The Nicolas Le Floch affair Read online

  As Nicolas, followed by Bourdeau, was about to descend the staircase, he heard Sartine call the inspector back. They spoke for a few moments, but Nicolas could catch nothing of what was said. Bourdeau then rejoined him and walked with him to their carriage without saying a word. Nor did he open his mouth as they rode through the fog-shrouded streets in which people moved like vague shadows. Nicolas, too, remained silent. He did not care where they were going. He was once more in the grip of his perverse imagination, his mind filled with horrible images and interminable and fevered reflections on the causes and consequences of what had happened. Then, as if trying to break through his defences, Monsieur de Noblecourt’s words came back to him, echoed by Monsieur de Sartine’s instructions. They sounded within him like the repeated strokes of a funeral bell, like so many manifestations of the imperceptible dangers with which he suddenly felt surrounded. The cause of Julie’s death had still to be established, and yet everyone was keen to give him advice and recommend him to be careful. The fact was, he told himself, that however friendly and trusting they all appeared to be, he was being treated as if he was presumed guilty. Guilty of what? It was difficult to tell. That was what aroused his unease, this diffuse anxiety, this impression of slipping down a slope without anything to hang on to. He threw a sideways glance at Bourdeau, who was so still it seemed as though he were sleeping with his eyes open. He would have liked to talk to him, but no sound emerged from his mouth, and besides, what would he have said? Solitude had been his companion since his earliest childhood, and now it had reasserted itself in the cruellest, most unexpected way.

  The noise of the carriage and horses echoed beneath the sombre archway of the Châtelet. The old walls plunged him into a melancholy so profound that Bourdeau had to pull him by the arm. The errand boy looked at him without recognising in this grim, downcast man the brilliant horseman who usually threw him the reins of his mount with a great laugh. Nicolas walked his usual route like an automaton, and passed Old Marie, the usher, without greeting him or making one of those friendly remarks which the old man cherished as a mark of friendship. He somehow found himself in the duty office. Bourdeau glanced through the register of incidents, then looked Nicolas in the eye and pounded on the old oak table.

  ‘That’s enough now, you have to pull yourself together. I’ve never seen you in this state, although we’ve been through a lot together! You’ve been wounded, knocked senseless, abducted, threatened. You must have undergone far worse ordeals than this. We must do something.’

  Nicolas smiled weakly. ‘Do something? What do you want me to do? I’ve been told to go hunting and pay court to the ladies!’

  ‘Precisely! That’s exactly what you’re going to do. Or at least, that’s what Monsieur de Sartine has to believe you’re going to do.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Bourdeau had opened the wardrobe where, for years, they had been accumulating a whole carnival array of clothes, hats and accessories. This collection, constantly enriched with new finds, was used by officers whenever they had to follow a suspect or were engaged on a mission in a dangerous faubourg and wanted to pass unnoticed. The inspector took out a quilted waistcoat, handfuls of tow, a large shapeless black coat so worn and threadbare that the black was turning green, a pair of thick shoes with brass buckles, a round, wide-brimmed hat, a great antique wig the hair of which seemed to have come from the mane of a dapple-grey horse, a thick linen shirt, a cotton cravat of doubtful cleanliness and equally dubious stockings. He threw the whole lot willy-nilly on the table.

  ‘Nicolas, get undressed and put on this stuff.’

  The commissioner shook his head. ‘What madness are you dreaming up?’ he asked.

  ‘Just doing what friendship dictates. It being understood – and I say this before knowing anything for certain about Madame de Lastérieux’s death – that I believe you, and that I know you are innocent in this affair, I don’t see why I should deprive myself of your help in an investigation to which you can contribute a great deal.’

  ‘But how, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Let’s say a man your height, dressed in your clothes, with a muffler over his nose, comes out, accompanied by your servant, and gets in the carriage. “To Versailles, and don’t spare the horses!” Monsieur de Sartine will immediately be informed of your departure, and he’ll be relieved to know you’re doing as he asked. Meanwhile, you slip out, you meet up with me a few streets from here, and we proceed with the investigation together.’

