Memory of Flames (20 page)

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...’
 

THAT very evening Jean-Quenin Br
é
mond 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 by
conquistadores
 
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.’
 

ON 27 March, Paris was in turmoil. Until then Napoleon and his army had formed a barrier between the Parisians and the bad news, shielding them from the worst of it. But now that the Emperor had moved away to threaten the rear of the Allied armies, the citizens were exposed to the flow of bad tidings that accompanied the haggard streams of refugees, wounded, deserters, and soldiers that were converging on Paris from all over the country.

Margont had difficulty making his way through the crowds, skirting round chaotic groups only to find himself enmeshed in further rabble. Wagons were piling up, heaps of furniture and trunks stuffed to overflowing were falling over, adding to the uproar, and the guards of honour were getting impatient with the crowds. Those who wanted to leave were no more able to move than those who were arriving; the columns of soldiers were collecting new conscripts, known as Marie-Louises, in their wake (in 1813 the Empress Marie-Louise had signed the decrees, in the absence of her 
husband). All this humanity formed a sort of glue that stuck to the passers-by, forcing them to elbow their way through.

Somewhere near his printing works, Margont went into a packed cabaret. He had asked Lefine to meet him there and found him seated in a corner, drinking beer. He was savouring the drink as if it might be his last.

‘It’s the end of the world, our world anyway,’ he declared, putting his glass down on the table.

‘Don’t be so defeatist!’

‘No, of course not. You’re going to set me right.’

Margont drew closer and spoke into his ear. ‘Now people are beginning to realise what’s happening, their reactions are going to be unpredictable. Who knows how a panicked crowd will react if a group of determined royalists promises them the sun, the moon and the stars? Paris is becoming a powder keg and our friends are about to throw torches into its midst.’

He indicated that he and Lefine should leave. He needed air, although he was not sure he would be able to breathe any more easily outside.

‘I’ve had an idea. Follow me, you’ll understand in a minute where we’re going. But first, we’ll get our bearings.’

Margont was not normally mysterious like this, at least not with his close friends. But Lefine was not put out. He went with Margont in all confidence, without wasting time wondering where he was being taken.

Lefine gave Margont back the button found in Notre-Dame. Unfortunately the friend who worked in the commissariat had not been able to identify it and had reached the conclusion that it was not a French army button. Despite his best efforts, Lefine had been unable to find out anything new about their suspects either. Catherine de Saltonges had not left her house, and she had not received any visitors.

Margont told Lefine about his second meeting with Joseph and Talleyrand, and how he had been given a new objective, about his examination of Count Kevlokine’s body and what Jean-Quenin had discovered. He had also obtained copies of two reports from

Mathurin Jelent, which he had read and then immediately destroyed. Lefine reproached him for not observing the security precautions they had agreed on, but again Margont objected that time was pressing.

The first report had been written by Inspector Sausson for his superiors. He was making no progress with his investigation, which he found incomprehensible. Not being a man to mince his words, he had written: ‘I am almost coming to suspect that someone (why and under whose orders I cannot yet say) is hiding clues from the official and only legitimate investigators, in order to conduct a parallel investigation.’ No doubt those words had sent Joseph into a rage.

The second had been produced by the section of Joseph’s secret police that had arrested the people visiting the Gunans. It was an incomplete, censored copy. And it didn’t say who the author of the report was. All names had been omitted; some paragraphs simply fizzled out, since their endings had been scored through. Certain sentences were limping because parts of them had been amputated. This half-report revealed that so far twenty visitors had been interrogated, but that it had not been possible to tell which were genuine royalist agitators.

‘But why murder the Tsar’s envoy?’ said Lefine.

They were walking past the Botanical Gardens. Napoleon had had it transformed into a zoological park.

‘I don’t know, Fernand. I’m not even sure that Colonel Berle and Count Kevlokine were murdered by the same person. Joseph and Talleyrand were counting on the latter to help them negotiate a separate peace with the Russians. Perhaps our assassin had found that out, or guessed, and that was the motive for the murder. The extremists kill the moderates, the moderates end up killing the extremists, even though that’s what they themselves have become. Isn’t that one of the bloody lessons the Revolution taught us?’

‘But why leave the emblem of the Swords of the King?’

Margont had developed a sort of tic, a grimace. Leading investigations made him adopt the expressions of a hunting dog scenting the odour of its prey.

That’s a very good question! Either, there’s one murderer who’s sending a signal to others in the group that he’s prepared to execute them if they don’t start to take action! That would be proof that he didn’t care about being rewarded for his acts since, if the monarchy is restored, Louis XVIII will immediately imprison the man who killed the Tsar’s friend, even if that same man has done him a great service by preventing a compromise from being reached between Napoleon and Alexander I. Or else, we are looking at two murderers, and the second one is trying to pass his crime off as being committed by the first, by using the symbol and by mutilating the body with burns.’

‘In the first case, it only makes sense if the Swords of the King find out that their symbol was pinned to Count Kevlokine’s body.’

‘You’re right. But the Swords of the King know all sorts of things they don’t tell me! I was completely unaware that some of them were in contact with Kevlokine; it’s possible that the police keep them informed. Honoré de Nolant must have kept in contact with his old colleagues who’re still serving the Empire. We can’t

assume they don’t know about the symbol - they’re very well connected. If they don’t know already, they’ll find out sooner or later.’ ‘Are we sure it’s the same symbol?’

‘Yes. Mathurin Jelent told me that Joseph’s agents compared the two emblems - Monsieur Palenier removed the second one from the body, right under the nose of Sausson ... They’re identical. But we still know nothing about the symbols.’

Margont slowed down. They were almost there. ‘Or there’s a third possibility. Maybe the assassin isn’t genuinely royalist. Perhaps he’s killing for personal motives and leaving the emblem to make them look like politically motivated crimes.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘The burns. We need to probe the significance of fire for the murderer.’

‘How do you propose we do that?’

‘By coming here.’

Margont pointed out a majestic gateway with two pillars bearing a massive pediment surmounted by a rounded arch. The Salpetriere 
hospice welcomed - or more often imprisoned - the capital’s old women who could no longer fend for themselves, invalids, the handicapped, indigents, beggars, orphaned or abandoned girls, prisoners of conscience and lunatics.