CHAPTER 35
PARIS
By the time a smoggy and hesitant dawn broke over the offices of the Commissariat of Police of the 8th arrondissement in the rue de Lisbonne, tempers were already frayed.
The body of a woman identified as Madame Marguerite Vernier had been discovered shortly after nine o’clock on the evening of Sunday 20th September. The news had been telephoned in from one of the new public booths on the corner of the rue de Berlin and the rue d’Amsterdam by a reporter from Le Petit Journal.
Given the deceased woman was associated with a war hero, General Du Pont, Prefect Laboughe had been summoned back from his country residence to take command.
In high ill-humour, he strode through the outer office and dropped a pile of early editions on to Inspector Thouron’s desk.
Carmen Murder! War Hero Detained! Lovers’ Quarrel Leads to Knife Death!
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Laboughe thundered.
Thouron stood and murmured a respectful greeting, then removed the other papers from the single vacant chair in the cramped and fuggy room, feeling Laboughe’s simmering eyes on him. When it was done, the Prefect removed his silk top hat, and sat down, perching his hands on his cane. The wooden back of the chair creaked under his impressive weight but did not give way.
‘Well, Thouron?’ he demanded, once the Inspector had returned to his seat. ‘How did they get so many inside details? One of your men got a loose tongue?’
Inspector Thouron bore all the marks of a man who had seen daybreak without experiencing the luxury of his own bed. He had smudged dark shadows, like half-moons, beneath his eyes. His moustache drooped and there was stubble on his chin.
‘I don’t believe so, sir,’ he said. ‘The reporters were already there before we arrived on the night in question.’
Laboughe stared at him from beneath white bushy eyebrows. ‘Tipped off?’
‘It appears so.’
‘By whom?’
‘No one will say. One of my gendarmes overheard a conversation between two of the vultures suggesting that at least two of the newspaper offices received a communication at approximately seven o’clock on Sunday evening intimating that it would be an expedient measure to dispatch a reporter to the rue de Berlin.’
‘The exact address? Apartment number?’
‘Again, they would not disclose that information, sir, but I assume so.’
Prefect Laboughe clenched his old blue-veined hands on the ivory head of his cane. ‘General Du Pont? Does he deny he and Marguerite Vernier were lovers?’
‘He does not, although he has requested assurances that we will be discreet in the matter.’
‘Which you gave?’
‘I did, sir. The General most vigorously denies killing her. Similar explanation to that offered by the journalistes. Claims that a note was passed to him as he came out of a lunchtime concert, postponing their assignation on the afternoon in question from five o’clock until later in the evening. They were due to travel to the Marne Valley this morning for a few days in the country. The servants were all dismissed for the duration. The apartment was certainly prepared for an absence.’
‘Does Du Pont still have the note in his possession?’
Thouron sighed. ‘Out of respect for the lady’s reputation, or so he says, he claims he tore up the missive and threw it away outside the concert hall.’Thouron dropped his elbows to the desk as he ran tired fingers through his hair. ‘I set a man on to it straight away, but the cleaners in that arrondissement had been surprisingly assiduous.’
‘Evidence of relations of an intimate nature prior to her death?’
Thouron nodded.
‘What does the fellow say to that?’
‘Shaken by the information, but held his composure. Not him, or so he says. Sticks to his story that he arrived to find her dead and a crowd of reporters milling around in the street outside.’
‘Was his arrival witnessed?’
‘At half past eight it was. The issue is whether or not he was there earlier in the evening. We have only his word that he was not.’
Laboughe shook his head. ‘General Du Pont,’ he muttered. ‘Well-connected . . . Always awkward.’ He peered at Thouron. ‘How did he get in?’
‘He has a latchkey.’
‘Other members of the household?’
Thouron burrowed into one of the teetering stacks of paper upon his desk, nearly upsetting an inkwell. He found the manila folder he wanted, and extracted from it a single sheet of paper.
‘Apart from the servants, there’s one son living there, Anatole Vernier, unmarried, aged twenty-six, an erstwhile journalist and littérateur, now on the board of some periodical dedicated to the subject of rare books, beaux livres, that manner of thing.’ He glanced down at his notes. ‘And one daughter, Léonie, seventeen, also unmarried and living at home.’
‘Have they been informed of their mother’s murder?’
Thouron sighed. ‘Unfortunately, they have not. We have not been able to locate them.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘It is believed they have gone to the country. My men have questioned the neighbours, but they know little. They left on Friday morning.’
Prefect Laboughe frowned, causing his white eyebrows to meet in the middle of his forehead. ‘Vernier? Why is that name familiar?’
