Black Widow

Глория Голд

Black Widow

Chapter 1. Rain and Cigarette Smoke

Commissioner Henri DuPont stood by the window of his office in the Criminal Police on the Quai des Orfèvres and watched the rain lashing the Seine. Not the light, romantic kind pictured on Parisian postcards, but a cold, autumnal, Nordic downpour that forced passers-by to huddle in their coats and hurry for cover.

Today, the Sophie Legrand case had resurfaced.

"The Black Widow" – that's what the newspapers had already christened her, reveling in the death of her third husband, François Sarkozy. Officially – a suicide after a major gambling loss at the races. Unofficially – an astonishing sequence: three wealthy husbands, three tragic deaths, three inheritances. Too neat a chain for mere coincidence.

The case had been closed due to pressure from above; there was a lack of evidence. But the old Comte de Laroche, the last deceased's uncle, who had come to the station with a cane and tears in his eyes, would not let DuPont's conscience rest. His conscience – the last thing not yet archived in this building.

Henri reached for a stack of papers. His gaze fell on the pocket watch lying on the desk. It had belonged to his father and had stopped on the day he died, many years ago. 21:34. An eternal reminder that not all mysteries are solved, and not all justice triumphs. He slipped the watch into his waistcoat pocket, feeling the familiar cold of the metal.

He did not summon her to the station. Instead, he booked a room at the Ritz. The arena had to be neutral, yet comfortable for the prey. So she would relax. So she would make a mistake.

The taxi braked sharply at the hotel, jolting Sophie Legrand out of her thoughts. The driver muttered something under his breath about eternal traffic jams. She did not wait for him to get out and open her door. Slamming the door loudly, she strode with a light, almost dancing gait towards the main entrance, leaving behind the irritated driver and all that dreary weather. Her appearance was like a flash of light in the grey Parisian gloom.

The doorman, an elderly man with impeccable manners, swung the heavy door open for her, and his stony face was momentarily illuminated by respectful admiration. Sophie gifted him a dazzling, practiced-to-automatic smile and slipped inside. The warm air of the lobby, saturated with the scents of expensive perfumes and flowers, enveloped her. Without slowing her pace, she headed for the reception desk, her haute couture red dress leaving a trace in space like a comet's tail.

"Bonjour, I have a meeting with Monsieur Henri DuPont," she said in her low, enchanting voice.

The receptionist, a young man with perfectly styled hair, was momentarily flustered under her gaze.

"Monsieur DuPont is already waiting for you in room 313,Mademoiselle Legrand."

Sophie nodded and turned towards the elevator. In its polished brass, she caught her reflection. A tall, slender brunette, in whose eyes a whole history swirled. Sometimes it seemed to her that she was looking at another woman – the one who lived behind an impenetrable mask.

Approaching the door of room 313, she froze for a second, feeling a lump in her throat from sudden nervous tension. Then, straightening her back, she knocked firmly three times.

The door swung open, and a tall, dark-haired man appeared on the threshold. He was not as she had imagined. There was no officialdom or deliberate staidness about him. His dark brown suit fit him impeccably, the light pink shirt emphasized his tan, and in the gaze of his dark brown eyes was a cold, scanning clarity.

"Danger," the inner voice instantly signaled in her head.

"Monsieur DuPont, I presume?" Sophie made her voice sound languid and relaxed.

"Commissioner DuPont,"he corrected her softly but firmly. "Please, come in."

He gestured for her to enter. The room was luxurious, but the impersonality of an expensive hotel hung in the air. Sophie entered and gracefully sank into a low leather armchair, demonstratively adopting a pose that advantageously emphasized the line of her legs.

DuPont walked to the window and swung it open. A fresh breeze burst into the room, carrying with it the distant hum of Parisian streets and the smell of wet asphalt. Then he turned to her, and his appraising gaze slid over her from head to toe. Sophie's breath caught for a moment. She felt defenseless, almost naked under that hard, soul-penetrating gaze.

