The Dream Killer of Paris. Fabrice Bourland

deputy interjected with feigned politeness.

      ‘It would certainly have been a pity if we’d lost our way.’

      ‘I was given to understand this morning that the police were about to open a new investigation into the death of this Pierre Ducros,’ continued the deputy. ‘The press is so powerful nowadays it can influence the decisions of the Seine public prosecutor’s studyand the Préfecture!’

      ‘I was under the impression that the Versailles prosecutor’s sudden volte-face was similarly influenced by the publication of a certain article.’

      ‘If you’re alluding to the decision to open a judicial inquiry into the affair which brings us here, you’re wrong. The public prosecutor never intended to close the case and he does not allow himself to be dictated to by anyone, especially not journalists.’

      ‘That is all to his credit.’

      ‘One thing is certain – the police don’t need another scandal.’

      ‘Neither does the justice system.’

      ‘Oh! But we haven’t reached that point yet, gentlemen!’ the examining magistrate intervened, fearing that tensions were rising. ‘Before you arrived, Superintendent, we – the prosecutor’s deputy, Second Lieutenant Rouzé and myself – were discussing the article published in Paris-Soir. At the moment, the press is doing everything it can to create a scandal. By the way, do we know who this J.L. is?’

      ‘His name is Jacques Lacroix. No one has seen him at the newspaper’s offices in Rue du Louvre or at his home since Tuesday. It’s a pity. I have a great deal to say to him. We’ll soon track him down though.’

      ‘Would it be indiscreet to ask your opinion of the two deaths, Superintendent Fourier?’ asked the prosecutor’s deputy.

      ‘Well, I’m only here to investigate the death of the poor Marquis! And my investigations are only just beginning. It would surely be more instructive to hear Monsieur Rouzé’s point of view since he’s been involved in the Brindillac case all along?’

      The gendarme opened his mouth to speak but Fourier had not finished and turned to me.

      ‘By the way, allow me to introduce Monsieur Andrew Fowler Singleton. Monsieur Singleton and his associate, Monsieur Trelawney, who is currently detained in London, helped the French police with a case that was in the news last year.’

      ‘Singleton! Trelawney! Yes, of course, I remember it well!’ exclaimed the examining magistrate. ‘Your names certainly made the papers at the time. I didn’t realise you were so young though.’

      After his initial enthusiasm, the magistrate’s face darkened, as he reflected that, all things considered, my presence would cause a few problems.

      ‘Good heavens, Superintendent,’ he remarked with some embarrassment towards me, ‘do you not think that this investigation has had enough publicity already?’

      ‘On the contrary,’ retorted Fourier, unflustered. ‘As the prosecutor’s deputy confirmed, we need all the help we can get to solve this case as soon as possible. What’s more, if, as the Versailles prosecutor’s study believed less than twenty-four hours ago, the only strange thing about this death is the rather unusual circumstances surrounding it, then everything will be sorted out in no time. The Sûreté is going to use its expertise. With the help of our friend here, I wager that the mystery will melt away within two days. If the Préfecture acts with the same efficiency, it will be all to the good.’

      ‘That is exactly the attitude Monsieur d’Armagnac, the Versailles public prosecutor, asked me to convey, “Everything must be resolved as soon as possible!” I am glad that, on this point, we are all in agreement.’

      Standing on the top step, the prosecutor’s deputy concluded: ‘I’ve just hand-delivered the burial certificate to the Marquise. The funeral can be held this weekend. The Marquise would like the body to be returned to her today but I managed to convince her that, after five days, it was not a good idea. A van from the morgue will therefore take the body to the burial site once the date of the funeral and its location have been fixed. I’m sure that will be a great relief to the family. And now I must leave you, gentlemen. I’m expected in court.’

      Monsieur d’Arnouville marched down the steps towards his car and Judge Breteuil invited us to follow him into the château.

      ‘I really don’t like the way this investigation is looking,’ he said. ‘You’ll see, it will be one of those cases we never manage to get to the bottom of. And I don’t like this atmosphere of suspicion everywhere either. And I’ve been landed with it just a few weeks before I retire.’

      ‘Well, we’re here to find the explanation, whatever it is.’

      ‘Dying in your sleep is allowed,’ continued the judge. ‘It was even considered to be a very good end until last Saturday.’

      ‘It has long been said that Charles Dickens passed away in his sleep,’ I said as we entered the building. ‘Actually, the celebrated author died of a cerebral haemorrhage.’

      Monsieur Breteuil and the clerk, Bezaine, exchanged baffled looks. Clearly, they had no idea what the British writer had to do with Château B—.

      ‘But as for the Marquis de Brindillac,’ I continued, ‘don’t forget the look of terror on his face. Although it’s not unheard of to die in one’s sleep, it is a little more unusual to die during a nightmare!’

      ‘True, very true,’ conceded the judge, rubbing his head.

      We had crossed a large hall and stopped in front of a door where a servant was waiting unobtrusively.

      ‘The Marquise and her daughter are in the sitting room,’ explained the magistrate. ‘They, and the château’s staff, were interviewed by Monsieur Rouzé and his men during the first days of the investigation. As Monsieur d’Arnouville said, the burial certificate has just been delivered to them. The ladies are very distressed, gentlemen. Let us proceed with tact and sensitivity.’

      We had come to a large stone staircase.

      ‘Of course,’ Fourier said. Pointing upstairs, he suggested, ‘Why don’t we leave them in peace for the moment and ask Monsieur Rouzé to show us where the Marquis was found? That will shed some valuable light on the matter.’

      The magistrate agreed with this suggestion. He asked the servant to inform the mistress of the house that he and Superintendent Fourier would speak to her in a few minutes’ time and then invited us to follow him.

      While the others began to climb the stairs, I stopped in front of a full-length mirror in the hall and considered my reflection. Despite all my efforts to make myself look older, my face remained as youthful as ever. It was exasperating. My bow tie and ragged moustache did nothing to improve the situation. Disappointed, I pushed my trilby more firmly on to my slicked-back hair and, frowning to make myself look sterner, caught up with the group in a few strides.

      Upstairs, a corridor ran the full width of the château, dividing it into two parts of roughly equal size. On one side, at the front of the house, were the Marquise de Brindillac’s bedroom and her daughter’s apartments; on the other, Auguste de Brindillac’s rooms, consisting of the bedroom where he had been found dead, a study and a large library. This perfectly geometric distribution was complemented by two spare bedrooms and, at the back, the two circular rooms situated in the towers. The first adjoined the Marquis’s library and he used it for his experiments. The second opened on to one of the spare bedrooms but, for reasons still unknown to me, it had been sealed.

      To help the reader visualise the layout of the château, I have appended a sketch of the first floor of Château B—, as well as a sketch of Auguste de Brindillac’s bedroom (see page 50).

      Second Lieutenant Rouzé preceded us to the door of the Marquis’s bedroom. When the door had been forced, the servant and gardener had broken the lock so now