‘With your permission, Monsieur, I have one small question for Bourdeau.’
Sartine nodded somewhat impatiently.
‘Was Semacgus covered in blood?’
‘Not a drop.’
‘Dr Descart was presumably covered in blood,’ Nicolas remarked. ‘When Semacgus stumbled across the body his clothes should have become stained with blood, should they not?’
The inspector seemed taken aback.
‘Now you come to mention it,’ he replied, ‘I realise that there was no blood anywhere. Neither on the body nor on the floor.’
‘Don’t go away, we’ll need to speak further. We’ll go to see the body and question Semacgus.’
Bourdeau left the room but not before he’d cast an admiring glance at Nicolas. Sartine, who had been slightly annoyed by the episode, resumed speaking.
‘All this only complicates things further. Monsieur Le Floch, I firmly intend you to wrap up this case quickly. Don’t waste precious time attempting to solve a matter that has no connection with our own. Act with speed, and I will give all the instructions necessary for no one and nothing to put a spoke in your wheel. The main thing, you understand, is the service of His Majesty and the security of the State. Lardin’s fate is of no interest to me – it’s the risk of seeing the documents in question fall into the wrong hands that worries me. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Monsieur,’ Nicolas replied softly, ‘I now know all the ramifications of the investigation you have been kind enough to entrust me with, but I have to say that all the incidents that have occurred, and the latest one is no exception, seem interrelated to me and all the threads of the plot may be traced back to a single cause. I cannot therefore neglect any lead. All those who to a greater or lesser extent were in contact with Lardin, and especially those who were with him that night in the Dauphin Couronné are liable to be mixed up in one way or another with the serious affair you have agreed to share with me.’
Sartine ignored the young man’s remark and went on:
‘I must also warn you about something else, even if it goes against the innocent view I suspect you to have of our system of justice. I have been and remain a magistrate. So are you by delegation, thanks to the commission that makes you my plenipotentiary. We must comply with the laws of the State, especially since we proceed only by another delegation of powers, that of the King, the alpha and omega of all authority. We must use it honourably. A judge’s power comes from the throne and the ermine on our robes is a symbolic reminder of the coronation cloak.’
He stroked the front of his coat with a self-important air, as if he were wearing his ceremonial gown at a judicial session at the palace.
‘In short, I am entitled to retain control over certain matters that involve the security of the State. As you can imagine, the case you are investigating is one of these. This is the price to be paid for the glory and security of the State, especially in a time of war. Every day our soldiers are dying on the battlefield, and anyone with true feeling and affection for their country must shudder at the thought that the enemy might be in a position to jeopardise the reputation of His Majesty and those around him.’
He stared Nicolas straight in the eye and abandoned his solemn tone.
‘Everything must remain secret, Nicolas, shrouded in the deepest, most impenetrable secrecy. It is out of the question to stick to the normal rules of procedure that Monsieur de Noblecourt must only recently have taught you. I do not want a magistrate to be appointed for this investigation for the moment; we cannot trust anyone. We must be implacable. If need be, ask me for some lettres de cachet for the Bastille: security is tighter there than in our gaols crowded with the rabble, prostitutes and prisoners’ families, who come and go without being checked. If you have corpses, then hide them. If you have investigations to make, cloak them in secrecy. You were right to consult with Monsieur Sanson; use him, he is as silent as the grave. If you apply secrecy to everything, this will lead you to the heart of the labyrinth. You are my plenipotentiary, above rules and the law, but do not forget that if you fail and jeopardise my power, my hand will no longer be there to protect you … You are your own master. You have my trust and support. Do your best and solve this case swiftly.’
Moved by the aura of grandeur surrounding the Lieutenant General, Nicolas bowed without saying a word. He was going towards the door when Sartine put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Nicolas, take care of yourself. Now you know whom you are dealing with. These blackguards are to be feared. Don’t do anything foolish. We need you.’
