The Nicolas Le Floch affair

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘Monsieur,’ said Sartine, ‘be careful what you say. It is scandalous that a former commissioner such as yourself should offend the King’s magistrates.’

  ‘What were you doing at Notre Dame,’ Nicolas asked, ‘with Monsieur von Müvala and a young man who claimed to be your envoy? Why did we find your address in the cuff of Cadilhac’s sleeve after he had tried to kill me?’

  ‘Believe it or not, I was praying in the cathedral. In fact, I was so absorbed in my prayers that I was not even aware that the hour had struck for the place to close. As for this man Cadilhac, I don’t know him. Bring him here, and we’ll see who’s lying.’

  Nicolas bit his lip. It was clear that, even though Camusot had been held in solitary confinement for two weeks, he had somehow got wind of his hired man’s death. The rest of the interrogation produced no results. It was like walking on quicksand, every step taken merely adding to the uncertainty.

  ‘I could produce dozens of witnesses proving that Cadilhac was a frequent visitor to the commissioner’s lodgings,’ said Nicolas, ‘but what would be the point? Gentlemen, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to perform a little experiment.’

  Bourdeau, sitting a few yards behind him, stood up and brought him a pair of boots.

  ‘Look at these boots,’ said Nicolas. ‘A fine pair, from an excellent bootmaker. They’re mine – or were mine. These boots, gentlemen, turn up again and again in this story. After the death of Madame de Lastérieux, they disappear from the place in Rue de Verneuil where I was in the habit of leaving them. But they leave fresh prints – wet, muddy prints – on the floor. And is that the last we hear of them? Not a bit of it! Miraculously, they are found in Monsieur Balbastre’s furnished rooms where they seem to play their part in the terrible struggle between Monsieur du Maine-Giraud and his attacker. A tack has been stuck in the sole of one for some time, and here, too, the floor is streaked and scratched where the murderer has moved. It might be supposed that they are now still attached to whoever possesses them. Not at all! Here they are, neatly put away in a closet, where Bourdeau finds them, newly cleaned. Monsieur Camusot, would you please be so kind as to try on these boots?’

  ‘No, I won’t. This is absurd.’

  ‘Guards!’ cried Nicolas. ‘Seize the defendant and put these boots on him.’

  It all happened very quickly, with a great deal of force and resistance, accompanied by cries of rage. Two guards seized Camusot from behind and laid him down on a bench. Two others held his legs. Once the boots were on, Nicolas approached.

  ‘It appears, Monsieur, that they fit you perfectly. We take the same size. We could swap boots in the future. Get them off him, and take him away.’

  A long silence fell over the court. It was broken by Lenoir.

  ‘Commissioner, perhaps you would like to inform us, poor ignorant fools that we are, as to the purpose of this unpleasant scene? You seem to be groping in the dark along a path known only to yourself.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ replied Nicolas, ‘what is interesting is not so much that the boots fit him perfectly, what is interesting is the contrary.’

  ‘You’ll just have to get used to it,’ Sartine said to Lenoir. ‘Monsieur Le Floch loves coming out with these enigmatic phrases. He always approaches the truth in concentric circles, and he’s never closer to the centre than when he seems the furthest away.’

  Monsieur Lenoir shook his head, unconvinced.

  ‘Bring in Monsieur von Müvala,’ said Nicolas.

  A tall young man in a grey coat strode in and greeted everyone politely.

  ‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘please state your name.’

  ‘Friedrich von Müvala.’

  ‘It appears you’re from Switzerland.’

  ‘That’s correct. I was born in Frauenfeld, in Thurgovia.’

  ‘You speak French very well, without an accent. Why is that?’

  ‘I was educated by a French tutor.’

  ‘What about your parents?’

  ‘They died when I was a child.’

  ‘And what is the purpose of your visit here?’

  ‘Study and pleasure. I wanted to get to know and enjoy Paris.’

  ‘I’ve heard that you’re interested in botany.’

  ‘Amongst other things. But my major interest is music. Especially the pianoforte, as you know.’

  He spoke easily and with each answer turned and looked at Nicolas with a kind of ironic condescension.

