simply fearful that, having had a powerful motive herself to be rid of Saint-Ange, she might be suspected of his murder?
Or had she seen something once, or someone, during a previous visit to Saint-Ange’s apartment? Something or someone she had noticed without meaning to, something that had meant nothing at the time?
A quarter hour’s brisk walk took him to the Place Vendôme and the Ministry of Justice. After showing his police card to several undersecretaries and officials, he at last came face to face with Lafontaine in a sumptuously gilded and mirrored office, a relic of the old regime.
“I don’t believe I’ll have to inconvenience you for long,” Aristide said, eyeing him. Sidonie Beaumontel’s lover was somewhere between thirty-five and forty, lean, tall, and red-haired. It was remotely conceivable, Aristide thought, that Lafontaine might still be the murderer of Saint-Ange and Célie Montereau, but it was impossible that he should be the slight, dark young man whom the porter had seen on the stairs. “Where were you on the afternoon and evening of the tenth of this month, three days ago?”
“This past décadi ?” Lafontaine echoed him. “I was … I was outside Versailles, visiting my sister at her country cottage. What’s this about?”
“Your sister can vouch for your whereabouts?”
“Of course. So can her husband, and their cook. You say you’re an agent of the police? What on earth do you want with me?”
“Louis Saint-Ange,” Aristide said, watching him closely. Lafontaine merely gazed at him, puzzled.
“Who is Louis Saint-Ange?”
Either Lafontaine was an exceptional actor worthy of the Comédie-Française, Aristide thought, or else Sidonie had kept her predicament from him. “I expect Citizeness Beaumontel will tell you shortly,” he said. “If you’ll give me your sister’s name and address, we’ll no longer trouble you.”
Lafontaine’s brief statement in his pocket, Aristide left the ministry, thinking hard. All the likely trails that led from Saint-Ange seemed to be petering out to nothing. Perhaps they had been deceived in thinking that Saint-Ange had been the murderer’s target, and Célie Montereau merely an unlucky bystander.
The girl had been concealing a damning secret, a secret that might have inspired murderous rage in one who felt betrayed in love or honor. Might the truth, he wondered, be the other way round?
CHAPTER 9
14 Brumaire (November 4)
“ Brasseur,” Aristide said the following morning, after a peace officer had been dispatched to interview Lafontaine’s sister and brother-in-law, “I’d like to see Saint-Ange’s apartment again, and ask his servant some questions. I think we’re following a false scent here.”
“If you want,” grunted Brasseur, fetching the key from a drawer, “but why do you say that?”
“Our ‘leads’ seem to lead nowhere. I think you’ll find that Lafontaine was speaking the truth and has a sound alibi. Have you found any evidence at all that Saint-Ange had a mortal enemy who also had the opportunity to murder him that day?”
Brasseur shrugged. “Several people who wished him in Hell, but …”
“Have you interrogated all the people whose letters and papers he was holding hostage? Did any of them seem capable of murder? What about his mistress?”
“I can’t say they did,” Brasseur admitted. “His mistress is right out of it; she went straight to her own apartment to meet another gentleman friend, and we’ve got the friend’s sworn statement, and her maid’s, that she was very much occupied from half past four till the next morning.”
“And Saint-Ange’s victims?”
“Well, one of the women had already had it out with her husband and they’re divorcing; another fellow, a bank clerk who’d embezzled to spend money on a high-class whore, he drowned himself in the river a fortnight ago. Not that that bothered Saint-Ange much, I suppose,” he added sourly. “The others were all rich women
Or had she seen something once, or someone, during a previous visit to Saint-Ange’s apartment? Something or someone she had noticed without meaning to, something that had meant nothing at the time?
A quarter hour’s brisk walk took him to the Place Vendôme and the Ministry of Justice. After showing his police card to several undersecretaries and officials, he at last came face to face with Lafontaine in a sumptuously gilded and mirrored office, a relic of the old regime.
“I don’t believe I’ll have to inconvenience you for long,” Aristide said, eyeing him. Sidonie Beaumontel’s lover was somewhere between thirty-five and forty, lean, tall, and red-haired. It was remotely conceivable, Aristide thought, that Lafontaine might still be the murderer of Saint-Ange and Célie Montereau, but it was impossible that he should be the slight, dark young man whom the porter had seen on the stairs. “Where were you on the afternoon and evening of the tenth of this month, three days ago?”
“This past décadi ?” Lafontaine echoed him. “I was … I was outside Versailles, visiting my sister at her country cottage. What’s this about?”
“Your sister can vouch for your whereabouts?”
“Of course. So can her husband, and their cook. You say you’re an agent of the police? What on earth do you want with me?”
“Louis Saint-Ange,” Aristide said, watching him closely. Lafontaine merely gazed at him, puzzled.
“Who is Louis Saint-Ange?”
Either Lafontaine was an exceptional actor worthy of the Comédie-Française, Aristide thought, or else Sidonie had kept her predicament from him. “I expect Citizeness Beaumontel will tell you shortly,” he said. “If you’ll give me your sister’s name and address, we’ll no longer trouble you.”
Lafontaine’s brief statement in his pocket, Aristide left the ministry, thinking hard. All the likely trails that led from Saint-Ange seemed to be petering out to nothing. Perhaps they had been deceived in thinking that Saint-Ange had been the murderer’s target, and Célie Montereau merely an unlucky bystander.
The girl had been concealing a damning secret, a secret that might have inspired murderous rage in one who felt betrayed in love or honor. Might the truth, he wondered, be the other way round?
CHAPTER 9
14 Brumaire (November 4)
“ Brasseur,” Aristide said the following morning, after a peace officer had been dispatched to interview Lafontaine’s sister and brother-in-law, “I’d like to see Saint-Ange’s apartment again, and ask his servant some questions. I think we’re following a false scent here.”
“If you want,” grunted Brasseur, fetching the key from a drawer, “but why do you say that?”
“Our ‘leads’ seem to lead nowhere. I think you’ll find that Lafontaine was speaking the truth and has a sound alibi. Have you found any evidence at all that Saint-Ange had a mortal enemy who also had the opportunity to murder him that day?”
Brasseur shrugged. “Several people who wished him in Hell, but …”
“Have you interrogated all the people whose letters and papers he was holding hostage? Did any of them seem capable of murder? What about his mistress?”
“I can’t say they did,” Brasseur admitted. “His mistress is right out of it; she went straight to her own apartment to meet another gentleman friend, and we’ve got the friend’s sworn statement, and her maid’s, that she was very much occupied from half past four till the next morning.”
“And Saint-Ange’s victims?”
“Well, one of the women had already had it out with her husband and they’re divorcing; another fellow, a bank clerk who’d embezzled to spend money on a high-class whore, he drowned himself in the river a fortnight ago. Not that that bothered Saint-Ange much, I suppose,” he added sourly. “The others were all rich women
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