The Man with the Lead Stomach (4 page)

‘Nevertheless, sir?’

‘I’m thinking aloud here, Nicolas. Nevertheless …’ The tone was again warm and frank, the Lieutenant General’s usual way of speaking to Nicolas. ‘Nevertheless, on behalf of the King, I am also responsible for law and order in Paris, which is no easy task. Too strict an application of the rules could lead to trouble. The wise thing to do would be to make the body presentable, send for a priest and a coffin, and spread the word that the young man mortally wounded himself while cleaning a firearm. The funeral Mass would take place, the princess be obeyed, the parents
grief-stricken
but their reputation intact, and I would have no more problems, having satisfied all concerned. Can I in all conscience act in such a way? What is your feeling? I trust your judgement, even if you are sometimes overhasty and your imagination runs away with you.’

‘Sir, we must give the matter careful thought. We are accountable to both the ideal of law with justice and of wisdom with prudence.’

Sartine nodded approval of this carefully worded preamble.

‘Since you do me the honour of asking my opinion I feel it appropriate, given the current state of the investigation, to sum
up our dilemma. We know that suicide is an act that offends against the divine order, a misfortune that visits opprobrium on an honourable family. The body we see before us is not that of a man of the people, not a pauper driven to this extreme by
hardship
. Here we have a gentleman, a young man of good education, who knows perfectly well what his actions will mean for his parents and close relatives, and who without further reflection performs the irrevocable deed without offering his family any means of escaping the shame. Do you not find it strange that he did not write to you, as many do, in order to avoid any difficulties after their death?
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All he left was this.’

He picked up the sheet of paper on the desk and handed it to Sartine.

‘Lastly, sir, I have to say that it will be very difficult to keep the news quiet. It has already spread to the Opéra and around town; it will soon reach the Court. The princess will certainly have mentioned it and everyone will repeat her words. A dozen or so people have already been informed: police officers, servants and neighbours. No one will be able to stop the rumour and
uncertainty
will only make it grow. It will be a godsend for the hawkers of handbills.’

Monsieur de Sartine was rhythmically tapping the wooden floor with his foot.

‘Very well put, but where does it get us and how will all your meanderings extricate us from this maze? What do you suggest?’

‘I think, sir, that without divulging any details and without dismissing the idea of an accident or a fit of madness, we should have the vicomte’s body taken to the Basse-Geôle
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in the
Châtelet to be opened up and examined in the greatest secrecy. That will in the first instance allow us to gain some time.’

‘And in a few days we’ll be back in the same position but with a scandal blown up out of all proportion. Not to mention the task you’ve presumably left me of informing the Comte de Ruissec that I’m going to hand over his son’s body to the medics. For goodness’ sake give me a more convincing argument.’

‘Sir, I do not think you have taken in the full implications of my proposal. If I am suggesting that the Vicomte de Ruissec’s body should be opened up it’s precisely in order to preserve his memory and the honour of his family, because in my opinion the examination will show that he was murdered.’

Monsieur de Sartine did not immediately reply to this calmly delivered statement. He reacted only with a doubtful expression followed by a sort of wince. He took a deep breath, put his hands together and, having cleared his throat, finally spoke.

‘Monsieur, I might well have been perplexed by the gravity of what you have said, and, I make no secret of it, my initial reaction should have been to put you back on routine duties. However, I have not forgotten that the reason for your presence here was precisely to deal with matters that are out of the ordinary. Besides, your suspicion takes a weight off my mind. As usual you will not give me any explanations and will save up your dramatic effects until your magic lantern suddenly lights up the truth, which until that moment will have been apparent to you alone …’

‘Monsieur …’

‘No, no, no. I am not listening and wish to hear no more. You are a commissioner and a magistrate, and as such I am entrusting
this investigation to you. I am leaving it to you, putting it entirely in your hands and will have nothing further to do with it. And do not try to drag me into one of those complicated demonstrations you specialise in because you think you know it all and want to show you do. Whether you are right or wrong does not matter for the moment. I plan to leave you and make my way quickly to Versailles to deal with more urgent aspects of the case. I shall alert Monsieur de Florentin
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in order to use my modest influence to combat the storm that the Comte de Ruissec will undoubtedly stir up. But we have one ace up our sleeves. Not so long ago Madame Victoire called our minister “a fool”; as always at Court the remark was repeated to him and however meek and mild he may seem he’s bound to be pleased at the prospect of going against her sister Adélaïde and saying the right things to the King. His Majesty has total confidence in him and does not like the normal course of his justice to be impeded. No, no, do not interrupt …’

Nicolas disregarded the Lieutenant General’s order. ‘You will not find Monsieur de Saint-Florentin at Versailles.’

‘What do you mean? Who are you referring to?’

‘The minister, Monsieur.’

‘So not only have you made up your mind about this suicide but you also claim to know the minister’s whereabouts.’

