‘Right,’ said Bourdeau, ‘I’m going to find Rabouine. He’s never far away at this hour. As soon as he’s dressed in your clothes, I’ll go and distract Old Marie, and he’ll slip past me. Meanwhile, you make your way to Monsieur de Sartine’s office, which is never closed. All you have to do is push the gilded moulding on the third shelf in the bookcase. As you know, there’s a secret passage there. Go down the steps to the little door that leads out to the curtain wall, over on the Grande Boucherie side. That’s where I’ll meet up with you. In the meantime, don’t move. I’ll run now and find Rabouine. To be on the safe side, I’m locking the door.’
Nicolas heard the key turning in the lock. Once alone, he found it hard to rid himself of a sense of anxiety, not for himself, but for Bourdeau. His deputy’s loyalty and devotion was dragging him – a man with a family to support and a reasonable chance of continuing his already long career in peace – down a dangerous path. This doubt was joined by another: could he deceive Sartine so deliberately, when the Lieutenant General had been so honest and patient with him? Nicolas had a remarkable gift for finding himself in these moral dilemmas, which he only resolved through painful exercises in casuistry, vestiges of his Jesuit education in Vannes, which inevitably left wounds in his soul. There was another thought that kept coming back: would he, usually so indifferent, or rather, so accustomed to the terrible sights that were part and parcel of a criminal investigation, be able to bear the sight of Julie’s corpse, or her house overrun by police? Would he be able to keep a cool head, the prerequisite for his capacity for clear thought, when he was so intimately involved? Wasn’t Monsieur de Sartine right in wanting to keep him away from the case, and wasn’t Bourdeau, carried away by his loyalty, setting them both on a very slippery slope?
By the time Bourdeau and Rabouine came for him, he had regained his composure. He was writing the note for Gaspard, which he sealed with the Ranreuil arms after slipping a few louis d’or inside the paper. Before that, not wanting to deceive an old friend whose support had never failed him over the years, he had written a message for Monsieur de La Borde. It was a gesture he considered doubly justified: it would both reassure his friend and cover Gaspard in his master’s eyes. This desire to come clean led him to reflect on human turpitude. Why was it that he had agreed to disobey the Lieutenant General of Police and flout his express instructions, and yet at the same time considered it essential not to act behind La Borde’s back? Doubtless, he thought, because his relationship with Sartine was one of inequality and subordination, and perhaps – although he did not dare think too far along these lines – his attitude was not unconnected with certain rebuffs he had suffered which had left a bitter taste in his mouth, despite his gratitude to, and admiration for, his chief. In the peculiar circumstances in which he found himself, it did not amount to much: a small disobedience, a simple little act of revenge.
‘I’ve sent Old Marie on an important mission,’ said Bourdeau. ‘He’s gone to fetch a pitcher of brandy – he can keep half of it for himself. The time has come. Rabouine knows what he has to do. Give him the letter.’
‘I’d like him to go and see La Borde first and give him this note.’
Bourdeau looked in surprise at the paper, on which the seal was like a bloody stain. ‘Do you really think we need to … ?’
‘Yes, or I won’t do it.’
Rabouine changed, gradually transforming himself, with the help of a short wig, into a very acceptable Nicolas. With a piece of black wool over his face, the collar of his cloak raised, and the tricorn pulled right down, the illusion was complete. For his part, Nicolas adjusted the spectacles and took a few steps.
‘Don’t swagger,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Bend your legs, stoop a bit more, let your shoulders sag. There, that’s it … That’s much better.’
He opened a drawer, took out paper, quills, a penknife and a portable bottle of ink, and gave all these objects to Nicolas.
‘Don’t forget your work tools, if you want to look the part. That’s perfect! Perhaps still a bit too clean, though. Take off your glasses.’
Bourdeau passed his hand over the top of the wardrobe, then smeared the dust on Nicolas’s face, until his complexion turned grey and weary.
‘The coast is clear. Let’s go our separate ways. We’ll meet again where we’ve arranged.’
The inspector left with Rabouine, who was in high spirits and as proud as punch to be acting as commissioner – as an old partner in crime, he would have thrown himself in the Seine for him. Nicolas made his way to Sartine’s office. The silence in the room reminded him of his first interview with the Lieutenant General of Police, when he had arrived fresh from his native province, and a thousand other comic and tragic scenes over the years. The gilded moulding sank back and the bookcase swivelled around, revealing a staircase. The noises of the city rose in the distance. Two floors below, he found the door. Walking out into the street, he was struck by how cold it was, especially now that evening was closing in. He did not have long to wait. A cab stopped, the door opened, and he jumped in.
‘That Rabouine is amazing,’ said Bourdeau. ‘He knows as much of the ways of the world as a bailiff at the Palais de Justice. He’ll fool everyone at Versailles, and by God, he cuts a fine figure in your clothes.’
Nicolas smiled. ‘Thank you on behalf of the clothes! It’s clear you don’t get the bills from my tailor, Master Vachon! As for Rabouine, God save him, he knows what to do in every situation and never spares any effort.’
‘You just smiled,’ said Bourdeau. ‘All is well. Recovery is near.’
The conversation continued in a light tone which gradually calmed Nicolas, making him forget what awaited him. In Rue de Verneuil, a number of officers were keeping a discreet watch on the house. They immediately recognised the unnumbered carriage and Bourdeau’s familiar face. An inspector sitting outside the door, which had been sealed, tried to deny them access. The mention of Monsieur de Sartine’s name smoothed things over: the man had only been trying to defend the prerogatives of the local commissioner. The seals were broken, and Bourdeau and Nicolas entered Madame de Lastérieux’s house.
The shutters were closed, and the rooms were dark and silent. The deserted hall opened on to a corridor which led to the reception rooms. To the right, a door led to the servants’ pantry. At the end of the corridor, a velvet door gave access to a large drawing room, to the left of which, at right angles, were a library and a music room. On the right was a short corridor leading to a circular boudoir, after which came Julie’s bedroom. Adjoining the boudoir was a wardrobe room, then a series of service rooms, leading back to the pantry. The main rooms had a view of Rue de Verneuil, the others looked out on the dark well of the courtyard, where the servants had their quarters. The windows of the library and the music room looked out on Rue de Beaune.
‘Let’s start with the bedroom,’ said Bourdeau.
He glanced round the drawing room. The table had been cleared, although eight chairs still surrounded it.
‘Everything looks so tidy, despite last night’s party.’
‘The two West Indian servants are very good,’ Nicolas said. ‘Julie was a stickler for tidiness. Everything had to be cleaned and put away. She couldn’t bear to see the house looking untidy in the morning.’
‘That’s rather unfortunate. Untidiness has one great merit: it increases the opportunities for observation.’
‘But there’s still a clue here. Parties in this house, as I well know, rarely lasted beyond one in the morning. The tidying must have taken at least two hours. Which means, and the servants will be able to confirm this, that Madame de Lastérieux did not call for help during that time. She could have done so easily from her bed by ringing the bell pull, which sounds in the pantry. Her maid would have come running.’
‘That’s useful