  ‘But what should I look like?’

  ‘What does it matter? You can be an informer, an officer. Or better still, a clerk, there to note down my observations. A scruffy-looking fellow, with his eyes so tired he wears dark glasses.’

  He handed him a pair of spectacles with smoked lenses.

  Nicolas rose to his full height. ‘I’ll never allow you to commit this folly,’ he exclaimed. ‘If this case is a criminal one, you’re risking your job, perhaps more. There’s no way I can permit this.’

  ‘What do I care about my job,’ replied Bourdeau, ‘when the man I accepted as my chief when he was twenty years old, the man I’ve followed everywhere, the man I’ve saved from death several times, whose conduct and honour I’ve learnt to respect, finds himself in a difficult situation? What kind of man would I be not to try and remedy it with all the strength at my disposal? And what kind of man would you be, if you rejected my devotion?’

  ‘All right,’ said Nicolas, moved to tears. ‘I surrender.’

  ‘Not to mention the fact that, should this affair become complicated, it will be your judgement and experience, as always, which will lead us to a solution.’

  Bourdeau had been walking up and down, striking his right leg with his tricorn. Now he stopped to think.

  ‘We have to find someone just your height, someone we can rely on. Now I come to think of it, Rabouine has a similar physique.’

  ‘He has a pointed nose.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter; his face will be hidden by the muffler. And there’s another advantage in using Rabouine. I’ve just remembered he knows that page in Monsieur de La Borde’s service at Versailles. Damn, I can’t remember his name …’

  ‘Gaspard! He rendered me a signal service in 1761, in the famous Truche de la Chaux case.’2

  ‘That’s perfect, then. With a note which you’ll write for me, he’ll welcome the disguised Rabouine with open arms, admit him to the palace and hide him in Monsieur de La Borde’s apartments. We just have to decide on a price, the fellow’s quite partial to coin of the realm.’

  With nimble fingers, Bourdeau mimed a hand distributing coins.

  ‘His master is in Paris tonight,’ he went on. ‘He told me last night that he isn’t on duty. He is said to be smitten by a new conquest. Gaspard spreads the gossip: “My master’s friend, young Ranreuil, you know, the commissioner, is resting, he’s not well.” Rabouine abandons your clothes and comes back to Paris in secret. Everyone thinks you’re in quarantine in Monsieur de La Borde’s apartments. Sartine is relieved. There we are, everything’s sorted out.’

  Faced with Bourdeau’s almost violent enthusiasm, Nicolas realised that he had to suppress his feelings and do exactly what the inspector wanted. There was a certain revulsion, of course, as he put on these coarse, musty clothes. The breeches were several sizes too big for him, and they had to look for a kind of lace to serve as a belt. The quilted waistcoat made it seem as though he had a large paunch. The wig, a black skullcap and a pair of spectacles transformed the commissioner to such an extent that he did not recognise his own reflection in the window.

  ‘Right,’ said Bourdeau, ‘I’m going to find Rabouine. He’s never far away at this hour. As soon as he’s dressed in your clothes, I’ll go and distract Old Marie, and he’ll slip past me. Meanwhile, you make your way to Monsieur de Sartine’s office, which is never closed. All you have to do is push the gilded moulding on the third shelf in the bookcase. As you know, there’s a secret passage there. Go down the s
teps to the little door that leads out to the curtain wall, over on the Grande Boucherie side. That’s where I’ll meet up with you. In the meantime, don’t move. I’ll run now and find Rabouine. To be on the safe side, I’m locking the door.’

  Nicolas heard the key turning in the lock. Once alone, he found it hard to rid himself of a sense of anxiety, not for himself, but for Bourdeau. His deputy’s loyalty and devotion was dragging him – a man with a family to support and a reasonable chance of continuing his already long career in peace – down a dangerous path. This doubt was joined by another: could he deceive Sartine so deliberately, when the Lieutenant General had been so honest and patient with him? Nicolas had a remarkable gift for finding himself in these moral dilemmas, which he only resolved through painful exercises in casuistry, vestiges of his Jesuit education in Vannes, which inevitably left wounds in his soul. There was another thought that kept coming back: would he, usually so indifferent, or rather, so accustomed to the terrible sights that were part and parcel of a criminal investigation, be able to bear the sight of Julie’s corpse, or her house overrun by police? Would he be able to keep a cool head, the prerequisite for his capacity for clear thought, when he was so intimately involved? Wasn’t Monsieur de Sartine right in wanting to keep him away from the case, and wasn’t Bourdeau, carried away by his loyalty, setting them both on a very slippery slope?

