The Phantom of Rue Royale (28 page)

‘Thank God you got out of it! Anyway, the man spoke up in the end. There’s no will, but he does have a letter from Claude Galaine saying that his last wishes will be found in the innocent hands – he insisted on that word – of an Indian of the Algonquin tribe who has the responsibility of making them public when the time comes.’

Nicolas rubbed his hands. Much to Bourdeau’s surprise, he
took a small folded piece of paper from his pocket and waved it victoriously.

‘Here’s the will! It was in the egg, and before that round Naganda’s neck!’

He did a pirouette, took the inspector by the shoulder and led him downstairs. 

Balancing on the running board of the cab in Rue Montmartre, Nicolas explained his battle plan to Bourdeau. First he had to go to see the Criminal Lieutenant to head off any criticism of such an unusual investigation. He did not suppose he would be able to see Monsieur de Sartine, who had spent the night in Versailles and was only now on his way back. When that was done, he next had go to the convent of the Conception, where the two French Guards had witnessed a scene between a girl in yellow satin and a man who might have been Naganda. With a little luck, he might be able to find some clue, however small, which would help advance matters.

In the meantime, Bourdeau would try to find Semacgus. Curious as he, too, was to know the outcome of the investigation, he would not have been far away. He would also have to summon Sanson to the Basse-Geôle for the autopsy on the baby, at which Semacgus would be welcome as well. As Sanson had an execution to carry out in Place de Grève that very morning, they would not be able to start until mid-afternoon. Nicolas would still have to
report to Sartine when he got back from Versailles and, some time before nightfall, he needed to speak to Restif de la Bretonne who, according to the inspector, was living in furnished lodgings in Rue de la Vieille-Boucherie, on the left bank. His one regret was that there was no time in all of this to arrest Major Langlumé of the City Guards.

Nicolas had himself driven to the Grand Châtelet. He was admitted to the office of the Criminal Lieutenant, who was putting on his dress uniform. It was, as it happened, one of this magi strate’s duties to attend executions. His mood reflected this prospect, and he received Nicolas with a grim look on his face, which made him rise in the commissioner’s estimation: a person who was upset by another man’s death could not be wholly bad. He did not seem shocked by Nicolas’s explanations. His one comment was that the King’s will prevailed over rules and customs which, in any case, everyone interpreted in his own fashion, that the normal order of things had been disrupted and that he was past having anything to say about a procedure so extraordinary that he had never known anything like it in his life.

Gradually becoming heated, he made a few unfriendly comments, but, immediately remembering that he was addressing someone who had the confidence of the King, he cut short his exordium and adopted a softer tone, putting his irritation down to a momentary feeling of exhaustion. Before long, he had given his consent to everything that Nicolas proposed concerning both the case of the Galaine family and that of Major Langlumé – including a hearing in Monsieur de Sartine’s courtroom, the date of which had still to be fixed, to which all the members of the Galaine household would be summoned, and in the course of
which, he guaranteed, the culprits would be identified and formally charged. Given the particular nature of the investigation and the act of exorcism authorised by His Majesty and by the Archbishop of Paris, the intention was to hold this hearing
in camera
, to avoid any information which might disturb the populace and threaten public order filtering out.

Agreeing to this proposal, Monsieur Testard du Lys recalled with a learned air, as if to justify himself in his own eyes, that at the end of the previous century, a terrible wave of poisonings had shaken the city and the present King’s grandfather had created a special court, the
Chambre ardente
, to hear these cases, as well as – and here he lowered his voice – to consider the terrible accusations against the King’s mistress, who was suspected of having participated in black masses. Nicolas let him ramble on: in his own opinion, the two situations had nothing in common except the desire to shroud in secrecy certain proceedings that touched on scandalous matters.

By the end, the Criminal Lieutenant had tempered his original attitude to such an extent that he proclaimed himself quite touched by the fact that there existed, among the staff of the Lieutenant General of Police, magistrates who were
conscientious
enough to come to him for advice. He recommended Nicolas to persevere in his course of action and added that in doing so he would always have his ear and be assured of his benevolence. They parted, well pleased with each other.

