The Officer's Prey tnm-1

by Armand Cabasson

Margont was still gazing at the passes. ‘They’re fakes, aren’t they?’

  The prince was stung to the quick. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Secrecy is so dear to your heart that I take it these documents are fakes. If my investigation implicates someone powerful, and if the affair becomes common knowledge, then you will be able to disavow me. I will be called a spy or a crank, and people will claim that I wrote the safe-conducts myself.’

  Prince Eugène was caught off guard. ‘Well, you … They are a good enough likeness to serve their purpose. In any case, you now have a further reason to act with the utmost discretion. Did I not tell you that you may leave?’

  Margont stood up, saluted and went towards the exit. The half-light inside the tent was oppressing him; he wanted to see daylight again, the morning light that drives away the fears of the night.

  But the prince called out to him: ‘Captain! The messenger I sent to inform the Emperor put forward the names of five investigators to His Majesty. You are the one the Emperor chose. He affords you his full confidence and is convinced that you will prove worthy of this honour.’

  CHAPTER 3

  MARGONT wanted first of all to question the innkeeper before he too was sent off to Vieja Go-to-Hell, a village that was certainly filling up quickly these days. The gaolers had been informed of the visit and took Margont to see the prisoner, though not before carefully divesting him of his weapons.

  ‘Poor man.’ These were the two words that immediately came to mind on looking at Maroveski. His whole world had collapsed. He was over forty. His ginger hair was tangled and his bulging stomach and flabby cheeks contrasted sharply with his deep-set, dark-ringed eyes. Glazed with tears, they seemed to look without seeing, and it took him a few seconds to realise that someone had entered his cell.

  ‘Captain, I’ve done nothing wrong!’ he exclaimed, sobbing.

  ‘I know,’ said Margont. ‘How do you come to speak French?’

  ‘I took part in the Polish campaign. God bless the French for having freed us. I was a canteen-keeper. I followed your troops and sold them good bread and vodka. Mulled wine too, and well-cooked bacon.’

  ‘I’ll see that you get all that here.’

  ‘And eggs as well?’

  ‘Until your stomach’s full to bursting! Listen to me carefully: nobody will harm you. You’re going to stay here …’

  Maroveski let out a cry that would have melted the hardest of hearts.

  ‘You’re not a prisoner,’ Margont added. ‘Not exactly … but you knew the murdered woman. I’m in charge of the investigation and when the culprit has been arrested you can go free, provided that you never breathe a word about this business.’

  ‘I swear it! I swear it by the Holy Virgin! Get me out of here, Captain! I won’t say a thing!’

  ‘You’re staying here for the time being!’

  Even though he had no choice, Margont disliked being so hard. The grenadiers of the Royal Guard were holding their prisoner in the cellar of a commandeered farm. The place was cold and the stone walls and vaults were oozing damp. Daylight entered only through a basement window blocked by a grenadier’s boots. There was nothing to do here except engrave your sufferings on the walls. Margont found the place oppressive. It reminded him of his childhood years spent in a monastic cell: the sound of the bolt locking the door, the fading footsteps of the key-holder, the silence, the deadly boredom, the despair. If Margont had been locked away here he would have attempted every means of escape. Every single one.

  ‘Do you read?’

  ‘I never learnt.’

  ‘What a pity. You will have good meals here, the guards will take you for walks regularly and, as soon as possible, I’ll have you set free.’

  Maroveski dared not speak. He was broken. His yellowing teeth bit nervously into his lower lip.

  ‘Tell me about the dead woman,’ continued Margont.

  The man blanched. He could see again her bloodied body, the expression of pain on her face. That was perhaps worse than the physical mutilations she had suffered.

  ‘I’m not the one …’ he stuttered.

  ‘I know that. Calm down.’

  From having been desperate, Maroveski suddenly became wary.

  ‘Why is a captain investigating Maria’s death? She was just a decent, simple girl.’

  Margont was taken by surprise. The prince’s political explanation would have satisfied him had it not been for those few moments of hesitation.

  ‘They’re orders,’ he replied.

  The stock answer of soldiers when they do not want to give one. Maroveski was used to dealing with the army, so did not pursue the matter. He dropped his suspicious air and looked sorrowful again.

