It was in these pristine surroundings that the drama occurred. Just as he did every day, the baker sounded his horn loudly to summon the dishevelled housewives with curlers in their hair, their dressing gowns carelessly tied around their too-long nightdresses, and their stockings down around their worn-out slippers.
Tired of waiting in front of No. 39, he got out to ring the bell at the front gate. At the back of a garden filled with few flowers and many vegetables stood a small house with another gate, painted green, in front of it. A path lined with bushes connected the two. Snow covered everything in a white blanket.
On the path, midway between the two gates, lay a black bundle. A cursory glance convinced the baker that it was the body of an inanimate male.
The superintendent was soon there with a locksmith. Once the front gate was open he approached the body, avoiding treading on the path, where footprints could be seen. The corpse (from the start there had never been any doubt on the subject) lay huddled on the right side. The superintendent leant over and carefully opened the outer garment. There was a large bloodstain on the chest, and under the body the snow was red. There was no weapon to be seen. There was no doubt it was a crime.
The public prosecutor’s office, realising the importance of investigating before the snow melted, was quickly there. The deputy public prosecutor, the examining magistrate, the medical examiner and an inspector were on the spot before nine o’clock.
The victim, M. Eberhardt, a man in his sixties, had been killed by a bullet through the heart. Death must have been instantaneous and had occurred roughly twelve hours before. A bunch of keys had fallen beside the body. Inspector Lucas noticed that it had left a trace in the snow about ten centimetres long. He concluded that the murderer must have used the keys to lock the gate and then tossed them towards the corpse.
The facts were easily established: summoned by the bell, Eberhardt left the house. At the gate he recognised the visitor and let him in. The two men (the shoes of the other left no doubt about the gender) exchanged a few words and walked, side by side, towards the house. At the half-way point, where a small roundabout enclosed an anaemic climbing rose propped up by a sunshade, they stopped, face to face. After the briefest of halts, Eberhardt fell to the ground, dead. There was no struggle; the unfortunate victim had not moved a muscle. Surprised in mid-conversation, he had surely not even seen the murderous gesture. His assailant then took the keys and left, having never gone farther than the roundabout.
All that can be seen clearly from the snow, which also shows that death occurred after nine o’clock, by which time the snow had already stopped.
The body is clothed in brown trousers, a waistcoat of the same material, a jacket with a claret lining, and black carpet slippers over cachou socks. It has not been searched. The victim’s wallet is intact. And, because the house has not been visited, theft cannot be the motive for the crime.
The victim, as we said before, is M. Pierre Eberhardt, the owner of the house, built eleven years ago. He retired from the French railways eastern division and has been a widower for six years. A cleaning lady comes on Saturday afternoons. He takes care of his garden, does a bit of handiwork, and reads.
He knew his killer because he opened the gate for him. Thus we can only envisage two kinds of motive: revenge or gain. The investigation therefore points to that as the road to take.
Or, rather, to that dead end. Revenge? Highly unlikely! Before living at No. 39, Eberhardt had lived for eighteen years at No. 15 of the same street. The elders of the neighbourhood had known him forever. They all described him as honest, thrifty, hard-working, a decent man in every way. Whilst his wife was alive, he was always home at the same time, as soon as his shift finished. An aperitif on Sundays and a packet of cigarettes every two days were his only extravagances. At work, the same story. No matter how far you went back in his past, there was nothing shady, even for the most suspicious of natures.
Gain? Inheritance? Nothing to be found there either. Eberhardt had barely been able to scrape up enough to buy the house. His wife’s long illness and devaluation had forced him to mortgage it. All he had was his pension, which would disappear with him. No known parents from whom he could inherit, nor any kin awaiting a meagre inheritance.
In all this obscurity, only one fact: a neighbour, employed by a store in the town centre and hastening home at nine o’clock, had been accosted by a man who, very politely, had asked her to point out Eberhardt’s house. It was too dark for her to say much about the stranger. She remembered him as a man in his early thirties and of slightly more than average height, clean-shaven, wearing a grey overcoat with a trilby of the same colour. Despite the description, no trace of the man in the grey overcoat was found.
