Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 10

  Monsieur Stangerson intervened:

  “What you say was impossible. I do not believe either in the guilt or in the connivance of my concierges, though I cannot understand what they were doing in the park at that late hour of the night. I say it was impossible, because Madame Bernier held the lamp and did not move from the threshold of the room; because I, as soon as the door was forced open, threw myself on my knees beside my daughter, and no one could have left or entered the room by the door, without passing over her body and forcing his way by me! Daddy Jacques and the concierge had but to cast a glance round the chamber and under the bed, as I had done on entering, to see that there was nobody in it but my daughter lying on the floor.”

  “What do you think, Monsieur Darzac?” asked the magistrate.

  Monsieur Darzac replied that he had no opinion to express. Monsieur Dax, the Chief of the Surete who, so far, had been listening and examining the room, at length deigned to open his lips:

  “While search is being made for the criminal, we had better try to find out the motive for the crime; that will advance us a little,” he said. Turning towards Monsieur Stangerson, he continued, in the even, intelligent tone indicative of a strong character, “I understand that Mademoiselle was shortly to have been married?”

  The professor looked sadly at Monsieur Robert Darzac.

  “To my friend here, whom I should have been happy to call my son — to Monsieur Robert Darzac.”

  “Mademoiselle Stangerson is much better and is rapidly recovering from her wounds. The marriage is simply delayed, is it not, Monsieur?” insisted the Chief of the Surete.

  “I hope so.

  “What! Is there any doubt about that?”

  Monsieur Stangerson did not answer. Monsieur Robert Darzac seemed agitated. I saw that his hand trembled as it fingered his watchchain. Monsieur Dax coughed, as did Monsieur de Marquet. Both were evidently embarrassed.

  “You understand, Monsieur Stangerson,” he said, “that in an affair so perplexing as this, we cannot neglect anything; we must know all, even the smallest and seemingly most futile thing concerning the victim — information apparently the most insignificant. Why do you doubt that this marriage will take place? You expressed a hope; but the hope implies a doubt. Why do you doubt?”

  Monsieur Stangerson made a visible effort to recover himself.

  “Yes, Monsieur,” he said at length, “you are right. It will be best that you should know something which, if I concealed it, might appear to be of importance; Monsieur Darzac agrees with me in this.”

  Monsieur Darzac, whose pallor at that moment seemed to me to be altogether abnormal, made a sign of assent. I gathered he was unable to speak.

  “I want you to know then,” continued Monsieur Stangerson, “that my daughter has sworn never to leave me, and adheres firmly to her oath, in spite of all my prayers and all that I have argued to induce her to marry. We have known Monsieur Robert Darzac many years. He loves my child; and I believed that she loved him; because she only recently consented to this marriage which I desire with all my heart. I am an old man, Monsieur, and it was a happy hour to me when I knew that, after I had gone, she would have at her side, one who loved her and who would help her in continuing our common labours. I love and esteem Monsieur Darzac both for his greatness of heart and for his devotion to science. But, two days before the tragedy, for I know not what reason, my daughter declared to me that she would never marry Monsieur Darzac.”

  A dead silence followed Monsieur Stangerson’s words. It was a moment fraught with suspense.

  “Did Mademoiselle give you any explanation, — did she tell you what her motive was?” asked Monsieur Dax.

  “She told me she was too old to marry — that she had waited too long. She said she had given much thought to the matter and while she had a great esteem, even affection, for Monsieur Darzac, she felt it would be better if things remained as they were. She would be happy, she said, to see the relations between ourselves and Monsieur Darzac become closer, but only on the understanding that there would be no more talk of marriage.”

  “That is very strange!” muttered Monsieur Dax.

  “Strange!” repeated Monsieur de Marquet.

  “You’ll certainly not find the motive there, Monsieur Dax,” Monsieur Stangerson said with a cold smile.

  “In any case, the motive was not theft!” said the Chief impatiently.

