Текст книги "Officer's Prey"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

He discovered that Saber, almost as soon as he had been promoted, had pulled rank to take possession of a Moscow palace, driving out some Neapolitans who had angrily sworn to come back with King Murat in person.

The building was vast. It was big enough to accommodate what was left of the 2nd Battalion of the 84th. It had only one storey but it boasted twenty French windows, with windows just as big above. The entrance was so high and so wide that a trooper could have passed through it without having to dismount. Above it was a triangular pediment. Two elegant covered walkways branched out from the central part. Unfortunately, this semicircular construction led only to piles of ashes, so that the palace resembled a bull whose horns had been amputated. The building had been white but was now covered with black soot, in mourning for Moscow.

Margont climbed the steps leading to the entrance and turned round to survey the view of the garden. The rows of trees, the trimmed hedges, the pond, the colonnade surrounding a statue of Diana, the classical pavilion, the orchard: all that would have looked splendid were it not for the bodies that hung, swaying in the wind, from the branches of the fir trees and lampposts in the avenue.

‘They’re fire-raisers, Captain,’ explained a fusilier, sitting astride the banister while polishing his weapon.

Margont did not rebuke him for failing to salute. This one was not disguised as an Orthodox priest, had not blessed him, was not drunk and was busy with his musket. That was already quite something. In the entrance hall a voltigeur let out a yell on seeing him. He had been assured that a Russian hussar had sliced Margont’s head off at the Moskva. He fell down on his backside with shock, and immediately helped himself to another ladleful of punch from a large bowl. Margont, who strongly disliked seeing drunken men with muskets in their hands, grabbed hold of the bowl and angrily overturned it. The punch spread out in a sweet-smelling pool of vanilla, lemon and cinnamon. The voltigeur raised his arms in protest.

‘Steady on there, Captain!’

He took out a worn handkerchief and started to soak up the alcohol with it before wringing it out over the container. There would be no problem finding scores of men wanting to drink it.

On the first floor, Margont came across a note pinned with a dagger to a rosewood door: ‘Strictly reserved for Captain Saber, Captain Margont and Lieutenant Piquebois.’ The room was long and narrow. Its walls, hung with red velvet, and its brown, carved ceiling added to its solemnity. A double row of candelabra provided the lighting but, for fear of fire, only a few candles had been lit. At the end of this corridor of darkness, in a pool of light, Lefine was sitting on a throne acting like the Tsar of all the Russias.

A corporal, bowing respectfully, was listening to him as he declared majestically: ‘I dub you Knight of the Order of St Andrew, General of the Hussars of the Guard, Count of Smolensk and Prince of Siberia.’

‘Oh, yes? Prince of Siberia, is it?’ exclaimed Margont as he rushed forward to launch a palace revolution.

Lefine, who had celebrated Moscow by drinking punch, pointed at Margont and exclaimed: ‘General, arrest this impudent fellow and send him to the salt mines!’

The newly promoted Prince of Siberia preferred to slip away discreetly while Margont grabbed Lefine by the collar.

‘Well, what a sorry situation! You bestow all these honours on someone but as soon as the tide turns he just drops you.’

‘Fate is so fickle … “Tsar for starters, muzhik for afters.” Still, I unconditionally accept the armistice.’

Having pushed Lefine from the throne, Margont interrupted his admonishment to admire the fine piece of carving, the back edges of which consisted of two perfectly straight tusks engraved with the family coat of arms.

‘According to a servant, these are the tusks of a narwhal,’ Lefine commented.

‘The tusks of a what?’

‘Of a narwhal, those nasty underwater creatures which have a long tusk on their head, like swordfish. They spear shipwrecked sailors.’

‘Oh, these aquatic animals don’t catch as many victims as you do. I know what a narwhal is … but a throne of narwhal tusks? Whose house are we in?’

‘A prince’s. Another one.’

Margont went to sit down in a more modest armchair.

‘I’ve got a plan for unmasking our man: we’re going to set a trap for him.’

Lefine instinctively threw his head back. ‘Ah.’

‘I’m going to send him a letter blackmailing him.’

‘But we don’t know who did it.’

