The Man with the Lead Stomach (12 page)

‘What the commissioner wants you to understand,’ said Bourdeau gravely, ‘is that brushes and razors are usually placed on the side most convenient to the hand that uses them, in particular when they are laid out for daily use by a manservant. Well, the dressing case in question – brushes and razors – was actually laid out for the right hand. But, Monsieur, please, I beg you, finish your excellent demonstration.’

‘It would appear, gentlemen, that the vicomte really was killed in the way that we have established. His body was returned to his
parents’ mansion in circumstances of which we are not yet aware, then an unknown person fired a shot into the body to make it look like suicide but the shot was to the
left.
That person then wrote a false confession, without even having to imitate the vicomte’s writing because he used capital letters. There, too, he made mistakes: the quill to the left, the hurricane lamp to the right. The Vicomte de Ruissec was right-handed. He could not have committed suicide by shooting himself on the left.’

‘I have checked this point with Picard in Grenelle,’ said Bourdeau. ‘He confirmed that the position of the dressing case was indeed intended for someone right-handed.’

‘This seems quite conclusive. The corpse has nothing more to teach us, gentlemen. I think it inappropriate to carry out any further exploration of the body.’

‘Nevertheless,’ said Semacgus, ‘it looks as if your man was plunged into water. It cannot have been rain. I discovered some traces of algae – you know botany is one of my hobbies.’

‘Seawater?’ said Nicolas, whose Breton sea-going instincts resurfaced at the most unexpected moments.

‘Certainly not, Monsieur Le Floch. Freshwater. From a pond or a river. I’m giving you the information for what it’s worth. Use it as you wish.’

Nicolas remembered that he had been struck by the unusual smell on the vicomte’s clothes.

‘Of course!’ said Bourdeau, ‘the body was weighted so that it would remain at the bottom. But they must have changed their minds or been forced to change their plans.’

‘There are easier ways of disposing of a body,’ Semacgus remarked.

‘Are there?’ said Bourdeau. ‘Immersing a body in water, if it is guaranteed to sink, must remain the surest method. Imagine dropping the body into the Seine without weighting it: it would most likely end up caught in those nets at Saint Cloud, which are stretched across the river to retrieve victims of drowning.’

Nicolas was thinking. The facts were coming together. The soaking body that the Minister of Bavaria’s men had seen by the river … He was just about to put his thoughts into words when a noise like a clap of thunder resounded. The three men looked at each another in surprise. Sanson merged back into the walls cluttered with instruments of torture. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the vaults of the ancient palace. As the noise drew nearer a bright light could be seen. Then a group of men burst into the Basse-Geôle, some carrying torches, others a coffin on a stretcher.

The person leading the procession and wearing a magistrate’s gown turned to Nicolas and said: ‘Monsieur, you are, I assume, one of the doctors on duty.’

‘No, Monsieur, I am Nicolas Le Floch, commissioner of police at the Châtelet, in charge of a criminal investigation.’

The man bowed.

‘Is the opening-up of the Vicomte Lionel de Ruissec, lieutenant in His Majesty’s French Guards, now complete?’

‘No,’ said Nicolas icily, ‘I was simply making some
preliminary
observations. Look, Monsieur, at this frightening sight.’

The man examined the face of the corpse, even more terrifying in the light of the torches, and recoiled in horror.

‘So it has not begun. That is most fortunate. I have to inform you of the decision taken in the King’s name by Monsieur the
Comte de Saint-Florentin, Minister of the King’s Household, with responsibility for the City and Generality of Paris. It requires the provost to suspend all investigations and inquiries and any opening-up of the body of the aforesaid person, and to restore it to the representatives of his family. I assume, Monsieur, that you will not countenance disobeying the King’s orders.’

Nicolas bowed. ‘Certainly not, Monsieur. Please proceed. You will see for yourself that the body is, dare I say it, intact.’

The men put the stretcher carrying the coffin down on the ground. They removed the lid, parted the shroud that had been placed inside, then with no attempt to disguise their revulsion at the horrific sight, lifted the body with great difficulty. Nicolas heard the bearer nearest to him swear and mumble: ‘This fellow must have been guzzling stones.’

‘Monsieur,’ continued Nicolas, ‘would you be so kind as to inform me what has led to this decision?’

