The Phantom of the Rue Royale: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #3. Jean-Francois Parot

      ‘Could the other members of your guild confirm your presence at that banquet?’

      ‘You only have to ask them: Monsieur Chastagny, Monsieur Levirel and Monsieur Botigé.’

      Nicolas turned to Bourdeau. ‘Take the addresses, we’ll check. Did you meet any other acquaintances during the night?’

      ‘It was so dark and there was so much excitement that it was almost impossible to recognise anyone.’

      ‘One more thing. Do you have any idea how your niece died?’

      Monsieur Galaine looked up, and an expression of something like bewilderment crept over his face. ‘What am I supposed to say to that? You haven’t told me anything about the circumstances of her death. All I saw was her face.’

      It had been a deliberate ploy on Nicolas’s part to only uncover the dead girl’s face thereby concealing the marks of strangulation on her neck. ‘All in good time, Monsieur. I simply wanted to know what you felt. One more point and we’re finished. When you got back to Rue Saint-Honoré early this morning – about six, I think you said – who was in the house? Naturally, your answer will help us to draw up a list of occupants.’

      ‘My son Jean, my two sisters, Camille and Charlotte, my daughter Geneviève, who’s still a child, Marie the cook, our maid Miette and …’

      It did not escape Nicolas’s notice that he hesitated a moment before continuing.

      ‘My wife and also … the savage.’

      ‘The savage?’

      ‘I see I’m going to have to explain. Twenty-five years ago, at our father’s request, my older brother, Claude Galaine, went and settled in New France. The idea was to dispense with middle men and buy furs directly from the trappers and the natives. That way we reduced our expenses and were able to lower our prices in Paris, where there’s fierce competition in the field of luxury goods. But I’m straying from the point. My brother got married on Île Royale, also known as Louisbourg, in 1749.’

      Now that Galaine was talking shop, he had become a great deal calmer.

      ‘The English attacks on our colonies grew more frequent. My brother decided to return to France with his family. His daughter Élodie was just a baby. He obtained a passage on a vessel in the squadron of Admiral Dubois de La Motte, but it was attacked and in the confusion he was separated from his daughter. The return voyage was a disaster. Decimated by illness, ten thousand sailors died before the squadron reached Brest.3 My brother and my sister-in-law did not escape this calamity. My niece, though, survived, and a year and a half ago she was brought back to me by an Indian servant carrying a copy of her birth and baptism certificates. For seventeen years she had been raised by nuns. Since then, she’s been like a daughter to me.’

      ‘And what about this native? What’s his name?’

      ‘Naganda. He’s from the Micmac tribe.4 He’s a sly one; I don’t know what to do with him. Just imagine, he got it into his head that he would sleep across the doorway of my niece’s room! As if she had anything to fear from our family! We had to put him in the attic.’

      ‘Presumably he’s still there?’

      ‘It’s perfectly all right for him, though I’d have preferred to put him in the cellar.’

      ‘I imagine that’s where you keep the hides,’ said Nicolas curtly.

      ‘I see you know the demands of my trade.’

      ‘I’m going to ask you to step into the antechamber. I need to speak to your son.’

      ‘Couldn’t I stay? He’s a very sensitive boy, and I’m sure he’s very upset about his cousin’s death.’

      ‘Don’t worry, you’ll see him soon enough.’

      Bourdeau accompanied the witness into the room next to the office of the Lieutenant General of Police, and returned with Jean Galaine. The young man was very pale and was sweating profusely. Nicolas knew from frequent observation that excessive sweating denoted an imbalance of humours, but that it could also be produced by exhaustion or anxiety. When Nicolas told him his cousin had been murdered, he grew even paler, and for a long time he was speechless.

      ‘Are you Jean Galaine, son of Charles Galaine, master furrier, residing in Rue Saint-Honoré?’ Nicolas asked at last. ‘How old are you?’

      ‘I’ll be twenty-three on Saint Michel’s day.’

      ‘Do you work in your father’s shop?’

      ‘Yes. I’ve been learning the trade. I’ll be taking his place one day.’

      ‘What were you doing last night?’

      ‘Walking on the boulevards, looking at the fair.’

      ‘What time was that?’

      ‘From six till late at night.’

      ‘Weren’t you interested in the firework display?’

      ‘I’m scared of crowds.’

      ‘There were plenty of crowds on the boulevards. Can anyone testify to having seen you last night?’

      ‘About midnight I had a few glasses of beer near Porte Saint-Martin, with some friends.’

      ‘What are their names?’

      ‘They were just casual friends. I don’t know their names. I’d drunk a lot.’ He took out a huge handkerchief and wiped his brow.

      ‘Indeed? And was there a particular reason why you were so thirsty?’

      ‘That’s my business.’

      Despite his mild appearance, Nicolas thought, this young man was proving to be distinctly uncooperative.

      ‘You are aware that we are dealing with a murder and that the smallest detail may be of major importance? Do you have an alibi?’

      ‘What does that mean?’

      Nicolas was struck by his interest in the detail while being apparently unconcerned about the overall picture.

      ‘An alibi, Monsieur, is proof of someone’s presence in a place other than where a crime has been committed.’

      ‘So that means you know when and where my cousin was killed.’

      The young man was certainly demonstrating an unassailable logic and a great deal of composure. He was perceptive and quick-witted, and probably a lot craftier than he had at first appeared.

      ‘That’s not the question here. You’ll learn these details in due course. Let’s get back to your whereabouts last night. What time did you return home?’

      ‘About three in the morning.’

      ‘Are you quite sure of that?’

      ‘My stepmother can confirm it for you. A cab dropped her off and she got into an argument with the coachman. He was telling her that at three in the morning the fare was double. Then …’ He bit his lip. ‘Nothing that would interest you.’

      ‘Everything is of interest to the police, Monsieur. Does it have some connection with your stepmother’s late return? You won’t tell me? That’s up to you, but we’ll find out everything in the end, believe you me.’

      The interrogation could have been pursued, but Nicolas was impatient to learn more about this family. The young man could wait.

      They rode back to Rue Saint-Honoré in grim silence. Nicolas was going over the answers the two Galaines had given him. He was surprised at their lack of curiosity about the circumstances of their relative’s death. The father had not insisted,