‘Exactly. The idea is to send this note to the four suspects. I’ll sign it simply “C. M.”. Since the murderer knows my name he’ll decipher it as “Captain Margont”, whereas the others won’t understand a thing and will think that a note not intended for them accidentally ended up in their hands.’

Lefine gave no sign of enthusiasm. ‘Even if he’s not the murderer, one of the suspects might still turn up at the rendezvous, out of curiosity …’

‘No, because I’ll choose as the meeting place “the Moscow home of the lady of Smolensk”. I’ve made enquiries: Countess Sperzof did have a residence here.’

‘Perhaps he killed her without even knowing her name.’

‘It’s possible but unlikely because, according to the servants, the countess didn’t hide her identity from her casual lovers. In any case, the murderer stole her signet ring. I’m sure he kept it as a souvenir and a trophy. With a blazon it’s easy to find out a name and with a name you can obtain an address. Especially when your life’s at stake.’

‘If I were him I wouldn’t turn up.’

‘I’m going to claim that my spy never lost track of him in Smolensk, that he saw him in the company of “the lady of Smolensk” and that he followed him to her house. Our man won’t dare run the risk of not turning up in response to my “invitation”.’

‘He’s going to wonder why you’ve waited so long before taking action.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve already thought of an answer to that objection. It’ll be explained in the note.’

Lefine stretched out his legs. They were still aching from all those forced marches.

‘In that case, if I were him, I’d turn up and I’d kill you.’

‘That’s one of the two problems. But we won’t be on our own. We need some trustworthy people who’ll be able to keep this business secret. I’ve thought of Saber, Piquebois, Captain Dalero and our friend the Red Lancer. Five men lying in wait, plus me. If there were more than that we might be discovered.’

‘What’s the plan?’

‘Our man turns up to pay me or to shoot me. That way I finally find out who he is. I try to get him to talk about his crimes, for example by asking him why he acted in this way. If he replies, then it’s in the bag! You are witnesses to his confession and we arrest him. Prince Eugène will have to believe me when he hears my version corroborated by a captain from his own Royal Guard and a lancer from the Imperial Guard. And even if our killer doesn’t answer me, we’ll have evidence against him. He’ll have paid a handsome sum in order to—’

‘Or he’ll have killed Captain Margont before our very eyes,’ Lefine interrupted.

Margont did not react to this snippet of black humour, which in any case was no such thing. Lefine was rubbing his thighs to relieve his cramp but without success.

‘What’s the second problem?’

‘If our man doesn’t turn up. Then he’ll find out that we’ve been leading him up the garden path. But what effect will that have on our investigation? None whatsoever.’

Margont jumped up from his chair. ‘We’re going to wait a day or so before going into action. If Delarse doesn’t die of his asthma attack, as soon as he has recovered, he’ll receive an anonymous letter …’

Lefine walked off, deep in thought. If he were the murderer he wouldn’t pay up but he would definitely go to the rendezvous. Margont immediately set about writing his letter:

Sir,

I am aware of what you have done and am in a position to prove it. The reason is that the man I assigned to keep a watch on you in Smolensk has never let you out of his sight. He saw you meet up with the person I shall call ‘the lady of Smolensk’, escort her to her residence and then go inside.

I have reflected at length on what I should do. But after witnessing so many horrors in Smolensk, at the Moskva and in Moscow, I said to myself: why risk my career by attacking yours? The world clearly is not bothered about one more act of butchery. I have decided, therefore, to sell my silence: it will cost you six thousand francs, a substantial sum, but you will manage to amass it by taxing your soldiers for their booty (other officers are doing so). No precious objects. Pay me in money and jewels; they’re easier to carry. I shall meet you on the 23rd at three in the morning, in front of the house belonging to ‘the lady of Smolensk’ in Moscow. Come on your own. Your absence will prove far more costly than your presence because I shall present my report to whom it may concern.

I look forward to an outcome favourable to us both.

C. M.

Margont folded the document and thrust it into his pocket. He got up, hesitated, and finally went to sit on that throne that fascinated him so much. He adopted a nonchalant pose, one leg crossed over the other and his arms spread out on the armrests. He imagined a court of generals, counts and countesses milling around to pay homage to him. There were Cossacks from the Guard and people were moving back to let them through, fearful of their unpredictability. The Red Hussars in their gold brocade uniforms were conversing with Uhlans and Imperial Horse Guards or with Mongol-featured emissaries from far-flung provinces. The most beautiful women from Moscow and St Petersburg were gliding about discreetly, hoping to attract his attention, but he had eyes only for the young Countess Valiuska.

