The Mystery of the Yellow Room Read online

trying vainly to link together the different events of the day.

  What was in Rouletabille's mind? Was it possible that he thought

  Monsieur Robert Darzac to be the murderer? How could it be

  thought that this man, who was to have married Mademoiselle

  Stangerson in the course of a few days, had introduced himself

  into The Yellow Room to assassinate his fiancee? I could find no

  explanation as to how the murderer had been able to leave The Yellow

  Room; and so long as that mystery, which appeared to me so

  inexplicable, remained unexplained, I thought it was the duty of

  all of us to refrain from suspecting anybody. But, then, that

  seemingly senseless phrase--"The presbytery has lost nothing of its

  charm, nor the garden its brightness"--still rang in my ears. What

  did it mean? I was eager to rejoin Rouletabille and question him.

  At that moment the young man came out of the chateau in the company

  of Monsieur Robert Darzac, and, extraordinary to relate, I saw, at

  a glance, that they were the best of friends. "We are going to The

  Yellow Room. Come with us," Rouletabille said to me. "You know,

  my dear boy, I am going to keep you with me all day. We'll breakfast

  together somewhere about here--"

  "You'll breakfast with me, here, gentlemen--"

  "No, thanks," replied the young man. "We shall breakfast at the

  Donjon Inn."

  "You'll fare very badly there; you'll not find anything--"

  "Do you think so? Well, I hope to find something there," replied

  Rouletabille. "After breakfast, we'll set to work again. I'll

  write my article and if you'll be so good as to take it to the

  office for me--"

  "Won't you come back with me to Paris?"

  "No; I shall remain here."

  I turned towards Rouletabille. He spoke quite seriously, and

  Monsieur Robert Darzac did not appear to be in the least degree

  surprised.

  We were passing by the donjon and heard wailing voices. Rouletabille

  asked:

  "Why have these people been arrested?"

  "It is a little my fault," said Monsieur Darzac. "I happened to

  remark to the examining magistrate yesterday that it was inexplicable

  that the concierges had had time to hear the revolver shots, to dress

  themselves, and to cover so great a distance as that which lies

  between their lodge and the pavilion, in the space of two minutes;

  for not more than that interval of time had elapsed after the firing

  of the shots when they were met by Daddy Jacques."

  "That was suspicious evidently," acquiesced Rouletabille. "And

  were they dressed?"

  "That is what is so incredible--they were dressed--completely

  --not one part of their costume wanting. The woman wore sabots,

  but the man had on laced boots. Now they assert that they went to

  bed at half-past nine. On arriving this morning, the examining

  magistrate brought with him from Paris a revolver of the same calibre

  as that found in the room (for he couldn't use the one held for

  evidence), and made his Registrar fire two shots in The Yellow Room

  while the doors and windows were closed. We were with him in the

  lodge of the concierges, and yet we heard nothing, not a sound.

  The concierges have lied, of that there can be no doubt. They must

  have been already waiting, not far from the pavilion, waiting for

  something! Certainly they are not to be accused of being the authors

  of the crime, but their complicity is not improbable. That was why

  Monsieur de Marquet had them arrested at once."

  "If they had been accomplices," said Rouletabille, "they would not

  have been there at all. When people throw themselves into the arms

  of justice with the proofs of complicity on them, you can be sure

  they are not accomplices. I don't believe there are any accomplices

  in this affair."

  "Then, why were they abroad at midnight? Why don't they say?"

  "They have certainly some reason for their silence. What that

  reason is, has to be found out; for, even if they are not

  accomplices, it may be of importance. Everything that took place

  on such a night is important."

