She paused dramatically and I realised I had been holding my breath. I wasn’t the only one.
‘I approach cautiously. Through a crack, I can see a man of his description lying on the ground, asleep. There’s no possibility I can overcome him on my own. Whatshould I do? Going all the way back down to contact the police would be risky. He might escape whilst I’m away. I have an idea (at least the third one in twenty-four hours). The fort is less than two hundred metres away. I run there and, at the postern door, I collide with the commandant. I hug him... well, almost. “Commandant, here’s my press card. I’m the niece of Professor Richard. You must have heard about the murder yesterday at Villemomble, and about the criminal’s accomplice. I’ve tracked him down. He’s over there, in a shack. Will you lend me a few men to arrest him?” “I’ll do better than that, mademoiselle, I’ll do it myself with a team. Will you lead us there?”’
‘Accompanied by the officer and a dozen soldiers with bayonets, I return to the shack. At the sound of the door being broken down, the man opens his eyes. Painfully, he gets to his feet, apparently not grasping what’s happening. He staggers. It’s frightening to see him, he’s so pale and haggard. Shivers run through his body. We lead him out, but he has so much difficulty walking that we decide to take him to the fort, which is much closer than the police station. We take him into the guardhouse and I try to question him. But, seated— more like slumped—on a chair, stupid, trembling, he keeps his teeth clenched except for the occasional chatter. Nevertheless, he seems to understand. Finally, exasperated, I ask that he be kept in the guardroom, and I phone Rue Cassini. No reply. I try the police station, and they tell me about the Melun crime. That’s when I decide to come here to find you myself, and here I am!’
There was a chorus of congratulations, but Richard cut it short:
‘We must hurry. Suppose he were to escape, or someone kills him?’
‘There’s nothing to worry about. He’s well guarded.’
‘Yes, well, I’m not so sure. And I won’t be, until I’ve dragged everything he knows out of him. You should have phoned instead of coming here. All that time wasted, not to mention your little lecture. Ah, you had to have your little moment in the sun. Let’s go, and full speed ahead. Let’s hope it’s not too late.’
There was a collective sigh of relief when officer Flick opened the guardroom door wide enough to let us see the prisoner. He hadn’t escaped and appeared not to want to try. Leaning against the partition, he hardly raised his head at our arrival. I just had time to see a wan face with glazed eyes before he dropped his head into his hands again, his elbows on his knees. His whole body trembled slowly.
At that moment, a sentry handed a message to the professor, which he read with interest. Then, approaching the prisoner, hetouched him on the shoulder and said:
‘Gregor Stepanovich Kalouguine, you are accused of being an accessory to the murder of Bernard Chauvin, killed in Villemomble on the night of Thursday to Friday. Do you have anything to say in your defence?’
His tone was deliberately very solemn. The other raised his head and, seeing him, gave a long shudder. He stayed silent for a long time, even though his lips were moving convulsively.
‘I’m scared,’ he said eventually, in a low voice. And, his arms hanging down, he looked with frightened eyes at each of us, one by one.
Suddenly he stood up. He dominated all of us, even “little” Saint-Bois. And his arms, which were now extended in front of him in the form of a cross, were exceptionally long. It was his hands, most of all, that fascinated me. Enormous, but at the same time thin, with only tendons and veins standing out, and bony fingers with broad, rounded ends and nails as thick as a gorilla’s claws. Perched on top of the colossal body was a strange head which seemed somehow disembodied. It wasn’t just the paleness of complexion, or even the immensity of the eyes made larger by the violet rings under them, which gave it that character. It was the whole shape of the head, from the thickly-boned forehead to the long, slender nose, the thin lips and the pointed chin. On top was a wild mane of hair swept back over his shoulders. I stood dumbfounded before this strange man, trying to characterise him, when Maryse, next to me, whispered:
‘What do you think: Rasputin?’
That was it: the kind of man who was powerfully bestial and extraordinarily spiritual at the same time, a monstrous hybrid of animal and angel, with no room left for an ordinary human being.
The Russian was still silent. We didn’t dare move. Then Richard took a step forward, placed a finger on the man’s chest, and began:
‘Gregor...’
He got no further. Already unsteady, the other crashed to the floor where, his head in his hands, he began to sob. The professor leant over him slowly, took his wrist, and felt for a pulse.
‘I’m hungry. I’m thirsty,’ said the Russian, raising his head.
‘No,’ said the professor, ‘you’ll get nothing to eat or drink until you’ve talked. We’ll be back in an hour. Will you tell us what you know then?’
Seeing the nod of agreement, we left.
‘I’m afraid,’ explained Richard, ‘which is why I refused to allow him any food or drink. The man we’re fighting against is too strong. I don’t want him to poison my own witness before he’s delivered his secret. Until then, we give him nothing. I’m even suspicious of the water in that fountain. He can wait without risk. It’s not starvation that’ s weakening him, but fear and fatigue. If I can manage to reassure him, he’ll talk.’
It was understood that Jannin, Bob, and I would stay there (sandwiches would be sent in) to mount guard, but Richard recommended we allow Gregor to get some peaceful rest.
