The Thirteenth Bullet

by Marcel Lanteaume

  The professor appeared to be very depressed. The arduous task he had reluctantly undertaken seemed more and more impossible every day. His anxiety came from his suspicion that he would not be allowed the time to complete his slow, methodical work. He could see only too well where the widespread frenzy would lead, and expected the worst. His misanthropy, which happened often, was nothing more than the defensive attitude of a tender heart.

  ‘I wanted to declare a state of emergency,’ he said. ‘But the government wasn’t ready to face the wrath of its parliamentary majority.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said a voice from behind them, ‘if a good part of the population would be reassured by that. Fear has gripped a great many of our compatriots, and the presence of the army would raise their morale.’

  It was our friend Jacques, all smiles. He shook hands, ordered a cocktail, and sat down.

  At that moment a waiter told the professor he was wanted on the telephone. He left, stooping slightly, under the enquiring gaze of his companions. Soon, he was back.

  ‘Now we’re at six,’ he announced, sitting down. And, since Jacques hadn’t yet touched his glass, he picked it up and swallowed the contents in a single gulp.

  ‘Where? Who? How?’ The exclamations arose around the table, whilst all around them heads were quickly turned in curiosity.

  ‘Where?’ exclaimed the professor. ‘Lyon. That’s understandable. The third city of France couldn’t be left behind. Here are the facts: this morning, at around ten o’clock, several inhabitants of La Croix Rousse were passing by the shop of the antique dealer Césaire Mouret and noticed that the door was open. Somebody, as they would do in ninety-nine out of a hundred innocuous cases, shouted: “Something’s wrong”. For once, they were right. After they managed to conscript a grumpy and disdainful police officer to go inside the shop, they quickly found the body of the merchant in the back room. He had just been killed. Of course, the crime was signed: a bullet to the heart, quickly identified. No sign of a struggle. The dead man’s face calm. He certainly hadn’t seen his fate coming. Information about the victim: fifty-nine years old, bachelor, of course. Living a sheltered life, struggling to make a living. No suspicious relationships. In short, nothing to help the investigation, as usual.’

  ‘And did anyone see him?’ asked Jacques.

  ‘The bandit? No. It’s become too dangerous. It would be risky to let himself be seen. By the way,’ he added, lowering his voice so that only his three companions could hear, ‘I’ve taken a few precautions. Following my orders, as soon as there is news of a crime, all exits from that town are placed on high alert. The identities of everyone leaving Lyon will be checked. In particular, in the railway stations, the papers of everyone boarding the train will be examined. Unfortunately, at Perrache, we missed the departure of the twelve-thirty-three express to Paris by a few minutes. Nevertheless, we can assure control at every stop, and on its arrival in Paris at twelve minutes past six. We haven’t found anything suspicious but, at my request, we’ve created a list of all those questioned. As you will understand, if in another case we find oneof those names, it will be a big step forward. Meanwhile, investigations of apparent suspects may teach us something, but don’t count on it.’

  ‘Still the same old stuff,’ grumbled Jacques. ‘Nothing new here.’

  ‘There is something strange, nevertheless. The antique dealer seemed to be following the case closely. He even discussed it with several customers. But at no time did he appear to believe he was personally threatened.’

  ‘And what conclusion can you draw from that?’

  ‘That the connection between the crimes is so tenuous that even those affected suspect nothing. Not only do they not know each other, but nothing in what they know attracts their attention. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m mistaken, and that the murderer does indeed kill at random, without rhyme or reason.’

  Nobody said anything, but after a while Jacques stood up:

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘We have to go to Lyon. We may not find anything, but duty calls. Rendezvous on the nine-fifteen train.’

  VII

  TOULOUSE – CINEMA – BRIDGE (with one dummy)

  Wednesday, November 24

  Returning from Lyon on the Wednesday, the professor and his niece had lunch at the Gare de Lyon, then Richard led the young woman away, after making her promise not to tell anyone about what he was going to show her, not even Jacques.

