Doctor Death (15 page)

“Emile—that must be Emile Oblonski?”

“Yes. He was the one who took care of the wolves most of the time.”

“Before he ran off with Cecile.”

“They disappeared at the same time, at least.” She looked up and her eyes shone damply in the light from the lamp. “What are you suggesting?”

“I hardly know.” I shook my head. “I have no idea how it is all connected. We will have to examine the other wolves as well, of course, and take whatever measures are necessary.” I could not bring myself to use the words “put down.” “But it is just as important that we find your Emile. He might be seriously ill.” Or dead—but I did not say that out loud. “Do you have any idea at all where we should look for him?”

“If I had, don’t you think I would have told Cecile’s family when they disappeared?”

“Yes. I am sorry.”

The abbess was not lying, I thought. Still, there was something about her answer that bothered me, though it was not until sometime later that I realized what it was: her answer
was
no answer, just a counter question. And as my old school friend Hélène, who had been raised as a good Catholic, once taught me, this is how you avoid lying when you do not want to speak the truth.

“A professor of parasitology is on his way from Heidelberg,” said my father, and invited first the Commissioner and then Inspector Marot to look in the microscope. “You can await his judgment if you wish. But there is really no doubt. The mites from the wolf are identical to the ones we found on Cecile Montaine and Father Abigore.”

My father would not admit it, but I could see that he was in pain again. It was to be expected when you considered what he had done to his healing bones in the past few days, and I had therefore carried the microscope up into the salon so as to at least spare him the stairs. Similarly, the Commissioner had presumably discreetly twisted Marot’s arm until he agreed to meet in Carmelite Street, though the official excuse was that he had come to see the mites for himself.

“What bearing does this have on the case?” asked Marot, straightening from his inspection of the slide. With an unconsciously feminine gesture, he smoothed his forelocks. They did not need it; significant amounts of macassar oil ensured that the two dark spit curls stayed exactly as they had been arranged, on either side of a neat middle parting.

“We have most likely found the source of the infection,” said my father. “The wolf in question must of course be put down and
that holds for the rest of the pack, too. Even if we do not immediately find mites in all the others, it would be too risky to let them live. Also, it would be difficult to accomplish an examination safely as long as the creatures are alive.”

Marot looked at him with an unusually expressionless face, possibly because he found my father’s priorities extremely peculiar.

“I meant the murder case,” he said. “What does all this have to do with my homicide?”

“The mites form a connection from the convent wolves to Cecile Montaine, and from her to Father Abigore,” said the Commissioner. “It could be pure chance: the wolves infected Cecile, Father Abigore then contracted the disease after sitting with her in the chapel all night—after which he was murdered for a completely different reason by person or persons unknown. But that does not explain why Cecile and the young man, Emile Oblonski, disappeared in the weeks leading up to her death. It is necessary for both the murder investigation and in order to stop the spread of disease that we find Oblonski, healthy, sick, dead, or alive, and determine where the young couple went, with whom they have been in contact, and why they acted as they did. It is also of increasing interest to determine who removed Father Abigore’s body from the scene of the accident and why it reappeared in the Pontis’ ice cellar.”

Inspector Marot was not stupid. Choleric and impatient, to be sure, and with an unfortunate tendency to jump to conclusions and go for the fast result rather than the correct one—indubitably a great failing in an investigator. Nevertheless, he did possess both a sense of logic and the ability to scrutinize things closely when he gave himself the time to do so.

“The cold,” he said. “First the chilled boxcar that was supposed to go to Paris, then an ice cellar. That suggests first of all that it
was
the murderer who stole the body and next that the cold itself was in some way a significant part of his intention.”

“To keep the body fresh?” the Commissioner suggested. “But why? It seems bizarre, and it is not otherwise a bizarre murder—a single powerful blow, like putting down a steer.”

“Perhaps it is because the cold kills the mites?” I said. “After a certain amount of time, anyway.”

For a moment, the room was still, and I cursed myself and my eagerness. Normally I did not say anything during this kind of discussion unless I was asked. I did not want to draw attention to myself for fear that they would then avoid any subjects that were not considered appropriate when ladies were present. But I was the one who had looked the wolf in the eyes and found the source. They could not claim that I had nothing to contribute!

“That is a possibility,” said my father hesitatingly. “But it would be simpler and more effective to use fire.”

“It is no small matter to burn a corpse,” objected the Commissioner. “And a fire can create unwanted attention.”

“It all assumes a kind of consideration that I think strongly contradicts the nature of the crime,” said Marot. “We are speaking of a priest, a man of the cloth. And because of the false message, we know that the murderer had full knowledge of the victim’s name and calling, and in fact used it to lure him into a trap. He is unlikely to have been killed by a conscientious God-fearing good citizen.”

“This Oblonski,” said my father, “what do we know about him?”

“He is an orphan and apparently also a bit disturbed. Barely speaks to anyone and mostly keeps to himself. He grew up in the convent and for some years has had the main responsibility of the tending of the wolves. Cecile Montaine was apparently interested in the animals, and that was how they met. It is hard to imagine what a beautiful young woman from a family like the Montaines
would see in a wretch like Oblonski, so I sincerely doubt that she went along voluntarily,” said Marot.

