“The police, then le Parquet, investigate. The corpse is there, on its back. The face is calm, almost smiling. On the shirt is a large red stain where the heart is. No need to formally recite the details. You know the result in advance. We’re now at the third known exploit of the bandit and he doesn’t vary his method. It’s true that, up to now, it’s been very effective. As usual, no clues. No sign of a struggle. Nothing’s been taken, nothing is missing.
“But, you ask, why did no one hear the detonation? Let us not forget it was the 11th of November and in the street children, untroubled by the weather, had been letting off fireworks all day long.
“This morning, once the autopsy was completed (always the same song: bullet to the heart, death instantaneous) an aeroplane carried an expert gunsmith with the projectile to Nancy. It was clearly demonstrated that it was fired from the same weapon as the others.
“That’s it. As for motive: nothing. The murderer, after the crime, vanished without trace.
“What now? An agonising question must be asked. Will the murderer continue, in the same fashion, to kill in every corner of France? Whose turn will it be tomorrow?”
What was rich about the article—which the public was not to know—was that it had been written off the cuff. Vital had not been present at the visit to the house. As he was leaving the examining magistrate’s office, he had said to Maryse:
‘Be a darling and cover for me. I have an errand to run on the other side of town. One can just as well be the eyes for two. I’ll meet you back at the hotel and you can fill me in. Provided you’ll let me return the favour.’
The following day, Saturday November 12th, the reporters dispersed to the Breton capital to look for a trail. Alas, their luck was out. With the result that, over cocktails that evening, they decided to return to Paris that same night.
‘A pity we didn’t come to that decision earlier,’ said Maryse. ‘There was a train at four o’clock that would have got us to Paris before midnight. That’s right, isn’t it, Jacques?’
‘Yes. That’s the one I took the day before yesterday,’ he replied briefly.
At the station, as he was accompanying the happy group, Jacques ran into a tall, hefty fellow who had just got off the train from Saint-Malo.
‘Well if it isn’t Monsieur Vital. I only put you on the train early Thursday morning at Saint-Malo, and now I find you here, at night!’
‘The pressure of work got me here very fast, dear Monsieur Broche.’
He made the introductions:
‘M. Hervé Broche, secretary to the Syndicate of Saint-Malo Fishermen, who was of great help to me in my investigation. Wait here, monsieur, whilst I leave these children to make their way back to Paris on their horrible little local train, which won’t arrive at the Montparnasse station before tomorrow, if it arrives at all. I’m staying. I have a hunch that it’s here that I shall discover the seeds of my victory. For I am more determined than ever to beat you all.’
III
MARSEILLE
PROFESSOR RICHARD’S PREDICTIONS
Tuesday, November 16
Ten o’clock in the morning. Marseille, Saint-Charles station. The train, with its sputtering locomotive and screeching brakes, had not even come to a complete halt before a joyous and noisy band of revellers stepped down from a first-class carriage. It was more or less the same men (and one woman) whom we saw, four days before, at Montparnasse. Vital was not amongst them, but he had been replaced by a new face: Hyacinthe L’Herissé (with an apostrophe). A curious personage, this one. A decadent poet, having published at his own expense a slim volume of ultra-surrealist poetry entitled Hypophisis, he had become a journalist in order to pay for it. For now, he wrote for Siècle, an intermittently appearing journal which had aready fired half-a-dozen directors.
Jacques, meanwhile, wasn’t far away. He was waiting on the platform. It was a rush. Smiling, he replied to all the questions they were pestering him about, whilst his eyes sought out Maryse. This time she was wearing a grey suit with silver fox fur and, despite the night passed in the train, appeared quite fresh. Straight away he explained:
‘On Saturday night, and throughout the whole of Sunday, I was in Rennes; a total fiasco. As a last resort, I took an unreliable and capricious so-called express to Dijon. I was getting ready, after an uneventful day, to depart for Nancy, when I learnt about the new crime. I was already at the station. All I had to do was change platform, to arrive here at three o’clock in the morning. A small bribe and I was on the trail—or should I say absence of trail?—by seven. I suddenly thought you would be arriving and decided to greet you in the absence of the useless local authorities.’