Margont had the impression of being invincible, triumphant even. It seemed as if his sight was sharper and his hearing more acute. But he wasn’t taken in. He knew that wine always seemed to taste better in gold goblets.

Colonel Delarse did survive his asthma attack and the two that followed. Margont contacted everyone he needed.

Fanselin was delighted to have been asked. ‘A secret assignment? That’s for me!’ he exclaimed before adding in the confidential tones of someone who knows how to keep a secret: ‘Is there a woman at the bottom of this?’ Dalero also accepted, only too happy to be involved in an event that might further his career because, in his opinion, the Russian campaign was over. He estimated, however, that there wouldn’t be enough of them so he brought along two of his grenadiers, Sergeants Fimiento and Andogio. They had broad, square shoulders and such enormous hands that one would have been enough to strangle someone with. Despite their immaculate uniforms and white gloves you could tell that if necessary they would be prepared to do a dirty job.

‘I want him alive,’ Margont ordered curtly.

He had to look up to speak to them and, with their headgear further emphasising the difference in height, it was like a David speaking to two Goliaths. But he had addressed them in such an aggressive tone that one of these giants turned to Dalero for support.

Dalero was gazing at his watch. With its white, gold-rimmed dial it looked very attractive in the white palm of his glove. Refinement seemed to suit Dalero.

‘It’s four in the afternoon. How are we going to proceed?’

The eight men had installed themselves in the ruins of Countess Sperzof’s house.

‘The letters will be delivered by messengers,’ Margont explained. ‘They’re people I came across in the street. I’ve paid them in dried fish. The day after tomorrow they’ll be given more food if they’ve done their job properly.’

‘When is the rendezvous for?’

‘Tomorrow night at three in the morning. We’re going to position ourselves in our hiding-places straight away and stay there just in case our man does some reconnaissance well before the rendezvous or sends someone on his behalf.’

Margont showed them a plan of the area. The street the house was in had been severely damaged by fire. The handsome townhouses on either side of it were now no more than blackened façades, collapsed walls and decapitated columns. A series of gardens backed on to these ruins. Countess Sperzof’s had survived. Others had been reduced to ashes. Opposite the meeting place was a street with piles of rubble and sections of wall on either side. There was also a crossroads nearby, several paces to the left. Only one block of houses had survived the flames. It was a building that had partially collapsed at its far end. A battalion of the 48th Regiment was quartered there.

Margont drew a cross on it. ‘I’ll be here, under the porch. This is the plan: our man turns up, I try to talk to him and, if he confesses his crime, you all emerge from your hiding places and converge on him, weapons at the ready.’

All eyes turned towards the dozen or so pistols that Margont had requisitioned. The weapons reassured them, despite their lack of precision and range, and the fact that they more often wounded than killed.

‘I want to do all I can to make him talk, so no untimely intervention!’ he emphasised.

‘Only the man we’re after can find this address. And he’ll turn up with some gold. That’s enough,’ reckoned Dalero.

‘We’re dealing with a colonel: in a military tribunal his word will be given three times as much weight as all of ours put together. He’ll say he just happened to be passing by, that he just had a discreet rendezvous with someone to buy something … We need irrefutable evidence, not suppositions or unlikely coincidences.’

Saber, Fanselin and Piquebois exchanged glances that betrayed their dismay.

‘A colonel? We’re not going to arrest a colonel, are we?’ Saber eventually asked, convinced that he was about to clear up some misunderstanding.

Margont explained to them that they were indeed looking for a colonel. He told them there were very good reasons for this but he was not allowed to go into them.

‘If some of you want to back out, I’ll understand,’ he added.

‘You can rely on me,’ Piquebois immediately replied.

Fanselin nodded. Saber agreed reluctantly. He didn’t want to get the reputation of being a quitter, as there was no surer way of killing off all prospects of promotion.

‘Therefore we need a confession,’ Margont went on. ‘If you see me raise my arm, come to my aid. It will mean that I’m in danger or that he’s said enough to be arrested.’

