The Dream Killer of Paris

by Fabrice Bourland

  ‘Do you mean the Institut Métapsychique?’

  ‘That’s the one. A bunch of cranks, doctors and scientists, often very well known in their fields, who believe in life after death and that man has certain occult powers. Do you know it?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it. There’s a similar society in London.’

  ‘If I am to believe the gendarmes’ report, the poor Marquise appears to regret that the most eccentric aspect of her husband’s character ended up getting the better of him. She’s sure that, in some way, it was these new ideas that killed him. Or, more precisely, the enormous enthusiasm he’d put into his latest research. Although he had retired from his position as a professor at the Faculty of Medicine, he had recently thrown himself into some fairly unconventional work with unbridled energy.’

  ‘What work was this?’

  ‘The Marquis – because, despite his status as a doctor of medicine and a professor of physiology, the good man preferred people to use his noble title! – the Marquis claimed, for example, that one could control one’s dreams and move at will through entirely invented dream landscapes.’

  ‘My word!’

  ‘Indeed. Anyway, in the light of the results of the local gendarmes’ investigation, on Tuesday the public prosecutor decided to close the case. And that’s when one of those blasted journalists waded in, digging up a story which goes back three months.’

  Fourier took a copy of Paris-Soir out of his coat pocket. The newspaper was dated the day before; it had been folded to highlight one article in particular.

  DEADLY SLEEP

  Could this be the beginning of a terrifying series of murders? As the justice system, with its usual haste, prepares to close the case concerning the death of the Marquis de Brindillac in his sleep (see yesterday’s edition), will the following information be enough to make the magistrates and detectives think again? On the night of 25 August in Montmartre, Paris, the poet Pierre Ducros died in a similar way to the eminent physiologist at the end of last week. At the time, our newspaper reported that, having gone quietly to sleep in his bed the evening before, Pierre Ducros was found dead the following morning by Suzanne Ducros, his sister and only relative, a painter who shared his flat in Rue des Martyrs and had a studio on the floor above. According to Mademoiselle Ducros, her brother had his eyes closed when she entered his room to open the curtains and he looked terrified – lest we need reminding, exactly like our unfortunate Marquis. Pierre Ducros, for a time a member of the Surrealist movement, had come to attention a few months earlier with his magnificent collection of poems entitled La Forme des rêves.

  This summer, following a half-hearted – to say the least – investigation by the Préfecture de Police, the Seine public prosecutor closed the case, concluding that the young man had died of heart failure while he slept. After the death of Auguste de Brindillac last Saturday it is disturbing to note just how deadly sleep has become recently in the Paris region. Above all, it is deplorable that, until now, not one of our brilliant sleuths has been bothered by this ‘coincidence’. That goes for the gendarmerie in charge of the Brindillac affair, as well as the Préfecture or the Sûreté. The people will be reassured to learn that the steps taken in April by Doumergue’s cabinet have already borne fruit: after reorganising the various forces, none is any better than the others. Frenchmen and -women, you may sleep soundly in your beds!

  The article was signed J.L.

  I couldn’t help smiling as I read the journalist’s final statement about the incompetence of the legal system. So that was why Fourier wanted to see me. The police’s methods were being questioned again and the critics had to be silenced. He thought that my experience in complex cases, full of false leads and superficial elements, meant that I would be able to give him a sensible opinion on this unlikely affair.

  ‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘the other newspapers have just followed Paris-Soir’s lead. Le Matin, Paris-Midi, Le Petit Journal, L’Excelsior, Le Petit Parisien, they’re all saying the same thing. I was summoned to the chief’s studyearlier. And do you know what? The Versailles public prosecutor has done a complete volte-face. Not only is he not closing the case, he’s opening a preliminary judicial investigation.’

  ‘Why, for goodness’ sake?’

