The Dream Killer of Paris. Fabrice Bourland

order to see past the area on the right-hand side of the entrance which had been turned into a bathroom with all mod cons. Pushed up against the wall, an enormous four-poster bed immediately caught the eye. Its posts, made of high-quality wood, supported large sheets of fabric on which pink, round-faced cherubs few through bucolic landscapes. From looking at the bed, neatly made under the joyously festooned canopy, the sheets and covers pulled taut without a crease, no one could have imagined the tragedy that had occurred there.

       Diagram of the first floor of Château B—

       Diagram of the Marquis de Brindillac’s bedroom

      There were a few pieces of furniture in the bedroom (a corner wardrobe, an occasional table, a bedside table and two armchairs) but, apart from a faded wall hanging and a collection of small portraits (mainly of scientists) hung near the door to the study, the room was simply decorated. Stained-glass windows cast an unusual light, creating a subdued atmosphere conducive to reflection at any time of day.

      ‘So, it was here that it happened, was it?’ asked the superintendent, approaching the bed.

      ‘Yes,’ replied Second Lieutenant Rouzé hoarsely. ‘Last Saturday the servant from the château informed the gendarmerie that the Marquis had been found dead in his bed. I got here shortly afterwards, at ten thirty-five. Dr Leduc had arrived before me and was in the process of examining the body.’

      ‘Did anything strike you as strange when you entered the room?’ asked the examining magistrate.

      ‘The dead man’s face, sir, his face! His expression was one of indescribable terror. Never could I have imagined that such an emotion was possible at the moment of death.’

      ‘And yet,’ resumed the judge, slight disappointment in his voice, ‘your investigation hasn’t been able to determine the cause of this violent emotion.’

      ‘That is true, sir. There was nothing to go on. I fear that it will be the same today …’

      ‘We’ll see, we’ll see,’ cut in Fourier. ‘Did the Marquise, or anyone else in the house, notice anything out of place? Or that anything had disappeared?’

      ‘No, nothing had been touched.’

      The superintendent opened one of the two windows to let more light into the room and poked his head outside to assess the height. I joined him, to see for myself.

      ‘I think the theory of criminal activity is looking increasingly unlikely,’ he muttered, tugging at his moustache.

      It was at least fifteen feet from the bedroom window to the ground. It was impossible to get down the wall using only one’s bare hands, particularly as there was a bed of flowering shrubs just beneath the window, which ran right along the façade of the château, and anyone landing there would have left clear traces.

      Obviously, there remained the possibility of a ladder. But given that, on the morning of the Marquis’s death, the windows had been found locked, just like the doors, then either scenario would imply that one of the three people who had entered the room together (the Marquise, the servant and the gardener) was an accomplice who had closed the window without the other two knowing. Admittedly, this seemed far-fetched.

      ‘Well, as you said, Superintendent, we must look at the problem from all angles.’

      While Judge Breteuil questioned Second Lieutenant Rouzé and the clerk, Bezaine, recorded the information in his little notebook, I moved over to the four-poster bed and lightly tapped the wall with my hand. In detective novels the policeman always does that when confronted with a case of murder in a locked room. A secret passageway hidden behind a piece of furniture or a bookcase, a door concealed in a thick wall, and all of a sudden an impenetrable mystery finally begins to unravel.

      ‘Are you looking for something, Monsieur Singleton?’ enquired the examining magistrate with an almost comical air of bemusement.

      ‘I’m checking that the walls aren’t hollow in places and that there are no doors, niches, cavities or secret alcoves. You’d be surprised at the ingenious hiding places in these old houses.’

      The operation didn’t yield any results and after a few minutes I dropped to my knees and meticulously examined the floorboards.

      ‘Absolutely nothing!’ I said in frustration, getting up. ‘This room leads to two others, doesn’t it?’

      ‘Yes, the study and the library,’ replied the gendarme.

      ‘Were the doors opening on to the corridor locked in these three rooms?’

      ‘Yes, they were.’

      ‘And this one,’ I continued, pointing to the door in front of me, between the corner wardrobe and one of the armchairs. ‘Was it closed like it is today?’

      ‘Yes, but not locked. Actually, there is no lock or bolt.’

      ‘And what about the door to the library?’

      ‘That one doesn’t have a lock either.’

      ‘So these three rooms are a single space in which one can move about freely.’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘Singleton,’ said Fourier, seeing where my thoughts were leading, ‘don’t you waste your time. Dupuytren, go and search the study and the library. See if there’s anything unusual about the floor or walls.’

      The faithful Sûreté constable, who until then had been discreetly standing by, calmly carried out the order.

      ‘Why don’t we have a look at the other rooms?’ continued Fourier.

      ‘An excellent idea,’ said the judge, inviting us to go first with a gesture of his hand.

      The so-called study, where Dupuytren had rolled up a large threadbare rug and pushed it against the wall in order to begin examining the floor, was a kind of antechamber between the bedroom and the library. It was filled with heavily laden bookshelves (in fact, the entire room was collapsing under the weight of words) and its only furniture was a desk buried under a heap of papers, notes, notebooks and magazines, and a worn armchair.

      A few steps away, a second door opened on to the library, the most imposing room of the three and also the most suffocating. Bookshelves took up every inch of space; they covered entire walls and surrounded the windows and door frames. It was as if the idea of having shelves right up to the ceiling had tickled the old Marquis. Against this backdrop of paper, leather and ink, a large mirror hung over the fireplace. Nearby, a wing chair, a desk and, in the middle, an immense table, also covered in paper, were the only pieces of furniture.

      On the other side of the library, a large old door, rounded at the top, had been left open. Through the doorway we could see into the work room in the middle of one of the château’s towers. Was it the thickness of the heavy door which had managed to hold back the frenzied march of books? In any case, the room didn’t seem to suffer from the same excess. ‘Only’ four or five hundred books occupied the shelves between two narrow windows. Otherwise, the room was remarkably austere, mellow and peaceful, particularly as a bed (yes, a bed, a little camp bed with a pillow and thick blanket) had pride of place in the middle, like an invitation to sleep and dream.