"I invited you here to ask a few questions about the death of your third husband," he began without further preamble, sitting down in the armchair opposite. His posture was calm, but the energy emanating from him was as tense as a bowstring.

Sophie leaned back in her chair, gracefully crossing her legs.

"According to my testimony,I was at the country estate that night. And, as you must know, that can be confirmed by fifty witnesses."

"Fifty witnesses from high society," DuPont said skeptically, pursing his lips. "An amazingly close-knit community."

"Isn't the investigation officially closed?" she asked with a naive look that wouldn't fool a child.

"Formally – yes," Henri replied, feeling his irritation grow. This woman was playing with him like a cat with a mouse. "But there are nuances. And there are persistent relatives."

Sophie smiled condescendingly. Then she took a pack of thin ladies' cigarettes from her purse. Holding the cigarette with her long, gloved fingers, she looked at him questioningly. He accepted the challenge.

Henri leisurely took a stylish silver lighter from his pocket. He lit it with a confident motion. Sophie slowly leaned forward, placed her left hand on his wrist – a light, almost weightless touch, but it sent shivers down his skin. She stared intently into his eyes, taking a deep drag.

Usually, this technique worked flawlessly. But Henri merely withdrew his hand and returned to his seat, maintaining an impassive expression. He saw a flicker of bewilderment in her eyes before she settled deeper into the armchair.

"No, mademoiselle, that number won't work with me," he thought with satisfaction.

He took out a cigar, unhurriedly clipped the end, lit it. The cigar smoke mixed with the smoke of her cigarette – two wars, two tactics. Then he walked to the bar, giving her time to realize her first failure.

"What will you drink?" he asked, half-turning.

"A dry martini,"she replied without hesitation.

He poured the drink into glasses and was about to approach, but Sophie was ahead of him. She briskly jumped up and was beside him in a few seconds. This caught him off guard. He silently handed her the glass.

"What shall we drink to? To our acquaintance? Then we should do it as confidants," she said with her most charming smile.

Henri smirked.

"Mademoiselle Legrand,you apparently do not realize the seriousness of your situation. The relatives of the deceased consider you guilty."

"But I have an ironclad alibi, the case is closed. Soon I will inherit. And you, as I understand it, have no evidence," Sophie said mockingly and, bringing the glass to her sensual lips, took a large sip.

Henri watched her with interest. She was playing the role of a frivolous Parisienne, but in her eyes, he read a sharp, calculating mind. She was irresistible, and he had to make an effort not to succumb to her charms.

Sophie walked over to the open window and, leaning her elbows on the windowsill, looked out. Henri's gaze slipped over her slender legs. As if sensing this, Sophie instantly threw a quick glance over her shoulder from under her lush eyelashes.

"Tell me, Mademoiselle Legrand," he began, changing tactics, "why did you divorce your first husband, the Comte de Saint-Simon?"

The expression on Sophie's face changed instantly. The mask of frivolity fell away, revealing something real, vulnerable, and fierce.

"Don't you dare say that name in my presence!"she exclaimed.

Henri knew the reason for the breakup from the society columns but did not expect such a fierce reaction. And certainly did not expect large, genuine tears to roll down her cheeks. Her shoulders trembled, her weakened fingers unclenched, and the glass, slipping out, shattered on the floor, splashing martini.

Henri jumped up and rushed to her. Now she seemed completely lost, a little girl. He put his arm around her shoulders, feeling her whole body tremble, led her to the couch, and sat her down. The girl buried her face in his shoulder. He stroked her soft, silky hair, inhaling the scent of expensive perfume, and thought: "The greatest actress or…"

Having calmed down a little, Sophie pulled away and looked up at him with her beautiful, tear-filled eyes. And suddenly, Henri saw before him simply a beautiful, unhappy woman in need of protection. He couldn't resist – his lips themselves reached for her cheek to dry the tears. It was an impulse, foolishness, a violation of all the rules.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, and her lips pressed against his in a passionate, burning kiss. Henri lost control. His mind screamed of danger, but his body wouldn't listen. He covered her face, neck, and hands with tender but scorching kisses.

