Little Demon in the City of Light: A True Story of Murder and Mesmerism in Belle Epoque Paris by Steven Levingston Page A
Authors: Steven Levingston
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empty-handed. Now Laforge’s memory conformed to the published realities. The peasant also embellished for the sake of drama. Before climbing out of the coach back in Lyon, he recalled, one of the men warned him:“You tell anyone where we got rid of the trunk and I’ll break your neck. I have a habit of doing that, you know.” And the thug flashed a set of brass knuckles. The young toughs were between twenty and twenty-five, Laforge told police; the leader had a small, bronze-colored mustache and a scar above the right eye.
But what were the names of these suspects? Ramonencq wanted to know. Laforge hesitated, claiming the men never called each other by name. Ramonencq was not pleased and instructed Laforge to search his mind: One did not gain anything for oneself without divulging crucial information. No sooner was the warning issued than three names flew off the peasant’s lips: François Revol, Paul Michel Chatin, and Adrien Apollinaire Boubanin. All were underworld figures who were in jail for stabbing a restaurant manager to death just three days after Laforge said he drove them to Millery. If Laforge were to be believed, these young men were very busy murderers.
Laforge’s testimony set the police into action. They visited the killers’ landlady, who affirmed that her three tenants were out all night on July 6, the day Laforge claimed to have transported them in his cab.
Laforge’s interrogation made its way to Chief Goron in Paris. A witness? It was the last thing he wanted to hear. And this witness fingered three suspects? Impossible. One report portrayed Goron as receiving the report from Lyon“with bad grace,” adding that “with his peculiar type of obstinacy, he refused to let it alter his opinion.” A look at the calendar, Goron insisted, destroyed Laforge’s time frame. He could not possibly have met the three mysterious men on the date he claimed. If the men dumped the body on July 6, then the stench of its decomposition should have swamped Millery around the middle of the month. But the odor didn’t surface until late in the month or even into early August. So Laforge’s timing was off, making his testimony, in Goron’s view, a despicable lie.
The Sûreté chief could do nothing but watch while provincial rogues turned their backs on justice. Having begun as a trifling weekenddisappearance of a rich man, the Gouffé case had swelled into one of the greatest frustrations of Goron’s career.
The chief had only one suspect, Gouffé’s business associate Rémy-François Launé, but Launé had repeatedly dodged his clutches like a pickpocket on a crowded boulevard. The robust Launé had become a familiar face at the Sûreté offices and always had a smooth answer for every question and never said more than was necessary.
Launé was forty-two, the son of a distiller who had disappeared after driving the business into bankruptcy. As a young man he’d emulated his father, falling afoul of the law at age fifteen and spending three years in jail. A cunning businessman, he briefly changed the spelling of his name to Launay, a move possibly intended to disguise his illicit activities. A short time before Gouffé disappeared he had been hauled into court for charging illegal high interest rates on loans he provided and, again thanks to his silver tongue, had managed to escape jail. Gouffé had recognized Launé’s craftiness and put him to work on one of the more unpleasant tasks of his business: shaking loose delinquent debt payments. Their business relationship dated back to 1871 and was understandably rife with tensions. Launé collected thousands of francs on behalf of Gouffé but often was slow to part with the money. On July 25, 1889, the night before Gouffé vanished, the two men were overheard on the terrace of Café Véron arguing over eighty thousand francs in Launé’s possession, which belonged to Gouffé. The men were drinking absinthe when Gouffé insisted loudly—and he rarely
But what were the names of these suspects? Ramonencq wanted to know. Laforge hesitated, claiming the men never called each other by name. Ramonencq was not pleased and instructed Laforge to search his mind: One did not gain anything for oneself without divulging crucial information. No sooner was the warning issued than three names flew off the peasant’s lips: François Revol, Paul Michel Chatin, and Adrien Apollinaire Boubanin. All were underworld figures who were in jail for stabbing a restaurant manager to death just three days after Laforge said he drove them to Millery. If Laforge were to be believed, these young men were very busy murderers.
Laforge’s testimony set the police into action. They visited the killers’ landlady, who affirmed that her three tenants were out all night on July 6, the day Laforge claimed to have transported them in his cab.
Laforge’s interrogation made its way to Chief Goron in Paris. A witness? It was the last thing he wanted to hear. And this witness fingered three suspects? Impossible. One report portrayed Goron as receiving the report from Lyon“with bad grace,” adding that “with his peculiar type of obstinacy, he refused to let it alter his opinion.” A look at the calendar, Goron insisted, destroyed Laforge’s time frame. He could not possibly have met the three mysterious men on the date he claimed. If the men dumped the body on July 6, then the stench of its decomposition should have swamped Millery around the middle of the month. But the odor didn’t surface until late in the month or even into early August. So Laforge’s timing was off, making his testimony, in Goron’s view, a despicable lie.
The Sûreté chief could do nothing but watch while provincial rogues turned their backs on justice. Having begun as a trifling weekenddisappearance of a rich man, the Gouffé case had swelled into one of the greatest frustrations of Goron’s career.
The chief had only one suspect, Gouffé’s business associate Rémy-François Launé, but Launé had repeatedly dodged his clutches like a pickpocket on a crowded boulevard. The robust Launé had become a familiar face at the Sûreté offices and always had a smooth answer for every question and never said more than was necessary.
Launé was forty-two, the son of a distiller who had disappeared after driving the business into bankruptcy. As a young man he’d emulated his father, falling afoul of the law at age fifteen and spending three years in jail. A cunning businessman, he briefly changed the spelling of his name to Launay, a move possibly intended to disguise his illicit activities. A short time before Gouffé disappeared he had been hauled into court for charging illegal high interest rates on loans he provided and, again thanks to his silver tongue, had managed to escape jail. Gouffé had recognized Launé’s craftiness and put him to work on one of the more unpleasant tasks of his business: shaking loose delinquent debt payments. Their business relationship dated back to 1871 and was understandably rife with tensions. Launé collected thousands of francs on behalf of Gouffé but often was slow to part with the money. On July 25, 1889, the night before Gouffé vanished, the two men were overheard on the terrace of Café Véron arguing over eighty thousand francs in Launé’s possession, which belonged to Gouffé. The men were drinking absinthe when Gouffé insisted loudly—and he rarely
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