‘So, what are your conclusions?’
‘The murderer may have found a way to get in, but if he did, he couldn’t have got out. When we arrived, I immediately took every precaution, and I can assure you that there was nobody there and no one could have got out of the house after we arrived. I’m equally sure that nobody was hidden anywhere. The problem remains unsolved, and I give up.’
Richard stood up and started to pace up and down. Eventually he stopped in front of a table and, punctuating each word with his fist, he declared:
‘I want, do you hear, I want to discover the truth. As long as I don’t know who the man in grey is, I shall not sleep. Between him and me, it’s a duel to the death... the death.’
Then, in a calmer voice, he asked that the housekeeper be brought in.
Unfortunately, she didn’t know very much. She had been fifteen years in Chauvin’s service, but since the death of the salesman’s wife, she had moved to small lodgings and only came in the afternoons. Despite the size of the villa, the work was not very onerous (think about it, a single man who is never there). She returned each evening at seven o’clock to prepare a light meal for him, by which time he had usually returned.
The previous evening, he had returned earlier than usual, in the car of a friend he had run into. He had asked her to come in that morning at eleven o’clock and, under the pretext of having mislaid his keys, asked her to leave hers. Needless to say, Chauvin’s set had been found in the house, and his request had merely been a precaution, and a futile one, as it turned out.
He had seemed preoccupied and had busied himself checking that all the shutters were closed. And, as she left, he had accompanied her to the gate to shut it behind her. He had then hastily gone inside, and she had heard him lock the door of the villa.
According to her, there had been no bolts on the doors the previous evening but, since Chauvin had carried a package with him when he returned, it was probable that he had installed them himself.
‘Well, uncle. It seems you’ve been keeping some secrets. I had to drop in by chance to find out there’s an eleventh body.’
Standing at the door of the office, her cheeks pink from the cold, Maryse wagged an admonishing finger. Richard offered a pale smile. Behind her he could see the shiny long hair of Hyacinthe and the tall figure of “little” Saint-Bois.
‘I say,’ interjected Jannin, ‘have you journalists eaten?’
‘Of course. It’s three o’clock.’
‘We haven’t. Would you be dears and get us some sandwiches? When you return, we can fill you in on what’s happened.’
‘Okay. We’ll be back in ten minutes with solids and liquids.’
Richard had recommenced his halting walk, whilst Jannin conferred with the examining magistrate in a low voice. After a while, he said:
‘I like to flatter myself I’m observant and I’m pretty sure that, right at this moment, Jannin and you are regretting not having the services of Bob Slowman.’
‘That’s right, and I compliment you on your subtlety, my dear professor. You could have made a fortune as asoothsayer.’
‘I doubt I would have made a fortune in any career. In any case, I agree it would be desirable if Slowman were involved. Do you think he would accept?’
‘Would he? He’s dying to get involved. We talked about it again yesterday.’
‘Good. I need him. I’ve hesitated up until now, out of self-respect and false shame, but I can’t do it any more. He has to start as soon as possible. I haven’t the right to waste time. Slowman is who I was missing: a prodigious intuition, a kind of extra sense which allows him to quickly reach a conclusion that I can only arrive at after fastidious and methodical effort. I, on the other hand, can help with my experience and the entire police organisation. Together, we’ll solve it. To hell with prestige.’
The magistrate and the superintendent looked in surprise at the old man, who now appeared to them under a different light. There was a silence.
‘I’ll phone him,’ said Jannin.
‘Time to eat!’ cried Maryse as she came through the door. ‘You get your forks out, and we’ll get our pens.’
XI
THE CONTEST BEGINS
Friday, December 3—5 o’clock
Ouf! Here we are at the end of our efforts. It’s time to hand over the narrative to Charles Termine, Bob Slowman’s companion and biographer. We do it with pleasure but, before we put our Toledo pen into its secret drawer, let us clarify that the foregoing chapters were merely a compilation of accounts told to us by the interested parties, in particular Professor Richard, his niece, and Jacques Vital. We modestly decline any ownership. (The Editors)
__________________________________________________
On that Friday, December 3rd, at around half-past-three, Boband I were in our office in Rue Louis-le-Grand. We were hard at work, each with a bulky dossier, when the telephone rang.