"It's a trap," a voice of reason sounded somewhere far away. But it was too late.

Chapter 2. Scars and the Shadow of the Sanatorium

An hour had passed, maybe more. The room was filled with saturated air – a mixture of cigar smoke, expensive perfume, sweat, and passion. Henri lay on the couch, watching Sophie approach the window. Her naked body in the rays of the setting sun seemed carved from marble.

She took his lighter and her pack of cigarettes from the table. The click sounded deafeningly loud in the silence of the room.

"Comte Saint-Simon was thirty-five years older than me," she began quietly, without turning around. "And he had very… perverted inclinations. When my parents found out how he had treated me during the two years of our marriage, a scandal broke out."

Henri was silent, afraid to scare off this moment of revelation.

"But thanks to his connections and fortune, he bought his way out, writing a six-figure check. The incident was settled," bitter irony sounded in her voice.

"As far as I know,the Count died under mysterious circumstances during a fire in his Paris apartment about five years ago," Henri remarked cautiously.

Sophie smiled bitterly, put out her cigarette, and walked over to him. Her movements were smooth, like a dancer's. Placing her left foot on the edge of the couch, she slowly, with almost theatrical grace, rolled down her stocking.

Henri froze. On her slender ankle were deep, old scars, resembling marks from ropes or chains.

Then she removed her left glove. On the inside of her wrist was a burned brand – an ugly lily with a small crown, the family crest of the Saint-Simons.

Henri felt the blood drain from his face. He gently took her hand and touched his lips to the mark of the brand, trying to ease, if only for a moment, the pain that remained in her memory.

Touched by his tenderness, Sophie smiled – for the first time that evening, her smile seemed genuine. She extended her right hand. Henri removed the glove and saw deep scars on her wrist, similar to marks from handcuffs. He was shocked.

When Sophie removed the stocking from her right foot, he saw a small, elegant tattoo of a dragonfly. On the insect's wings was written in Latin: "Remember."

"The Count forced me to get it a month after the wedding. I didn't understand its true meaning then," Sophie whispered.

His heart constricted with pain and fury. At that moment, she was not the Black Widow to him. She was a victim, broken by cruelty…

A few hours later, Henri stood at the bar, pouring himself a whiskey. Sophie came out of the bathroom, already dressed in her red dress. She had become that same Sophie Legrand again – confident, dazzling, unattainable. Only a shadow in her eyes betrayed the moments of weakness she had experienced.

She lightly sat on his lap, kissed him on the cheek.

"Well,Commissioner, if there are no more questions, I think I'll be going."

"Allow me to ask you a few more questions," Henri said seriously, without a trace of a smile.

His tone made her freeze. The mask of coquetry instantly fell away. She abruptly rose from his lap and moved to the window, which had turned into a black mirror overnight.

"Your second husband, the Englishman, tragically died in a car accident?" his voice sounded cold and official.

"Yes,"her voice became even, impassive. "Two years and three months after the wedding. On a mountain road in Switzerland."

"According to the will,you became the sole heir to his fortune," Henri continued, taking a sip of whiskey.

"He had a hotel business in Scotland.Nothing special, believe me," Sophie said, curling her lip contemptuously.

"Then why did you decide to get rid of him?"Henri asked unexpectedly, setting his glass on the bar with a dull thud.

The silence in the room became ringing. Sophie turned from the window. The expression on her face had changed beyond recognition. The childlike naivety had disappeared without a trace, giving way to cold, calculating cruelty.

"He simply bored me," she whispered quietly with a strange, almost insane smile. "I bribed the mechanic. He cut the brake hose."

The confession hung in the air, heavy and irreversible. Henri had not expected it so soon, but years of experience helped him maintain his composure.

"And how did you arrange the fire in your first husband's apartment?"

Sophie chuckled,and there was nothing human in that sound.

"I bribed his maid.She gave him a sleeping pill. And given the Count's habit of smoking in bed… the outcome was predictable."

"And what happened to your last husband?"Henri asked, trying to speak calmly.

Sophie's face twisted with hatred.

