The Dream Killer of Paris (8 page)

My cigarette-holder hung from my lips. I had been engrossed in the biography of Nerval all morning.

It had been impossible to go back to sleep after my dream. In vain I had hoped for a few more hours’ rest but I abandoned my bed in desperation as soon as the first rays of the sun appeared. After a frugal meal for which I had no appetite, I dreaded returning to a room in which my mind had demonstrated an excessive tendency to dream so I sat at one of the hotel’s reading tables near the lobby.

‘Oh, what I wouldn’t give just to have a quick look at that damned police file!’ I exclaimed, looking up at the reception desk.

‘I fear that you’ll have to give up that idea,’ replied a familiar voice from over my shoulder. ‘The file was destroyed by the Communards in a fire in 1871, as was part of the Préfecture’s archives.’

Jacques Lacroix was standing behind me.

‘Nerval’s death is a subject for endless speculation,’ he continued, ‘and that biography you’re reading, by Aristide Marie, is fairly well researched.’

‘“Fairly well” is somewhat qualified, isn’t it?’

‘Actually, there are several contradictory versions of events. For example, the theory that Nerval was still alive when he was cut down from the rope by the policeman is at odds with another, not mentioned in the biography, according to which his body had been lifeless for a long time.’

‘Ha! It’s definitely hard to get to the bottom of what happened. But do I take it that you’re interested in Nerval’s death?’

‘He was the model poet for the Surrealists. In the First Manifesto Breton wrote that “Nerval possessed to a marvellous degree that spirit with which we claim kinship”. Although I am no longer a member of the group, I still share many cultural references with them.’

‘Yes, I remember Monsieur Breton’s homage. Before opting for “Surrealism” as a name, he almost chose “Supernaturalism” – in reference, of course, to
Les Filles du feu
.’

‘Monsieur Singleton, your knowledge of French literature is absolutely amazing. A literary detective, it’s certainly original.’

‘
In libris est verum
. I simply apply this adage and extend the principle to the art of investigation.’

‘Well, as I’m dealing with a connoisseur, and to return to Nerval’s death, I would like to tell you a secret, my friend. A few years ago, I had an adventure that was quite incredible, even surreal, one might say. It was late afternoon and I was climbing up to the top of Tour Saint-Jacques when a peculiar character approached me. He claimed to have followed the investigation into the tragedy at Rue de la Vieille-Lanterne closely. He even said that he had been involved in some way. The poet had been dead for nearly seventy years by then and, frankly, the stranger didn’t look that decrepit. I thought he was pulling my leg. But later I checked the papers from February and March 1855 in detail and I had to admit that most of what he’d told me was true.’

Needless to say, I was finding it very difficult to take the journalist seriously.

‘Do you think he was some mad literary historian?’ was all I said.

Lacroix laughed. ‘Possibly. Anyway, before disappearing, this man entrusted me with a document which would greatly interest
you. If we manage to solve our case, I promise I’ll show it to you.’

There was a hint of irony in his smile. A new document? Handed over by a stranger at the top of Tour Saint-Jacques? Whatever next! Lacroix must be making fun of me.

‘It’s almost time for our meeting,’ I said, changing the subject.

I compared my pocket watch with the Swiss clock behind the reception desk. My watch was three minutes faster.

‘Yes. Actually, I think our friend Fourier is just arriving. Is your partner not here yet?’

‘James is not an early riser but he should be here soon. Yes, that must be him I can hear on the stairs.’

Looking dashing in a pale linen suit, James came down the last step just as Superintendent Fourier pushed open the hotel’s glass doors.

‘Gentlemen!’ my associate said brightly. ‘Good morning! Superintendent, I recognised your bowler hat from the window of my room. But what has happened to your bodyguard?’

‘He is at the Café de la Place Blanche,’ replied Fourier. ‘He and another of my men are under orders to take it in turns to watch the place all day.’

‘Did yesterday’s surveillance of the Surrealists’ headquarters yield anything?’ asked Lacroix.

While James and the journalist had each grabbed a chair and sat down next to me, Fourier was clearly reluctant to sit. He took off his hat and, holding it in his left hand, smoothed the long solitary lock of hair on top of his head with the other hand.

