The Saint-Florentin Murders (26 page)

A deep voice was muttering something close to him. He sat up with a start.

‘Well, well!’ cried Semacgus. ‘You’ve been fighting windmills! Your bed is ravaged. You must have had a fever … You’ve even lost your breeches.’

Embarrassed, Nicolas pulled up the sheet. Semacgus lifted the bandage and examined the wound. His big nose was quivering and his eyes smiling in a manner that was extremely ironic.

‘It’s looking good. The wound has already closed and a scab is forming. One more scar to your name. You bear your service record on your body. It enhances your innate charm.’

Nicolas was wondering about what had happened that night. Had it been a dream? But there were so many details he remembered … Wasn’t he completely unpregnated with a light scent and the smell of another body? It was obvious that the wily Semacgus had noticed, which explained that air of smugness. He mocked himself. Was it only when someone tried to kill him that he found himself in such a flattering position? The same thing had happened with La Satin … He felt sufficiently recovered to get back to Paris. The naval surgeon had no objection.

After putting on one of the admiral’s shirts, his own having
been torn to shreds, Nicolas again donned his fine grey coat, now stained, and went down to take his leave. He was greeted warmly by the Comte d’Arranet, who again invited him to consider this house as his own. There was no sign of Aimée; admittedly, it was early. His departure went off without incident. The coast was clear: the servants had been up all night to make sure that no new danger threatened him. Tribord gave him an enthusiastic wave. Semacgus remarked that he had made a friend, a friend who could be useful.

Nicolas did not reply, still trying to catch any allusion on the part of the surgeon to the events of the previous night. From time to time, he wondered if it had all been a dream. And yet, the memories and traces of Mademoiselle d’Arranet’s nocturnal visit remained so vivid, so tangible that he found that hard to believe. He strove not to think, putting off until later the task of
contemplating
a situation the consequences of which were hard to untangle in the heat of the moment. Too many different feelings were at work in him. Above all, he preferred for now to dismiss his qualms at having betrayed the Comte d’Arranet’s trust and violated the laws of hospitality.

So it was that they rode back to the Hôtel de la Belle Image in silence. There, he changed and paid his bill. On the road to Paris, Semacgus abandoned him to his thoughts. Nicolas pretended to sleep. In the end, he shook himself like a horse confronted with a hurdle and, once past the Porte de la Conférence, asked to be taken to the Châtelet. There was no more time to lose; the investigation had to resume. It was almost midday and he was hoping to find Bourdeau.

Looking grave, the inspector greeted them at the door of the
duty office with the news that a third victim of the killer with the hand had just been discovered in the early hours of the morning, on the banks of Île des Cygnes.

As Semacgus wanted to take part in the expedition, he put his carriage at their disposal. Without omitting any detail, Nicolas informed them of the events that had taken place at Versailles and the state of his investigations. What he had discovered about the Duc de La Vrillière’s artificial hand astounded them. The inspector admitted that it was an extremely important clue, which could take the investigation into some very murky areas. He spontaneously posed the question that Nicolas had already been asking himself: why had he, supposedly loyal to Sartine, been chosen to conduct the investigation?

Semacgus suggested two possible answers: either the minister was hoping in this way to keep a close watch on the investigation by using a colleague who was well known to him, or he considered the case so serious that only Nicolas appeared to him capable of solving it. To this, Nicolas himself objected that, if that were so, the minister should have been perfectly open with him, which had not been the case. A long silence followed, in which the three friends continued to pursue their thoughts. The carriage had crossed the Seine and was driving along the
quais
on the left bank, through the neighbourhoods of Beau Grenelle and
Gros Caillou, to get to the
faubourg
downstream of the city.

Nicolas forced himself out of his reverie. ‘How did you learn of the discovery of the third body?’ he asked.

‘There was a general instruction to all the commissioners and inspectors, as well as the men of the watch, to report any discovery of this nature to the duty office,’ replied Bourdeau.

‘Do we know anything so far?’

An unformulated thought crossed his mind like a sacrilege: he would have to include the Duc de La Vrillière among the suspects and check his whereabouts at the time of the murder.

Bourdeau appeared embarrassed. ‘What we know so far is fairly gruesome. You know the nature of the place where the victim was discovered. The hundred thousand oxen brought into Paris to be slaughtered for meat leave behind four hundred thousand feet, not to mention horns and intestines. All these remains are collected together, put on wagons, taken to that infernal island and thrown into vast incinerators, which work round the clock, to be turned into oil for lamps, night lights, frying, and to grease the cogs of machines. That’s Île des Cygnes!’

‘A pretty name for such an unpleasant place!’ said Semacgus. ‘It would appear that we’re getting close to it, judging by the stench. It’s worse than the bilges on a three-decker!’

The carriage turned right towards the little arched bridge over the canal separating the island from the bank. A number of
rudimentary
smoke-shrouded buildings rose amid dismal vegetation strewn with a few poplars. They saw horses, a stretcher, an empty wagon and a group of men who seemed to be waiting for them.

