The Man with the Lead Stomach (24 page)

This hint was not lost on Nicolas, who gave him due reward for the precise and plentiful information received. He cut short Pelven’s show of friendship by asking him if he could leave by the back of the building, having told the coachman to wait on Rue Française in front of the leather market. The place was bustling with activity and he would go unnoticed. He was taken to a small door that opened on to a corridor leading into an alleyway between the houses. A great lover of the byways of Paris, Nicolas memorised the route.

He crossed the Seine again on his way to Rue de l’Hirondelle. He was worrying about how he would broach matters with the vidame until it struck him that the best approach was the one that would seem the most plausible. Truche de La Chaux had unintentionally offered him the solution: to pass himself off as a representative of the police Gaming Division and question the young man about his visits to the Dauphin Couronné.

Would the vidame have been warned about him? That was unlikely, given his bad relationship with his father. Nicolas could use these family quarrels to encourage the younger son to speak out, now that a new future lay ahead of him after the death of his brother.

The vidame’s house looked nondescript, neither luxurious nor humble. It was an ordinary bourgeois house in an ordinary street. There was no doorkeeper to block Nicolas’s path and it took him only four strides to reach the mezzanine. He knocked on a pointed-arched door, which was opened almost immediately by a young man who stood in the doorway looking intrigued rather than annoyed by Nicolas’s incursion. Wearing breeches and a shirt with neither tie nor cuffs, and with one hand on his hip, he gave Nicolas a quizzical look, thrusting out his chin. He had bushy eyebrows that arched over deep blue eyes and protruding, pouting lips. His hair was loosely tied in a knot on the verge of coming undone. This first, pleasant impression gave way to one that was more disturbing. Nicolas noticed the pallor of his
complexion
, the prominent, flushed cheeks, the rings around the eyes; his whole face was bathed in sweat. Purple blotches accentuated yet further the crumpled look of a man who in Nicolas’s opinion had not slept for some time.

‘Monsieur de Ruissec?’

‘Yes, Monsieur. And to whom do I have the honour of speaking?’

‘I am a police officer, Monsieur, and would like to have a few words with you.’

His face turned bright red, then paled. The vidame stepped aside and invited Nicolas in. The accommodation consisted of a large, low-ceilinged room with little natural light. Two
semicircular
windows at floor level looked on to the street. The furniture was elegant but not overly so, and there was nothing to suggest the occupant’s religious calling. It was a bachelor’s establishment, that of a young man more intent on leading a
life of pleasure than one of spiritual meditation. The vidame remained standing with his back to the light and did not invite Nicolas to sit down.

‘Well, Monsieur, how may I help you?’

Nicolas decided to strike fast and hard.

‘Have you repaid Monsieur de La Chaux for the loan he gave you or rather the pledge he entrusted to you?’

The vidame blushed again. ‘Monsieur, that is a personal matter between him and me.’

‘Do you realise that you frequent a place where gambling is forbidden and that as a result you are liable to prosecution?’

The young man raised his head in a defiant gesture. ‘I’m not the only one in Paris who goes around the gambling dens and as far as I’m aware the police of this kingdom don’t make a fuss about it.’

‘That, Monsieur, is because not everyone is intended for the priesthood, and the example you are giving—’

‘I am not going into the Church. All that is in the past.’

‘I see that your brother’s death has opened up your career!’

‘That is a needlessly offensive remark, Monsieur.’

‘The fact is that not everyone in your position stands to benefit from the death of a close relative.’

The vidame stepped forward a pace. Instinctively his left hand went to his right side in search of the hilt of a missing sword. Nicolas noted the gesture.

‘Be careful, Monsieur. I shall not allow insults to go unpunished.’

‘Then answer my questions instead,’ Nicolas said curtly. ‘I am going to be frank with you and I would ask you to take due
account of my openness. I am also and more importantly investigating the death of your brother, whose murder your father, the Comte de Ruissec, has succeeded in covering up. Not only his, but your mother’s.’

Nicolas heard what sounded like a sob.

