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

of hides, were two men. Both seemed on their guard. The older of the two was sitting with his arms folded. The other stood leaning with one hand on the back of the armchair. Nicolas, alert as ever to fleeting impressions, detected a smell he knew well, the kind given off by an animal at bay or a suspect during inter rogation. This smell, imperceptible to anyone other than him, was superimposed on the acrid stench of furs pervading the shop. There was something about the two men that did not suggest honest merchants getting ready to vaunt the quality of their merchandise. The older of the two was the first to speak.

      ‘You gentlemen no doubt wish to take advantage of our bargains? I have some articles here which might interest—’

      Nicolas interrupted him: ‘Are you Charles Galaine the furrier? Did you go to La Madeleine cemetery this morning and leave a description of your niece, Élodie Galaine, aged nineteen?’

      He saw the man’s hand tighten so much that it turned white. ‘That’s correct, Monsieur …?’

      ‘Nicolas Le Floch, commissioner at the Châtelet. This is my deputy, Inspector Bourdeau.’

      ‘Do you have news of my niece?’

      ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that I myself found a body answering the description you gave to a police officer at La Madeleine cemetery. It would therefore be advisable, Monsieur, if you could come with me to the Grand Châtelet to help identify the body in question. The sooner, the better.’

      ‘My God! How is it possible? But why to the Grand Châtelet?’

      ‘There were so many victims that some have been transported to the Basse-Geôle.’

      The younger man bowed his head. He looked like his father but with softer features; small, deep-set blue eyes; a broad nose and light chestnut hair. He was biting the inside of his cheek. His father, whose features were more virile, showed no particular emotion, apart from two beads of sweat at his temples, just below his wig. They were both wearing light-brown coats.

      ‘My son Jean and I will go with you.’

      ‘Our carriage is at your disposal.’

      As all four were leaving, a large, mannish-looking woman in a chenille,2 her head bare and her features distorted, threw herself at the merchant, grabbed the lapel of his coat and harangued him in a shrill tone.

      ‘Charles, tell me everything. Where is our bird, our beauty? Who are these people? You’re hiding something, aren’t you? This is unbearable. We’ve never counted for anything in this house, unlike … It’ll be the death of me, yes, the death of me.’

      Charles Galaine pushed her away gently and sat her down on a chair. She burst into tears.

      ‘Forgive her, gentlemen. My elder sister, Charlotte, is upset by her niece’s disappearance.’

      He turned to his wife, who was watching the scene impassively. ‘Émilie, give our sister a little orange blossom water. I’m going with these gentlemen; I shan’t be long.’

      Émilie Galaine shrugged her shoulders, but did not say a word. They left and got into the cab. Whether because he wished to spare his family’s feelings, or because he was indifferent, Nicolas noted that Monsieur Galaine had said nothing of where they were going. He assumed that Madame Galaine was his second wife: how else could she have a son only a few years younger than herself? All the same, her indifference was quite surprising. As for the son, he could barely conceal his anxiety – which might be brotherly concern or might just as easily be something else. The father, on the other hand, was controlling himself to perfection, which made him seem rather insensitive to the possibility that one of his nearest and dearest had died. In truth, Nicolas knew nothing about the family. This investigation had already provoked a great many questions. But the priority was to identify the body. A heavy silence descended on the carriage. Nicolas, sitting opposite the son, saw him mechanically picking at the upholstery on the door. Bourdeau pretended to doze, but in fact he was observing Charles Galaine through half-closed eyes. The merchant sat motionless, staring obstinately into space.

      As soon as they reached the Grand Châtelet, things moved quickly. Leaning on his son’s arm, Charles Galaine hesitantly descended the stone staircase to the old prison. All at once they were face to face with the sheet which Nicolas had sealed that very morning, and which had been carried in from the adjoining cellar. The commissioner removed the sheet from the dead girl’s face, then turned his back on the visitors. He heard a dull thud: the son had fainted. Old Marie was called. He poured a few drops of his usual revulsive between the young man’s lips, and for good measure gave him a couple of hearty slaps. The treatment was effective: the younger Galaine came to his senses with a sigh. The usher took him up to the courtyard for a little air. Charles Galaine made as if to follow, but Nicolas stopped him.

      ‘Please, Monsieur. Old Marie knows what he’s doing; he’s seen it all before. He’ll take care of your son. The important thing right now is that you confirm to me this girl’s identity.’

      The merchant looked at the body with alarm, his eyes wide open and his lips quivering. ‘Yes, Monsieur, this is, alas, my niece Élodie. How terrible! But how am I going to tell my sisters? They were so fond of her. She was like their own child.’

      ‘Your sisters?’

      ‘Charlotte, my older sister, whom you’ve met, and Camille, my younger sister.’

      They went back to the duty office where Monsieur Galaine’s identification was duly written down by Bourdeau.

      ‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘I have a painful duty to discharge. It falls to me to inform you that Mademoiselle Édolie Galaine, your niece, was not crushed during the disaster in Rue Royale. She was murdered.’

      ‘Murdered! What do you mean? What are you saying? Why would you add an extra burden to a relative already devastated by such terrible news? Murdered? Our Élodie? Murdered? My brother’s daughter …’

      As a great lover of the theatre, Nicolas judged the tone false. A noble father’s indignation was a common feature of the current repertoire and was very familiar to him.

      ‘What I mean,’ he said, more curtly, ‘is that an examination of the body’ – Nicolas avoided the shocking word ‘autopsy’ – ‘proves beyond doubt that this girl, or woman, was strangled. Was she married? Engaged?’

      He had no intention of mentioning the victim’s condition, preferring to keep that card up his sleeve, ready to play it when the moment was right. Galaine’s reaction convinced him of the rightness of this decision.

      ‘Married! Engaged! You’re out of your mind, Monsieur. She was a child!’

      ‘Monsieur, I’m going to have to ask you a few questions. There are certain things we need to confirm. We know for a fact that a crime has been committed, and the procedure will be set in motion as soon as I have presented my conclusions to the King’s Procurator, who will then refer the case to the Criminal Lieutenant.’

      ‘But, Monsieur, my family, my wife … I must tell them …’

      ‘That’s out of the question. When did you last see your niece?’

      Monsieur Galaine seemed to have come to terms with the situation. He reflected for a moment.

      ‘As a member of the furriers’ guild – one of the great trade associations, as you know – I’d been invited to the city festivities. We first met at the house of one of our number, near Pont Neuf. I saw my niece that morning. In the evening, she was due to go to Place Louis XV to see the firework display with my sisters and our maid, Miette. As for me, I got to the square rather late, when the crowd was already very large. In the crush I was separated from my colleagues. I was trapped beside the swing bridge in the Tuileries, and I looked on as the disaster developed. Then I helped with the search for victims until early this morning. When I got home, I was informed of my niece’s disappearance, and I set off for La Madeleine cemetery.’

      ‘Right,’