‘It’s true that the man’s relaxed expression does argue in favour of your hypothesis. But that’s all it is - a hypothesis; we can’t prove it. It doesn’t eliminate the second theory that I suggested, which at least explains how the man might have died. A brief intense terror would not necessarily make its mark on the man’s face, because death would be very sudden.’
‘Would you be able to do an autopsy?’
‘If the cause of death were obvious, as in the case of Colonel Berle, I would have refused, because we’re so busy dealing with the wounded every day. But this case is different. A doctor should never leave the cause of death unexplained. Otherwise, one of these days, he will miss the signs of that unexplained cause ...’ Thank you! I will undertake to get agreement from Inspector
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...’
CHAPTER 26
THAT very evening Jean-Quenin Brémond 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 byconquistadores 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!’