Текст книги "Officer's Prey"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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All these visitors had behaved in an extraordinarily inept manner. Most of them had promised to bring her back a French flag topped with its eagle emblem. They thought this would please her but the idea horrified her. A piece of bloodstained material together with the certainty that its bearer, like its escort, had been exterminated and that the flagpole had been removed from their dead fingers: what a delightful present! Anyway, they already had the one seized at Tannenberg, so how many more did they need? A Cossack had even promised her Napoleon’s head, probably confusing her with Salome. She was eternally grateful to her father for his pro-Polish views, without which she would have been married off to a Russian aristocrat long ago. But her relative freedom was nearing its end. Her mother had given her six months to make her choice from the list of names she had drawn up herself ‘to help her to avoid making a mistake she would regret for the rest of her life’. The war had forced a postponement of the deadline because announcing an engagement to someone who might be killed soon afterwards would have put her in a difficult position with regard to the surviving suitors.

Oh, the war! Men waged war for a thousand different reasons but what difference did victory really make? She could find only one answer: the colour of the uniforms and the designs on the banners that would be hung up in the drawing rooms. Might Margont be different? She wanted to provoke him, to push him to the limits in order to study his reactions. Oh, she was under no illusions. He would probably maintain an indignant silence like Lieutenant Saber, or order her to be quiet, just as her father did. Or, even worse, he would behave like her suitors, greeting her comments with a kindly and unbearably patronising smile. In that case she would quickly drain her glass to prevent herself from throwing its contents in his face.

When the servants brought in the coulibiac, salmon in pastry, with mushrooms, celery, onions and dill, she said to Margont: ‘Here’s a little more Russian culture for you to devour.’

‘Well, you devour our writers: Voltaire, La Fontaine …’

So he had noticed the books? An accident, no doubt.

‘So you know the fables of La Fontaine, do you? They make edifying reading. “The Wolf and the Lamb” for example. “Might Is Right”.’

‘Dear Natalia,’ the count interjected, ‘having sung all summer, the cicada was caught unprepared when the north wind blew.’

Which was supposed to mean: if the cicada Natalia continued to mock, eternal winter – that is, the marriage she so much feared – would come earlier than expected.

‘Dura lex, sed lex,’ Margont summed up.

‘But Natalia is always happy to please her parents, Captain,’ the countess claimed. ‘Do you not say in France “blood will out’’?’

‘Well, we usually say, “What a woman wants, God wants.” Mademoiselle, I quite understand that our enforced presence is annoying. However, Russian hospitality …’

‘What do you know about Russian hospitality?’ Natalia asked.

‘Well, it’s said that samovars are pot-bellied because people want to be sure there’s always enough boiling water to be able to serve tea to all the guests.’

The young woman was surprised. So he knew that, did he? He really was not like the others. She wanted to scratch this varnish just to check.

‘What present would you offer your hosts by way of thanks?’

Her mother smiled, interpreting the question as the expression of a child’s greed. In her mind there could be no other explanation.

‘Poland! Poland!’ whispered the count, beaming.

Natalia stared at Margont, wondering whether he too was planning to present her with standards, guns and heaps of corpses.

‘The promise to give them an equally warm welcome in France. But without the caviar, I’m afraid …’

Natalia then asked with false naïvety: ‘Would my father also have to come in uniform and accompanied by five hundred thousand soldiers?’

‘We’d have enough cannonballs to feed the lot of them,’ muttered Saber in his corner, without turning his head.

The count was furious. With a discreet gesture he ordered his army of servants to enter the battlefield. The salmon coulibiac was replaced by a hare à la polonaise. Bacon, lard, fresh cream, juniper and caramel: extravagant but delicious. It was served with potatoes and red cabbage. All the guests rejoiced at the sight. Fanselin’s joy was the most intense, such was his love of discovering new flavours, in the widest possible sense of the word.

‘Natalia plays the harpsichord very well,’ announced the count.

The young countess gracefully placed her napkin over her mouth so as not to be seen gritting her teeth. So they also expected to make her play after the meal, did they?

‘It would seem that she doesn’t play enough, since it is said that music soothes the savage breast,’ Margont joked.

