The Dream Killer of Paris (5 page)

The young servant had drawn up a chair for the journalist and, once the introductions had been made by the extremely urbane examining magistrate, Lacroix placed it between the Marquise’s armchair and that of Second Lieutenant Rouzé. Refusing the offer of a cup of tea, he sat with his arms crossed as if to protect himself from the volley of criticism which would no doubt be forthcoming. The young man seemed sure of himself.

I watched Superintendent Fourier out of the corner of my eye. He was mechanically tapping the armrest of his chair, wondering how best to tackle the situation.

But he didn’t have long to reflect because, after a few seconds’ silence, Lacroix took the initiative.

‘It wasn’t easy getting into the estate, Superintendent. Fortunately, I intercepted your good constable at the gates. Otherwise, I would have had to wait for hours. The sergeants refused to bring me to you.’

Fourier, who, like me, had noticed Amélie’s discomfort earlier when Lacroix’s name had been mentioned, acted as if he hadn’t heard and addressed the Marquis’s daughter.

‘Mademoiselle, were you aware that Monsieur Lacroix was the author of the article in Tuesday’s
Paris-Soir
that caused such a stir?’

‘Well …’ mumbled the young lady, embarrassed at the thought of lying in front of her mother.

‘Amélie has nothing to do with this!’

‘I think you’ve done enough already, Monsieur Lacroix. Kindly just answer the questions put to you.’

‘Excuse me,’ said the Marquise in surprise. ‘So it was you, Jacques, who wrote that article?’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘Why?’

‘When I learnt of the Marquis’s death I was deeply shaken. I was aware of the details after seeing you on Saturday. It reminded me of what had happened to Pierre Ducros a few months ago. I knew Pierre well. I met him ten years ago when I myself was gravitating towards the circle of Surrealist writers. I was very cut up by his death and the fact that the police, the prosecutor and even his sister, Suzanne, didn’t see anything unnatural in it made it even harder for me. When the Marquis was discovered in his bed in identical circumstances I immediately tried to establish a link between the two cases. You didn’t need to be a psychic; the chances of two such extraordinary deaths occurring so close together were infinitesimal. And to cap it all, no one else seemed to have noticed the connection. So I had to act alone, and quickly. Given my position, warning the public in an article seemed to be the simplest way. I hoped that by highlighting the inefficiency of the prosecutor’s study and the police force, my argument would hit home and the police and justice system would be obliged to reconsider their position. I apologise, gentlemen. My behaviour is certainly not blameless but I didn’t have a choice.’

This speech was made with such vigour and sincerity (it was too early to say whether or not it was true) that I sensed Fourier was slightly taken aback. He showed no sign of it though.

‘On that point,’ declared the superintendent, ‘you can be satisified that you succeeded. I’ve been asked by my superiors to look into the
Brindillac case myself. As for Ducros, those in a senior position at the Préfecture have been requested to reopen the case. This news isn’t common knowledge yet but I imagine that now that you know about it, it may as well already be in the papers.’

‘I am delighted, Superintendent. Let’s just hope that the Préfecture de Police proves to be more inspired than usual!’

As this dig had been aimed at the Préfecture, Fourier thought it prudent not to respond. I think that secretly he even quite enjoyed it.

‘I hope you were right in forcing the justice system to act,’ warned the examining magistrate. ‘Otherwise, action could be taken against you.’

‘I’m only too well aware of that.’

‘What was your friend like?’ the superintendent went on.

‘Pierre was very charming and exceptionally intelligent. I met him at a Surrealist meeting. He had always been very interested in dreams. That’s why he wanted to join the group. The great
époque
des sommeils
had just ended but dreams continued to occupy a central place in their work. Pierre and I got on very well. He was from the North of France, from a working-class family. He and his sister were not meant to live the life of artists and intellectuals. And yet they held on, almost making a success of their careers. If it hadn’t been for that terrible death …’

‘And you, Lacroix? What’s your story?’

