The Baker's Blood Read online

  ‘But what identity has he assumed?’ asked Lenoir.

  Nicolas closed his eyes and fell silent for some time. ‘That is indeed the question! My wager is that he was often hidden in the cowl of a Capuchin monk … He knows his enemy’s address, he wants to punish him and take his revenge. He uses Matisset to gain information about the Mourut household. The baker’s maid, La Babine, plays a major role in this. We come to the night of 30 April to 1 May. At the house of La Gourdan in Rue des Deux-Ponts-Saint-Sauveur, Mourut, his wife, Caminet and a third man who must have been Hénéfiance …’

  ‘It isn’t with suppositions,’ cried Sartine, ‘that we—’

  ‘Let’s just get to the point!’

  ‘Caminet, corrupted by Hénéfiance, presents himself conspicuously to the baker as he is leaving. The baker waits for him at the door. Caminet appears, there is an altercation, they come to blows, and the apprentice pretends to fall on a boundary stone. The third man appears, and says that the victim is dead. He takes Mourut into his carriage, and drives him back to Rue Montmartre. Once in the bakehouse, he murders the baker. I can hear your objections: couldn’t he have used a more traditional weapon? My answer is that the killer wanted to make it seem as though the baker had died of a fit of apoplexy, or that, in despair at having killed his own son, he decided to use a mysterious poison. We are lucky that Dr Semacgus lived in those regions …’

  ‘Wait a second, Nicolas,’ said Sartine. ‘Did you actually witness any of these scenes you describe so cheerfully?’

  ‘My descriptions are based on the statements of several witnesses: La Gourdan’s maid Colette, and Friope and Parnaux, who were both present and were suspects for some time.’

  ‘Are you sure Mourut left in a carriage?’

  ‘A witness heard the noise of wheels. What I find more convincing is that the corpse was wearing clean shoes. Immediately after the scene in Rue des Deux-Ponts-Saint-Sauveur, it started raining, and you know how muddy Paris can get.’

  ‘One last point,’ said Sartine. ‘Why didn’t Mourut recognise Hénéfiance?’

  ‘I asked myself that question, Monseigneur, and I think I’ve found the answer. If the man was indeed Hénéfiance, as I fear, I’m not at all sure that he was known to Mourut, who mostly had dealings with his father. I’m almost certain that he didn’t know his face. I would add that, even if he did, ten years of exile, first in a penal colony and then the Indies, can change a man.’

  ‘That’s all well and good, but does not tell us how you got onto the trail of the man with the cobra.’

  ‘During a visit to La Gourdan’s house, we found a paper with Hénéfiance’s name on it, which led us to Rue du Poirier. Doubtless warned by the brothel-keeper, the occupant has been playing with us, slowing us down, sending us off on mysterious errands. Nevertheless, I found some strange clues on the scene. A snake’s scale stuck to my boot, and the reaction of my cat confirmed Dr Semacgus’s intuition. Unfortunately, the occupant had fled and there was a great risk of losing him. He then made his first mistake: he followed me. Our spies, who are the best in Europe, spotted him.’

  For the first time, Sartine smiled.

  ‘They in their turn followed him. Alas, in the meantime, alerted by my interest in the archives of the French East India Company, he mercilessly killed the man who was looking, on my behalf, for information on the movements of ships coming from the east. In doing so, he fell into a trap by snatching from the hands of Belhome, the victim, a register relating to the years with which we are concerned. Our spies followed him to a house in Rue de Vendôme, adjoining the Temple enclosure …’

  For the third time, Lenoir coughed, and La Vrillière shifted in his chair.

  ‘Now I know I’m on the right track. A Capuchin threatens me, I fire, I miss him, and he escapes. Searching the premises, I am attacked by the cobra, and only Naganda’s intervention saves me from a terrible death.’

  ‘Naganda?’ said La Vrillière. ‘The Algonquin so greatly appreciated by our late King? Is he back?’

  ‘Indeed he is, Monseigneur, and invited by His Majesty to the coronation in Reims.’

