mouth but unable even to moo, collapsed on its side. Stiff. Dead. The man swivelled round and pricked the butcher in the arm. The effect was even more immediate and the boy fell before he understood what was happening to him. His mouth was wide open, but he was no longer breathing.
The man packed away his equipment and left. There were so many people of all types about that no one paid him any attention. He was filled with joy. He had what he wanted and the poison was even more effective than he had heard. His confidence knew no bounds. Now he could kill at a touch, like a god.
CHAPTER 13
ON 20 March Margont paid an errand boy to take a note to ‘Monsieur Lami’. The message was coded, using a method he had perfected with Lefine in the past to while away the hours of boredom in the bivouac. The note, when decoded, simply said, ‘Meet me at midday chez Marat.’
They met at the appointed hour on the outskirts of Paris, at the foot of the hill of Montmartre, ‘Mount Marat’, as it had sometimes been called during the Revolution. Lefine still mockingly used the old-fashioned appellation. Margont was delighted to see his old friend. He felt himself again.
‘Are you sure you weren’t followed here?’
‘Certain, and you?’
‘I’m certain as well. I’m expert now at complicating my route — needs must. Well, it’s happened! I’ve met them!’
He recounted the events that had led to his admission to the organisation, and what Charles de Varencourt had told him. ‘And
what about you? What have you learnt about our suspects?’
Lefine sat down and leant against a tree, in the shade. Margont followed suit. The birds were singing at the tops of their voices, as though to hurry the arrival of spring.
‘Everything I’m about to tell you comes from the police files that have been “enriched” by Charles de Varencourt’s reports. Sometimes I was able to add to the information with my own research.’ ‘Which police? There are so many ...’
‘Joseph’s personal police. They’re the ones controlling the investigation. But they’ve also used information gathered by Fouche’s police when he was Minister of Civilian Police but had also developed his own networks, and by the civilian police—’
‘What do they think of Charles de Varencourt?’
‘They think he’s trustworthy and worth listening to. He’s furnished information that the police have been able to double-check against information they already had. So they know he doesn’t feed them nonsense.’
‘Right. I’m listening.’
‘Let’s start at the top with the leader, Vicomte de Leaume. Varencourt has already told you a good deal about him. But do you know how he escaped?’
‘No, tell me!’
‘He pretended to be dead. It sounds simple when you say it like that, but when the gaolers see a prisoner is apparently dead they stab the body with a lance or bayonet. All the fakers yell immediately or writhe in pain. But Louis de Leaume didn’t move a muscle. As it was during the Terror, when there was killing and maiming left, right and centre, the guards thought he had succumbed to his injuries. He was thrown into a communal grave with the guillotined bodies of the day and the bodies of the poor wretches who had died of starvation in the streets. When night fell he pulled himself out from under the dead bodies.’
Margont could not help imagining the scene. He saw the man extricating himself from the decomposing dead bodies — his silhouette, illuminated by the pale light of the moon, looking more like a ghost than an escapee. The thought was chilling. ‘Where did the gaoler wound him?’ he asked.
‘What a question! I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘The scar would be a way of identifying him. Because where’s the proof that the real Louis de Leaume climbed out of that mass grave? Someone could have usurped his identity ...’
‘I asked myself the same thing, but the police dossier backs up that version of events. And
The man packed away his equipment and left. There were so many people of all types about that no one paid him any attention. He was filled with joy. He had what he wanted and the poison was even more effective than he had heard. His confidence knew no bounds. Now he could kill at a touch, like a god.
CHAPTER 13
ON 20 March Margont paid an errand boy to take a note to ‘Monsieur Lami’. The message was coded, using a method he had perfected with Lefine in the past to while away the hours of boredom in the bivouac. The note, when decoded, simply said, ‘Meet me at midday chez Marat.’
They met at the appointed hour on the outskirts of Paris, at the foot of the hill of Montmartre, ‘Mount Marat’, as it had sometimes been called during the Revolution. Lefine still mockingly used the old-fashioned appellation. Margont was delighted to see his old friend. He felt himself again.
‘Are you sure you weren’t followed here?’
‘Certain, and you?’
‘I’m certain as well. I’m expert now at complicating my route — needs must. Well, it’s happened! I’ve met them!’
He recounted the events that had led to his admission to the organisation, and what Charles de Varencourt had told him. ‘And
what about you? What have you learnt about our suspects?’
Lefine sat down and leant against a tree, in the shade. Margont followed suit. The birds were singing at the tops of their voices, as though to hurry the arrival of spring.
‘Everything I’m about to tell you comes from the police files that have been “enriched” by Charles de Varencourt’s reports. Sometimes I was able to add to the information with my own research.’ ‘Which police? There are so many ...’
‘Joseph’s personal police. They’re the ones controlling the investigation. But they’ve also used information gathered by Fouche’s police when he was Minister of Civilian Police but had also developed his own networks, and by the civilian police—’
‘What do they think of Charles de Varencourt?’
‘They think he’s trustworthy and worth listening to. He’s furnished information that the police have been able to double-check against information they already had. So they know he doesn’t feed them nonsense.’
‘Right. I’m listening.’
‘Let’s start at the top with the leader, Vicomte de Leaume. Varencourt has already told you a good deal about him. But do you know how he escaped?’
‘No, tell me!’
‘He pretended to be dead. It sounds simple when you say it like that, but when the gaolers see a prisoner is apparently dead they stab the body with a lance or bayonet. All the fakers yell immediately or writhe in pain. But Louis de Leaume didn’t move a muscle. As it was during the Terror, when there was killing and maiming left, right and centre, the guards thought he had succumbed to his injuries. He was thrown into a communal grave with the guillotined bodies of the day and the bodies of the poor wretches who had died of starvation in the streets. When night fell he pulled himself out from under the dead bodies.’
Margont could not help imagining the scene. He saw the man extricating himself from the decomposing dead bodies — his silhouette, illuminated by the pale light of the moon, looking more like a ghost than an escapee. The thought was chilling. ‘Where did the gaoler wound him?’ he asked.
‘What a question! I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘The scar would be a way of identifying him. Because where’s the proof that the real Louis de Leaume climbed out of that mass grave? Someone could have usurped his identity ...’
‘I asked myself the same thing, but the police dossier backs up that version of events. And
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