Текст книги "Memory of Flames"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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CHAPTER 4

COLONEL Berle had known the golden age of the Empire, when competent men were rewarded handsomely. He therefore owned a large three-storey house that dominated the street. A sentry stood at the main entrance, relaxed and unaware of the turmoil that was about to break over him. The civilian police were on their way and then he would be caught up in a whirlwind of activity and questions. But at the moment it was the hour of the shadowy men who would be hidden by the time it was action stations, and who were about to enter by the concealed doors at the back.

Margont and Lefine skirted round the house and, as agreed, Mejun let them in. There were tears in his eyes, but his face, red with fury, wore an expression of murderous determination. Had the killer been right there in front of him he would have wrung his neck, wearing the same expression.

He led them with his uneven gait to a little sitting room. It was decorated in the Turkish style. There was a hookah, ottoman

carpets, cushions, yataghans and other Oriental sabres. In the past Napoleon had wanted to ally himself to the Sublime Porte to alarm the Russians, Austrians and English. But the project of a Franco-Ottoman alliance had been abandoned for a treaty of friendship between France and Russia. In 1812, because of the Russian campaign, the Emperor had wanted to try to win over the Ottomans again. But the Turks, embittered by previous experiences of abandoned agreements, preferred not to involve themselves any longer in Napoleon’s complicated and ever-changing diplomatic manoeuvres. All that remained of the French Oriental dream – which involved conquering Egypt, forming an alliance with the great Ottoman Empire and pushing back the English in order to seize India – were the archaeological treasures brought back from Egypt, the handsome hookahs that adorned the salons of imperial dignitaries and, for the soldiers who had fought at the foot of the pyramids, the taste of sand in their mouths.

A shutter had been forced open and a pane of glass shattered, so presumably that was how the murderer had entered.

‘Is this room much used?’ asked Margont.

‘No, because it looks over that little lane, and besides, there are three other drawing rooms. It was used only when there were big receptions and so many guests we didn’t know where to put them all:

‘And no one heard anything?’

He could immediately see why. To reach this room you had to cross the large drawing room, which had been deserted on the night of the crime, and then take a little corridor closed in by two doors.

Margont leant out of the window. He could not see the main road because of a dogleg in the lane.

‘Do the sentries check here?’

‘Yes. Every hour they walk round the building. The soldier on duty didn’t notice anything. I discovered the colonel at about ten o’clock.’

‘Take us to the study, by the route that the murderer must have taken.’

Mejun took them back to the main corridor, and painfully climbed a large stately staircase. On the second floor he led them down a corridor as far as the last door on the left. Margont, who was not used to such vast spaces, felt quite giddy. Lefine, on the other hand, found it exhilarating – it was the kind of house he dreamt of living in.

They had both prepared themselves for the sight of a murdered man. But nothing could have prepared them for what they actually saw. Berle had been mutilated with fire. His features had been burnt off, leaving a smooth, indefinable plane, red in places and black in others. The remains of a gag were still protruding from the mouth. The man’s hands were bound behind his back, with rope.

‘Are you certain this is Colonel Berle?’ asked Margont.

Mejun’s face lit up and Margont was annoyed with himself for having accidentally given the man false hope. He could see the servant’s excitement at the thought that it was a plot: the colonel had been kidnapped and this unrecognisable body had been left here to cover up the kidnapping. Yet the old man did not really believe that. He freed a shirt-tail from the victim’s trousers, his fingers moving slowly as if numbed by frost, and revealed a scar across the victim’s left thigh. His answer stuck in his throat and he merely nodded.

‘Have any documents been taken?’ pursued Margont.

‘Yes. The study was always cluttered with papers.’

Not a sheet of paper remained, although on the bookshelves piles of ill-assorted works were stacked on top of the lined-up books. Drawers had been pulled out, emptied and left open. Alas, the colonel had been a taciturn man and Mejun was not able to say what had disappeared.

The emblem of the Swords of the King had been pinned to the dead man’s shirt. Caught in a ray of sunshine, the white material gleamed, like the glittering snowy summit of a mountain seen in the distance. Margont knelt down to remove the emblem and give it to Mejun, who accepted it, since those were his orders. But like Margont and Lefine, he did not think it right that an important clue

was being hidden from the police. It appeared that the investigation was setting off in a devious manner. Margont tried not to mind about that. His two strongest qualities were also his worst faults. He was philanthropic and idealistic, as befitted a child of the Revolution – possibly, in its origins, one of the most utopian and naive periods in the history of humanity. Margont tended to see everything as black or white, and here he was, plunged by Joseph and Talleyrand into a world of infinite shades of grey.

