‘In other words,’ observed Jannin, ‘at least four-and-a-half hours after the door was closed, and seven hours before it was re-opened.’
‘What was the cause of death?’
‘I don’t know yet. There are no marks on the back, and the skull is intact. We can turn him over.’
It was very hard work. The height and weight, together with the stiffness of the body made every manoeuvre difficult in the confined space. Eventually, they succeeded.
As soon as the powerful, hairy chest became visible through the half-open shirt, there was a collective shudder. What caught everyone’s attention was a large bloodstain where the heart was. The floor, also, was covered with a slick of blood at the same spot. The face was striking to see. The eyes were still wide open, and there was an expression of horror on the face which captured all of us for a moment.
The professor leant down and pointed to an almost imperceptible hole with the tip of his finger:
‘A bullet to the heart, just like the others. He must have woken up, seen his enemy (the light was still on), and tried to get up. He was almost upright when the bullet hit him. He was struck down. The killer was at least one metre away, close to the door.’
The security service took photographs, after which the professor, taking a pair of thin pliers from his bag, extracted the bullet. He was red in the face and seemed very upset. The armaments expert who had joined us took it, wiped it, and examined it through a powerful magnifying glass.
‘I shall have to verify it at the laboratory, but I’ll bet a thousand to one that it was fired from the same pistol. The thirteenth in the series.’
A long silence followed. No one had any doubt that it was the same killer, but the tangible proof of it left us stupefied. The professor straightened up:
‘Have you finished, Jannin? Very well. Take the body to the medical laboratory. I’ll just make a few observations before I leave to perform the autopsy.’
‘Do you think that death could have been caused by something other than the bullet?’
‘I’ll tell you later. But, for the time being, I can affirm the following: when the bullet struck the heart, the man was still alive. The amount of blood spilt proves it.’
After the body was removed, Richard started to forage everywhere. But he was unable to find any more than the security service employees.
He left, and we accompanied him to the postern gate, where he exclaimed, almost joyfully:
‘Do you believe in miracles, messieurs? Well, believe it now, because what we have just witnessed is not explicable otherwise.’
After his departure, Jannin and Bob continued the investigation by questioning the sentries. They had heard nothing and seen nothing. The moonlight had made surveillance easy. But a revolver shot inside the closed bunker could not have been heard.
A phone call to the Gouverneur Militaire de Paris confirmed that the second key had not left its place inside the special safe.
Finally, expert sounding of the walls showed that nowhere in the masonry was there a fissure large enough to allow a bullet to pass, let alone one where a man could have got in. Examination of the rust on the bolts determined that they had not been drawn since they had been closed the previous day.
On the way back, and before we got to the office, Bob went to see the professor. The latter was in the operating theatre, just finishing the autopsy. My friend went there alone, for I am not particularly fond of that kind of spectacle.
‘Any conclusions?’
‘There’s no doubt. Look at the heart. It exploded from the shock. The man was alive, and death was instantaneous.’
‘Time of death?’
‘As you said: between midnight and two in the morning.’
Then the professor, whilst finishing his work, summarised the evidence. The punctuating grunts demonstrated his dissatisfaction. As he pulled off his rubber gloves, he drew Bob’s attention to a sealed medical jar.
‘I’m sending his internal organs to the toxicological institute.’
‘For what reason? Death was by a bullet to the heart. That’s been confirmed.’
‘The whole business is too mysterious for us to neglect any clue. Even the certainty that the analysis is negative is useful. Rest assured that the strangest possible explanations will be suggested.’
Suggested! What an understatement. What a bombardment of theories, each more outlandish than the next, would await us the next day.
SECOND PART
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TWELVE ROOMS
XIV
THE USEFULNESS OF ENGLISH DOCTORS
Monday, December 27
For three weeks, the police conducted numerous investigations. Bob, for his part, committed himself to visit all the towns where the man in grey had struck.
When he returned, he was thoughtful. On the morning of December 27th, he told me:
‘I’m going to make some phone calls. Whilst I’m doing that, try to use your cortical layer and find me a guiding principle.’
I was obliged to listen to him making the calls, in such a way that at no time had I any ideawhat he was thinking. I was bursting with impatience and curiosity. A veritable torture of Tantalus. My friend’s first call was to the general secretary of the French railways, eastern division, to request Eberhardt’s medical file. Then he called Truffier’s optician in Le Mans. The conversation remained unintelligible to me, but my friend seemed happy, and I learnt that the rag-and-bone man suffered from a visual defect. But which?
He had hardly replaced the receiver when the French railroad representative called back. Once again, the information seemed to satisfy him. I was becoming more and more irritated.
Then, it was Richard’s turn to call Bob who, smiling ironically, held out the receiver so I could hear:
‘Good morning, Professor. Tell me, do you recall the observations concerning the victims at Nancy, Orléans, Arras, and Le Mans?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, don’t they suggest anything?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll go further: the Nancy victim was unable to work as a chauffeur because he refused a medical examination. The Orléans victim painted pictures... have you seen them?’
‘Yes. Not bad, except maybe for the colours.’
‘Exactly! The one in Arras argued with his housekeeper about the colour of her dress. And the one in LeMans spent a great deal of time at oculists.’
‘And what do you conclude from all that?’
‘If we assume that Eberhardt was failed because of his eyesight, don’t these four cases strike a chord? The eyes and, in particular, the colour: Aloys’s paintings, Hippolyte’s dress. Didn’t it also play a role in the case of the railway worker from Nancy and also Hector? Can’t we assume that all four were afflicted with....’