As Nicolas was leaving the office, Old Marie came up to him, out of breath, and informed him that Monsieur de Sartine, who had arrived suddenly during the night, wished to see him at once. He ordered the coachman to take him to police headquarters
where, as soon as he arrived, a nervous footman told him that his master was in a particularly foul mood. He was reassured to find his chief sitting behind his desk looking through his wigs – always a good sign. This propitiatory exercise often foretold the dominant characteristic of the day. At the moment, he had a grey wig with darker highlights in his hands, and was rolling one of the curls round his fingers. Each time he stretched it, it fell back into shape, like a well-coiled spring.

‘Look at this extraordinary model, my dear Nicolas. I got it from Palermo. It was made by an ex-Jesuit expelled from Portugal. It remains to be seen if it lasts the course and retains its quality after constant use and daily brushing.’ Sartine put the object down and turned to Nicolas. ‘Now then, Commissioner, where have you got to with the archbishop and the grotesque ceremonies you asked permission to organise? It’s all dragging on, and His Majesty, whom I’ve just left …’

He sighed as if this observation saddened him, suggesting as it did that the King had been feasting until late into the night.

‘Anyway, the King advised me once again to hurry things along. The interests of the State are involved, and we must make sure that the Church doesn’t exceed the limits we have set. He also impressed on me how important it is to keep this matter absolutely secret. Let one journalist with a nose for scandal get hold of it, and immediately every clandestine printing works in France, Navarre, and especially London and the Hague,
1
will start putting out lampoons and ballads.’

An idea occurred to Nicolas as his chief spoke: a way to get what he wanted while leaving Monsieur de Sartine with the impression that he had thought of it himself and, even better, that
he was imposing it on his narrow-minded subordinates who did not really see the need for it.

‘Monsieur, I have the satisfaction of informing you that the exorcism was performed. Successfully, I believe. It led to the discovery of the body of a new-born baby in the cellar of the Galaine house. We have presumed infanticide and I am currently in the final stages of my investigation. I fully hope to finish today and, in your presence and that of the Criminal Lieutenant, to publicly confront the suspects with my conclusions.’

The word ‘publicly’, so casually tossed off, was like a spark in a powder keg.

‘What do you mean, “publicly”? Are you out of your mind, Monsieur? Didn’t you hear what I just said? Do I have to dot the i’s and cross the t’s – to you of all people, with your many years of navigating the choppy waters of crime? Don’t you consult the compass or work the tiller any longer in such delicate cases?’

‘I understand, Monsieur. You’d prefer a session behind closed doors. Given the number of suspects, I think we’d need your courtroom at the Châtelet. And perhaps it would be advisable not to inform the Criminal Lieutenant …’

‘He’s doing it again! Not inviting Monsieur Testard du Lys would be to violate the rules of a procedure which he himself … er … he himself … authorised us to use with great freedom.’

Suddenly his stern face lit up and he burst out laughing, sending the curls of the grey wig flying.

‘By God, you had me worried for a minute! You don’t usually talk such nonsense! You’re a sly one, but I see we’re in agreement. A hearing
in camera
in my courtroom with the Criminal
Lieutenant who will, I hope, spare us lengthy commentaries and be content to watch.’

‘It was all in a good cause,’ said Nicolas, also laughing.

‘Commissioner, I don’t hold it against you. The truths we least like hearing are those we most need to hear. To return to the matter in hand, I don’t have time to discuss it with you at the moment. You assure me that we will finish tomorrow and that the demon – or whatever took its place – will no longer have a part to play. Let’s see what happens in my courtroom, behind closed doors!’

‘Monsieur, only the ignorant can be totally assured of anything. But I do hope to be in a position to bring things to a satisfactory conclusion.’

‘Well said, Monsieur. And where are you off to now?’

‘To a barn, and then to the Basse-Geôle where we will verify if there was indeed an infanticide.’

‘Monsieur Sanson will be lending a hand, I assume? He’s at an execution right now.’

‘We’ll fetch him from the foot of the scaffold if need be!’

‘Until tomorrow then, at five o’clock in the afternoon. Be on time and take all necessary measures. Then, if everything goes as you hope, the King is expecting a detailed report, from your own mouth. That’s something you’re good at.’