‘And what have you learnt?’ asked voices from all sides.
‘You can see for yourselves. It’s a stone’s throw from here. Nothing new, by the way. Absolutely the same as every other case, except this time nobody saw the man in grey... Oh, no, this is not right.’
‘What?...’ Maryse started to ask, then understood: her uncle, Professor Richard, was approaching with nervous little steps, his goatee raised by a breeze that even the most fervent Marseillais amongst the journalists would not call a Mistral.
‘Good morning, uncle,’ they shouted in unison. They knew him well, having often asked him for details he never refused to reveal.
Richard was smiling happily. He adored these children, as he called them.
Professor Fernand Richard was nearly seventy years old, but had stayed alert. Professeur de Physiologie at la Sorbonne, he had never, since the resounding success of his doctoral thesis, stopped pursuing his experiments continuing the work pioneered by Brown-Séquard and extended by Voronoff. But he was better known for his criminological work, attacking the theories of Lombroso and applying the techniques of Dr. Locard, an old friend. (See notes at end of chapter).
He scorned publicity and despised honours. He had never been decorated and had never stood as a candidate for l’Académie des Sciences or l’Académie de Medecine. His caustic wit and too obvious nonconformism did not sit well with the establishment. His witticisms were famous at the Faculté and the cause of much forced laughter.
Eighteen months earlier, events had cast a pall of mourning over the few remaining years of his life. By a cruel irony of fate, the fervent criminologist was confronted by a terrible dilemma, doubly so because it concerned the only remaining person dear to him: his son. Dr. André Richard, already chief physician in a hospital, and with a promising career ahead of him, was in his office one evening. During the day, a rich American, grateful for some unexpectedly good results, had, without warning, thrust a bundle of banknotes into his hands. It was too late to deposit the money in the bank, so he had it on his person. What happened? That was the insoluble problem which had tormented the professor ever since. At around midnight the security guards had been alerted by flames coming from Dr. Richard’s office. After the fire brigade had, with great difficulty, extinguished the flames, they found the charred body. Needless to say, there was no trace of the banknotes.
That was when it was discovered that the doctor’s skull had been fractured by a blunt instrument. It was obviously a crime, and the motive was clear: to steal the American’s money. But the investigation drew a blank despite the poor father, once the early shock had passed, throwing himself into the battle with all his force and all the means at his disposal. The criminal remained unknown and unpunished.
The professor’s features were fine, and elongated by a trim, pointed goatee. A pair of pince-nez masked his alert eyes. Above a high, balding forehead, his hair was long and swept back, reaching the nape of his neck. Even though his hair was white, his face remained young, contradicting the mischievous crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. His age was only noticeable from the rather yellow tint of his skin and his stooped shoulders.
Maryse informed him about her bet with Jacques and asked him to confirm that she had not asked him for any form of help.
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I wasn’t even aware
that there was a new crime committed by our friend in grey. Because that’s what all this is about, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Or at least that’s what we’re assuming, given that he hasn’t shown himself. But all the rest is the same: shot through the heart, etc. You haven’t told us to what we owe the pleasure....’
‘My friend, Professor Sartani, the great Italian naturalist, who has settled in Buenos Aires and is returning there after a brief stay in Italy, is here in Marseille for a few days. A small conference has been organised to discuss certain matters of importance... to us.’
‘Uncle,’ interjected “little” Saint-Bois, ‘may I ask you a secret?’
‘A secret! Which will appear in millions of copies. That would be like having an ear tube as wide as the Simplon Tunnel!’
‘We would only use it advisedly. What’s your opinion about the man in grey?’
‘The same as yours, no doubt. It’s impossible to form an opinion.’
‘Do you think he’s a sadist, like the Vampire of Dusseldorf?’