  We had crossed an old bridge thrown over the Douve and were entering

  the part of the park called the Oak Grove, The oaks here were

  centuries old. Autumn had already shrivelled their tawny leaves,

  and their high branches, black and contorted, looked like horrid

  heads of hair, mingled with quaint reptiles such as the ancient

  sculptors have made on the head of Medusa. This place, which

  Mademoiselle found cheerful and in which she lived in the summer

  season, appeared to us as sad and funereal now. The soil was black

  and muddy from the recent rains and the rotting of the fallen

  leaves; the trunks of the trees were black and the sky above us

  was now, as if in mourning, charged with great, heavy clouds.

  And it was in this sombre and desolate retreat that we saw the

  white walls of the pavilion as we approached. A queer-looking

  building without a window visible on the side by which we neared

  it. A little door alone marked the entrance to it. It might

  have passed for a tomb, a vast mausoleum in the midst of a thick

  forest. As we came nearer, we were able to make out its

  disposition. The building obtained all the light it needed from

  the south, that is to say, from the open country. The little door

  closed on the park. Monsieur and Mademoiselle Stangerson must

  have found it an ideal seclusion for their work and their dreams.

  ___________________________________________________

  ditch |

  ________________________________________________ |

  enclosing wall || || | |

  || || | |

  ||___ 1 |d |

  ||bed| || |i |

  PARK ||___|________|| |t |

  ||:::::| 4 || |c |

  ||::5::| || 2 |h |

  oo oo ||:: ::|___ _|| | |

  Traces oo || || | |

  of oo oo oo | |

  Footsteps|| || | |

  || || | |

  || 3 ||___________| |______________

  || || 6 | ditch

  ||____ ____||___________|_________________

  door enclosing wall

  Here is the ground plan of the pavilion. It had a ground-floor

  which was reached by a few steps, and above it was an attic, with

  which we need not concern ourselves. The plan of the ground-floor

  only, sketched roughly, is what I here submit to the reader.

  1. The Yellow Room, with its one window and its one door opening

  into the laboratory.

  2. Laboratory, with its two large, barred windows and its doors,

  one serving for the vestibule, the other for The Yellow Roo
m.

  3. Vestibule, with its unbarred window and door opening into the

  park.

  4. Lavatory.

  5. Stairs leading to the attic.

  6. Large and the only chimney in the pavilion, serving for the

  experiments of the laboratory.

  The plan was drawn by Rouletabille, and I assured myself that there

  was not a line in it that was wanting to help to the solution of

  the problem then set before the police. With the lines of this

  plan and the description of its parts before them, my readers will

  know as much as Rouletabille knew when he entered the pavilion for

  the first time. With him they may now ask: How did the murderer

  escape from The Yellow Room? Before mounting the three steps

  leading up to the door of the pavilion, Rouletabille stopped and

  asked Monsieur Darzac point blank:

  "What was the motive for the crime?"

  "Speaking for myself, Monsieur, there can be no doubt on the

  matter," said Mademoiselle Stangerson's fiance, greatly distressed.

  "The nails of the fingers, the deep scratches on the chest and throat

  of Mademoiselle Stangerson show that the wretch who attacked her

  attempted to commit a frightful crime. The medical experts who

  examined these traces yesterday affirm that they were made by the

  same hand as that which left its red imprint on the wall; an enormous

  hand, Monsieur, much too large to go into my gloves," he added with

  an indefinable smile.

  "Could not that blood-stained hand," I interrupted, "have been the

  hand of Mademoiselle Stangerson who, in the moment of falling, had

  pressed it against the wall, and, in slipping, enlarged the

  impression?"

  "There was not a drop of blood on either of her hands when she was

  lifted up," replied Monsieur Darzac.

  "We are now sure," said I, "that it was Mademoiselle Stangerson

  who was armed with Daddy Jacques's revolver, since she wounded the

  hand of the murderer. She was in fear, then, of somebody or

  something."

  "Probably."

  "Do you suspect anybody?"

  "No," replied Monsieur Darzac, looking at Rouletabille. Rouletabille

  then said to me:

  "You must know, my friend, that the inquiry is a little more advanced

  than Monsieur de Marquet has chosen to tell us. He not only knows

  that Mademoiselle Stangerson defended herself with the revolver,

  but he knows what the weapon was that was used to attack her.