The autopsy revealed nothing new: Eberhardt had indeed been killed by a bullet to the heart, of calibre 7mm. 65. Probably fired from an automatic pistol of regular army issue.
‘So you can see,’ concluded Inspector Lucas, who had just conveyed the foregoing to the Dijonnais, ‘the dead end in which we find ourselves.’
The examining magistrate turned to Superintendent Pesci:
‘Could you describe your own case?’
‘It’s really curious the extent to which your crime and ours are similar. All the basic elements are the same. Only the surroundings and the execution differ. In Dijon, the murderer acted even more casually.’
And, installing himself comfortably in an armchair borrowed from an adjacent room, he began in a light-hearted tone:
‘In our town there is a town hall, the old Palais des Ducs de Bourgogne. Inside the building is a library, and inside the library there is a librarian.’
‘And inside the librarian?’
‘A rather addled brain. And also a heart. And inside that heart there is now a 7mm. 65 calibre bullet.’
‘That’s not strictly true,’ interjected the expert from Dijon. ‘I’ve actually got it in my pocket.’
‘The good fellow was named Mithon, Adrien. A war pensioner, he became a town hall employee in ’18 and was promoted to librarian ten years ago. Physically he was very tall and very thin, with a sallow complexion and a few scattered grey hairs. Age: a little over fifty. He only had two passions: books and the game of draughts. Mithon was the only employee of the library, which was just an office for lending out.
‘Here are the facts: on Monday at around four o’clock, there are three women waiting. A man comes in, described thus: in his early thirties and of slightly more than average height, clean-shaven, wearing a grey overcoat with a trilby of the same colour—which he did not remove, incidentally.’
‘Our man exactly.’
‘Yes, but since it was much brighter than in your street, there are more precise details. Unfortunately, they are also as mundane as possible. Our murderer is square-shouldered, of athletic build, with a face more round than oval, an ordinary nose, an average mouth, an unremarkable chin, and eyes of an indeterminate colour. Try and find our man with that. Millions answer to that description.’
‘And the murder itself?’
‘I’m getting there. So, the man enters. Mithon returns hastily from one of the shelves. He sees the stranger. Stranger to us, but not to him, because he exclaims: “You, for goodness sake!” A normal tone of voice with no sign of concern. Rather the opposite, more like surprise, vaguely tinged with the kind of pleasure felt by a man with a boring life faced with someone unexpected. The two men shake hands and the women leave, one by one. The last one to go sees Mithon raise the counter and approach his visitor.
‘Half-an-hour later, a man runs into the police station. Pale and stammering, he explains that he has found Mithon lying in his own blood in the middle of the room reserved for the public. Everyone moves fast and the Parquet is alerted; I happened to be in the neighbourhood, so I am assigned the case. Lucky me! Our observations are the same as yours. Adrien was killed by a bullet to the heart. Therewas no sign of astruggle. Apparently the two men were having a thoughtful discussion. Deat
h was instantaneous. The body was not searched and nothing was disturbed on the shelves or in the drawers of the office. Nobody heard the shots. That’s not surprising. The room is separate from the rest of the building and preparations were being made for a reception that evening. Just like you, we find ourselves facing a brick wall. There is no plausible motive. As for Mithon’s life, a lot of people have known him a long time. He has no fortune, no history with women, no politics. As for the man in grey, pfft! He seems to have vanished after the crime. No clues in the victim’s office or elsewhere. Voila!’
All present remained silent for a moment, weighing the consequences of the similarities. The examining magistrate summarised the general feeling:
‘The similarity between the two crimes is incontestable. It’s inconceivable that it’s due to coincidence. In my opinion, that should help us. It means, effectively, that there is surely a unique reason for the two crimes. It’s up to us to discover where the lives of Eberhardt and Mithon intersect. That’s where we’ll find our killer. And the proof of that common origin is at hand.’
