WAKING up was particularly unpleasant. The previous evening’s reception seemed to belong to an already distant past. A servant came to wake Margont, saying that an officer, Captain Dalero, from the grenadiers of the Royal Italian Guard, was demanding to see him. Dalero was wearing a green jacket with a white leather cross-belt. He looked enormous with his huge red-plumed bearskin busby. Like Margont, he was ill-shaven and his uniform was crumpled, but it seemed to matter more to him. His swarthy face was marked by a strange semicircular scar that ran along the top of his left cheekbone. Margont wondered whether it was self-inflicted, to give a more martial appearance. Dalero immediately took Margont outside. He was walking so quickly that the three grenadiers accompanying him had difficulty keeping up. As for Lefine, he had been alerted but was still getting dressed in his bedroom.
‘I’ve been sent by His Highness Prince Eugène. The person you are looking for may have killed again.’
Margont turned pale. He thought of Natalia, however absurdly, since several dozen members of his company had quarters in the château. Besides, Dalero and he were moving away from the Valiuski residence. However, two images became superimposed in his mind: Natalia lying on her bed and the tortured body of Maria. The vision of Natalia became clearer and Margont had the impression of actually being in her presence. Her body had been slashed with a knife; her hands were clutching her slit throat; her hair, clotted with blood, partially covered her face; her naked body was in an obscene posture deliberately chosen by her torturer. The more Margont tried to banish this scene from his mind, the clearer and more credible it became. An extreme tension came over him. He saw himself confronting the murderer. He leapt on him, ran him through repeatedly with his sword, stopping only to gaze at a lifeless figure at his feet. He was astonished at the violence of this image and tried to rid himself of his fear and hatred. To no avail. Captain Dalero noticed nothing. He was displaying the detachment that Margont had felt until he had opened the lid of Maria’s coffin.
‘The prince is furious with you!’ Dalero announced. ‘Why do you give him so little news? Why hasn’t the murderer been identified yet?’
Margont spread his arms. ‘When, of course, it’s so simple …’
‘We can speak freely: my men understand only Italian and the prince has put me fully in the picture. What new information have you got?’
‘Nothing,’ Margont lied. ‘We have thirty or so suspects but some are high-ranking. There are even some colonels on the list!’
‘Colonels …’ Dalero repeated as if he needed to hear himself say it for it to sink in.
The streets were practically deserted. They came across only a few stray inhabitants or drunken soldiers staggering about.
‘Discreet as always!’ exclaimed Dalero. ‘That’s the only aspect of your investigation the prince is satisfied with. I’ve had the servants of the house questioned: the victim was … what’s that delightful way you have of putting it in France? Oh, yes, a “man-eater”.’
‘No, not a man-eater!’ Margont cut in.
Dalero raised his eyebrows. ‘And why not a man-chaser?’
‘I won’t answer that. Since my discretion is the only thing that’s valued I might as well keep it.’
‘Very well. So be it. The woman was called Ludmila Sperzof. She had married Count Sperzof, a captain in the hussars who was killed during the war against the Turks. The servants of the house were very fond of the captain and hated their mistress: they spoke their minds about her. She was always having affairs with other men, even with hussars serving under him. I was told all sorts of stories: that she had a relationship with so-and-so, that all Smolensk knew, that she didn’t even mark the anniversary of her husband’s death, that sometimes she had two hussars in bed with her at the same time …’
‘Are you sure it wasn’t one of the servants who killed her?’
‘You’re going up in my estimation. I don’t think so. I’ll get to the crime soon but allow me to finish the account of the Sperzof couple. An elderly retainer, a former hussar who served under the captain, gave me to understand that the count, in despair at his wife’s behaviour, blew his brains out. His hussars covered up the deed and the following day they charged with his body, leaving it behind on the battlefield before going back to collect it with full military honours.’
‘So officially it’s the Turks who get the blame and not the sultana … What sort of men did she choose as her lovers?’
‘I didn’t go into that amount of detail but her maidservants were vying with one another to give me the sauciest snippets. The countess was particularly fond of military men, especially those with a violent streak. Incidentally, one night one of them tried to rape a chambermaid.’
