‘Yes, monsieur, he was impossible. I know we mustn’t speak ill of the dead, but I’m telling you the truth. He made remarks about everything. And always a contradiction. If I said white, he said black. Yesterday, a neighbour came to talk. I asked him: “Wasn’t that a nice violet dress?” Do you know what he said? “It’s not violet, it’s purple.” And we argued about it for an hour. And it was violet, you know. Yesterday, it was the steak. He said it wasn’t fillet, I’d been had. And the butcher would never do that to me. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, dear lady, I understand life isn’t always fun for you. And, if I understand correctly, M. Stacier, a confirmed bachelor,displayed towards the fair sex an inclination ... how to put it?’
‘Compared to which the Tower of Pisa was a pillar of rectitude,’ suggested l’Hérisse, coming to the aid of the professor, who was momentarily lost for words.
‘Oh, yes. He was an old lecher. He didn’t look like it, but I know men and I don’t need to know them for long. When there’s one around me, I know straight away.’
‘What’s the lap record?’ asked “little” Saint-Bois innocently. When she failed to get the joke, he turned away to avoid laughing in her face.
‘And,’ interrupted the professor hurriedly, ‘can you give me an idea of the people to whom he paid his respects?’
‘Oh! I’ve got my ideas. But as I haven’t any proof, I prefer to keep quiet. In any case, he did his depravities in Paris.’
‘Did he go there often?’
‘You can’t say it was very often, but often enough. This year, he went once.’
‘And last year?’
‘Last year? Wait a minute. No, he didn’t go.’
‘I see. It seems rather intermittent.’
‘What do you think, Jacques?’ asked Maryse. ‘Say something. You have a sinister look. Or, at least, I suppose so, because with your hat crammed down and your scarf, we can hardly even see your eyes.’
‘I’ve got a terrible cold,’ replied the other in a voice made even feebler by the woollen scarf masking his respiratorypassage.
‘At what period this year did your employer go to Paris?’ continued Richard.
‘That’s easy. Mme. Berger, the grocer, was ill. Her cousin came to take care of her but, that day, she returned home to help with her brother-in-law’s wedding. And, because monsieur wasn’t there, I was able to replace her. The wedding was on a Saturday. It was the Saturday before my region’s feast day, which is the Sunday before Pentecôte.’
‘So it’s quite simple. Pentecôte was June 6th, so your feast day was May 30th, therefore the Saturday was May 29th, and the Saturday before that was May 22nd. So, M. Stacier went to Paris on May 22nd?’
‘That must be it.’
‘And he told you he was going to visit a woman.’
‘No. He didn’t tell me anything. I tried to ask him and drop hints, but he never said a word.’
And it was obvious that was the main reason she was peeved.
The investigation did establish that the victim had gone to Paris in May (without being able to determine the date, having thus to rely on the cross-checking supplied by Mme. Jules). He had left by the morning train and returned around midnight. And, noteworthy for such a frugal man, he also travelled first class.
As for the trap set for the travellers, so carefully set by Richard, it yielded no more tangible results than the preceding efforts.
IX
NANTES – LE MANS
THE MURDERER SPEEDS THINGS UP
Wednesday—Thursday, December 1-- 2
The professor’s resolve remained firm, even after that ordeal. The disappointing result of the Arras investigation, to which he had dedicated the whole of Tuesday, wasn’t enough to demoralise him. But on Wednesday morning, as he sat alone in the Paris express (the others having already returned), he ran through the reasons he had to be dissatisfied.
What upset him the most was the total failure of the measures he had put in place, and which he had counted on to track down the man in grey.
He re-examined the steps he had taken. Where had he gone wrong? Short of declaring a nation-wide state of emergency, what could he have done better? He compared the reports. And straight away he saw the stumbling block in the system. It was the slowness of the operations. In Lyon, it was an hour before the net was spread, by which time continuity was lost. In Toulouse, it was only three-quarters of an hour after the alert was sounded that they could be sure of guarding all the exits. In Arras, the result was more or less the same. If one added the time between the murder and the discovery of the body, the murderer had, in each case, more than enough time to escape.