Natalia was flabbergasted. So now she was being attacked on ironic territory, her territory! Because if they took away her irony, how else could she express herself freely? The colour of the feathers of her nightingales and the length of her shawls?

‘A soldier presumes to explain to me how music soothes the savage breast,’ she retorted.

‘I’m a soldier only because we are living in a time of war.’

‘What will you do when the peace treaty has finally been signed?’ asked the countess.

In the countess’s mind the question was a tactful way of finding out about the officer’s wealth. Admittedly, she thought him low-ranking. But he did belong to the French army, the only one in which any soldier could climb to the very top. She had learnt that Murat was the son of an innkeeper. Yes, an innkeeper! Really, that was quite ridiculous! He had begun his career as an ordinary soldier. Today, at the age of forty-five, he was a Marshal of France, Grand Admiral of France, Grand Duke of Berg and of Cleves, a prince and, to cap it all, King of Naples. The son of an innkeeper King of Naples! Oh, the French and their Revolution. No respect for the rules and for social barriers.

Margont put down his knife and fork to reply. His dreams were even more appetising than the famous hare à la polonaise. 

‘Well, I would like to launch a newspaper.’

A newspaper. How terribly amusing! thought the countess. She invented on the spur of the moment a short proverb: ‘Innkeeper, King of Naples; journalist, King of the Alps.’

‘A journalist?’ Natalia said in surprise.

Given the interest her daughter had shown in the captain, Countess Valiuska decided on reflection that he was not at all amusing. She was already beginning to worry that her adage might become: ‘Innkeeper, King of Naples; journalist, Count Valiuski.’ There was no question of letting that happen.

‘I love writing and—’

But Margont was interrupted by Piquebois. ‘Are you seriously considering launching a newspaper? My dear old friend, it’s impossible. Censorship will close it down within weeks and the law will force you to pay the state-appointed censor out of your own pocket.’

Margont agreed, his lips puckering up with anger. ‘Yes, you have to feed the hand that bites you.’

‘And he’s entitled to comment on every line, on the layout … In any case, there’s a decree prohibiting more than one newspaper per département, so your project will just join a long waiting list that the prefect will sit on every morning.’

‘I know all that. Before 1800 there were more than seventy newspapers in Paris. Today there are only half a dozen left. The commission for the freedom of the press is practically alone in showing real support for the freedom of the press because it considers itself incompetent to judge newspapers and never gets involved in anything. Such are republicans! Now it’s censorship that should be censored.’

Fanselin was also interested in the subject.

‘The only interesting things left to read are the bulletins of the Grande Armée.’

Piquebois looked sceptical. ‘I admit I like reading the bulletins but the truth is distorted by propaganda. There are the enemy who died on the battlefield and those who died in the pages of the bulletin and often a lot more appear in the second category.’

‘“The pen is mightier than the sword”,’ said Margont ironically.

‘It’s true that in the bulletins everything looks straightforward,’ Saber added. ‘They announce that the Austrians took a thrashing here and the Prussians there … Fine, but we aren’t told how difficult it was or what price was paid.’

Fanselin raised his hands to concede the point. ‘I know. I know the expression “to lie like a bulletin”. But I like the bulletins of the Grande Armée because I was mentioned in them in relation to the battle of Essling. It was this bulletin that later opened the doors of the Red Lancers for me. What I also like is that you really feel something when you read them: emotion, enthusiasm and even elation! It’s quite something when the French army manages to break through the Austrian army! Never mind if they claim that twenty thousand Russians ended up at the bottom of a pond at Austerlitz when really it wasn’t even a quarter of that number.’

‘Which is a great shame,’ murmured the count.

Margont, wild with joy, was pointing at Fanselin. ‘Well said. If you write, it’s to give the reader a thrill! Words combat the tedium of the daily routine.’

‘In that case one wonders why there are any newspapers left,’ Saber remarked.

‘Why do you say that?’ asked the count, whilst, to the chagrin of the French, who were expecting dessert, the servants brought in paprika poussins, three per person.

Margont stared at the little birds placed in front of him. He hadn’t started on them yet but already felt almost sick from overeating. A captain in the French army defeated by three little birds, how sad …

‘Censorship means that all the newspapers say the same thing in the same way, namely that everything the State does is wonderful,’ he said. ‘It’s the daily imperial litany.’