  “Oh! we are quite convinced of that!” cried the examining magistrate.

  At that moment the door of the laboratory opened and the officer in charge of the gendarmes entered and handed a card to the examining magistrate. Monsieur de Marquet read it and uttered a half angry exclamation:

  “This is really too much!” he cried.

  “What is it?” asked the Chief.

  “It’s the card of a young reporter engaged on the ‘Epoque,’ a Monsieur Joseph Rouletabille. It has these words written on it: ‘One of the motives of the crime was robbery.’”

  The Chief smiled.

  “Ah, — young Rouletabille — I’ve heard of him he is considered rather clever. Let him come in.”

  Monsieur Joseph Rouletabille was allowed to enter. I had made his acquaintance in the train that morning on the way to Epinay-sur-Orge. He had introduced himself almost against my wish into our compartment. I had better say at once that his manners, and the arrogance with which he assumed to know what was incomprehensible even to us, impressed him unfavourably on my mind. I do not like journalists. They are a class of writers to be avoided as the pest. They think that everything is permissible and they respect nothing. Grant them the least favour, allow them even to approach you, and you never can tell what annoyance they may give you. This one appears to be scarcely twenty years old, and the effrontery with which he dared to question us and discuss the matter with us made him particularly obnoxious to me. Besides, he had a way of expressing himself that left us guessing as to whether he was mocking us or not. I know quite well that the ‘Epoque’ is an influential paper with which it is well to be on good terms, but the paper ought not to allow itself to be represented by sneaking reporters.

  Monsieur Joseph Rouletabille entered the laboratory, bowed to us, and waited for Monsieur de Marquet to ask him to explain his presence.

  “You pretend, Monsieur, that you know the motive for the crime, and that that motive — in the face of all the evidence that has been forthcoming — was robbery?”

  “No, Monsieur, I do not pretend that. I do not say that robbery was the motive for the crime, and I don’t believe it was.”

  “Then, what is the meaning of this card?”

  “It means that robbery was one of the motives for the crime.”

  “What leads you to think that?”

  “If you will be good enough to accompany me, I will show you.”

  The young man asked us to follow him into the vestibule, and we did. He led us towards the lavatory and begged Monsieur de Marquet to kneel beside him. This lavatory is lit by the glass door, and, when the door was open, the light which penetrated was sufficient to light it perfectly. Monsieur de Marquet and Monsieur Joseph Rouletabille knelt down on the threshold, and the young man pointed to a spot on the pavement.

  “The stones of the lavatory have not been washed by Daddy Jacques for some time,” he said; “that can be seen by the layer of dust that covers them. Now, notice here, the marks of two large footprints and the black ash they left where they have been. That ash is nothing else than the charcoal dust that covers the path along which you must pass through the forest, in order to get directly from Epinay to the Glandier. You know there is a little village of charcoal-burners at that place, who make large quantities of charcoal. What the murderer did was to come here at midday, when there was nobody at the pavilion, and attempt his robbery.”

  “But what robbery? — Where do you see any signs of robbery? What proves to you that a robbery has been committed?” we all cried at once. “What put me on the trace of it,” continued the journal
ist...

  “Was this?” interrupted Monsieur de Marquet, still on his knees.

  “Evidently,” said Rouletabille.

  And Monsieur de Marquet explained that there were on the dust of the pavement marks of two footsteps, as well as the impression, freshly-made, of a heavy rectangular parcel, the marks of the cord with which it had been fastened being easily distinguished.

  “You have been here, then, Monsieur Rouletabille? I thought I had given orders to Daddy Jacques, who was left in charge of the pavilion, not to allow anybody to enter.”

  “Don’t scold Daddy Jacques, I came here with Monsieur Robert Darzac.”

  “Ah, — Indeed!” exclaimed Monsieur de Marquet, disagreeably, casting a side-glance at Monsieur Darzac, who remained perfectly silent.