  ‘I promise, uncle. Where are we going?’

  ‘To the cinema.’

  In a basement under Le Quai des Orfèvres, a small room with a few cane chairs, a Pathé Rural projector, and a screen. Six women stood up when the professor entered. One was from Nancy; three from Dijon; the fifth and sixth, from Rennes and Orléans respectively, were already known to Maryse.

  ‘I understand,’ his niece exclaimed. ‘These are the six persons who have seen the man in grey.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the criminologist. ‘That’s the secret. They made fun of my idea to check the identity of people leaving Lyon. I’m not that stupid. I know that, the next time, our man will take precautions. It was a pretext. Whilst those people were being questioned, they were also being filmed. I have every reason to believe that no one noticed. And we can only hope that, whatever disguise the bandit uses, he will use it again the next time. A comparison of the two films will quickly yield information.’

  ‘So that from the third crime on, you’ll be able to arrest your man.’

  ‘I hope so. But for that to happen, we must keep this secret. I can count on you ladies, can’t I?’

  There was a chorus of enthusiastic confirmations, then darkness. For nearly two hours, there was a procession of images, all very much alike. People could be seen approaching the controllers, pulling out their papers, then going on their way, with a mixture of annoyance

  and triumph. But no recollection, no sudden brainstorm came to unlock the memories of the six provincial ladies. When the light came back on, they seemed distraught, with heavy eyelids and red eyes. The ordeal had been painful and, unfortunately, without result.

  ‘I feared it would be so,’ said the professor, ‘but we had to try. If one of you had recognised, not the face—he’s surely wearing make-up—but a posture, a mannerism, a gesture, we might have saved two or three victims. Who knows?’ ____________________________________________________

  ‘One club—one heart—three diamonds—five no-trumps—doubled—that’s good—excellent. It’s your lead, Alcide.’

  It was the same every Wednesday, at around half-past-eight, in one of the biggest cafés in Toulouse.

  At the table were: Estèphe Bourrassol, Joachim Rivière, Alcide Vergesse, all three wholesale merchants, and René Grandjean, a mere shop employee, but a first-class bridge player.

  In the rubber, he was partnered with Joachim against Estèphe and Alcide. It was he who was playing the “five no trumps, doubled”, with Joachim as dummy, but his mind was obviously elsewhere and the contract was defeated . Joachim raised his arms heavenward and asked:

  ‘What’s wrong with you tonight, René?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ replied his partner, ‘I shouldn’t have been playing tonight. I’m too preoccupied.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. But would it be indiscreet to ask the subject of your preoccupation? Maybe we could help. Because I know you too well to think it’s about some woman.’

  ‘No, nothing of the kind. If I ever lost concentration because of a woman, there would only be one solution: to get married. What’s bothering me at the moment is this business of the man in the grey coat.’

  ‘I knew it,’ declared Alcide in a shrill voice. ‘It was inevitable that a detective of your prowess would be interested in such a puzzle.’

  He was not joking. René really did have astonishing powers of deduction. How many times had he found the solution to mysterious crimes, based on simple indications in the newspapers? Better still, he had applied his skills to practical problems
brought to him by his friends.

  ‘And I hope you’ll teach those Parisians a lesson,’ added Joachim.

  ‘Don’t count on it too much,’ replied René, with a smile. ‘But Ido think I can give them a little nudge. It just so happens that fate has handed me information unknown to anyone else. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I become convinced that this string of murders is connected, at least indirectly, to something that happened to me a few months ago.’

  ‘Really? Tell us about it,’ the three others chorused.

  René thought for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders:

  ‘I think it’s better if I don’t say anything. The authorities may prefer keeping it a secret. I wrote a short report today, but I haven’t sent it yet. Something bothered me that I couldn’t put my finger on. You know the sort of thing: ideas that you sense, but you can’t pin down. Then, suddenly, it all became clear. Just now, when I missed the no-trumps contract. I’m going to go home to finish my report and send it in tomorrow. Waiter! The bill!’