The two experts understood the allusion and set about conducting the necessary operations. Each took one of the projectiles and examined it with instruments as barbaric as their names. Then they exchanged the two bullets, not without result. Meanwhile the others watched in silence, as if expecting a miracle.
At the end the two consultants looked at each other. M. Remy, the expert from Nancy, voiced their conclusion in a quiet voice:
‘There’s no possible doubt. The two bullets were fired from the same pistol.’
II
RENNES – A STUPID GROUP
Friday, November 12
On Friday, November 12th , at eight o’clock in the morning, Jacques Vital, a reporter for Lutèce, a widely-read daily newspaper, had the disagreeable surprise of being awakened by telephone. His editor required his immediate presence.
The journalist was thirty-one years old. Of a very good family, athletic, with several records to his credit, he had become a journalist from choice.
He had returned that very night from an investigation into deep-sea fishing rackets. Needless to say, it had ended in Saint-Malo. His train had arrived in Montparnasse around midnight.
After assuring him that his report in the investigation was ready to be published, the editor told him to pack his bags again.
‘Where to, this time? Sterne has left for Nancy and Jurec is already in Dijon.’
‘Rennes. A third crime was discovered yesterday evening.’
‘A third....?’
‘You can see already that this is out of the ordinary.’
At a quarter-to-twelve, Vital found himself again on the same station platform he had stood on with such pleasure less than twelve hours earlier. His expression, already sullen, darkened even further when he noticed a group chatting in front of a first-class carriage. It consisted of his fellow correspondents, with whom he had followed numerous police cases.
Wearing a dark red fur trimmed coat and a felt bibi hat of the same colour, a young woman in her mid-twenties with laughing eyes was coming towards him. She shook the hands extended towards her at every possible opportunity.
Maryse Pascal had been associated with Panorama, an off-beat daily journal, neither opinion sheet nor newspaper,for three years.
She was a court reporter with a high reputation. Her instinct and her tenacity were legendary.
To her colleagues, she was a permanent joy to the eyes and the spirit. There was not one who was not more or less in love with her. For her part, she knew how to keep them on friendly terms. Cheerful and easy on the eye: slender, not very tall, but appearing to be, always dressed with an elegant simplicity, she had remarkable features—not beautiful, not even pretty, but better than that. Under dark brown, slightly frizzy, hair was a face with fine features and translucent skin beneath discreet make-up: a small, straight nose, a mouth slightly too wide with marvellous teeth and full, very red lips and, beneath that, a chin with adorable dimples. Astonishing deep blue, slightly myopic eyes which looked straight at you without the long lashes lowering for a single second. And, above all, the almost permanent laugh, sparkling in the eyes and on the teeth, which set the downy skin quivering all over.
The niece of Professor Richard, the noted biologist and criminologist, she had been too proud to take advantage of her uncle’s renown, and so went under a pseudonym.
Vital, standing slightly apart, was the last to shake her hand. He did it listlessly. Nonetheless, on seeing her, his somewhat round, clean-shaven face lit up. Theirs was an old friendship.
It wasn’t until after Chartres and the return from the dining car that the discussion amongst the group turned to the case. Each gave a point of view that wasn’t his own, for it was not agood idea to show one’s hand too soon in front of such attentive competition.
‘And what do you think, Vital?’ asked “little” Saint-Bois from l’Echo.
‘It’s still a bit too soon, but it’s been well established that there’s only one author of the three crimes, so I don’t think the solution will be too difficult. Faced with a single corpse, one hesitates amongst a number of trails, but here it would be odd if one discovered more than one common to all three cases. The range of hypotheses is likely to be very restricted.’
‘I can see you’re an optimist.’