He sent the servant to watch for the arrival of the medical officer, then looked around the room. The bookshelves contained travel writing, military memoirs, works by Vauban, plays by Molière. Each of these books reflected part of the personality of their owner. Berle must have sat laughing at the adventures of poor Don Quixote, wondering if perhaps he didn’t share some of his characteristics himself; he must have thought about those wild boars with human heads supposedly observed in this or that exotic country and depicted in Ambroise Paré’s Des monstres et prodiges; perhaps he had dreamt of having an amorous encounter as he read Marivaux. Suddenly the body became the person, Berle, and that made it harder to bear the idea that he had been murdered.

‘I wonder if he talked ...’ said Lefine.

‘No,’ replied Margont.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because he was already dead when he was burnt.’ He indicated Berle’s wrists. ‘Look at where his wrists were tied. The skin is intact. If that man had still been alive while his face was being burnt, he would have tried to free himself, he would have struggled. His wrists would have been bruised and bloody.’

Lefine recoiled instinctively. Insanity frightened him more than barbarity.

‘We must be dealing with a madman ...’

‘Possibly.’

Jean-Quenin Brémond arrived at that moment, in a hurry as usual. He removed his greatcoat, revealing his medical officer’s uniform, which was of a lighter blue than the standard dark blue of the French army. His movements were hurried and nervous in

everyday life but correspondingly slow and precise when he was practising medicine or teaching. So his life seemed to pass either too quickly or too slowly. Only a few days ago a colleague from the Army Medical Service had reprimanded him for spending too long tending to the Russian prisoners. Since then, as a protest, Jean-Quenin had worn a Russian medal given to him by a hussar from Elisabethgrad whose life he had saved. He was regularly at logger-heads with the military authorities, much like Margont and Lefine. And as his rages were famous, his aides, sentries and patients pretended not to notice the little blue ribbon with the strange silver medal.

Mejun appeared a little after Jean-Quenin. Margont asked him to leave them on their own, then explained to his friend what he wanted from him without telling him his first conclusions. The medical officer crouched down beside the victim. With his seventeen years’ service in an army constantly at war, he was not shocked by what he saw. Recently, whatever he was confronted with, he had already seen worse. Always.

This person was killed by a single knife blow straight to the heart. The attack was very precise and the murderer was certain that it was going to be fatal because he only struck once.’

He stood up to study the desk, then crouched down again and searched in his case for tweezers, which he plunged into the wound.

The victim was sitting at the desk. His assailant came up behind him and must have put his hand over his mouth whilst stabbing him with his right hand. Yes, the direction of the wound means that the blow was delivered from behind by someone right-handed. I conclude therefore that the assassin is very familiar with the human body and its pressure points. Probably a doctor, a butcher or a battle-hardened soldier. I realise that doesn’t narrow the field down much. The blood spattered the desk, then a little dripped onto the victim’s clothes and the floor when the body was moved. But the heart stopped beating almost immediately, which explains why there is relatively little blood.’

He manipulated the corpse delicately with precise movements,

undid the buttons, and struggled against rigor mortis to prise open the teeth.

‘Astonishing. The man was killed first, then burnt! Look carefully at his face – no blistering! Had the man been alive when he was burnt you would have seen blisters filled with serum, a liquid containing albumin, surrounded by red areas. You would also have seen damage to the oral cavity. He would have been obliged to breathe and so would have inhaled burning-hot air and flames. His tongue and pharynx would have been necrosed and would have suffered desquamation, that is, the superficial layers of mucous membrane would have come off in little strips, in squamas. And there would have been little ulcerations on the back of the throat. The mucous membrane on the epiglottis would have been red and engorged. You would have seen soot marks and a pinkish froth in the trachea and the gag would not have prevented that. A living victim would have breathed through his nose and that would have had the same effect as breathing through the mouth. As for the gag itself, of course it should have shown bite-marks.