‘They should all print the same headline, “Fantastic!” every day,’ Piquebois suggested.

Natalia seemed disappointed when she said to Margont: ‘Things don’t look very promising for your plans.’

‘I’ve already thought about this problem. Until such time as censorship loosens its hold, I might launch a monthly periodical devoted to theatre and the arts. There would be literary criticisms, theatre reviews … and by slipping in references in these articles it might be possible to deal with politics indirectly.’

Saber was highly amused. ‘A newspaper full of literary criticism and theatre reviews? What an idea! And why not recipes as well?’

‘Why not, indeed?’ retorted Margont, smiling complicitly at Natalia as she glared at a Saber still roaring with laughter.

‘Don’t listen to him, Quentin,’ advised Piquebois. ‘When the newspaper appears, Irénée will keep coming to ask you why there’s nothing about him on the front page.’

‘In any case, the mere fact of talking about a newspaper encourages debate and stimulates freedom of expression,’ Margont concluded.

For the rest of the meal the count carried on talking, convinced that the guests were eagerly awaiting the next instalment of the history of the Valiuski family. When the dessert did arrive it was on a silver platter carried by two servants. The French looked dubiously at the golden or meringue-topped brioches and the cakes spiced with honey.

Seeing their embarrassment, Natalia declared: ‘Don’t forget that after the meal you still have the entire Russian army to gobble up.’

The count cast a deeply reproachful look at his wife. This, in his view, was where the education she had chosen had led her daughter. Mothers often stand quite alone in these cases. Fanselin and Margont both smiled to indicate that they were not offended.

The meal finally ended with strongly brewed smoked tea accompanied by milk, honey and caramels. The servants poured into the cups some of the contents of the chainik, the small teapot kept on top of the samovar, before adding some hot water from the samovar itself. Natalia discreetly observed Margont’s hands, his rather slender fingers, the way he held his cup … For some unknown reason, this pleased her.

Countess Valiuska rose just as they were taking away the samovar and said that it was time she and her daughter went to bed. Margont was sorry to see Natalia leave and surprised to see her return a moment later. Her mother was following her, like a spectre ensuring that the soul in its charge does not flee the underworld to which it must be taken, namely the boredom of the bedroom. Natalia went up to Margont and handed him a book entitled in French: Extraits de la littérature française.

‘This is for you, since you are so fond of words. You can return it to me when your army comes back via Smolensk.’

A few minutes later, settled in the red drawing room, Margont was still thinking about Natalia while the count sang the praises of the vodka produced on his estate. Margont could see the gestures of the count and his friends but could not hear what they were saying. Without thinking, he swallowed a mouthful from the glass he had been served and the sensation of burning caused by the vodka brought him back to reality, a reality now interwoven with uninteresting snippets of conversation. The evening had been wonderful because it had been outside the war, outside time.

CHAPTER 20

WAKING up was particularly unpleasant. The previous evening’s reception seemed to belong to an already distant past. A servant came to wake Margont, saying that an officer, Captain Dalero, from the grenadiers of the Royal Italian Guard, was demanding to see him. Dalero was wearing a green jacket with a white leather cross-belt. He looked enormous with his huge red-plumed bearskin busby. Like Margont, he was ill-shaven and his uniform was crumpled, but it seemed to matter more to him. His swarthy face was marked by a strange semicircular scar that ran along the top of his left cheekbone. Margont wondered whether it was self-inflicted, to give a more martial appearance. Dalero immediately took Margont outside. He was walking so quickly that the three grenadiers accompanying him had difficulty keeping up. As for Lefine, he had been alerted but was still getting dressed in his bedroom.

‘I’ve been sent by His Highness Prince Eugène. The person you are looking for may have killed again.’