‘I am your pupil, Monsieur, and your obedient servant. Nothing that happens in Paris escapes me. The contrary would be proof that I neglect my duties and then you really would have cause to complain about my ignorance and lack of zeal. So I can tell you that this evening Madame de Saint-Florentin is with the Queen since, as you know, she is Her Majesty’s favourite confidante. As for the minister, he left Versailles at around three
o’clock, using Madame Adélaïde’s visit to the Opéra as an excuse to meet the lovely Aglaé.’

‘The lovely Aglaé?’

‘Marie-Madeleine de Cusacque, Langeac’s wife, his mistress. At this very moment he is paying her his respects at her mansion on Rue de Richelieu. There is, therefore, no need to rush off to Versailles, Monsieur.’

Monsieur de Sartine could not stifle a laugh. ‘All right, that will save me a sleepless night. I hope the minister will pardon my intrusion and that in such charming company he will listen to me carefully so that the prospect of going against the princesses will encourage him to be less accommodating than he tends to be to the parties in dispute.’

Nicolas chanced his luck one last time. ‘You do not wish to know the motives—’

‘The less I know, the better, for the time being. It would jeopardise my ability to argue a case with which I am not yet fully acquainted. I must keep a low profile and appear to adopt a matter-of-fact approach to a tragic incident, where everything points to suicide. If it is something else … Oh, do not look so pleased, Monsieur. I do not believe it is a case of murder … I am handing the investigation over to you and you will inform Monsieur de Ruissec that I have been called away to the Court on urgent business and am leaving you in charge. In fact, tell him what you like! I am sending you Inspector Bourdeau. You will give me a report by tomorrow. Be accurate. Nothing fanciful or imaginative. Just be methodical. Have I made myself clear? Behave like a parrot: move carefully and only let go of one bar when you have grasped another. Do not hesitate to lay mines, to
play the sapper, but above all do not trigger any explosions except on my express orders.’

‘What if the comte is against having the body removed?’

‘You are a magistrate. Issue an order, an injunction, a warrant. Good day to you, Monsieur.’

Alone now in the room, Nicolas sat down in an armchair to reflect on his superior’s attitude. He had to make allowances and to take into account the Lieutenant General’s subtle approach, caught as he was between powerful interests whose whims and secret designs he had to reconcile. Between the King, Monsieur de Saint-Florentin, the royal family, the parlements, the Jesuits, the Jansenists, the philosophers and the members of the criminal fraternity, his task was not an easy one. Added to this were the problems of wartime and a fear of foreign powers and their machinations.

Nicolas certainly understood all this, but he still bore a grudge against Sartine for continuing to treat him as he had done when he was only an apprentice, which the young man had been until quite recently. Sartine too often forgot that his protégé was now a commissioner and no longer the provincial lad freshly arrived from the countryside. He dismissed this unworthy thought immediately, realising it was an unfair criticism of the man to whom he owed everything. Once more the main thing was that he had been given a completely free hand to solve a tricky case.

Having been profoundly insulted by the Comte de Ruissec, Sartine was only too happy to hand things over to Nicolas in order to teach the comte a lesson. He had not discussed Nicolas’s
interpretation of events simply because he was not interested in the preliminary stages. As Bourdeau put it, a starving man doesn’t care how his dinner was made. The Lieutenant General of Police was not bothered about the trivial details of an investigation. He had a lofty view of his role and the only thing that counted was success. He did not voice an opinion on the ins and outs of his subordinates’ doings. He expected evidence and results.

As far as evidence was concerned, Nicolas had none. He let his imagination be his guide. And even Sartine had not picked up on what could be the main objection to Nicolas’s theory: the indisputable fact that the vicomte’s room was locked from the inside and that there was no other escape route for a potential murderer.

However, Nicolas was sorry not to have had the time to explain to his superior why he was convinced it was murder. It had come to him as he was looking at the body. His experience, backed up by conversations with his friend Semacgus, the navy surgeon, and his own work with Sanson, the Paris executioner, had not been wasted.

He got up and went over to look at the dead man once more. He had never seen a face so appallingly contorted and disfigured. But, above all, the state of the body and of the wound was inconsistent with the very short period of time that had elapsed between the shot heard by Picard and their own arrival in the Ruissec mansion. There was also something else that disturbed him, a vague feeling he could not quite pin down.

So now his investigative work was entering new territory, the realm of the unconscious. Occasionally his dreams, or rather his nightmares, had provided him with solutions to questions
troubling him. The important thing at such times was not to think too hard, to let ideas develop naturally until they came together, once the doors of sleep were open. He still needed to remember the contents of his dreams and all too often something would suddenly rouse him from sleep just at the crucial moment.

Nicolas walked around the room one last time. He came across a second door in the wooden panelling, parallel to the
dressing-room
door. It opened on to a windowless closet containing a library. From a quick inspection he was struck by the disparate nature of the titles and vowed to come back for a closer examination. He noticed in passing the dead man’s tricorn, which had been thrown on to the bed and lay upside down beside his cloak.