‘When I met them last night at the brasserie, my officers indicated that at about half past seven they had seen an individual who appeared to match the description provided by Suzanne Ducros.’

‘Suzanne Ducros?’ repeated Lacroix, who could not believe his ears.

‘Yes. He had all the grotesque features she described to you: top hat, long, dull white hair, round glasses and a wooden cane. He was sitting nursing a glass of beer, not far from Breton and his friends.’

‘Well! That completely confirms my theory! Hans-Rudolf von Öberlin and Andreas Eberlin are the same person. I don’t know why but it seems our man has swapped the get-up of the first character for the second.’

Lacroix’s face suddenly darkened and he looked at the superintendent with abrupt concern.

‘Was he in the brasserie when you joined your men? Did you see him?’

‘Good heavens, no, it was after half past eight when I arrived. The man had left nearly an hour earlier.’

‘What?!’ the journalist croaked. ‘Your men didn’t follow him?’

Fourier decided that the time had come to sit down. He put his hat in front of him on the table and squirmed on his seat.

‘Well … they tried. One of my men decided to follow him while his colleague stayed inside, just in case, to watch the meeting. And …’

‘And?’

‘Well, a group of customers came in just as the suspect was leaving and by the time my officer finally managed to get out of the door there was no one there. He waited in the middle of Place Blanche where he had the best view but it was impossible to tell which way the suspect had gone. Rue Blanche? Rue Fontaine? Boulevard de Clichy? Rue Lepic?’

Jacques Lacroix said nothing but you only had to look at him to know that he was silently fuming at the police and their hopeless incompetence.

‘Well, there’s nothing to prove that he was the man we’re looking for,’ said James soothingly. ‘Maybe it was just a little old man from the area who hurried off to his flat in the building next door.’

‘According to my men, the fellow seemed interested in the Surrealists. He was paying them
a lot
of attention.’

‘Unless I’m mistaken,’ James continued, ‘some of these writers and artists are fairly well known in Paris. It’s hardly surprising that customers are curious.’

‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘A curious customer but who, let me remind you, exactly fits the description provided by Mademoiselle Ducros.’

‘It’s clear that it was our man,’ declared Lacroix. ‘And I suppose at least we’ve learnt that he is probably still in Paris as we speak!’

‘Were your men spotted?’ I asked.

‘I’m sure they weren’t!’

‘I say!’ exclaimed my friend. ‘If this fellow really is the Marquis de Brindillac’s and Pierre Ducros’s unknown visitor, what was he doing in the brasserie? If he is trying to find out about the Surrealists, why not just contact them directly?’

‘Maybe he has. In any case, if it’s our man, he will probably go back to the Café de la Place Blanche. Either today or another day.’

‘Which is why my men are still watching the place.’

I lit another cigarette.

‘However, if you’ll allow me, Superintendent, Lacroix is the only one of us who has seen Öberlin before. Even if he uses another disguise, our friend would still be able to identify him. If you agree, Superintendent (and if Monsieur Lacroix agrees, of course), I think that his presence at the brasserie would be very helpful.’

‘Of course I agree! That goes without saying!’

The reporter had recovered his usual enthusiasm and, with a broad smile, he took a notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘I have not been idle since yesterday, gentlemen. Until four o’clock this morning I was in the
Paris-Soir
archives. A researcher friend of mine helped me. Together, we went through hundreds of newspapers with a fine-tooth comb.’

‘And what did you find?’

The journalist flicked through the pages of his notebook.

‘I found two cases which are very similar to ours. One in Amsterdam, the other in New York. Amsterdam first: on 9 May this year, Professor Adalbert Van Brennen, seventy, who worked at the Suggestive Psychotherapy Clinic, was found dead in his bed. There was no sign of a struggle or blows, no evidence of a break-in via the windows of his room or the front door of the house. It appears that he died in his sleep. Then New York: on 16 July, Dr William Stanhope was found dead in the early morning. He was forty-three and worked at the Neurology Institute and, like Professor Van Brennen, despite his closed eyes, he looked … well, I’ll let you guess!’

‘Absolutely terrified!’ Fourier was the first to cry.

‘Exactly. In both cases, despite the very strange circumstances, the cause of death was recorded as bleeding in the brain, although the symptoms did not corroborate the theory.’

‘There was no autopsy?’