  ‘Fear of scandal, of course! It mustn’t be said that the justice system has yet again failed to seek out the truth!7 And what’s more, the Justice Minister has decided that the investigation will be carried out by the Sûreté Nationale. It’s now up to me, in collaboration with the examining magistrate, to shed light on the death of the Marquis de Brindillac. If he did die of fright, we have to find out what frightened him. The Préfecture has been asked to discreetly reopen the Ducros file. The news hasn’t been made public so as not to give the impression the writer of the article was right but the press will find out soon enough. Ah! It’s a nice snub to the Préfet de Police!’

  ‘Why isn’t the Préfecture dealing with the Brindillac case?’ I asked, handing back the newspaper.

  ‘It’s a question of divisional authority. The Préfecture only covers Paris and the Seine département. As the Marquis died in his château in Seine-et-Oise, it’s the Sûreté’s responsibility.’

  ‘And have you been able to find out any more about the poet’s death?’

  ‘I’ve just left Préfecture headquarters. I had to move heaven and earth to get access to the report but good heavens! I wasn’t going to leave before they showed it to me. In fact the case is similar to the Marquis’s in all respects. Young Ducros died in his sleep, suddenly, as though gripped by extreme fear. The sheets were tangled as if he had tried to fight or free himself from some powerful pressure. But, according to the doctor who came to certify the death, there were no injuries, marks or obvious lesions on his body. His sister, who slept in the next room, had heard him groan in his sleep. She had got up and noticed that he was dreaming. His health was delicate. Those close to him described him as depressive, nervous, tormented, and of a weak constitution. His heart may have given out as a result of an extraordinary kind of hallucination. In those circumstances, his death, however distressing, was not entirely incomprehensible. To put it crudely, he had been living on borrowed time!’

  ‘Was there an autopsy?’

  ‘Yes but there again, the results aren’t particularly revealing. The toxicology examination didn’t indicate the presence of any narcotic substances. It’s a pity – that would have solved the problem.’

  ‘It’s certainly very strange.’

  ‘In both cases, one thing is certain: the victims died of sudden heart failure related to an unusually intense fear. The doctors called to the scene thought as much and the pathologists confirmed it. So, if they died of fright, well, for heaven’s sake, there must be a reason!’

  ‘Is it possible to die from a nightmare?’ I wondered aloud, trying to imagine the face of someone stricken by terror in his sleep.

  ‘I’m not sure about that, but I am sure that the Brindillac case can no longer be considered in isolation. Now the problem must be examined from every angle. It won’t take much for the Sûreté to be accused of botching the job too.’

  ‘From every angle? So you’re not excluding criminal activity?’

  ‘Now don’t get carried away, Singleton! Tell me how a murderer could have entered the Marquis’s bedroom. Let me remind you that the doors to his rooms were locked from the inside and the windows too. And as for Ducros, his sister was sleeping next door. If anyone had broken in, she would have realised.’

  ‘Like me, you read detective novels, Superintendent. The crime is often committed in a locked room: no one can enter, no one can leave and yet someone has been killed.’

  ‘That is certainly commonplace in England but it is less common here, I can assure you. What’s more, my friend, in your novels things are clear-cut. The victim is found poisoned, stabbed or shot. There are three drops of blood indicating that a crime has been committed. But there’s nothing like that here. In the pathologi
sts’ reports no mention is made of any violence against the scientist or the man of letters.’

  ‘Was Ducros’s flat locked?’

  ‘Double locked.’

  The superintendent drummed his fingers on the newspaper. ‘This reporter has managed to create havoc! As if we didn’t have enough problems already with the controversy over the death of Minister Barthou8. Not to mention the repercussions of the Stavisky case. The public have a terrible impression of both politicians and the police. One spark is all it would take for the whole thing to blow up.’

  A sentence in the newspaper caught my eye. I hadn’t taken in all of the relevant information the first time I read it.

  Pierre Ducros, for a time a member of the Surrealist movement, had come to attention a few months earlier with his magnificent collection of poems entitled La Forme des rêves.

  ‘Hmm!’ I said, holding a match up to the end of my cigarette holder.

  For a few moments I was distracted by the cloud of blue smoke wafting around my head, drifting slowly towards the large electric light on the ceiling.

