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Monsieur Leforestier lived only a few minutes' walk away from Yvon's workshop, in a luxurious apartment in one of the new houses surrounding the Palais-Royal. He quickly proved to be alive, and none too pleased at having the police interrupt his dinner party. Brasseur's request to see the striped waistcoat recently made for him by Monsieur Yvon was met with a puzzled scowl and the irritable summoning of Leforestier's valet before the master of the household vanished once more into his salon.
"You never know who might have lent his new suit of clothes to a visiting friend," Brasseur said, with a shrug, as they descended the staircase to the street. "But Leforestier's alive and kicking, and his waistcoat's in his wardrobe drawer where it ought to be." He took a stubby pencil from a pocket and drew a line through another name on Yvon's list.
"Now," he continued, "these last two, luckily, live not too far apart, and one's on Rue de Savoie, not at all far from St. Andr? des Arts, so I'd wager he's our man. But we'd better call first on the Marquis de Beaupr?au, on Rue St. Dominique, if you please, so that it's at a suitable hour."
"In the faubourg St. Germain?" Aristide said. "Heaven help us." Wealth and power had migrated, during the past half century, from the Marais-in the ancient eastern portion of the Right Bank-across the Seine to the Left Bank, in the much more spacious and more recently built-up area west of the Latin Quarter, surrounding the once-rural Abbey of St. Germain-des-Pr?s. The high walls and carriage gates to the grand mansions of the wealthiest of the aristocracy now lined many of the long suburban streets in the district. "Will they even let us in the door?"
"Strictly speaking, they have to, since we answer to the Royal Lieutenant of Police," Brasseur said, "but we'd better not arrive during his lordship's dinner; his high-and-mighty lackeys'll give short shrift to a humble police official if we inconvenience them. Let's go."
The H?tel de Beaupr?au stood, surrounded by tranquil, formal gardens, in the center of the fashionable district, within sight of the H?tel des Invalides and twenty minutes' brisk walk from St. Andr? des Arts. Brasseur strode past a porter and an idling groom at the porte-coch?re and across the broad courtyard to the imposing front doors.
Monsieur de Beaupr?au was not at home, the footman protested, after Brasseur had presented his police card and requested entry into the marble foyer. Monsieur de Beaupr?au was truly not at home, not merely "not at home to visitors"; neither was madame. The ma?tre d'h?tel, sent for, confirmed the fact. No, monsieur had not said where he would be going.
"What about his manservant?" Brasseur inquired.
"His valet? I believe Moreau is present," said the ma?tre d'h?tel stiffly.
"I'll speak to him, then."
"I'll have him sent for."
The footman showed them to a well-concealed door leading to the servants' hall and kitchens in the cellars, where they waited beneath an arched, barred window that let in light from the terrace above. A few minutes later a slender, dark-haired young man clad in the neat blue livery of an upper servant approached them.
"Messieurs? How may I be of service?"
"You're the Marquis de Beaupr?au's valet?" said Brasseur.
"Yes, monsieur, Gabriel Moreau."
"I understand the marquis is not at home. Would you have any reason to believe that his absence was unexplained?"
"Unexplained?" Moreau smiled. "No, monsieur inspector. Monsieur de Beaupr?au comes and goes as he pleases."
"I expect he has a dear female friend somewhere, doesn't he?" Aristide said.
Moreau nodded. "I would imagine," he added, lowering his voice, "that he could be found with his mistress. He nearly lives there; often he won't come home for two or three nights in a row."
"As his personal servant," said Brasseur, "I expect you're in charge of keeping the marquis's clothing in order?"
Moreau looked politely nonplussed, but responded nonetheless. "Yes, monsieur."
Brasseur gestured to Aristide, who unwrapped the waistcoat. "Monsieur Yvon, the master tailor, said Monsieur de Beaupr?au has a waistcoat like this one. Do you recognize it?"
The young man stared, then reached for the garment. "If I may?" Brasseur nodded and Moreau scrutinized it for a moment before handing it back to Aristide. "My master has a waistcoat very similar to this. The same fabric, surely the same tailor. But I couldn't swear that it's the same article. Monsieur de Beaupr?au is a trifle longer in the waist than the gentleman who wore this, I should think."
Brasseur frowned. "When did you last see your master?"
"Monday, monsieur. He dined at home at three o'clock, quite as usual, with family and friends-"
"Family? Madame the marquise, you mean?"
"No, Madame de Beaupr?au's in Rouen for the month, visiting her mother. Monsieur's youngest sister was here, Mademoiselle D?sir?e that was, though she's the Comtesse de Saint-Aubin now, and Monsieur de Castagnac-that's his father's cousin, who lives here. Four or five friends of the family were present, as well."
"What about after dinner?"
"After dinner Monsieur de Beaupr?au usually goes out to socialize, or to the theater, or to his mistress's apartment."
"Any idea who his mistress might be?" Brasseur inquired.
"Yes, monsieur, of course. Mademoiselle S?dillot, the actress, of the Com?die-Fran?aise. Her lodgings are on Rue d'Amboise, near the theaters, in the house above the locksmith's shop with the sign of the crossed keys. Unless mademoiselle has a performance tonight," Moreau added, "I expect that's where you'll find Monsieur de Beaupr?au."
"Was Monsieur de Beaupr?au wearing that waistcoat when you saw him last?" Aristide inquired.
"I don't recall?He wouldn't have worn it at dinner, of course; it's not formal enough for a dinner party. But he'd have changed if he went out that evening for an informal engagement, and Monsieur de Beaupr?au doesn't always ring for me when he changes; he frequently dresses himself, you see, having become accustomed to living rough during the American war. But if it's so important, messieurs, I'll fetch down his waistcoat and you can see it for yourselves."
Brasseur nodded and the valet hurried away. They waited silently while chattering chambermaids, laundresses, and footmen passed them, casting inquisitive looks in their direction. Moreau, Aristide thought, seemed a cut above the other servants in voice and manner; his speech was probably as refined as that of the family he served.
A tempting aroma of roasting fowl drifted from the kitchen, without doubt someone's informal midday dinner. If neither the marquis nor the marquise were present, then simple meals were being prepared only for the servants and for the other members of the family who called the H?tel de Beaupr?au home.
Moreau returned shortly, empty-handed. "Messieurs? I can't find the rose-striped waistcoat in monsieur's wardrobe. It's entirely possible he left the house wearing it on Monday evening, though honestly I can't recall. The coat he wore would have been a good match for it, though."
Brasseur scribbled down a final note and nodded. "That'll do. Thank you, Moreau. Come on, Ravel. It might be Beaupr?au, at that," he added to Aristide as they retraced their steps to the front door, "though these grand gentlemen keep whatever hours they please. I expect, if we look, we'll find him in the actress's bed. But first we'll look up Monsieur Saint-Landry and see if he and his waistcoat are where they ought to be."
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The Cavalier of the Apocalypse Page 10