I’ve seen plenty of burns on the battlefield and in hospitals, and I can say with certainty: these burns were inflicted after death.’ ‘That’s necromancy!’ exclaimed Lefine.

‘Hmm ... Necromancy is consulting the dead to get them to give up their secrets. Yes, I suppose you could call it that! I’m a necromancing doctor. But that’s thanks to my friend Quentin and his investigations.’

‘I’m sorry, Jean-Quenin,’ replied Margont.

‘Not at all! Without you life would be monotonous ...’

It was always hard to tell if he was being serious or sarcastic.

‘Have you ever come across a crime where the murderer burns his victim after killing him?’ Margont asked him.

‘Never.’

‘Neither have I. We’ll have to find out whether the murderer was acting out of vengeance, or whether he was covering his tracks, or whether the fire had some special significance for him. Look around the room. There is a trail of blood from the fireplace to the desk, near where the body was found. At first sight it looks as if

the murderer overcame the victim, bound and gagged him, dragged him over to the fire to burn him, and then, for some reason, took him back to the desk. The blood would have dripped in a trail as the body was dragged from the fireplace to the desk. But, in fact, according to what you’ve just told us, the blood flowed as the murderer dragged the colonel’s body to the fireplace. Therefore, the murderer went to the trouble of taking the remains over to the desk to mask the fact that he had already killed the victim before burning him.’

Mejun erupted into the room, panic-stricken.

The police are coming! You have to leave at once!’

‘Investigators fleeing the police?’ asked Jean-Quenin, astonished. Margont was already dragging him by the arm towards the door. ‘Oh, that’s not the only paradox about this case, I can assure you...'

CHAPTER 5

THEY escaped by the back door and hurried away, plunging into the side streets to avoid the crowds, and talking in low voices. They did not want to be taken for royalist or republican plotters, or partisans of the Allies ... Jean-Quenin left them, after insisting that they call on him again should the need arise.

Margont was having difficulty gathering his thoughts. Ideas were jumbled in his head, refusing to come together to form a coherent theory.

‘We have to separate what the murderer wanted us to find from what he wanted to hide. He didn’t want us to know the real reasons for his burning his victim. And what are we to make of the royalist emblem and those documents that were taken? Are they red herrings and the burns the real clue? Or the opposite? Or perhaps they’re all linked? We’re left with two leads: the royalist emblem, and the fire.’

‘I find both of them rather worrying,’ commented Lefine.

‘Who is supposed to react to the symbol? And the burns?’

‘We are! We’re the ones trapped in this investigation!’

‘Yes, but apart from us?’

Margont had been a bit slow in grasping what Lefine had meant. ‘Fernand, I’m sorry to involve you once again in a complicated case, but I absolutely depend on you.’

‘That’s all right then. I knew that, but it’s always good to hear it said. You can count on me! What use are friends if they don’t help each other out? But if my services are effectively helping the defence of Paris – that’s what all this seems to be about – I would very much like to be properly rewarded.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I want to be restored to the rank of sergeant-major!’

It was a long story. Throughout the last years, losses had been so heavy that veterans, as distinct from the masses of inexperienced conscripts, had benefited from numerous promotions. Since 1812, Margont had gone from captain to lieutenant-colonel, Piquebois from lieutenant to captain, Saber from lieutenant to colonel. Only

Jean-Quenin Brémond and Lefine had kept their ranks. In the medical officer’s case it was a reflection of the lack of respect accorded to the health services of the army. Priority and favours went to combatants. But as for Lefine, he had only himself to blame for his lack of promotion. In 1813 he had effectively been promoted to sergeant-major and the need for officers was so great that he was about to become no less than second lieutenant... when his major discovered that he was involved in a fraud.

He would present a requisition order for provisions for ten soldiers to a farmer or merchant. But afterwards he would falsify the document, and the requisitioner, who was in cahoots with him, would have him reimbursed by the army for an amount corresponding to food for twenty men. The practice was common. And besides, since the disaster in Russia, the soldiers were practically never paid! In fact, Lefine, like tens of thousands of other soldiers, was sliding gradually into poverty and he had used the money he had diverted in that way to feed and clothe himself. However, the major wanted to have him shot to make an example of him! The

