The Man with the Lead Stomach

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘We’ve talked about him for far too long. I really must go and question him.’

  ‘You’re right. And we now know something useful about him. After the service was over, I followed him. He went back to his home on Rue de l’Hirondelle, a small street that runs between the Place du Pont-Saint-Michel and Rue Gilles-Coeur. He came back out quite quickly and do you know where he led me?’

  ‘Oh, Bourdeau, I’m too tired for guessing games.’

  ‘To the corner between the boulevards and Rue de Richelieu, where Mademoiselle Bichelière lives. He only stayed there a moment, two or three minutes, no longer. He got back into a cab and dashed away. I passed myself off as a tradesman and after paying my due to an ape-faced woman on the door, I found out from the maid that her mistress was not at home but at the theatre.’

  ‘At the theatre, so early in the morning. That’s very strange …’

  ‘I questioned the creature and she confirmed the young man with clerical bands often came to hear the pretty actress’s “confession”. She told me that with a horrible grin full of innuendo that could not be misunderstood.’

  ‘This is vitally important, Bourdeau. So the vidame knows his brother’s mistress very well. We shall see what he has to say about all this. Perhaps he’ll be more inclined to speak to us than his father. From now on we must draw up our plans, work out and verify all these people’s movements and cross-check our findings. In the end we’ll discover the weak spot. We already have two left-handed men involved in this case. We can almost state as certain that Lambert was in the wardrobe and that he took part in the murder, as well as in transporting his master’s body. He’s an accomplice in the suicide cover-up. We are missing a second culprit. There’s no reason why it might not be the vidame.’

  ‘How shall we proceed, Nicolas? I’m not happy to leave you on your own from now on.’

  Nicolas finally decided it would be wiser to tell the truth.

  ‘I didn’t tell you that I was followed this morning. My old trick in Saint-Eustache worked wonders, but I’m going to have to be even more watchful. However, this is too large a task for us to stay together all the time. But I might resort to one of my disguises to mislead our enemies. For the time being I would like you to find out all you can about La Bichelière, Lambert, Truche and La Sauveté. What are their backgrounds? For heaven’s sake, we are the best police force in Europe! If need be, write to the intendants instructing them to reply by return. I want answers by the end of the week, so that we can know everything about them.’

  ‘I forgot to tell you that the Minister of Bavaria’s coachman has been arrested.’

  ‘I shall have to see him. Monsieur de Sartine is bound to ask about him again, as soon as the plenipotentiary next shows himself. I didn’t say a word about my suspicions. This is a chance to verify them.’

  ‘Where are you going to begin?’

  ‘I’m sorry to leave you with all this paperwork but we can’t avoid the detail if the case is to succeed. As for me I’m going to get changed and hurry off to question one of our jeweller friends on Pont au Change about the ring pledged by Truche de La Chaux. Then I’ll try to pin down the vidame. Don’t forget we’re having supper at Semacgus’s this evening, in Vaugirard. I’ll spend the night there and leave early tomorrow morning for Versailles to investigate Madame Adélaïde’s household.’

  A few moments later an elderly, portly bourgeois leaning on a stick and carrying a leather bag stepped out of the Châtelet and climbed into a carriage. Nicolas had spoken to old Marie for several minutes without the usher recognising him. Reassured by this test, he was driven to a shop on Pont au Change belonging to the jeweller Koegler, to whom the Lieutenant General of Police often turned in cases involving stolen jewels. He was welcomed with the enthusiasm reserved at such places for wealthy customers.

  In a faint voice he requested the master craftsman kindly examine an item that he wished to acquire but whose provenance might, he also feared, be dubious. He added that a friend of his had given him this address as a place where the workmanship and the hallmarks would be properly checked.