  “When I saw the mark of the parcel by the side of the footprints, I had no doubt as to the robbery,” replied Monsieur Rouletabille. “The thief had not brought a parcel with him; he had made one here — a parcel with the stolen objects, no doubt; and he put it in this corner intending to take it away when the moment came for him to make his escape. He had also placed his heavy boots beside the parcel, — for, see — there are no marks of steps leading to the marks left by the boots, which were placed side by side. That accounts for the fact that the murderer left no trace of his steps when he fled from “The Yellow Room”, nor any in the laboratory, nor in the vestibule. After entering “The Yellow Room” in his boots, he took them off, finding them troublesome, or because he wished to make as little noise as possible. The marks made by him in going through the vestibule and the laboratory were subsequently washed out by Daddy Jacques. Having, for some reason or other, taken off his boots, the murderer carried them in his hand and placed them by the side of the parcel he had made, — by that time the robbery had been accomplished. The man then returned to “The Yellow Room” and slipped under the bed, where the mark of his body is perfectly visible on the floor and even on the mat, which has been slightly moved from its place and creased. Fragments of straw also, recently torn, bear witness to the murderer’s movements under the bed.”

  “Yes, yes, — we know all about that,” said Monsieur de Marquet.

  “The robber had another motive for returning to hide under the bed,” continued the astonishing boy-journalist. “You might think that he was trying to hide himself quickly on seeing, through the vestibule window, Monsieur and Mademoiselle Stangerson about to enter the pavilion. It would have been much easier for him to have climbed up to the attic and hidden there, waiting for an opportunity to get away, if his purpose had been only flight. — No! No! — he had to be in “The Yellow Room”.”

  Here the Chief intervened.

  “That’s not at all bad, young man. I compliment you. If we do not know yet how the murderer succeeded in getting away, we can at any rate see how he came in and committed the robbery. But what did he steal?”

  “Something very valuable,” replied the young reporter.

  At that moment we heard a cry from the laboratory. We rushed in and found Monsieur Stangerson, his eyes haggard, his limbs trembling, pointing to a sort of bookcase which he had opened, and which, we saw, was empty. At the same instant he sank into the large armchair that was placed before the desk and groaned, the tears rolling down his cheeks, “I have been robbed again! For God’s sake, do not say a word of this to my daughter. She would be more pained than I am.” He heaved a deep sigh and added, in a tone I shall never forget: “After all, what does it matter, — so long as she lives!”

  “She will live!” said Monsieur Darzac, in a voice strangely touching.

  “And we will find the stolen articles,” said Monsieur Dax. “But what was in the cabinet?”

  “Twenty years of my life,” replied the illustrious professor sadly, “or rather of our lives — the lives of myself and my daughter! Yes, our most precious documents, the records of our secret experiments and our labours of twenty years were in that cabinet. It is an irreparable loss to us and, I venture to say, to science. All the processes by which I had been able to arrive at the precious proof of the destructibility of matter were there — all. The man who came wished to take all from me, — my daughter and my work — my heart and my soul.”

  And the great scientist wept like a child.

  We stood around him in silence, deeply affected by his great distress. Monsieur Darzac pressed closely to his side, and tried in vain to restrain his tears — a sight which, for the moment, almost made me like him, in spite of an instinctive repulsion which his strange demeanour and his inexplicable anxiety had inspired me.

  Monsieur Rouletabille alone, — as if his precious time and mission on earth did not permit him to dwell in the contemplation on human suffering — had, very calmly, stepped up to the empty cabinet and, pointing at it, broke the almost solemn silence. He entered into explanations, for which there was no need, as to why he had been led to believe that a robbery had been committed, which included the simultaneous discovery he had made in the lavatory, and the empty precious cabinet in the laboratory. The first thing that had struck him, he said, was the unusual form of that piece of furniture. It was very strongly built of fire-proof iron, clearly showing that it was intended for the keeping of most valuable objects. Then he noticed that the key had been left in the lock. “One does not ordinarily have a safe and leave it open!” he had said to himself. This little key, with its brass head and complicated wards, had strongly attracted him, — its presence had suggested robbery.