‘I see no objection to that, Monsieur. Monsieur the Duc de Biron, a colonel in the French Guards, was alerted by the family and intervened with the minister himself. Both of us belong to the same administration, so I can tell you in confidence that Monsieur de Ruissec has come forward with new information. It turns out that it was in fact an accident that occurred during the cleaning of a weapon. Anyone can make a mistake.’

Nicolas fought to restrain himself. Bourdeau looked at him anxiously, ready to hold him back. The young man had momentarily felt tempted to grab the magistrate by the arm and thrust his head into the coffin in order to bring him face to face with the brutal truth. The procession reformed and, after bowing again, disappeared from sight as its sound faded into the distance.

Semacgus’s deep voice broke the silence. ‘A judge’s duty is to administer justice; but his job is to defer it. Some judges both know their duty and do their job!’

As Nicolas remained silent, Bourdeau responded: ‘If the dead man had been a member of the bourgeoisie, it would all have been over and done with and the law obeyed. One day justice will have to be the same for all, whoever they may be.’

‘My friends,’ said Nicolas, ‘I’m sorry we cannot continue, but fortunately the essential work had already been done thanks to you, and I have found out what I wanted to know.’

‘You’re not going to continue your investigation, are you?’ said Semacgus. ‘That would be like sticking your head in the lion’s mouth.’

‘I know, I’m not doing what my job requires: I’m just being stubborn. I’ve received no new instructions from Monsieur de Sartine, and this pantomime is not going to divert me from my task. I shall find out who is guilty of this heinous crime.’

‘So God be with you! And, Bourdeau, my friend, I’m leaving him in your care. Look after him.’

They walked back up to the entrance arch. Semacgus made a vague suggestion about restoring their spirits with something to eat and drink. Sanson was the first to decline politely, before bidding them farewell and disappearing into the night. Nicolas was concerned for the doctor, who had to return to his house in Vaugirard. He might not be allowed through by the watch. But he quickly realised that the sprightly surgeon had no such intention and must have some amorous rendezvous planned in town. The doctor wished him good night and urged him to be careful. Then he too disappeared into the shadows, alone and in a hurry.

Nicolas stayed and talked with Bourdeau for some time. He assured him that he would see the investigation through to the end unless the Lieutenant General of Police categorically ordered him to abandon it. Until such time, he considered that he had a free hand and he would not veer from his chosen course even if he had to change tack to succeed. Like a ship that is making headway, he was set and nothing would stop him.

The inspector, who saw no objection to this, remarked that if it was now certain that the vicomte had been murdered, the field of investigation had to be widened because the motives for such an appalling act were still just as unclear, and in any case the mystery of the body brought back into a locked room was as yet unresolved. Added to this now was the comtesse’s death.

When presented with a complicated knot, Nicolas thought that unless one happened to be Alexander the Great, the solution was to pick out the loosest thread to try to untangle the whole thing. That was how they would proceed. He would go fishing for clues at the Comédie-Italienne, casually, without drawing attention to himself, and using whatever pretext first came to mind. After all, the theatres were within the Lieutenant General of Police’s jurisdiction. He would ferret around and make people talk. It was not by accident that the theatre ticket had happened to be on the Comtesse de Ruissec’s person. This elderly and pious woman, a member of the Household of the King’s eldest daughter, might accompany a princess to the Opéra by royal command but would never have lowered herself to the entertainment provided at the Comédie-Italienne.

Lastly Nicolas told Bourdeau where he suspected the vicomte’s body had been put in the water. It was essential that they track down the Minister of Bavaria’s runaway coachman. And most importantly he needed to avoid meeting with Sartine. His superior’s intelligence service was sufficiently well organised to be able to find him if he was needed and until then he would make the best use of the time pending a possible suspension of the ongoing investigation.

As for Bourdeau, he had been given a particularly delicate mission at the Hôtel de Ruissec. He was to go there once more on the innocent pretext of removing the seals from the vicomte’s rooms. Nicolas was sure that this would already have been done, but it was just a way of gaining access. He trusted the inspector to carry out a discreet search. He had sufficient experience and cunning to cope with the inevitable difficulties and objections he would encounter, as they presented themselves. Nicolas wanted him to draw up a complete list of the books in the vicomte’s library.