  Suitably flattered, the jeweller adjusted his magnifying glass and examined the fleur-de-lis ring that Nicolas had confiscated at the Dauphin Couronné. The examination was slow and meticulous. Monsieur Koegler shook his head. His advice was not to buy the item and even to inform the police. The ring was extremely old and carefully made. The gems were remarkable for their water and for their size but – and here the man lowered his voice – there was every reason to believe from various observations, which he kept to himself, that the item belonged to the Crown Jewels and that it had been stolen from a person of royal blood. There was only one thing to do: to rid oneself of it by handing it in as soon as possible to the appropriate authorities, on pain of being accused of possessing stolen goods, which in this particular case would be tantamount to the crime of lese-majesty. Nicolas took his leave, assuring the jeweller that he would follow his advice and that he was going to hand over this compromising item to the right person.

  Although the Vidame de Ruissec’s home was not very far from Pont au Change, Nicolas ordered his coachman to take him first to the Comédie-Italienne. He did, however, suggest a few detours, in order to check that he was not being followed. He made the coachman drive into a blind alley and wait a moment. Feeling reassured, he gave the order to carry on. He closed the curtains in the cab and quickly changed his appearance: he spat out the tow lining the inside of his mouth, removed his false white eyebrows, wiped off the ceruse covering his face, took off the wadding that gave him an artificial paunch and pulled off the bourgeois wig to reveal his own hair. He took a firm grip of the apparently harmless stick whose hollowed-out interior contained a well-tempered sword.

  *

  At the Comédie-Italienne the washers and scrubbers were still at their morning work, toiling away with bucketfuls of water. Above this tide stood the tall silhouette of old Pelven, who in his time had swabbed many a deck on the vessels he had served on. His craggy face lit up when he saw Nicolas. He immediately wanted to drag him off to celebrate their reunion with a few glasses of his favourite beverage or even by sharing his repast, whose pleasant smell was already wafting through the corridors of the theatre.

  Short of time and mindful of the effects of his last foray into sailors’ cuisine, Nicolas succeeded in politely declining the invitation without the doorkeeper taking undue offence. He enquired as to what brought Nicolas there, and immediately answered his questions.

  No, of course, La Bichelière had not set foot in the theatre all day Saturday, nor indeed since. She was really going too far and the exasperated director never stopped complaining, threatening to increase the fines for her repeated absences. The actress’s punctuality often left a lot to be desired and her frequent failure to turn up had disrupted the performances and resulted in the use of understudies who were often under-prepared and less popular with the public. Had it not been for her charms and how they attracted the swells, she would have been only a strake1 away from being thrown out on to the street, which was where she belonged. That would be her just reward for idling around to no purpose.

  In answer to another question, Pelven assured Nicolas that a young cleric had turned up on Saturday afternoon asking for the pretty miss. Annoyed at being told she was not there, he had become so insistent and so unpleasant that Pelven had slammed the grille in his face. The old salt added that the welcome given the young man had been all the chillier because he had made no attempt to mollify the doorman’s surly temper by greasing his palm.

  This hint was not lost on Nicolas, who gave him due reward for the precise and plentiful information received. He cut short Pelven’s show of friendship by asking him if he could leave by the back of the building, having told the coachman to wait on Rue Française in front of the leather market. The place was bustling with activity and he would go unnoticed. He was taken to a small door that opened on to a corridor leading into an alleyway between th
e houses. A great lover of the byways of Paris, Nicolas memorised the route.

  He crossed the Seine again on his way to Rue de l’Hirondelle. He was worrying about how he would broach matters with the vidame until it struck him that the best approach was the one that would seem the most plausible. Truche de La Chaux had unintentionally offered him the solution: to pass himself off as a representative of the police Gaming Division and question the young man about his visits to the Dauphin Couronné.

  Would the vidame have been warned about him? That was unlikely, given his bad relationship with his father. Nicolas could use these family quarrels to encourage the younger son to speak out, now that a new future lay ahead of him after the death of his brother.