*
Intrigued by all this commotion, old Marie bombarded Inspector Bourdeau with questions as he waited for Nicolas in the anteroom. The usher was very put out at not being told anything so he concentrated on his pipe, enveloping himself in an acrid cloud of smoke. He puffed away furiously, with rapid, hissing intakes of breath.
Nicolas wanted to take Bourdeau off to the Basse-Geôle to examine Dr Descart’s body but the inspector objected that he, Nicolas, was in a sorry state; his wound had still not stopped bleeding, his clothes were torn, and in his present condition he could easily have another collapse. He needed to eat something and restore his strength. Bourdeau assumed that Nicolas had not had any food since their meal the previous evening.
Nicolas did indeed admit that nothing had passed his lips except a glass of ratafia at La Paulet’s, a cup of coffee at Antoinette’s and two sips of the usher’s gut-rot; his stomach felt very empty.
Bourdeau first took Nicolas off to Rue de la Joaillerie to a dispensary run by one of his friends, whose main customers were the men of the watch when police operations turned rough and resulted in a few injuries. The physician cleaned up the head wound after Nicolas had given himself a quick wash. He dipped some lint into a dark, stinking ointment and smeared it on the wound, adding pompously that it was not any old quack remedy. The initial burning sensation immediately gave way to a sort of numbness that surprised the patient, who now had a strip of cloth wrapped round his head, tied so neatly that nothing showed beneath his tricorn. The cut on his side was examined and then given similar treatment. The apothecary covered it with a piece of sticky taffeta.
‘That should do the trick,’ he assured him, ‘and after a few days there will be nothing left to see.’
Nicolas did not appreciate the man’s sneering reference to his wound as a ‘pinprick worthy of Damiens’. He disliked the fact that a crime of lese-majesty – a shudder ran through him at the thought of it – should be referred to in this derisive way.
As they were leaving the dispensary they came across Tirepot. He had not wandered far from the Châtelet and was patrolling the neighbouring streets as he waited for Nicolas to return. Bourdeau offered to take them to his usual tavern in Rue du Pied-de-Boeuf where they could get warm and restore their strength. The overcast sky gave off a thick, yellowish light that failed to penetrate the narrow, winding streets of the Grande Boucherie. Passers-by appeared, then disappeared like ghosts. All that was visible was the eerie spectacle of their greenish, expressionless faces. The sound of footsteps in the wet snow no longer suggested the sharp, joyful crackle of frost but the scrape of a pickaxe in damp sand, engaged in some foul task.
They were given a hearty welcome by the tavern-keeper who was relighting his stoves. Bourdeau ordered a restorative snack from his fellow townsman, and they were soon sitting down to a meal of bean soup with chunks of bacon swimming in it, followed by a gratin of hard-boiled eggs, generously washed down with several bottles of white wine. Then Bourdeau left them without a word and went off to prepare a home brew of his own. It would act as an excellent tonic, enabling Nicolas to recover from his exertions. First of all he broke up some sugar, then mixed it with pepper, cinnamon, cloves, honey and two bottles of red wine, all of which he warmed up in a large pot. Then he poured the boiling contents into a large bowl, to which he added a further half-bottle of spirits. He set light to the whole thing and carried it back in triumph to his tw
o companions.
Nicolas had already had a considerable amount to eat and drink but he eagerly helped himself to the piping-hot brew, the effect of which, combined with everything he’d drunk already, was to send him off into a pleasant state of drowsiness. He felt kindly disposed towards the world in general, and to those around him in particular. Though normally reserved, he now became voluble. He ventured some jokes that surprised those sitting around the table and eventually had to be helped up by his two comrades, who took him into a back room and made him lie down on a bench. They then went back to their table, asked for some pipes and slowly and contentedly finished off the bowl of flaming wine. It was one o’clock by the time Nicolas reappeared, looking stern and annoyed.
‘Monsieur Bourdeau, you are a downright traitor. From now on I shall be wary of your concoctions.’
‘Are you feeling better, Monsieur?’
