arouse suspicion. My other concern will be to see if there’s a second criminal watching everything in case Camusot doesn’t appear. He may not want to enter into negotiation unless he’s certain Cadilhac is really Cadilhac. Either he comes himself, or he sends someone who knows Cadilhac to make sure of the blackmailer’s identity.’
‘You’ll have to make sure you don’t get there too soon before the meeting. You’d risk bumping into the person you want to unmask.’
‘It’s not very likely. In fact,’ said Nicolas, ‘I’ll sleep there on the night of Monday to Tuesday.’
Bourdeau looked puzzled. ‘Isn’t that too soon?’
‘The sooner, the better. We have to get them in a panic. The only thing that might happen is that the messenger doesn’t get to Camusot, then we’ll have to hold off until another time. But I imagine he’s on hot coals, anxious for news. He’s sure to go home. We’ll have to send someone who’s unknown at the Châtelet, and he’ll then have to go to ground for a few days. If there are any problems, he can say he was approached by a man with a grey moustache who paid him handsomely for the errand. I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything. How about something to eat?’
As they walked to their usual eating place in Rue du Pied-de-Bœuf, not far from the Grand Châtelet, they talked about the news of the day, the main item being the publication of a letter from the new King to Monsieur de Maurepas. Bourdeau, again adopting his acrimonious attitude, mocked the tone of it, which he described as ingenuous. What was the point, for a monarch, of admitting that he did not have ‘all the knowledge necessary to his state’? Nicolas, on the other hand, found this modesty moving, and they argued about it at some length. The commissioner mocked his deputy’s inconsistency: he usually criticised the absolute power of the monarchy, but now, caught off guard for once, he resented not being able to deploy his usual jibes against the young King.
But the dish of calves’ sweetbreads they were served by the tavern-keeper united them in praise. They demanded enlightenment, claiming, as was their custom, that the account doubled their enjoyment. It was a good way to please their host, who sat down at their table and accepted a glass of white wine, nicely chilled to wash down the sweetbreads. What you had to do, he said, was lard them with thin strips of bacon which had previously been rolled in a mixture of herbs, then wrap them in fresh bards and cook them lightly, moistening them with a mixture of white wine and thick stock, and adding salt, pepper, bouquet garni, a few slices of lemon with the pulp and pips removed, and, finally, a mixture of gooseberries crushed in a dash of vinegar. As a finishing touch, a little light caramel was just the ticket. The whole thing had to be cooked very slowly for no more than three quarters of an hour. At the end of that time, the sweetbreads were taken ou
t, and you continued cooking until there was almost nothing left of the sauce except a thin, shiny layer at the bottom of the saucepan. Then, and only then, did you roll the sweetbreads in it to give them a glaze. The dish was served on a bed of sorrel heated in the same saucepan. Their feast ended with a few glasses of a kind of ratafia which the host made himself from brandy, saffron, cinnamon, bitter almonds, cloves, orange flowers and sugar – an excellent digestive, he claimed.
They separated before the Apport-Paris. Bourdeau would deal with the letter to Camusot and his own disguise, for which he would have to collect Cadilhac’s clothes from the Basse-Geôle. They would meet again at four o’clock to disguise themselves before going to reconnoitre the great hall of the baths of Cluny.
Monday 16 May and Tuesday 17 May 1774
Everything had gone according to Nicolas’s plan. A boy had given the letter to Camusot’s maid, who had assured him that her master would see it the same day. The doorkeeper of the Comédie-Italienne, delighted that Nicolas had thought of him, had seen to it that Bourdeau had been transformed into a very acceptable Cadilhac. Tirepot having conveyed the commissioner’s orders to Rabouine, the widened net was in place. Nicolas and Bourdeau, both unrecognisable, had surveyed the baths on Sunday evening and finalised their preparations. The house in Rue des Douze-Portes and the d’Aiguillon mansion were under constant surveillance by a large number of spies, including a number of priests, some delighted local women, some twenty fake blind people and cripples, and other hired helpers.
Nicolas persisted in his plan of going to the place well before the hour arranged for the meeting. He had disguised himself so well that even Rabouine, who had come for his instructions, took him for some fugitive from Charenton or Bicêtre and would have thrown him out the door if Bourdeau had not intervened, roaring with laughter. Nicolas would spend the night in the thermal baths: that way, he would be sure to detect any hostile presence and be able to intervene in time if the inspector’s life was in danger.
And so, on the stroke of seven, a strange-looking individual hobbled down Rue de la Harpe, a dark narrow passage where two carts were sufficient to block the way and where the intrepid pedestrian who ventured in had to choose between damp walls and the threatening wheels of the carriages. Making sure that he was not being observed, the beggar pushed open the iron gate of the thermal baths and entered the great hall. It was a place of ill repute, much used for clandestine assignations. A hanging garden, like those in Babylon, built over the solid Roman vaults, still crowned the hall: another had collapsed in 1737 along with the vault that had supported it. Nicolas felt once again the awe he had often experienced, faced with this huge, majestic hall with its roots in the distant past.
Despite its bare appearance and the height of the vaults, the bases of the boldly projected arches were supported by consoles shaped like the prows of ships. The eye was drawn to the fineness of the archivolts, arcades and recesses. Nicolas felt as though he had been plunged into an unimaginable world. There were fragile buildings of cob representing farmhouses, sheds and cabins. Against the wall was a raised platform, accessible by a stepladder, on which was a kind of hayloft, collapsing beneath the weight of mildewed hay and abandoned firewood. It struck Nicolas that this would provide an ideal vantage point. He climbed the stepladder. There was straw in profusion here, burst crates and all kinds of barrels. He had a good view of the whole hall, including the main door and the buildings of the abbey. Of course, there was no way out from here, but the position was easily defensible and would allow him to repel an attack if it came to that. Bourdeau had ordered Rabouine to wait for a few minutes after he himself had left in his carriage. If Nicolas did not appear, the whole force would storm into the great hall to give him aid and assistance.