  ‘Are you ready to answer the questions I wish to ask you on behalf of this commission?’

  ‘I would have preferred someone else to ask those questions, Monsieur. However, I shall reply with all the respect I owe the authorities of this country.’

  ‘Good. What was your position in Madame de Lastérieux’s house?’

  ‘A shared taste for the art of music had brought us together. I dared to flatter myself that she was not indifferent to the discreet tributes I paid to her intelligence and beauty. Our frequent encounters had led her to trust me and she had got into the habit of confiding her sorrows and torments to me.’

  How clever all this was, thought Nicolas. It would lead gradually, he foresaw, to slanders and insinuations designed to implicate him, the accuser. Müvala’s smooth voice, full of apparent candour, continued with its insidious little music.

  ‘She wasn’t happy. Her current lover – you, Monsieur, I believe …’

  The tone and the words were so insulting to Julie and himself that Nicolas clenched his fists. ‘Please go on.’

  ‘Her lover, as I was saying, was harassing her with his constant reproaches. He was becoming increasingly jealous, as manifested in endless violent words and actions which she did not dare describe, but which I could guess at. In short, she was afraid of him.’

  ‘Are you insinuating,’ asked Monsieur Lenoir, ‘that she feared her lover would resort to physical violence?’

  Sartine, whose wig was drooping dangerously, did not seem to appreciate this intervention, judging it ill-timed.

  ‘It’s hard to say,’ replied Müvala. ‘But she sometimes gave me that impression.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘perhaps you could tell us your version of what happened on the evening of 6 January 1774.’

  ‘I was invited with four friends of mine.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Acquaintances. It was the kind of evening Madame de Lastérieux was so good at organising. Imagine a mixture of freedom, insouciance, light conversation, music, and games. One of those very special occasions that so displeased this gentleman.’ With a movement of his chin, he indicated Nicolas, who remained impassive. ‘Four of my friends were playing cards. Monsieur Balbastre, the famous composer, was talking, coming out with all sorts of stories and anecdotes. I was playing the pianoforte and Julie was turning the pages for me. It was such a pleasant moment, and she seemed really relaxed. Then this gentle man arrived and disturbed the atmosphere with his sour tone and increasingly violent words and gestures. He left the place in a raging temper. Everyone was glad to be rid of him and to be back amongst good company.’

  To Nicolas, these venomous words were like so many dagger thrusts.

  ‘And what happened after this troublemaker had left?’ he asked, coldly.

  ‘Julie was saddened, but her guests were so merry at dinner that her melancholy soon left her. As I’ve had occasion to remark before, I met this gentleman again …’ He once again indicated Nicolas with his chin. ‘… lurking with an expression of such concentrated rage on his face that it still makes me shiver.’

  ‘And what was this “gentleman” doing?’

  ‘He was rummaging in the servants’ pantry, looking for something, or so it seemed. The servants were a little overstretched, so I had offered to fetch a bottle. I remember perfectly well how startled he was when he saw me. He was hiding something under his cloak, I have no idea what. On the way out, he bumped into Madame de Lastérieux’s black servant.’

  ‘How detailed this all is!’

&
nbsp; Monsieur Lenoir tried to intervene, but Sartine put his hand on his arm to silence him.

  ‘Monsieur, please continue with your account of the evening.’

  ‘It finished quite late.’

  ‘What do you mean by late?’

  ‘About eleven. I then accompanied Madame de Lastérieux to her boudoir. She wanted to show me a new perfume. We exchanged some small talk and I left ten minutes later.’

  ‘Again, very precise. You’re a remarkable witness and I do not doubt that your powers of observation will allow you to answer my remaining questions.’

  ‘I hope, Monsieur, that I can always anticipate what will please you.’

  He gave a quick bow, like a dancer, which Nicolas thought out of place and provocative.

  ‘Perhaps you would be able to please me, then, by telling me more about the perfume.’

  ‘It was a fashionable perfume.’

  ‘Of course. As a matter of fact, I already know the answer. Julie had a passion for Eau de la Reine de Hongrie. I assume that’s what it was?’