‘Could be one of a number of reasons, sir. The father, Leo Vernier, was a Communard. Arrested and brought to trial, sentenced to deportation. Died in the galleys.’
Laboughe shook his head. ‘More recently than that.’
‘During the course of this year, Vernier fils has appeared in the newspapers on more than one occasion. Allegations of gambling, opium dens, whoring, but all unproven. A suggestion of immorality, if you like, rather than evidence of it.’
‘Some manner of smear campaign?’
‘There is a strong smell of that, yes, sir.’
‘Anonymous, I presume?’
Thouron nodded. ‘La Croix seems particularly to have had Vernier in its sights. They published, for example, an allegation that he had been involved in a duel on the Champs de Mars, admittedly as a second rather than as a principal, but even so . . . The newspaper printed times, dates, names. Vernier was able to prove he was elsewhere. He claimed to be ignorant as to who might be behind the slanders.’
Laboughe caught his tone. ‘You do not believe him?’
The Inspector looked sceptical. ‘Anonymous attacks are rarely that to those involved. Then on the twelfth of February last, he was implicated in a scandal involving the theft of a rare manuscript from the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal.’
Laboughe slapped his knee. ‘That’s it. That is why the name’s familiar.’
‘Through his business activities, Vernier was a regular and trusted visitor. In February, after an anonymous tip-off, it was discovered that an extremely precious occultist text had gone missing.’ Thouron glanced down at his notes once more. ‘A work by a Robert Fludd.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Nothing was traced to Vernier and the matter revealed the rather inadequate security arrangements of the Bibliothèque, so the whole business was hushed up.’
‘Is Vernier one of those esoterists?’
‘It appears not, except in the course of his work as a collector. ’
‘Was he questioned?’
‘Again, yes. Again, it was a simple matter to prove he could not have been involved. And again, when he was asked if there were persons who might have some malicious intent toward him by suggesting otherwise, he said not. We had no choice but to let the matter drop.’
Laboughe was silent for a moment as he absorbed the information.
‘What about Vernier’s sources of income?’
‘Irregular,’ replied Thouron, ‘although by no means insignificant. He has some twelve thousand francs a year, from a variety of sources.’ He glanced down. ‘His position on the advisory board of the periodical, which pays him a retainer of some six thousand francs. Offices are in the rue Montorgueil. He supplements this with writing articles for other specialist magazines and journals and, no doubt, winnings at the rouge et noir tables and at cards.’
‘Any expectations?’
Thouron shook his head. ‘As a convicted Communard, his father’s assets were confiscated. Vernier père was an only child and his parents are long dead.’
‘And Marguerite Vernier?’
‘We are investigating. Neighbours knew of no close relatives, but we will see.’
‘Does Du Pont make a contribution to the household expenses of the rue de Berlin?’
Thouron shrugged. ‘He claims not, although I doubt he is being entirely candid on that matter. Whether or not Vernier is party to these arrangements, I would not like to speculate.’
Laboughe shifted position, causing the chair to creak and complain. Thouron waited patiently while his superior considered the facts.
‘You said Vernier was unmarried,’ he said finally. ‘He has a mistress?’
‘He was involved with a woman. She died in March and was buried in the Cimetière de Montmartre. Medical records suggest that some two weeks previously she had undergone an operation at a clinic, the Maison Dubois.’
Laboughe pulled an expression of distaste. ‘A termination? ’
‘Possibly, sir. The medical records have been mislaid. Stolen, the staff claim. The clinic did confirm, however, that the expenses were paid by Vernier.’
‘March, you say,’ Laboughe said. ‘So unlikely to be connected with Marguerite Vernier’s murder?’
‘No, sir,’ replied the Inspector, then added, ‘I think it more likely, if indeed Vernier has been the victim of some whispering campaign, that those two things might well be connected.’
Laboughe snorted. ‘Come, Thouron. Slandering a man is hardly the act of a person of honour. But from that to murder?’
‘Quite, Monsieur le Préfet, and in usual circumstances I would agree. But there is one other occurrence that makes me wonder if there has been an escalation of ill-will.’
Laboughe sighed, realising his inspector was not finished. He pulled a black Meerschaum pipe from his pocket, knocked it upon the corner of the desk to loosen the tobacco, then struck a match and drew until the flame took. A muggy, sour smell filled the cramped office.
‘Obviously one cannot be certain that this has any connection with the matter in hand, but Vernier himself was the victim of an assault in the Passage des Panoramas in the early hours of the seventeenth of September Thursday, last.’