After making sure that he was alone, Nicolas set about erecting a kind of shelter from disparate elements. When finished, it reminded him of a charcoal kiln. He made sure he provided himself with an opening through which to enter and exit, and a revolving plank which created a kind of loophole similar to the one the Marquis de Ranreuil used when shooting mallards from a covert built by a pond near the chateau. As a finishing touch, he strewed the shelter with a lot of branches and hay. Catherine had provided him with a substantial pâté en croûte and a bottle of cider. He had with him his miniature dark lantern and miniature pistol, both gifts from Bourdeau, and his sword. To pass the time, his choice had fallen on a book of moral reflections by Marivaux entitled Le Spectateur français. He liked its style, and its uncommon insight into the workings of the human heart. It was like a simple philosophical system that you could dip into at will. The author was able to paint virtue in attractive colours that made you love it and vice in colours that scared you away. Nicolas settled down comfortably on a jute sack.
The abbey bell had just tolled nine o’clock, and Nicolas was reading peacefully when he heard heavy steps pacing up and down the great hall. A worker in a black woollen bonnet and a shiny jacket was walking towards the gates, a bunch of keys in his hand. Soon afterwards, Nicolas heard in the distance the creaking of the gates being closed and the turning of a key in a lock. So everything was closed up at night: he could hope for a peaceful evening. But that was to reckon without the insidious columns of ants, which he could only get rid of by constantly killing them or by leaving them pieces of food. That was the price to pay in a city where the countryside was still very present. Attracted by the smell of these same leftovers, mice next arrived, soon followed by rats, whose aggressiveness worried Nicolas until a little black and white she-cat appeared, lifting its paw in a begging gesture and miaowing softly. He won her round with some meat from the pâté and made himself an ally against the rodents.
Again he heard footsteps. The watchman reappeared with a lantern, escorting a couple whom he left alone with the light after being paid. It was clear that the clandestine activities which took place in the baths of Julian were profitable for the man who guarded them. Nicolas had to endure the simpering, the vows, the supplications, the woman’s resistance, and finally the noisy conclusion. This was repeated several times, until late into the night. One couple, thinking the hay on Nicolas’s platform might be more comfortable, climbed up. The ardour of their lovemaking almost dismantled his finely wrought edifice. It made him laugh, but the little cat was scared and hid as deep inside his old rags as she could burrow. Once the episode was over, he at last fell asleep.
He woke to birdsong: the whistling of blackbirds, the tenor notes of nightingales, and the amorous cooing of pigeons, echoing around the vaults. The day passed without mishap, its monotony broken only by the occasional visitor, a few loving couples who were less bold than the ones at night, and a peasant who came with a cart pulled by an old nag to collect armfuls of firewood. The wait was beginning to weigh on Nicolas. He started to make anagrams, first out of the names of those closest to him – Bourdeau, Sartine, Noblecourt, La Borde, Semacgus – then from Balbastre, Camusot, Müvala and Cadilhac. His efforts produced some not very satisfactory results. But one of the names, when rearranged, filled him with amazement. Had he stumbled by chance on the beginning of an explanation of what he had suffered since the start of the year? He could not believe his eyes and repeated the operation several times. For a long time, he reflected on his discovery, which was still too incredible for him to tell anyone. If his supposition was right, the missing link in the whole affair had suddenly emerged, like a sign, out of a chance attempt at mental distraction. He tried bringing in other elements, and they all fitted, like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. Much suddenly became clear …
He pulled himself together. No, he decided, his long wait was making him think like a madman. He had to keep a cool head, wait, and hope that other elements would emerge to either confirm or invalidate this absurd theory. His mind must be wandering: as they said in Brittany, ‘he was looking for sloes in the brambles.’ Making an effort not to think, he returned to his surveillance.
The day dragged on, and he grew increasingly imp
atient. Some market gardeners came to find tools. A group of boys playing hide and seek almost discovered him, and it was the little cat, proving herself a definite asset, who saved him: coming out of the refuge they shared, her back arched, her fur bristling, she snarled and spat at the boys, who ran away in terror. Nicolas was more and more weary of being cooped up like this. He finished his provisions, sharing them with his companion. A few more visitors came, including lovers who, given the hour, did not go very far with their endeavours.
At about six, he gave a start. Bourdeau had appeared, looking, in Cadilhac’s clothes, more real than the original. The inspector placed himself in plain sight on a platform opposite the one where Nicolas was. At seven, a man appeared, dressed all in black. Nicolas could only see his profile. Suddenly the man turned, and he recognised one of the young men who had been playing cards at Madame de Lastérieux’s house on the fatal evening of 6 January. Bourdeau advanced to the edge of the platform. The stranger saw him immediately and took a step forward. It was then that the police spy who had been chosen to negotiate appeared. A few words were exchanged. Nicolas guessed the words by reading the movements of the lips: ransom figures for the stolen box, warnings to be careful, a new meeting fixed. There followed a long explanation from the police emissary, indicating that if, unusually, in the hours following the meeting, Cadilhac or his representative were not in a position to go to a particular place, everything would be revealed to the concerned party. Now the action sped up. The young man raised his hand in farewell and withdrew, after a last, intent look at the enigmatic figure of Bourdeau. The spy fled towards the abbey cloister where it had been agreed that he would wait in a remote room, out of sight of those who were surely waiting for him. Nicolas smiled, thinking of the two groups outside: the agents of the Châtelet and the assassins. Fortunately, the spies all knew each other. Some had as their one task to hinder any adverse move.
The Nicolas Le Floch affair Page 32