Nicolas recognised Rabouine, no doubt dispatched by Bourdeau to keep an eye on things, and an officer of the watch named
Baroliot, whom he had met several times in the course of his investigations. A large red-faced man was talking to them excitedly and wiping his brow with a kind of rage.

Baroliot approached and greeted them. ‘Nasty business, Commissioner.’

He led them to the far end of a small yard, where a wagon was parked, with a grey nag harnessed to it. The contents were piled high, and covered with a tarpaulin; the stench that escaped from it left no doubt as to their nature. Behind the wagon was a tall openwork door half concealing the top of a huge incinerator from which thick black smoke emerged.

‘The tripe shop of Île des Cygnes,’ said Rabouine.

Helped by Baroliot, he removed the tarpaulin. The smell became even more overpowering. Bourdeau took out a pipe and hastened to light it. Nicolas took out his snuff box, hurriedly took a pinch, and abandoned himself with delight to a prolonged bout of sneezing.

At first sight, the wagon contained a heap of feet, horns and guts. The last flies of the season covered it like a thick black cloak, making it difficult to get a good look at the contents. It was only when they moved closer that they were able to make out a body amid this horror, although all that could really be seen was a pale, almost yellow face with its eyes open, the young, almost childlike features frozen in an expression of terrified surprise. Nicolas ordered the corpse to be taken down. Some workers were called. Armed with huge wooden shovels, they carefully dug out the body and placed it on a stretcher. Semacgus waved a branch which he had just torn off a shrub to disperse the persistent swarm of insects. He leant over the body.

 ‘A young girl or woman of about, hmmm … eighteen or twenty … Marks of smallpox. Eyes blue, as far as it’s still possible to judge. Gaping wound on the neck. Appears to be almost naked. An undershirt, striped.’

‘Time of death?’ asked Nicolas.

‘Hard to say. We should find out more from the autopsy.’

‘Who found her?’ asked Bourdeau.

The fat man hurried forward. ‘The morning shift, as they emptied the wagon.’ He pointed to the tall door. ‘There’s a slope up there. The guts are slid straight into the incinerator. The men are so used to it, they don’t really think about it any more.’

‘Could the body have escaped their attention?’

‘Yes, of course. According to them, they carry out their work quite mechanically.’

‘So something unusual alerted them?’

The man opened his hand and gave Nicolas a small round object. ‘The rays of the rising sun hit this; that was how they saw the girl. Actually, apart from that, the wagon seemed less full than usual.’

‘A sweet box,’ said Nicolas. He turned it, making it shimmer. It was golden, and bore a garland of green stones and, on the lid, a coloured enamel miniature representing four Cupids freeing birds from a cage, with the words ‘Cupid the engraver’ and four lines of verse:

He asked Semacgus for his spectacles. The doctor handed them to him, annoyed at having to put on public display a resource that had become indispensable to him. Nicolas folded them to use as a magnifying glass. He turned the sweet box, now this way, now that. At last, with a sigh of pleasure, he made out a hallmark depicting the head of a pointer. He opened the box.

‘My friends,’ he said, ‘this is, in fact, a pill box …’ When he saw the contents, he exclaimed in surprise, ‘Cantharides! What are these stimulants doing on the body of a young girl?’

‘Or a prostitute,’ said Semacgus. ‘The less robust of them use it as an aid. It also helps to release a reproductive frenzy in the most barren of women.’

In this field, thought Nicolas, Semacgus’s experience was unequalled, although he was never sure if it was his experience as a doctor or as a former libertine. The other thing that occurred to him was that this was the second time this particular aphrodisiac had made an appearance in the investigation.

Pursuing his thoughts, Nicolas turned to Rabouine. ‘Do you have any idea how these workers managed to see this object? In any case, I think we should thank them for their honesty.’

‘It must have slipped out of the pocket of her undershirt … There’s a gusset.’

Nicolas was musing over these various pieces of information, trying to pull them all together. There was one element missing.

‘I need to know the exact route followed by this wagon, as well as its timetable, if that’s possible. Bring me the driver.’

The fat man with the bulging eyes stepped forward. ‘You need to understand, Commissioner, that this transport goes on without interruption throughout the day. The last wagon arrives here at
about three in the morning, and the driver comes and picks it up, empty, at about seven. Today he never turned up …’

‘That’s an interesting point, and it limits the period of time during which the murder may have been committed. If Semacgus can narrow it down even more, we won’t be far from the truth.’

‘Quite right, Pierre,’ said Nicolas. ‘Let’s draw up a plan of campaign. The body needs to be taken to the Basse-Geôle, where Monsieur Semacgus will give it a closer examination. If he agrees.’

The surgeon nodded his consent.

‘Pierre and Rabouine, I have two missions for you,’ the commissioner went on. ‘Find me the driver of this wagon. I want to question him. As for this sweet box or pill box, try to find an expert who can determine its origin. It’s an expensive item and I have no doubt we will find its maker. And when we do …’ He consulted his watch. ‘Let’s meet again at the Grand Châtelet on the stroke of six to see where we’ve got to. Bourdeau, anything new on the second victim?’ His mind was racing. ‘Unfortunately, we only have the doctor’s carriage at our disposal.’