He offered to accompany Bourdeau home. The inspector refused, urging him to take an immediate and well-earned rest. He never mixed professional matters and family life. And yet Nicolas remembered that one day, when he had been thrown out on to the street, Bourdeau had offered to take him in without any
hesitation.
They went their separate ways. Everyone was essentially alone, thought Nicolas; in this world it was what people most had in common. Everyone experienced the effects and sorrows of that solitude. For Sanson it was the horror of his work, for Semacgus
his unbridled taste for pleasure-seeking, for Bourdeau the perpetually open wound of his father’s unjust death. As for himself, he did not want to dwell on the subject too much.

These bitter-sweet thoughts occupied his mind until he reached Rue Montmartre. In the Noblecourt residence everyone seemed to be asleep, including Cyrus. Only Catherine had stayed up and was preparing a rabbit pâté. She wanted him to have supper but the events of the evening had upset him and put him off his food. He listened for a moment to the cook exhorting him never to use a knife to cut a rabbit. The right way was to slice the flesh through to the bone and then twist the bone to break it in order to avoid the danger of splinters. She illustrated what she meant by snapping off the head.

Nicolas hurried up to his bedroom, exhausted by the day’s emotions but then tossed and turned for a long while before finally falling asleep. 

Nicolas hacked away at the mob with his sword. He cut and thrust, yelling at his assailants, who in turn began to scream. They were done for and fell on top of each other, either wounded or dead; those who did escape fled up the tower's narrow staircase. He felt the same satisfaction as he did felling a tree, but then suddenly found himself sliding down into a bottomless pit, ending up in a dazed state on the edge of a pool, whose surface stirred with slow, strange movements. On an island covered with seaweed, a young man wearing a puce coat and an iron mask was stacking bundles of wood around a stake. An elderly woman with the head of a rabbit, which had been half severed from her body, held out her arms to Nicolas. He wanted to wade into the water. He had barely dipped his toe
in when he began to fall again and found himself at the foot of his bed.

He was astonished to see that dawn had long since broken and that sunlight was slanting into his bedroom. His watch showed it was past nine o'clock. The jug of hot water outside his door was now cold. He decided to go to wash himself quickly at the
courtyard
fountain. The temperature was still mild in the sunshine.

Having washed and dressed, he went into the pantry. Marion had been worrying about his unusual lateness and scolded him: how could he soak himself in cold water? He would catch his death! She served him his chocolate and soft bread rolls. Monsieur de Noblecourt had left early in the morning with Poitevin. He had to attend the meeting of the Saint-Eustache parish council, for despite being a long-standing disciple of Voltaire he held the august position of churchwarden. She grumbled that a man of his age should go out so early in the morning, whilst also recognising that such an expedition proved his attack of gout was over.

Nicolas asked after Catherine. She had already gone off to the fish market to have her pick of the freshly arrived catch, and would be wading around the newly opened barrels of seawater looking for a choice specimen. The previous evening she had promised her master she would make
sole à la Villeroy.
With Marion's help she intended to celebrate the procurator's convalescence. Apart from fish the recipe required Parmesan cheese, mussels and prawns. Marion hoped that Nicolas would be able to attend the evening meal because he always finished everything on his plate, thereby limiting her master's greediness. She was counting on his good nature and his appetite to spare Monsieur de Noblecourt too many temptations.

With half an ear to Marion's chatter, Nicolas reread what he had written in his notebook. He was still feeling the effects of his nightmare. In Semacgus's view an empty stomach was as bad for the health as too much food. He was paying the price for going to bed without supper. That evening Catherine's feast would be just what he needed, as long as nothing unexpected prevented him from keeping his promise. Marion was surprised to see him lingering over breakfast. He was taking it slowly, relishing some leftovers of pâté that the housekeeper had felt duty-bound to fetch from the storeroom to satisfy the young man's voracious appetite.

Full at last, he took refuge in Monsieur de Noblecourt's library. However obsessed he might be with his collections in general and his books in particular (which included several valuable items that even the King would have been proud to possess), the former procurator to the Parlement had given Nicolas free access to his library.

