The Saint-Florentin Murders (30 page)

‘Why didn't you call the watch immediately?'

‘Nothing could have brought her back to life, and where she was she was sure to be discovered as soon as the sun rose. But … you know my little ways … I couldn't resist … they were so delightful …'

From his brown woollen frock coat, he took a pair of dancing
shoes similar to those worn by Marguerite Pindron, and of the same elegant workmanship.

‘The interest of what you've brought me somewhat tempers my anger at the fact that you concealed information and clues from the King's police force,' said Nicolas. ‘Are you aware how great a sin that is?'

‘I dare to hope, Commissioner,' replied Restif, hypocritically, ‘that the interest of my words, and what I still have to tell you, will appease your legitimate annoyance.'

‘I'm listening.'

‘Not only did I recognise the girl, but I have a description of the man who was talking to her.'

‘As far as the girl's concerned,' replied Nicolas, impassively, ‘you're not off the hook yet. You'll have to come with me to the Basse-Geôle to identify the body, and take a look at another.'

‘Will I be able to see the feet?'

Nicolas shrugged in exasperation. ‘That's enough, Monsieur! Just carry on, I'm listening.'

‘The corrupter in Rue Pavée,' he said, rubbing his hands, ‘was not unknown to me. This wasn't the first time I'd caught him at these vile activities.'

‘Do you know his name?'

‘Oh, no. Nor can I describe him, for he habitually wears a cloak with the collar turned up and his hat pulled right down. On the other hand, I've twice managed to follow him. He uses a cab and, would you believe, drives it himself.'

‘Would you by any chance have noticed the number?'

‘Indeed I did,' said Restif triumphantly. ‘It's 34 NPP.'

Nicolas gave a start. Could it really be that, by some incredible
coincidence, the cab he had taken to go to Popincourt, the number of which echoed his own age, had been driven by someone involved in this grim affair? Sometimes, a detective's luck depended on coincidence.

‘Do you think he picks up women for himself?'

‘Hardly! My instinct tells me he's part of a group. In fact, I'm convinced of it. The brothel-keepers probably know more about this than I do. They're the ones you should ask.'

There was a knock at the door of the duty office. It opened and the merry faces of Sanson and Semacgus appeared. Restif turned pale when he recognised the executioner, and had to sit down as if he were about to faint. Nicolas drew his friends into the gallery and asked Old Marie to give the visitor a shot of his herbal remedy.

‘My dear friends, you both look very cheerful. And you seem in a hurry to tell me something.'

‘Very definitely,' said Sanson. ‘The doctor and I have continued our examination of the two victims, and we've been able to make an observation which we're sure will surprise you.'

‘An observation,' said Semacgus, ‘that would have been surprising in only one victim, but in two …'

‘Gentlemen, tell me what you have to say, I'm undergoing tortures just listening to you.'

‘In the stomachs of the two victims, we found traces of their last meals.'

‘Is that all?' said Nicolas, stamping his feet with impatience.

‘Without Monsieur Semacgus, who has been around the world, and whose knowledge of botany is considerable, I wouldn't have known what it was. But undigested fibre is not all that common.'

‘To cut a long story short,' said Semacgus, ‘they had both been gorging themselves on pineapples. Now in this part of the world, even cultivated in a greenhouse, this
bromelia
doesn't always ripen well, which can make it hard to digest. Whether we may conclude from this that they were both in the same place, I leave to a certain highly able commissioner at the Châtelet to determine.'

Nicolas was silent for a moment. ‘What would I do without the two of you? Semacgus, where can one find greenhouse pineapples in Paris?'

‘At the Jardin du Roi, certainly. In some aristocratic mansions and, outside the walls, in certain private houses.'