‘To tell you the truth, I’m fine.’
Nicolas allowed himself a smile.
‘I’d even like a drop more …’
Bourdeau’s face fell. He pointed pathetically towards the empty saucepan.
‘I see. You needed some, too …’
Nicolas restrained Bourdeau as he started to rush towards the stove to renew his experiment, and turned towards their companion.
‘So, Tirepot, you had something to tell us …?’
‘I have that, Nicolas. You know I’ve got a sharp eye and a good ear. That’s how I am. I’m for order and bringing things out into the open. And I won’t forget all that I owe you. I wouldn’t be here if …’
Nicolas motioned to him to stop this story that he knew off by heart. Tirepot had been eternally grateful to him ever since the day the young man had got him out of a spot of bother. After being accused by one of his customers of stealing a purse, he had been saved only by the perceptiveness of the young policeman, who had been able to prove it had been an attempt by a jealous rival to frame him.
‘I know, Tirepot. But hurry up and tell us, there are people waiting for Bourdeau and myself and we’ve already wasted too much time.’
Bourdeau hung his head, pretending to be embarrassed.
‘Here we go, then,’ Tirepot began. ‘Yesterday evening at Ramponneau’s1 I’d put my contraption down and was having a little pick-me-up while waiting for the crowds to come out after supper. That’s when I do my best business. Yes, indeed. People are full, and the fuller they are, the more they need to empty themselves. That’s life. That’s how I make money. Two tough-looking types sat themselves down by me and in no time got through three times as much as we drank just now. One of them seemed to be an old soldier, with a military way of talking, a wooden leg and full of himself as you’d expect from someone used to the sound of gunfire. He downed the wine like nobody’s business. These two gallows birds could talk all the slang they wanted, I could still follow what they were saying and I understood well enough that it was about some dirty business, past or future. But what stunned me was that while they were bellowing away, they were handling huge piles of coins, the like of which I’d never seen before. They also talked about selling a carriage and a horse that were apparently hidden in a barn in Rue des Gobelins, in the Faubourg Saint-Marcel. Then they noticed me and left. They could have made trouble for me so I went out the back way just in case.’
‘Was the soldier’s wooden leg the right or the left one?’
Without being able to explain why, Bourdeau sensed Nicolas’s excitement.
‘Wait. Let me get my bearings. They were at the table on the right-hand side, one of them level with me and the other one, the veteran, opposite him, his bad leg stretched out towards me. So it was his right leg. ‘Yes, definitely. Do you know him?’
Nicolas, his brow furrowed, did not reply. He was thinking and the other two did not dare to interrupt his meditation.
‘Tirepot,’ he said eventually, ‘you’re going to search out these two rogues. Get your spies on the job, and this is for you.’
He handed him several silver écus and wrote down the expenditure in pencil in a small black notebook.
‘You shouldn’t, Nicolas. I do it to help you. It’s a pleasure and I do it out of gratitude, as true as I’m a Breton.’
‘It’s not a reward. Thank you for your kind words, but the search you’re going to carry out will cost you something and you may lose customers. Do you understand?’
Tirepot nodded without offering any further resistance. But from force of habit he tested the quality of the coins by biting them, much to Nicolas’s amusement.
‘Do you take me for a forger by any chance? We’ll meet up with you again as usual around the Châtelet, as soon as you have some information about those two characters. You’ll have to ferret them out.’
When they went outside the world looked just as uninviting and the afternoon had brought no improvement in the weather. If anything it was colder. They hurried off to the Châtelet. Nicolas was feeling better and gave a detailed account of his adventures and discoveries to an amazed Bourdeau. He had the feeling that his drunkenness, followed by a short rest, had sharpened his mental faculties and rid him of melancholy. It was as if the combined effect of a loss of blood and an intake of alcohol had purged him of his anxieties and dark thoughts. The feeling of fragility caused by the two assaults against him had given way to a steely determination.