Nicolas knew what he was looking for. Occasionally he settled in a
bergère
to read some venerable tome in greater comfort. On this occasion he jotted several things down in his little notebook. Feeling pleased with himself, he returned everything to its place, carefully closing the grille of the cabinet containing the most valuable books. He then put the key back under a Saxony china figurine that represented the pastoral idyll of a shepherd playing his pipes to charm a swooning shepherdess dressed all in pink. Lastly, as instructed by the master of the house, he closed the curtains, since the bright morning sunlight was ‘damaging, ruinous and fatal' for the bindings and engravings. This was one of the procurator's particular hobbyhorses.

Midday was striking and it was time for him to set off for the Comédie-Italienne. Nicolas had learnt from his theatre visits that it was pointless to wander around such places early in the day since the only people to be found there were floor polishers and sweepers. Moreover, actors had a reputation for going to bed late and therefore also rising late. He estimated that at a leisurely stroll it would take him just under an hour to reach the
Comédie-Italienne.

Outside, the cool air, made brisker by a slight breeze, drove away the city smells. He gladly filled his lungs with the scents of autumn, which for once were stronger than the stench of filth and rubbish. A mixture of this and decaying animal flesh was what spattered stockings and breeches, leaving them with greasy, indelible stains.

For a moment Nicolas was uncertain which route to take, then with a smile and after quickly glancing around he entered Impasse Saint-Eustache. This dark and dank alleyway led to a side door of the church by that name, which huddled amongst the houses. Experience had taught him that there was always the possibility of being shadowed when he went out so he routinely took steps to foil anyone trying to follow him. This
funnel-shaped
blind alley had already proved helpful in that respect. Once inside the silent, gloomy interior of the church, and depending on what he thought would be most effective, Nicolas would hurry off towards either a confessional or a particularly dark side chapel where, his heart fluttering with excitement, he would check to see whether he was being followed. Being
something of a master of disguise and make-believe himself, he was never fooled by appearances, even by someone who looked like an infirm old woman, as he knew that the least likely looking person was often the one most probably tailing him. Sometimes he also went back out via the side street to avoid following too regular a pattern, which could result in his being caught out at the main door of the church.

On this particular morning he noticed nothing unusual: a few pious souls deep in prayer, a legless man slumped near the stoup at the main entrance and the organist rehearsing a theme on the bourdon stop. Outside he found himself back in the bustling city.

He still felt as surprised as when he had first arrived in Paris. He remained appalled at the danger presented to pedestrians by the traffic on the road. He noted that city life replicated the relationships between individuals all along the social scale. The great looked down on the insignificant, smart carriages ploughed their way through, with a liberal use of the whip. The whips were not always aimed at the horses but only too often struck the drivers of more modest vehicles or even the backs of unfortunate day-labourers pulling handcarts. Had it not been for the
boundary
posts that the authorities had sensibly placed at the street corners and crossroads, and which acted as the sole obstacles to the murderous frenzy of coachmen, bourgeois, women, the elderly and children would have been mercilessly pressed and crushed against the walls. He was moved by the patience of ordinary people driven to the limits by such lack of respect. There were often harsh words and even exchanges of blows, but as long as there was no shortage of bread the masses put up with
a great many things. If the day came when there was no bread in the shops, then anything might happen.

Rather sooner than expected, he reached the corner of Rue Mauconseil and Rue Neuve-Saint-François, where the annexe of the Hôtel de Bourgogne now housed the Comédie-Italienne. Having shaken the grille and banged on the glass with a piece of wood, he eventually saw a vague figure appear. He heard a key turn in the lock and the door open slightly; then the grille was pulled back and a hoarse, angry voice shouted at him to clear off.

In the smoothest of tones Nicolas gave his name and position. The owner of the angry voice cleared his throat noisily and Nicolas was allowed in. Now that the grille had been opened he had time to look at the man on the other side. He was huge and as sturdy as an oak. His face, as rough-hewn as that of a pagan idol, peeped out from a dark blue frock coat with shiny brass buttons done up to the collar. A yellowish wig only partially concealed a bare skull wrapped in a badly tied red headscarf. His left arm was missing and the empty sleeve was pinned to the front of his coat. Was Nicolas dealing with a doorkeeper or some eccentric theatrical figure? The man looked him up and down and stood aside heavily. He was surrounded by a mewing cluster of cats, their tails erect; some of them chased after one another, scampering between his legs. He raised his foot and banged it down on the ground; the felines scattered briefly.

