Текст книги "Memory of Flames"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

CHAPTER 25

THE policeman said nothing as he took Margont to the Marais, not far from Place des Vosges. He marched sullenly ahead without looking back once; perhaps he was hoping to lose him ‘accidentally’. He was so put out by having to look after this officious parallel investigator that when they arrived and Margont asked him to go to find Medical Officer Jean-Quenin Brémond at the hospital Hotel-Dieu, he replied with disarming indolence, ‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to find him.’

The words were like flints rubbing together in Margont’s mind, causing sparks of fury to light his eyes. The man quickly changed his mind and hurriedly set off to find the doctor.

Behind its sober facade, the house harboured a stunning luxurious interior. There was a Mazarin desk covered in brass marquetry, a gold table with a white marble top, silver candle-sticks, Dutch paintings, Gobelins tapestries of mythological scenes ... Margont felt as if he had opened an oyster apparently like all the

others, only to find pearls rolling in every direction at his feet. Count Kevlokine did not seem to have led the difficult wandering life of the leaders of the Swords of the King. What’s more, he ran far fewer risks. Had he been picked up by the police half an hour earlier Monsieur de Talleyrand and Joseph would have received him in the Tuileries Palace. Rat-ridden cellars for the ultras, palaces for the moderates.

A man came over to Margont. He was twenty-five or twenty-six, well turned out and fresh-faced with an impatient, slightly aggressive manner. ‘I’m Inspector Martial Sausson.’

‘Delighted to meet you,’ replied Margont without introducing himself.

‘I’ve been told not to ask who you are, why you are investigating or whether you have any information that I don’t—’

‘Exactly.’

Margont thought he could almost see black clouds of anger emanating from Sausson.

‘Here’s my report, Monsieur Unknown. This morning a servant by the name of Keberk comes to work for his employers Monsieur and Madame Gunans, a rich bourgeois couple, well, not so rich now that the Emperor has imposed a blockade on England. The Gunans made a fortune in maritime trading. Keberk tries to open the servants’ door with his key. It doesn’t open, which is very unusual. At night his employers bar the entrance, but early in the morning they remove the bar so that Monsieur Keberk can enter using his key when he arrives. It is the first time he has encountered such a problem in all his fifteen years of service. Keberk is alarmed and knocks at the door, shouts through the windows then runs off to tell the police that his masters have been murdered. As the house is in my area of jurisdiction, I come in person, accompanied by two of my men. I look about and discover that a shutter at the back has been forced open. I take the decision to enter the house with Monsieur Keberk. I find no sign of the Gunans. But I do discover the body of a man whom Monsieur Keberk says was called Monsieur Melansi, a friend of his masters. I use that word “masters” because that’s the word Keberk used. But I recognise

immediately that the victim is Count Kevlokine, who everyone has been searching for and whose description had been circulated to all the police stations in Paris. Monsieur Keberk seems not to understand when I tell him this. I think he was fooled by his employers about the man’s real identity. I follow the procedure required when Count Kevlokine is spotted – I immediately inform the King of Spain, His Majesty Joseph I.’

He finally drew breath. Lord knows he had spoken quickly!

‘Up until that point everything had passed off normally. But then an investigator named Palenier suddenly bursts into my police station. He hands me a letter signed by His Majesty Joseph I himself, giving me the most peculiar orders ...’

He tried to find a more diplomatic way of putting it. The most astonishing orders I have ever received. In summary: I must touch nothing, I must await a mysterious unknown man – you! – whom I must tell everything I know without asking any questions! And -the bitter cherry on the cake – Palenier then takes the letter back out of my hand. When you have gone I am to – by order! – forget everything, as if you never existed!’

Margont could well understand Sausson’s fury; he had felt the same way at his first meeting with Joseph and Talleyrand. It was like looking in a mirror and seeing his image of ten days ago.