affair rapidly became confused. There was abundant proof of his guilt, but because he was facing a death sentence, Lefine maintained that he was innocent. As he had nothing more to lose he used all his devious talents, lying with such aplomb that the elite police, called in by the court martial, were completely taken in. The police were not in a hurry to convict Lefine since they did not understand why a man should be executed for so little, especially at a time when each soldier counted. Margont, Saber and Piquebois, of course, became involved and their respective ranks carried a lot of weight. But the major persisted, relaunching a trial that would have succeeded had it not been interrupted. Inadvertently, Saber had the last word by being transferred against his will to the National Guard and taking his friends with him. Lefine was the only one to dance with joy on hearing the news. However, the affair robbed him of the rank of sergeant-major and raised the prospect of him remaining sergeant ad vitam aeternum.

‘I was the victim of a regrettable judicial error—’ he began.

‘All right! Don’t bring up that business again. I promise you that if

I succeed, I will not forget to ask Joseph personally for a promotion for you.’

Thank you! So what do we do now?’

‘We go and look together at the documents Joseph gave me. Then I will keep the ones I need and you will take the ones from the police and go and find an inn where you will live during this investigation. You’re supposed to be poor, like me, so don’t go and set yourself up in one of the best addresses in Paris at Joseph’s expense. The lodgings they’ve found me are in Faubourg Saint-Marcel at 9 Rue du Pique. I would like you to be nearby. This evening I’ll go and meet Charles de Varencourt, whom I mentioned to you. I’m very suspicious of him. I’ll tell you where and when I’m meeting him. You will also be there and you will spy on us from a distance without getting yourself noticed. You won’t be able to overhear our conversation, but you should observe his expressions and gestures. Tell me later what you think of him. Also, try to spot if anyone is watching us. Maybe the Swords of the King suspect something and are having him followed, or maybe

Varencourt will have had the same idea as I and will come with an accomplice ... Afterwards you should follow him and then meet me at Pont d’lena, where you can report back to me.’

‘Now that you’re mingling with people who see plots everywhere, suddenly you’ve begun to think the same way!’

CHAPTER 6

MARGONT went to Palais-Royal, a district full of restaurants, cafes, sweet shops, gambling houses, moneylenders, theatres and perfumeries. Prostitutes propositioned passers-by under the arcades, trying to drag them up to the lofts above.

In Chez Camille, wine, beer, cider, tea, coffee and waffles were served. You could also ask an errand boy to fetch you a bavaroise from the famous Cafe Corraza; that way you could enjoy it at ease, since it was always packed over there. Margont, ensconced at a table, simultaneously skimmed Le Moniteurand Le Journal de Paris. He hoped to flush out fragments of truth by comparing the two papers. Alas, the first lied because it was the mouthpiece of the Empire, whilst the latter dared not say anything because it was not. Every time irritation gripped Margont, he gulped a mouthful of coffee. How did they dare to print such things? He imagined the progression of the words, which started out revealing the truth, then submitted to the censorship of the editor, the cuts and

rewritings imposed by the owner of the newspaper, and those demanded by the censors and the Ministry of Civilian Police. He imagined lines being crossed out, hands tearing up entire pages, phrases being reworked to produce a text that was a shadow of its original self, with no subtlety, a Manichaean narrative. More passages crossed out. French losses melting away on the paper; Russians and Prussians perishing by the thousand under the pen blows of propaganda. Everything was fine! Better and better, in fact!

‘Yet I’m not allowed to launch my newspaper!’ muttered Margont. But, of course, his determination to tell the truth would never get past the censors, and what sort of paper would that have made?

A man sat down at his table.

‘Monsieur Langes!’ he declared amiably. Since they were in public he had not used Langes’s aristocratic title.

‘Citizen Varencourt!’

Varencourt was enjoying the fake reunion with this friend who was not actually a friend and who was using an assumed name.

Margont, on the other hand, was ill at ease. But the role he was playing, the dungeon in which he was trapped, was also his protection. So he immersed himself in his assumed character and smiled to encourage his new accomplice.

‘It’s a pleasure to see you, Charles!’

Varencourt served himself a glass of wine. He was dressed shabbily in ill-cut, drab clothes. But his self-assurance gave him presence; he seemed to have nothing to fear. He was a few years older than Margont, so about forty, with attentive blue eyes.