"I shot him myself and staged the suicide."

She fell silent, and her eyes flashed with the realization of what she had just done. Her gaze fell on her clutch lying on the chair.

"And now I have to kill you too, Commissioner. I can't let anyone know what you know."

Sophie rushed for the purse, but a shot rang out. It sounded deafeningly loud in the confined space of the room. She pressed her hand to her chest in surprise, a dark, scarlet stain began to spread on the red dress. Henri was ready for this – his gun was already in his hand.

Sophie slowly sank down by the wall, looking Henri straight in the eyes. There was no fear or hatred in them – only an empty, icy surprise.

The door to the room burst open with a crash, and police officers rushed in. Henri watched indifferently, unable to tear his gaze away from the dying woman. He saw the life leaving her. Finally, her body shuddered in a final convulsion, and her gaze became glassy and motionless.

Henri slowly stood up, his hands trembling. He silently handed the recorder to one of his colleagues and, without looking back, left the room.

Chapter 3. The Rule of Four and the Shadows of the Past

The case was closed. A confession, recorded on tape, and a subsequent attempt to attack a police officer left no questions. But nothing was closed in Henri DuPont's soul. The image of Sophie – sometimes vulnerable, sometimes monstrous – haunted him. Her confession had been too quick, too theatrical. Like the final act of a play where the actress, leaving the stage, throws a challenge to the audience.

He sat in his office, sifting through the evidence. His gaze fell on a word in the protocol, spoken by her: "Remember." The very inscription on the dragonfly tattoo. And then it hit him. He took out a notepad and began feverishly writing out letters. "Remember"… "Vengeance"… The names of her husbands… Nothing worked.

Suddenly the phone rang. It was the old archivist he had once worked with.

"DuPont,you asked me to look into the old arson cases? Regarding that Saint-Simon case… There are discrepancies. Not in the protocols, but in the old fire department reports. And… there's one detail. The only surviving maid who testified was found drowned in the Seine a month after the case. And the only witness in the Swiss car accident case soon ended up in the private Sainte-Anne sanatorium near Paris."

Sanatorium. That word echoed in him. He remembered a strange story he had once read about a sanatorium on a remote island. His Paris was beginning to resemble that very island – isolated, full of secrets.

The road to the Sainte-Anne sanatorium wound like a grey ribbon. The building itself appeared unexpectedly – a massive structure of dark stone, more like an abandoned fortress. The high wrought-iron gates were crowned with a sign vaguely resembling an inverted cross.

The lobby greeted him with an oppressive silence. The air was thick, smelling of disinfectant, old age, and something sweetish and nauseating. The chief physician, Dr. Moreau, turned out to be a man with a mask-like face and overly smooth manners.

"Monsieur Leroy?" Dr. Moreau shook his head, looking through the records. "Unfortunately, he can no longer testify. His condition… deteriorated sharply after a course of experimental therapy."

"Experimental therapy?" Henri clarified, feeling shivers run down his spine.

"We are at the forefront of science,Commissioner. Sometimes, for the patient's own good, one must take risks," the doctor's smile did not reach his cold eyes. "With the relatives' consent, of course."

Henri insisted on meeting Leroy. He was taken to a room where an almost lifeless man lay on a bed. His eyes were open, but his gaze was empty. When Henri tried to ask a question, the patient's lips trembled and whispered a single word:

"The Rule…of Four…"

Henri recoiled. This phrase from some old, forgotten case had been haunting him. What could it mean here? He felt the ground slipping from under his feet. He was no longer just an investigator. He had become a player in a game whose rules he did not understand.

That same night, he had a nightmare. He was back in hotel room 313, but the door did not lead to the hotel corridor; it opened into a long, endless corridor of the sanatorium, where the shadows of patients whispered after him. He ran until he stumbled upon Sophie. She stood by the window in a white hospital gown.

"You are one of us, Henri," she said, and her voice was an echo. "Otherwise, why do you seek out those who cause pain? You are simply seeking your own reflection."