  Monsieur de Marquet appeared to be greatly perplexed, as if he did not know whether he ought to be glad of the new direction given to the inquiry by the young reporter, or sorry that it had not been done by himself. In our profession and for the general welfare, we have to put up with such mortifications and bury selfish feelings. That was why Monsieur de Marquet controlled himself and joined his compliments with those of Monsieur Dax. As for Monsieur Rouletabille, he simply shrugged his shoulders and said: “There’s nothing at all in that!” I should have liked to box his ears, especially when he added: “You will do well, Monsieur, to ask Monsieur Stangerson who usually kept that key?”

  “My daughter,” replied Monsieur Stangerson, “she was never without it.

  “Ah! then that changes the aspect of things which no longer corresponds with Monsieur Rouletabille’s ideas!” cried Monsieur de Marquet. “If that key never left Mademoiselle Stangerson, the murderer must have waited for her in her room for the purpose of stealing it; and the robbery could not have been committed until after the attack had been made on her. But after the attack four persons were in the laboratory! I can’t make it out!”

  “The robbery,” said the reporter, “could only have been committed before the attack upon Mademoiselle Stangerson in her room. When the murderer entered the pavilion he already possessed the brass-headed key.”

  “That is impossible,” said Monsieur Stangerson in a low voice.

  “It is quite possible, Monsieur, as this proves.”

  And the young rascal drew a copy of the “Epoque” from his pocket, dated the 21st of October (I recall the fact that the crime was committed on the night between the 24th and 25th), and showing us an advertisement, he read:

  “‘Yesterday a black satin reticule was lost in the Grands Magasins de la Louvre. It contained, amongst other things, a small key with a brass head. A handsome reward will be given to the person who has found it. This person must write, poste restante, bureau 40, to this address: M. A. T. H. S. N.’ Do not these letters suggest Mademoiselle Stangerson?” continued the reporter. “The ‘key with a brass head’ — is not this the key? I always read advertisements. In my business, as in yours, Monsieur, one should always read the personals.’ They are often the keys to intrigues, that are not always brass-headed, but which are none the less interesting. This advertisement interested me specially; the woman of the key surrounded it with a kind of mystery. Evidently she valued the key, since she promised a big reward for its restoration! And I thought on th
ese six letters: M. A. T. H. S. N. The first four at once pointed to a Christian name; evidently I said Math is Mathilde. But I could make nothing of the two last letters. So I threw the journal aside and occupied myself with other matters. Four days later, when the evening paper appeared with enormous head-lines announcing the murder of Mademoiselle Stangerson, the letters in the advertisement mechanically recurred to me. I had forgotten the two last letters, S. N. When I saw them again I could not help exclaiming, ‘Stangerson!’ I jumped into a cab and rushed into the bureau No. 40, asking: ‘Have you a letter addressed to M. A. T. H. S. N.?’ The clerk replied that he had not. I insisted, begged and entreated him to search. He wanted to know if I were playing a joke on him, and then told me that he had had a letter with the initials M. A. T. H. S. N, but he had given it up three days ago, to a lady who came for it. ‘You come to-day to claim the letter, and the day before yesterday another gentleman claimed it! I’ve had enough of this,’ he concluded angrily. I tried to question him as to the two persons who had already claimed the letter; but whether he wished to entrench himself behind professional secrecy, — he may have thought that he had already said too much, — or whether he was disgusted at the joke that had been played on him — he would not answer any of my questions.”

  Rouletabille paused. We all remained silent. Each drew his own conclusions from the strange story of the poste restante letter. It seemed, indeed, that we now had a thread by means of which we should be able to follow up this extraordinary mystery.