Margont took a look around the room. In spite of the fact that the cafe was crowded he had been able to sit a little apart. They would not be overheard so long as they spoke in low voices. He could not see Lefine but he was sure to be somewhere about. Margont never ceased to be amazed at his friend’s talents.

Varencourt examined his glass by the light of the candle. The wine was improbably dark. He sniffed it curiously.

‘I would say they’ve cut it with extract of logwood, bilberries and eau-de-vie. And perhaps even ink ...’

He drank and grimaced as if an unseen hand was strangling him. ‘Dreadful. So, you’re the new investigator. I was worried they would send me another stooge. Monsieur Natai, the person I give my information to, who pays me, is obviously just a second-rate little official, an intermediary. He came to my lodgings this afternoon – which he promised he would never do! – and explained that I was to continue to pass on what I learnt to him, but that I would also have to meet someone else today, Chevalier Langes. To be honest, until now the authorities have not taken the Swords of the King seriously and have been concentrating their efforts on the Knights of the Faith and the mysterious Congregation. How wrong they were. Now that Colonel Berle has been assassinated, they send you. It’s funny – you’re not what I imagined at all. You don’t look like one of those devious investigators from the imperial secret police.’

Margont said nothing.

‘I’ve already given the police a huge amount of information,’ Varencourt went on. ‘So what else do you want to know?’ ‘Why didn’t you warn them that Colonel Berle was about to be murdered?’

‘I didn’t know! It was Monsieur Natai who told me about his death.’

‘Do you take me for an idiot?’

‘If you were an idiot, they wouldn’t have sent you. There are roughly thirty people in our organisation, perhaps more, and it is run by a committee with five members: Louis de Leaume, Honoré de Nolant, Jean-Baptiste de Chatel, Catherine de Saltonges and me. Although we have a leader, Vicomte de Leaume, all plans must be approved by a majority of the committee. Then they’re explained to the other members, who have to carry them out. It was Baron de Nolant who proposed assassinating the people responsible for the defence of Paris. His plan was debated at length, then we voted and it was blackballed.’

‘What does that mean, “blackballed”?’

Varencourt was astonished at that.

‘You’re not very up to date, are you? Did they not pass on all the

information I gave Monsieur Natai? Louis de Leaume fled to London during the revolutionary years. Over there it’s common practice for gentlemen to belong to several clubs. What kind of clubs? Well, they all have their own themes: philosophy, astronomy, insects, tobacco, the exploration of Africa, or the Indies ... Actually, a nobleman has to be a member of a club to avoid ridicule. Because if you don’t belong to a club, you become the laughing stock of the London nobility. So you put forward your application and the members vote on it. Each member puts a ball in a bag. If there is a majority of white balls: welcome to the club; if there are more black, you’re blackballed,bye-bye. It’s the last word in chic for a French aristocrat to blackball. It signifies that you are pure, an ultra, that you would rather flee to England than accept revolutionary France. So when our committee takes decisions we use the English voting system. It has the advantage of being secret. According to Vicomte de Leaume, that reduces tensions within the group. And the plan to launch a series of assassinations was blackballed – two white balls, three black.’ ‘And who voted in favour of the plan?’

‘Honoré de Nolant, since he was the one who proposed it. I don’t know who the other one was.’

‘Apart from you five, did any of the other members know about the plan?’

‘Not as far as I am aware, no. That’s not how we work. The committee does not inform the ordinary members of the projects it’s discussing, to limit the risk of leaks. Our leader is a cautious man. I’ve already explained all this to Monsieur Natai ...’

‘Tell me about your emblem, the lily and the sword.’

‘It’s the heraldic interpretation of the name of our organisation. Initially, our emblem was the traditional fleur-de-lis. Then Vicomte de Leaume decided to replace it with a fleur-de-lis in the shape of a spear. More warlike ...’

‘I’ve seen one. A cockade with a medallion and crossed arms.’

‘You have? Where did you see it?’

Varencourt seemed surprised. But on the other hand, he was a gambler. He must be used to dissembling. As Margont did not

reply, he explained, ‘Vicomte de Leaume had some copies made and distributed them to the members of the committee.’

‘I want you to give me one.’

‘I don’t have any. I didn’t accept them. At the time, I was not acting as a police informer and I didn’t want to have anything like that about me.'

