Wolf Hunt (12 page)

‘Right, so you’re just going to abandon us all over again!’ retorted Relmyer.

Margont intervened, fearing that Madame Blanken was on the point of hitting Relmyer, or vice versa — their views of the world and of how the investigation should be carried out were like chalk and cheese. ‘Madame, where did you get your information?’ ‘From a friend, Oberstleutnant Mallis.’

‘May we talk to him?’

‘Why not? Just cross the Danube, ask for Infanterieregiment 59 Jordis and walk towards the enemy fire, you can’t miss him.’

‘Ah, I see ... Well, could we keep the notebook?’

‘I’ll give it to Luise on condition that she gives it back to me in a few weeks. I don’t want to lose it.’

‘And how was Lieutenant Colonel Mallis able to put together the information?’

‘At my request he consulted army records. The young people we take in have no family and no private means. When they run away to seek adventure, without any real plans, they quickly fall into poverty. So the army is often one of the only avenues open to them. Of the thirty boys I was able to trace, no less than ten had chosen the military. Eleven, in fact.’

‘Didn’t you say earlier that you were able to find only twenty-nine?’ queried Margont.

‘He’s the thirtieth,’ she replied, indicating Relmyer.

Relmyer was scarlet with rage. In a way, he was the living proof that there was no need to worry when a teenage boy disappeared; sooner or later, he would resurface. So his very presence gave the lie to his argument and this maddened him.

‘Poor M all is spent an enormous amount of time studying the lists of effective forces looking for all those names,’ explained Madame Blanken. ‘All those papers and ...’

Relmyer stormed off and Luise followed him in silence. She was frightened without knowing exactly what it was she feared.

Margont thanked Madame Blanken before going over to join Relmyer. He was hunched over the notebook, drinking in the pages.

‘Harald Tyler! He disappeared before me, in January 1803. H
^{e was}
 found dead at Austerlitz, in the Infanterieregiment 9 Czartoryski! Another one! Austerlitz is being blamed for all these disappearances!’ He skimmed the notebook faster and faster. ‘According to this notebook, five of the missing boys whose names were in army records were killed at Austerlitz. The fifth was one Karl

Fahne, of the Viennese Volunteer Chasseurs. Five deaths at Austerlitz? That’s a lot.’

‘But there were lots of Austrian casualties at Austerlitz,’ said Luise. ‘Even so, it’s an astonishingly high count,’ Margont put in. ‘It’s half of the boys who supposedly chose a military career. Yet at the Battle of Austerlitz, the Austrian army lost only about five per cent of its forces.’

Relmyer continued going through the names.

‘And here! Ferdinand Rezinski! Disappeared in July 1803 and died at the Battle of Elchingen in October 1805. And this one, Georg Knesch, disappeared in January 1807 and died in training in May 1807, in the Infanterieregiment 49 Baron Kerpen. So actually of the ten boys who were said to become soldiers, seven are dead! Including Mark, Albert and Ernst! Now I would be prepared to swear on Christ that nothing would ever induce those three to choose to go into the army.’

Then someone must have falsified the army’s records,’ concluded Margont. ‘Perhaps some of these young men did actually die at

Austerlitz. But it would be easy to add a name to a long list of deaths on the battlefield, to make a disappearance look like a casualty of war. And they were all, like Franz and Wilhelm, orphaned youngsters. I think we’re talking about the same murderer. We’re looking for someone who preys on boys, like a vulture: he thrives on dead bodies. It’s thanks to the war that he has been able to find so many victims without people noticing. He must be delighted each time a new conflict breaks out; he must want there to be continual war. Perhaps he’s one of those warmongers. I could well imagine that he might encourage war by rousing up bellicose minds, in order to satisfy his inclinations. He can then cover his tracks by burying the bodies in communal graves. Look, we won’t even be able to tell the difference between the deaths he’s responsible for and deaths incurred in the fighting.’

‘Apart from Mark, Albert and Ernst,’ insisted Relmyer.

‘If you add Franz and Wilhelm, that’s already five victims. More, in fact, because he must have struck in different orphanages to avoid drawing attention to what he was doing. One of the “Austerlitz deaths” this Karl Fahne, was from Baumen Orphanage, and the boy who died in training and the one who died at Elchingen were from Granz orphanage.’