  Monsieur Darzac tells me it was a mutton-bone. Why is Monsieur de

  Marquet surrounding this mutton-bone with so much mystery? No doubt

  for the purpose of facilitating the inquiries of the agents of the

  Surete? He imagines, perhaps, that the owner of this instrument of

  crime, the most terrible invented, is going to be found amongst those

  who are well-known in the slums of Paris who use it. But who can

  ever say what passes through the brain of an examining magistrate?"

  Rouletabille added with contemptuous irony.

  "Has a mutton-bone been found in The Yellow Room?" I asked him.

  "Yes, Monsieur," said Robert Darzac, "at the foot of the bed; but I

  beg of you not to say anything about it." (I made a gesture of

  assent.) "It was an enormous mutton-bone, the top of which, or

  rather the joint, was still red with the blood of the frightful

  wound. It was an old bone, which may, according to appearances,

  have served in other crimes. That's what Monsieur de Marquet

  thinks. He has had it sent to the municipal laboratory at Paris to

  be analysed. In fact, he thinks he has detected on it, not only

  the blood of the last victim, but other stains of dried blood,

  evidences of previous crimes."

  "A mutton-bone in the hand of a skilled assassin is a frightful

  weapon," said Rouletabille, "a more certain weapon than a heavy

  hammer."

  "The scoundrel has proved it to be so," said Monsieur Robert

  Darzac, sadly. "The joint of the bone found exactly fits the

  wound inflicted.

  "My belief is that the wound would have been mortal, if the murderer's

  blow had not been arrested in the act by Mademoiselle Stangerson's

  revolver. Wounded in the hand, he dropped the mutton-bone and fled.

  Unfortunately, the blow had been already given, and Mademoiselle was

  stunned after having been nearly strangled. If she had succeeded in

  wounding the man with the first shot of the revolver, she would,

  doubtless, have escaped the blow with the bone. But she had

  certainly employed her revolver too late; the first shot deviated and

  lodged in the ceiling; it was the second only that took effect."

  Having said this, Monsieur Darzac knocked at the door of the pavilion.

  I must confess to feeling a strong impatience to reach the spot where

  the crime had been committed. It was some time before the door was

  opened by a man whom I at once recognised as Daddy Jacques.

  He appeared to be well over sixty years of age. He had a long white

  beard and white hair, on which he wore a flat Basque cap. He was

  dressed in a complete suit of chestnut-coloured velveteen, worn at

  the sides; sabots were on his feet. He had rather a waspish-looking

  face, the expression of which lightened, however, as soon as he saw

  Monsieur Darzac.

  "Friends," said our guide. "Nobody in the pavilion, Daddy Jacques?"

  "I ought not to allow anybody to enter, Monsieur Robert, but of

  course the order does not apply to you. These gentlemen of justice

  have seen everything there is to be seen, and made enough drawings,

  and drawn up enough reports--"

  "Excuse me, Monsieur Jacques, one question before anything else,"

  said Rouletabille.

  "What is it, young man? If I can answer it--"

  "Did your mistress wear her hair in bands, that evening? You know

  what I mean--over her forehead?"

  "No, young man. My mistress never wore her hair in the way you

  suggest, neither on that day nor on any other. She had her hair

  drawn up, as usual, so that her beautiful forehead could be seen,

  pure as that of an unborn child!"

  Rouletabille grunted and set to work examining the door, finding

  that it fastened itself automatically. He satisfied himself that

  it could never remain open and needed a key to open it. Then we

  entered the vestibule, a small, well-lit room paved with square

  red tiles.

  "Ah! This is the window by which the murderer escaped!" said

  Rouletabille.

  "So they keep on saying, monsieur, so they keep on saying! But if

  he had gone off that way, we should have been sure to have seen him.