‘My mother’s?’

‘Yes, your mother was savagely killed and thrown into the well of the dead in the Carmelite monastery. Your mother, who wanted to confide to me what was troubling her and who died because of this secret. It was in the interest of certain people to silence her before she spoke. This, Monsieur, is what authorises me to treat you as I do, I, Nicolas Le Floch, police commissioner at the Châtelet.’

‘This is too much to bear. I have nothing more to say to you.’

Nicolas noticed that the news of his mother’s murder did not seem to come as a surprise to the young man.

‘That would be too simple. On the contrary, you have plenty of things to confide in me. To start with, do you know Mademoiselle Bichelière?’

‘I know that she’s my brother’s mistress.’

‘That’s not what I’m asking you. Do you know her personally?’

‘Not at all.’

‘What, then, were you doing at her home, early yesterday afternoon? Don’t deny it. You were seen there. Three reliable witnesses are prepared to swear so in front of a magistrate.’

Nicolas thought that the young man was about to burst into tears. He bit his lip until it bled.

‘Not having seen her at my brother’s funeral service, I was going to—’

‘Oh, come now! Are you trying to say that this young woman would have been allowed to attend the funeral service for your brother and mother? Think of something more convincing to tell me.’

The vidame fell silent.

‘I should add,’ Nicolas continued, ‘I have statements from witnesses saying they met you several times at the house of the aforesaid young woman. You’re not going to make me believe that you don’t know her. Please explain yourself.’

‘I have nothing to say.’

‘That is entirely up to you. Then can you describe your activities on the day your brother died?’

‘I was walking in Versailles.’

‘In Versailles? Versailles is big. In the park? In the palace? In the town? Alone or in company? There are plenty of people in Versailles and you must have come across someone of your acquaintance.’

Nicolas disliked being so brutal but he wanted to make the young man react.

‘No, no one. I wanted to be alone.’

Nicolas shook his head. The vidame was in the process of turning himself into the main suspect. Nicolas could not allow him to remain free. Whatever uncertainty there might still be about his possible guilt, locking him away would enable matters to progress. With the young man looking on in consternation, he took out of his pocket one of the
lettres de cachet
that Monsieur de
Saint-Florentin
had given him. He wrote down the vidame’s name without any hesitation. It was the second time in his career as a police officer that he would take a suspect to the Bastille. The first
time it had been Dr Semacgus, but that had been for his own safety and he had come away cleared of all suspicion. This precedent strengthened Nicolas’s ability to take the serious step of
imprisoning
a fellow human being with a certain degree of composure.

‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘by order of the King I must conduct you to the Bastille where you will have ample time to meditate upon the disadvantages of remaining silent. You will doubtless be more talkative the next time we meet, or so I hope.’

The vidame drew closer, looking him straight in the eye. ‘Monsieur, I beg of you, listen to me. Whatever I may be accused of, I am innocent.’

‘I should point out that if you claim to be innocent it is because you know a crime has been committed. I could turn your remark against you. I assure you no one wishes you to be innocent more than I. But you must give me the means of getting closer to the truth. I am convinced that you possess a share of it.’

He thought that this sensitively spoken exhortation was going to break down the young man’s defences and that he would at last speak. It was a wasted effort. The vidame seemed to be on the verge of giving in but he collected himself, shook his head and began to dress.

‘I am at your disposal, Monsieur.’

Nicolas took him by the arm. He was shaking. He put a seal on the door of the dwelling, which would later be thoroughly searched, then they went out to the carriage. The coachman was ordered to head for the state prison. The young man remained silent for the entire journey and Nicolas respected his
unwillingness
to speak. There was no further information to be had from him. A few days in solitary confinement might make him less
reluctant to talk and bring him to a realisation of how grave the accusations against him were as a result of failing to explain himself.

