The Thirteenth Bullet

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The Thirteenth Bullet Page 4

by Marcel Lanteaume


  Even though they were the same age, the politician seemed much older than the scientist. Not that he had let himself go. On the contrary, he had fought the decline by every means possible, but only succeeded in making it more obvious... He dyed his hair.

  A crafty politician, even though short-sighted and mixed up in local fights, he owed his prominent position precisely because of his lack of a broader perspective. Without clear opinions, let alone the ability to defend them, he placed himself unfailingly in the middle ground. As a result, whatever the political orientation of the party in power, he was a safe pick.

  His lack of a political personality made him the natural choice for prime minister during those periods, such as now, when the political parties were catching their breath and sharpening their knives for future battles.

  ‘It threatens the very existence of the ministry,’ he continued.

  ‘Ah, I understand. It’s obviously becoming very serious. And by what is this last-born ministry endangered?’

  ‘You’ve known for a long time. It’s the abominable matter of the man in the grey overcoat.’

  ‘A modern version of the ancient cloak of invisibility. No. How can such a minor event worry you? You’ve seen much worse.’

  ‘I can assure you, my old friend, the parliamentary authorities are worried.’

  ‘They’re always worried.’

  ‘I sense a coup if I don’t act. To think that we’re already at the fourth murder.’

  ‘So what? What’s that? Have you worked out that’s only an average of a murder every two days? Which means, by the end of the year, there will be one hundred and eighty-four deaths. In round figures. And, in ten years, one thousand eight hundred stiffs. Unless the executioner gets tired or dies before that.’

  ‘Or arrested.’

  ‘That’s another story. But, do you realise? You’re getting upset about one thousand eight hundred deaths in ten years. And if we doctors announced that in France, year in, year out, tuberculosis and syphilis each kill one hundred thousand individuals, you’d shrug your shoulders. Internally, of course, because, just for the form, you would cover us with flowers. But you don’t do anything. Or very little: just for show, with no appreciable result.’

  ‘What do you expect? Those are subjects that don’t interest anybody. We make great speeches. Everyone applauds. Once their back is turned, nobody gives it a second thought. And, more importantly, no government has ever lost its majority over that. Whereas I can assure you that, if we don’t bring a rapid end to this series of crimes, this one will fall.’

  ‘Obviously, for you, it’s a sensitive matter.’

  ‘Seriously, you must realise that no self-respecting government can tolerate such a massacre. My conscience and my feelings for humanity are offended.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Conscience! Humanity! They wouldn’t be offended if a war were declared which killed more victims in one minute than the man in the grey overcoat in ten years.’

  ‘That’s not a valid comparison! There are always good reasons to go to war. And there’s no instance in history where a government has fallen by asking parliament to declare it.’

  ‘That’s obviously an unassailable position. But....’

  ‘I know what you’re going to say, you over-sensitive old misanthrope. The human point of view. There’s no lack of philosophers to show that war is the only state in which humanity finds fulfilment. Without it we would be in perpetual decline. It’s the great regenerator. It’s what brings to our bodies and souls the fresh, pure breath which purges the deleterious miasmas accumulated after over-long periods of peace.’

  ‘No doubt it’s mustard gas or lewisite which constitute the purest form of your fresh breath.’

  ‘You know that a statesman must rise above such trivial considerations.’

  ‘And the man in the grey overcoat isn’t a consideration?’

  ‘Don’t be a porcupine. What’s your frank opinion?’

  ‘I’m not a politician. I haven’t got the ability to change my opinion. So I don’t form one quickly, and never without evidence.’

  ‘You’ve already done better than that. Or at least as well. Where shall I begin? In my opinion, our criminal is a madman.’

  ‘That’s a tautology. Since you’re not—at least for now—in charge of education, you probably know what it means. So I won’t translate.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All criminals are mad. That’s obvious. There’s no situation, no matter how tense or serious, that cannot be resolved by a means less brutal than crime. Without mentioning the resulting inconvenience for the criminal himself. So you have to be crazy to choose that method. Madness can limit itself to that. It might not even be apparent, leaving the individual’s logical faculties intact. But it will nonetheless be there, the determining factor.’

  ‘That’s a technician for you.’

  ‘Is that an insult?’

  ‘A cutting one. Technicians are the people I detest the most. Their contemptuous tone when they speak about their speciality to ordinary folk makes my blood boil. You meet them everywhere. If a book pleases you, a technician of literary criticism will demonstrate how the construction is faulty, that the syntax is inconsistent, and that the vocabulary is as barren as the average taxpayer’s. If, in an exhibition, you admire a painting, then bang! a technician of the fine arts will appear at your side, out of who-knows-what infernal abyss, to whisper that the drawing is blurred, the colour atrocious, the subject ridiculous and the whole thing is out of balance. In fact, each time that you, in your naïve and trusting candour—either because of your common sense or because of a feeling you have—express an opinion, you offend a specialist who, from a great height, will disabuse you with obscure and impenetrable terms that he himself may not understand, just to bombard you into submission.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right. And I, in politics, used to think that it was simple to arrange things, to pass sensible laws, and to bring the conditions for a happy existence to the people. What a mistake! As a technician, you have quickly demonstrated that that would change the equilibrium between the parties, and that the question of whether a handful of votes could change the government is more important than the lives of thousands of individuals.