  The vidame’s house looked nondescript, neither luxurious nor humble. It was an ordinary bourgeois house in an ordinary street. There was no doorkeeper to block Nicolas’s path and it took him only four strides to reach the mezzanine. He knocked on a pointed-arched door, which was opened almost immediately by a young man who stood in the doorway looking intrigued rather than annoyed by Nicolas’s incursion. Wearing breeches and a shirt with neither tie nor cuffs, and with one hand on his hip, he gave Nicolas a quizzical look, thrusting out his chin. He had bushy eyebrows that arched over deep blue eyes and protruding, pouting lips. His hair was loosely tied in a knot on the verge of coming undone. This first, pleasant impression gave way to one that was more disturbing. Nicolas noticed the pallor of his complexion, the prominent, flushed cheeks, the rings around the eyes; his whole face was bathed in sweat. Purple blotches accentuated yet further the crumpled look of a man who in Nicolas’s opinion had not slept for some time.

  ‘Monsieur de Ruissec?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur. And to whom do I have the honour of speaking?’

  ‘I am a police officer, Monsieur, and would like to have a few words with you.’

  His face turned bright red, then paled. The vidame stepped aside and invited Nicolas in. The accommodation consisted of a large, low-ceilinged room with little natural light. Two semicircular windows at floor level looked on to the street. The furniture was elegant but not overly so, and there was nothing to suggest the occupant’s religious calling. It was a bachelor’s establishment, that of a young man more intent on leading a life of pleasure than one of spiritual meditation. The vidame remained standing with his back to the light and did not invite Nicolas to sit down.

  ‘Well, Monsieur, how may I help you?’

  Nicolas decided to strike fast and hard.

  ‘Have you repaid Monsieur de La Chaux for the loan he gave you or rather the pledge he entrusted to you?’

  The vidame blushed again. ‘Monsieur, that is a personal matter between him and me.’

  ‘Do you realise that you frequent a place where gambling is forbidden and that as a result you are liable to prosecution?’

  The young man raised his head in a defiant gesture. ‘I’m not the only one in Paris who goes around the gambling dens and as far as I’m aware the police of this kingdom don’t make a fuss about it.’

  ‘That, Monsieur, is because not everyone is intended for the priesthood, and the example you are giving—’

  ‘I am not going into the Church. All that is in the past.’

  ‘I see that your brother’s death has opened up your career!’

  ‘That is a needlessly offensive remark, Monsieur.’

  ‘The fact is that not everyone in your position stands to benefit from the death of a close relative.’

  The vidame stepped forward a pace. Instinctively his left hand went to his right side in search of the hilt of a missing sword. Nicolas noted the gesture.

  ‘Be careful, Monsieur. I shall not allow insults to go unpunished.’

  ‘Then answer my questions instead,’ Nicolas said curtly. ‘I am going to be frank with you and I would ask you to take due account of my openness. I am also and more importantly investigating the death of your brother, whose murder your father, the Comte de Ruissec, has succeeded in covering up. Not only his, but your mother’s.’

  Nicolas heard what sounded like a sob.

  ‘My mother’s?’

  ‘Yes, your mother was savagely killed and thrown into the well of the dead in the Carmelite monastery. Your mother, who wanted to confide to me what was troubling her and who died because of this secret. It was in the interest of certain people to silence her before she spoke. This, Monsieur, is what authorises me to treat you as I do, I, Nicolas Le Floch, police commissioner at the Châtelet.’

  ‘This is too much to bear. I have nothing more to say to you.’

  Nicolas noticed that the news of his mother’s murder did not seem to come as a surprise to the young man.

  ‘That would be too simple. On the contrary, you have plenty of things to confide in me. To start with, do you know Mademoiselle Bichelière?’

  ‘I know that she’s my brother’s mistress.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m asking you. Do you know her personally?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘What, then, were you doing at her home, early yesterday afternoon? Don’t deny it. You were seen there. Three reliable witnesses are prepared to swear so in front of a magistrate.’

  Nicolas thought that the young man was about to burst into tears. He bit his lip until it bled.

  ‘Not having seen her at my brother’s funeral service, I was going to—’

  ‘Oh, come now! Are you trying to say that this young woman would have been allowed to attend the funeral service for your brother and mother? Think of something more convincing to tell me.’

  The vidame fell silent.

  ‘I should add,’ Nicolas continued, ‘I have statements from witnesses saying they met you several times at the house of the aforesaid young woman. You’re not going to make me believe that you don’t know her. Please explain yourself.’