Margont was at a loss. ‘Are you sure of the truth of what you were told? Perhaps one of the servants had a grudge against the countess and slandered her.’
Dalero shook his head vigorously. ‘I questioned eight servants and they all said the same thing. The countess often entertained officers and plied them with drink. Sometimes she didn’t even bother to go as far as the bedroom and the meal turned into an orgy. The countess also involved a pretty maidservant with morals as loose as hers and threw her out of the house when she became pregnant.’
‘But surely not all her lovers were military thugs, were they?’
‘Yes, they were. People who behaved normally didn’t interest her. Some tried their luck – because the countess was beautiful and wealthy – but to no avail. Only brutes. The lover she kept the longest, that’s to say three months, was a lieutenant in the dragoons called Garufski. One day he thrashed a manservant because his bathwater had gone cold. On another occasion he hit a female servant and broke two of her teeth.’
Dalero was gripping the pommel of his sabre with his white glove. He was smiling. He looked frightening.
‘I’d like to get my hands on this Garufski.’
Margont scratched the palm of his hand by stroking his day’s growth of beard.
‘Let’s get back to the murderer we’re hunting for. It’s certainly not the same man who killed our Polish woman and this countess.’
‘Well, I’m convinced of the opposite. The victim was riddled with stab wounds. I was told that the Polish woman had received the same treatment. In my opinion, such cruelty is the trademark of the person we’re after. But you’ll see that for yourself.’
The group arrived in front of a large residence whose pastel-coloured façade was black with soot. A grenadier from the Royal Guard who was guarding the entrance stood stiffly to attention. Only Dalero and Margont went inside the house.
‘How did she meet her murderer?’
‘At nightfall, she went out “hunting for a lover” – that was how the servants put it. To avoid being attacked by someone not of her choosing she was escorted by Yvan, a giant muzhik.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? I absolutely must meet him.’
‘There he is.’
Dalero pointed to a tiny room beneath the stairs. Cubbyhole would have been a better description. A man with an unkempt beard was lying on a straw mattress that took up all the space. He was so tall that his legs hung over his pallet. His cream tunic was bloodstained. He was dead.
‘Yvan was utterly devoted to the countess. He acted as her bodyguard, preventing his mistress from being harassed by men she had thrown out of her bed, and as her “emergency lover” at “slack times”. He lived below the stairs so that he would be woken by anyone going up or down.’
Margont entered the boxroom. He examined the cloak lying on the floor and found a pistol and a hunting knife in one of the pockets. Dalero gazed at the body in disgust. He regarded it in the same way as he would some hideous beast killed in a hunt.
‘So the countess went out last night with Yvan. She must have roamed around before meeting a man who suited her. All three came back here. The servant who saw them return said it was about one o’clock in the morning. The “lucky man” wished to remain anonymous
because he was wearing a cloak with a hood that he kept on, even as he went up the stairs.’
‘So he already knew he was going to kill her.’
‘The servant didn’t see the man’s face. All he can say is that he was rather tall.’
‘What about his boots, his hands, his outfit? Did he notice nothing?’
‘No. The countess was talking and laughing. He was not speaking. When the countess went upstairs with someone, no servant was allowed to follow. Yvan would be sleeping in his cubbyhole and woe betide anyone who woke him!’
‘Poor fellow. He was jealous.’
Dalero’s brow furrowed. ‘Jealous of a woman like that? Anyway … the countess often sent her lovers packing after an hour, an old habit dating from the time when her husband would return late after playing cards. The man would then go back downstairs, which would wake Yvan, who would open the door for him. Then the countess would order Yvan to change the dirty sheets …’
‘Yvan was waiting for the guest to depart, since he was dressed,’ Margont remarked. ‘There was no sign of a struggle. Without warning, the murderer thrust the blade of his knife into Yvan’s heart.’
‘Just as with the sentry.’
Margont quickly climbed the steps. When he saw the victim, the face twisted with pain and the body slashed all over, it reminded him of Maria Dorlovna in her coffin. It was the same murderer. There were two new victims and part of his theory had just collapsed.
