The Dream Killer of Paris by Fabrice Bourland

library, the most imposing room of the three and also the most suffocating. Bookshelves took up every inch of space; they covered entire walls and surrounded the windows and door frames. It was as if the idea of having shelves right up to the ceiling had tickled the old Marquis. Against this backdrop of paper, leather and ink, a large mirror hung over the fireplace. Nearby, a wing chair, a desk and, in the middle, an immense table, also covered in paper, were the only pieces of furniture.
    On the other side of the library, a large old door, rounded at the top, had been left open. Through the doorway we could see into the work room in the middle of one of the château’s towers. Was it the thickness of the heavy door which had managed to hold back the frenzied march of books? In any case, the room didn’t seem to suffer from the same excess. ‘Only’ four or five hundred books occupied the shelves between two narrow windows. Otherwise, the room was remarkably austere, mellow and peaceful, particularly as a bed (yes, a bed, a little camp bed with a pillow and thick blanket) had pride of place in the middle, like an invitation to sleep and dream.
    â€˜My word!’ exclaimed the superintendent. ‘Never in my life have I seen so many books!’
    â€˜The Marquis was amazingly methodical in the way he organised them,’ I observed, examining the shelves. ‘In the study he kept his books on poetry and literature; in the library those on science. Over here we have medicine; over there anatomy; on the other side physiology and so on.’
    â€˜And over there?’ asked the judge, pointing to the work room.
    I went through the low door and approached curiously.
    â€˜Spiritualism, paranormal studies, occultism, alchemy—’ I chanted as I consulted their spines.
    Behind me I heard the deep voice of Dupuytren.
    â€˜Superintendent! There’s nothing in the study!’
    The idea of carrying out the same task in the library couldn’t have excited him but the impassive hound appeared to consider it a point of honour never to reveal his emotions.
    â€˜Nothing on the floor and nothing on the walls!’ he added.
    â€˜I don’t really think there’s any point exhausting ourselves,’ I said, coming out of the tower room. ‘We won’t find anything in here.’
    â€˜Fine, that’s enough, Raymond.’
    â€˜But there is one thing that’s bothering me.’
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜Are you sure that the Marquis’s bedroom was exactly as it is now?’ I asked Second Lieutenant Rouzé. ‘Wasn’t there something that was here on Saturday morning which isn’t here today?’
    â€˜No, sir. As I told the superintendent earlier, nothing has been moved, I’m sure of it. Nothing added, nothing taken away.’
    â€˜It’s strange. The Marquis was surrounded by books. He was an avid reader to put it mildly.’
    â€˜And?’ asked Judge Breteuil in surprise.
    â€˜Well, someone like that doesn’t go to sleep without reading first. It would have been as essential as eating or drinking. It’s inconceivable that he went to bed without a book at his side.’
    â€˜There was nothing, I can assure you.’
    â€˜With all the hours he devoted to reading, I imagine he wanted to do something else when he went to bed,’ said Fourier with a shrug.
    â€˜I can’t believe it,’ I said, scratching my nose. ‘Either the book was put back accidentally by someone who thought they were being helpful and, with a bit of luck, that person will remember when we ask them. Or … it’s still there!’
    I crossed the library and the study briskly and bent down in front of the big four-poster bed. Fourier and Dupuytren followed me, but the examining magistrate, the clerk and the second lieutenant hung back, looking very sceptical.
    First, I opened the drawer in the bedside table; it was