Nicolas thought about what he still had to do. This initial examination of the scene remained superficial and limited. It did, however, provide a starting point for his work, using his intuition and the unconscious side of his mind. The case was under way and God alone knew if the route they were taking would lead to it being solved. For the time being he put his ideas together and prepared his campaign.

A thought struck him: no close relative of the vicomte had so far seen the body and confirmed its identity. Lambert, the manservant, had not gone up close to the body; everything suggested that he had assumed it was indeed his master, and both he and Sartine had acted as if there could be no doubt of that.

It was appropriate, therefore, to make doubly sure. Nicolas would first put the question to the major-domo and at the same
time clear up another point: had Lambert really met Picard, as he had stated, before reaching the vicomte’s rooms, and thus learnt about the evening’s events? Once this fact had been established, the body ought to be removed and the door to the rooms officially sealed.

He considered whether to inform Monsieur de Ruissec that the body was to be removed. He looked again at the dead man’s face. Could he really force a father to endure such a grisly sight? Knowing the old man’s personality, his grief and other feelings would lead to an argument that Nicolas could not be sure of winning by simply using his authority. So the elderly retainer’s co-operation was essential in order to avoid any slip-up: he would understand the reasons for preventing a father from seeing his dead son and would help Nicolas confine Monsieur de Ruissec to his rooms until the removal was completed. Then and only then would he summon the comte and explain to him the steps he had taken. The comte would no longer be able to stand in his way even though his reaction was bound to be fierce.

Then, when night fell, Nicolas would ask for a lantern and examine the area around the buildings, beginning with the gardens beneath the windows of the vicomte’s rooms. At first sight there seemed no real need for such a search: the windows were shut and all the indications were that the vicomte had returned via the main corridor, but the very fact that it was so obvious meant that it was worth checking. Having done that, he would leave the Hôtel de Ruissec and not resume his investigation until the following day.

Lost in thought, he was startled to feel a hand on his shoulder, then reassured to hear Bourdeau’s familiar voice.

‘Here you are at last, Nicolas, having a delightful tête-à-tête, I see. This elderly gentleman doesn’t look too good.’

‘He’s not an elderly gentleman, Bourdeau, but the young Vicomte de Ruissec. I quite understand why you were misled by appearances. That is precisely the problem. I’ll tell you the whole story, but first you tell me how you got here so quickly.’

‘Monsieur de Sartine’s messenger caught up with me at the Châtelet as I was about to go home. I requisitioned his horse and the old nag finally got me here, though it almost threw me off a dozen or so times. With all these new building plots in Grenelle the mansion really stands out among the wasteland and gardens. Is it a murder?’

Nicolas explained the situation. Having worked so closely together the two men understood each other implicitly. As Nicolas spoke, the puzzled expression on the inspector’s ruddy face grew until finally he lifted his short wig and scratched his head in his usual way.

‘You do have a knack for getting involved in strange cases …’

Nicolas liked the comment. He knew he could count on Bourdeau to do everything in his power to help him. He asked the inspector to fetch the major-domo and make sure he had no contact with the vicomte’s manservant.

When the old retainer appeared, Nicolas regretted making him come upstairs. Picard had difficulty breathing and was leaning against the casing of the doorway to get his breath back. A strand of yellowing grey hair fell across his forehead, disturbing the meticulous arrangement of his hairstyle with the regulation
pigtail, coils and lovelocks of a former dragoon. Nicolas thought his eyes looked clouded as if a grey-blue membrane had been stretched across them. He had observed the same phenomenon in his tutor, Canon Le Floch, in the last years of his life.

The major-domo mopped his brow clumsily with his gnarled hands. The young man led him towards the corpse while partly shielding him from a full view of the body, then stepped aside.

‘Do you recognise Monsieur de Ruissec?’

Picard thrust his hand into the right-hand pocket of his jacket and, having removed a snuff-stained handkerchief, pulled out a pair of spectacles. He put them on, leant over towards the body and instantly recoiled, his stomach heaving.

‘God forgive me, Monsieur, I’ve seen some sights in my time but that face, that face … What have they done to Monsieur Lionel?’

Nicolas noted the affectionate way of referring to the vicomte. He did not reply, preferring to let the old man have his say.

‘Even on the eve of the Battle of Antibes in ’47, when our sentries were abducted and tortured by a band of Croats, I never saw a face as contorted as this. The poor soul.’

‘So it definitely is the Vicomte de Ruissec, is it? You recognise the body as his? Beyond the shadow of a doubt?’

‘Alas, Monsieur, who is better able to recognise it than I?’

Nicolas gently led the old retainer towards an armchair.

‘I would like to go over the events of the evening with you. I noticed that you brought fresh firewood to your master’s bedroom. Does this mean that Monsieur de Ruissec was expected to return to his mansion this evening? The way you put it clearly implied that you were expecting him.’