THIRTY-SEVEN
A closed, brass-bound coffer, the lock smashed open, lay on La Reynie’s desk. Desgrez stood beside the desk and watched as La Reynie opened the box and leafed through the papers inside. He picked out from the rubble of receipts and memoranda a bundle of greasy, unsealed letters written on cheap paper. He read one or two of them through.
“Interesting, Desgrez. A correspondence between Monsieur Geniers and this Chevalier de Saint-Laurent, who appears to have been consigned to debtor’s prison by Monsieur Geniers. He complains of the food, he asks for blankets, for money, for wine…he begs, he blusters, then threatens…”
“I thought you would see it immediately, Monsieur de La Reynie. Our suspect.”
“And…?” The Lieutenant General of the Paris Criminal Police raised an aristocratic eyebrow.
“We have made inquiries about this Saint-Laurent, Monsieur de La Reynie. His last address was the House of the Marmousets in the Quartier de la Cité. Madame de Paulmy paid for his release last month with her lottery winnings.” La Reynie’s curiously sensuous smile showed Desgrez that he had caught his chief’s interest.
“I am surprised the marquis tolerated this, Desgrez. His temper and his jealousy are both notorious.”
“You are, of course, entirely correct. According to the servants of the de Paulmy household that I interviewed, he hired bravos to waylay the man and crop his nose and ears.”
“Well done, Desgrez. We have our man with no face. But what is this I see here?” From the bottom of the sheaf of letters and papers, he removed a slip of paper.
“The address of the Marquise de Morville, written in Monsieur Genier’s hand. I thought you might find that interesting, Monsieur.”
“The Marquise de Morville—have you any idea how much that woman irritates me? She swept past me at the maréchale’s reception last month in the most offensive manner, almost daring me to uncover her charlatanry. I suspect her…I don’t know what of, but I suspect her. Follow this up, Desgrez; bring her in and question her about this murder.”
“Monsieur, she has protectors in the very highest circles.”
“Then proceed carefully, but proceed. I mistrust mountebanks—especially of the female variety.”
Desgrez’s expression never changed from the eager, attentive look he wore in Monsieur de La Reynie’s presence, but inside, he concealed a certain amusement. It took a great deal to irritate the impeccably controlled Lieutenant General of Police. He wondered exactly what the impertinent little marquise had said to his chief.