The Cavalier of the Apocalypse

by Susanne Alleyn

12

  Friday, 13 January

  Brasseur called at Derville's lodgings at quarter to nine the next morning, while Derville was still, as far as Aristide knew, sound asleep. Renauld let him in and silently laid another place at the small breakfast table.

  "Well," Brasseur said, after a few appreciative swallows of coffee, "I've not gotten too far with anything. Some men of mine are still questioning the neighborhood around St. Andr? des Arts; nobody on patrol seems to have seen anything out of the ordinary around midnight-not that you could see much in those ill-lit streets-and of course most folk are safe inside with their shutters closed. But if the fellow who delivered that letter to Saint-Landry is still about, we'll find him sooner or later." He sighed and reached for the plate of rolls. "What the devil's this? It smells like the fish market."

  "Anchovy butter."

  "Saints alive, the tastes of the rich?"

  Aristide pushed the dish of sweet butter toward him. "One of my men did find a local beggar," Brasseur continued, "name of Lame Barnab?, who, with a little persuasion, owned up to coming across a bloodstained coat abandoned in an alley near the cemetery."

  "Does he still have it?" Aristide said, brightening. "Does it tell you anything?"

  "No, curse it, he says he sold it to a man with an old-clothes cart, for enough silver to keep him drunk for a month. Claims it was just an ordinary coat, darkish brown, a year or two out of date as far as he could tell, but in decent condition; nothing special. The sort of thing a clerk or a grocer would wear on Sundays, he said."

  "Nothing special? What about the blood on it?"

  "Blood, mud, what would he care?" Brasseur said, shrugging. "I think his words were, 'There might have been some stains about the cuffs, but it was still fit to wear, wasn't it?' "

  "A drab brown coat," Aristide mused, "an unremarkable coat you would wear if you didn't wish to be noticed at night. And it brings us not a step further to the killer's identity. Is it even worth going after the fripier to whom Barnab? sold it, to try to find the coat?"

  "Probably not, because when we find it, it'll prove to be the sort of thing that any second-rate tailor makes dozens of in the course of a year. Though I suppose I'd better put somebody on it anyway, for more of those endless rounds of asking the same questions over and over."

  Aristide glanced at him, found the older man was looking studiously into his coffee bowl, but with the faintest of grins, and suddenly decided that, despite his high-handed methods and his deceptively stolid manner, he could not help liking Brasseur.

  "I've learned something, at least," he said, as Brasseur buttered a roll and hungrily bit into it. "Moreau, Beaupr?au's valet, came looking for his master-Beaupr?au's been missing since Monday-"

  "Eh?"

  "Moreau was concerned, though there's no evidence at all-yet-that Beaupr?au's in any trouble. But Moreau had the bright idea of showing me Beaupr?au's portrait when he learned that I'd seen the dead man before he disappeared. The corpse certainly wasn't Beaupr?au, Brasseur. So by elimination, I'd say it has to be Saint-Landry."

  "Excellent," Brasseur muttered, pulling out his notebook. "See, you do have a talent for investigation?"

  "That was just luck. But between that and the clothes-which Moreau swears are Yvon's tailoring-it can't be a coincidence. And furthermore," Aristide added, "Saint-Landry was a Freemason, and so is Beaupr?au, and Moreau told me they knew each other."

  Brasseur stared at him for an instant as he reached for another roll. "That's interesting, isn't it?"

  "Very interesting. Especially since, as I was leaving the H?tel de Beaupr?au, somebody's flunky tried to frighten me off with a bit of rough handling."

  "Did they, by God!"

  "I don't suppose that's something the police would have done?"

  "No, we'd have just nabbed you and taken you in," said Brasseur. "We don't waste time with threats."

  "Then it seems someone doesn't want me hanging around the H?tel de Beaupr?au, inquiring into the marquis's business."

  "Beaupr?au's flunky, you think?"

  "I've no idea. He didn't introduce himself. But it makes me wonder, certainly, about Beaupr?au's role in all this."

  "Oh, Lord, I hope you're wrong," said Brasseur. "Arresting a nobleman for murder is a messy affair. Any guesses why Beaupr?au might have wanted Saint-Landry dead?"

  "None at all. Though perhaps I can get nearer to the bottom of this Freemasonry business," Aristide said. "An acquaintance, a Mason?he's promised to help me if he can. I'll meet him at the Caf? Vachon-do you know it, on Rue du Paon?-at eleven, if you should happen to be in the quarter."

  "Good work," Brasseur said indistinctly, around the roll. "I'll leave that to you, though; they wouldn't talk to an inspector of police."

  "What about the corpse?"

  "The corpse? Well, so far, all my underworld mouches say they've heard nothing about any plans, anywhere, to steal bodies from the morgue. As you said, it's a lunatic thing to do; it would be a lot safer to steal them from the graveyards."

  "So it was stolen for a reason. A reason other than an anatomy lecture, I mean."