After he had hung up, Bob put his dossier aside, stood up, and hastily put on his hat and overcoat. I looked at him questioningly.
‘It’s the man in grey’s eleventh murder. In Villemomble. Jannin’s leading the investigation and Delharbe has been named examining magistrate. They’ve obtained Professor Richard’s authorisation to hire me. I’d better hurry. If I don’t see you tonight, I’ll fill in the details tomorrow.’
‘Oh, no you don’t! I’m coming with you. I’ve been hoping for this for weeks: Bob versus the man in grey. I’m not going to miss it. If you don’t take me with you, I’ll find my own way there.’
At four o’clock, we drew up in front of Chauvin’s villa. Richard, whom I only knew by reputation, seemed to conform to the descriptions I’d heard. His niece made a strong impression on me (Sh! Not a word to Emily), as well as l’Hérisse (hum!).
We listened to the explanations provided by Jannin. Richard slipped in the occasional comment. My friend asked for a few clarifications, then set to work.
As he finished his examination in the boudoir, he found a worker, who had been called in by Jannin, repairing the counterweight system.
He learnt that the villa had belonged to a diamond dealer. The boudoir had been used as a fortified storeroom whose protection, in addition to a safe containing thousands of stones, was provided by a security door and a window whose panes had been replaced by steel plates. Chauvin had sold the door and replaced the plates with toughened glass. The electric motor for raising the frame had also been sold.
My friend stepped out onto the stone slab in front of the window, which was now accessible, and examined it carefully.
Then he called in the housekeeper and asked her a few questions. She affirmed that nobody had entered the house the day before. But, by pushing her hard, Bob managed to get more out of her:
‘Nobody? No one from a utility company, for example?’
‘Ah!’
‘Ah?’
‘Oh, I completely forgot about him. A gas inspector came to check the meter.’
The meter was in the basement and the man had been down there alone. Worse still, he had asked to use the toilet and had been out of the good lady’s sight for several minutes. By contrast, she was certain of the time he left. Description? As expected.
Jannin confirmed by telephone that no gas inspector had been in the area that day.
Bob smiled. He waited until the woman had left before addressing Jannin:
‘Look for a man at least one metre ninety-five tall and very strong. He’s Russian and you’ll probably find his body on waste land.’
We looked at him in stupefaction.
‘It’s perfectly simple: either the murderer was inside when the front door was closed, or he got in afterwards. We can take it as practically certain that he wasn’t hidden inside the house. Chauvin wasn’t born yesterday. The precautions he took prove it. He was able to protect himself as long as he was outdoors and he forced the enemy to come to his home. He thought he was safe inside. He carefully checked out the whole house. If the bandit had
been there, the crime would have taken place at seven o’clock and not midnight. Therefore, the man came during the night. No getting in through the doors and eleven of the twelve windows. What about the twelfth? Did the salesman check that it closed properly? I doubt it. He knows that nobody has opened it for months, and he thinks it can’t be opened. He takes a cursory look. Everything seems normal, so he gives it a pass. What the unfortunate fellow doesn’t know is that, during the day, the murderer has paid a visit and is now admirably informed.
‘The workings of the window are simple. All that’s necessary is to press a release button and slide in a thin wedge to prevent it closing. It needs to be closely examined to make sure it’s properly closed. Chauvin didn’t think to do it, so the path for the killer was clear.’
‘But that doesn’t answer the whole question. He still had to get in from the outside.’
‘Yes, and without a ladder. It’s quite simple, but only possible with an accomplice. The two of them come into the garden and, by means of the narrow concrete paths, reach the foot of the house without leaving a trace. The accomplice hoists the bandit up at arm’s length, and the other grabs the ledge and pulls himself up. He is now on the little balcony. He loops a rope around the overhanging roof rafter (look, I have a piece of hemp here). The accomplice can now climb up onto the balcony as well. The two of them lift the frame, and the giant accomplice braces himself to keep it open. The bandit slides into the house, weapon in hand. Because none of that can happen without making a noise, poor Chauvin wakes up. He doesn’t hesitate to face the danger, but he’s cut down before he can even reach the bedroom door. The other searches him and searches his office in case he’s left a revealing note, then returns to the boudoir, removes the wedge, and goes out on the balcony. All he has to do is to release the window, which drops and is blocked once again. To get down, the two men use the rope and then pull it towards them. They were careful to remove any traces from the balcony, leaving one more mystery to be solved.’