‘Unlike Pierre, I’ve never known poverty. I am the son of an upper middle-class family. My father is a banker at Place des Ternes. After university, I worked for
Lapin Rouge
, a magazine devoted to “literary and artistic modernity”. Shortly afterwards, I met some of André Breton’s friends when I visited the Studyfor Surrealist Research on Rue de Grenelle. That was in November 1924. I was immediately fascinated by the intellectual energy of the group. For a few years I remained a faithful supporter before distancing myself
from them gradually. When I joined
Paris-Soir
I continued to see Pierre, although less frequently. He too had moved away from the Surrealists, being drawn towards an austere kind of solitude that appealed to his melancholy temperament. Dreams had become his main preoccupation and his only source of inspiration.’

‘It wasn’t very clever of you to vanish after the article was published. My men couldn’t track you down, either at the newspaper or at home.’

‘I wasn’t trying to hide from the police. I was just trying to gather as much information as possible for our investigation.’

‘
Our
investigation? Really! You’ve got a nerve, young man.’

‘First, I asked Amélie about any visitors the Marquis had received over the last few weeks. None of them appeared suspicious. There were only faithful friends and colleagues from the Institut Métapsychique. None that is except the unknown professor who came to pester the Marquis de Brindillac twice in the days before his death. I remembered too that I had seen him last Friday, going down the steps as I arrived at the château. His face gave me a strange, unpleasant feeling, an inexplicable sense of uneasiness.’

‘Did you ask the Marquis de Brindillac what this man wanted?’ asked Monsieur Breteuil.

‘Of course. It was the first question I asked when I was shown into the library. He seemed annoyed, afraid, but he didn’t reply. He just declared that the man wouldn’t be bothering him any more.’

‘So, he had been bothering him!’

‘Undoubtedly. But how exactly, I don’t know. Amélie had noticed that a car driven by a man from the village had dropped the stranger off at the château twice. It seemed reasonable to assume that he had found lodgings at an inn in the area.’

‘We had come to the same conclusion,’ Fourier agreed. ‘That’s why I sent my constable to the village to find out. Your brilliant
entrance delayed him somewhat but no doubt he’ll turn up soon with valuable information.’

‘It will be a waste of time, Superintendent. I’ve already been over everything with a fine-tooth comb.’

‘Indeed! And what did you find?’

‘The stranger went to the Toison d’Or inn at the end of the village. I was there yesterday afternoon. The manager told me that the fellow had stayed for almost a week and that he only left on Saturday, the day the Marquis was found dead in his room. He described the man as a rather unappealing person who spoke French well but with a strong accent. He had only exchanged the usual pleasantries with him. What the manager remembered most was the man’s intense black eyes which held your gaze without wanting to let you go and seemed able to see right inside you. He was apparently a professor in Vienna, Austria. Professor of what he didn’t say, but he was here for professional reasons. Why would a Viennese professor come and hole up in a village in Seine-et-Oise? That’s what the manager was unable to discover. He had his meals sent up to his room every day and on four separate occasions asked the owner of the nearby garage to drive him somewhere. The manager agreed to let me see the man’s room so I went up and searched it thoroughly, without finding anything, unfortunately. But he did give me this.’

Lacroix took a sheet of blue paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and held it out to the superintendent.

‘The day he left, at about two o’clock in the afternoon, the dining room was full of weekend visitors. Guests were discussing the mysterious death of the Marquis whose body had been found a few hours before. Unusually, the Austrian was sitting in the dining room, listening to what was being said around him and waiting for Monsieur Lerouge, the owner of the garage, who was going to take him to Étampes station. When he got up, a piece of blue paper fell
out of his coat. The manager found it under the chair after he had left. He had no idea what it could mean and, unsure what to do, kept it, thinking that the stranger might want it back.’

It was a telegram and care had been taken to remove information relating to the sender and the person it was addressed to. It contained a short three-line message written in German.

‘What does it mean?’ asked Fourier, giving it back to the journalist.

‘There’s a translation on the back: “We have chosen new breeders. Confirmation birth 1 expected on 23rd. Awaiting your return to participate in great work.”’

‘“Breeders!” “Birth!” What does it mean?’ asked the examining magistrate, becoming agitated. ‘Is your man a professor or a vet? And the twenty-third of what? October?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘With luck, it will have come via the local post office,’ Fourier observed. ‘They’ll be able to help us.’