The countess’s naked body was lying on the bed, in the middle of a large bloodstain. The wounds seemed even more numerous and horrible than on the first victim. Part of the muscles of the forearm had even been sliced through to the bone. To stifle his victim’s screams the killer had done the same as with Maria: the pillowcase had been bitten and torn and was soaked with saliva and blood. Other details seemed to have no apparent significance. The killer had laid opened oysters upon the victim’s slashed breasts. He had heaped nuts on her genitals and smeared mulberries over her face, staining it black with the crushed fruit. Lumps of fat had been left on her stomach. A book had been placed in her left hand, open at a map of Africa. The cover torn from another book with a Russian title had been placed on the left thigh while the pages lay scattered across the floor. Finally, tea leaves had been strewn around her feet.
Captain Dalero had not gone beyond the door frame. Unable to go back because of his sense of duty and unable to go in because of his revulsion, he was literally trapped between cowardice and madness.
Margont guessed what he was thinking and declared: ‘Captain, could you find a servant to translate the titles of these works?’
Dalero could then beat an honourable retreat, which he hastened to do. Margont gathered the books and picked up a few torn-out pages. He studied the bloody footmarks that led from the bed to the bowl of water standing on a table. An old man arrived a few moments later.
‘I translate,’ he declared, with a strong foreign accent.
He examined the book covers that Margont handed to him.
‘Book of maps and military book of war against Turks by Colonel Uchekin. The count liked very much.’
‘Where were they kept?’
‘Drawing room below.’
‘What about the oysters and the fat?’ ‘Kitchen or larder.’
‘Good. So no one must be allowed to go into those rooms until I’ve inspected them. No one, is that clear?’
The servant seemed relatively unperturbed at finding his mistress in such a state. Margont asked him why.
The servant shrugged. ‘Me always say she finish like that. Now she burn in hell and she enjoy that.’
‘Nobody deserves such a death.’
Margont stood there without moving for a considerable time, observing these details. All this had a meaning, of that he was sure. It was a new mystery but even more difficult to solve, given the almost unbearable sight of this mutilated body defiled by food.
When Lefine arrived, he found Margont in the corridor in the act of smelling a bunch of dahlias and assorted roses displayed on a pedestal table. Lefine prepared to enter the bedroom but Margont suddenly raised his arm.
‘I strongly advise you not to.’
Lefine obeyed. Margont asked the servant to leave and waited until he was far enough away before continuing, ‘Are you sure that your men were keeping a careful eye on our suspects?’
‘They are perfectly trustworthy. If one of our colonels had gone out during the night, they would have seen him, would have informed us immediately and would have followed him. In my opinion we’ve made a mistake: none of the four is the killer.’
Margont sighed. ‘Unless this man realised that he was being spied on. Perhaps he eventually noticed that the same soldier was often glancing at him or perhaps one of the people we’ve questioned to build up a picture of him went and told him about our investigation.’
‘But my men and I have been very careful when trying to worm things out of people to play it casual, as if we were just passing the time of day.’
‘If the person we’re after has discovered he’s being watched, he must have left his quarters in secret. Have you seen the size of the palace we’ve been billeted in? And the colonels are even better provided for. If you know you’re being spied on, nothing would be easier than to slip out of one of the many windows on the ground floor.’
Lefine was staring down at his boots like a naughty boy who’d been found out.
‘It would take a whole company to watch all the possible exits. Obviously, my men were only keeping an eye on the doors.’
‘He sneaked out and went in search of his prey, laughing at how stupid we’d feel the next day.’
‘I’m very sorry …’
Margont patted him on the arm. ‘It’s not your fault. The worst thing is that even though he knew he was being watched, he still managed to get out to commit another crime. It’s something he can’t control; he has to give himself over to this butchery. So if we don’t arrest him, he’ll strike again. And this time there’s no comparison with the considerable risks he took in murdering Élisa Lasquenet – if he really was the culprit – and Maria Dorlovna. He’s greatly improved his technique: no haste, no more escaping across the rooftops, he didn’t attract attention …’
‘Are we going to call in Jean-Quenin to examine the body?’