‘For what that costs him,’ interrupted Maryse teasingly. ‘What’s he going to do? Write beautiful articles, describe the town, the site of the crime, and wrap it with atmosphere. Meanwhile, we others will use our eyes to look for missing clues, forego our lunch in order to tail a presumed accomplice who, at the end of the day, will turn out to be an abused creditor and get chilblains for being on the lookout, just like a common cat burglar.’
‘In other words, according to you, I’m the profiteer growing fat from the sweat of my fellow journalists.’
‘You’re a great journalist, one of that rare breed who does honour to our much-maligned profession.’
‘Such flattery! I’m suspicious.’
‘Except you’re not the kind who actually tracks down clues. You’re above all that. You wouldn’t stoop to examine crooked little schemes or petty trickery, and you would never dream of picking up a discarded cigarette stub....’
‘Thank you! I only smoke Lucky Strike.’
‘... in order to follow a trail.’
‘According to you, I would never discover something on my own.’
‘A clue? A trail? An interesting fact? No!’
‘That’s categoric and not very flattering. Are you sure?’
‘Sure enough to make you a bet.’
‘Done. What’s the stake?’
‘Very well! I bet that your contribution will be nothing. Nil, zero. If I win, you will give me your Montaigne, the 1595 edition, which I’ve coveted for such a long time.’
‘And if by some miracle, through a sudden, inexplicable, flash of lucidity....’
‘There’s not much fear of that. To the point that—and I’m going to push my generosity to absurd limits—if you discover the murderer, or at least if he’s arrested thanks to you, then—pay attention, class, you are all witnesses—I will agree to marry you.’
This unexpected conclusion was greeted with a deafening silence. Those present, with Jacques the foremost, displayed such stunned expressions that Maryse was forced to break into laughter to hide her embarrassment. Vital recovered very quickly and, with a mocking smile, retorted:
‘What conceit! After all, you don’t know whether I consider that as a blessing or a punishment.’
‘It’s up to you to act accordingly. But I’m not worried. The chances of you marrying me are about the same as my becoming the queen of the Eskimos. It’s best not to talk about it.’
‘You’re already regretting what you said. But I’m holding you to it. It’s a deal, Maryse. But beware. I’ve decided to do everything to win. And not just to avoid losing my precious Montaigne, but to win, to wi
n “you”. Whatever that brings is a different story. Ah! I can’t bend down to pick up a cigarette stub, I’m above such trivialities! We’ll see about that. I’m capable of crawling, sliding down drainpipes, climbing up lightning conductors, jumping from a plane onto a train and vice versa. Just like a detective in an American film.’
Everyone burst out laughing, but the interested parties gazed at each other with some affection.
The next day Lutèce published a brilliant article under the byline of Jacques Vital. Only the facts interest us:
“Fifty years ago, in Rue de Dinan, was born the man least suitable to be a victim of a mysterious crime. For several generations, the Le Bigots have been carpenters from father to son. Arsène’s only eccentricities were to remain a bachelor and, outside his work, to indulge in wood sculpture. He took care of his own housework and cooking.
“Yesterday afternoon, Thursday, November 11, at around two clock, Arsène Le Bigot, having taken his coffee with a dash of Calvados because it was a public holiday, and chatted with a few regulars and the landlord, returns home. He walks with his usual small steps and rolling gait in the drizzle, which has fallen relentlessly since the day before. He reaches his street and then his house. There is a stranger waiting on the doorstep. You’ve guessed it. It’s the mysterious killer. The next-door neighbour, Mme. Le Brezec, who takes pride in wearing the traditional Breton coif, and who had given the man directions, gives us the simultaneously precise and vague description that you know. Having seen him waiting, and having invited him to take shelter at her home, which he refuses, she goes inside and watches the encounter from her window. The two men shake hands and go into Le Bigot’s house. Five minutes later, the stranger leaves. It’s not until nearly seven o’clock that the murder is discovered. A boy seeking an order, having knocked in vain, lifts the latch. The door opens and he takes a step inside, sees what’s there... and rushes out with a cry.
The Thirteenth Bullet Page 2