Now Bourdeau appeared, followed by Rabouine. Nicolas suddenly remembered that Restif was waiting. They went to fetch him, and a long procession wound through the bowels of the old feudal castle. It did not take Restif long to identify the girl from Impasse Glatigny. To be even more certain, Nicolas had the shoes tried on the corpse. They were also found to match the ones discovered in the roasting room of the Saint-Florentin mansion. Restif had recovered his spirits and was watching these experiments with an expression of ecstasy. He was unable to identify the other body. He was ceremoniously conducted to the entrance of the Grand Châtelet, where he immediately melted into the crowd. The conference resumed in the duty office. Nicolas informed those who had not been present what he had just learnt from ‘the owl'.

‘In order to restrict the search,' he said, ‘I suggest we rule out the aristocratic mansions and the Jardin du Roi. We can always go back to them if our search proves fruitless. Given that the corpses have been discovered in Paris, the solution lies in the city or in the
faubourgs
.'

‘What are your immediate intentions?' asked Bourdeau. ‘Any instructions?'

‘Following Restif's advice, I'm going to pay a little visit to the Dauphin Couronné. I want to find out a little more about these Parisian parties and the people who organise them. I'm sure La Présidente will be able to tell me something on the subject. As for you, Pierre, I'd like you to investigate Monsieur Bourdier, the engineer who lives at the corner of Rue des Canettes. He's needed for some top-secret work. Monsieur de Sartine wants to know if he can count on the man's loyalty.' He looked at his watch; it was two thirty. ‘Let's meet here again at seven.'

Nicolas got back to his carriage. He noted that a new young messenger boy had replaced the old one, who had shot up and now served the Secretary of State for the Navy. In passing, he also observed that Rue Royale was being cleared, and that the stones and trenches which had caused the terrible disaster of 1770 had completely disappeared. The door of the Dauphin Couronné brought back memories of his early years in Paris. The little black girl who used to open the door to him was now a tall young woman who greeted him joyfully and threw her arms around his neck.

‘Madame will be pleased to see Monsieur!'

Her words surprised him somewhat, for his relations with La Présidente had always been quite distant – although he was grateful to her, of course, for her indiscretion in London, without which he would never have discovered that he was a father.

He thought he had gone back ten years into the past. There, on an upholstered chaise longue, lay La Paulet, the former mistress
of the place, enveloped in a satin chenille with a flowery pattern, apparently asleep. Her slack face revealed her ravaged, distended flesh, in whose folds, as always, the top layers of cream and rouge had cracked. Her dressing gown had slipped, revealing monstrously swollen legs, wrapped in bands of pink fabric. He felt as if he were in front of a flower stall in the market from which a pair of swollen feet stuck out incongruously, spilling over the sides of her soft leather slippers. He coughed, to announce himself. The mass shook itself, and all at once he saw those familiar inquisitive little eyes. An ambiguous smile lit up her face. She lifted her wig and scratched her ivory-white cranium. He remembered that in the old days she would take great care of what remained of her hair, massaging it every day with ointment of beef extract and orange flower water. The years had passed …

She guessed what he was thinking. ‘You're peering at … my poor head,' she said with her customary familiarity. ‘There were only a few tufts left. Now I just sponge it. No more vermin, no more scabs. Everything is clear. Damn it, don't just stand there gawping! I know you're surprised to see me. Yes, I'm back on duty and plan to make a few new appointments.'

‘But what about La Présidente?'

‘Oh, don't talk to me about her! No sooner was she in the saddle than she started playing the grand lady, looking down her nose at everyone as if she was born in the chapter of
Notre-Dame
!' She crossed herself. ‘Instead of running the business as I asked her, she lorded it over everyone, got drunk, spent her money on trifles. The way it was going, everything that had taken years of hard labour on my part to build up would soon have been frittered away.'

‘So what happened?'

‘You know me. I don't bear a grudge, but things had gone too far, and the bailiffs would have been at the door before long. I left my retreat and my poor people to save the house. Otherwise, ruin! You can't imagine how hard it was to restore order. La Présidente had lost control, and everyone was taking advantage of her, to the detriment of the house's reputation. Once Madame Disaster had been booted out, I got down to work despite my infirmities.' She sighed. ‘Oh, how I miss La Satin!'

‘But you seem to be in rude health,' said Nicolas. ‘You've put on a little weight perhaps, but your complexion is just as rosy.'