  ‘Yes, she sang its praises to me.’

  ‘The bottle is unusually elegant.’

  ‘The most exquisite Parisian taste.’

  ‘With a very colourful label.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Nicolas went on, ‘that as was her custom she sprinkled it all over herself. I sometimes reproached her for using it too freely. It was very heady, quite disturbing to those around her.’

  ‘How right you are, Monsieur. She threw it all over her nightdress.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Her nightdress? Surely you mean her gown? It’s an understandable mistake, I suppose, you may be confused about the hour or … something else.’

  For the first time, Müvala’s arrogance faded, and he was finding it hard to control his emotion, although it was not entirely clear what that emotion was. Nicolas decided to push the point home. The first skirmish had achieved its aim: to break down the defendant’s smugness and put him in a difficult position before three attentive magistrates.

  ‘If I understand correctly,’ Nicolas went on, in a chatty, amiable tone, ‘after talking about perfume for a few minutes when Madame de Lastérieux was already in her nightdress – no, her gown, please forgive me, her gown – you left Rue de Verneuil. Oh, one thing, though. For your information, Julie hated blended perfumes. She used essential oils, bergamot or citron, dissolved in alcohol. Monsieur Gervais, the apothecary at La Cloche d’Argent in Rue Saint-Martin, who enjoyed her custom, will be able to testify to that. She only put on perfume in the morning, never on her neck and only a little on her arms. I should also point out, for the benefit of the court, that this perfume comes in a damascened silver bottle with a crystal stopper surmounted by a crystal swan. It can be found on her dressing table.’

  ‘So you claim,’ retorted Müvala. ‘A man over whom a great deal of suspicion hangs, and who is in a position to twist evidence and testimonies to suit him.’

  ‘I’m sure, Monsieur, that the magistrates will appreciate the implausible aspects of what you’ve told us. Where did you go after you left Madame de Lastérieux’s house?’

  ‘To my hotel, in the Marais.’

  ‘Which one? The police found no record of your stay at any hotel. Any more than they found records of your entering the country.’

  ‘I’ve forgotten. I changed hotels frequently, staying under borrowed names.’

  ‘Why all the mystery?’

  ‘As a foreigner in this city can so easily fall prey to all kinds of crooks and swindlers, it is best to be on the safe side and keep one’s identity a secret.’

  ‘And then you disappeared.’

  ‘No, I’ve been travelling around your beautiful country, visiting monuments and collecting plants.’

  ‘You must have been to Picardy, then? I’m sure the beautiful church at Ailly-le-Haut-Clocher drew your attention.’

  ‘No, I went through Burgundy, Clamecy, Montbard and other places.’

  ‘And yet we haven’t found records of your stays in hotels there either.’

  ‘Being of a very sociable character, I was always invited to private houses. I also ate in restaurants.’

  ‘Again I will leave the court to judge. What were you doing in Notre Dame?’

  ‘Praying. I was accidentally locked in.’

  ‘I seem to have heard the very same story from someone else. But let me go on. What were you doing in a squalid garret in Rue du Paon?’

  ‘I was staying with a friend as impecunious as myself. I’d used up all my money playing faro and was waiting for a bill of exchange from my banker.’

  ‘And of course this friend was praying with you in Notre Dame! For his luck to turn, perhaps. What devotion!’

  Müvala did not reply.

  ‘One more thing. How is it that Inspector Bourdeau found this when he arrested you in the garret in Rue du Paon?’

  Nicolas showed the defendant and the court a ring attached to a ribbon of blue satin.

  ‘I have no idea what that is,’ replied Müvala.

  ‘Let me enlighten you. This ring and this ribbon were given to me by Madame de Lastérieux for me to put my keys on: the keys to my lodgings in Rue Montmartre and those of her house in Rue de Verneuil. The ring, ribbon and keys were all stolen from me during a nocturnal attack at the tavern in Ailly-le-Haut-Clocher. And here they are in your possession. Do you have any explanation for that?’

  ‘A conjuring trick! Anyone would think we were at the Saint-Victor fair!’

