Semacgus rushed to the window and pressed his face to it. A ray of sunlight struck the wall at this spot and he took a sensual delight in its radiance.
‘It’s the only moment of sunshine,’ he explained. ‘I take advantage of it to treat my rash. I need a point of reference. What’s the time? They took my watch away when I was admitted and the sun doesn’t stay long enough for me to tell the time by it.’
Later Nicolas would remember having behaved like an automaton, driven by an irrepressible urge. He rummaged feverishly in his coat pocket and pulled out the packet of items found on Rapace. He took out the little brass watch and, as Bourdeau looked on intrigued, passed it to Semacgus without saying a word. The moment he took it he let out a scream and threw himself upon Nicolas, grabbing him by the shoulders.
‘Where did you find this watch? Tell me, I beg of you.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘It so happens, my dear policeman, that I know this watch very well. I bought it myself as a gift for Saint-Louis. He played with it like a child and never stopped marvelling at it every time it struck. And now you’re showing it to me again. I repeat my question: where did you find it and where is Saint-Louis?’
‘Give me back that watch,’ Nicolas said.
He went over to the window and examined the object closely. He was thinking so fast and so hard that he could hear his heart pounding. Everything was becoming clear. Why had he not realised before? And to think that this vital piece of evidence had been lying in his coat pocket and that he might not have thought of it, might have left it there and never have known. The little brass watch was broken and the hands were stuck at four minutes past midnight. So the range of possibilities was very narrow. Either the watch had already stopped, or it had been broken during some incident, or at a later time. If, contrary to what Bricart had said, Saint-Louis and not Lardin had been killed near his carriage, the watch might have been broken at the time of his murder. Now, if it had stopped at four minutes past midnight it was completely impossible – and there were plenty of witnesses – that Semacgus was responsible for the murder since he was at that very time at the Dauphin Couronné. Nicolas frantically ran through the consequences of this discovery.
Unaware that they already knew of it, Semacgus had just revealed to them the existence of the Blancs-Manteaux passageway, even if to an extent it had been forced out of him. It was true that confiding this information could also be an attempt to put them off the scent. Nicolas had learnt not to underestimate the navy surgeon’s intelligence. Besides, the complexity of the murders of Lardin and Descart could lead to the most contradictory conclusions. He looked at Semacgus, who had sat down again. The surgeon seemed strained and suddenly older. Nicolas felt an instinctive pity for him, but prevented himself from expressing it. He had one final card up his sleeve: he felt the bitter need to use it.
‘Semacgus, there’s another very serious matter of which I must inform you. Commissioner Lardin’s body was found this morning in the underground passage of Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, half eaten by rats. Louise Lardin expressly accuses you of having killed him. She claims he caught you playing your amorous games and the two of you had a fight.’
Semacgus raised his head. He looked pale and dejected.
‘The woman will spare me nothing,’ he sighed. ‘I never saw Lardin that morning. I have nothing to do with his death. I’m telling you the truth. I feel as if I’m talking to the wall. You haven’t answered my question. Where did you find this watch?’
‘In the pocket of a poor devil who, in addition, was in possession of your bloodstained carriage. We have to leave you, Semacgus. Have no fear: if you are innocent, justice will be yours. Bourdeau and I guarantee it.’
He went up to Semacgus and held out his hand.
‘I’m very sorry about Saint-Louis but I think there’s little hope of finding him alive.’
They went out, impatient to get away from the Bastille where the surgeon and his gaoler seemed to be the only living souls. They were eager to get back into the open air and to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the place. The cold and the sun, which had reappeared, did them good.
Nicolas was pleased to discover that the inspector shared his opinion. He, too, had noted the constant ambiguity of what Semacgus said. The ironic detachment he had shown since the very beginning with regard to this business could only work against him. The only thing that could not be doubted was his unswerving affection for his black servant. And yet there was nothing in his statements to make them question the truth of what he had said. However, Bourdeau added, it was always the same story with the confounded fellow. You wanted to believe him even though all the unanswered questions left plenty of room for suspicion. The result was that, according to the moment or the mood, he seemed to be either a very clever impostor or a bungling innocent.
Nicolas enlightened Bourdeau on the incident with the watch. He thought it wiser to keep Semacgus in solitary confinement until the circumstances of Lardin’s death became clear. Bourdeau remarked that Mauval should at the very least be questioned but he did not pursue the idea, much to Nicolas’s relief. That would have meant going into details that he was not able to give.
As they talked, he was thinking that, even if the Lardin case was becoming clearer with the discovery of the commissioner’s body, the same could not be said for the case involving the King’s papers. And what about the messages Lardin had left? Would more be found, and for whom would they be intended? Had they been written before or after he disappeared? What was his motive in giving them to those close to him? Was it to further complicate the dangerous game he was playing? Nicolas was still convinced in his own mind that these messages were a kind of last will and testament. The mention of the King’s name showed how important they were. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that they were the key to the mystery. But there was considerable danger in drawing attention to this search. In the shadows lurked Mauval and the person directing him and others as well. Overtures had probably been made to agents of the warring powers. Paris was full of English, Prussian and even Austrian spies; France’s allies were always on the lookout for possible ways of exerting pressure to strengthen the alliance and influence operations.
