The first is that the Cunans woke up this morning and found that Monsieur Kevlokine had been murdered by someone who had broken into their house during the night. They then took fright, and feared they would be accused of the crime or arrested by the police for consorting with an enemy agent. They fled in disarray, taking their housekeeper and a servant who both lived with them. My second theory is that for some reason I don’t know they were the ones who killed Count Kevlokine. Whatever the case, they are no longer here and nor are their two servants. Some personal belongings are missing: clothes, combs, jewellery, little things the couple were fond of... If you would like to follow me ...’
He led Margont into a large bedroom of unbelievable luxury with paintings in massive golden frames, marquetry furniture, Sevres or Dresden porcelain, and Persian carpets. The count’s body lay near the fireplace, not far from a four-poster bed. He looked about forty-five and had been gagged. He was very fat with reddened cheeks that contrasted with the pallor of his skin. His hair was so grey it was almost luminous. The man’s appearance corresponded closely to Talleyrand’s description of Count Kevlokine. In the heavenly setting, with its gold and other bright colours, his burnt arms formed two horrifying lines of red and black. His hands had been bound with one of the curtain ties, which had in its turn been burnt. He was wearing a nightshirt, a long, white quilted goose-down housecoat and breeches - normally the outfit of a man first thing in the morning, but also used to sleep in by men who worked all the time. It was comfortable enough for sleep, but allowed one to leap out of bed if awoken suddenly in the night, all ready for work without having to get dressed. His feet were bare. Margont went over to get a closer look at Kevlokine’s face. Unlike Colonel Berle’s, it was unscathed. Margont turned round and saw that Sausson was watching him attentively, trying to work out what he was thinking from his gestures.
They forgot to give me the order to close his eyes,’ said the policeman sardonically.
Without asking him to leave, Margont went on with his investigation. The badge of the Swords of the King was pinned to the
count’s nightshirt, on his chest, like a decoration. It was exactly the same as the symbol that Margont had noticed on Colonel Berle. The count’s serene face contrasted with the state of his arms, devoured by fire. Margont could not, however, see any mortal wound.
A brouhaha broke out in the street - there were cries and exclamations. Margont recognised one of the voices and hurried over to the window, completely forgetting he was supposed to keep himself hidden. Jean-Quenin Brémond and the policeman who had gone to find him were surrounded by four men. Jean-Quenin was showering them with invective. Although extremely kind to his patients, colleagues and friends, he was often impatient with everyone else. His guide had been obliged to raise his voice to explain to him that he was from the civilian police. At that point several people who had been lying in wait surged out of the adjacent little streets to come and surround them.
‘Imbeciles! What’re those political oafs getting involved for?’ Sausson cursed. ‘And that other idiot, who came in the front instead of using the back door as usual!’
He opened the window with such force that a pane smashed on the hook for the curtain tie - but it looked as if the glass had been shattered solely by the force of the policeman’s fury.
‘Let them through!’ he yelled.
The assailants scattered like cockroaches surprised by a light. The next instant there was not a sign of them. But Jean-Quenin continued to shout insults: they were cads, louts, yet again they were treating the Health Service disrespectfully, they were lucky he was in a hurry, the Minister of Civilian Police would certainly be hearing all about this ... When they vanished inside the house, he could still be heard uttering imprecations. Sausson forestalled Margont’s question.
‘They’re policemen like me, but we’re not from the same force. Oh, no! I take care of criminal investigations, they look after political matters and I’ve no idea where you fit in ... They work for Joseph I, I work for the people of Paris, and that’s not the same thing at all. This one murder has set off a triple investigation. And
to think that when a washerwoman is stabbed, my superiors complain I spend too much time looking for the culprit! All those fellows arrived with Monsieur Palenier. And all because I mentioned the name Kevlokine. They’re grabbing everyone who tries to come in to the Gunans’ house. But there are so many visitors that by the end of the day they will have arrested the whole of Paris.’
‘Very clever. The real royalists will be lost in the crowd; it will be hard to separate them out. Every one of them must have taken care to concoct his cover.’
Jean-Quenin arrived in a fury, scarlet-faced, his case in hand, his uniform hidden under a light-coloured overcoat. He opened his mouth to speak but his friend gestured that he should stay silent. This is Inspector Sausson, and he must not know anything about me,’ Margont explained. ‘Perhaps he will leave us ...’
He would pay for saying that. Sausson tensed. His lips folded and disappeared with the words he swallowed down. He turned abruptly and left the room, banging the door.
Jean-Quenin stared at the victim. ‘What wasps’ nest have you stirred up now, Quentin?’ His weary, despairing expression spoke volumes.
‘Could you examine the body, please, Jean-Quenin? I won’t tell you anything about it so as not to influence you.’
As the medical officer did so, Margont went over to the fireplace. Here the smell of charred flesh was almost unbearable. Crease spots stained the stones of the hearth and there were shreds of burnt clothing. The count must have fallen asleep while the fire was still burning. Had the murderer killed him as he slept and then dragged the body over to the hearth?
Jean-Quenin undressed the corpse.
‘I don’t understand this. Here again the man was burnt after having been killed. But I can’t see how he was killed! It’s the first time I’ve come across a crime like this. Perhaps he was poisoned ... by a slow-acting poison, which he swallowed at dinner, or drank in a tisane before going to sleep, and which took effect while he slept. But that doesn’t really make sense ... That would mean that the poisoner would have had to come in at least twice: once to pour
out the poison, then to mutilate the body, and he would have had to hide himself for hours in the house. As you know, I’m interested in criminal cases and I owe my interest to you. I can tell you that, very often, murderers who use poison choose it so that they don’t have to touch their victims, because they find them repulsive!’
Margont was puzzled. ‘Can we really be certain that this man was murdered by the same person as Colonel Berle?’ he wondered. ‘Now I think so, now I think not ... There are manifest similarities between the murders, but also differences.’
‘Wait, I mentioned poison, but let’s not be too hasty! It’s only a theory, because that’s the only weapon I know that can kill a man whilst leaving the body apparently unscathed. But it’s also possible that this person was awoken by a noise, that he noticed an intruder in his room, and that his heart, weakened by age and excess, was not strong enough to withstand the sudden shock. Or perhaps his heart gave out with the pain of the first burns, but the murderer went on inflicting them.’ ‘But the expression on his face is tranquil - doesn’t that mean that he was also mutilated after being killed, like Berle? Perhaps he was even killed as he slept; he seems so peaceful with his eyes closed. Then the murderer could have gagged him and bound his hands, to make it look as if the burns were inflicted before death.’