As he was leaving the Gare du Nord, a street vendor thrust a newspaper into his hand, shouting something incomprehensible. Richard saw the headlines:
NINTH MURDER OF THE MAN IN GREY
The bandit strikes in Nantes this time. A cry in the storm—then a shot. A manhunt. For the ninth time the killer manages to escape.
“Nantes, December 1st. (from our special correspondent.) This morning, at around seven o’clock, gusty winds and a cold rain lashed furiously against everything outdoors. The night, still black, refused to leave. The rare passers-by, bent into the wind, hastened to find shelter.
“In a side street, not far from the Musée Dobrée, the pale light from two street lamps made two small circles on the glistening pavement. Everything else was just a wall of darkness: the night solidified. Suddenly a cry pierces the darkness: ‘Help!’ And a detonation splinters the shadows.
“Liberated by these noises, life reappeared. Men rushed to help and saw a shadow leave one of the houses in the street and head towards the port. Some of them stopped at the door, others took off after the fleeing silhouette. It was still very dark, and, one by one, they gave up the pursuit. The last one saw the figure turn into Rue La Moricière but, when he reached the corner, he could only see people going about their normal life. Head down, he returned to the scene of the crime.
“The police were already there and Le Parquet was quick to arrive. The victim, a bachelor, of course, was one Florimond Varois. He was in his thirties, and held a modest position at the Compagnie de Navigation, where they were effusive in their praise for his work and his performance. He was by no means wealthy. He was killed by a bullet to the heart and, although the anaylsis of the projectile had not been confirmed at the time we went to press, there seems little doubt that we find ourselves in the presence of a new crime by the man in the grey overcoat. The ninth... at least.
“BREAKING NEWS. We have just been notified that, after examination, the bullet which killed Varois was indeed fired from the same pistol as the other projectiles. There’s no longer any doubt.”
The professor stood on the sidewalk of Rue de Dunkerque, reading the article, oblivious to the passers-by who pushed past and even hit his legs with their suitcases. He was aghast. It meant that the killer, like him, had realised the need for speed. The parallels in their thinking disconcerted him, because they made him more aware of the difficulties of his task. His adversary seemed to anticipate his reactions and flaunt them by being even more rapid and efficient.
Eventually, he hailed a taxi to the Police Judiciaire. From there, using telephone and telegraph, he connected with many different provincial towns and dictated detailed instructions and imperatives.
It was nearly midnight before he went to bed. He gave up the idea of going to Nantes, because he anticipated new and rapid developments.
Nevertheless, he had to wait until eleven o’clock the next morning for his expectations to be realised. The telegramme he received was, in its administrative style, more evocative than the newspaper article of the previous day, with all its literary pretentions.
LE MANS, 2-XII, 10.30. Priority. PARQUET DU MANS COMMUNIQUE: Please notify Professor Richard murder committed this morning in Le Mans by man in grey. Stop. Victim TRUFFIER Hector, 47, rag-and-bone man. Stop. Murder this morning approx. 10.00h. Stop. No witnesses.
Stop. Proceeding with observations and projectile expertise. Stop. Have issued alert 10.25h. Stop. Await instructions.
The professor sat with his head in his hands, thinking. Was there any point in going there? He would hardly arrive before being called elsewhere about yet another body. He picked up the phone and asked to be put through to the administrative centre of La Sarthe.
At half-past twelve, the editorial offices of all the Paris newspapers received a message from the Police Judiciaire: Professor Richard would make an important announcement at two o’clock.
At the appointed hour, everyone was there except Jacques, overwhelmed by the flu since his return from Arras, and being taken care of by his valet. Maryse had enquired about his health: nothing serious, a few days in bed would get him back on his feet.