There was still the matter of finding Marie Lardin, whose exact involvement was unclear to the young man. He had not been convinced by her sudden and convenient religious calling and he felt sorry for the young woman, who was still a child. He remembered their last meeting that night on the staircase at the Lardins’. Then Marie’s face faded in his mind before Isabelle’s. Had he read the letter from Guérande in the right way? As he already knew, emotions were not always easy to put into words. Why did people have such difficulty expressing their feelings? He remembered a sentence of Pascal’s that he had learnt at school: ‘Words arranged differently have different meaning and meanings arranged differently have different effects.’3 What until only recently had seemed to him full of artfulness now suddenly became touching in its awkwardness. He preferred to try and banish this thought. Nothing should distract him from his task.
Seeing Nicolas so blank-eyed and deep in reflection, Bourdeau had refrained from disturbing him. But the clatter of their carriage was already resounding beneath the archway of the Châtelet. Nicolas took Bourdeau off to the duty office. Commissioner Desnoyers from the district of Saint-Eustache was looking up some records. They had to wait for him to finish.
‘We are at a crossroads,’ Nicolas said. ‘We need to decide which way to go.’
‘You think Saint-Louis has been killed, don’t you?’
‘I don’t think anything. I know that the watch given to him by his master was in the possession of Rapace and Bricart. What’s more, if the remains found in Montfaucon are not Lardin’s, who do they belong to? Why not to Saint-Louis? We must go by what we know and the facts in our possession. If the remains are those of his coachman, this doesn’t necessarily clear Semacgus of the crime, quite the reverse. Remember Descar
t’s allegations. In the case of Lardin, his wife’s accusation is categorical. I think the law will follow its usual course so that for her and for Semacgus the use of preliminary torture will be inevitable. There are three deaths involved.’
‘And what about Descart’s murder?’
‘The same thing applies. If we can pinpoint the time of Lardin’s death then at least Descart can be ruled out, even if in his present state it doesn’t make much difference to him. Have you sent for Sanson?’
Bourdeau nodded.
‘Then we’ll be able to clear Lardin, who also had every reason to want to eliminate his wife’s cousin. As for Semacgus and Louise, we cannot exclude the possibility that they are guilty. We have yet to determine the reason why the mysterious murderer ransacked the doctor’s house in Vaugirard.’
‘And what about Mauval? You’re still forgetting Mauval …’
‘I’m not forgetting him at all; he’s involved in everything, as I said before.’
‘He seems to enjoy an extraordinary degree of impunity.’
‘And because of that we must be certain before we strike. You must never miss with a snake. You won’t get a second chance. For the time being I need to think things over and give Monsieur de Sartine an account of the latest developments. Bourdeau, I want you to hurry Sanson up and report back to me as soon as possible. Check that Louise Lardin is kept in solitary confinement and that her cell is properly guarded. I don’t want her to be eliminated.’
Just as they were about to go their separate ways, old Marie appeared. A young woman who ‘looked a bit like a whore’ was asking for Nicolas concerning an ‘important and urgent matter’. Nicolas asked for her to be shown in and requested Bourdeau to stay. Nicolas recognised La Satin immediately. The brown cape she was wearing barely concealed her flimsy, very low-cut dress and her delicate ballroom shoes. Her make-up had come off and her cheeks were red with cold or emotion. Nicolas took her by the arm and offered her a seat. He made the introductions. Bourdeau lit his pipe.
‘What are you doing here, Antoinette?’
‘Well, Nicolas,’ she said in a plaintive, childlike voice, ‘you know that I work at La Paulet’s. She’s not an evil woman; she has her good points. The other evening …’
‘Which evening?’
‘Two days ago. I was in the corridor up in the loft where I was going to hang the washing to dry when suddenly I heard someone crying in a vacant room. I tried to find out who was there but the door was locked. What was I to do? I preferred not to get involved. The less you pry into other people’s business, the better. But the following day I got caught up in it in spite of myself. La Paulet sent for me and gave me some of her very own ratafia. As you know she’s very keen on her pick-me-up. She used to be very beautiful in her time; she’s slept with marquises, but now she can’t stand the sight of herself in the mirror.’
‘So what did she want from you, then?’
‘She simpered, said all sorts of nice things to me and in the end asked me to do her a favour. She’d been given a novice.’
‘A novice?’