  ‘Do you know who could have behaved like this?’ Margont went on.

  ‘It’s … Prince Charming.’

  Margont stood motionless as if the slightest movement might make this first hint of a clue disappear into thin air.

  ‘That’s what she called him, Captain.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘Never. All this is so strange … I must tell you about Maria first. She came from a good family but her parents have been dead a long time. Maria was thirty-six. Her husband was a sergeant, killed at Wagram. Since then Maria led a respectable life!’

  This last sentence was spoken with deliberation. Maroveski was searching for the right words and speaking slowly.

  ‘Maria didn’t have much money. She had no family left, so two years ago she came to see me. We struck a deal. She lived in my inn for free, and did the housework and cooking and made herself generally useful. She worked hard and was polite. In three years she never had anyone, you understand. Yet with all these soldiers around here there was no shortage of men, and she was pretty, was Maria. She could have got married again or … entertained men. But no. I used to say to her: “Get yourself a husband before it’s too late.” But Maria wanted the perfect man: kind, well-mannered, knowledgeable … And then just the day before she died, she came back really happy – singing, even. I teased her and said: “Well, Maria, you’re in good spirits today.” I was teasing her but she blushed and told me she might have met her “Prince Charming”. I didn’t say anything. What sort of man could have seduced Maria in a day? I’ve had plenty of sweet-talkers on my premises: wealthy merchants, educated landowners …’

  ‘Did she talk to you about him again? Did she say where she had met him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What had she gone out to do?’

  ‘Errands for me, seeing people …’

  ‘Can you give me some names?’

  Maroveski shrugged. ‘Maria was friends with everyone around here.’

  Margont sighed inwardly. With the start of the military campaign he would never have time to reconstruct Maria’s movements on that day and question the people she might have met.

  ‘Why do you think it was this “Prince Charming” who killed her?’

  ‘On the evening she died there were a lot of people about: soldiers and officers, all over the place. The serving girls and I were scurrying around carrying food and wine. But Maria wasn’t there. I went up to her room to tell her to come and help. When she opened the door she was wearing her pretty dress, the one she wore to church. You can’t imagine how lovely she looked. She blushed and told me her friend was coming to visit her. She begged me to let her off work until midnight. I said yes.’

  Maroveski was more pitiful than ever. He was a prisoner twice over, of this cellar and of an unrequited love now stifled for ever by death. Margont moved automatically towards the door. He felt he had already spent too long in a locked room.

  ‘You must surely have tried to spot her guest?’

  ‘Yes, but there were too many people! All out to have a good time before possibly going to their deaths.’

  ‘Didn’t you see him climbing the stairs?’

  ‘People were sitting on the steps as there was no room anywhere else. And loads were also going up to th
e bedrooms for drinks with friends.’

  ‘A Prince Charming might suggest an officer,’ Margont ventured.

  The innkeeper did not react. ‘There were officers everywhere: lieutenants, captains …’

  ‘And higher ranks than those?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some customers were in civilian clothes. In any case, it was raining, so many of them were wearing greatcoats or cloaks.’

  Margont wondered whether the murderer had premeditated his crime. If so, how bold of him to risk being recognised by walking through this crowd, even wrapped in a greatcoat with his collar turned up. If not, what could have led him to commit such an act?

  ‘And what makes you think that this man really is the one we’re looking for?’

  Maroveski seemed to be pulling himself together. He straightened up in his chair. For the first time he looked Margont in the eye. The captain had the impression he was using him as a crutch. The Poles were a strange people. History had been unkind to Poland, a country constantly subject to invasion. Dordenski, a Polish friend of Margont’s, summed it up with a quip: ‘In Poland we don’t erect memorials for every war or for every massacre as other countries do. That’s because there aren’t enough stones in our country.’ And despite everything, the Poles were stubbornly refusing to give in.

  ‘Captain, tell me first of all, what will you do with him if you arrest him?’

  ‘He’ll be handed over to the appropriate authorities, tried and sentenced.’

  ‘But it won’t be just your decision?’