  ‘I beg the accused to moderate his language,’ said Sartine. ‘I also note that, for a foreigner, he is well acquainted with our customs. Only old Parisians know the Saint-Victor fair and its attractions.’

  ‘You forget,’ replied Müvala, ‘that there are guide books for the use of foreign travellers, which describe the sights of the city in some detail.’

  The man had an answer for everything, Nicolas thought. He gave another signal, and the boots were brought back.

  ‘One last formality, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to try on these boots, if you don’t mind.’

  Müvala gave Nicolas a blank look, took off his shoes and tried to put one of the boots on his right foot.

  ‘Clearly, they’re not my size,’ he said. ‘I have too large an instep.’

  Bourdeau stepped forward and confirmed this.

  ‘Good,’ said Nicolas. ‘Take him away. We’ll resume his interrogation later. We haven’t finished with him yet.’

  ‘Anyone would think we were in a bootmaker’s shop!’ remarked Monsieur Testard du Lys, sourly. ‘Are these repeated exercises in keeping with the dignity of this court and the majesty of the law?’

  ‘More than you may think, Monsieur. You will see for yourself very soon.’

  Sartine got to his feet. ‘I must now intervene before letting Commissioner Le Floch continue with his demonstration. We all have this case and its various elements in our minds. The young man arrested with Monsieur von Müvala, who was at the baths to serve as an intermediary between Cadilhac and Commissioner Camusot, bears an illustrious name.’ He sighed. ‘I have been urged repeatedly to spare the honour of a family. You know our custom with regard to such things. I have been unable to escape the influence of these entreaties. The man made a statement in my presence, and as we speak he is on his way to Lorient, where he will set sail on a ship heading for our colony in Senegal. We can only hope that there he will mend his ways and settle down honestly. The commissioner will summarise for you the substance of his statement, to which I most particularly draw your attention.’

  Nicolas took a deep breath. ‘Gentlemen, this young man, of whose appearance in this court we have been deprived because of his name and the influence of his family, a fact which I can only deplore …’

  Sartine shifted uneasily in his chair.

  ‘… this young man, as I was saying, told us that on the evening of 6 January he was asked by Monsieur von Müvala
to follow me. That is why he knew my whereabouts and movements that night better than I did, and was able to accuse me without fear of contradiction. I recall to this court that that part of my night had remained a blur until then, such was my state of distraction and despair.’

  ‘Please note, gentlemen,’ observed Sartine, ‘that this testimony completely exonerates Monsieur Le Floch, in case any of you had ever doubted his innocence.’

  ‘We would have preferred to hear the original,’ said Testard du Lys.

  ‘Does that mean that you are challenging a testimony which I myself received, Monsieur?’ said Sartine, rising to his feet, his cheeks suddenly redder than Nicolas had ever seen them.

  ‘Not at all, not at all!’ stammered the Criminal Lieutenant, beating a retreat. ‘Let’s not say any more about it.’

  ‘What happened next is just as enlightening,’ Nicolas resumed. ‘The young man told us that the disappearance of Müvala corresponded to the period during which I left Paris for London. Last but not least, he offered us an entirely new vision of the murder of Monsieur du Maine-Giraud. Everything had been so cleverly arranged that our spies were deceived. This nameless young man did indeed visit the house disguised as a Capuchin monk, and came out without his robe. But there was someone else in the house. We discovered, thanks to his testimony, that Monsieur Balbastre owned several furnished rooms in the building. When Bourdeau found the victim’s body, the murderer had not left the house. He was hiding in another room, waiting for the commotion following the discovery of the body to die down. We must assume that he is a person of foresight who is well acquainted with the habits and customs of the police. He suspects that the street is under surveillance. He knows he mustn’t show his face in any way. He realises that if the simulated suicide doesn’t convince the investigators, suspicion will immediately fall on the nameless young man, the Capuchin monk or both. He therefore leaves behind a pair of boots he wore when he was committing his crime. He doesn’t know where I am, but he wagers that, if I don’t have an alibi, these boots will implicate me in another crime. Chance being on his side, that will confirm what has already been observed of the crime in Rue de Verneuil. Admire the wealth of detail! What a diabolical intelligence!’