The Dream Killer of Paris - Fabrice Bourland A Singleton and Trelawney case

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following information be enough to make the magistrates and detectives think again? On the night of 25 August in Montmartre, Paris, the poet Pierre Ducros died in a similar way to the eminent physiologist at the end of last week. At the time, our newspaper reported that, having gone quietly to sleep in his bed the evening before, Pierre Ducros was found dead the following morning by Suzanne Ducros, his sister and only relative, a painter who shared his flat in Rue des Martyrs and had a studio on the floor above. According to Mademoiselle Ducros, her brother had his eyes closed when she entered his room to open the curtains and he looked terrified – lest we need reminding, exactly like our unfortunate Marquis. Pierre Ducros, for a time a member of the Surrealist movement, had come to attention a few months earlier with his magnificent collection of poems entitled La Forme des rêves.

      This summer, following a half-hearted – to say the least – investigation by the Préfecture de Police, the Seine public prosecutor closed the case, concluding that the young man had died of heart failure while he slept. After the death of Auguste de Brindillac last Saturday it is disturbing to note just how deadly sleep has become recently in the Paris region. Above all, it is deplorable that, until now, not one of our brilliant sleuths has been bothered by this ‘coincidence’. That goes for the gendarmerie in charge of the Brindillac affair, as well as the Préfecture or the Sûreté. The people will be reassured to learn that the steps taken in April by Doumergue’s cabinet have already borne fruit: after reorganising the various forces, none is any better than the others. Frenchmen and -women, you may sleep soundly in your beds!

      The article was signed J.L.

      I couldn’t help smiling as I read the journalist’s final statement about the incompetence of the legal system. So that was why Fourier wanted to see me. The police’s methods were being questioned again and the critics had to be silenced. He thought that my experience in complex cases, full of false leads and superficial elements, meant that I would be able to give him a sensible opinion on this unlikely affair.

      ‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘the other newspapers have just followed Paris-Soir’s lead. Le Matin, Paris-Midi, Le Petit Journal, L’Excelsior, Le Petit Parisien, they’re all saying the same thing. I was summoned to the chief’s studyearlier. And do you know what? The Versailles public prosecutor has done a complete volte-face. Not only is he not closing the case, he’s opening a preliminary judicial investigation.’

      ‘Why, for goodness’ sake?’

      ‘Why isn’t the Préfecture dealing with the Brindillac case?’ I asked, handing back the newspaper.

      ‘It’s a question of divisional authority. The Préfecture only covers Paris and the Seine département. As the Marquis died in his château in Seine-et-Oise, it’s the Sûreté’s responsibility.’

      ‘And have you been able to find out any more about the poet’s death?’

      ‘I’ve just left Préfecture headquarters. I had to move heaven and earth to get access to the report but good heavens! I wasn’t going to leave before they showed it to me. In fact the case is similar to the Marquis’s in all respects. Young Ducros died in his sleep, suddenly, as though gripped by extreme fear. The sheets were tangled as if he had tried to fight or free himself from some powerful pressure. But, according to the doctor who came to certify the death, there were no injuries, marks or obvious lesions on his body. His sister, who slept in the next room, had heard him groan in his sleep. She had got up and noticed that he was dreaming. His health was delicate. Those close to him described him as depressive, nervous, tormented, and of a weak constitution. His heart may have given out as a result of an extraordinary kind of hallucination. In those circumstances, his death, however distressing, was not entirely incomprehensible. To put it crudely, he had been living on borrowed time!’

      ‘Was there an autopsy?’

      ‘Yes but there again, the results aren’t particularly revealing. The toxicology examination didn’t indicate the presence of any narcotic substances. It’s a pity – that would have solved the problem.’

      ‘It’s certainly very strange.’

      ‘In both cases, one thing is certain: the victims died of sudden heart failure related to an unusually intense fear. The doctors called to the scene thought as much and the pathologists confirmed it. So, if they died of fright, well, for heaven’s sake, there must be a reason!’

      ‘Is it possible to die from a nightmare?’ I wondered aloud, trying to imagine the face of someone stricken by terror in his sleep.

      ‘I’m not sure about that, but I am sure that the Brindillac case can no longer be considered in isolation. Now the problem must be examined from every angle. It won’t take much for the Sûreté to be accused of botching the job too.’

      ‘From every angle? So you’re not excluding criminal activity?’

      ‘Now don’t get carried away, Singleton! Tell me how a murderer could have entered the Marquis’s bedroom. Let me remind you that the doors to his rooms were locked from the inside and the windows too. And as for Ducros, his sister was sleeping next door. If anyone had broken in, she would have realised.’

      ‘Like me, you read detective novels, Superintendent. The crime is often committed in a locked room: no one can enter, no one can leave and yet someone has been killed.’

      ‘That is certainly commonplace in England but it is less common here, I can assure you. What’s more, my friend, in your novels things are clear-cut. The victim is found poisoned, stabbed or shot. There are three drops of blood indicating that a crime has been committed. But there’s nothing like that here. In the pathologists’ reports no mention is made of any violence against the scientist or the man of letters.’

      ‘Was Ducros’s flat locked?’

      ‘Double locked.’

      A sentence in the newspaper caught my eye. I hadn’t taken in all of the relevant information the first time I read it.

      Pierre Ducros, for a time a member of the Surrealist movement, had come to attention a few months earlier with his magnificent collection of poems entitled La Forme des rêves.

      ‘Hmm!’ I said, holding a match up to the end of my cigarette holder.

      For a few moments I was distracted by the cloud of blue smoke wafting around my head, drifting slowly towards the large electric light on the ceiling.

      I had read numerous texts by the Surrealists, particularly those by André Breton (Nadja and the two manifestos). I knew that they were fascinated by dreams; indeed dreams were one of their main sources of inspiration. The title of Pierre Ducros’s recent collection clearly indicated that his interest in the study of dreams hadn’t faded either. As for the Marquis de Brindillac, as Fourier had said, he was a scientist who had devoted himself to the analysis of sleep phenomena and whose

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