Thus it was that, at around three o’clock, when everybody returned, I noted that Gregor was in much better shape.
‘So,’ began the professor, ‘tell us what you know. You must. First of all, because justice will take it into account. But most of all, once you’ve done so, you will have nothing further to fear from the man in grey. He wants to kill you to get rid of the only dangerous witness, in order to protect his secret. When we all know it, there’ll be no reason to attack you. He’ll need to take care of his own security. Do you understand?’
The other smiled wanly and nodded. He sat down properly. He was about to speak. Suddenly, he let out a hoarse cry. He stared at a point behind us. He extended an arm and murmured: ‘There! There!’
We all turned around. A sheet of paper had been attached to the door. It read, in enormous letters: ‘IF YOU TALK, YOU WILL DIE.’ We all seemed frozen to the spot, each asking himself the same question: “Who had done that?” Jacques, who was standing closest to the door, made a move to tear the paper down. Jannin stopped him:
‘There may be fingerprints. Besides, the harm is done.’
The prisoner had fallen again into his state of prostration. All the professor’s eloquence could not drag anything out of him other than:
‘I’m scared!’
Eventually, Richard gave up and asked us all to leave.
‘I can only see one solution,’ said Bob. ‘Let him stay the night here, securely guarded. Tomorrow morning, rested and refreshed, he’s bound to talk.’
‘Here? But where? I’ve no confidence in the police station, which can be approached from too many directions. I prefer....’
Just at that moment, the commandant of the fort rejoined us.
‘Not far from here,’ he said, ‘is a concrete bunker. It’s empty at the moment. If we put a bed in there, your man will be safe. The walls and ceiling are more than a metre thick, and there are four metres of earth on the top and around the sides. The floor is a concrete slab. There are absolutely no openings except for a steel door fifty centimetres thick. It uses the same type of lock as a safe. There are only two keys: I have one, and the Gouverneur Militaire de Paris has the other. In addition, there are two bolts on the inside, which your man can activate, and which cannot be reached from the outside. He could not be more safe than there.’
<
br /> ‘Let’s take a look.’
The bunker wasn’t very big: three metres by two, and just over two metres high. The door took up the whole front width, with a recess of twenty centimetres. The entire bunker sat on a concrete base. The door lock activated three vertical steel bars, which fit into three holes in the concrete. In addition, there were two huge bolts which could only be shut from the inside. There were only three other openings: at the front, at ground level, were two air vents measuring five centimetres by ten, covered with a very tight wire-mesh; and a ventilation pipe in the ceiling, four centimetres in diameter, with two elbow bends in it, that came out at the top of the mound of soil covering the bunker.
The careful examination by Richard, Jannin and Bob fully satisfied them. Enclosed in this veritable safe, our man would be absolutely secure from any attack.
‘Nevertheless,’ said the professor, ‘it’s theoretically possible to project an asphyxiating gas through one of the small openings. So I would ask you to place two trusted sentries outside, one at the top and one at the bottom.’
‘And I,’ added Jannin, ‘will provide reinforcements through a couple of inspectors.’
A military bed was brought in, consisting of two bedsteads and three planks, with a mattress and three bedcovers. Everything was examined thoroughly by suspicious eyes. I forgot to mention that the bunker was illuminated by a single electric light bulb.
‘Shall we give him anything to eat?’ asked the commandant.
‘No, it’s not necessary, and I don’t want to tempt the devil. But, if I might use your pharmacy, I’ll prepare a sedative and give it to him myself. After a good night’s sleep, we should be able to get something out of him.’
And so Gregor Stepanovich was taken to the bunker. At the door he was given Richard’s potion. He went inside and we could hear the heavy bolts sliding into place. The sentries took up their positions. The head guard was given strict instructions.
I looked at my watch. It was half-past five. Night had almost fallen. All of our little group slowly took the path leading to our waiting vehicles.
XIII
THE THIRTEENTH BULLET
Monday, December 6
I apologise for prefacing the very simple account which follows with a comment. I just want to make it clear that it has been stripped of all literary cachet, so it resembles a court transcript. The facts speak for themselves. But, given the strangeness of the events awaiting us on that morning of Monday, December 6, I want to draw the reader’s attention to the importance of the account. He will find there, without exception, every detail of the most profound and most incomprehensible mystery ever to challenge a criminologist. The enthusiasm that everyone (officials and amateurs) had was multiplied tenfold by the conviction of each that solving the mystery, and putting the hitherto invulnerable criminal out of action, depended on their explanation.
And now for the drama....
At nine o’clock in the chilly morning, we met in the courtyard of the fort of Noisy-le-Sec. Our group had grown considerably. There wasnow a large tribe of journalists and photographers, as well as two cameramen with their apparatus and aides. All that encircled by several hundred troops at a loose end, in dirty fatigues. In addition, there was a very strict identity check in effect at the entrance, so that, despite several attempts to jump the queue, the vast majority of onlookers remained outside.
