‘Accompanied by the officer and a dozen soldiers with bayonets, I return to the shack. At the sound of the door being broken down, the man opens his eyes. Painfully, he gets to his feet, apparently not grasping what’s happening. He staggers. It’s frightening to see him, he’s so pale and haggard. Shivers run through his body. We lead him out, but he has so much difficulty walking that we decide to take him to the fort, which is much closer than the police station. We take him into the guardhouse and I try to question him. But, seated— more like slumped—on a chair, stupid, trembling, he keeps his teeth clenched except for the occasional chatter. Nevertheless, he seems to understand. Finally, exasperated, I ask that he be kept in the guardroom, and I phone Rue Cassini. No reply. I try the police station, and they tell me about the Melun crime. That’s when I decide to come here to find you myself, and here I am!’
There was a chorus of congratulations, but Richard cut it short:
‘We must hurry. Suppose he were to escape, or someone kills him?’
‘There’s nothing to worry about. He’s well guarded.’
‘Yes, well, I’m not so sure. And I won’t be, until I’ve dragged everything he knows out of him. You should have phoned instead of coming here. All that time wasted, not to mention your little lecture. Ah, you had to have your little moment in the sun. Let’s go, and full speed ahead. Let’s hope it’s not too late.’
There was a collective sigh of relief when officer Flick opened the guardroom door wide enough to let us see the prisoner. He hadn’t escaped and appeared not to want to try. Leaning against the partition, he hardly raised his head at our arrival. I just had time to see a wan face with glazed eyes before he dropped his head into his hands again, his elbows on his knees. His whole body trembled slowly.
At that moment, a sentry handed a message to the professor, which he read with interest. Then, approaching the prisoner, hetouched him on the shoulder and said:
‘Gregor Stepanovich Kalouguine, you are accused of being an accessory to the murder of Bernard Chauvin, killed in Villemomble on the night of Thursday to Friday. Do you have anything to say in your defence?’
His tone was deliberately very solemn. The other raised his head and, seeing him, gave a long shudder. He stayed silent for a long time, even though his lips were moving convulsively.
‘I’m scared,’ he said eventually, in a low voice. And, his arms hanging down, he looked with frightened eyes at each of us, one by one.
Suddenly he stood up. He dominated all of us, even “little” Saint-Bois. And his arms, which were now extended in front of him in the form of a cross, were exceptionally long. It was his hands, most of all, that fascinated me. Enormous, but at the same time thin, with only tendons and veins standing out, and bony fingers with broad, rounded ends and nails as thick as a gorilla’s claws. Perched on top of the colossal body was a strange head which seemed somehow disembodied. It wasn’t just the paleness of complexion, or even the immensity of the eyes made larger by the violet rings under them, which gave it that character. It was the whole shape of the head, from the thickly-boned forehead to the long, slender nose, the thin lips and the pointed chin. On top was a wild mane of hair swept back over his shoulders. I stood dumbfounded before this strange man, trying to characterise him, when Maryse, next to me, whispered:
‘What do you think: Rasputin?’
That was it: the kind of man who was powerfully bestial and extraordinarily spiritual at the same time, a monstrous hybrid of animal and angel, with no room left for an ordinary human being.
The Russian was still silent. We didn’t dare move. Then Richard took a step forward, placed a finger on the man’s chest, and began:
‘Gregor...’
He got no further. Already unsteady, the other crashed to the floor where, his head in his hands, he began to sob. The professor leant over him slowly, took his wrist, and felt for a pulse.
‘I’m hungry. I’m thirsty,’ said the Russian, raising his head.
‘No,’ said the professor, ‘you’ll get nothing to eat or drink until you’ve talked. We’ll be back in an hour. Will you tell us what you know then?’
Seeing the nod of agreement, we left.
‘I’m afraid,’ explained Richard, ‘which is why I refused to allow him any food or drink. The man we’re fighting against is too strong. I don’t want him to poison my own witness before he’s delivered his secret. Until then, we give him nothing. I’m even suspicious of the water in that fountain. He can wait without risk. It’s not starvation that’ s weakening him, but fear and fatigue. If I can manage to reassure him, he’ll talk.’
It was understood that Jannin, Bob, and I would stay there (sandwiches would be sent in) to mount guard, but Richard recommended we allow Gregor to get some peaceful rest.
Thus it was that, at around three o’clock, when everybody returned, I noted that Gregor was in much better shape.
‘So,’ began the professor, ‘tell us what you know. You must. First of all, because justice will take it into account. But most of all, once you’ve done so, you will have nothing further to fear from the man in grey. He wants to kill you