‘And what if he doesn’t talk?’ asked Dalero.

‘I’ll let him go. Then we’ll discuss what to do next.’

That last point would depend above all on Prince Eugène’s judgement.

‘I want you to position yourselves in a circle around me. Then, in order to meet up with me, our man will enter the circle without realising it. There’ll be no possible retreat. Piquebois will take up position in the next-door house to my right, Sergeant Fimiento in the one to my left. Lefine will hide in the garden to protect the rear. Fanselin and Saber will be in the street opposite the house. Captain Dalero and Sergeant Andogio will place themselves at the far left of our street, where it’s intersected by the crossroads. Captain Dalero will be on the same side as me and Sergeant Andogio opposite, hiding in the ruins adjacent to the building where the battalion of the 48th has its quarters.’

‘There are more men on the left,’ Dalero pointed out.

‘Correct. Because it’s easier to hide there: the buildings are in a better state. But you told me that Sergeants Fimiento and Andogio were excellent marksmen.’

Fimiento smiled but it wasn’t clear whether it was in response to the compliment or because he was remembering a few particularly well-aimed shots.

‘I’ve positioned them at key points. Sergeant Fimiento can have the whole of our street in his line of sight as well as the one opposite this house. Sergeant Andogio is covering both our street and the crossroads. Any questions?’

‘We’re going to spend more than twenty-four hours hiding beneath the remains of walls in danger of collapsing and without making a fire – so having to freeze all night and eat cold food – is that it?’ asked Lefine.

‘Absolutely. Any more questions? So, let’s wish ourselves good luck.’

CHAPTER 28

IT had been a long wait. At last the time fixed for the rendezvous had arrived and Margont was pacing up and down at the front entrance, surveying the area, his breath turning to steam. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his grey greatcoat. His fingers stroked the butt of his pistols. He had also brought his sword and a knife. He smiled at the thought that he hadn’t been as well armed as this when he launched into the attack on the Great Redoubt. He was trying to guess which of the four faces he would find himself up against. He was also wondering whether the man would answer his questions. And if so, whether it would just be to allay his suspicions before trying to eliminate him.

After what seemed both a short and a particularly long period of time, he glimpsed a silhouette. His heart began to race. The passer-by was alone. He was coming from the right, Piquebois and Fanselin’s side. He was walking slowly. He too was wearing a greatcoat and had his hands deep in his pockets.

Gradually, the distance lessened. The stranger had his collar turned up and was wearing a cap, so that it was still not possible to make out his face. When he was about a hundred paces away, he stopped. He was looking at Margont. Suddenly a shot rang out. Margont was hit full in the chest and fell. The stranger did an about-turn and started to run. The shot had been fired from the corner of the crossroads, where Sergeant Andogio had taken up position. Piquebois was the first to jump out of his hiding-place.

‘There are two of them!’ he yelled. ‘Fanselin, come with me!’

He set off in hot pursuit of the figure, who was by now far away from the circle that was supposed to trap him. Fanselin suddenly emerged holding a pistol and ran to join Piquebois. Dalero and Saber rushed towards the marksman whom Fimiento was already aiming at. The man was lurking in the darkness. He had thrown aside his discharged musket and was taking aim at Fimiento with Sergeant Andogio’s weapon. The sergeant was lying at his feet. Two shots rang out almost simultaneously. Fimiento’s bullet lodged in the section of wall behind which his opponent had positioned himself and Fimiento fell to the ground immediately afterwards. The marksman dropped his second musket and then it was his turn to flee. He sped across the street and into an area littered with rubble.

When the fugitive failed to respond to his warnings, Saber opened fire with his pistol. Dalero did likewise. The two bullets were way off target. Lefine skirted the house and ran towards Margont, who was sitting up. His greatcoat had been holed near his right lung.

‘It’s all right. I’m not hurt, look.’

He opened his garment. He was wearing a cuirassier’s breastplate. The piece of metal was thick enough to stop bullets and was pigeon-breasted to deflect projectiles.

‘I borrowed it from a friend. I’m not wounded. It was the shock that made me fall. And the fear as well. Why did no one spot the marksman?’

‘We were too busy watching the other one,’ Lefine replied. ‘He created an effective diversion.’

