The Saint-Florentin Murders

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘All right. I still think you’re being reckless, but I’ll go now and start getting things ready. Where will you be stationed?’

  ‘In Rue des Vieilles Tuileries, obviously, where La Roussillon has her rendezvous. Otherwise, we’d lose too much time, having someone come to inform me … So, a horse for me, and a second rider to follow me at a distance and take my mount when I reach the destination. A third rider in reserve ready to take messages or to lend a hand. He’ll be the one who’ll have the task of—’

  ‘The second rider,’ interrupted Bourdeau in a resolute tone, ‘will be me, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘Out of the question!’

  ‘On the contrary, it’s vital. Look at it logically. Think of the time it will take to inform me where you are, think of all the coming and going that would involve.’

  Nicolas looked at the inspector. ‘All right, I give in. It’s true we’ll need at least three-quarters of an hour to surround the scene of the operation. Well, as my father, who was at Fontenoy, used to say, it’s up to us to support the King’s house.’

  He had continued writing while he was talking, crossing out a word from time to time, as if he were keeping the minutes of this conversation. He folded the paper without sealing it, handed it to Rabouine, and asked him to take it straight to the Lieutenant General of Police in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin.

  The end of the day was spent preparing and going over the various scenarios which might occur. Monsieur Lenoir had hastened to reply to Nicolas, granting him a free hand and full powers to decide what to do depending on how the evening developed. The commissioner was pleased to see that the note concluded with an expression of concern that Nicolas should not lay himself too open to danger in this risky undertaking. By eight o’clock, all the arrangements were in place and Nicolas made an appearance, much to the astonishment of Bourdeau and Rabouine, as an old rake, stooped and made up like Richelieu, beneath a curly blood-red wig. He was brandishing a torn ace of hearts.

  The next stage went as planned. He waited on his horse just inside a carriage entrance set somewhat back from the meeting place. The street was deserted and poorly lit, especially as street lighting was not allowed when the moon was full, and the moon tonight was veiled by clouds. Just before ten, a figure who could only be La Roussillon appeared. She might have been a soldier, pacing up and down as if on parade, her tall hat surmounted by a plume. She wore a mask, and her Polish-style dress emphasised the curve of her waist. A few minutes after ten, an ordinary cab appeared and came to a halt. La Roussillon approached it and negotiated for a few moments, then gathered her petticoats and hoisted herself inside. The vehicle set off at a jog trot. Nicolas waited for a moment and only gave his horse its head once the cab was almost at Rue du Cherche-Midi. Nicolas could hear, far behind him, Bourdeau and the third rider. What kind of apocalypse were they heading towards?

  Notes – CHAPTER XII

  1. Iolaos was Hercules’ companion in his struggle with the hydra.

  XIII

  TRAPS

  Be quiet! Can one say such things?

  RIVAROL

  The route took them along Rue du Four as far as Place Saint-André-des-Arts, then Rue de la Huchette and the Port aux Tuiles. The carriage crossed the Tournelles. Nicolas noted with a shudder that they had returned to one of the places that had already figured in the investigation. The cab slowed down and suddenly turned towards the river. It came to a halt not far from the bank. Nicolas saw La Roussillon extricate herself and walk towards the river, stepping hesitantly in the mud. The rising fog seemed to swallow her up. Where could she be going? There was a gap in the clouds for a moment, revealing a long barge, clearly a floating bathhouse. The establishment resembled two houses with an entrance in the middle, indicated by a lighted lantern. The girl vanished inside. Hidden behind a pile of wood, Nicolas struck a light and looked at his watch. It was after ten thirty. He heard Bourdeau, and soon saw him approaching on foot, his horse’s bridle over his arm.

  ‘Good, here’s the place!’ he whispered.

  ‘Outside the walls, therefore outside police supervision …’ said Nicolas.

  ‘Let’s apply our plan.’