‘What would you expect from an examination?’
‘Well … nothing.’
‘I too would like something to cling on to, to be able to say to myself: “This is what I must do and when I’ve done it, everything will become clear.” I don’t think Jean-Quenin would be able to teach us anything and I don’t have the heart to ask him to devote two hours of his time to us when he’s rushing around tending the wounded. Fernand, my theory of the Prince Charming doesn’t stand up: this victim only liked rough soldiers.’
The killer seemed to have a very sharp mind and a talent for acting. He had quickly surmised that Maria Dorlovna wanted a man able to show tenderness and refinement … so he had become that man. And he had had no difficulty in becoming the military tough liking a good screw for Countess Sperzof. Margont was no longer looking for a Prince Charming but for a chameleon.
Dalero joined him again. Margont was surprised to see that he had shaved. He must have used his knife or a servant’s razor. He had also had his coat pressed. He seemed restored, using his image as a crutch to lean on. Without saying a word, he went into the bedroom to examine the body. Lefine forced himself to do likewise so as not to be the only one to avoid that painful experience, but he came out again almost immediately.
On his way out, Dalero said to Margont: ‘Good. I shall write a report at once about this new crime and about the progress of your investigation. The prince will have it within the hour. Take care in the fighting. Don’t expose yourself to too much danger.’
‘Why so much concern for me?’
‘Because if you get yourself killed, I’m the one the prince will appoint to replace you.’
&
nbsp; CHAPTER 21
THE man was slumped in an armchair, in one of the drawing rooms of his quarters in Smolensk. Nothing in this wonderful room could hold his attention, not the height of the ceiling – quite out of proportion – nor the furniture with its embroidered upholstery, nor the chest of drawers inlaid with panels of Chinese or Japanese lacquer … His mind was occupied by images of other things. He was recalling the feelings that had overwhelmed him while he was torturing that woman, especially when he had disfigured her face. The mutilations had rendered that body anonymous and his imagination had seen the reflection of other faces in this mirror of blood: the shy wife of one of his officers; a former lady-friend to whom he had been very close; women he had come across in the street … On the other hand, he had killed the servant on the spur of the moment because he had been frightened. That giant with arms and legs like the branches of an oak tree could have broken his neck with one swipe, like a bear. He regretted the hastiness of it. He would have liked to tie the beast to his straw mattress and cut him up bit by bit. But the exquisite taste of pleasure was mingled with a feeling of anxiety.
A few days earlier he had visited a field hospital. Oh, the wounded! He had looked at them writhing like the worms he used to cut in two as a child. The funniest thing was that people had thought it was compassion. Compassion! Seeing these anguished faces smile at him as if he were a saint had doubled his pleasure.
The following day, as he was exploring the area, he had noticed that a man he had seen the previous day near one of the wounded was riding some way off from his escort. He had assumed he was a marauder, except that he saw him later and then understood. He suspected that someone was investigating the murder of the Polish woman but he had been amazed to realise how far the investigations had progressed without unmasking him. It must be because of Maria’s private journal. What an absurd idea to write everything down in a notebook perfumed with dried rose petals! Maria had told him about it as you tell someone a secret as a mark of confidence. She had immediately added with a sway of the hips that she would never let anyone read it, not even him. As if he could be interested in such childish activities! It was only afterwards, just after killing her, that he had remembered that lieutenant who had come galloping up to them from nowhere and saluted him saying: ‘Colonel, an urgent message for you!’ The bloody fool! He had given clear instructions about who was replacing him that day! He had not told anyone where he was going so this lieutenant must have scoured the countryside to find him. The fathead! He must have seen that his colonel was in civilian dress and in the company of a lady. The lieutenant had paid heavily for his blunder. At Ostrovno he had sent him time and again to the front line carrying missives of little importance. In the end the young officer had been cut to pieces by grapeshot. And the message he was carrying said basically: ‘Beware of the enemy artillery.’
Officer's Prey (The Napoleonic Murders) Page 21