It was far worse than Margont had imagined. It was so appalling, he could barely take it in. He had been too confident when he had let himself become involved. Now he found himself on the edge of an abyss, and the view was giving him vertigo. He needed words, reason, logic. He would have to analyse the situation all over again, in the same way that Jean-Quenin Brémond, shaken by being unable to make a diagnosis, would perform an autopsy on the body of a patient with an unknown illness.

‘Seven of the people in that notebook allegedly joined the army and died; of those seven, two disappeared in 1803, two in 1804, two in 1805 and one in 1807. But their names only appear in military records from 1805 onwards. So let’s suppose that the man responsible becomes rattled by the investigation started when Franz’s body is found in 1804. That’s why he is so determined to falsify army records after the event. The murderer easily covers up

his crimes. The only two times the bodies of his victims were found was when he was taken unawares. That happened with Franz, because once he knew that you had escaped, he could be sure that you would raise the alarm, and it happened with Wilhelm because he was spotted by a patrol. But I don’t understand why he slashed them both. Did he do the same to the others? That smile betrays him and gives us an important clue. Yet the man tries very hard to leave as few clues as possible. One might think that he can’t help himself mutilating the faces of the boys he murders, that it is beyond his control. When we understand why he does that, we will know a lot more about him.’

Relmyer stared obsessively at the notebook.

Margont continued, ‘Several people tried to arrest Franz’s executioner and to protect those who might be at risk, if he planned to kill again. But all these good intentions were thwarted by the murderer, and the police failed in their investigation. This lieutenant colonel, this Mallis, did he not think it odd to discover so many missing children killed at Austerlitz? He must have attributed it to chance, to ill luck. As for Madame Blanken, she has taken a good deal of trouble over her researches. She will certainly have concentrated her efforts on the ten orphans she could find no trace of, and since they are all alive and kicking, like you, she’s been looking in the wrong direction. That means the assassin has succeeded in fooling everyone: the police, Mallis, Madame Blanken and the rest.’

‘Not me!’ objected Relmyer.

‘Luise and you are the only ones who can prove he’s changed the records. No one else knew the young men well enough to assert with confidence that they would never become soldiers. The victims are all from different regiments, otherwise the deaths might have been noticed. So he must have falsified central army records. Otherwise the murderer would have had to have an accomplice in each of the regiments and eventually someone would have talked. Now we have a trail to follow. We need to find out who fiddled the military registers. It’s either the murderer himself or an accomplice.’

‘An accomplice ...’ repeated Relmyer.

Until then he had thought of this struggle as a duel. That was the reason he had become first obsessed, then fascinated with that type of confrontation. Now there was a possibility that the struggle was even more complicated.

Luise could not hold back her tears. They rolled down her cheeks and splashed onto the decolletage of her dress.

‘Now we know why he was so keen on orphans. Parents would never have fallen for it. They would have told that imbecile Mallis that the records were false! Then the 
Oberstleutnant
 would have demanded verification. As for Madame Blanken, she was doing all on her own work which should have been done by dozens of fathers, mothers, grandparents, uncles and aunts! There would have been so many angry relatives stirring everything up and badgering the authorities that they would never have abandoned the search. Why are we always the ones to suffer? Isn’t it enough that we have no family? Must we also put up with our solitariness attracting monsters like him?’

For the first time since they had found each other again, Relmyer expressed tenderness towards Luise. He took her in his arms, ignoring the outraged looks that people gave him. Margont envied him. He would have liked to be the one holding her. He felt that he had gone past the point of no return, that he had overstepped a limit without noticing. From now on, whatever happened, even if it took him one, two or even ten years, he would never give up on this case until it was resolved. In a way, he had become a second Relmyer.

Relmyer eventually released Luise, although she would have liked to prolong the moment.