  ‘Go back to our courier, and tell him to head straight back to the Châtelet and give Rabouine the go-ahead. Action stations. In three-quarters of an hour, at exactly …’ he again looked at his watch, – ‘… twenty past eleven, everything must be in place. Make sure the boats are silent once they get past Île Saint-Louis. There are still some moored at Quai d’Orléans. We must keep an eye open for trouble on the side facing the river. The trap needs to be closed completely. Now go, Pierre, then come back and join me here. I suspect the other guests will be arriving soon.’

  Having checked that the coast was clear, Bourdeau withdrew. He soon returned and the anxious wait began, punctuated by the guests gradually arriving for the party. Nicolas could not conceal his impatience. He had stopped looking at his watch, fearing that striking a light might reveal their presence. Eventually, they saw Rabouine appear. The plan had been applied down to its smallest detail and some sixty men were now surrounding the barge. It was possible to go in but certainly not to come out. On the river, three boats were patrolling in the fog, and they would be able to approach the floating establishment if necessary. The moment had come for Nicolas to go in.

  He adjusted his tricorn, feeling as he did so for the pocket pistol concealed in one of the wings of the hat. This gift from Inspector Bourdeau had got him out of more than one tight corner. He also checked that his sword was in place. He shook the inspector’s hand, then Rabouine’s, and walked with a firm step towards the landing stage. He crossed the gangway and was greeted at a kind of counter by a footman who, without saying a word, checked his torn ace of hearts. Still silent, the man pointed to his hat, cape and sword. He hesitated for a brief moment, but managed, as he took off his tricorn and unfastened his cape, to slip the pocket pistol into his coat. He was glad he had not chosen the Marquis de Ranreuil’s sword, which was reserved for nobler expeditions. The entrance hall led to two symmetrical staircases which descended towards a much larger central room, from which he could hear the sounds of a party drifting up. He walked down and discovered a crowd of masked people, all drinking. The wooden walls of the room were hidden behind hangings of pink taffeta set off with silver braid. Candles gave a bright sheen to the guests’ make-up. Nicolas was attracted to a little scene being played out in a corner, and went closer with some difficulty because of all the people already gathered around.

  Two young people, a girl and a boy, were uttering a string of obscenities. Each phrase was echoed by double entendres and vulgar jokes from the audience, accompanied by gestures that revealed a deep corruption. Gradually, the atmosphere of the place was changing. Eyes gleamed behind the masks, words and gestures became more provocative. Couples were forming, and sometimes groups, who headed towards the bathing cabins. Nicolas thought he ought to do something to allay suspicion. He had spotted La Roussillon, recognising her from her plume and her arched back. She seemed nervous, could not stay in one place, and rejected all advances. With some difficulty, he went up to her and whispered in her ear that he had been sent by Rabouine and had to talk to her. To get away from prying eyes and ears, he proposed they take refuge in one of the cabins. That way, everyone would think they had got down to business. She immediately drew him into the central gangway, on either side of which were the cabins. After trying several doors and provoking cries of protest, which indicated to Nicolas that the rooms were not provided with locks, they managed to find a free one. In it was a copper bathtub, a bench, a pedestal table on which a bottle waited in a cooling pitcher, a toilet bowl and a chaise longue. He also noticed a curious contraption he had once seen in an actress’s house. It was a kind of tin basin mounted on a wooden base, with a leather border, a sponge and two glasses of water. He remembered that it was known as a bidet – Semacgus, with his love of the risqué, had once called it an ornamental pond for
the thighs.

  No sooner had they entered than a valet dressed in blue twill, whose expression was anything but servile, brought them towels, bergamot-scented soap and two pairs of slippers. He came in and went out several times, pouring pitchers of hot water into the tub. This task over, he asked Nicolas, with a winning air, if the young lady and he wished to take advantage of his services. He did not conceal his disappointment at being dismissed with the usual tip.

  ‘That’s one of the stallions who cater for the vices of some and the impotence and exhaustion of the others,’ explained La Roussillon.