He woke up in a cold sweat. The line between the investigator and the one he was hunting had blurred. He understood that the Sophie Legrand case was just the tip of the iceberg. There was a system. A network. And to find the truth, he might have to descend into the very heart of this darkness. He walked up to the mirror and looked at his reflection for a long time. At the haggard face with a feverish gleam in its eyes.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

Somewhere in the city, in his office behind a stack of papers, Dr. Moreau was stamping a new medical record. And in a luxurious mansion on Avenue Foch, the old Comte de Laroche, the uncle of Sophie's third husband, was receiving a report. On his desk lay a photograph of Henri DuPont. He smiled. The game was just beginning. And the commissioner, unknowingly, was already at its very center.

Chapter 4. Blood on the Parquet of Memories

Henri DuPont left the Sainte-Anne sanatorium, and the rain, which had not ceased all these days, hit his face as if trying to wash off the sticky dust of madness clinging to his skin. The words "The Rule of Four" rang in his ears like an obsessive, insane tune. He got into his car, an old Citroën, and sat for several minutes, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, trying to regain a sense of reality.

He started the engine and drove not to the station, but to the Seine embankment, to the place where his parents had crashed many years ago. He often came here when he needed to think. Here, time slowed down, and the ghosts of the past spoke to him more clearly.

November 1985, Marseille. Eight-year-old Henri sits at the kitchen table, drawing a sailing ship with a pencil on an old newspaper. Outside, the same rain is pouring. A key clicks in the lock, but on the threshold are two strangers in uniform. "Parents… Car accident… Drunk truck driver…"

"Who did this?"the boy asks, and his voice is firm. At the funeral, he throws a drawn boat into his father's grave. "I will find him. I will find all who hurt people."

Henri exhaled, unclenching his fingers. Always return to the beginning. That was his rule. Sophie Legrand did not begin with the first murdered husband. She began in childhood.

He took out a notepad and began to write, connecting all the threads.

Sophie Legrand, née… No, not like that. A girl in a golden cage.

December 1985, Paris. Seven-year-old Sophie, trembling with fatigue, stands in the ballroom of the Legrand mansion. "Straighten your shoulders! The Legrands have no right to slouch!" – the voice of the etiquette teacher grates on the ears. Her mother's cold fingers, studded with diamonds, dig into her shoulder. "Your fatigue interests no one. The Comte de Saint-Simon will arrive in an hour. He must see the ideal."

In the evening,the fifty-year-old count squeezes her chin with his cold, damp fingers. "A fine specimen. Will be a worthy addition to my collection."

At night,she is locked in a room without light for eavesdropping on her parents' conversation with the count. "She will be yours in ten years… My estates are worth twenty million…"

Pressing her forehead against the cold glass,she watches the falling snow. "I hate them all." Her fingers clutch a porcelain doll – a gift from her mother. The porcelain cracks with a crunch, shards digging into her palm. Drops of blood fall on the doll's white dress. "I will never be anyone's property."

Two tragedies. Two children whose worlds collapsed in the same year. Henri, left with nothing, and Sophie, who became a bargaining chip. He chose the path of protection; she chose the path of destruction. Or self-defense?

He looked again at the words "The Rule of Four." What if it wasn't a code? What if it was a diagnosis? A description of a system? Four men? But there were three. Unless…

Henri flung the car door open and vomited right onto the wet asphalt. From the thought that had entered his head. He remembered her passionate embrace, her trusting tears, her story about the cruel count. He remembered how she took off her gloves and stockings, showing the scars. She had played on his greatest weakness – on his unhealed wound, on his mission to save.

What if the Comte de Saint-Simon was not the first? What if her father, Pierre Legrand, who had sold her like a thing, was the zero victim? A victim she couldn't kill physically but destroyed morally, becoming the monster he wanted her to be?

The Rule of Four: Father. Count. Englishman. Sarkozy.

Four. And he, Henri DuPont, was supposed to be the fifth. Part of the system. A new rule.

He started the car and drove to the archive. He needed old newspapers, society columns. He needed to find Pierre Legrand.