The Baker's Blood Read online

  As he walked back to where La Borde was waiting, Nicolas wondered if the fugitive had been able to reach a port. Neither Lorient nor Port-Louis was far, and they were natural gateways to the East and the Indies. Speaking Breton would have made it easier to get away by land, the peasants being by nature uncooperative towards the guards from the colony and all the more inclined to help an unfortunate who was able to gain their trust by making himself understood in their language. It was starting to seem likely that the former convict had indeed been a passenger on one of the vessels of the French East India Company. He was therefore expecting a great deal from whatever details Justin Belhome could provide, as well as those that might be gleaned in Lorient. There was a possibility, though, that all these enquiries were in vain: if Hénéfiance had returned to France, it was sure to have been under another name.

  He would have to do a great deal of cross-checking in order to sift the essential facts from what was of minor importance.

  That would not be enough to find Hénéfiance. An unexpected discovery or event might well be needed to confirm that the ex-convict was indeed his mysterious adversary. Nicolas had not given up hope, trusting in a kind of efficacious grace which often intervened to help him in his investigations.

  It was getting late, and La Borde invited Nicolas to dine with him. He could, if he wished, spend the night in the little dwelling his friend had retained in an unassuming street in Versailles after the death of the late King. Nicolas realised that, with the persistence of his wife’s illness, the former man about town had not entirely given up on a life of pleasure, and had found an acceptable accommodation with heaven. The evening was a delight, much enlivened by the maid who served them, who was extremely pretty. They talked about opera, travel, cartography and publishing, and evoked emotional memories of Louis XV until late into the night.

  Saturday 6 May 1775

  Early in the morning, La Borde drove Nicolas back to the Grand Châtelet. Bad news awaited him there. An envoy from the French East India Company had tried to reach the commissioner at dawn. Justin Belhome had been discovered lying dead amid heaps of fallen files. His skull had been fractured.

  The possibility that it might have been an accident had immediately been ruled out. In his fingers, the dead man was clutching fragments from a register that had clearly been torn from his hands. The book itself had disappeared, doubtless after a violent struggle, to which the surrounding disorder bore witness. Bourdeau had rushed straight to the scene and would soon be back. He had asked that the commissioner be kept at the Châtelet if he was to reappear before then.

  This wait gave Nicolas the opportunity for some bitter reflections. So, he thought, an innocent man had died because of him. That old fixation of his had returned: Mauval killed in a duel in the dark, an old soldier hanged in his prison cell, Truche de la Chaux executed in the public square … He recalled Belhome’s kindly look as he had unhesitatingly offered his services. Why did he, Nicolas Le Floch, have to be the dark instrument of fate? What demon had led him to the attic of the French East India Company? He felt a sorrow against which reason was powerless, and found it hard to convince himself that he had nothing to do with this death. Canon Le Floch, like Noblecourt but for other reasons, had always said that coincidences were never fortuitous.

  The one positive thing he could take away from this tragedy was that it proved his investigation was moving in the right direction. Justin Belhome had died because he had discovered something that was a threat to his killer. What else could it have been but the name of the ship, or even the names of the passengers on it? An emissary had to be urgently dispatched to Lorient with instructions to scour the archives there. Luckily, their search was narrowing. It was, however, to be feared that there might be a long list in which there would be nothing to mark out the adversary. But what else could he do? If the documents kept by the French East India Company in Paris had been innocuous, they would not have led to their destruction and the death of an innocent man. Immediately, he drew up orders for a mission on one of the blank documents signed by the Duc de La Vrillière, which he kept with him permanently and which he used sparingly, and only in urgent cases. This one was extremely urgent. With that document, all doors would open to Rabouine, and even the most stubborn resistance would not stop him finding what he was supposed to find. No sooner had he affixed his seal than Bourdeau appeared.

  ‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere. The directors of the Company say that you met the victim yesterday.’

  ‘So it was in fact Justin Belhome?’

  ‘Yes. He was working there during the night, the large number of burnt candles bear witness to that. It’s a clear case of murder. Scratches, bruises, torn clothes, fractured skull. Ill-equipped physically as he was, the poor man defended himself tooth and nail …’

  Bourdeau took from his pocket some little triangles of crumpled, bloodstained paper and handed them to Nicolas, who examined them carefully.

  ‘You see, Pierre,’ he said, ‘these are corners of pages marked with the seal of the Company, a crown over a shield with fleurs-de-lis and a Neptune, the whole thing supported by two savages carrying bows. They are what remains of the register he must have been consulting when it was torn from his hands. Do you know why?’

  ‘I don’t see what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Why do you think he was protecting that register?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Because he had no doubt found some information concerning the questions I’ve been asking myself about Hénéfiance.’ He showed him the pieces of paper. ‘Look, there are page numbers, 134, 135 and 136, and half of the year 1774. All the same, all he would have found would have been the lists of the ships, and that wouldn’t have been enough to tell us what we need to know.’

  ‘So why protect that register in particular?’