The policeman went on even more hurriedly: ‘I interrogated Monsieur Keberk while I was waiting for you. His employers received many visitors: society contacts, friends, clients, relatives, debtors, creditors ... He claims not to know whether the Cunans were in contact with royalists or not. But I’m sure they were; why else would Count Kevlokine be at their house? He had been staying here for a week, never went out, but had streams of visitors. It was a good hiding place. He would have been expected to find refuge with monarchists, or aristocrats ... not with an apparently unobtrusive bourgeois couple. I’m going to do my best to find out who all those visitors were, but it’s not going to be easy. There were several people every day and Monsieur Keberk is giving nothing away. I’m waiting for reinforcements from the Minister of Civilian Police, to help me find out more. My two theories are as follows.

The first is that the Cunans woke up this morning and found that Monsieur Kevlokine had been murdered by someone who had broken into their house during the night. They then took fright, and feared they would be accused of the crime or arrested by the police for consorting with an enemy agent. They fled in disarray, taking their housekeeper and a servant who both lived with them. My second theory is that for some reason I don’t know they were the ones who killed Count Kevlokine. Whatever the case, they are no longer here and nor are their two servants. Some personal belongings are missing: clothes, combs, jewellery, little things the couple were fond of... If you would like to follow me ...’

He led Margont into a large bedroom of unbelievable luxury with paintings in massive golden frames, marquetry furniture, Sevres or Dresden porcelain, and Persian carpets. The count’s body lay near the fireplace, not far from a four-poster bed. He looked about forty-five and had been gagged. He was very fat with reddened cheeks that contrasted with the pallor of his skin. His hair was so grey it was almost luminous. The man’s appearance corresponded closely to Talleyrand’s description of Count Kevlokine. In the heavenly setting, with its gold and other bright colours, his burnt arms formed two horrifying lines of red and black. His hands had been bound with one of the curtain ties, which had in its turn been burnt. He was wearing a nightshirt, a long, white quilted goose-down housecoat and breeches – normally the outfit of a man first thing in the morning, but also used to sleep in by men who worked all the time. It was comfortable enough for sleep, but allowed one to leap out of bed if awoken suddenly in the night, all ready for work without having to get dressed. His feet were bare. Margont went over to get a closer look at Kevlokine’s face. Unlike Colonel Berle’s, it was unscathed. Margont turned round and saw that Sausson was watching him attentively, trying to work out what he was thinking from his gestures.

They forgot to give me the order to close his eyes,’ said the policeman sardonically.

Without asking him to leave, Margont went on with his investigation. The badge of the Swords of the King was pinned to the

count’s nightshirt, on his chest, like a decoration. It was exactly the same as the symbol that Margont had noticed on Colonel Berle. The count’s serene face contrasted with the state of his arms, devoured by fire. Margont could not, however, see any mortal wound.

A brouhaha broke out in the street – there were cries and exclamations. Margont recognised one of the voices and hurried over to the window, completely forgetting he was supposed to keep himself hidden. Jean-Quenin Brémond and the policeman who had gone to find him were surrounded by four men. Jean-Quenin was showering them with invective. Although extremely kind to his patients, colleagues and friends, he was often impatient with everyone else. His guide had been obliged to raise his voice to explain to him that he was from the civilian police. At that point several people who had been lying in wait surged out of the adjacent little streets to come and surround them.

‘Imbeciles! What’re those political oafs getting involved for?’ Sausson cursed. ‘And that other idiot, who came in the front instead of using the back door as usual!’

He opened the window with such force that a pane smashed on the hook for the curtain tie – but it looked as if the glass had been shattered solely by the force of the policeman’s fury.

‘Let them through!’ he yelled.

The assailants scattered like cockroaches surprised by a light. The next instant there was not a sign of them. But Jean-Quenin continued to shout insults: they were cads, louts, yet again they were treating the Health Service disrespectfully, they were lucky he was in a hurry, the Minister of Civilian Police would certainly be hearing all about this ... When they vanished inside the house, he could still be heard uttering imprecations. Sausson forestalled Margont’s question.

‘They’re policemen like me, but we’re not from the same force. Oh, no! I take care of criminal investigations, they look after political matters and I’ve no idea where you fit in ... They work for Joseph I, I work for the people of Paris, and that’s not the same thing at all. This one murder has set off a triple investigation. And

to think that when a washerwoman is stabbed, my superiors complain I spend too much time looking for the culprit! All those fellows arrived with Monsieur Palenier. And all because I mentioned the name Kevlokine. They’re grabbing everyone who tries to come in to the Gunans’ house. But there are so many visitors that by the end of the day they will have arrested the whole of Paris.’