  "Yes, I think we can conclude they wanted this particular corpse, though I'm damned if I know why somebody's made off with the remains of this-this inoffensive ex-papermaker. As to how-I've questioned any number of people in the neighborhood of the Ch?telet, and nobody'll admit to seeing anything out of the ordinary."

  "But what's to see?" Aristide said, remembering the public passage at the fortress. "It's pretty dim by the door to the cellars."

  "Exactly." Brasseur gulped down another swallow of coffee. "Probably the men who took the body had a cart waiting right outside, seized their moment when no one was nearby, shoved it in the cart, and covered it up with a bit of canvas and some turnips. How the devil do you find a cart that looks just like the hundred other market carts that go past the Ch?telet every day?" He rose, slipping a last roll into his pocket, and grasped Aristide's arm. "Look here, Ravel, I owe you an apology. I know I've put you in a tight spot by drawing attention to you. Probably it would never have crossed the commissaire's mind to suspect you of this murder, if I hadn't been dragging you around Paris with me."

  "You deduced that, did you?"

  "But you're safe enough here, and no real harm done," Brasseur continued, paying no heed to Aristide's sarcasm. "This is going to blow over, I promise you. Now since we've no body, it's going to be damned difficult to pursue this case. The one advantage we do have is that we're pretty sure that the murdered man was Monsieur Saint-Landry. But no one else in the police knows that. So if you were to keep on with the Saint-Landry household, and pursue this Masonic angle, and why someone might have wanted to kill him-the police, in their happy ignorance, wouldn't be around to interfere with you. As far as they're concerned, the dead man has no name yet, and you've gone to ground somewhere and you're not giving them any trouble, and that's all that matters for the moment."

  "In other words," Aristide said, "you're leaving this investigation up to me, because if you were to question the Saint-Landrys in your official capacity, that would lead the police my way."

  Brasseur nodded. "More or less."

  "Thanks so much."

  "I'll do what I can at my end, of course," Brasseur assured him. "If I don't stop by in the morning, meet me at Delonge's eating-house between one and two tomorrow. And by the way," he added, turning back in the doorway, "I hope I don't have to tell you not to share everything you learn with Monsieur Derville, no matter how friendly you are. Understood?"

  "How much of what we already know can I tell him?"

  "Use your best judgment. If, by chance, he murdered Saint-Landry himself-"

  "Eh?" Aristide said.

  "The possibility hadn't crossed your mind?"

  "He does know the family," Aristide said slowly, "but what motive could he have for murdering Jean-Lambert?"

  "Is Monsieur Derville a Freemason, by the way?"

  "No. Though he seems sympathetic to their goals."


  Gain, jealousy, revenge, self-preservation, love, he swiftly repeated to himself. "I don't see why he might have wanted Saint-Landry dead. Revenge and self-preservation seem unlikely. He'd gain nothing materially by Saint-Landry's death; and he has no cause for jealousy?does he?"

  "Could he be in love with Madame Saint-Landry?" Brasseur suggested. "She's quite a handsome lady."

  "I can't see Derville committing a crime of passion, though; he's much too cynical. He might seduce her and carry on a discreet affair with her, but he wouldn't commit murder for her, or anyone else."

  "Well, you might find out, if you can, where Monsieur Derville was at the time of the murder. As I was saying, use your judgment about what you let slip to him."

  Aristide slowly finished his breakfast after Brasseur had left. Derville appeared, yawning, at a few minutes to ten. "Was I dreaming, or did I hear voices in here?" he inquired, after calling for fresh coffee.

  "It was Inspector Brasseur, bringing me up to date."

  "Learned anything more?"

  "Not much," Aristide said, remembering Brasseur's final remark. He rapidly made up his mind what course to pursue, reasoning that if Derville was innocent, there was little harm done; and if he had indeed committed the crime, then the grisly details of the murder would be nothing new to him. "Listen, those friends of yours who are Freemasons-"

  "Are you still going on about the Masons?" said Derville. "Really, I think you're worrying too much about them-"

  "I didn't tell you before, did I, that the murdered man's throat was cut?"

  Derville blinked. "Well," Aristide continued, "I've been told throat-cutting figures symbolically in a Masonic ritual. Derville, this is ugly. I have to find out more. Any help your friends can give me, any hints in the right direction?"

  Derville was silent as he seated himself at the breakfast table and began spooning preserves and anchovy butter onto his plate. "That's beastly," he said at last. "Forgive me if I've been taking this a bit too lightly."

  "A man named Desmoulins, a lawyer-though he looks as if he'd rather be a scribbler like me-has promised to help me. I'm meeting him in a couple of hours. But who knows if his information will be any good at all? I need to find all the Freemasons I can."

  "Would you mind if I came along with you to see this fellow?" Derville said abruptly.

  "You?"

  "Well, we need to get you out of this fix, and they say two heads are better than one, don't they?"

  Aristide shrugged. "I doubt Desmoulins would object. If he's willing to talk to me, then why not? Perhaps you'll find you have some Freemason acquaintances in common, and you could introduce me-"

  "Oh, Lord," Derville exclaimed, waving him away, "please, no more, not until Renauld's brought the coffee!"