  ‘Rest assured, Mademoiselle,’ said Nicolas, ‘that we shall not forget your help. If we were to do so, Rabouine would certainly hasten to remind us. I’m not going to stay in this cabin. My aim, as I’m sure you realise, is to prevent the person who organises these parties from doing any more harm. He’s holding a young girl whose sister has been murdered. We must find him. You’re a good girl and I’m sure you’re going to help me. Where do you think he is?’

  ‘I’ll do as you ask, Monsieur. But you must agree to protect me, as I’m running a great risk doing this. As you’ve observed, we’re in the corridor on the left-hand side. On the right the bathrooms are reserved for the organiser’s associates. I have every reason to believe that it’s there they do mysterious things that are forbidden to anyone who hasn’t been specifically invited.’

  Nicolas closed his eyes, trying to come up with a feasible plan. ‘We’re going to pretend we’re doing what they expect us to be doing …’

  ‘With you, Monsieur,’ she said, giving a little curtsey, ‘it would have been a pleasure.’

  He laughed. ‘I like Rabouine too much to do that to him! We’ll block the door with the bench in case they come to check the veracity of our lovemaking, then I’m going to go out of the window and try to get to the other side of the boat. How many rooms on each side?’

  ‘Five or six. Not all of them have baths. Some of them are steam rooms.’

  ‘I assume there’s a handrail all round the deck?’

  ‘It’s very narrow, and the whole thing moves. The river’s high because of the autumn rains.’

  ‘All right. While I’m trying to get to the other end, make all the noises you need to, to convince anyone spying on us that we really are making love.’

  She smiled; the prospect seemed to amuse her. He opened the window, and a damp draught blew in, making the candle flames flicker. The wooden frame was wet, and he almost slipped and fell. No sooner had La Roussillon closed the window than he heard muffled sounds of water and moans. He was sure she was someone who always tried to amuse her customers. He tried not to think about the black waves beating on the hull of the barge not far below him, and felt reassured at the thought of the boats moving around, ready, if necessary, to come to his rescue. He reached the middle of the barge. An unpleasant surprise was waiting for him there: an iron gate with spikes barred the way. Strips of cast iron, sharpened at the ends, protected the gate on both sides. Nicolas made such an effort trying to push it that he was suddenly bathed in sweat despite the cold of the night. Going back was tantamount to giving up the whole operation. Calling one of the boats floating invisibly on the river risked attracting the attention of those on the barge. In the course of his career, similar situations had often presented themselves, and he had always found a way out of the difficulty. His fertile mind was toying with various solutions, each more fanciful than the other when, having approached the gate, his coat got caught on one of the strips of iron. It was not easy to get free, but the incident made him think, and a light went on in his mind. He would take off his coat and use it as a kind of rope to get over the gate, avoiding all danger of contact with the strips and spikes. He immediately set about applying his idea. He took off his coat after emptying the contents of the pockets into a kind of broad gusset sewn into the inside of his breeches, which usually provided a safe hiding place for documents or rolls of louis. He managed to get everything into it, including his pocket pistol. For a moment, the thought crossed his mind that he could have used his unrolled cravat, but he feared that the fine muslin would not withstand either his weight or the sharpness of the metal.

  He hooked the collar of his coat onto the top of the gate, raised himself up on tiptoe, as far as he could go, hoping that the stitching – the work of Master Vachon’s apprentices – would stand the strain. He gave a sharp tug, and nothing tore. He now had to judge his jump. Any error would be fatal: he would fall back with all his weight and would inevitably impale himself on the cast iron. Stepping back, he retreated to the handrail, stretched the line of fabric, pressed hard with his right foot on the side of the boat and jumped. It all happened very quickly: a leap, a rustling sound, and a violent landing on the other side. He hit the side of the barge head first. The impact left him stunned. He staggered back, his feet sliding on the damp wood. He slipped and fell, but grabbed the handrail with both hands and finally managed to steady himself. He sat down with his legs dangling, out of breath. He felt a hot liquid spreading over his stomach. The dim lights on the barge did not provide enough illumination, but the pain that went through his body took his breath away and made him realise that he was injured. He put his hand on his stomach then raised it to his mouth: blood. One of the strips of metal had sliced through his shirt and cut him on the abdomen. It was a painful but superficial wound. He was glad he had kept his cravat. He wrapped it tightly around his stomach, using it as a bandage to stem the flow of blood. He waited for his breathing to settle and his heart to slow to its usual rhythm.