  He lived not far away in a quiet street, dark at that hour. As he turned the corner, he heard rapid footsteps behind him. Instinctively, he turned around. A detonation, short and sharp. Without a noise, René fell to the ground.

  A man on the pavement opposite noticed a shadow bent over the body, apparently looking for something. Then it stood up with a white object in its hand. A quick bound and, before the passer-by could do anything, the murderer had vanished.

  Afterwards, there was nothing but confusion. Inexplicably, in that street where, a moment ago, there was almost no one, there was now a crowd that appeared to have sprung from the pavement, surrounding the body with a circle of gesticulating and chattering shadows.

  ‘What’s happened? Let me through. I’m Jacques Vital, journalist.’

  The Parisian accent (which is not, no matter what they say, the absence of accent) and the firm tone did more than the words themselves. Jacques, torch in hand, leant over the unfortunate René.

  ‘A bullet to the heart. Instantaneous death. Nothing to be done. Has anyone called the police?’

  ‘Here I am. Let me through, please.’

  It was a round and jovial police officer trying, in vain, to look important.

  Half-an-hour later, Jacques was trying his best with the café telephone. He had already, with difficulty, dictated his article to the newspaper and was now trying to obtain Professor Richard’s number. Eventually he heard the other’s gruff voice and was able to explain:

  ‘Between two crimes, I had come here to interview a notable foreigner: the violinist G... who is travelling through here and is also, as you know, an important politician in his own country. Completely by chance I was practically an eye witness to the seventh crime.’

  ‘Explain yourself.’

  When he had finished his report, Richard told him:

  ‘You’re right. It’s important. I’m on my way.’

  The public prosecutor had been quick off the mark and the investigation had already begun. No clues on the crime scene. The unfortunate René had been killed outright. A search for the document he’d claimed to have on him proved fruitless. There seemed no doubt that the white object that the murderer had been seen to take was the envelope containing the secret he had planned to deliver.

  The investigation continued inside the café. The examining magistrate tried to determine who might have overheard the conversation. Against all the odds, that turned out to be easy, since everyone had been grouped around the four players. But they were all long-time customers, none of whom appeared likely to be the mysterious killer.

  The waiter, however, added a detail:

  ‘Next door to the players was a stranger. He bought a grog and paid for it on the spot. I didn’t see him again after that.’

  Although pressed, he was unable to be more precise. During the rush, he hadn’t noticed the physical appearance of the customer, who was well wrapped up.

  The report of the expert, who had been dragged out of bed, was quickly available. The bullet came from the same automatic pistol. The killer had struck again. But this time, at least, they knew that it wasn’t by chance.

  At six o’clock in the morning of Thursday, November 25th, Sainte-Catherine’s day, a Bugatti arrived with a great roar and came to a rumbling halt in front of the café where Jacques—who hadn’t slept a wink—was on his seventh coffee. Maryse and her uncle got out, only too happy to warm themselves up.

  Despite his fatigue, the professor went straight to work. For forty-eight hours, he desperately tried to find the link which tied the unfortunate René to the murderer.

  He did eventually discover a clue, without being able to make anything of it. The only inexplicable recent event in the young man’s life was a sudden and brief trip to Paris on the preceding May 25th. No one knew the reason for the twenty-four-hour displacement—at a time he was low on funds. It seemed strange that he would spend the price of a return trip to the capital—and, it was verified, in first class—on a joy-ride.

  That was the extent of the information gleaned on the spot.

  The professor seemed very depressed by the negative results of the films taken.

  ‘I’m afraid it was foreseeable,’ he said. ‘In any case, I was right about one thing: it’s now been proved that the man in grey is not killing without motive.’

