‘Fate is so fickle … “Tsar for starters, muzhik for afters.” Still, I unconditionally accept the armistice.’

Having pushed Lefine from the throne, Margont interrupted his admonishment to admire the fine piece of carving, the back edges of which consisted of two perfectly straight tusks engraved with the family coat of arms.

‘According to a servant, these are the tusks of a narwhal,’ Lefine commented.

‘The tusks of a what?’

‘Of a narwhal, those nasty underwater creatures which have a long tusk on their head, like swordfish. They spear shipwrecked sailors.’

‘Oh, these aquatic animals don’t catch as many victims as you do. I know what a narwhal is … but a throne of narwhal tusks? Whose house are we in?’

‘A prince’s. Another one.’

Margont went to sit down in a more modest armchair.

‘I’ve got a plan for unmasking our man: we’re going to set a trap for him.’

Lefine instinctively threw his head back. ‘Ah.’

‘I’m going to send him a letter blackmailing him.’

‘But we don’t know who did it.’

‘Exactly. The idea is to send this note to the four suspects. I’ll sign it simply “C. M.”. Since the murderer knows my name he’ll decipher it as “Captain Margont”, whereas the others won’t understand a thing and will think that a note not intended for them accidentally ended up in their hands.’

Lefine gave no sign of enthusiasm. ‘Even if he’s not the murderer, one of the suspects might still turn up at the rendezvous, out of curiosity …’

‘No, because I’ll choose as the meeting place “the Moscow home of the lady of Smolensk”. I’ve made enquiries: Countess Sperzof did have a residence here.’

‘Perhaps he killed her without even knowing her name.’

‘It’s possible but unlikely because, according to the servants, the countess didn’t hide her identity from her casual lovers. In any case, the murderer stole her signet ring. I’m sure he kept it as a souvenir and a trophy. With a blazon it’s easy to find out a name and with a name you can obtain an address. Especially when your life’s at stake.’

‘If I were him I wouldn’t turn up.’

‘I’m going to claim that my spy never lost track of him in Smolensk, that he saw him in the company of “the lady of Smolensk” and that he followed him to her house. Our man won’t dare run the risk of not turning up in response to my “invitation”.’

‘He’s going to wonder why you’ve waited so long before taking action.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve already thought of an answer to that objection. It’ll be explained in the note.’

Lefine stretched out his legs. They were still aching from all those forced marches.

‘In that case, if I were him, I’d turn up and I’d kill you.’

‘That’s one of the two problems. But we won’t be on our own. We need some trustworthy people who’ll be able to keep this business secret. I’ve thought of Saber, Piquebois, Captain Dalero and our friend the Red Lancer. Five men lying in wait, plus me. If there were more than that we might be discovered.’

‘What’s the plan?’

‘Our man turns up to pay me or to shoot me. That way I finally find out who he is. I try to get him to talk about his crimes, for example by asking him why he acted in this way. If he replies, then it’s in the bag! You are witnesses to his confession and we arrest him. Prince Eugène will have to believe me when he hears my version corroborated by a captain from his own Royal Guard and a lancer from the Imperial Guard. And even if our killer doesn’t answer me, we’ll have evidence against him. He’ll have paid a handsome sum in order to—’

‘Or he’ll have killed Captain Margont before our very eyes,’ Lefine interrupted.

Margont did not react to this snippet of black humour, which in any case was no such thing. Lefine was rubbing his thighs to relieve his cramp but without success.

‘What’s the second problem?’

‘If our man doesn’t turn up. Then he’ll find out that we’ve been leading him up the garden path. But what effect will that have on our investigation? None whatsoever.’

Margont jumped up from his chair. ‘We’re going to wait a day or so before going into action. If Delarse doesn’t die of his asthma attack, as soon as he has recovered, he’ll receive an anonymous letter …’

Lefine walked off, deep in thought. If he were the murderer he wouldn’t pay up but he would definitely go to the rendezvous. Margont immediately set about writing his letter:

Sir,

I am aware of what you have done and am in a position to prove it. The reason is that the man I assigned to keep a watch on you in Smolensk has never let you out of his sight. He saw you meet up with the person I shall call ‘the lady of Smolensk’, escort her to her residence and then go inside.

I have reflected at length on what I should do. But after witnessing so many horrors in Smolensk, at the Moskva and in Moscow, I said to myself: why risk my career by attacking yours? The world clearly is not bothered about one more act of butchery. I have decided, therefore, to sell my silence: it will cost you six thousand francs, a substantial sum, but you will manage to amass it by taxing your soldiers for their booty (other officers are doing so). No precious objects. Pay me in money and jewels; they’re easier to carry. I shall meet you on the 23rd at three in the morning, in front of the house belonging to ‘the lady of Smolensk’ in Moscow. Come on your own. Your absence will prove far more costly than your presence because I shall present my report to whom it may concern.

I look forward to an outcome favourable to us both.

C. M.

Margont folded the document and thrust it into his pocket. He got up, hesitated, and finally went to sit on that throne that fascinated him so much. He adopted a nonchalant pose, one leg crossed over the other and his arms spread out on the armrests. He imagined a court of generals, counts and countesses milling around to pay homage to him. There were Cossacks from the Guard and people were moving back to let them through, fearful of their unpredictability. The Red Hussars in their gold brocade uniforms were conversing with Uhlans and Imperial Horse Guards or with Mongol-featured emissaries from far-flung provinces. The most beautiful women from Moscow and St Petersburg were gliding about discreetly, hoping to attract his attention, but he had eyes only for the young Countess Valiuska.

Margont had the impression of being invincible, triumphant even. It seemed as if his sight was sharper and his hearing more acute. But he wasn’t taken in. He knew that wine always seemed to taste better in gold goblets.

Colonel Delarse did survive his asthma attack and the two that followed. Margont contacted everyone he needed.

Fanselin was delighted to have been asked. ‘A secret assignment? That’s for me!’ he exclaimed before adding in the confidential tones of someone who knows how to keep a secret: ‘Is there a woman at the bottom of this?’ Dalero also accepted, only too happy to be involved in an event that might further his career because, in his opinion, the Russian campaign was over. He estimated, however, that there wouldn’t be enough of them so he brought along two of his grenadiers, Sergeants Fimiento and Andogio. They had broad, square shoulders and such enormous hands that one would have been enough to strangle someone with. Despite their immaculate uniforms and white gloves you could tell that if necessary they would be prepared to do a dirty job.

‘I want him alive,’ Margont ordered curtly.

He had to look up to speak to them and, with their headgear further emphasising the difference in height, it was like a David speaking to two Goliaths. But he had addressed them in such an aggressive tone that one of these giants turned to Dalero for support.

Dalero was gazing at his watch. With its white, gold-rimmed dial it looked very attractive in the white palm of his glove. Refinement seemed to suit Dalero.