Was Varencourt telling the truth? Margont hid his irritation. He was finding it very hard to find any chink in Varencourt’s armour. He would be able to begin to check what the man was telling him once he had been admitted to the group. Perhaps then he would find some hold over him.

Meanwhile Varencourt was saying suavely, ‘At the moment, for reasons of security, the symbol is known only to the members of the committee. And to the people I have passed it on to, namely the personal police of Joseph Bonaparte, I mean, Joseph I of Spain. And I have also explained that to Monsieur Natai ...’

‘I haven’t had time yet to study all the information you’ve passed

Varencourt was worried.

‘I see ...Then why are we seeing each other now? What was the hurry for the meeting?’

‘Well ... because you have to get me admitted to the Swords of the King ...’

Varencourt’s eyes widened and he almost choked. The news was as hard to swallow as the doctored wine.

‘You’re joking!’

‘No! Don’t tell me you weren’t informed?’

‘Informed ofwhat?’

They both mentally cursed Joseph and Talleyrand.

‘You’re not serious, are you?’ demanded Varencourt. ‘I refuse to lead you into the lion’s mouth! You will be unmasked and we will both be killed.’

‘My dear Charles, you refuse to take me and I refuse to go. The problem is that, in spite of that, it will happen. I have no choice and neither do you. These are the orders of our two friends, to whom we owe the pleasure of this enjoyable meeting.’

‘We have to change their minds! They have no idea. Why do they need you to ... when they already have me ...? Oh, I see, they don’t trust me. It’s just that, you see, it’s virtually impossible to become a member...’

‘You’re going to have to get me in right at the top, on the committee.’

‘Damn it, listen to yourself! It’s impossible. You would have had to be a member for at least two months. They would have had to investigate you and you would have had to prove your loyalty.’

‘I don’t doubt it. I’ve already thought of a way round that. If I were indispensable, they would accept me immediately, and at the highest level, what’s more.’

‘I have to admit, I like your thinking. Do you play cards?’

‘No! And now’s not the time to talk about that sort of thing.’

‘It’s always time for gaming! Life’s a game. At least that’s the way I take it – it’s easier to bear like that. But I am not interested in raising the stakes, and I must make clear to you that I refuse to play the game you propose.’ ‘Our two powerful friends will not accept that. If you refuse, they will put the police onto you. And they’ve already told me they’ll feed me to the Cossacks ...’

Varencourt was furious. But he continued to act like a chessboard king, proud and immobile as the opposing queen slipped forward to checkmate him.

‘Right. I understand. But it will be very expensive,’ he warned. ‘I’m listening. What’s your plan?’

‘I’ve looked through some of the information you’ve provided, although only very quickly, and I see that another idea of the Swords of the King is to stir up the Parisians to support them, or at least to incite them not to take up arms if Paris is threatened. I suppose those cockades sporting your emblem are meant to act as a sign of recognition among your soldiers. But how do you plan to reach thousands of people? And how can you do that without the risk of being shot? You’ll have to have bulletins and posters, but all the printing presses are under surveillance. That’s how I can make myself indispensable. You can pass me off as a printer! I print

theatre programmes, and posters for shows. Officially that’s how I earn my living. But actually I’m only interested in printing because I’ve always had the idea of supporting the royalist cause using the most effective weapon in the world: words!’

That’s too perfect to be true ...’

That’s why it will work! Because it’s so perfect your friends will want to believe it!’

‘You really should play cards.’

‘I do have some notion of the printing profession. I’ve always dreamt of launching a newspaper ... a real one,’ he added, casting a rueful glance at the papers he had put on the table. ‘How does admission to the heart of this group work?’

‘Good question! That depends if they trust you or not. They will ask you questions: “Why do you want to join us?” “Who can vouch for you?” When I joined, they made me wait for two months while they investigated me. The investigation was satisfactory so my admission was only a formality. But the risk with trying to rush things is that they will be more suspicious.’ ‘Stop trying to make me change my mind; you won’t succeed. You’re the one who’s going to recommend me. When someone wants to join, they must ask the person who is to nominate them questions about the group – who else is a member? What action has been taken?’

‘We’re not allowed to say anything, except that we’re a royalist group who advocates action! We are the Swords of the King. Our leader is very strict about it: we’re not to say anything else. Because if we had revealed more than that to those trying to join us, our group would have been crushed long ago. The imperial police are very efficient.’