  Margont smiled. ‘That’s for sure. I’m only a captain. But the person who appointed me to this task is just as eager as I am for—’

  ‘First he wants to know who it is. And if it’s someone wealthy and powerful or important to your army? If you discover it’s someone who’s beyond the reach of justice, what will you do?’

  ‘No one is beyond the reach of justice.’

  ‘If you really think that then I understand why you were picked for the investigation. It makes it easier for them to manipulate you.’

  Margont was disconcerted. There was too much truth in this assertion.

  Maroveski hesitated, then decided to continue. When he recalled the panic caused by the firing and the fear of a Russian attack, he shook his head.

  ‘I was sure it wasn’t the Russians. I was afraid for Maria. I tried to get to the staircase but people were pushing me towards the exit. When I did manage to get to her bedroom door, I banged on it and called out to her but she didn’t reply. Captain, the door hadn’t been forced and it was locked from the inside. She’d opened the door to the man who did it. So it must have been him …’ His fists were now clenched. ‘So I forced the door open with my shoulder. It was stupid of me because he might have still been there and killed me as well. I saw Maria stretched out on the bed, and she … she had …’

  Margont gave him a few moments to recover before putting his question.

  ‘I know that my enquiries are painful but they are vital for my investigation. Do you remember anything in particular, was there some detail that struck you?’

  ‘There was blood all over her. Her face was disfigured. I looked at her only for a moment. I couldn’t stand it.’

  Maroveski’s expression was blank. Once more he was in a state of complete mental disarray.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he added eventually. ‘Everything was very neat and tidy. She’d made her bedroom nice to welcome him.’

  CHAPTER 4

  HAVING instructed the grenadiers to treat the prisoner well – instructions that he had to sketch out – Margont went to Tresno.

  The village was completely unaware of the drama that had taken place. The villagers seemed obsessed with the presence of the French army and excitement was at fever pitch. A regiment was marching down the main street in orderly fashion, the soldiers trudging in step through mud that had been tramped a thousand times over. Fascinated children were crowding around, watching them, shouting: ‘Drummers! Drummers!’ and imitating an interminable drum roll with their fists. The colonel smiled and, waving his sabre imperiously like Jupiter brandishing his thunderbolt, pointed to the drummers, who immediately began to play. The children shouted joyfully and their faces lit up as if they were witnessing the most amazing of spectacles.

  At the windows of the wooden houses, onlookers were jostling for position with such determination that it looked as if they might bring all the houses tumbling down. Polish women – equally concerned, whether they were wearing patched and faded clothes, or elegant dresses and spring bonnets – were calling out to the soldiers in halting French: ‘Tell Corporal Djaczek, from the 3rd Polish Regiment, that Natasha sends him kisses.’ ‘Tell Private Blachas, from the 12th Polish Artillery, that all his family send their love and are thinking of him.’ ‘Do you know whether Ivan Naskelitch, from the 14th Polish Chasseurs, is all right?’

  Everywhere soldiers were buying things, to the delight of the villagers, who all seemed to have turned into pedlars. There was a delicious aroma of sausages, which made empty stomachs rumble; elsewhere were warm clothes, knitted jackets, fur-lined – if threadbare – cloaks and fur hats. Infantrymen, collapsing under the weight of parcels, were skewering loaves of bread on their bayonets. Sergeants in charge of keeping order were checking passes and other papers. Four times out of five they frowned and began to shout, but they invariably received the same reply: ‘I lost me way, Sergeant. D’you know where my regiment is?’

  The only stone buildings were the inns and the church. Because Tresno was located along a busy highway, there were many places to stay and Maroveski’s was the biggest. The window on the top floor was still open. Margont prayed that the scene of the crime had not been ransacked by those who had taken the body away. As he went inside the establishment, the wind shook the wrought-iron carafe-shaped sign hanging above the entrance, making its metal fastenings creak.

  Five grenadiers were seated around a table, playing cards. Their captain, astride a chair, was watching his men as he stuffed his pipe. As soon as he saw the Frenchman, he got up and approached him. There was a brief shuffling of chairs and then all the grenadiers lined up and stood to attention. The Italian officer saluted stiffly. He was puzzled by Margont’s two epaulettes, indicating his junior rank. Since they, the prestigious grenadiers of the Italian Royal Guard, were being forced to wait for someone, that someone had to be an important person. But Margont did not look like someone important. The Italian checked his safe-conduct, then asked a question in Italian. Margont did not understand much of it. Did they want permission to leave the scene after his investigation? He settled on this explanation, reckoning that, like Guard soldiers everywhere, they were spoiling for a fight.