  By the time Bourdeau and Rabouine came for him, he had regained his composure. He was writing the note for Gaspard, which he sealed with the Ranreuil arms after slipping a few louis d’or inside the paper. Before that, not wanting to deceive an old friend whose support had never failed him over the years, he had written a message for Monsieur de La Borde. It was a gesture he considered doubly justified: it would both reassure his friend and cover Gaspard in his master’s eyes. This desire to come clean led him to reflect on human turpitude. Why was it that he had agreed to disobey the Lieutenant General of Police and flout his express instructions, and yet at the same time considered it essential not to act behind La Borde’s back? Doubtless, he thought, because his relationship with Sartine was one of inequality and subordination, and perhaps – although he did not dare think too far along these lines – his attitude was not unconnected with certain rebuffs he had suffered which had left a bitter taste in his mouth, despite his gratitude to, and admiration for, his chief. In the peculiar circumstances in which he found himself, it did not amount to much: a small disobedience, a simple little act of revenge.

  ‘I’ve sent Old Marie on an important mission,’ said Bourdeau. ‘He’s gone to fetch a pitcher of brandy – he can keep half of it for himself. The time has come. Rabouine knows what he has to do. Give him the letter.’

  ‘I’d like him to go and see La Borde first and give him this note.’

  Bourdeau looked in surprise at the paper, on which the seal was like a bloody stain. ‘Do you really think we need to … ?’

  ‘Yes, or I won’t do it.’

  Rabouine changed, gradually transforming himself, with the help of a short wig, into a very acceptable Nicolas. With a piece of black wool over his face, the collar of his cloak raised, and the tricorn pulled right down, the illusion was complete. For his part, Nicolas adjusted the spectacles and took a few steps.

  ‘Don’t swagger,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Bend your legs, stoop a bit more, let your shoulders sag. There, that’s it … That’s much better.’

  He opened a drawer, took out paper, quills, a penknife and a portable bottle of ink, and gave all these objects to Nicolas.

  ‘Don’t forget your work tools, if you want to look the part. That’s perfect! Perhaps still a bit too clean, though. Take off your glasses.’

  Bourdeau passed his hand over the top of the wardrobe, then smeared the dust on Nicolas’s face, until his complexion turned grey and weary.

  ‘The coast is clear. Let’s go our separate ways. We’ll meet again where we’ve arranged.’

  The inspector left with Rabouine, who was in high spirits and as proud as punch to be acting as commissioner – as an old partner in crime, he would have thrown himself in the Seine for him. Nicolas made his way to Sartine’s office. The silence in the room reminded him of his first interview with the Lieutenant General of Police, when he had arrived fresh from his native province, and a thousand other comic and tragic scenes over the years. The gilded moulding sank back and the bookcase swivelled around, revealing a staircase. The noises of the city rose in the distance. Two floors below, he found the door. Walking out into the street, he was struck by how cold it was, especially now that evening was closing in. He did not have long to wait. A cab stopped, the door opened, and he jumped in.

  ‘That Rabouine is amazing,’ said Bourdeau. ‘He knows as much of the ways of the world as a bailiff at the Palais de Justice. He’ll fool everyone at Versailles, and by God, he cuts a fine figure in your clothes.’

  Nicolas smiled. ‘Thank you on behalf of the clothes! It’s clear you don’t get the bills from my tailor, Master Vachon! As for Rabouine, God save him, he knows what to do in every situation and never spares any effort.’

  ‘You just smiled,’ said Bourdeau. ‘All is well. Recovery is near.’