‘Wilhelm’s murder and your return were no coincidence,’ Margont added. The war brought you back here. And also led the assassin to believe that he could strike again with minimal risk. The dead on the battlefield are still being counted ... If the man had not been surprised by a patrol, no doubt Wilhelm’s name would have appeared on the long list of Austrian victims of Essling. The murderer takes advantage of combat. Most of the disappearances take

place in periods of war, when the army is recruiting like mad and people vanishing is commonplace: men flee to avoid enlisting, or the opposite, they flee their families to join up ... Kidnappings are lost in the mass of unexplained absences. As for the police, they are overworked and disorganised when the country is invaded. That makes it easier than usual for the assassin to cover his tracks: war has become his “hunting season”. I tell you, he’s a vulture! He is probably already tracking down a new victim ...’

‘Of course, he’s going to kill again!’ cried Relmyer.

Heads turned in their direction. The conductor of the orchestra glanced over at them and some musicians played wrong notes. He turned back and conducted more enthusiastically. The music grew noticeably louder. Relmyer went to stand in the middle of the dance floor, knocking into couples and being buffeted by them.

‘It’s no use playing 
fortissimo,
 they’re all deaf!’ he yelled at the top of his voice.

The orchestra ploughed on, but the dancers fled. Furious officers marched towards Relmyer, stunned guests looked at him in horror.

‘Lukas Relmyer, the killjoy, wishes you an excellent evening!’ he bellowed. ‘Go on, dance, dance! One day you’ll be forced to open your eyes and your ears!’

He strode over to a French window, flung it open and went out. He needed air. Margont followed. The couples reformed and took up their waltz again. The stone had sunk to the bottom of the pond and its ripples had already subsided.

Relmyer walked quickly, teeth clenched, his breathing ragged. Margont was hard on his heels.

‘I understand why you’re so angry, but the priority is to find the man and arrest him. Then you can go and settle your accounts with—’

‘I can’t stand their silence any more! It’s ringing in my ears, it’s deafening, it’s killing me!’

Then something altogether amazing happened. Piquebois was leaning against a neighbouring building, looking up at the stars. When he heard Margont’s voice he turned his head. Relmyer had

never been introduced to Piquebois, yet the moment he saw Piquebois, he froze.

‘Lieutenant Piquebois?’ he asked.

‘At your service, Lieutenant Relmyer, otherwise known as “The Wasp”,’ replied Piquebois, joyfully.

Piquebois’s eyes were alight with excitement and a fanatical smile spread over his face. The two men had barely met, but already they had generated a spark of madness that engulfed them both.

‘How about a friendly duel?’ proposed Piquebois to Relmyer, who was already unsheathing his sabre, as if words were superfluous because their thoughts were in such perfect harmony.

Margont stiffened, pointing a threatening finger at the two officers. ‘I order you not to! Lukas, put your sword away!’

Relmyer took off his pelisse. ‘There’s nobody but Margont here, so we only have one second.’

Piquebois threw his coat on the ground. ‘Let’s not waste time finding another one. Since Quentin is a friend of both of us, we can count him twice.’

Margont stepped between them, which could have been dangerous, had one of them taken exception to it.

‘Lieutenant Piquebois, you will sheath your sabre immediately or I will have you arrested on the spot.’ Already Margont was raising his arm to attract the attention of a sentry, who was paying more attention to mentally undressing the beautiful Austrian girls than to his watch. Piquebois was windmilling his arms to loosen up his wrists.

Throwing us in prison will change nothing,’ insisted Relmyer. ‘We’ll just persuade our gaolers to find us arms and then we’ll entertain them with the spectacle.’

It was absurd, but true. Margont tried everything in his power to reason with them but the two lieutenants were no longer listening. ‘In the 8th Hussars, everyone’s always saying how unbeatable you are,’ said Relmyer enviously.

Piquebois was exultant. ‘They’re exaggerating. And I’ve heard that you yourself are without peer. We absolutely have to fight.’

As they talked, they were sizing each other up, flexing their

muscles and moving slowly and fluidly over to a lamp just behind the garden gate. They were engaged in a ritual of seduction and death, a dance that led gracefully to the tomb.

‘Whoever touches, wins?’ suggested Piquebois.

‘Nothing better! Since it’s purely intellectual, we should stop at first blood. In any case I don’t want to slay you. The friends of my friends are my friends ...’

‘Of course you’re not going to kill me, because once I’m finished with you, you’ll need a stretcher.’