‘It was not considered necessary.’

‘Did the articles say what they were working on?’ I asked.

‘The Neurology Institute in New York is known for its interest in nervous disorders and behavioural disorders in the young. But Dr Stanhope seems to have specialised in sleep-related illnesses. As for Professor Van Brennen, he treated certain psychological imbalances through hypnosis. He began his career at the Salpêtrière hospital under Charcot at the end of the 1880s.’

‘So both men were carrying out research into sleep and dreams,’ I observed.

‘By digging a bit, I found another mention of this Van Brennen. There was a paper on his Suggestive Psychotherapy Clinic in a scientific magazine a few months before his death. The clinic clearly
treated some rather loopy cases. Among other things, Professor Van Brennen had apparently treated a patient suffering from
Hyperesthesia psychosexualis
for a long time.’

‘What?’ said Fourier.

‘Psychosexual hyperesthesia. His patient was convinced that he was the victim of a lascivious creature who tormented him every night.’

‘Ah, yes! Those ethereal spirits our dear Marquis was so fond of!’

‘Van Brennen was convinced that he could be treated with hypnosis.’

‘And did it work?’

‘The article didn’t say.’

In the space of an instant, images from my dream came back to me. I saw the face of the unknown woman bent over mine and experienced again the taste of her sweet hair between my lips and the mellow heat of her skin. I chased away the vision with a reflex movement of my hand.

‘No other cases of Deadly Sleep?’ asked James.

‘I went as far back as the summer of 1932 but I couldn’t find anything else. No, the whole thing definitely seems to have started with the death of Professor Van Brennen on 9 May this year.’

‘Of course,’ my friend speculated out loud, ‘if we could find out whether a chap who looked vaguely like a mad doctor had tried to meet the two victims a few days before their deaths, it would certainly make our case easier.’

‘How can we find out?’

‘Maybe the Sûreté could contact the relevant police forces?’

‘That might take time but you’re right, we must try everything. I will give orders to that effect. Lacroix, my congratulations! That was good work.’

‘So from now on we must consider that five deaths have occurred
in similar circumstances,’ I declared. ‘Adalbert Van Brennen on 9 May; Percival Crowles on 5 June; William Stanhope on 16 July; Pierre Ducros on 26 August; and finally the Marquis de Brindillac last week on 13 October.’

James shivered. ‘Five deaths in the course of six months, that’s a lot.’

‘Too many. Time is short,’ confirmed Fourier. ‘I think that a meeting with the leader of the Surrealist group is called for.’

‘Yes. We have to find out why our Austrian chap seems to be so interested in him or one of his friends, and if he has already tried to contact them.’

‘There again I can help, Superintendent,’ said Lacroix. ‘André is extremely hostile towards anyone who even remotely resembles a police officer. With all due respect, you will have more chance of obtaining information if I accompany you.’

‘Fine! I accept your proposal, Lacroix. The best thing would be to go to his home immediately – if you see no objection of course.’

‘None.’

‘In the meantime, James, shall we go and see those nice people at the Institut Métapsychique? Perhaps they will remember
Hans-Rudolf
  von Öberlin’s visit. And they can tell us about the lecture the Marquis de Brindillac planned to give. I am very curious to know what it was going to be about.’

‘An excellent idea, gentlemen! Then it will be time to go to the Café de la Place Blanche. Hopefully our man will appear. But this time, dash it all, I won’t let him get away!’

It was settled. Midday sounded at the church of Saint-Merri. We agreed to meet at Place Blanche at six o’clock sharp.

‘It wouldn’t be a good idea to be seen together at the Surrealists’ café,’ added Fourier, rising. ‘Is there somewhere else we could meet?’

‘The Cyrano brasserie,’ replied Lacroix. ‘It’s their old headquarters and it’s very near, on the other side of the square.’

‘Perfect. Let’s meet there, gentlemen. Are you coming, Lacroix?’

‘Why did they change their headquarters?’ I asked.

‘The owner didn’t care for broken tables …’

The hotel doors closed behind the superintendent and Lacroix, and we watched them through the window as they made their way down Rue des Lombards.

‘Speaking of tables,’ cried James, ‘I’ve just realised that I haven’t eaten a thing! Let’s go and have a good meal.’