‘Obviously,’ said M. Delharbe, stroking his beard, ‘that explains everything. But how are you able to describe the accomplice?’
‘Work it out for yourself: only a man at least one metre ninety-five tall could hold up the bandit, whom we know measures one metre sixty-five, to reach a balcony four metres fifty-five above ground. And he has to be a giant. First of all, to be ableto hold at arm’s length a man who weighs roughly seventy-six kilos, and then to hold up the enormous weight of the frame for nearly ten minutes.’
‘But how do you know he’s Russian?’ asked Jannin.
‘This medallion had fallen into a crack in the cement. It’s a small enamel charm with a minuscule reproduction of an icon.’
‘And the prediction that we’ll find his body?’
‘That’s self-evident. Up until now, the man in grey has always acted alone. He uses an accomplice for the first time, only because he can’t do otherwise. Do you think he did it light-heartedly? He must be really worried about being exposed, voluntarily or not. And remember that his accomplice is not the kind to pass unnoticed. If the killer is the man I imagine him to be, there’s only one possible decision: kill his accomplice as soon as possible. That’s why I’m betting we’ll find him on waste land near here, with a bullet through the heart. The only chance that he’ll be spared provisionally is if the man in grey still needs his services.’
‘Bravo! We’ll get onto it right away. If the man is still alive, we have to save him and grill him.’
‘Well, my dear professor, what do you think?’ asked M. Delharbe, obviously proud of his protégé.
The professor seemed very weary. He smiled wanly and, getting up slowly, replied:
‘I’ve known Bob for ten years. I didn’t expect any less.’
‘In any case, dear uncle, you’ve been soundly beaten.’
‘Beaten, but not destroyed. Sylvain,’ he added, addressing one of the inspectors, ‘would you be goodenough to read out to these young people the message I asked you to send to le Quai des Orfèvres an hour ago?’
‘Here it is: “Urgently seek very big man, one metre ninety-five minimum, very strong, a giant, blond almost red hair, probably left-handed, likely Russian. Search waste land to find body.”’
We all stood there, stupefied. Except Bob, who burst out laughing:
‘Well played. You’ve taught me a famous lesson. But how did you know he was left-handed, blond, and Russian? Did you find the icon?’
‘No. But once I worked out what happened, I examined the toughened glass carefully. Here’s what I found: a blond-red hair. There was also a small ring of grease around it. I concluded that, whilst opening the frame, he had touched it lightly with his head. Now, note where the hair was found. All the way to the left, if you’re facing the window. That could only happen if the man had the frame to his left, meaning that he must be left-handed. Finally, the hair gives off a faint odour, that of a special brilliantine that only Russians use. Nevertheless, you beat me. You only needed one hour to deduce what took me more than three hours of study and reflection.’
‘What about us? How does it make us look?’ groaned Jannin.
XII
MELUN—MARYSE’S TRAIL
Sunday, December 5
On Sunday, December 5th, at around ten o’clock, Jannin phoned Bob: a market gardener had been killed on the national highway, close to Lieusaint. Bob alerted me in turn and, shortly afterwards, we met up with the superintendent. We drove together and were soon in Lieusaint. Everyone arrived at about the same time: the public prosecutor, the professor, the journalists, and ourselves. We met Jacques Vital, still muffled and apparently still recovering from his severe bout of flu.
The facts themselves were simple. Pierre Mellot, a market gardener in the immediate vicinity of Melun, delivered his produce every day to Les Halles. During the growing season, naturally. At this time of year, he delivered nothing, but had got into the habit of going there once or twice a week. That morning, after checking his transmission, he had left at seven o’clock. He was alone in his vehicle.