He took stock of himself, as was his habit. In the final analysis Monsieur de Sartine had shown himself to be almost paternal. With this thought he felt a pang of grief; a picture of Canon Le Floch and the Marquis de Ranreuil came to mind and then faded, giving way to Isabelle’s smiling face. He chased away these images and to cheer himself up reflected on the new trust his superior had shown in him. He was able to continue his investigation, which was now no ordinary criminal case but an affair of State. He gave a long sigh of relief and felt determined to see it through, whatever the cost to himself.
They went down into the viewing area of the Basse-Geôle which was crowded with silent groups of worried or grieving families, as well as the simply curious. Bourdeau whispered to him that the body was no longer there and that it had doubtless been taken to the examination room where the doctors on duty habitually performed routine investigations and, in the most puzzling cases, opened up the bodies. This was a small vaulted cellar containing a large stone table with grooves in it for washing down and allowing water to drain off through a hole in the paving of the floor. The room was poorly lit by a few smoking candles, and in it a motionless figure gazed at Dr Descart’s body. On hearing the sound of their footsteps he turned, and they recognised Charles Henri Sanson. Nicolas held out his hand which was taken this time without hesitation and even, he thought, with a certain eagerness.
‘I didn’t expect to have the privilege of seeing you again so soon, Monsieur Le Floch. But judging from the message sent by Monsieur Bourdeau, you wish to have the benefit of my modest knowledge, as I previously offered.’
‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘I would have liked to meet you in different circumstances but the King’s service makes demands that cannot be deferred. I know I can count on your discretion.’
Sanson raised his hand in agreement.
‘We presume that the corpse you are examining has some connection with the remains you were able to tell so much from yesterday.’
Nicolas wiped his brow. It seemed to him that years had gone by since his return to Paris; he was horrified to realise that he had come back from Guérande only four days earlier. He had aged considerably in those four days. Sanson was looking at him with friendly concern.
‘We are faced with a new mystery,’ he said, swallowing hard. ‘The man we have here was found dead, stabbed in the heart with a lancet.’
‘It’s still there,’ Bourdeau interjected. ‘I didn’t think I should touch the corpse, so I had it brought here as it was.’
‘I’m eternally grateful to you for being so careful, Inspector,’ said the executioner. ‘It will help our examination. Monsi
eur Le Floch, you are asking for my opinion but I know you to be observant, accurate and able to pick out details. Would you like to be my pupil and offer me your initial comments?’
‘Master Sanson, I do indeed have plenty to learn from you.’
Nicolas pulled aside the sheet covering the body. It was now bare except for the shirt pierced by the instrument. The face was frightening. Death’s handiwork was apparent in the wrinkled forehead and the deep-set eyes that were still open but darkened by an opaque membrane. The hollowed temples were matched by sunken cheekbones. The man was unrecognisable. Only the lack of chin, made more obvious by the open mouth, acted as a reminder, however exaggerated, of Descart’s most striking feature when alive.
‘A first impression. We know from the witness who discovered the body and from the inspector, that there was no trace of blood on the victim nor round about. Is it possible to stab someone without spilling blood? In short, I notice that the face seems flushed, the mouth excessively open and that dark stains appear here … and again here …’
His fingers moved lightly over the face of the corpse.
‘… of a nasty blackish colour,’ Nicolas finished. ‘They are strange.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Sanson said approvingly, ‘you have followed the correct method: dispassionate observation which leads to the right question, without involving the emotions or the imagination. Before you came I studied only the face, and I can already tell you that it taught a modest physician like me a great deal. If that was all I had seen I would have concluded that the victim had been strangled, and perhaps also poisoned. The lancet makes things more complicated.’
Sanson went up to the stone slab. He examined Descart’s head, leant over, sniffed, muttered a few inaudible words, then put two fingers into the dead man’s open mouth and delicately removed from it something that he carefully placed on his handkerchief. He held out his find to the two policemen.
‘What do you think, gentlemen? What is this?’
The Châtelet Apprentice Page 15