‘Filthy creatures!' said the man. ‘But we need them to chase after the rats and the mice. Begging your pardon, you look a bit of a raw recruit to be a commissioner. The one in this district has
a few more grey hairs than you. But at least you're young enough to fire a few broadsides, I should say.'

Nicolas now saw that he was not dealing with an actor but with one of those old salts who were often taken on by theatres. The skills of former sailors were much in demand as they could change scenery, handle machinery and move around at a height above the stage as well as tie knots and use ropes. This work enabled them to escape the sad fate that befell other veterans abandoned on the quayside.

‘Let's steer ourselves to my cabin. I'll give you a drink and in exchange you can tell me what wind brings you to these waters.'

He stopped and turned. ‘You ain't like the head of the coppers in this district. He's always dressed like a monk. Tall as a beanpole and pale as a church candle.'

They began walking down a dark corridor lit by an Argand lamp. The man pushed open a door; Nicolas was struck by the smell of stale tobacco and brandy. There was a table, two chairs, a straw mattress and a cooking pot on a roaring stove. A woven mat covered the floor and gave a little warmth to the place, which was in fact perfectly clean. A skylight at head height looked on to the corridor; the cats that had been driven back were
congregating
and scratched angrily at the glass which separated them from the room. Next to the skylight were dozens of keys in rows on a wooden board. The man went to give his food a stir, then filled two earthenware bowls and put them down on the polished table. He took out two sparkling pewter goblets from under the straw mattress together with a bottle, which once opened released a strong smell of rum.

‘Please do me the honour of being my messmate and while
we're eating you can tell me what brings you here. And all in good cheer.'

‘It'll be my pleasure,' said Nicolas.

He was somewhat apprehensive about what was being served up but he felt that accepting such a generous offer and eating with the man would simplify preliminaries. He was pleasantly
surprised
by a good piece of salted pork in a helping of beans. He perhaps would not have chosen to wash down this feast with rum, though late nights at Dr Semacgus's, who had also sailed the high seas, had gradually given him more of a taste for this manly, honest and straightforward tipple.

‘My powers are wide-ranging and extend also to the city,' he declared.

The man was pulling at the hairs of his beard while looking at Nicolas, puzzled that a young man should exercise so much power. He was remembering no doubt those young gentlemen scarcely out of school who stood on the poop deck, lieutenants with the captain's authority. Compared to them, Nicolas seemed old and worthy of respect.

‘This fills you up and anything salted is healthy,' he said. ‘On board most of the time it was ship's biscuit with weevils and meat with maggots. But here am I talking and you need to tell me what you're after.'

Nicolas put a gold coin on the table. The man trembled with emotion; his hand moved forward, then stopped.

‘I'm sure you'll make good use of it for your tobacco or this excellent rum,' said Nicolas.

The coin disappeared without a word. A friendly grunt was the only thanks. Nicolas made do with that.

‘Here's my problem,' he went on. ‘A ticket for the
Comédie-Italienne
has come into my possession. Is there a way of finding out where it comes from? There's no special mark: no date, just a number. Perhaps it refers to a box or a day. But I'm sure that nothing here escapes your eagle eye.'

Nicolas bit his lip; he had let the words slip out by mistake. Not only was the old sailor one-armed but he was also one-eyed or rather he suffered from leucoma, a white film that covered his left eye entirely.

‘From the sail pit to the maintop – this is my domain.'

‘Here's the piece of paper.'

The man brought a smoking candle closer and raised the ticket to his good eye.

‘Yes, yes, yes, the little madam gets everywhere.'

‘The little madam?'

‘La Bichelière. Mademoiselle Bichelière. Well, that's her stage name. She's really lived and burnt the candle at both ends from a very young age. A tasty morsel, nice enough to get your teeth into, but a fortune-hunter too. And what an appetite for money – she'll have whatever she can get. She'll clean out anyone who's flush – old fogeys and young dandies. She sets herself up, sponges out her gun, loads up, rams in the charge, gets into position and opens fire; she never gives up and if her target puts up any resistance she just keeps on firing time after time.'