  ‘I have nothing to say.’

  ‘That is entirely up to you. Then can you describe your activities on the day your brother died?’

  ‘I was walking in Versailles.’

  ‘In Versailles? Versailles is big. In the park? In the palace? In the town? Alone or in company? There are plenty of people in Versailles and you must have come across someone of your acquaintance.’

  Nicolas disliked being so brutal but he wanted to make the young man react.

  ‘No, no one. I wanted to be alone.’

  Nicolas shook his head. The vidame was in the process of turning himself into the main suspect. Nicolas could not allow him to remain free. Whatever uncertainty there might still be about his possible guilt, locking him away would enable matters to progress. With the young man looking on in consternation, he took out of his pocket one of the lettres de cachet that Monsieur de Saint-Florentin had given him. He wrote down the vidame’s name without any hesitation. It was the second time in his career as a police officer that he would take a suspect to the Bastille. The first time it had been Dr Semacgus, but that had been for his own safety and he had come away cleared of all suspicion. This precedent strengthened Nicolas’s ability to take the serious step of imprisoning a fellow human being with a certain degree of composure.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘by order of the King I must conduct you to the Bastille where you will have ample time to meditate upon the disadvantages of remaining silent. You will doubtless be more talkative the next time we meet, or so I hope.’

  The vidame drew closer, looking him straight in the eye. ‘Monsieur, I beg of you, listen to me. Whatever I may be accused of, I am innocent.’

  ‘I should point out that if you claim to be innocent it is because you know a crime has been committed. I could turn your remark against you. I assure you no one wishes you to be innocent more than I. But you must give me the means of getting closer to the truth. I am convinced that you possess a share of it.’

  He thought that this sensitively spoken exhortation was going to break down the young man’s defences and that he would at last speak. It was a wasted effort. The vi
dame seemed to be on the verge of giving in but he collected himself, shook his head and began to dress.

  ‘I am at your disposal, Monsieur.’

  Nicolas took him by the arm. He was shaking. He put a seal on the door of the dwelling, which would later be thoroughly searched, then they went out to the carriage. The coachman was ordered to head for the state prison. The young man remained silent for the entire journey and Nicolas respected his unwillingness to speak. There was no further information to be had from him. A few days in solitary confinement might make him less reluctant to talk and bring him to a realisation of how grave the accusations against him were as a result of failing to explain himself.

  At the Bastille Nicolas went through the formalities for the admission of a prisoner. He took the chief gaoler to one side to put in a good word for the young man. His imprisonment had to be kept absolutely secret and no visits were to be allowed without Nicolas’s prior consultation. Lastly, and he laid particular emphasis on this point, the prisoner was not to be left unsupervised, lest he commit suicide through the negligence of his warders. Nicolas had in mind the death of the old soldier who had hanged himself in the Châtelet because they had forgotten to take away his belt. He left a small sum of money to cover the cost of meals to be brought to the prisoner from outside.

  He was relieved to leave the ancient fortress behind. He found its grey stone bulk oppressive. Inside the dank, dark maze of staircases and galleries, the creaking of keys turning in locks and the slamming of wickets increased his unease yet further. The cheerful bustle of Rue Saint-Antoine with its crowds and its carriages comforted him.

  Nicolas reflected on the consequences of the vidame’s arrest. It remained to be seen whether the Comte de Ruissec would intervene as energetically to have this son freed as he had done to recover the body of his murdered elder son. Nicolas was nagged by doubt: there was too much evidence against the vidame. The motives were blindingly obvious: rivalry in love, thwarted ambition, and perhaps other more materialistic ones. It was also plain to see that Lambert was a likely accomplice. What made Nicolas more hesitant and gave him grounds for doubt was the idea of brother killing brother. It was true that there were precedents. A few months earlier one particular case had caused a sensation. A nobleman by the name of Aubarède had killed his elder brother. He had shot him in the head with a pistol and finished him off by stabbing him and beating him with an iron bar before fleeing to enlist in an enemy army. Monsieur de Choiseul had had a missive sent to the ambassador in Rome containing a description of the murderer so that he might be arrested.