At the Bastille Nicolas went through the formalities for the admission of a prisoner. He took the chief gaoler to one side to put in a good word for the young man. His imprisonment had to be kept absolutely secret and no visits were to be allowed without Nicolas’s prior consultation. Lastly, and he laid particular emphasis on this point, the prisoner was not to be left
unsupervised
, lest he commit suicide through the negligence of his warders. Nicolas had in mind the death of the old soldier who had hanged himself in the Châtelet because they had forgotten to take away his belt. He left a small sum of money to cover the cost of meals to be brought to the prisoner from outside.

He was relieved to leave the ancient fortress behind. He found its grey stone bulk oppressive. Inside the dank, dark maze of staircases and galleries, the creaking of keys turning in locks and the slamming of wickets increased his unease yet further. The cheerful bustle of Rue Saint-Antoine with its crowds and its carriages comforted him.

Nicolas reflected on the consequences of the vidame’s arrest. It remained to be seen whether the Comte de Ruissec would intervene as energetically to have this son freed as he had done to recover the body of his murdered elder son. Nicolas was nagged by doubt: there was too much evidence against the vidame. The motives were blindingly obvious: rivalry in love, thwarted ambition, and perhaps other more materialistic ones. It was also
plain to see that Lambert was a likely accomplice. What made Nicolas more hesitant and gave him grounds for doubt was the idea of brother killing brother. It was true that there were precedents. A few months earlier one particular case had caused a sensation. A nobleman by the name of Aubarède had killed his elder brother. He had shot him in the head with a pistol and finished him off by stabbing him and beating him with an iron bar before fleeing to enlist in an enemy army. Monsieur de Choiseul had had a missive sent to the ambassador in Rome containing a description of the murderer so that he might be arrested.

Nicolas had a sudden inspiration. As they needed to delve into the suspects’ pasts he ordered his coachman to drive him to the Hôtel de Noailles, on Rue Saint-Honoré, opposite the monastery of the Jacobins, the home of Monsieur de Noailles, the most senior of the marshals of France. This was the location of the offices of the Court of Honour, which had been had set up by the marshals to judge contentious cases. Under the presidency of their most senior member, their jurisdiction applied to all
noblemen
, civilian or military, and dealt with insults, threats, assault and battery, gambling debts or challenges to duels. Their knowledge of military staff was extensive. The secretary of this institution, Monsieur de La Vergne, liked Nicolas. When the young man had still been working for Commissioner Lardin, by making full use of his spies and network of informers in the world of receivers of stolen property, he had managed to recover a snuffbox stolen from the Maréchal de Belle-Isle, the Secretary of State for War, who had died in January of that year. Monsieur de La Vergne had put his services at Nicolas’s disposal and had promised to reciprocate if the opportunity arose.

The man had a vast knowledge of senior officers’ careers; there was no one better placed to give Nicolas information about the Comte de Ruissec. He found his office without difficulty. Luckily Monsieur de La Vergne was there and received him straight away. He was a small, slim man with a smooth, pale face and smiling eyes, but his blond wig failed to make him look any younger. He welcomed Nicolas warmly.

‘Monsieur Le Floch. What a surprise! Or rather
congratulations
, Commissioner Le Floch. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’

‘Monsieur, I need the benefit of your knowledge with reference to a most awkward matter.’

‘Nothing is awkward between us, and as a friend of mine and as a protégé of Monsieur de Sartine you may count on my help.’

Nicolas sometimes wondered if the day would ever come when his own qualities would suffice to warrant the help he was offered. When would he stop being the prisoner of his
relationship
to Sartine? He was annoyed with himself for this puerile reaction. Monsieur de La Vergne meant no harm; it was a compliment of sorts. Everyone asserted their status in this society by their birth and by their talents but also by their connections and their protectors. Monsieur de La Vergne belonged to this society in which it was impossible to disregard such considerations. Well then, he would give proof of his own impressive contacts.

‘The minister, Monsieur de Saint-Florentin …’

The secretary of the marshals bowed.

‘… has given me the task of resolving a most confidential matter concerning a former senior officer, the Comte de Ruissec, who has just …’

‘Lost his son and wife. Rumour spreads quickly, my dear fellow. It has to be said, the man was not well liked.’