‘Morning after the Palais Garnier riot?’
‘You know the place, sir?’
‘Smart arcade of shops and restaurants. The engraver, Stern, also has premises there.’
‘That’s it, sir. Vernier sustained a nasty wound just above the left eye and a good set of bruises. It was reported, again anonymously, to our colleagues in the deuxième arrondissement . They, in turn, informed us of the incident, knowing our interest in the gentleman. When questioned, the nightwatchman of the Passage admitted he had known of the attack – witnessed it, in point of fact – but confessed that Vernier had paid him handsomely to say nothing of it.’
‘Did you pursue the matter?’
‘We did not, sir. Since Vernier, the victim, had chosen not to report the incident, there was little we could do. I only mention it to support the suggestion that perhaps it was an indication.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of an escalation in hostilities,’ Thouron replied patiently.
‘But in that case, Thouron, why is it Marguerite Vernier lying dead on a slab rather than Vernier himself? It makes no sense.’
Prefect Laboughe sat back in his chair, drawing on his pipe. Thouron watched him and waited in silence.
‘Do you believe Du Pont is guilty of the murder, Inspector, yes or no?’
‘I am keeping an open mind, sir, until we have gathered more information.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Laboughe waved his hand impatiently. ‘But your instinct?’
‘In truth, I do not think Du Pont is our man. Of course it seems the most likely explanation. The General was there. We only have his word for it that he arrived to find Marguerite Vernier dead. There were two champagne glasses, but also one whisky tumbler smashed in the grate. But there are too many things that do not seem to fit.’Thouron took a deep breath, floundering for the right words. ‘The tip-off, for one. If, indeed, it was a lovers’ quarrel that got out of hand, who was it that made contact with the papers? Du Pont himself? I hardly think so. The servants had all been dismissed. It can only have been a third party.’
Laboughe nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Also, the timing, if you will, of both son and daughter being out of town and the apartment closed up for the duration. ’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know, sir. Something staged about the whole thing.’
‘You think Du Pont was set up to take the fall?’
‘I think it is something we should consider, sir. If it were him, why would he only postpone the assignation? Surely he would take care to be nowhere in the vicinity?’
Laboughe nodded. ‘I can’t deny that it would be a relief not to have to pursue an army hero through the courts, Thouron, especially one so decorated and distinguished as Du Pont.’ He caught Thouron’s eye. ‘Not that it should influence your decision, Inspector. If you believe him guilty . . .’
‘Of course, sir. I too would be distressed to prosecute a hero of the patrie!’
Laboughe glanced down at the shrill newspaper headlines. ‘On the other hand, Thouron, we must not forget that a woman lies dead.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Our priority must be to locate Vernier and inform him of his mother’s murder. If before he was unwilling to talk to the police about the various incidents with which he has been entangled during this past year, perhaps this tragedy will loosen his tongue.’ He shifted position. The chair creaked under his weight. ‘But no indication of where he is?’
Thouron shook his head. ‘We know he left Paris four days ago, in the company of his sister. A cabman, one of the regulars who work the rue d’Amsterdam, reports picking up a fare in the rue de Berlin, a man and a girl matching the description of the Verniers, and taking them to the Gare Saint-Lazare on Friday last, shortly after nine o’clock in the morning.’>
‘Any sightings of them once they were inside Saint-Lazare? ’
‘None, sir. Trains from Saint-Lazare service the western suburbs – Versailles, Saint-Germain-en-Laye, as well, of course, as the boat trains for Caen. Nothing. But then they could have disembarked at any point and transferred to a branch line. My men are on to it.’
Laboughe was gazing at his pipe. He seemed to be losing interest.
‘And you have the word out with the railway authorities, I presume?’
‘Mainline and branch stations. Notices have been posted throughout the Ile-de-France and we are checking the passenger lists for Channel sailings, just in case they intend to travel further afield.’
The Prefect drew himself heavily to his feet, wheezing at the effort of it. He put his pipe in the pocket of his coat, then picked up his top hat and gloves, and moved towards the door like a ship in full sail.
Thouron also stood.
‘Pay another visit to Du Pont,’ Laboughe said. ‘He is the most obvious candidate in this unfortunate business, although I am inclined to think that your reading of the situation is the correct one.’
Laboughe moved slowly across the room, his cane tapping on the floor, until he reached the door.
‘And Inspector?’
‘Préfet?’
‘Keep me informed. Any developments in this case, I want to hear the facts from you, not from the pages of Le Petit Journal. I am not interested in tittle-tattle, Thouron. Leave such things to the journalistes and writers of fictions. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’