We were several metres from the bunker, but nobody had approached it. Only the two sentries, bayonets at the ready, and a police inspector were tapping their feet in the intervening space. The reports from that night did not indicate any activity.
Now the commandant advances. After an exchange of salutes, he self-importantly pulls a key out of his pocket.
‘This hasn’t left my pillow all night,’ he announces.
We don’t doubt it and watch him, with some amusement, insert the key in the lock, and turn it, all whilst hiding the mechanism itself from our eyes. Everything is recorded by the cameras.
Then the officer steps aside and it’s Jannin’s turn to advance. He needs to rouse Gregor, in order for the latter to draw back the interior bolts. With his left fist, the superintendent bangs vigorously on the metal,which reverberates dully. Inside the bunker, the blows must resonate with such an intensity that Sleeping Beauty herself would be awakened, even without Prince Charming.
There is a short wait, with all ears open. Nothing happens. Jannin tries the door, which is clearly locked from the inside. He strikes the door again, waits, and gives it a veritable pummelling. The same negative result.
Some of the watchers are becoming nervous. Jannin asks:
‘Tell me, professor, after the potion you gave him, should he still be sleeping?’
‘Certainly not. It was basically a bromide with a dash of veronal. Its effect wore off seven or eight hours ago. In any case, a deafening racket like that would definitely have awakened him. Try again, would you?’
Jannin starts again. After a moment, he drops down flat on his stomach and shouts through one of the small grilled openings: ‘Gregor! Gregor, open the door.’ Then he listens through the same opening.
When he gets up, there’s an anxious look on his face. What’s happening behind that door? There’s only one way to open it: use a blowtorch to cut through the doorframe at the spots where the bolts are located. The commandant hesitates, talks about waiting to obtain his general’s position, but the professor, citing the authorisation of the Président du Conseil, makes the decision and the commandant, happy to be relieved of the responsibility, accepts.
‘Just a moment,’ says Jannin, having exchanged glances with Bob, ‘at the point we’re at now, would a delay of half-an-hour affect anything?’
‘I doubt it. I fear the worst.’
‘So do I. If you agree, I’ll call one of the specialist workers from the fort here, and also the security service. That way we can control everything.’
‘An excellent idea,’ agreed the professor.
‘And you, messieurs,’ continued the superintendent, addressing the cameramen, ‘can you quickly get hold of a spotlight? That way, we can illuminate the inside of the bunker, once we’ve opened the door. You can then film everything.’
At half-past-ten, everything was ready. Jannin, who had taken charge of operations, had made everyone back away to twenty metres from the bunker. The security service had then examined the door and the immediate area around it, tested for fingerprints, and taken photographs.
The specialist worker arrived next with his blowtorch. He started to cut. Sparks flew whilst the metal became blindingly white and melted. All the time, the cameras were turning. The spotlight was trained on the door, but not yet turned on.
At last, with one final explosion, the blowtorch went out. The specialist took off his goggles, wiped his brow and said. ‘Finished.’
Jannin made him step back. The electric generator rumbled and the spotlight came on. The security service photographers knelt down on the front row, whilst the non-officials jostled for the best view.
It was a solemn moment. The superintendent, alone in the semicircle, stepped to the door and, as quickly as its weight would allow, pulled it towards him as he stepped back. By so doing, he avoided blocking the view. The door swung completelyopen, revealing the entire bunker brilliantly illuminated.
And we saw....
I have seen too many photographs since then not to be sure of what my eyes saw. But had it not been for the confirmation by incorruptible witnesses, impervious to deception, I would still hesitate to believe my own testimony.
As I have said, the bunker was like a very short corridor, absolutely rectilinear. There were no recesses, no spurs of masonry that could obstruct the view. The brilliant light prevented any shadow. Everything was visible in a single glance. The bed, the only article of furniture in the room, had been pushed against the rear wall.
And, in the space in front of the bed, lay Gregor Kalouguine, face down with his arms extended in a cross. I
noticed that his span exceeded the width of the room, so that his hands were folded up against the walls. The head was towards us, his long hair masking it entirely. He was just wearing a shirt and trousers.
THERE WAS NOTHING ELSE IN THE BUNKER.
After the initial shock passed, there was an attempted rush forward, which Jannin prevented.
Whilst the cameramen continued to film, the security service employees carefully went about their work. Avoiding touching the body itself, they left no corner of the room unexamined. At the end, as they made their report, their expressions confirmed that their search had turned up nothing .
The professor and the examining magistrate, accompanied by Bob and Jannin, approached the body of the Russian. Richard knelt down and examined it in silence. Bob, on the opposite side, had taken hold of one arm.
‘From what I’ve learnt from your lessons, Professeur, it would seem that this man has been dead for ten to twelve hours.’
‘Approximately, yes. To be safe, let’s say between eight and fourteen hours ago.’
‘It’s now midday,’ said M. Delharbe, ‘so he died between eight o’clock and four in the morning.’
‘Those are the outer limits. Let’s say between midnight and two o’clock.’
The Thirteenth Bullet Page 8