  Now he had to get down to the serious work. Was the mysterious organiser of these parties behind one of these windows? He shuddered, thinking that he could just as easily be in a bathrooom situated on the shore side, facing the Port au Bois. Nevertheless, it seemed to him that, out of caution, the man was likely to have chosen the side facing the river, which was more hidden. He walked forward. His stomach hurt. The first room, a steam room, was empty. In the second, two couples in indecent positions were paying homage to Venus. With horror, Nicolas recognised one of the participants as one of the great names of France. The third was some kind of storeroom. Approaching the fourth, he heard muffled cries. He looked in through the window and saw a heavily made-up woman take a blackish substance from a little box and dissolve it in a glass of water. He was about to proceed to the fifth window when more distinct moans reached his ears. He could not see the part of the fourth room from which they seemed to come. He hesitated. Was this another of those scenes of which he had already had a taste, or was it … The woman was brandishing a riding crop and striking someone. The other person screamed now, and the scream was like a child’s. There was an unusual amount of venom in the woman’s actions. To set his mind at rest, Nicolas went and looked in the last room; it was empty. He retraced his steps. The woman was still half bent over her victim, viciously beating her. It was then that he noticed it: beneath the frills and flounces of the dress was a pair of men’s riding boots. So the woman was a man, which threw a new light on things. He still had to decide what to do. Go back? He’d have to get over the gate again, which was risky. Hail the police boats? Although the men on the shore would stop the guests escaping, it would put paid to any idea of catching any of these people in flagrante. The culprits could well get lost in the panic following a police raid. Everything depended on him, as usual. It was he, the King’s commissioner, who had to act appropriately. But how?

  Could he force open the window and jump into the room? It might be possible to take a leap from the top of the handrail. He tried the window with his hand, in the unlikely event that it was not locked. It was. Manifesting his presence by knocking on the window might force the man to open up, but in doing so he would lose the advantage of surprise. The idea crossed his mind that he could shoot the unknown man through the window, but he rejected it immediately; he was too honourable to fire at a suspect without a specific reason. Nevertheless he had to rescue the young girl, who mi
ght well be one of the two fugitives from Brussels.

  A variation of the previous option occurred to him. He would fire his pistol at the window handle to get inside the room. He would place himself to the left of the window for a better aim and to avoid hitting anyone in the room, then climb inside, his smoking pistol in his hand. He looked in one last time, and the sight of the tortures the victim was suffering convinced him to act without further delay.

  He fired. The fragile frame shattered. He threw himself inside, fell on his shoulder and rolled on the ground, losing his pistol as he did so. Everything happened in a flash. He saw the girl tied to the bed, lying on her stomach, with bleeding stripes across her back. The creature had immediately turned and leapt for his sword, and was now walking towards Nicolas, who was still on the ground. He rolled on his side, still stunned by his fall, and grabbed a stool as a weapon. He made an initial parry. The sword thrusts came thick and fast, ever closer to his chest. But then the sword became stuck in the soft wood of the stool. Nicolas pressed so hard with the stool that the weapon first bent, then broke with a snap. The creature threw the broken sword at him, then came towards him with his hands out. He grabbed him by the neck and tried to strangle him. They struggled for a while, with neither man yielding, until, having gone round and round the restricted space of the cabin, they found themselves by the shattered window. The broken pane rattled each time their feet hit the floor. The man redoubled his efforts to strangle him. Nicolas felt his strength waning and his stomach wound opening and bleeding profusely. He tried to thrust his attacker off him. What was left of the window frame shattered and collapsed. Tightly bound together, the two men fell into the river.