The reconstruction of the crime was easy. A motorist whose vehicle had apparently broken down must have flagged Mellot. The chubby fellow, always ready to help, must have stopped. Getting out of his vehicle, he approached the other to lend a hand. Hardly had he reached the verge than the stranger killed him with a shot to the heart. As usual, no trace of a struggle. They searched the body, but no money had been taken.
Forty-three years old, bachelor, fun-loving, tireless worker, demanding boss, Mellot handled his business affairs well. Eager for profits, he complained constantly that he didn’t make enough. He had no close relatives and, as often happens, the value of his estate was he himself.
The identification of the projectile later confirmed what everybody immediately knew: we were indeed in the presence of the twelfth victim of the man in grey.
‘Either I’m mad,’ exclaimed Vital suddenly in a hoarse voice, ‘or that’s Maryse’s car.’
A sleek grey cabriolet with red trimmings came towards them with the full speed of its three horsepower. It screeched to a halt in front and the young woman poked her pretty pink face through the driver’s window.
‘Uncle!’ she cried in a rush. ‘I’ve found the Russian, the giant, the accomplice!’
‘Alive?’
‘Alive. But he doesn’t want to talk.’
We milled around the car. We had to have the details. She didn’t need to be asked.
‘Here you are: on Friday, when M. Slowman, (a little nod with a smile) showed us the murderer’s trick, I felt horribly vexed. For those infantile journalists (grimaces at l’Herisse and Saint-Bois) not to have understood is quite normal. And for even a superintendent of police (a wink at Jannin) to have missed it is also perfectly normal. But it stung me, Maryse the unique (said with a deliciously comic emphasis), to have flunked it like the worst of dunces. That really ticked me off. And when I couldn’t sleep that night from turning the problem over in my little
brain, I decided I had to redeem m yself. For my revenge to be complete, it had to be me, and only me, who put the hand on the Russian giant.’
She had been so voluble that she needed to regain her breath. We were all too wrapped up in her account for anyone to interrupt. She continued:
‘There was only one hope, that the Russian had not been killed and had returned to his domicile under his own steam. That had to be what happened. So, since yesterday morning, I’ve been on his trail. Two modes of transport could be eliminated. At the time of the crime, the trains and trams weren’t running. My man could only have slept in town or left on foot or by bicycle, at a pinch. I did the rounds of the hotels. Nothing. I decided to check out the route he might have taken. I was on about my hundredth interview when my heart nearly stopped: a good lady I questioned affirmed having seen a man of such a size on Friday morning at around nine o’clock. He was headed towards Rosny. She had only seen him from afar, but his height had impressed her. At last I had a trail. I followed it as far as Neuilly-Plaisance.
‘A postman had seen him from close up. He described him: very tall (that I knew), very wide (as we assumed), wearing (amongst other things ) a beige raincoat, and bareheaded. What had most struck the postman was his pale, haggard face and dishevelled hair. He looked like a man at the end of his tether. The man, obviously avoiding main roads, had taken a minor one going through some woods to connect with Route Nationale No. 3. I took it as fast as I could, but when I arrived at the Nationale, I drew a blank. Nobody had seen my prey. I questioned as many as I could. Nothing.
‘I retraced my footsteps through the woods, hoping to find a clue. Off to the side, in a field, was a simple toolshed. I noticed that the door had been forced: someone had slept there. In a corner was an empty litre bottle and acrust of bread. I was perplexed by the Russian’s behaviour. Was he a vagrant, met by chance and co-opted for the occasion? In any case, yesterday, I was stuck. I sleep on it. At the crack of dawn I’m up, questioning passers-by again. At the Noisy-le-Sec railway station, they’ve seen the giant at eight o’clock, on a path leading to the fort of Noisy, which I also take. At the top it looks like a slum. There are a lot of cabins, but most are abandoned in the winter. I ask at all the occupied ones. One good woman tells me she gave him some bread and butter, another gave him a shirt from her husband, also a big man. And a frightened urchin points a finger at the shack which he had seen “the ogre” enter less than an hour before.’
The Thirteenth Bullet Page 7