Margont turned pale. He thought of Natalia, however absurdly, since several dozen members of his company had quarters in the château. Besides, Dalero and he were moving away from the Valiuski residence. However, two images became superimposed in his mind: Natalia lying on her bed and the tortured body of Maria. The vision of Natalia became clearer and Margont had the impression of actually being in her presence. Her body had been slashed with a knife; her hands were clutching her slit throat; her hair, clotted with blood, partially covered her face; her naked body was in an obscene posture deliberately chosen by her torturer. The more Margont tried to banish this scene from his mind, the clearer and more credible it became. An extreme tension came over him. He saw himself confronting the murderer. He leapt on him, ran him through repeatedly with his sword, stopping only to gaze at a lifeless figure at his feet. He was astonished at the violence of this image and tried to rid himself of his fear and hatred. To no avail. Captain Dalero noticed nothing. He was displaying the detachment that Margont had felt until he had opened the lid of Maria’s coffin.

‘The prince is furious with you!’ Dalero announced. ‘Why do you give him so little news? Why hasn’t the murderer been identified yet?’

Margont spread his arms. ‘When, of course, it’s so simple …’

‘We can speak freely: my men understand only Italian and the prince has put me fully in the picture. What new information have you got?’

‘Nothing,’ Margont lied. ‘We have thirty or so suspects but some are high-ranking. There are even some colonels on the list!’

‘Colonels …’ Dalero repeated as if he needed to hear himself say it for it to sink in.

The streets were practically deserted. They came across only a few stray inhabitants or drunken soldiers staggering about.

‘Discreet as always!’ exclaimed Dalero. ‘That’s the only aspect of your investigation the prince is satisfied with. I’ve had the servants of the house questioned: the victim was … what’s that delightful way you have of putting it in France? Oh, yes, a “man-eater”.’

‘No, not a man-eater!’ Margont cut in.

Dalero raised his eyebrows. ‘And why not a man-chaser?’

‘I won’t answer that. Since my discretion is the only thing that’s valued I might as well keep it.’

‘Very well. So be it. The woman was called Ludmila Sperzof. She had married Count Sperzof, a captain in the hussars who was killed during the war against the Turks. The servants of the house were very fond of the captain and hated their mistress: they spoke their minds about her. She was always having affairs with other men, even with hussars serving under him. I was told all sorts of stories: that she had a relationship with so-and-so, that all Smolensk knew, that she didn’t even mark the anniversary of her husband’s death, that sometimes she had two hussars in bed with her at the same time …’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t one of the servants who killed her?’

‘You’re going up in my estimation. I don’t think so. I’ll get to the crime soon but allow me to finish the account of the Sperzof couple. An elderly retainer, a former hussar who served under the captain, gave me to understand that the count, in despair at his wife’s behaviour, blew his brains out. His hussars covered up the deed and the following day they charged with his body, leaving it behind on the battlefield before going back to collect it with full military honours.’

‘So officially it’s the Turks who get the blame and not the sultana … What sort of men did she choose as her lovers?’

‘I didn’t go into that amount of detail but her maidservants were vying with one another to give me the sauciest snippets. The countess was particularly fond of military men, especially those with a violent streak. Incidentally, one night one of them tried to rape a chambermaid.’

Margont was at a loss. ‘Are you sure of the truth of what you were told? Perhaps one of the servants had a grudge against the countess and slandered her.’

Dalero shook his head vigorously. ‘I questioned eight servants and they all said the same thing. The countess often entertained officers and plied them with drink. Sometimes she didn’t even bother to go as far as the bedroom and the meal turned into an orgy. The countess also involved a pretty maidservant with morals as loose as hers and threw her out of the house when she became pregnant.’

‘But surely not all her lovers were military thugs, were they?’

‘Yes, they were. People who behaved normally didn’t interest her. Some tried their luck – because the countess was beautiful and wealthy – but to no avail. Only brutes. The lover she kept the longest, that’s to say three months, was a lieutenant in the dragoons called Garufski. One day he thrashed a manservant because his bathwater had gone cold. On another occasion he hit a female servant and broke two of her teeth.’

Dalero was gripping the pommel of his sabre with his white glove. He was smiling. He looked frightening.

‘I’d like to get my hands on this Garufski.’

Margont scratched the palm of his hand by stroking his day’s growth of beard.

‘Let’s get back to the murderer we’re hunting for. It’s certainly not the same man who killed our Polish woman and this countess.’