‘I’ve already checked. The stranger neither received nor sent any telegrams while he was staying in the area.’

‘By the way, what name did he use at La Toison d’Or?’ I asked after I had copied the message into my dream notebook.

‘Hans-Rudolf von Öberlin.’

‘Very good!’ announced Monsieur Breteuil. ‘This is all very troubling, I grant you, but there’s not a shred of evidence to implicate this person in the death of the Marquis de Brindillac.’

‘That’s true,’ said Lacroix, glancing at Amélie. ‘This morning I also met Suzanne Ducros to find out if this strange Austrian had visited Pierre as well.’

‘And?’

‘Well, she remembered an old, stooped man with dull white hair under a top hat. He was wearing a long black coat and round glasses.
His general appearance was almost grotesque. According to her description, he looked like Dr Caligari.’

‘Cagliari?’ repeated the magistrate.

‘Caligari,’ I said, ‘was a Machiavellian character in a German silent film that came out about fifteen years ago.’

‘Suzanne remembered his eyes most: intense, black, they looked straight into your very soul. This man had met Pierre two or three days before he died. She didn’t know if he was a professor but he spoke with a German accent.’

‘Why did he want to see Ducros?’

‘She didn’t know. Her brother had deliberately stayed silent on the subject. She only remembered his name: Andreas Eberlin.
Eberlin! Öberlin!
Not much imagination.’

‘Your description of this man doesn’t correspond to the one given by the young lady earlier!’ said Monsieur Breteuil irritably. ‘This one doesn’t have sideburns or a hooked nose. And his glasses are round …’

‘Props!’ objected Fourier. ‘Nothing could be simpler than transforming his face with a false beard and a white wig. As for the glasses, well, come on! The most important thing is the similarities between the two descriptions: the German accent and the terrible eyes.’

‘I saw those eyes on the steps of the château,’ recalled the journalist. ‘They are unforgettable, I can attest to that. In any case, I am certain, absolutely certain, you understand, that it’s the same man.’

‘All right, all right,’ said the magistrate, who was not one to get carried away.

‘You admit that it would be truly amazing if it was just a coincidence.’

‘Certainly,’ granted Fourier. ‘But as Monsieur Breteuil said 
earlier, it doesn’t make this man a killer. After all, Lacroix, you knew both victims as well.’

‘You’re right. I too am officially a suspect. But please, Superintendent, don’t ignore the Austrian because of that.’

‘Our young friend has nothing to do with my husband’s death!’ cried the Marquise. ‘And, gentlemen, would you kindly see fit to explain your thinking? As far as I know, no one killed the Marquis de Brindillac. How could the man you’re talking about, or anyone else, be accused of anything?’

‘For the moment, Madame, no one is guilty of anything in this affair,’ replied Fourier. ‘And that is the problem. We’re trying to understand how it is possible for two men to die of fright in their sleep, in order to prevent such a tragedy occurring again.’

‘If we don’t want it to happen again,’ Lacroix cried, ‘this man must be found! He must have something to do with these events!’

Judge Breteuil, seeing that the Marquise was showing signs of agitation, hastened to bring the interview to a close.

‘I think that the investigation now has some new information. Everything must be done to find out as much as possible about this individual. In the meantime, I propose that we end the meeting here and let the Marquise return to her duties.’

Although the magistrate had already risen, I felt it necessary to clarify one last point.

‘Monsieur Lacroix! You reported that the garage owner had driven the stranger on four occasions. He came here to the château twice and was taken to Étampes station on Saturday. That makes three journeys. Do you know the destination of the fourth journey?’

‘Ah, yes, thank you! I had forgotten about my visit to Monsieur Lerouge. I didn’t count the journey to the station in my calculations. So that makes five journeys in total, including two to the northern districts of Paris. Unfortunately, the garage owner doesn’t remember
the dates of those two trips. He simply told me that the Austrian had paid him in cash on the spot and that, that being the case, he would have liked the gentleman to visit the capital more often.’

‘Where did he go on those trips?’