‘That's very bold of you to make fun of me! All this is your fault. Did you have to make La Satin desert me? I was too
good-hearted
. And why did you thrust me into the arms of your smooth-talking master, that Monsieur de Noblecourt I didn't know from Adam? He really hoodwinked me, that one! Madame Paulet here, Madame Paulet there. I should have stuck to my path, which is to believe only what I find out for myself and not listen to yarns. He played on old Paulet, staking everything on my goodness: my affection for the boy, my concern to please an old friend like you. And to what end? Here I am, plunged back into business and putting my immortal soul at risk.'

She began to weep, but Nicolas noticed that no tears fell.

‘Come now,' he said, ‘you've made La Satin and my son very happy. That should weigh heavily in the eyes of the Lord.'

‘Don't talk to me about La Satin!' she retorted through pursed lips. ‘You've made her really unhappy. I visited her yesterday in Rue du Bac. You wanted to put her in a shop, as if white lace could wipe out the past … Well, why don't you let her do as she sees
fit? You seem to forget that your son was born in the aristocracy of the lower depths and that, whether you like it or not, he will graze where he has crawled! Oh yes, Marquis …'

Nicolas bit his lips in order not to reply. Nothing good would come of quarrelling. He knew there was a kernel of truth in the old woman's criticisms. Better to avoid saying anything he could not retract; that would only make her more stubborn.

‘That's a private matter,' he said. ‘We can talk about it again when we've both cooled down. For the moment, my friend Paulet should not forget that her house enjoys a special leniency from the police and that if she does not want things to change …'

She gave a forced smile. ‘I knew that was coming … So, if I understand correctly, you have something to ask old Paulet?'

‘My dear Paulet, you always understand men who know the right way to speak to you. In the old days, you used to organise parties in certain well-equipped houses, little performances in which you couldn't tell where fantasy ended and reality began. What about now?'

‘They still go on,' she said, obstinately. ‘But times have changed, and the devotees handle it all themselves.'

‘What do you mean?'

Her little eyes twinkled, as if hit by a strong light. ‘A young man came here several times and asked me to supply him with young girls for his seraglio and some well-built stallions, as he put it, who could provide … La Paulet doesn't stoop to things like that.'

‘Can you describe him?'

‘Young, the usual buck.'

‘If he shows up again let me know.'

‘I don't dip my toes in those waters, my boy. I have my morality. I've already told you too much. Alas, everything's going from bad to worse, girls are flooding in from all over, driving the taste for novelty. The days when we were like a family – that's all over! This is the age of matchmakers and pimps!'

‘As always, La Paulet remains true to her principles,' concluded Nicolas with a smile. ‘A well-kept house, no gambling, regular girls and the best possible relationship with the police. I bid you farewell.'

‘Go on, make fun of your poor friend,' she grunted. ‘You've always brought me trouble.' She collapsed onto her chaise longue which creaked beneath her weight.

‘This is the first time you haven't offered me any ratafia.'

As he went out, he heard a curse and the sound of a piece of porcelain smashing against a wall.

At seven o'clock, Bourdeau and Rabouine joined Nicolas at the Grand Châtelet. They had had the idea of consulting a botanist from the Jardin du Roi to try and establish who had made enquiries about purchasing pineapple seeds. In this way, they had drawn up a list of some fifteen residences, which would all have to be checked the following day. Then they had proceeded to Rue des Canettes. It was here that the man who had made Monsieur de Sartine's organ of wigs had his workshop. The family were in desperate straits. Driven into a corner, Bourdier had revealed that he was under pressure from an Englishman who was offering him a fantastic fee to go to England and use his skills in a cotton mill, where he would make technical improvements for the benefit of
the East India Company. The description of his English contact matched that of Lord Ashbury, alias Francis Sefton. Nicolas reflected for a moment.

‘This man is under threat, and so are our interests,' he said. ‘He will end up yielding to these blandishments from across the Channel. Take the carriages you need and bring him here with his family. I'll go and see Sartine, he'll deal with it.'