  The conversation continued in a light tone which gradually calmed Nicolas, making him forget what awaited him. In Rue de Verneuil, a number of officers were keeping a discreet watch on the house. They immediately recognised the unnumbered carriage and Bourdeau’s familiar face. An inspector sitting outside the door, which had been sealed, tried to deny them access. The mention of Monsieur de Sartine’s name smoothed things over: the man had only been trying to defend the prerogatives of the local commissioner. The seals were broken, and Bourdeau and Nicolas entered Madame de Lastérieux’s house.

  The shutters were closed, and the rooms were dark and silent. The deserted hall opened on to a corridor which led to the reception rooms. To the right, a door led to the servants’ pantry. At the end of the corridor, a velvet door gave access to a large drawing room, to the left of which, at right angles, were a library and a music room. On the right was a short corridor leading to a circular boudoir, after which came Julie’s bedroom. Adjoining the boudoir was a wardrobe room, then a series of service rooms, leading back to the pantry. The main rooms had a view of Rue de Verneuil, the others looked out on the dark well of the courtyard, where the servants had their quarters. The windows of the library and the music room looked out on Rue de Beaune.

  ‘Let’s start with the bedroom,’ said Bourdeau.

  He glanced round the drawing room. The table had been cleared, although eight chairs still surrounded it.

  ‘Everything looks so tidy, despite last night’s party.’

  ‘The two West Indian servants are very good,’ Nicolas said. ‘Julie was a stickler for tidiness. Everything had to be cleaned and put away. She couldn’t bear to see the house looking untidy in the morning.’

  ‘That’s rather unfortunate. Untidiness has one great merit: it increases the opportunities for observation.’

  ‘But there’s still a clue here. Parties in this house, as I well know, rarely lasted beyond one in the morning. The tidying must have taken at least two hours. Which means, and the servants will be able to confirm this, that Madame de Lastérieux did not call for help during that time. She could have done so easily from her bed by ringing the bell pull, which sounds in the pantry. Her maid would have come running.’

  ‘That’s useful to know,’ Bourdeau conceded. ‘Unless she lost consciousness before she was able to call for help.’

  At any other time, Nicolas would have been amused by the way their roles had been reversed. Perhaps it was the effect of this ridiculous disguise, but it was Bourdeau who was having the last word – he certainly had the ability and experience for it.

  ‘How terrible,’ murmured Nicolas, ‘that Julie’s body has been left like that with no one to watch over it!’

  Bourdeau responded with an indistinct grunt.

  When they opened the door to the bedroom, a sic
kening odour seized them by the throat. At first, they could make out nothing: the curtains were drawn and the room was in darkness. Bourdeau fetched a candle from the other room and lit the bedroom candles. The flickering light illumined the room. Julie de Lastérieux lay there in her nightdress, her body arched, her legs bent and splayed apart. Death had seized her as she was lifting her hands to her throat. Her head was thrown back on the pillow and surrounded by her flowing hair, and her mouth was open, as if she were screaming. The front of her body was covered in orange-coloured vomit, flecked with blood, which had dripped on the sheets and the carpet. The eyes were bulging, the pupils already clouding over. Nicolas, assailed by memories, was profoundly shocked to see how horribly death had done its work. He had to force himself to carry on. Only by clinging to the idea of dutycould he summon the will power to act as if the poor body lying in its own vomit was not that of a woman he had loved. He had to take charge of the operation. He had noted in the past that, however pusillanimous his emotional reaction to a situation might be, it immediately gave way to a cold determination, even – or especially – when he himself was personally involved.

  ‘Pierre,’ he said, ‘don’t take another step. You don’t know this room. I do, in great detail – that’s why I want to have a very careful look at it. It doesn’t matter if the cause of death is as yet unknown. When we do know it, and if it does prove to be a case of criminal poisoning, we’ll regret not having been more attentive now. Lift that candlestick so that I can see.’

  He stood looking at the room, motionless, deep in thought. Bourdeau, growing impatient, touched his elbow as if afraid he had fallen asleep. ‘Nicolas, we don’t have all that long …’

  ‘In such circumstances, it’s sometimes useful to take our time.’