The professor came in. He held a piece of paper in his hand and started to speak in a voice markedly different from before. The journalists noticed how much the lastfew days had affected him: he seemed to have aged considerably.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I don’t know how many of you have noticed that each of the victims has made a quick trip to Paris this year in curious circumstances. Despite, for many of them, an unfavourable pecuniary condition, every one of them travelled first class. It seems logical to conclude, therefore, that these trips had a connection, however indirect, with the crimes. I’ve compiled a list of all known victims and their travel dates. Here it is, and it’s very suggestive:
Saturday, May 15th: Arsène le Bigot from Rennes.
Sunday, May 16th: Aloys Rédéran from Orléans.
Monday, May 17th: ?
Tuesday, May 18th: Florimond Varois from Nantes
Wednesday, May 19th: Pierre Eberhardt from Nancy.
Thursday, May 20th: Césaire Mouret from Lyon.
Friday, May 21st: René Grandjean from Toulouse.
Saturday, May 22nd: Hippolyte Stacier from Arras.
Sunday, May 23rd: Adrien Mithon from Dijon.
Monday, May 24th: André Bernière from Marseille.
Tuesday, May 25th: Hector Truffier from Le Mans.
‘Whilst we don’t know if there were any others before May 15th or after May 25th, what we can say is that there is avery strong chance that a man travelled to Paris on May 17th, and that unknown individual is to be the next victim of the murderer in grey.
‘And so, messieurs, I’m asking you to publish the list immediately, stressing its importance and urgency, and asking that the man who, for whatever reason, was called to Paris on May 17th, make himself known without further delay. His life depends on it.
‘And also make it clear that, whatever the reason for the trip, he can confide in us without fear. If what he tells us leads to the arrest of the man in grey, or even to get a clearer picture and prevent more crimes, he can rest assured of our complete discretion, even if his purpose would normally make him liable to prosecution. I make that promise formally, in front of you all.’
X
VILLEMOMBLE – ENTER... BOB SLOWMAN
Friday, December 3
The instructions were followed to the letter. Professor Richard’s appeal was published, first in its stark simplicity, and then as the subject of lengthy comment.
On Friday morning, Richard was partaking of breakfast when the Directeur de la Police Judiciaire phoned, asking him to come over as quickly as possible: he had received an interesting communication.
Half-an-hour later, the two of them were discussing the contents of a letter that had been posted the night before at six o’clock:
Monsieur le Directeur,
I have just read the announcement of Professor Richard in this evening’s newspaper. Living as I do in the suburbs, I come to Paris on a daily basis and therefore cannot put myself in the shoes of your traveller of May 17th. A strange adventure did, however, happen to me on that day which, upon reflection, does not seem entirely unconnected with that affair. I would therefore be happy to discuss the matter, and would be obliged if you would arrange a meeting with your inspectors. I shall be at home tomorrow for the entire day. Meanwhile, I am taking precautions to avoid an accident.
Yours faithfully
Bernard CHAUVIN,
Sales Representative
..., Avenue....
VILLEMOMBLE
It was determined that the writer had a telephone, but there was no reply. So Richard decided to go to Villemomble. He was clearly anxious and visibly impatient whilst waiting for the inspector he had asked for to join him. Since Superintendent Jannin was already present, it was he who was designated, which suited the professor perfectly. It was almost ten o’clock when the two of them took a taxi, and half-an-hour later when they drew up in front of Chauvin’s villa.
The two-storey residence was quite large and was surrounded on all sides by an enormous garden. All the shutters were closed, and no one responded to Richard’s feverish ringing of the doorbell.
The superintendent tried the neighbour’s gate. The maid who answered confirmed it was indeed M. Chauvin’s villa. She offered that he was a widower in his forties and lived alone. She didn’t know if he was in, or had left for Paris.
‘In any case,’ she added, ‘his housekeeper lives just down the street and she must have a set of keys.’
Jannin left and returned ten minutes later with a small woman in her sixties, of slight build. She walked smilingly alongside the policeman, whose own face held a glum expression.
‘The lady hasn’t got any keys, but she’s sure our man is at home. When she left him yesterday evening, he wasn’t planning to go out today.’