‘No,’ said Bourdeau, ‘I arranged for another one to follow us in case we needed it. As for the second victim, fate has smiled on me. My spies have been concentrating on the world of prostitutes. It’s a world where everyone knows everyone else and the slightest absence, however short, or a change in habits, gets noticed.’

He tapped out his pipe, put it away, took out his glasses and a piece of paper, and started reading.

‘Mademoiselle Julie Jeanne Marot, born in Suzonnecourt, Champagne, aged nineteen. Lost both her father and mother, vineyard owners of that locality, and came to Paris a year ago to
enter service. Was picked up by Madame Larue, a midwife of Rue Bourg-l’Abbé, well known as a brothel-keeper. She immediately procured her to a young man of her acquaintance, an old customer, who, despite the girl’s screams, deflowered her. Later, the girl, realising that the old woman was prostituting her without paying her anything, left her and went and joined La Hilaire, in Cul-de-sac Saint-Fiacre. Her new mistress thought she was the perfect addition to her stable and took better care of her. She renamed her L’Étoile and introduced her to everyone as the new star. Now completely adapted to the life, she participated in parties and dinners of extreme debauchery.’

‘Congratulations! We must go further into this. Who was keeping her? Were there several men? Apart from servicing casual customers, these girls usually combine business and pleasure and latch on to some good-looking beau. What were her haunts? Make the usual enquiries. You know what to do, and you do it much better than I could.’

The corpse was placed on a wagon belonging to the watch and covered with a tarpaulin. The cortege set off towards Paris. Nicolas, looking out through the lowered window, noticed a street at right angles to the one they were on.

‘Let’s not forget the Invalides slaughterhouse, it’s quite close to here. We mustn’t forget to check if the wagon from Île des Cygnes stops there.’

He was thinking aloud, and Semacgus, who was listening, did not think he had to answer.

‘It’s vitally important that we determine when and where the body was dumped on the wagon. Either to be discovered, or to disappear without a trace in the incinerator on Île des Cygnes.’

‘And the sweet box?’ said Semacgus. ‘Valuable items like that often bear the name either of the donor or of the person who receives it.’

‘There’s the rub! Nothing, silence. Just the hallmark. Why abandon such a treasure? Was it simply forgotten? I don’t think so, the girl was half naked. I suspect that it was put there on purpose, to arouse our curiosity.’

‘That answers your previous questions. In that case, the body was meant to be found.’

‘It seems like it. Let’s sum up. The murderer dumps the body on the wagon. For some reason, the sweet box is with it. It’s assumed, even hoped, that it will be discovered.’

‘Perhaps. But there’s no name on the box.’

‘Precisely, precisely!’ He gave a disconcerted Semacgus a friendly tap on the shoulder. ‘Isn’t it the subtlest thing to pretend to fall into traps which are set for us?’

‘I don’t quite know what you mean.’

‘Could we be dealing with someone really clever? This sweet box is urging us to wager on our own intelligence.’

Semacgus was starting to be worried. Was this some kind of attack, a result of last night’s wound? Nicolas certainly appeared feverish.

‘I’m finding it increasingly hard to follow you.’

‘Just think! If this sweet box, being such an obvious clue, led us directly to its owner or to the person who received it and made him or her a suspect, we would be within our rights to doubt the genuineness of the clue and we would be led to assume that someone was trying to force our hand.’

‘Instead of which …’

‘Without direct clues, we’re faced with a difficult task, which may present us with more genuine discoveries. Let me remind you that the Duc de La Vrillière remains the prime suspect, because of the very nature of the murder weapon. That this weapon has disappeared without his being able to account for that disappearance. That his whereabouts at the time of the first murder do not appear to give him an alibi. That we need to determine his whereabouts for the two other murders, once we’ve narrowed down the exact time of the latest one.’

‘If I understand correctly, you fear there will be no alibi for any of the three crimes?’

‘I do indeed fear so, for, if our hypothesis is correct, we are dealing with a tough adversary.’

A long silence fell. Semacgus did not like to see Nicolas looking so feverish. He also knew how stupid it would be to try to calm him down. Like a hunting dog, when he was on the trail he would not give up.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked, to set his mind at rest.

Nicolas did not reply. There was a fleeting thought at the back of his mind, something he could not at the moment pin down, but something he was convinced was important. He was still searching for it when they were in the main hall of the
Basse-Geôle
. Pressed for time, he had given up the idea of sending for Sanson. He needed a rapid result to give the investigation a new impetus. Semacgus had had to borrow some instruments from the local doctor at the Châtelet, who had only agreed on the express orders of the commissioner. A few days earlier, thought Nicolas, there was no doubt that he would have been refused, considered by that mediocre little world as being on the sidelines, discredited,
in virtual exile. The news of his return to favour had spread like wildfire, and everything had returned to normal.