Monsieur de Sartine’s good humour was very obvious now. Nicolas assumed that the previous night’s supper with the King had a lot to do with it. Turning away from him, the Lieutenant General hastened to open an oblong box and carefully took out an object wrapped in silk paper. It was a head of lilac-coloured velvet on which sat a magnificent tawny wig. Carried away with enthusiasm, he showed the wig to Nicolas.

‘Splendid, isn’t it? It’s a speciality wig by Friedrich Strubb, a master from Heidelberg. So brilliant! So light! So sensual! Good hunting, Nicolas.’

The commissioner withdrew, pleased to have obtained
everything
he wanted. He left police headquarters whistling a melody from an opera by old Rameau and set off on foot, with his carriage following behind. It looked like it would be a beautiful day, and this well-to-do district of Paris, with its abundant greenery, exuded an air of youth and light-heartedness, enhanced by the colours of the flower girls. The scent of the flowers struggled with the ever-present odours of the city. In the distance, the morning sounds of the more animated districts could be heard. It was too early to go to the Basse-Geôle. The most sensible thing to do would be to take a short cut to the Rue Royale area, where the vast quadrilateral convent of the Conception was situated. He idled a while longer amid the new mansions, then got back in his carriage.

The high perimeter wall of the convent came into view. Nicolas drove all the way round it, looking at the old houses built into the wall at the ends of little dead-end streets. At last, at the end of a narrow dirt track lined with flowering lilacs, he saw a
half-collapsed
old barn, leaning up against an even more ancient building. A wooden fence led to a vegetable garden, bordered by a clump of trees. This rural spot, miraculously preserved in the heart of the city, was filled with birdsong. The wooden barn door creaked open. Inside, there were gardening tools, an old cart and the remains of a pile of hay from the previous season. The noonday heat and the silence of the place evoked no images of
blood and death. Nicolas sat down on a block of wood, picked up a twig, and began drawing geometric shapes on the ground. He let his mind wander. Suddenly, the end of the twig snagged
something
on the hay-strewn ground. It was a stained piece of cloth. He carefully picked it up and looked at it. It seemed to be a fine percale handkerchief. Nicolas shook it to get the earth and vegetable matter off. Beneath his fingers, he could feel something finely embroidered into the material. It was two intertwined initials: a C and a G. Could the handkerchief have belonged to the Galaine family? Several of its members had the same initials: Claude, who had died in New France (in which case the
handkerchief
might have belonged to Élodie, his daughter), Charles Galaine the furrier, and the victim’s two aunts, Camille and Charlotte …

Finding this clue where vague but credible testimony had placed an incident involving an angry Élodie being dragged inside by a person who might have been Naganda had to be significant. Nicolas carefully put it in his pocket, and then got down on his knees and went over the ground with a fine-tooth comb. Although he examined every inch of the barn, he found nothing else. He looked at his watch. It was high time he got back to the Châtelet for the autopsy on the baby, which he hoped would tell him a lot. He found his coachman fast asleep in the hot June sun. The horse had moved away from the path towards the ditch, taking the carriage with him, and was now decapitating a bank of budding dandelions with relish.

At the Basse-Geôle, Nicolas found Bourdeau and Semacgus conversing in low voices. He was not at all surprised to hear them discussing a nice little wine from the slopes of Suresnes, a
speciality of an open-air tavern near the Vaugirard tollgate. On the autopsy table, the meagre remains found in the cellar in Rue Saint-Honoré lay beneath a small piece of cloth. Bourdeau announced that Sanson would not be much longer: informed that they required his services, he had promised to cut short – the phrase made Semacgus laugh – the formalities that always followed an execution, and to join them without delay.

No sooner had the inspector finished speaking than Sanson appeared. Nicolas had the impression, or the illusion, that he had become a different man. Was he still under the influence of what he had recently found out about his friend? Perhaps it had
something
to do with the fact that he was dressed in the traditional costume of his profession – the red jacket embroidered with a black ladder and gallows, the blue breeches, the crimson bicorn – and carried a sword at his side. His face, pale at the best of times, seemed ashen and cold, an impression reinforced by his eyes, which stared unseeing into space. Becoming aware of their presence, he shook himself, as if emerging from a nightmare, and greeted them all in his usual ceremonious tone.