‘Well, I’m convinced of the opposite. The victim was riddled with stab wounds. I was told that the Polish woman had received the same treatment. In my opinion, such cruelty is the trademark of the person we’re after. But you’ll see that for yourself.’

The group arrived in front of a large residence whose pastel-coloured façade was black with soot. A grenadier from the Royal Guard who was guarding the entrance stood stiffly to attention. Only Dalero and Margont went inside the house.

‘How did she meet her murderer?’

‘At nightfall, she went out “hunting for a lover” – that was how the servants put it. To avoid being attacked by someone not of her choosing she was escorted by Yvan, a giant muzhik.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? I absolutely must meet him.’

‘There he is.’

Dalero pointed to a tiny room beneath the stairs. Cubbyhole would have been a better description. A man with an unkempt beard was lying on a straw mattress that took up all the space. He was so tall that his legs hung over his pallet. His cream tunic was bloodstained. He was dead.

‘Yvan was utterly devoted to the countess. He acted as her bodyguard, preventing his mistress from being harassed by men she had thrown out of her bed, and as her “emergency lover” at “slack times”. He lived below the stairs so that he would be woken by anyone going up or down.’

Margont entered the boxroom. He examined the cloak lying on the floor and found a pistol and a hunting knife in one of the pockets. Dalero gazed at the body in disgust. He regarded it in the same way as he would some hideous beast killed in a hunt.

‘So the countess went out last night with Yvan. She must have roamed around before meeting a man who suited her. All three came back here. The servant who saw them return said it was about one o’clock in the morning. The “lucky man” wished to remain anonymous because he was wearing a cloak with a hood that he kept on, even as he went up the stairs.’

‘So he already knew he was going to kill her.’

‘The servant didn’t see the man’s face. All he can say is that he was rather tall.’

‘What about his boots, his hands, his outfit? Did he notice nothing?’

‘No. The countess was talking and laughing. He was not speaking. When the countess went upstairs with someone, no servant was allowed to follow. Yvan would be sleeping in his cubbyhole and woe betide anyone who woke him!’

‘Poor fellow. He was jealous.’

Dalero’s brow furrowed. ‘Jealous of a woman like that? Anyway … the countess often sent her lovers packing after an hour, an old habit dating from the time when her husband would return late after playing cards. The man would then go back downstairs, which would wake Yvan, who would open the door for him. Then the countess would order Yvan to change the dirty sheets …’

‘Yvan was waiting for the guest to depart, since he was dressed,’ Margont remarked. ‘There was no sign of a struggle. Without warning, the murderer thrust the blade of his knife into Yvan’s heart.’

‘Just as with the sentry.’

Margont quickly climbed the steps. When he saw the victim, the face twisted with pain and the body slashed all over, it reminded him of Maria Dorlovna in her coffin. It was the same murderer. There were two new victims and part of his theory had just collapsed.

The countess’s naked body was lying on the bed, in the middle of a large bloodstain. The wounds seemed even more numerous and horrible than on the first victim. Part of the muscles of the forearm had even been sliced through to the bone. To stifle his victim’s screams the killer had done the same as with Maria: the pillowcase had been bitten and torn and was soaked with saliva and blood. Other details seemed to have no apparent significance. The killer had laid opened oysters upon the victim’s slashed breasts. He had heaped nuts on her genitals and smeared mulberries over her face, staining it black with the crushed fruit. Lumps of fat had been left on her stomach. A book had been placed in her left hand, open at a map of Africa. The cover torn from another book with a Russian title had been placed on the left thigh while the pages lay scattered across the floor. Finally, tea leaves had been strewn around her feet.

Captain Dalero had not gone beyond the door frame. Unable to go back because of his sense of duty and unable to go in because of his revulsion, he was literally trapped between cowardice and madness.

Margont guessed what he was thinking and declared: ‘Captain, could you find a servant to translate the titles of these works?’

Dalero could then beat an honourable retreat, which he hastened to do. Margont gathered the books and picked up a few torn-out pages. He studied the bloody footmarks that led from the bed to the bowl of water standing on a table. An old man arrived a few moments later.

‘I translate,’ he declared, with a strong foreign accent.

He examined the book covers that Margont handed to him.