Margont picked himself up. He looked at the hole in the material.

‘A hell of a shot …’

By now Dalero and Saber had also ventured into the rubble. Behind them lights and faces were appearing at windows and a sentry had sprung out from a porch.

‘Who goes there?’ he yelled.

‘Friends! France!’ Saber answered, to avoid getting a bullet between his shoulder blades.

There were piles of rubble that were liable to collapse underfoot, sections of wall from behind which someone could pounce on you, areas of shadow capable of hiding a marksman … Dalero and Saber, sabres in hand, were progressing speedily but cautiously. Saber noticed the man on the run disappear behind a heap of fallen masonry.

‘Over there!’ he exclaimed, pointing with the tip of his sword.

He wanted to press forward but the charred floorboards gave way beneath him and he went sprawling amongst the ashes. Dalero got slightly ahead of him. When Saber caught up with him, it was only to be told that the man had disappeared.

In the opposite direction Fanselin was still in pursuit of the other man, while Piquebois had stopped to lean against a wall. He still hadn’t fully recovered from the concussion he had suffered at the Moskva. The figure turned round, pointing a pistol. Fanselin instinctively hunched his shoulders and bent over. But the marksman did not slow down and his bullet missed the lancer by a long way. Fanselin had noticed that the fugitive was in excellent physical shape. He ran very fast and had been doing so for some time. Sensing that if it came to endurance he would be the loser, Fanselin decided to use guile instead. When the man turned into a street, he himself went into a parallel one. He lost sight of him but could still hear his footsteps. Fanselin was trying to make as little noise as possible, even if it meant slowing down. The man almost gave him the slip but Fanselin made up for lost time by taking a short cut through the rubble. The fugitive turned round several times and, with no one in sight, thought he was safe. He changed direction and disappeared down an alley. Fanselin thought he was going to lose him for good but he glimpsed him again, separated from him by a row of crumbling houses. The man had started to walk to get his breath back. He wandered through the streets for a moment, frequently looking over his shoulder. Fanselin contented himself with following him in parallel, guided only by his hearing. Reassured at last, the man eventually reached a splendid-looking palace with several windows lit, even at this late hour. The two sentries guarding the railings surrounding the garden presented arms. He did not bother to look at them and went into the drive.

Fanselin edged closer and put his face to the icy bars. He recognised Colonel Barguelot.

Margont was examining Sergeant Andogio’s dead body. The murderer had slit his throat. Dalero was gazing at the discarded musket.

‘Line infantry musket first produced in 1777 and modified in 1801. How many of these are there in the army? Two or three hundred thousand? In any case, he certainly knows how to use it.’

Further away, infantrymen were hoisting Fimiento’s groaning body on to a cart pulled by a scrawny horse. When Fanselin eventually returned, he took Margont and Dalero to one side to tell them what he knew. Then he left them on their own. Dalero was absently toying with the tassel of his sword-knot.

‘Colonel Barguelot is popular with the general staff of IV Corps. He’s invited the prince to dinner several times and His Highness has always come back from those evenings in a very good mood.’

‘It’s certainly true that Colonel Barguelot knows how to entertain. I can still remember the delicious meal he invited me to.’

‘We can’t arrest him when we have no evidence. Any tribunal would dismiss the case.’

‘That’s my opinion too. We’ll have to continue spying on him. We know and he knows that we know. We’ll have to see how he’s going to react.’

Dalero glanced at the area of rubble in which his chase had come to a sudden end.

‘If only we’d been able to lay hands on his henchman and force him to testify …’

‘The day we finally have evidence of Colonel Barguelot’s guilt, we’ll force him to denounce his accomplice. I’m very sorry about your sergeants. If Fimiento had been wearing a breastplate like me …’

‘If we’d all had breastplates, your friend the Red Lancer would never have caught up with Colonel Barguelot. So we need to wait. I hate waiting. What if we don’t find any evidence against him?’

‘Then we’ll have to review the situation again.’

Dalero went to the cart in which Fimiento was lying, to try to get him more speedily transported to the nearest hospital. He grabbed the pommel of his sabre in his left hand and drew the blade about an inch out of the sheath before putting it back in. He repeated this gesture a dozen or so times without thinking.