  I had read numerous texts by the Surrealists, particularly those by André Breton (Nadja and the two manifestos). I knew that they were fascinated by dreams; indeed dreams were one of their main sources of inspiration. The title of Pierre Ducros’s recent collection clearly indicated that his interest in the study of dreams hadn’t faded either. As for the Marquis de Brindillac, as Fourier had said, he was a scientist who had devoted himself to the analysis of sleep phenomena and whose career had been taking a psychic turn for some time. Both men believed that their dreams were of major importance. Now, they had both died within a few months of each other in extraordinary circumstances, from a violent, incomprehensible fear while their minds wandered through the land of dreams … or nightmares.

  Was it just a coincidence? Or was the Paris-Soir journalist was right? Was there a mystery surrounding the deaths of Brindillac and Ducros? Or had the journalist just come up with the Deadly Sleep phrase because it made a catchy headline?

  ‘How do you intend to proceed, Superintendent?’ I asked, realising that I was more intrigued by this story than I had expected.

  ‘Firstly, by paying a visit to Château B—. I have an appointment with the examining magistrate appointed by the Versailles public prosecutor early tomorrow afternoon. Just between you and me, until yesterday the Justice Minister wanted nothing to do with the death of the Marquis de Brindillac, the public prosecutor couldn’t care less either and the general public likewise. Now, everyone wants to stick their oar in.’

  With a gulp Fourier swallowed the rest of his Burgundy. Wiping a drop of wine from his moustache, he declared in a detached tone: ‘I say! I’ve just had a thought. Since you’re on holiday in our beautiful city, why don’t you come to the château with me tomorrow? You can share your thoughts with me. You can make room in your schedule, surely, to give up a day to shed some light on this case.’

  I couldn’t help smiling. The trap was a little obvious but it had worked perfectly. As Fourier had said, it was certainly mysterious and I also found it rather gratifying, that at the age of twenty-five, my services were required by one of Paris’s leading detectives. Besides, I’d promised James that I wouldn’t let a case slip through my fingers if it presented itself and that I’d alert him as soon as possible. And, in return, Fourier could help me gain access to certain archives for my investigation into Nerval’s death.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I said. ‘But I warn you, tomorrow evening I will return to 1855.’

  ‘Glad to hear it!’ retorted Fourier. ‘Let’s meet tomorrow at half past eleven at the Gare d’Orsay.’

  ‘What? Aren’t we going by car?’

  ‘Our vehicle has been at the garage for the last two weeks. The Sûreté Nationale might have been allocated more funds but it’s hard to tell sometimes.’

  We had spent longer than expected chatting in the café. Outside, night had almost fallen.

  ‘I must go!’ exclaimed Fourier, looking at his watch. ‘As we speak, the head of the Sûreté and the Préfet de Police are meeting the Interior Minister, Monsieur Sarraut. I imagine he is going to demand close collaboration between our two forces.’

  He threw some coins down on the table. As he shook my hand, he suddenly looked at me curiously.

  ‘By the way, what is this investigation which means I have the pleasure of your company here?’

  ‘The death of Gérard de Nerval.’

  ‘What? The poet?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘But wasn’t it suicide?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’d like to know for certain!’

  From the brasserie, I headed towards the Seine. My expedition to Quai de la Rapée was no longer relevant. Crossing Pont-au-Change, I leant over the stone parapet for a moment and contemplated a passing bateau-mouche with its blinding headlights, which was carrying a handful of tourists awed by the splendours of Paris. The season was over but the fine weather had prolonged the euphoric feeling of summer. Something told me that things were going to take a turn for the worse though. Was it the night itself, which was getting darker by the minute on the horizon, far from the lights of the Seine? Was it the icy shiver that ran down my spine despite the relatively balmy air? Was it the silty black water swirling in the middle of the river and which continued churning long after the boat had passed as if some obscure, ancient underground force was extending its empire to the world’s surface?

  I continued on my way via Boulevard Saint-Germain and Quai Saint-Bernard up to the Jardin des Plantes. As I passed a post office, I stopped to send James a telegram.