‘Book of maps and military book of war against Turks by Colonel Uchekin. The count liked very much.’

‘Where were they kept?’

‘Drawing room below.’

‘What about the oysters and the fat?’ ‘Kitchen or larder.’

‘Good. So no one must be allowed to go into those rooms until I’ve inspected them. No one, is that clear?’

The servant seemed relatively unperturbed at finding his mistress in such a state. Margont asked him why.

The servant shrugged. ‘Me always say she finish like that. Now she burn in hell and she enjoy that.’

‘Nobody deserves such a death.’

Margont stood there without moving for a considerable time, observing these details. All this had a meaning, of that he was sure. It was a new mystery but even more difficult to solve, given the almost unbearable sight of this mutilated body defiled by food.

When Lefine arrived, he found Margont in the corridor in the act of smelling a bunch of dahlias and assorted roses displayed on a pedestal table. Lefine prepared to enter the bedroom but Margont suddenly raised his arm.

‘I strongly advise you not to.’

Lefine obeyed. Margont asked the servant to leave and waited until he was far enough away before continuing, ‘Are you sure that your men were keeping a careful eye on our suspects?’

‘They are perfectly trustworthy. If one of our colonels had gone out during the night, they would have seen him, would have informed us immediately and would have followed him. In my opinion we’ve made a mistake: none of the four is the killer.’

Margont sighed. ‘Unless this man realised that he was being spied on. Perhaps he eventually noticed that the same soldier was often glancing at him or perhaps one of the people we’ve questioned to build up a picture of him went and told him about our investigation.’

‘But my men and I have been very careful when trying to worm things out of people to play it casual, as if we were just passing the time of day.’

‘If the person we’re after has discovered he’s being watched, he must have left his quarters in secret. Have you seen the size of the palace we’ve been billeted in? And the colonels are even better provided for. If you know you’re being spied on, nothing would be easier than to slip out of one of the many windows on the ground floor.’

Lefine was staring down at his boots like a naughty boy who’d been found out.

‘It would take a whole company to watch all the possible exits. Obviously, my men were only keeping an eye on the doors.’

‘He sneaked out and went in search of his prey, laughing at how stupid we’d feel the next day.’

‘I’m very sorry …’

Margont patted him on the arm. ‘It’s not your fault. The worst thing is that even though he knew he was being watched, he still managed to get out to commit another crime. It’s something he can’t control; he has to give himself over to this butchery. So if we don’t arrest him, he’ll strike again. And this time there’s no comparison with the considerable risks he took in murdering Élisa Lasquenet – if he really was the culprit – and Maria Dorlovna. He’s greatly improved his technique: no haste, no more escaping across the rooftops, he didn’t attract attention …’

‘Are we going to call in Jean-Quenin to examine the body?’

‘What would you expect from an examination?’

‘Well … nothing.’

‘I too would like something to cling on to, to be able to say to myself: “This is what I must do and when I’ve done it, everything will become clear.” I don’t think Jean-Quenin would be able to teach us anything and I don’t have the heart to ask him to devote two hours of his time to us when he’s rushing around tending the wounded. Fernand, my theory of the Prince Charming doesn’t stand up: this victim only liked rough soldiers.’

The killer seemed to have a very sharp mind and a talent for acting. He had quickly surmised that Maria Dorlovna wanted a man able to show tenderness and refinement … so he had become that man. And he had had no difficulty in becoming the military tough liking a good screw for Countess Sperzof. Margont was no longer looking for a Prince Charming but for a chameleon.

Dalero joined him again. Margont was surprised to see that he had shaved. He must have used his knife or a servant’s razor. He had also had his coat pressed. He seemed restored, using his image as a crutch to lean on. Without saying a word, he went into the bedroom to examine the body. Lefine forced himself to do likewise so as not to be the only one to avoid that painful experience, but he came out again almost immediately.

On his way out, Dalero said to Margont: ‘Good. I shall write a report at once about this new crime and about the progress of your investigation. The prince will have it within the hour. Take care in the fighting. Don’t expose yourself to too much danger.’

‘Why so much concern for me?’

‘Because if you get yourself killed, I’m the one the prince will appoint to replace you.’