  ‘You are to remain here until further notice,’ he stated slowly, pointing his finger at the Italians before indicating the ground.

  His gesture was greeted by looks of disappointment. No more glorious military campaigns. Their only battles would be at cards.

  ‘And no one is to go upstairs,’ he added at the foot of the staircase, waving his hands about to halt an imaginary crowd of onlookers.

  He climbed a few stairs and turned round to say with barely disguised anger in his voice: ‘And I would be pleased if someone would fetch Sergeant Lefine, from the 84th.’

  ‘Sergeant Lefine, here,’ repeated one of the grenadiers, to make sure he had understood properly.

  The hotel had been emptied of its occupants and the silence pervading the whole building was in sharp contrast to the hubbub in the streets. The door to the victim’s bedroom was wide open. A latch on the inside had given way when the innkeeper forced the door with his shoulder. Although small, the accommodation had been carefully thought out. The steeply sloping roof made it possible to stand up straight only in the left-hand part of the room. On the right-hand side it was only possible to sit or to lie down, so that was where the bed had been set up. Alongside it, a trunk served as a bedside table. A small bookcase, an unexpected item, was tucked away
in a corner. So Maria had had the advantage of being taught to read by her parents. The pages of the few books on the shelves were well thumbed. Judging by the pink or pastel-coloured covers and the engravings depicting couples walking together, they were probably romantic works, novels and collections of poetry. On a table stood a candlestick, two glasses and a pitcher of wine. A jug, a tub of water and some provisions – pots of jam, vegetables and a string of garlic – were crammed on to some shelves.

  The rumpled sheets were soaked with blood. Dark red spots on the floor made it possible to discern two sets of footprints. One led from the bed to the door and was probably the result of the victim’s body being moved by the grenadiers. The other went from the bed to the tub. The water inside it was red, as was the water in the jug. So it was impossible to decide whether the murderer had got rid of the bloodstains after his crime or whether the soldiers who had helped to lift the body up had simply washed their hands there. And now these precious witnesses were on their way to Spain.

  ‘How can an investigation be carried out in such circumstances?’ Margont asked himself angrily.

  He spent an hour inspecting the bedroom but discovered nothing except a trace of blood on the bolt of the trunk. It was scarcely visible because it had been wiped. That seemed strange. The chest was spattered with blood as it had been next to the bed. Why then had this trace been wiped away? Was it something unconnected with the murder, the result of the victim having injured herself? Or had the murderer still been covered in blood when he opened the trunk, despite having had a quick wash?

  Margont emptied it, carefully examining each dress, the spring jacket and the two nightdresses. The garments, which were folded, had nothing special about them.

  He was peering at the window when a flurry of footsteps was heard on the staircase. A few moments later Sergeant Lefine stood stiffly to attention in the doorway and, with a smile on his face, bellowed: ‘At your disposal, Captain.’

  Fernand Lefine, who hailed from Arles, was such a quick-witted fellow that the parish priest had done his utmost to teach him to read and write. His parents, humble farmers, had got it into their heads that he would become a schoolmaster or a mayor. That showed how little they knew Fernand. He was the laziest, craftiest man in the entire region. Instead of using his talents wisely, he exploited illiterates, getting them to pay him to write their letters. He had an easy-going attitude to life and considered it really stupid to see things otherwise. One day a policeman had caught him stealing from a neighbour’s vegetable garden. This representative of the law, a former soldier, had warned him that he would come back for him in three days and haul him off to prison. Lefine was then given three options: he could go to prison; he could pack his bags and prepare to spend his life as a fugitive roaming the countryside; or he could join the army, in which case the police would never dream of depriving the motherland of such a stalwart defender in these troubled times. So it was that in 1801, aged only seventeen, Lefine entered the French army. There he met Margont and the two men had become inseparable. That said, friendship, like everything else on this poor earth, has its limits.