  VIII

  ARRAS – A THICK-SKINNED WOMAN

  Monday, November 29

  ‘I’m tired of you making a fuss. I added some salt, and that’s an end to it. I’m fed up, every day there’s a new complaint. Yesterday, it was about this blue dress, the other day it was about the steak. You’re always trying to find something. I don’t know why I still come to work for you. There’s not another housekeeper who would stay a week.’

  ‘But, Madame Jules, it’s quite natural that I want to eat according to my taste.’

  ‘I didn’t put sugar in that disgusting macaroni. If I had to eat that, I’d be sick.’

  ‘I’ve never forced you to eat it.’

  ‘Just as well. I’m not one of your spoilt Parisian whores. I’ll not stand for it.’

  Hippolyte Stacier, fifty-seven years old, bachelor and mathematics teacher at an Arras school, raised his arms to the heavens, even though he was used to such quarrels. Each time that he left his constant state of distraction to make a timid observation to his housekeeper, or to naïvely reproach her for an error she had made, he was assaulted by a flood of reproaches as vehement as they were unjustified.

  Whatever the subject matter, cooking, clothing, politics, or even the weather, the diatribe always ended with an allusion—explicit or not—to the professor’s dissolute private life in comparison to the chaste and faithful attitude of the widow.

  Melodramatically, she went out slamming the door behind her. As she was about to take the dark stairs, using the sticky hand-rail, she found herself face to face—which meant, because of her snub nose, very close—with a man in his thirties....

  We shan’t continue the description, which our readers must know by heart. However, this time, the man was wearing a black overcoat.

  ‘Does M. Stacier live here, madame?’ he asked politely, but without removing his hat.

  ‘That door there.’

  ‘Is he in?’

  ‘Yes. Go right in. The key is in the door, and if you knock, he won’t hear it.’

  She continued on her way, which consisted of stopping at several shops in the neighbourhood for food and conversation. It was at the third stop, as she had just recounted her argument with her employer for the seventh time, when she stopped in mid-sentence. Just as a beautiful flower may blossom in a desert, a thought had just crossed her obtuse mind:

  ‘Suppose it was him?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Who, him?’ asked a curious bystander.

  ‘The man in grey.’

  A stunned silence greeted her unexpected question. After a while, the shopkeeper asked:

  ‘What are you s
aying? Your boss is the man in grey?’

  Without replying, and suddenly possessed by this revelation, she hauled her heavy body back in the direction of the mathematician’s residence. Encountering a policeman, she shouted a few incomprehensible words at him, dragging him unwillingly in her perfumed wake.

  When she opened the door of the residence, she stopped dead, contemplated for a second the huddled body of her employer, then, with a wail consistent with her imposing thorax, fell carefully backwards into the arms of the handsome officer, whom she knew to be single.

  It was at two twenty-five in the afternoon of Monday, November 29 that the body was discovered. At seven o’clock, in that same flat, we again find our band of journalists. They are glum. They are fed up with running to prefectures of police all over France, looking at bodies of males of various ages, and questioning witnesses who have heard nothing and seen nothing.

  On the other hand, Professor Richard appeared to be in better form. The Toulouse murder has proved that he wasn’t mistaken. He knows now that there is a definite motive for all the murders, a connection between the victims... a connection that, however tenuous it might seem, how difficult to perceive by the interested parties, nevertheless exists and is there to be detected by someone with sufficient discernment.

  It is with a cold resolve, a stubbornness that the others have never seen before, that he attacks the next phase of the investigation. No more sarcasm, no more jokes. It is as if the criminologist, aware of the urgency to come to a conclusion, will sweep all irrelevancies aside to reach the goal.

  Already, by stopping the housekeeper from wandering off on erratic diversions, he had succeeded in getting her to reconstruct, practically word-for-word, the conversation which preceded her departure, just before the murder. But now, all the science in the world was powerless to stop the diatribe which spewed from the virago’s mouth: