The Officer's Prey

CHAPTER 3

MARGONT wanted first of all to question the innkeeper before he too was sent off to Vieja Go-to-Hell, a village that was certainly filling up quickly these days. The gaolers had been informed of the visit and took Margont to see the prisoner, though not before carefully divesting him of his weapons.

‘Poor man.’ These were the two words that immediately came to mind on looking at Maroveski. His whole world had collapsed. He was over forty. His ginger hair was tangled and his bulging stomach and flabby cheeks contrasted sharply with his deep-set, dark-ringed eyes. Glazed with tears, they seemed to look without seeing, and it took him a few seconds to realise that someone had entered his cell.

‘Captain, I’ve done nothing wrong!’ he exclaimed, sobbing.

‘I know,’ said Margont. ‘How do you come to speak French?’

‘I took part in the Polish campaign. God bless the French for having freed us. I was a canteen-keeper. I followed your troops and sold them good bread and vodka. Mulled wine too, and well-cooked bacon.’

‘I’ll see that you get all that here.’

‘And eggs as well?’

‘Until your stomach’s full to bursting! Listen to me carefully: nobody will harm you. You’re going to stay here …’

Maroveski let out a cry that would have melted the hardest of hearts.

‘You’re not a prisoner,’ Margont added. ‘Not exactly … but you knew the murdered woman. I’m in charge of the investigation and when the culprit has been arrested you can go free, provided that you never breathe a word about this business.’

‘I swear it! I swear it by the Holy Virgin! Get me out of here, Captain! I won’t say a thing!’

‘You’re staying here for the time being!’

Even though he had no choice, Margont disliked being so hard. The grenadiers of the Royal Guard were holding their prisoner in the cellar of a commandeered farm. The place was cold and the stone walls and vaults were oozing damp. Daylight entered only through a basement window blocked by a grenadier’s boots. There was nothing to do here except engrave your sufferings on the walls. Margont found the place oppressive. It reminded him of his childhood years spent in a monastic cell: the sound of the bolt locking the door, the fading footsteps of the key-holder, the silence, the deadly boredom, the despair. If Margont had been locked away here he would have attempted every means of escape. Every single one.

‘Do you read?’

‘I never learnt.’

‘What a pity. You will have good meals here, the guards will take you for walks regularly and, as soon as possible, I’ll have you set free.’

Maroveski dared not speak. He was broken. His yellowing teeth bit nervously into his lower lip.

‘Tell me about the dead woman,’ continued Margont.

The man blanched. He could see again her bloodied body, the expression of pain on her face. That was perhaps worse than the physical mutilations she had suffered.

‘I’m not the one …’ he stuttered.

‘I know that. Calm down.’

From having been desperate, Maroveski suddenly became wary.

‘Why is a captain investigating Maria’s death? She was just a decent, simple girl.’

Margont was taken by surprise. The prince’s political explanation would have satisfied him had it not been for those few moments of hesitation.

‘They’re orders,’ he replied.

The stock answer of soldiers when they do not want to give one. Maroveski was used to dealing with the army, so did not pursue the matter. He dropped his suspicious air and looked sorrowful again.

‘Do you know who could have behaved like this?’ Margont went on.

‘It’s … Prince Charming.’

Margont stood motionless as if the slightest movement might make this first hint of a clue disappear into thin air.

‘That’s what she called him, Captain.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘Never. All this is so strange … I must tell you about Maria first. She came from a good family but her parents have been dead a long time. Maria was thirty-six. Her husband was a sergeant, killed at Wagram. Since then Maria led a respectable life!’

This last sentence was spoken with deliberation. Maroveski was searching for the right words and speaking slowly.

‘Maria didn’t have much money. She had no family left, so two years ago she came to see me. We struck a deal. She lived in my inn for free, and did the housework and cooking and made herself generally useful. She worked hard and was polite. In three years she never had anyone, you understand. Yet with all these soldiers around here there was no shortage of men, and she was pretty, was Maria. She could have got married again or … entertained men. But no. I used to say to her: “Get yourself a husband before it’s too late.” But Maria wanted the perfect man: kind, well-mannered, knowledgeable … And then just the day before she died, she came back really happy – singing, even. I teased her and said: “Well, Maria, you’re in good spirits today.” I was teasing her but she blushed and told me she might have met her “Prince Charming”. I didn’t say anything. What sort of man could have seduced Maria in a day? I’ve had plenty of sweet-talkers on my premises: wealthy merchants, educated landowners …’

‘Did she talk to you about him again? Did she say where she had met him?’

‘No.’

‘What had she gone out to do?’

‘Errands for me, seeing people …’

‘Can you give me some names?’

Maroveski shrugged. ‘Maria was friends with everyone around here.’

Margont sighed inwardly. With the start of the military campaign he would never have time to reconstruct Maria’s movements on that day and question the people she might have met.

‘Why do you think it was this “Prince Charming” who killed her?’

‘On the evening she died there were a lot of people about: soldiers and officers, all over the place. The serving girls and I were scurrying around carrying food and wine. But Maria wasn’t there. I went up to her room to tell her to come and help. When she opened the door she was wearing her pretty dress, the one she wore to church. You can’t imagine how lovely she looked. She blushed and told me her friend was coming to visit her. She begged me to let her off work until midnight. I said yes.’

Maroveski was more pitiful than ever. He was a prisoner twice over, of this cellar and of an unrequited love now stifled for ever by death. Margont moved automatically towards the door. He felt he had already spent too long in a locked room.

‘You must surely have tried to spot her guest?’

‘Yes, but there were too many people! All out to have a good time before possibly going to their deaths.’

‘Didn’t you see him climbing the stairs?’

‘People were sitting on the steps as there was no room anywhere else. And loads were also going up to the bedrooms for drinks with friends.’

‘A Prince Charming might suggest an officer,’ Margont ventured.

The innkeeper did not react. ‘There were officers everywhere: lieutenants, captains …’

‘And higher ranks than those?’

‘I don’t know. Some customers were in civilian clothes. In any case, it was raining, so many of them were wearing greatcoats or cloaks.’

Margont wondered whether the murderer had premeditated his crime. If so, how bold of him to risk being recognised by walking through this crowd, even wrapped in a greatcoat with his collar turned up. If not, what could have led him to commit such an act?

‘And what makes you think that this man really is the one we’re looking for?’

Maroveski seemed to be pulling himself together. He straightened up in his chair. For the first time he looked Margont in the eye. The captain had the impression he was using him as a crutch. The Poles were a strange people. History had been unkind to Poland, a country constantly subject to invasion. Dordenski, a Polish friend of Margont’s, summed it up with a quip: ‘In Poland we don’t erect memorials for every war or for every massacre as other countries do. That’s because there aren’t enough stones in our country.’ And despite everything, the Poles were stubbornly refusing to give in.

‘Captain, tell me first of all, what will you do with him if you arrest him?’

‘He’ll be handed over to the appropriate authorities, tried and sentenced.’

‘But it won’t be just your decision?’

Margont smiled. ‘That’s for sure. I’m only a captain. But the person who appointed me to this task is just as eager as I am for—’

‘First he wants to know who it is. And if it’s someone wealthy and powerful or important to your army? If you discover it’s someone who’s beyond the reach of justice, what will you do?’

‘No one is beyond the reach of justice.’

‘If you really think that then I understand why you were picked for the investigation. It makes it easier for them to manipulate you.’

Margont was disconcerted. There was too much truth in this assertion.

Maroveski hesitated, then decided to continue. When he recalled the panic caused by the firing and the fear of a Russian attack, he shook his head.

‘I was sure it wasn’t the Russians. I was afraid for Maria. I tried to get to the staircase but people were pushing me towards the exit. When I did manage to get to her bedroom door, I banged on it and called out to her but she didn’t reply. Captain, the door hadn’t been forced and it was locked from the inside. She’d opened the door to the man who did it. So it must have been him …’ His fists were now clenched. ‘So I forced the door open with my shoulder. It was stupid of me because he might have still been there and killed me as well. I saw Maria stretched out on the bed, and she … she had …’

Margont gave him a few moments to recover before putting his question.

‘I know that my enquiries are painful but they are vital for my investigation. Do you remember anything in particular, was there some detail that struck you?’

‘There was blood all over her. Her face was disfigured. I looked at her only for a moment. I couldn’t stand it.’

Maroveski’s expression was blank. Once more he was in a state of complete mental disarray.

‘Oh, yes,’ he added eventually. ‘Everything was very neat and tidy. She’d made her bedroom nice to welcome him.’