‘Very clever. The real royalists will be lost in the crowd; it will be hard to separate them out. Every one of them must have taken care to concoct his cover.’

Jean-Quenin arrived in a fury, scarlet-faced, his case in hand, his uniform hidden under a light-coloured overcoat. He opened his mouth to speak but his friend gestured that he should stay silent. This is Inspector Sausson, and he must not know anything about me,’ Margont explained. ‘Perhaps he will leave us ...’

He would pay for saying that. Sausson tensed. His lips folded and disappeared with the words he swallowed down. He turned abruptly and left the room, banging the door.

Jean-Quenin stared at the victim. ‘What wasps’ nest have you stirred up now, Quentin?’ His weary, despairing expression spoke volumes.

‘Could you examine the body, please, Jean-Quenin? I won’t tell you anything about it so as not to influence you.’

As the medical officer did so, Margont went over to the fireplace. Here the smell of charred flesh was almost unbearable. Crease spots stained the stones of the hearth and there were shreds of burnt clothing. The count must have fallen asleep while the fire was still burning. Had the murderer killed him as he slept and then dragged the body over to the hearth?

Jean-Quenin undressed the corpse.

‘I don’t understand this. Here again the man was burnt after having been killed. But I can’t see how he was killed! It’s the first time I’ve come across a crime like this. Perhaps he was poisoned ... by a slow-acting poison, which he swallowed at dinner, or drank in a tisane before going to sleep, and which took effect while he slept. But that doesn’t really make sense ... That would mean that the poisoner would have had to come in at least twice: once to pour

out the poison, then to mutilate the body, and he would have had to hide himself for hours in the house. As you know, I’m interested in criminal cases and I owe my interest to you. I can tell you that, very often, murderers who use poison choose it so that they don’t have to touch their victims, because they find them repulsive!’

Margont was puzzled. ‘Can we really be certain that this man was murdered by the same person as Colonel Berle?’ he wondered. ‘Now I think so, now I think not ... There are manifest similarities between the murders, but also differences.’

‘Wait, I mentioned poison, but let’s not be too hasty! It’s only a theory, because that’s the only weapon I know that can kill a man whilst leaving the body apparently unscathed. But it’s also possible that this person was awoken by a noise, that he noticed an intruder in his room, and that his heart, weakened by age and excess, was not strong enough to withstand the sudden shock. Or perhaps his heart gave out with the pain of the first burns, but the murderer went on inflicting them.’ ‘But the expression on his face is tranquil – doesn’t that mean that he was also mutilated after being killed, like Berle? Perhaps he was even killed as he slept; he seems so peaceful with his eyes closed. Then the murderer could have gagged him and bound his hands, to make it look as if the burns were inflicted before death.’

‘It’s true that the man’s relaxed expression does argue in favour of your hypothesis. But that’s all it is – a hypothesis; we can’t prove it. It doesn’t eliminate the second theory that I suggested, which at least explains how the man might have died. A brief intense terror would not necessarily make its mark on the man’s face, because death would be very sudden.’

‘Would you be able to do an autopsy?’

‘If the cause of death were obvious, as in the case of Colonel Berle, I would have refused, because we’re so busy dealing with the wounded every day. But this case is different. A doctor should never leave the cause of death unexplained. Otherwise, one of these days, he will miss the signs of that unexplained cause ...’ Thank you! I will undertake to get agreement from Inspector

Sausson.’

‘And from that band of harpies who set on me earlier...’

Cause of death unknown ... Jean-Quenin was, most unaccustomedly, agitated. He would not let himself be beaten! He was going to discuss the mystery with colleagues. Every time he was checked in his battle against death, far from leading him to concede defeat, it just reinforced his determination to continue fighting, on and on. He would sometimes refer to patients ten years after their deaths, as if they had died just the other day.

Margont told him the little he knew about Count Kevlokine, and where Lefine was staying, so that he would be able to pass on his conclusions. Then he called Sausson back and made his request. Jean-Quenin added that he would have to have the body taken to his hospital, as soon as possible.

