was well known to the clerks and was therefore greeted without any awkward questioning. He was given the latest night reports and immersed himself in repetitive accounts of the minor incidents that marked the days and nights of the capital in this turbulent period of Carnival. Nothing caught his attention. He was much more interested in pouring over copies of the registers of the Basse-Geôle,1 which listed the macabre remains washed up by the Seine. A net laid out downstream of Paris caught floating bodies that drifted in the waters of the river. Yet here, too, the dull repetitiveness of the accounts provided him with no clue.
A male corpse, of one said to be called Pacaud, choked by the waters.
A male corpse of about twenty-five years, without wound or bruise, but presenting signs of choking by the waters.
A male corpse of about forty years, without wound or bruise, but from the signs we have seen consider that the aforesaid individual died of a seizure.
The headless body of a child, which we consider to have served for anatomical demonstrations and to have remained underwater for some considerable time.
Nicolas pushed away the register and realised the magnitude of the task he had been set. His doubts returned. Was it possible that Monsieur de Sartine had been making a fool of him? Perhaps he did not want Lardin to be found. Entrusting such an investigation to a beginner was perhaps a way of hushing it up. He set aside these unpleasant thoughts and decided to go to the Châtelet in order to visit the Basse-Geôle and to consult with Inspector Bourdeau.
The inspector’s enquiries had been just as fruitless as his own. Nicolas did not know how to tell the inspector about Monsieur de Sartine’s commission. He found it simpler to hand him the Lieutenant General of Police’s orders, without saying a word. When he had read them Bourdeau looked up and, examining the young man with a kindly smile, said simply:
‘This really is news. I always knew you’d go far, and fast. I’m happy for you, Monsieur.’
There was respect in his voice and Nicolas shook his hand, touched by these words.
‘However,’ continued Bourdeau, ‘your problems are far from over. You must not underestimate how difficult it will be. But you have full authority and, if I can help, you know you can count on me.’
‘On that very point, Monsieur de Sartine has allowed me to take an assistant. To tell the truth, I’ve asked for someone to help me. I’ve put forward a name. Yours, in fact. But I’m very young and inexperienced and I would quite understand if you said no.’
Bourdeau was pink with embarrassment.
‘Don’t worry. Here we are operating outside the rules. I’ve been observing you since you joined us and age has nothing to do with it … I’m flattered that you thought of me and I would like to work under you.’
They remained silent for a moment and then it was Bourdeau who continued:
‘This is all very well but time is short. I’ve already spoken to Commissioner Camusot. He hasn’t seen Lardin for three weeks. Did the Lieutenant General tell you?’
Nicolas reflected that Monsieur de Sartine was deluding himself about the secrecy of the enquiries and did not reply to the inspector’s question.
‘I should like to visit the morgue. Not that I’ve found anything in the reports, but no stone must be left unturned.’
Bourdeau held out his open snuffbox to Nicolas, who for once helped himself liberally. This little ceremony was a well-established routine in the Châtelet before facing the stench of the Basse-Geôle. Nicolas was well acquainted with this sinister place; he had been there with Lardin. It was a loathsome cellar, a vile hole, lit only by a half-window. A metal grating and a ramp separated the decomposing bodies from those members of the public allowed in to view them. To prevent the bodies from decaying too quickly, salt was thrown at regular intervals onto those that were most decomposed. It was here that the bodies washed up by the Seine or found on the public highway were identified – or cast back into anonymity.
Visiting time had not yet begun but a man was already there in the dank corner of the vault. He was carefully studying the sorry remains laid out on the flagstones and amongst them Nicolas was surprised to recognise those described in the reports. But there was a great difference between the coldness of the records and the sordid reality. He had not paid any attention to the silent, shadowy figure and it was Bourdeau who pointed out the unusual presence with a nudge and a wink. Nicolas went up to the stranger.
‘Monsieur, may we know what you are doing here and who allowed you in?’
The man turned round. With his forehead against the grating, lost in contemplation, he had not heard them approaching. Nicolas jumped with surprise.
‘Why, it’s Dr Semacgus!’
‘Yes, Nicolas, it is indeed me.’
‘This is Inspector Bourdeau.’
‘Monsieur … But you yourself, Nicolas, what ill wind brings you to this place? Still learning your trade?’
‘Why yes, and what about you?’
‘Do you know Saint-Louis, my servant? He hasn’t been seen since Friday and I’m very worried.’
‘Since Friday … Doctor, this place does not seem to me to lend itself to conversation. Shall we go back to the offices?’
They found themselves in the antechamber of the room where Nicolas had waited for his first interview with Sartine. Now the usher greeted him politely. Nicolas fondly remembered himself as a timid boy from Brittany, and then became annoyed with himself for being wistful about the past. His early life was over and done with; he had to devote himself entirely to his current assignment. They went towards a shabby-looking office used by the duty policemen. Nicolas requested that Semacgus wait a few moments and went in alone with Bourdeau.
‘What a strange coincidence,’ he said. ‘You don’t know the doctor and so you won’t be as surprised as I am at the occurrence of two such similar events.’
He remained thoughtful for a moment, then went on:
‘Guillaume Semacgus is a navy surgeon trained at the school in Brest. He spent a long time at sea on the King’s ships, then sailed with the Compagnie des Indes. He stayed for several years in our trading post in Africa, at Saint-Louis in Senegal. He’s a scholar and an eccentric, a well-known anatomist. He’s also a friend of Lardin’s. I’ve never understood why. It was at Lardin’s house that I met him …’
An idea crossed his mind but he preferred to keep it to himself.
‘He’s served by two black slaves whom he treats very well. Saint-Louis acts as his coachman and Awa, his wife, as his cook. He lives alone in Vaugirard.’
Another idea occurred to him, which he likewise set aside.
‘Let’s go and take a formal statement from him.’
Nicolas opened the door and invited Semacgus to enter. In broad daylight the man appeared well built, of a type that would not go unnoticed. He was much taller than Nicolas, who was himself of more