  We are not blind, neither Monsieur Stangerson nor me, nor the

  concierges who are in prison. Why have they not put me in prison,

  too, on account of my revolver?"

  Rouletabille had already opened the window and was examining the

  shutters.

  "Were these closed at the time of the crime?"

  "And fastened with the iron catch inside," said Daddy Jacques, "and

  I am quite sure that the murderer did not get out that way."

  "Are there any blood stains?"

  "Yes, on the stones outside; but blood of what?"
/>   "Ah!" said Rouletabille, "there are footmarks visible on the path

  --the ground was very moist. I will look into that presently."

  "Nonsense!" interrupted Daddy Jacques; "the murderer did not go

  that way."

  "Which way did he go, then?"

  "How do I know?"

  Rouletabille looked at everything, smelled everything. He went down

  on his knees and rapidly examined every one of the paving tiles.

  Daddy Jacques went on:

  "Ah!--you can't find anything, monsieur. Nothing has been found.

  And now it is all dirty; too many persons have tramped over it.

  They wouldn't let me wash it, but on the day of the crime I had

  washed the floor thoroughly, and if the murderer had crossed it with

  his hobnailed boots, I should not have failed to see where he had

  been; he has left marks enough in Mademoiselle's chamber."

  Rouletabille rose.

  "When was the last time you washed these tiles?" he asked, and he

  fixed on Daddy Jacques a most searching look.

  "Why--as I told you--on the day of the crime, towards half-past

  five--while Mademoiselle and her father were taking a little walk

  before dinner, here in this room: they had dined in the laboratory.

  The next day, the examining magistrate came and saw all the marks

  there were on the floor as plainly as if they had been made with

  ink on white paper. Well, neither in the laboratory nor in the

  vestibule, which were both as clean as a new pin, were there any

  traces of a man's footmarks. Since they have been found near this

  window outside, he must have made his way through the ceiling of

  The Yellow Room into the attic, then cut his way through the roof

  and dropped to the ground outside the vestibule window. But

  --there's no hole, neither in the ceiling of The Yellow Room nor

  in the roof of my attic--that's absolutely certain! So you see

  we know nothing--nothing! And nothing will ever be known! It's

  a mystery of the Devil's own making."

  Rouletabille went down upon his knees again almost in front of a

  small lavatory at the back of the vestibule. In that position he

  remained for about a minute.

  "Well?" I asked him when he got up.

  "Oh! nothing very important,--a drop of blood," he replied,

  turning towards Daddy Jacques as he spoke. "While you were washing

  the laboratory and this vestibule, was the vestibule window open?"

  he asked.

  "No, Monsieur, it was closed; but after I had done washing the floor,

  I lit some charcoal for Monsieur in the laboratory furnace, and, as

  I lit it with old newspapers, it smoked, so I opened both the windows

  in the laboratory and this one, to make a current of air; then I shut

  those in the laboratory and left this one open when I went out. When

  I returned to the pavilion, this window had been closed and Monsieur

  and Mademoiselle were already at work in the laboratory."

  "Monsieur or Mademoiselle Stangerson had, no doubt, shut it?"

  "No doubt."

  "You did not ask them?"

  After a close scrutiny of the little lavatory and of the staircase

  leading up to the attic, Rouletabille--to whom we seemed no longer

  to exist--entered the laboratory. I followed him. It was, I

  confess, in a state of great excitement. Robert Darzac lost none

  of my friend's movements. As for me, my eyes were drawn at once to

  the door of The Yellow Room. It was closed and, as I immediately

  saw, partially shattered and out of commission.

  My friend, who went about his work methodically, silently studied

  the room in which we were. It was large and well-lighted. Two

  big windows--almost bays--were protected by strong iron bars and

  looked out upon a wide extent of country. Through an opening in

  the forest, they commanded a wonderful view through the length of

  the valley and across the plain to the large town which could be

  clearly seen in fair weather. To-day, however, a mist hung over

  the ground--and blood in that room!