  ‘We should be full of admiration for the work of a peerless policeman,’ cried Sartine, ‘not to mention the risks he has run. But a crucial element is still missing. Who is this Capuchin? We all understand that he may be Hénéfiance, but under what name is he acting? Have you found him? He should be arrested.’

  ‘There we come to the great unknown. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to admit Bourdeau, who may have some enlightening documents for me.’

  Without waiting for a reply from La Vrillière, he rang.

  The inspector entered, handed him a bundle of papers tied with a blue ribbon, and disappeared. All eyes were on Nicolas.

  ‘On 1 July 1774, the vessel La Bourbonnaise, of the French East India Company, landed at Lorient with, on board, some soldiers, some merchants and a few priests from the foreign missions. I have here–’ he waved a document – ‘the passenger list and a description of the effects, including crates and trunks. The log book indicates that on 30 April of the same year, a ship’s boy of fifteen years old, Jacques Le Gurun, was buried at sea after a religious service. He had died in mysterious circumstances without anyone being able to determine the cause. The case was so strange that the ship’s doctor recorded the details. They suggest, on reflection, that the boy may have been bitten by a cobra which was present on board. One name on the passenger list caught my attention. It was the name of an officer. I therefore visited the offices of the Ministry of War in Rue Saint-Dominique …’

  ‘And?’ asked Sartine.

  Nicolas consulted a paper. ‘What do we learn of this officer? That since 1770 he had been in the service of Haider Ali.’

  ‘And who on earth is that?’

  ‘Haider Ali, Monseigneur, was the general of the Rajah of Mysore, whose power he usurped. With the help of French officers, he organised a confederation of the Maratha chieftains against the English. Our officer was finally caught in an ambush. All his companions fell, he alone escaped. He remained a prisoner for several years before escaping and reappearing in our trading post at Pondicherry. Nobody had seen him before and consequently nobody was in a position to identify him. He returned to France where his family had all died. I was able to find a medallion that shows him as a young man. And now, I am going to tell you another story.’

  ‘What? Will it take us just as far?’

  ‘It will take us to France. One man passes himself off as another, assuming his name and his rank. And the worst thing about this affair is that he manages to obtain support from a group hatching plots in the shadow of the throne, taking advantage of the King’s youth, the return of the Parlements and long-repressed ambitions. A group who are, rightly or wrongly, infuriated by the comptroller general’s reforms. Their connections allow this group to find a place for this person in the service of a minister, what’s more, in a bureau recently created to counter the intrigues of powers hostile to France. When they learn of my mission to Vienna, they realise that they’ll be able to keep a close watch and thwart my enquiries. A document found in Abbé Georgel’s room proves that he began a secret correspondence with these people and that he was in league with the very officer who had been asked to protect me!’

  Sartine rose to his feet. ‘You have often gone too far, Monsieur, but this time your effrontery is quite unacceptable. I can hardly believe my ears! So I deliberately placed the Chevalier de Lastire—’

  ‘Whoever said that, Monseigneur? Unpleasant as it may be to admit it, you were as much a victim as I.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ said La Vrillière, turning to Lastire, ‘have you heard the serious accusations made against you? What do you say?’

  The chevalier shrugged his shoulders. ‘What can I say to such absurd allegations? Monsieur Le Floch ought to remember that he owes me his life.’

  ‘That’s right!’ cried Sartine. ‘You were thanking him a few minutes ago.’

  ‘The tru
th, alas, is quite otherwise. I have reflected a great deal about that episode. I think the chevalier saved me because the staging of the attack required that ending to be fully believable.’

  ‘Where is the evidence for any of this?’

  ‘My suspicions first. The evidence will follow. Let us go back in time once again. During the journey from Paris to Vienna, the supposed chevalier talked about his military campaigns. Did he ever mention the Indies? All he talked about were battles he had fought in Germany. But in the heat of a conversation, as he was trying to calculate the exchange rate for various currencies in the Empire, he spoke about anas, which are copper and silver coins from the Indies. He told me, as I remember extremely well, that he had once before worn a turban. At the time, I assumed he had been on a mission to the Ottomans. Finally, there is this medallion, which I found in that heap of crates in the house in Rue de Vendôme. What do all these discoveries mean if Lastire isn’t Hénéfiance? And there is better yet …’

  ‘All smoke and mirrors!’ muttered the chevalier.

