Read Online The Saint-Florentin Murders by Jean-François Parot - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jean-François Parot
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mysteries it was his job to diagnose and treat.
‘May I see the wound?’
‘There is no reason why not. You will observe that the blood loss is clearly defined and that the wound is clean. If you lift the bandage a little, you can see how clean it is.’
The commissioner bent over the supine body. There was a bevelled cut across the abdomen, between the lower ribs. No comparison, he thought, with the gaping hole in the maid’s neck. The kitchen knife perfectly matched the appearance of the wound. To set his mind at rest, he asked the question. The doctor’s answer did not surprise him.
‘The kitchen knife, which is of the sharp kind, was certainly responsible for this. That’s obvious.’
‘And the young woman’s wound?’
‘It’s up to you, my dear fellow, to find the stopper that would plug up that hole!’
‘I have a specific question to ask, Doctor,’ said Nicolas. ‘Does your observation of your patient, Monsieur Missery’s, wounds point to a suicide, as some witnesses suggest?’
The doctor made a face and shook his head. ‘As always, people talk without knowing what they’re talking about. I have only onecomment to make, but it’s an important one. Would a man who intends to commit suicide strike himself on the right-hand side and risk injuring his liver and dying in terrible pain? The choice of death by a knife implies that you strike the heart, in other words on the left. Please note that I don’t have all the facts that would allow me to plump for one hypothesis over another. However, let’s imagine that someone attacked him from behind and, holding his head in a vice-like grip, struck him with a weapon held in his right hand. In the heat of such an attack, he may well have missed and struck the wrong side. The wounded man, having certainly lost a lot of blood, fainted and his attacker may well have thought he had killed him. Even if he didn’t, the desired aim might have been to stop him escaping, thus ensuring that suspicion would fall on him.’
‘Monsieur, you have clearly thought this through carefully, and what you say is very enlightening.’
Dr de Gévigland had articulated what Nicolas had already been thinking. As he had spoken, the commissioner had seen in his mind’s eye, like the images in a magic lantern on the boulevards, Marguerite Pindron on her knees at the foot of the draining board in the roasting room. Were she and the major-domo both victims of a single attacker, whose steps he had detected and followed as far as the monumental gate of the Saint-Florentin mansion? Could it be that the same person had struck twice in succession in the same place? But in that case, why were the two wounds so different and apparently caused by such dissimilar objects? And why had one of those weapons been found on the floor while the other, still of an unknown nature, appeared to be missing? Was someone trying to convince them ofa different theory? Nicolas’s mind was racing. Someone had worked hard to create a situation so clear-cut that it would be accepted completely: a man kills a woman and then commits suicide. The two pools of blood in the roasting room, so different in appearance, flashed through his mind. He pulled himself together. An autopsy on the chambermaid’s body was essential, and he expected a great deal from its conclusions. Then the refining fire of reason would clarify the various hypotheses.
‘I would be grateful, Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘if you could inform me as soon as your patient has regained consciousness. An officer will soon be here to keep an eye on him and make sure that he has no contact with anyone. For the moment, he remains our only suspect.’
‘I only hope, Commissioner, that this won’t take too much time. I’m needed back at my practice. If he regains consciousness, the wound itself will be a mere detail. A little rest, a good dressing, and everything will heal up nicely.’
Nicolas was back in the great vestibule on the ground
‘May I see the wound?’
‘There is no reason why not. You will observe that the blood loss is clearly defined and that the wound is clean. If you lift the bandage a little, you can see how clean it is.’
The commissioner bent over the supine body. There was a bevelled cut across the abdomen, between the lower ribs. No comparison, he thought, with the gaping hole in the maid’s neck. The kitchen knife perfectly matched the appearance of the wound. To set his mind at rest, he asked the question. The doctor’s answer did not surprise him.
‘The kitchen knife, which is of the sharp kind, was certainly responsible for this. That’s obvious.’
‘And the young woman’s wound?’
‘It’s up to you, my dear fellow, to find the stopper that would plug up that hole!’
‘I have a specific question to ask, Doctor,’ said Nicolas. ‘Does your observation of your patient, Monsieur Missery’s, wounds point to a suicide, as some witnesses suggest?’
The doctor made a face and shook his head. ‘As always, people talk without knowing what they’re talking about. I have only onecomment to make, but it’s an important one. Would a man who intends to commit suicide strike himself on the right-hand side and risk injuring his liver and dying in terrible pain? The choice of death by a knife implies that you strike the heart, in other words on the left. Please note that I don’t have all the facts that would allow me to plump for one hypothesis over another. However, let’s imagine that someone attacked him from behind and, holding his head in a vice-like grip, struck him with a weapon held in his right hand. In the heat of such an attack, he may well have missed and struck the wrong side. The wounded man, having certainly lost a lot of blood, fainted and his attacker may well have thought he had killed him. Even if he didn’t, the desired aim might have been to stop him escaping, thus ensuring that suspicion would fall on him.’
‘Monsieur, you have clearly thought this through carefully, and what you say is very enlightening.’
Dr de Gévigland had articulated what Nicolas had already been thinking. As he had spoken, the commissioner had seen in his mind’s eye, like the images in a magic lantern on the boulevards, Marguerite Pindron on her knees at the foot of the draining board in the roasting room. Were she and the major-domo both victims of a single attacker, whose steps he had detected and followed as far as the monumental gate of the Saint-Florentin mansion? Could it be that the same person had struck twice in succession in the same place? But in that case, why were the two wounds so different and apparently caused by such dissimilar objects? And why had one of those weapons been found on the floor while the other, still of an unknown nature, appeared to be missing? Was someone trying to convince them ofa different theory? Nicolas’s mind was racing. Someone had worked hard to create a situation so clear-cut that it would be accepted completely: a man kills a woman and then commits suicide. The two pools of blood in the roasting room, so different in appearance, flashed through his mind. He pulled himself together. An autopsy on the chambermaid’s body was essential, and he expected a great deal from its conclusions. Then the refining fire of reason would clarify the various hypotheses.
‘I would be grateful, Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘if you could inform me as soon as your patient has regained consciousness. An officer will soon be here to keep an eye on him and make sure that he has no contact with anyone. For the moment, he remains our only suspect.’
‘I only hope, Commissioner, that this won’t take too much time. I’m needed back at my practice. If he regains consciousness, the wound itself will be a mere detail. A little rest, a good dressing, and everything will heal up nicely.’
Nicolas was back in the great vestibule on the ground
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