‘On the express condition that I can be present at the autopsy. That way, I’ll be sure that you don’t conceal the results from me.’

As Sausson was organising the removal of the remains, Jean-Quenin collected anything that might have contained food or drink: a glass and pitcher from the bedroom, plates and three dirty cups from the kitchen ...

Margont questioned Keberk privately. He described the members of the Swords of the King to him, to see whether any of them had been seen at the house. But Keberk shook his head at each description, and it was impossible to tell whether he had never in fact seen any of them, or whether he was lying to protect his employers. In any case, he seemed so overcome that his answers could not be trusted.

Finally Margont went to see where the intruder had broken in. As with Berle, the shutters had been shattered, probably with a crowbar, and a windowpane had been broken to open the window.

As Margont was about to leave, Sausson called out to him: ‘Do you know what the little royalist emblem signifies?’

‘Goodbye, Inspector...’

CHAPTER 26

THAT very evening Jean-Quenin Brémond let Margont know, via Lefine, that he had to see him as soon as possible. Margont was slightly irritated by this, but he complied. He left the print shop and, taking all necessary precautions, went to the meeting place Jean-Quenin had specified, in front of the Eglise Saint-Gervais. The medical officer was in civilian clothes, which was rare. Margont was grateful for his prudence.

‘What’s going on, Jean-Quenin?’

The doctor was agitated, excited. It was the first time that Margont had seen him in such a state. Jean-Quenin – who normally kept a tight check on his emotions, even when he was amputating on the battlefield – seemed to be in the grip of a feverish disturbance that was making his blood boil.

‘Quentin, I know what killed Count Kevlokine. During the autopsy,

I pretended not to understand anything, to hide my discovery from Inspector Sausson, because I know you want to keep him away

from your investigation. I found no trace of poison in the food remains, or in the glasses or cups I found at the Gunans’ house, so the policeman suspected nothing. It’s ... it’s ...’

Margont was proud of his ability to keep his cool, but he considered that normally Jean-Quenin was even better at it. Now as he looked at his friend in such a state, he had the impression he was looking at a mountain trembling.

‘Quentin, Count Kevlokine was asphyxiated. But he wasn’t strangled: there were no marks on his neck and his larynx was not damaged. That’s not because of the gag either: he would have bitten down on the material and I would have found fibres in his mouth, his face would have shown suffering and terror... His heart was in perfect condition. It wasn’t apoplexy. There were no blisters on the arms or in the mouth, and the trachea was healthy and unaltered, so in this murder also, the burns were definitely inflicted postmortem. I hid that as well from Inspector Sausson, who knows nothing about medicine. So, in short, it was a complete mystery! I thought I was going mad. I was like a mathematician who discovers an addition where one plus one does not equal two. Do you see what I mean?’

‘I think so

‘In these situations when I’m at a loss, I have a system. I go back over everything from the very beginning; I go back to the basics. So I started the autopsy over again, although the abdomen and the thoracic cavity were already open, and I had removed the heart, the liver—’

'Thanks, Jean-Quenin! I’d rather you spared me the details, unless they’re absolutely essential for me to understand what you are about to explain.’

‘All right, briefly, you start an autopsy by observing the corpse. As you might imagine, overwork often means that doctors skip that stage. So I begin to examine the body. And that’s when I discover a prick in the neck. Not caused by an insect; there was no local inflammation, no bump. No, just a dot of blood. The prick of a needle. Apparently inexplicable asphyxia, so sudden that the victim did not have time to suffer – judging by his serene expression– no visible lesions, a needle prick: death by curare poisoning!’ ‘What? I’ve never heard of curare. And what does it have to do with the needle prick?’

‘It’s a poison found in South America. Amazonian Indians use it for hunting.’

‘Amazonian Indians?’

‘Listen to what I’m telling you! There are many variations of the poison. Each Amazonian tribe has its own recipe and they use dozens of different ingredients: plants, caterpillars, insects, snakes, poisonous toads, various other kinds of poison ... So really one should refer to curares. Not much is known about them. But you have to understand that a single drop is sufficient to kill in a few seconds. All you have to do is dip a needle in curare and inject yourself, and that will be the end of you! There are no antidotes: death is inevitable. The poison paralyses the muscles – we don’t know how – and death results from asphyxiation, because the respiratory muscles are paralysed.’