‘Certainly not. There’s nothing sadistic about these crimes. The atrocious nature of acts of vampirism is due to extreme sexual repression. If those men (and women as well) f*cked more, they would kill less. There’s nothing of that here. Each crime is neat and efficient. The man in grey is certainly not a sex maniac.’
‘So?’
‘So, I have no idea.’
Jacques, who had already visited the scene of the crime, led the group to Rue Tapis-Vert, one of those streets which had best maintained the Marseillais character. It was narrow, and wandered slowly from Boulevard Dugommier to Cours Belsunce.
All things considered, the reporters would have preferred to avoid the trip. The crime itself presented little interest.
The only attraction in this case was the victim. To be clear: the victim before his death. For the first time in this macabre series of unimportant people, we were dealing with someone not totally insignificant. André Bernière, better known as Beppo, was a celebrity on the side. Small and fat, as wide as he was tall, with short legs and enormous thighs, he sported above a powerful neck the flat face of a Kalmouk, in which eyes of a different colour gleamed. A pug nose, prominent cheek bones, and thick lips with the pout of an angry chimpanzee sat beneath a low forehead with closely-clipped hair. A violinist, he played either at the Palais de Cristal or the Théâtre Municipal but, as soon as February arrived, he left for the Côte d’Azur, where he did the rounds of the hotels, playing or singing. Despite his fifty years, he had an agreeable baritone. Like many Meridionals, his singing had the charm that came from being slightly out of tune. In any case, he had considerable success, and not just financial, as his diary proved. He didn’t boast about it, and spoke little about himself. For the rest, his philosophy was that of his native Midi. As long as he could play pétanque the entire afternoon and down a couple of glasses of pastis in the evening, he would sleep happy. What did he do with the money he earnt? He probably didn’t know himself.
As in all Marseille houses, there was no concierge... officially. Needless to say, all the women of the building substituted. That’s the defect in the system. At least in Paris the damage is limited. Luckily there were as many journalists as there were tattle-tales, so the two dangers cancelled each other out.
The essence of the gossip could be summarised as follows: the violinist returned home at five o’clock the previous evening. Half-an-hour later, a neighbour, seeing the door open, had taken a look. Completely by chance, you know... Heavens above! The body was there, still warm, covered in blood. Screams, general panic... Nobody had seen anything or heard anything.
Meanwhile, the culpability of the murderer of Nancy, Dijon and Rennes was never in doubt. The bullet, when extracted, had been identified.
Fighting a losing battle, and with empty stomachs, the journalists went to Chez Pascal, on the banks of the Vieux-Port. They could not fail, after the obligatory pastis, to order bouillabaisse. Even Hyacinthe, despite his condescending air.
Then the horde dispersed, planning to reunite at eight o’clock on the train to Paris. Jacques and Maryse were walking along La Canebière together when they ran into the professor. Beard in the air, he was headed towards the port, oblivious of everyone.
‘Well, well, uncle, where are you going in such a hurry? Are you pressed for time?’
‘Dammit. That imbecile of a medical examiner made me miss my morning’s work. I had to be present at the autopsy. What a stiff! Absolutely nothing abnormal. As solid as a rock. It’s enough to make you weep.’
‘No traces of excess? No vices?’
‘All I can tell you is that he didn’t drink too much and ate reasonably. As for the rest, modern science hasn’t found the yardstick (if that’s the word) for amorous performance. I dare say, on that point, he was no slacker. Apart from that, no drugs.’
‘Have you noticed,’ observed Jacques, ‘that all the victims are bachelors? Or, at least, single men. What conclusion can you draw?’
‘I can see several. But which one to choose?’
‘Another thing. In Nancy, Dijon and Rennes, the man in grey showed himself to the neighbours. But here, on the contrary, he carefully hid himself. Doesn’t that suggest anything?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Maybe here he ran the risk of being recognised if someone saw him?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘It’s an idea that just occurred to me, and I’m happy it doesn’t seem to appear altogether stupid to you. Also, on reflection, I shall not be leaving tonight. I’m staying to see if I can pick up the trail.’
Jacques said his farewells and strode away. Maryse turned to her uncle with a laugh. He observed:
‘He’s just like a girl, love has given him spirit. You’ve opened his eyes to horizons he hadn’t hoped to attain.’
‘If I’d only known.’
She became thoughtful. Her uncle looked at her out of the corner of his eye with some amusement.
Notes: In the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century, trends in xenotransplantation—the process of grafting or transplanting organs or tissues between members of different species—included the work of Charles-Édouard Brown-Séquard. In 1889, Brown-Séquard injected himself under the skin with extracts from ground-up dog and guinea pig testicles. These experiments failed to produce the desired results of increased hormonal effects to retard aging.
Voronoff'’s experiments launched from this starting point. He believed glandular transplants would produce more sustained effects than mere injections. His early experiments in this field included transplanting thyroid glands from chimpanzees to humans with thyroid deficiencies. He moved on to transplanting the testicles of executed criminals into millionaires, but, when demand outstripped supply, he turned to using monkey testicle tissue instead.
Cesare Lombroso's theory of anthropological criminology used concepts drawn from physiognomy, degeneration theory, psychiatry and Social Darwinism, to assert that criminality was inherited, and that someone "born criminal" could be identified by physical (congenital) defects, which confirmed a criminal as savage or atavistic.
Dr. Edmond Locard was a pioneer in forensic science who became known as the Sherlock Holmes of France. Locard's principle holds that the perpetrator of a crime will bring something into the crime scene and leave with something from it, and that both can be used as forensic evidence.
IV
PROFESSOR RICHARD TAKES CHARGE
Friday, November 19
On that Friday, the 19th, the same thing happened to Professor Richard as had happened to Jacques several days before. Returning from Marseille at six o’clock in the morning, he had gone to bed straight away. At nine o’clock he was sleeping soundly, his goatee carefully arranged on the white sheet. He was breathing calmly.
The telephone rang. It is at such moments that one appreciates the achievements of modern science. Regretfully, Richard extended an arm towards the apparatus, perched on a small sh
elf above him on the headboard. It was the cabinet secretary to the Président du Conseil, conveying the latter’s wish to see him at half-past-ten that same morning. He was particularly insistent as to the importance the latter attached to the meeting.
Richard agreed unenthusiastically. Uncharacteristically, he had the patience to replace the apparatus before belching out a word. Only one. We will let you guess what it was. Then, having called his house-keeper for breakfast, he went into his bathroom. It’s fair to say that the professor did not treat his body in the same casual manner he treated his clothes.
He had lived for twenty years in Rue Cassini, between the Faubourg Saint-Jacques and the Avenue de l’Observatoire. The residence was more like a country house. Fenced in completely from the right by a garden relatively well maintained by a day labourer, the house was, for the most part, a simple ground floor. Upstairs there were only two bedrooms and a bathroom. Below, it was mainly a laboratory, forbidden to all but the professor. He locked himself in all day long, lost in his research.
At the time he moved in, he had been a recent widower, and his son had been fifteen years old. Together, they had established a comfortable and hard-working life. The housekeeper, Mme. Dille, had always served them. More accurately, she had always commanded them. Now, since the death of his son André, it didn’t matter to him.
At half-past-ten, Richard was at the Hôtel de Matignon. He was quickly received by the Président who, seated at his desk, offered his hand without getting up:
‘How are you?’
‘Not good. You allow yourself to wake me up at nine after I get in at six, following a night on the train for no useful purpose. And there was I thinking that all cabinet ministers got up at eleven o’clock at the earliest. I’m totally disillusioned!’
‘Forgive me, but it’s very important. I tried to reach you yesterday, but Iwas told you weren’t back.’
The two men had known each other for nearly sixty years, having gone to the same provincial school. In Paris, where Romain Bernès practiced law whilst his friend took up medicine, they never lost contact, despite the different paths they took. They respected each other very much, and for that reason, didn’t spare the sarcasms. Richard, in particular, was good at the sport.
The Thirteenth Bullet Page 3