  STAYING AT HÔTEL SAINT-MERRI, NEAR TOUR SAINT-JACQUES, ROOM 14.

  SUPERINTENDENT FOURIER REQUESTS ASSISTANCE IN BRINDILLAC CASE (SEE PARIS-SOIR OF 16 OCTOBER ON MYSTERY OF ‘DEADLY SLEEP’)

  STRANGE FEELING.

  ANDREW

  After dining at a restaurant in Bastille, I returned to my hotel where I spent the rest of the evening reading.

  On the two days prior to his death, Gérard de Nerval had visited his friends, one after the other. He was penniless. Several days beforehand he had left his room at the Normandie and found himself homeless. Temperatures outside had dropped to freezing. Those who received him in their homes for a few minutes and others who met him in a reading room or a bar at Les Halles were worried when they saw him leave with nowhere to go, heading out into the snow and the cold, but they knew that there was no way of stopping him. He turned up at the home of Paul Lacroix, a scholar who used the pen name Bibliophile Jacob. He went to Joseph Méry’s but his friend was away. At a reception given by Madame Person, an actress, he had appeared gay and cheerful.

  On the fateful evening of 25 January, on the banks of the Seine near the Hôtel de Ville, Nerval told his friend, the painter Chenavard, who had made it his duty to accompany him in his wandering, that ‘the way forward is clear; it must be followed. The baton is in the hand of the traveller.’

  Then he had walked alone for a long time, taking any street he came to before, at the end of that evening, heading for Place du Châtelet – and Rue de la Vieille-Lanterne …

  * * *

  Late that night, I sat up in bed, my eyes feverish, disoriented by a dream so vivid that for a moment I believed that the scene had really just taken place in front of me. As soon as I had gathered my wits about me and, responding instinctively to the order I had been given in the dream, I grabbed the sheet of paper and pencil at the end of the bed and quickly noted down everything I had seen.

  DREAM I

  NIGHT OF 17-18-OCTOBER

  Bedtime: 10.30 p.m.

  Approximate time when fell asleep: 12.15 a.m.

  Time awoken: 3.05 a.m.

  I am stretched out on my bed and dreaming that I am asleep.

  I am asleep and yet I am perfectly aware that I am in my room at the Hôtel Saint-Merri. In the semi-darkness I can make out the whitewashed walls, the beams crisscrossing the ceiling, the books on
the table, my clothes on the back of the chair. I can feel the clean, starched sheets against my skin. A faint odour of wood and furniture polish wafts through the air.

  I dream, aware that I am dreaming. I can actually see myself sleeping. It is a strange sensation – gentle and euphoric.

  Suddenly, although I remember closing the door and locking it, I hear the handle turn, the hinges creak, and the door slowly opens. The figure of a woman is visible in the feeble light from the corridor. I cannot yet make out her face but I recognise her immediately: it is the stranger from the steamer. She is dressed in a green silk tunic, her feet are bare and her blond hair floats over her shoulders as if held up by invisible fingers. Her presence casts a milky light on the objects around her.

  As she moves into the room, my heart begins to beat so hard it almost jumps out of my chest. I would like her to come up to me, to sit down and take my hand. Instead, she heads towards the window, picks up a sheet of paper and a pencil lying on the table and slowly returns to the bed and lays them on the floor.

  She stares at me without blinking. She is even more beautiful than I remembered. I feel she is about to leave me; I want to talk to her, implore her to stay a few more minutes but I have barely opened my mouth before she puts her fingers to my lips and commands my silence. Her skin is soft, surprisingly soft.

  Then she steps away from me, still without uttering a word. As she moves towards the corridor, she repeatedly points to the objects on the floor. The sheet of paper and the pencil.

  Before disappearing, she smiles at me as if to console me, encouraging me to be patient, telling me that she will come back. I follow her with my eyes until she’s gone. Then the noise of the door closing wakes me up.

  NOTES UPON WAKING

  1. As I recall, the sheet of paper and the pencil were on the table last night. But memories can be deceptive; this one must be deceptive. Without realising it, I put them at the end of the bed before going to sleep.