‘A poison that acts through the blood?’

Margont was passionate about history and had read several accounts byconquistadores and Portuguese soldiers describing the deaths of their men, sometimes in a few moments, following often tiny wounds from arrows or darts from blowpipes. But this was Paris, not the Amazon.

‘How do you know all this, Jean-Quenin? Are you sure? If you’re mistaken—’

‘I’m certain! I’ve always wanted to do medical research so I keep myself well informed. At the moment, because of the war, I’m devoting myself to the wounded and to helping my friends. But when there’s finally peace, I will spend my time on research! You see, Quentin, you often talk about the newspaper you want to found. Well, this is my dream: to continue to care for people by researching new cures. It just so happens that France is one of the most advanced countries in pharmacology, a new science that studies the properties of chemical substances with the aim of discovering new remedies, and of better understanding how the human body functions. Perhaps you’ve heard of Magendie? He’s a master in the field, even better than the English, who are also making great strides in this sphere! I have the privilege of knowing him – French medical research is a small world. It was he who told me about curare a few years ago. Magendie favours experimental research: starting not from some hypothetical stance, but from concrete experience. Curare has such a spectacular effect on the human body that anyone who finds out how it works will certainly have made a major discovery. Parisian doctors pay fortunes to get hold of the stuff! Fortunes!’

Jean-Quenin put his hands on Margont’s shoulders, though he was not normally demonstrative. Not only did curare cause paralysis, it also drove researchers mad ...

‘Quentin, you often ask me to help you, and I’ve never asked for anything in exchange. But today, I’m asking for something! I’m asking you, if you ever lay your hands on this curare, to give it to me.’

‘Well, I actually want to lay my hands on whoever made use of the curare. I agree though. If I succeed—’

Jean-Quenin shook his hand vigorously. Thank you, Quentin!’

‘Wait... How did the curare get to Paris?’

I’m not sure. Apparently it doesn’t last more than a few months. The problem is that Brazil is a viceroyalty of Portugal, and we’ve been at war with them for several years. With all these conflicts, exotic substances are hard to come by. English researchers are ahead of the French in this respect because they’re allied to Portugal, which allows them to get hold of curare more easily than we can.’

What a simplistic way of representing the war! Jean-Quenin, although normally so philanthropic, was displaying breathtaking egotism.

Margont wondered out loud whether members of a Parisian royalist group would have been able to get hold of curare through the Allies. If they had the right contacts and enough money, it was quite possible.

He added: ‘It must have taken them months to get it! They would have had to contact an Allied agent, get him to agree to undertake to find it, then convince the Portuguese to send one of their ships to Brazil – although that is happening all the time: in 1807, Portugal’s prince regent fled from the French armies and installed his court in Rio de Janeiro – to bring back curare, which would have to be obtained from an Amazonian tribe ...’

If Jean-Quenin was right, the Swords of the King had been preparing their action for much longer than Margont had imagined. And it was also unlikely that the murderer was operating on his own. It would take the support of an organisation to mount such an operation.

‘Hang on, the murderer must be a doctor!’ exclaimed Margont. Jean-Quenin took a moment to react, then he reddened. That had not crossed his mind. ‘Very probably. A doctor or a traveller who’s been to South America.’

‘Or else a French aristocrat who fled to Portugal, then followed the court to Rio. Have you told me everything?’

‘Yes.’

Margont thanked him and left his friend. Jean-Quenin wandered around Paris for a while, trying to calm himself down. But he could not stop thinking about his plans for greatness and his imagination ran riot. Margont had not understood at all ... He didn’t want to make a great discovery for reasons of selfaggrandisement! All his life he had had the feeling that he had not done enough for his patients. Today he had felt that it really would be possible for him to take a giant leap forward for medicine. There were so many people he had not been able to save and their ghosts accompanied him everywhere – yes, everywhere! – forming a monstrous cohort that was growing with the years. If he succeeded in discovering the secret of curare, then he would be able to appease those tormented souls. Like every doctor he dreamt of being able to say one day, ‘Yes, I have done more good than harm in my life.’