  ‘You have just used the correct word! On three occasions, an identical smell of tobacco struck me. In the hotel in Vienna where you smoked your pipe, in Master Mourut’s bakehouse, and in Rue du Poirier. The same unusual odour with which you filled our carriage. No doubt your hidden presence while the Austrian police were searching our baggage was also smoke and mirrors? Yesterday, Rabouine, after much hesitation, fearing that he had made a mistake, revealed to me that he had seen you. In fact, you were following us, and informing our pursuers. And was that forged letter in my name to my son smoke, too? He recognised the handwriting, and with good reason! I had given you the task of delivering my mail, which gave you the opportunity to imitate my handwriting, or have it imitated by someone else.’

  ‘Are you casting doubt on my wound?’ cried Lastire. ‘Didn’t you see my bandage?’

  ‘Yes, a false turban found again in Rue de Vendôme! That wound was a story cooked up to explain your delay in getting back to Paris. A false bandage, a false wound, a false Capuchin, and the true murderer of Mourut, Belhome – and Nicolas Le Floch if fate had not decided otherwise!’

  ‘A single word and this whole house of cards comes crashing down. Clearly, someone who resembles me is using my name. I’ll give you the proof immediately. Here it is: at the time the baker was being murdered, I was with Monsieur de Sartine, bringing him news of the latest unrest. And last but not least, who, yes, who brought you Caminet? Is that the behaviour of a guilty man? I am quite confounded …’

  ‘Indeed you are!’

  ‘… by your attitude, Monsieur. It is worse than an insult, and I demand satisfaction!’

  ‘I am at your disposal – if that is, the King allows me to cross swords with a murderer!’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ interrupted La Vrillière, ‘let us continue. Could the chevalier tell us how he can be so certain at what time the murder took place?’

  ‘It was I myself who told him,’ said Nicolas, ‘given that I trusted him.’

  ‘I see. So you were with Monsieur de Sartine?’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Sartine himself. ‘I was woken and received him. I think I told you about it. It was on the night of 30 April to 1 May, at half past midnight: the clock in my study had just struck. At what hour do you place the crime?’

  The murderer could not have been at your house before two o’clock in the morning.’

  Nicolas was thinking. He remembered something that Monsieur de Noblecourt had said: a stopped clock shows the exact time twice a day.

  ‘Who admitted Lastire?’

  ‘My old valet. You know him.’

  ‘Was your visitor waiting for you in the study?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t see—’

  ‘So he may have had access to your clock?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Does it strike the half-hour?’

  ‘Yes, but I still don’t understand where—’

  ‘I understand perfectly well! I observe that at that time of night, one stroke may mean half past midnight, one o’clock, or half past one. We may never know if a perfidious finger slowed down the movement. Or rather we will just have to question whichever of your servants has the task of rewinding it. I am sure of the answer.’

  Sartine seemed petrified. Nicolas took the medallion from his pocket. It was hanging from a chain, and he swung it to and fro. Then everything started moving quickly. Lastire leapt to his feet, strode up to Nicolas, struck him in the face with one hand, tore the medallion from him with the other, stamped on it, then picked it up and threw it in the fire. All this happened in such a short period of time that the stunned onlookers were unable to intervene. The first to rise was Sartine, but no sooner had he done so than the chevalier took a pistol from his shirt front, waved it threateningly at them, retreated towards the door, flung it open and rushed out.

  ‘Don’t move!’ screamed Nicolas, who was getting to his feet, blood pouring from his nose. ‘My men are well prepared. He won’t get away!’

  Muted sounds reached them, then a great silence, followed by confused bursts of voices and two almost simultaneous shots, and again silence. Finally, the door slowly opened and Bourdeau came in, hesitantly, a trickle of blood running down the side of his forehead. He had to sit down. The commissioner rushed to him.