‘Yes, that’s what we call the new recruits, the virgins, the ones who are new to the game and untrained in its ways. They’re choice morsels, very sought after by the madams. Not like an old hand who pretends she’s still untouched. She’s a healthy young thing who won’t pass on the pox to the man who has her. There are plenty of takers, including some very grand ones. So La Paulet wanted me to soften the novice up, to prepare her and convince her to make the sacrifice. Apparently she was refusing to do so and threats and blows hadn’t done the trick. They’d thought I might persuade her gently to agree. What could I do? La Paulet promised me a nice tip if I succeeded. Before answering I thought through the pros and cons of the whole thing. What decided me was that perhaps I could help the poor girl. Added to that I’m always short of money for the little one and the wet nurse. So, anyway, La Paulet took me up to the second floor, to the room where I’d heard the crying and left me alone with the poor little thing who seemed to come from a good family. She heard me out but wouldn’t have anything to do with it. I could quite understand. She told me the whole story. She’d been kidnapped at night, bundled into a carriage and taken to La Paulet’s. She had no idea what was going on or what was being done to her. Since then she’d been threatened until her head was spinning in order to make her give in. Won over by my openness and trusting in me, she begged me to do something for her. At first I said no, because it was too dangerous. With Mauval roaming about the house every day and being in fact the real master of the Dauphin Couronné I was taking a big risk. But she promised me she would protect me if she managed to escape. When she mentioned your name I gave in. I felt sure you wouldn’t let Mauval do me any harm. I had to come to find you in the Châtelet to warn you that she’s in great peril. Nicolas, there’s not a moment to lose. Mauval has arranged a special game of faro this evening for a very select gathering, and she’s to be the prize!’
Nicolas took his sword and attached it to his belt. He motioned to Bourdeau who was already checking his pistol.
‘Old Marie,’ he said to the usher, who had remained at the door, ‘I’m leaving Antoinette in your care. You will answer for her with your life.’
‘I could have chosen worse,’ the old man said with a smile.
Nicolas and Bourdeau ran down the steps of the grand staircase. Their cab was still there. It set off at full gallop.
Notes – CHAPTER XIII
1. Where preliminary torture was carried out during the preparation of a criminal trial, and where those accused of criminal offences were imprisoned.
2. A cheap material made of light wool.
3. Pensées, I, 23.
XIV
DARKNESS
‘We started a deer and killed a wolf more or less as generals win battles, that is to say we ran towards the noise, saw the enemy dead or wounded on the ground, took fright and retreated in an orderly fashion.’
ABBÉ BARTHÉLEMY
NICOLAS had just explained to Bourdeau the nature of his relationship with La Satin. The inspector had made no comment. The carriage had had to slow down because despite the shouted warnings and a few cracks of the whip it was impossible to force the pace without running the risk of knocking down passers-by. Nicolas found the journey interminable. He mulled over the latest developments.
So Mauval was holding Marie Lardin prisoner – the ‘novice’ could only be her – and was intending to hand her over to the highest bidder. Then she would be forced to engage in the vilest of trades, or even worse be forcibly taken off to the Sultan’s harems or sent to the American colonies. It was obvious that there was a scheme afoot to get rid of her, and thus Lardin’s heiress, and more unexpectedly, Descart’s. Yes, this complicated plot had certainly been well prepared. Nicolas imagined the scene when the notary enquired about Marie so that she could claim her inheritance. No one would have been able to find her. Not having heard from her stepdaughter since her sudden departure for Orléans, Madame Lardin would have become worried. Monsieur de Sartine’s police enjoyed a good reputation, but it was not unknown for an ordinary traveller to disappear without trace. At the other end of her intended journey a message or forged letter would be conveniently discovered, apparently lending credence to the young woman’s recent calling to become a nun. But ultimately her fate would remain a matter of pure speculation. Gradually people would lose interest and then all would be forgotten.
Nicolas suddenly felt his stomach turn. He had to swallow the bitter bile filling his mouth. His heart began to race and he broke out in a cold sweat. Bourdeau turned towards him and examined him. Nothing could be read from the inspector’s placid expression.
Trying to overcome his sudden indisposition, Nicolas wondered once more about the true character of his deputy. There were really two Bourdeaus. One was a jolly fellow who enjoyed life, a good husband and father, someone giving every outward sign of being happy with the routine of his job and the little plea
sures of a simple and uneventful existence. The other, a character of greater depth, concealed a capacity for secrecy and even dissimulation honed by extensive contact with criminals. The young man wondered about the enigma of the human character. People were judged on appearances but it was difficult to find the flaw that revealed the truth about someone. Since leaving Guérande this question had haunted him constantly. Innocent looks might well disguise the truth. The Marquis de Ranreuil, Isabelle, Semacgus, Madame Lardin, Mauval and even Monsieur de Sartine had given him ample proof of this. At best, faces were mirrors that reflected your own questions. Thus every secret confided, every attempt at friendship and every giving of oneself came up against the invisible wall of other people’s defences. Every individual was alone in the world and this solitude was the common lot.
Nicolas watched with unseeing eyes the busy passers-by in the street. What was he doing here himself, an accidental newcomer to this city, and what was the real point of this frenzied pursuit of an unseen enemy that he had been engaged in over the past eight days? Why had destiny chosen him and for what ultimate purpose, when he could have stayed in Rennes carrying out the routine, reassuring tasks of a notary’s clerk?
They had reached Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré. Nicolas knocked on the body of the carriage to stop it. They had left the Châtelet in such a hurry that they had not yet prepared a plan of attack. Bourdeau had not wanted to disturb Nicolas’s reverie. They now needed to decide what to do.
The Châtelet Apprentice Page 29