  ‘No doubt there was something else in it, something more enlightening perhaps. I’m sending Rabouine to Lorient. There must be a copy of the register there.’ He gave him the signed document. ‘I want him to leave immediately. Let him take whatever he wants for his expenses. As for me, I’m off to police headquarters to show myself to the new Lieutenant General. That may be useful in the future … Will we need to perform an autopsy on the poor man?’

  ‘No. There is no doubt about the cause of death. We can rule out an accident. The door of the Company building was closed, but the porter was woken in the middle of the night by knocking. He opened up and didn’t see anyone there. It’s likely he was still half asleep and didn’t notice a thing, that’s what he says anyway. In the darkness, the killer may have slipped past him. To get out again would have been child’s play; all he needed to do was pull the door from the inside: it wasn’t locked, in order to let Belhome out.’

  ‘All of which seems quite likely!’

  ‘And the murderer seems to have had an accomplice, a woman.’

  ‘On what do you base that supposition? Do you have any evidence?’

  ‘Almost. The “owl” witnessed the scene.’

  ‘What? Was Restif there? He always seems to be where you least expect him. Good heavens, his presence could be useful to us.’

  ‘He’s here now, if you want to question him.’

  When Restif entered the office, his sidling walk reminded Nicolas of the crabs on the seashore of his native Brittany. He did not like the man or the rumours that clung to him, and always felt uneasy in his presence. He was dressed in a greenish greatcoat, and his head was covered by a long hat with raised parallel brims.

  ‘So, Monsieur Restif, still on the lookout?’

  ‘I like to wander amid the shadows of our vast capital. There are so many things to see when all eyes are closed! All secrets interest me, but especially those concerning vice and crime.’

  ‘All right, then. Tell me what you saw last night. First of all, what were you doing there?’

  ‘Judge for yourself. The thing was so strange that, as a good citizen, I wanted to tell someone
. In the early hours of the morning I went to the guardroom in Rue Vivienne and that was where I saw Inspector Bourdeau.’

  ‘Your words are far from clear. Go back to the beginning.’

  ‘To tell the truth, I was wandering near the Bibliothèque du Roi when suddenly—’

  ‘Let’s be more precise. What time was this?’

  ‘Oh, I never bother about the time, but, judging by the moon, it was between eleven o’clock and midnight. Suddenly, as I had almost reached Rue Sainte-Anne, close to the Louvois mansion, I passed a pretty young thing with skirts hitched up high, revealing perfect legs and consequently an exquisite little foot, the kind I idolise passionately. The two often go together! … In short, I retraced my steps and started following her. I was just about to inform her of the pleasure it gave me to gaze on her when a shadowy figure emerged from a semicircular carriage entrance, approached her, and whispered something in her ear. Gold coins having changed hands, she went off with him. Curious as always about what was going to happen, I remained a few steps behind, hugging the wall in silence. They led me as far as Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs. There, there was another exchange of words, which seemed to me a repetition of the first. I was soon to understand the reason for it. The monk—’

  ‘The monk? You didn’t mention that before.’

  ‘Forgive me, sometimes I get so carried away by my stories that I leave out details. Yes, a Capuchin monk. Once he had repeated his instructions to the girl, he withdrew into a niche in the wall, out of the light of the street lamps. I soon understood why. The girl knocked at the door of the French East India Company. After a while, the porter appeared. He was either half asleep or drunk, because he was quite unsteady on his feet. The girl drew him a few steps from the door, using the most provocative gestures.’

  ‘For a long time?’

  ‘As long as it took for the monk to slip inside the building. Then the girl pushed the porter away and he fell in the gutter. He got up and went back in, cursing. As for her, she didn’t bother to wait for her accomplice. She took her skirts in both hands, and ran off into the night, revealing two delightful ankles in passing. I set off in pursuit and finally, out of breath, caught up with the strumpet in Place des Victoires.’

  ‘Did you question her on her strange conduct?’

  ‘In my own fatherly way …’ He rubbed his hands. ‘“My sweet,” I said, “where are you running so fast?” Reassured by my paternal appearance, she had no hesitation in confiding in me. I saw at once that she was fairly new to the profession. Having walked all the way from her village to the big city, and having immediately been taken in hand by a handsome young French Guard, she had since been supplementing his income. The Capuchin who had approached her had fed her a cock-and-bull story to the effect that he was not really a monk but had disguised himself in order to pay a visit that night to a beauty with whom he was in love. All she had to do for him was distract the porter’s attention for a few moments. I left Colette, for that was her name, and got back to the French East India Company building just in time to see the lover in question coming out.’

  ‘Was he carrying anything?’

  ‘Now that you mention it, I did in fact have the impression that he was concealing something under his robe. I followed him at a distance as far as Passage de Valois, alongside the Palais-Royal, where, to my surprise, a carriage was waiting for him …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Alas! It drove off. But I did notice something that I’m sure will be of great interest to you.’

  ‘Out with it!’

  ‘The carriage belonged to a great house, a very great house …’ He winked, which made Nicolas think of the night bird from which the author took his pen name. ‘… that of the Prince de Conti.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Nicolas, startled by the mention of that name, which suddenly linked together other observations he had made in the course of his investigation.

  ‘Very, having seen the coat of arms on the door. Gold with a cross of gules surrounded by sixteen alerions of azure, four in each canton! I should add that a paper had been stuck over it, presumably to conceal it, but the dampness had made it transparent.’

  ‘I see. And would you be able to find this girl again?’

  ‘I’m sure I would, given time. But don’t go imagining she’ll be able to tell you any more than she told me. She was merely the accidental and innocent instrument of an odious plot.’

  ‘Do you think she’d recognise this monk?’

  ‘Impossible. He had his hood pulled down over his face and always kept well away from the street lamps.’

  ‘You have to find her for us. The day I lay my hands on this man, I will need her to identify him.’

  ‘I will do my best. You know how eager I am to please you.’

  ‘We appreciate your help,’ replied Nicolas, although his benevolent nature bridled somewhat at a character about whom he knew so many unsavoury things.

  ‘I remain your obedient servant.’

  Once Restif had gone, Nicolas was silent for a while, then resumed his instructions to Bourdeau.

  ‘Don’t forget to keep checking on the houses in Rue du Poirier. We now also need surveillance on all carriages bearing the arms of the Prince de Conti. I want to see the Temple enclosure completely surrounded by spies. We mustn’t miss a chance to flush out the stranger if he’s found refuge in that den of thieves!’

  Just as he was setting off back to police headquarters, Rabouine appeared, followed by Tirepot. Red-faced, out of breath and extremely excited, they were both clearly dying to share an important piece of news.

  ‘Something new?’ asked the commissioner impassively.

  ‘And very important!’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Tirepot first, because it’s thanks to him that everything worked out the way it did.’

  Tirepot, who was clearly in his element, assumed his wiliest expression. ‘Nicolas, my boy, you are being followed and spied on!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I say. And not by only one man: several have been taking turns to dog your steps.’

  ‘And how do you know that?’

  Tirepot gave a smug grin. ‘Well, at the request of Rabouine, who’s always very concerned about your safety, I’ve had a whole network of my people protecting you. You know from experience that the person being watched is rarely aware of it. Otherwise, that would be the end of all secret police activity.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you have been trailed wherever you have gone.’

  ‘What evidence do you have for that?’

  ‘Yesterday, you went to see Monsieur de Saint-Florentin, I mean the Duc de La Vrillière, in Monsieur de La Borde’s carriage. Oh, yes! A cab was following you at a distance. From there, you went to the French East India Company. After that, it was no longer within my province, because you went outside the walls.’

  ‘Actually, I was in Versailles. But today?’

  ‘The same as yesterday. When you got to the Grand Châtelet, Monsieur de La Borde’s coach had its counterpart behind it.’

  ‘What are we waiting for to arrest this person?’ said Nicolas.

  ‘Ah-ha!’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘We decided to catch him in his own trap, so to speak!’

  ‘Let’s stop playing blind man’s buff. Enlighten me! But tell me one thing first: how did you spot my pursuer?’

  ‘Ah! We knew you’d come back to the Châtelet sooner or later. We just had to wait. And in fact, a cab was following you.’

  ‘So he’s still outside, waiting for me?’

  ‘What do you take us for? We’re cleverer than that. We went just that bit too close to the cab in question. Whoever was inside must have been intrigued by our tricks, and the cab immediately left.’

  ‘So you lost it?’

  ‘No,’ said Rabouine, taking up the story, ‘we deliberately forced it to decamp, the better to have it followed. Tirepot’s band are
doing their job as we speak, and should be reporting back to us as it moves about.’

  ‘Good,’ concluded Nicolas. ‘I’ll leave you now. Bourdeau will stay here, while I go to police headquarters. Rabouine, try to clear this up before you leave on your mission. Pierre will give you the details.’

  Nicolas’s visit to Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin left him feeling bewildered. The new Lieutenant General of Police, a short, impolite man in a reddish wig, received him very briefly, merely ordering him to continue with the cases in progress and report back to him in a few days. These hurriedly uttered words betrayed neither warmth nor mistrust. Nicolas realised that this relatively benign treatment from a man with such an unpleasant reputation was due to the Duc de La Vrillière’s recommendation. Now he understood why he had been summoned by Monsieur de La Borde to the Saint-Florentin mansion: the Minister of the King’s Household had wanted that audience to be private, so that Monsieur Albert would not hear of it. This visit to police headquarters lost him some precious time, the new Lieutenant General’s unfriendly entourage having kept him waiting for a while. Back at the Grand Châtelet, he found Bourdeau in a darkly humorous mood. The Chevalier de Lastire had just dropped by, bringing some unexpected news: he had found Caminet.

  ‘Where was the body?’ asked Nicolas immediately. ‘We must summon Sanson and Semacgus.’

  ‘Wait! There’s no body. No one has died. The young man, according to your friend, was hiding out in a clandestine gambling den in Rue des Moineaux in the Saint-Roch district.’

  ‘How did the chevalier discover him?’

  ‘He’s been frequenting this den as part of what he calls his missions. In the course of a game – they were playing piquet, and you know how easy it is to cheat at piquet – there was an accusation of cheating, which led to a brawl. There were too many high cards in the pack, it seems, and Caminet was careful to cut it in such a way that he always had a high card at the bottom.’