‘Where’s the nearest locksmith?’ asked Richard.
The superintendent left again and returned a bit later with the local chief of police and a worker. At midday, after a lot of work, the door was finally open. The ground floor was in total darkness, but they could make out a ray of light on the upper floor landing. It was coming from the bedroom. When the police eventually reached the room, after having carefully scrutinised every step, they discovered, as expected, the body of the salesman. Dressed in his pyjamas, he held a lamp in one hand and a revolver in the other. He hadn’t had time to fire. There was a large bloodstain on his pyjamas, around the heart.
Richard fixed the time of death at ten to twelve hours earlier, in other words, between midnight and two o’clock in the morning. There had obviously been no struggle. The unfortunate fellow must have heard a noise, turned on the light, and gone to the bedroom door. Before he even got there, the murderer, hiding in the shadows, but with his target well illuminated, had no difficulty in killing him. Afterwards, he had searched the body, the man’s clothes, and his office. Needless to say, he had left no fingerprints and no clues. If the late salesman had written down the reasons why he felt menaced, the intruder had taken them with him.
Meanwhile, the deputy public prosecutor had arrived, accompanied by M. Delharbe, the designated examining magistrate. He had a luxuriant beard, which he stroked with the back of his hand when perplexed. Just as he was leaving, he had learnt that the Garde des Sceaux had decided to remove all the local public prosecutors from the case and leave it in the hands of La Seine. The entire responsibility for the matter now rested on his shoulders. A dubious honour, which he was uncertain whether to celebrate or lament.
Jannin, with the help of several inspectors, pursued his investigation methodically, under the watchful eye of the judicial contingent. He examined everything, down to the smallest trinket. Starting from the cellar, he eventually reached the attic, after which he made his report to the professor and the magistrate.
‘It’s utterly inexplicable. I’m beginning to believe that the murderer cannot only render himself invisible, but he can pass through walls. There are only three doors in the building that communicate with the outside: the ground floor door and two others in the basement, the service entrance and the garage. The first two were locked with a key and had brand new bolts. The garage entrance had double doors, barred from the inside. From the d
ust on the bar, it obviously hadn’t been touched for six months or more. One can safely say that no one came in or left by any of the three doors.’
‘Fine,’ said the professor. ‘What about the windows?’
‘In the basement, they are very narrow and have bars embedded in the concrete. Even a baby couldn’t get through. On the ground floor, there are six windows. They were all shut, as were the steel shutters protecting them. To open them would require a metal saw. On the upper floor, six windows as well. Five of the six were also protected by steel shutters. The sixth... we’ll get back to that.’
‘And the roof?’
‘There’s only one chimney, for the central heating. The pipe leading to the boiler is also well sealed. There’s no skylight. The space under the roof gets its light from four glass tiles. They are intact, and the trapdoor to the attic has not been touched in years.’
‘So let’s talk about the twelfth window.’
‘There’s a glimmer of hope there. It’s a sash window, with no shutter.’
‘Well, there we are, then.’
‘No. First of all, it closes via an automatic system which can’t be reached from the outside. As soon as the frame comes down, the window is shut. Furthermore, as you know, windows of this type use a counterweight, and the one here is particularly heavy. Not only that, but the cable broke six months ago. Since the death of Mme. Chauvin, who used the room as her boudoir, nobody has seen fit to repair it, so the window hasn’t been opened since then.’
‘What does the window open onto?’
‘A flat stone slab about two metres square, with no balustrade. So nobody went out there. And no one could get up there, because it’s four metres above ground. There’s no sign of anyone having tried to climb up. Apart from a strip of cement fifty centimetres wide, the house is surrounded by large flower-boxes, empty now, but with wet earth inside. Anyone using a ladder would inevitably leave marks. Even supposing they didn’t, the window was shut yesterday (the housemaid who cleaned the boudoir confirms it), there’s no man alive with the strength to raise the frame, particularly from the outside, where there’s nothing to hold.’
The Thirteenth Bullet Page 6