  ‘And what gets me even more upset,’ continued Bernès, disdaining sarcasm, ‘is that we can’t do without technicians. Modern life has become so complicated that they are necessary even for the most minor of things. Has your car broken down? Only an automobile technician can coax it back on the road. To change a fuse, you have to use an electrical technician. Soon, we won’t be able to eat a steak without the assistance of a gastronomic technician. And, in the same vein, we can’t put any minister in charge of any department without assigning him a technician. You could assign Finances to a dancer....’

  ‘It’s usually a high-jumper.’

  ‘But you would have to teach him how to use a calculator. I tell you, it’s impossible.’

  ‘Right. I would even go so far as to say that you, for love, are obliged to confide in technicians.’

  ‘Touché! But let’s get back to the subject. I wasn’t unaware of your point of view but, when I spoke of madness, I meant it in the vulgar sense which doesn’t care about the subtleties of technicians.’

  ‘I understand. And let me say straight away that you’re barking up the wrong tree. The man in the grey overcoat isn’t a raving lunatic, far from it. His crimes are too simple, too clean. They have the purity of works of classical art. There are no sadistic or even equivocal elements. So I can predict he’s going to give you a lot of trouble. Murderers who think they’re clever always lose because they want to complicate things. He, on the contrary, simplifies, a sign of superior men.’

  ‘But there’s no motive for any of these crimes.’

  ‘There’s always a motive. The question is always badly put. The importance of a motive varies by individual: what is a trifle to you could be the cause of an uncontrollable fury to s
omeone else. In the present case, we have no idea what has motivated these murders, but I can assure you a motive exists and there is a link between the four murders.’

  ‘Why? If our man is in the grip of homicidal mania.’

  ‘First of all, that’s wrong, his whole comportment gives the lie to that hypothesis. And, in any case, he knows the people he kills. Remember Dijon: the librarian shook the hand of the man who would kill him a few minutes later. The observations made at Nancy, Rennes, and Marseille are in agreement. We’re faced with two possibilities: either the man in grey has a precise reason, or—and I don’t believe this to be the case—he kills for no reason, but he chooses people he knows. That’s a positive point, at least. Can you imagine the situation if your man acted like those celebrated “vampires”, but on a grander scale? Against fellows like that, the police are helpless. They can only be caught by good luck. Remember how long it lasted in Dusseldorf. And Jack the Ripper was never caught. He only operated in one city. Can you imagine what would happen in a whole country like France? The chances of catching someone like that would be so small that it wouldn’t be worth trying to catch him.’

  ‘Do you think we’re in a better position?’

  ‘Definitely. I repeat, there has to be a link between the four crimes. It’s up to us to discover it. Listen carefully! What’s needed is a very detailed investigation into each victim’s past, and when we find the common factor, we’ll be close to getting our man. But beware! It cannot be your standard police investigation, limiting itself to salient facts, with shady side issues. What’s needed is a summary of each victim’s activities, day by day, or even hour by hour, with a list of everyone he met. I know it’s impossible, but we need to get as close as we can to that ideal.’

  ‘And you will be in charge of supervising the investigations and directing the police?’

  ‘Me? Under what authority? And, besides, I’m very tired and I already have a lot on my plate. You’re forgetting my age.’

  ‘No danger of that: it’s the same as mine.’

  ‘But you’ve never done anything but talk endlessly. The proof is, you politicians don’t begin your careers until the age that others are being retired. It’s when you go out of your way to be noticed that you get the highest positions, and the more senile you are, the more power you have.’

  ‘Look, Fernand, you absolutely have to accept. You’re the only one who can get us out of this mess.’

  The minister, abandoning the light tone of badinage he’d indulged in heretofore, emphasised those last words with an intonation both urgent and emotional. The professor remained silent for a long time, and when he eventually replied, he also had changed. In a low voice, which suddenly seemed much older, he said:

  ‘No, no, no. Don’t you understand, Romain, that this is beyond my powers? I’ve failed in a lot of investigations, but I’ve always consoled myself. The last one was close to my heart. Not so much from a desire for revenge, but simply a need to know. The mystery tortured me more than you can imagine. I didn’t understand... You can’t imagine the number of hypotheses which literally haunted me. Just the thought of tackling such a problem again makes my heart miss a beat. I can’t do it. You see me as a wizened monk, dried out and mummified. Alas! I wish it were true. You would shudder if you knew the tears I had shed, the number of sleepless nights, the nightmares. Even now I can only survive by avoiding to think, in the same way you avoid shaking your head when you have a migraine. And you want me to start again... it would be unending torture. And, besides, I no longer have any confidence in myself. Having failed so badly in a case in which I had such a vital interest proves how useless my so-called science is. No, it’s not possible.’

  Bernès got up and, passing behind the professor’s armchair, placed a hand on his shoulder, agesture of deep affection. The emotion in his voice when he eventually spoke was, for once, not feigned:

  ‘I know all that, my old friend, and you know that André was very dear to me as well. The futile tragedy affected me greatly as well. Don’t you believe that I thought long and hard about all that before asking you to come? Don’t you think I know you well enough to be able to predict your justifiable reaction? I’m a bit ashamed, Fernand, because I’m about to use, in their true sense, words that I only too often... prostitute. But there are times when one has to strip away the superficial varnish and scepticism and get to the heart of the matter. There’s a single word which expresses my entire point of view: duty. It’s impossible for you not to see that we have to do everything possible to stop this criminal before he multiplies his victims. And also, permit me to say that it would be beneficial for you as well. You’re wallowing in your failure, the most painful of all. But did you never stop to ask yourself whether you failed precisely because you had such a personal interest? It was inevitable. You know that the most reputable of surgeons would never operate on someone dear to him, because his hand would shake. You yourself, if you were asked to treat a close relative, wouldn’t you recuse yourself? It was the same here. So, reject the idea of intellectual decline and, in a case where you can be objective, recover your strength and prove to yourself that you have nothing to be ashamed about.’

  The silence was so long that Bernès, whose bouts of sincerity never lasted long, almost ruined everything by speaking too soon. But Richard finally decided:

  ‘You’re right. At heart, I’m nothing but an old egoist who retires into his shell for fear of suffering. You can count on me.’

  ‘Thank you! You will have full authority. My fate is tied to yours.’

  There was a brief moment of stupid emotion.

  The evening papers trumpeted the headline:

  PROFESSOR RICHARD TAKES CHARGE

  But, underneath, in letters no less large:

  A FIFTH VICTIM IN ORLEANS

  V

  ORLEANS -- FIGARO

  Thursday--Friday, November 18--19

  Now, on that Thursday, November 18th, Louis Rédéran, professional name Aloys, was doing a client’s hair. It was late, almost eight o’clock, but he didn’t care. Gently leaning over her, threading a few locks of her hair through long fingers, he murmured a couple of remarks that made her smile. The sound of a gong announced that someone had entered the small waiting room. The hairdresser opened the door to welcome the presumed female visitor, and let out an expression of surprise.

  The seated customer, her curiosity piqued, turned around. She saw a man, whom she described later as being in his thirties, clean-shaven, and wearing an overcoat which, in the dim light, appeared to be brown. The two men shook hands and the visitor spoke a few words in a low voice.

  ‘I say,’ said Rédéran, ‘I still need half-an-hour with madame. Would you care to wait for me in my studio?’

  He showed the stranger the way and returned to finish his work.

  The next morning, at around half-past-six, the charlady came to clean. At around half-past-eight, having finished and not having seen Aloys, who was an early riser, come down, she went up to the studio... and came running back down, pale and trembling.

  It was not long before the sanctuary was invaded by the band we know only too well, in the company of Professor Richard. Only Jacques was missing.

  You can guess the rest: Aloys killed by a bullet to the heart; the bullet was compared to the previous four; the investigation turned out to be just as useless as the others. Only one point worthy of note: the man in grey had changed his overcoat, but not his method.

  As they returned to the station, the journalists were thoroughly disheartened. Their articles remained desperately devoid of facts. It was all very well, once upon a time, to replace facts by descriptions and digressions about the captivating figure of the aesthetic hairdresser, but the public was beginning to tire of the hors-d’oeuvres and wanted a more substantial main course.

  As, talking loudly and gesticulating with open arms, the grouparrived at the station, who should be there but Jacques.

  ‘Let me explain right away,
’ he said, feigning fear, ‘otherwise you’ll subject me to another third-degree. I was in Marseille, where I was pursuing my investigation in certain quarters. That took me to a place away from the suburbs, and it was only on my return to the centre that I learnt about the new murder. The correspondences didn’t correspond, so I left.’

  Then he added:

  ‘What is there to see? Is it worth bothering about? Or will you, Maryse, give me your copy, like the last time?’

  ‘Yes, you lazy oaf. But... give, give. What did you find in Marseille?’

  ‘I’ll give you a complete account. But don’t delude yourself, there’s nothing interesting. I’m disgusted and pretty well worn out. That’s why I’m not staying. I’m coming back with you.’

  VI

  LYON – PANIC THROUGHOUT FRANCE

  Monday, November 22

  The newspapers that Saturday were all milk and honey. Professor Richard’s arrival on the scene was greeted favourably. As a result of the announcement, Romain Bernès succeeded, without opposition, in buying time to allow the investigations to continue.

  But, on Sunday morning, there was a change of tone. Following disillusioned stories from itinerant reporters, the emphasis was on the impotence of the police.

  By Monday, the situation had worsened. A wind of panic blew across France. Everyone asked himself the same question: if a madman can strike wildly and unpredictably (the message propagated by the majority of the press), then why wouldn’t it be my turn next?

  At around seven o’clock that evening, Professor Richard was on the terrace of La Coupole, sheltered from all sides, partaking of aperitifs with his niece and the ineffable Hyacinthe.

 

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