That entirely contradicted what both Sister Bernadette and Mother Filippa had said, and I felt obliged to say as much.

“In fact they believe that Cecile could have been the one who initiated the elopement,” I added.

“I find that very hard to believe,” said Marot. “She was engaged to a young man from one of the city’s best families, I’ve heard. Why on earth would she ruin her reputation and her future in this way? I know that young women occasionally allow themselves to be dazzled and throw all good sense to the wind, but by all accounts Oblonski was practically a half-wit and not very attractive. Not exactly love’s young dream.”

“How did the family react to her disappearance?” I asked. “Did they call the police?”

“No,” admitted Marot.

“Don’t you find that odd?”

“They must have feared a scandal.”

Avoiding scandal was certainly a significant goal in Madame Montaine’s life, as her actions in connection with her husband’s suicide attempt demonstrated. But if a family had reason to fear that their daughter had been abducted by a disturbed half-wit, would they not do everything to find her?

“To whom was she engaged?” I asked.

“Rodolphe Descartier.”

“Descartier? Of Varonne Commerce?”

“Yes.”

You could only describe that as a sensationally good match. Not only did the Descartier family stem from a branch of Varonne’s nobility, they also owned and directed Varonne’s largest bank. For the daughter of a meat extract manufacturer, this was something of a coup.

But one thing struck me.

“He did not attend the funeral, did he?”

“No,” said my father.

None of this particularly interested Inspector Marot, it seemed. He was, perhaps understandably, more concerned with Father Abigore’s murder and impatiently returned to that trail.

“These mites,” he said, and gestured in the direction of the microscope. “Are we certain that Father Abigore got them from Cecile Montaine?”

“It is the most obvious explanation,” said my father. “He was not the convent’s priest and has never been in contact with the wolves.”

“But could he have been in contact with Oblonski?”

“We cannot say for certain, but there is nothing to suggest it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I am trying to connect the pieces. Let us say that Oblonski has kidnapped Cecile. She becomes ill. Perhaps she escapes, or perhaps Oblonski has a crisis of conscience and brings her to her parents’ house. He cannot knock, of course, so he just leaves her in the snow. The family discovers her, but she is dying. They call a priest, he hears her confession and administers the last rites, and she dies. Oblonski now realizes that the priest knows of his crime and fears that he will be exposed. That is why he kills Abigore. Oblonski is strong and used to physical labor, and he would be able to use the weapon with sufficient power.”

My father opened his mouth, but Marot beat him to it.

“No, no, I know it. The brother said that she was dead when he found her. I guess we have to believe him.”

“The clinical facts support his explanation.”

“Perhaps Oblonski sent for the priest when he saw that she was dying? Can one assume he had that much decency?”

“Then Father Abigore would presumably have told the family,” said the Commissioner.

“The Seal of Confession?” Marot shook his head in frustration. “No, I know. It does not fit together. Perhaps there is no connection whatsoever between the murder and Cecile’s disappearance. Perhaps mites and illness and wolves are entirely without significance for Abigore’s death.”

“Except for one thing,” said my father.

“And that is?”

“If the body was in fact put on ice to prevent the mites from finding another host, then the murderer must have known that Abigore was infected with them.”

The look that Marot sent my father was almost tormented. He got up abruptly and walked over to the window, where he stood rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet for several minutes.

“It makes no sense,” he mumbled, “no sense at all.”

“Is there any news of Marie Mercier’s little boy?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, no,” answered Marot. “I have three policemen out taking statements from people in the area near Espérance, so that we may try to trace his movements. I am expecting a report soon.” He consulted his pocket watch. “I am afraid I have to get back to the préfecture. But this has been most interesting.”

I got up as well to see them out. When the inspector noticed that I was putting on my hat and jacket, he paused in the doorway.

“Where are you headed?” he asked. “The Commissioner and I have a coach waiting downstairs. May we escort you?”

“If it is not too much trouble,” I said. “I am going to Monsieur Montaine’s to change his dressing.”

“Ah, yes. They say it was an accident with a gun?”

“Yes. That is what they say.”

Inspector Marot nodded. He could easily read the subtext.
“Poor man. To lose a daughter in that way must certainly make life appear burdensome and meaningless. Will he survive?”

“If we avoid infection.”

“Poor man,” he repeated. He performed a sort of salute to my father, who had followed us onto the landing at the top of the stairs. “Thank you for your effort, Doctor. Although you have mostly just contributed to my confusion.”

“We should not fear confusion,” said my father with a small smile, “but rather embrace it. It leads to questions, and with a bit of luck, to answers.”

I thought about the Montaine family. About a beloved daughter who was not reported missing although she had disappeared. About a fiancé who did not appear at her funeral. About a mother who would do anything to avoid scandal. About a father who was a practicing Catholic and still in sufficient despair to commit a mortal sin by attempting to take his own life. Very well, I thought. I will embrace my confusion and ask a few questions of my own.