  ‘He tried to jump out of the window. I made to stop him and he threatened me with his weapon. We fired almost simultaneously. He missed me … or rather, a bullet just grazed the edge of my skull. Mine on the other hand did its work, and he fell backwards into the courtyard. He was a tough character!’

  ‘Truly,’ said La Vrillière, ‘this house is cursed.’

  Everyone was silent while Nicolas took off his coat, tore a sleeve of his shirt and began bandaging the head of the inspector who, although touched by his concern, pushed him away gently. Monsieur de La Vrillière ran to a drinks cabinet and filled two glasses with a greenish liquid which he handed to them.

  Everyone resumed his place.

  ‘One question, my dear Nicolas,’ said Lenoir. ‘What about the medallion? I assume that was a trap set for Lastire, I mean Hénéfiance?’

  ‘You are correct, Monseigneur. In fact, what he did not know was that this object, supposedly discovered in the crates belonging to the real Chevalier de Lastire, did not exist. There was a copper and glass box that contained nothing. I can imagine what was going through his mind: had he overlooked the medallion when he went through Lastire’s effects, which had doubtless been left in storage in Pondicherry when the latter set off on his mission to Haider Ali in Mysore?’

  ‘He might have assumed that the medallion was not in the luggage.’

  ‘I think he sensed a trap. After all, I might have discovered this evidence in France.’

  ‘But … but …’ stammered La Vrillière, ‘in that case, he ought not to have reacted at all. That merely proved he was indeed the person he was claiming to be.’

  ‘No, because, as the ultimate argument, I had in my possession–’ he took from the pocket of his coat a small oval snuffbox with a pastel miniature on the lid – ‘a genuine portrait of the chevalier found with some jewels deposited with his notary before his departure for the Indies. I think you will agree …’ He held it out to them.

  ‘… that Lastire didn’t look anything like Hénéfiance!’ cried Lenoir.

  ‘That’s why he stuck desperately to his assertions, convinced he would get away with it. What I said about the clock was not evidence. Whereas, faced with this object, the truth was unavoidable: if he wasn’t Lastire, whose portrait we had, he could only be Hénéfiance. Just one thing remains to be determined. How did he manage to outwit the Minister of the Navy?’

  Nicolas was enjoying his little revenge for Sartine’s blindness.

  ‘That remains a mystery,’ he went on. ‘He must have had a particularly powerful guarantor to impress a magistrate as wise as you, Monseigneur! I can’t imagine who.’

  ‘There’s no point in a
sking the question, this enigma will not be solved,’ said Sartine, watched closely by a pensive La Vrillière. ‘I admit that I was deceived. I didn’t even ask for his service record. But others would have been deceived, too. Anyway, all that is now happily resolved. I am glad I was able to help with this delicate investigation. The talent of my men can easily be seen in your actions.’

  Nicolas said nothing. If you enjoyed the pleasure of Sartine’s company, this bad faith of his was something you just had to accept. Only the President of the Parlement, de Saujac, could rival him in this practice.

  ‘Very well, then,’ grunted La Vrillière. ‘What are we to do with Caminet? The culprit is dead, so there need be no legal proceedings. We shall have to keep the whole thing secret, because, from whichever end we approach this case, starting with Sartine being deceived and finishing with the guilty party being discovered in Rue de Vendôme, near … No need to say more, or we shall have to mention some formidable names … I propose that, as far as the apprentice is concerned, we charge him with cheating and brawling and let the law take its course. We shall give our Criminal Lieutenant, Testard du Lys, instructions to bring everything to a swift conclusion. After all, the young fellow is very lucky not to be charged with complicity in murder.’

  ‘Nicolas,’ asked Lenoir, ‘what are your last thoughts on Hénéfiance?’

  ‘I think, Monseigneur, that misfortune and injustice can plunge a man into the darkest despair, which can lead to a hard heart and a desire for revenge. Hénéfiance was both victim and executioner. What might he have accomplished if he had used his shrewd brain in the service of good? May God grant him forgiveness. That’s all I can say.’

  ‘One last question. Those boots and gloves of a leather so thick as to withstand a cobra’s bite, where were they from?’