The Phantom of Rue Royale by Jean-François Parot

doubtless playing a trick on him in their way, a trick intended to mislead him in his search for the truth. The younger sister’s incoherence and verbosity however, seemed too natural to be feigned. He called Bourdeau, and had Charles and Jean Galaine brought back in. Addressing the father, he asked to speak to Naganda. The man left the room, and returned a few minutes later looking embarrassed.
    ‘Commissioner, we locked him up, but he’s not there!’
    ‘I think you’d better explain.’
    ‘I’ve just been up and the door was locked, but when I opened it, there was no one there! He must have escaped over the roofs. They’re as agile as cats …’
    ‘Not ours,’ said Camille. ‘You don’t know the tomcat—’
    Nicolas cut her off shamelessly, hoping to avoid the flood of words that would follow. ‘Let’s go up to the attic, shall we? Show me the way.’
    Galaine hesitated for a moment, then led him along a corridor, at the end of which was a staircase. On the third floor, which was reached by a stepladder, a door stood open onto an attic room. Through the open skylight, the twilit sky could be seen. A straw-bottomed chair had been placed below the skylight. It seemed to Nicolas that you would need considerable strength to hoist yourself up by your arms and get out through an opening that was so hard to reach. He had some experience of such exercises … The furniture was Spartan, the bed consisting of bales of straw beneath a large blanket with a strange pattern. Clothes hung in a neat row from a rope strung across the room. Many were native, but he noticed a brown greatcoat and a big, wide-brimmed black hat.
    ‘That was what he usually wore when he went out,’ Charles Galaine said. ‘We made him wear them, otherwise people got scared at the tattoos on his face and his long black hair.’
    ‘Are there any clothes missing, as far as you can see?’
    ‘I have no idea. I don’t keep count of the savage’s rags. Isn’t it enough that I’ve been feeding him for more than a year?’
    Nicolas continued his search. In a small wooden casket, he found a few amulets, some small figures carved out of bone, a doll with the head of a frog, several bags filled with some unknown substance, three pairs of moccasins and a few obsidian pearls identical to the one found in Élodie Galaine’s hand. He quickly seized them before her uncle could notice. They went back downstairs in silence. The rest of the Galaine family werewaiting, as motionless as when he had left them. Nicolas warned them to stay within the walls of the capital: instructions would be given to the officials at the tollgates to have them arrested if they infringed this order. A perfectly illusory measure, but they did not need to know that.
     
    Night was falling by the time the two policemen found themselves outside in Rue Saint-Honoré. Nicolas decided to accept La Paulet’s invitation. Dr Semacgus had presumably not been informed of the renewed offer, so he suggested to Bourdeau that he go with him instead. The inspector declined with a smile: Madame Bourdeau was waiting for him and, besides, he was the father of a large family. But he had a question for his chief.
    ‘May I ask why you didn’t interrogate the servants? There’s that Miette, and an old cook.’
    ‘It’s too early, Bourdeau. We don’t want to panic the whole household. Domestics always have a lot to say, but you have to approach them carefully and gently. Our first harvest hasn’t been so bad, though …’
    Bourdeau bade him farewell and got into the cab. Nicolas set off for the faubourg where the Dauphin Couronné was located. Once again, those familiar premises would play a part in an investigation. What did La Paulet have to tell him about the previous night’s disaster? And what was the good news she wanted to announce? As he walked, he went over the interrogations in his mind and made some notes in his little black notebook. The son did not seem especially surprised by