‘Colour-blindness?’
‘Exactly.’
‘We need to check.’
‘It’s already been done.’
There was a silence. The professor obviously considered it a valid hypothesis. For my part, I confess I didn’t understand. What connection could that visual defect, which I find a trifle mysterious (and I’m sure I’m not alone in that) have to the man in grey? That was the same question Richard asked.
‘Look,’ replied Bob, ‘out of twelve victims, I can verify four cases. All four are indeed colour-blind. You have to agree that’s an abnormal percentage. It can’t just be a coincidence. There must be a reason, and we can confidently predict the eight others will also turn out to be colour-blind.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, but how does that advance us? You don’t kill a man because he’s colour-blind, all the same. It’s not as if it’s a useful attribute.’
‘I don’t understand either. But first, let’s verify it’s true for the other victims. If so, it will be a step forward, and we will no doubt have an idea, at some point.’
‘I’ll give it some thought. Keep me informed.’
&
nbsp; Just at that moment, Jannin came in. We each took an arm and proceeded simultaneously to tell him the story.
‘My goodness, what’s come over you? Have you both got a fever, or have the effects of the yuletide festivities not yet dissipated? Bob, don’t worry about the old woman here (he meant me) and tell me in your own words.’
He listened carefully, obviously intrigued. At the end, he asked a question:
‘What exactly is colour-blindness?’
‘It’s a sight defect, which causes those afflicted to be totally or partially blind to certain colours, particularly red and green. The English physician Dalton suffered from it, and was the first to study it.’
‘That’s what I thought, but , given my limited scientific knowledge, I wanted reassurance before I spoke, to avoid saying anything stupid. Even so, surely you’re not trying to make me believe that your story about colour-blindness has anything to do with these murders? It doesn’t make any sense. If you can convince me it is, you’re much smarter than I thought.’
‘One thing is certain: it’s a relatively rare affliction. There aren’t any statistics, but let’s suppose for the sake of argument that twelve men in a hundred are affected (women aren’t, because—like haemophilia—it’s tied to the X chromosome) . That would be a maximum. It would mean that each victim had a one-in-eight chance. We already have four, which means that that in itself is a chance of one-eighth to the power four, in other words, one in four thousand and ninety-two. So you can see that the probability of all twelve being afflicted would be astronomical. In reality, it’s impossible that it’s due to chance. We’ve been looking for a common link between the victims for weeks. I’ve just found one. I have a right to be taken seriously.’
‘Very well. I have no option but to follow your lead. What are your instructions?’
‘For each of the eight other victims, check that my assumption is correct. For the two in the Paris region, that should be easy: Chauvin’s best friend is a shopkeeper in Rue du Sentier. As for Mellot, his circle of friends frequent Les Halles. For the other provincials....
‘I’ll call the Police Judiciaire right away.’
After issuing the instruction, we went to interview the friends of the victims of Villemomble and Melun and, to our surprise, because the affliction frequently went unnoticed, obtained the hoped-for confirmation. That meant six out of six.
From Les Halles to Le Quai des Orfèvres is not far. Some of the information was already there waiting for us, and within the next half-hour, we had all the replies. Everything was confirmed: twelve out of twelve.
As we were about to get back into the car, Bob asked Jannin a question:
‘Look here, Jannin, if you needed twelve colour-blind people, how would you go about it?’
‘It would be quite difficult. You can’t tell by looking at someone, and it’s not registered with the town hall. I would have thought that the simplest method would be to place an ad in the personal columns.’
At these words, Bob jumped out of the car and went back into the building. He emerged a few minutes later and announced:
‘Chauvin subscribed to Lutèce. We’ll drop by.’
Twenty minutes later, we were leafing through the issues for April and May. It was I who had the honour of finding it. In the issue of May 2, on the second page, was thefollowing advertisement:
Seeking COLOUR-BLIND individuals for a perfectly legitimate confidential mission, incurring no risk.
Maximum duration: 24 hours
ONE THOUSAND FRANCS reward, plus travel expenses.
STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL. ABSOLUTE DISCRETION REQUIRED.
Write, giving details and curriculum vitae, to Paul Bernard, c/o P.O.Box 118, Paris.
The advertisement had been sent by post, together with a money order. The address given: 84, Ave. des Champs-Elysées, was false (there is no 84, the numbers go from 82 straight to 88). The advertisement had appeared in the principal Paris newspapers and the principal regional ones. At P.O.Box 118, seven months after the advertisement was placed, there was no information available.
Richard, whom we went to see to ask for his advice, was now completely on board. He agreed with Bob that the newspapers should give the matter full publicity.
Jacques Vital had come to join us at that very moment and got the scoop.
‘For once, you’ve beaten Maryse to it,’ said Bob. ‘By the way, where is she? We haven’t heard from her lately. Maybe she’s been disheartened by your exploits and given up.’
‘What’s that?’ said a voice behind us. ‘Have you written me off?’
‘Ah, Maryse,’ said Richard, ‘come in. Bob has had a brain wave, and the investigation has just taken a giant step forward.’
‘I’m all ears,’ said the young woman.
When she had been briefed and had congratulated Bob as he deserved, she added, simply:
‘Decidedly, it’s been a good day. And I have some news of my own as well.’
XV
THE SUCCESSORS TO THE DIVINE MARQUIS
Tuesday, December 28
With infinite patience, Maryse, by methods I shall not go into here, had managed to track down the vehicle that had driven the various victims during their Paris visit. Better still, she had been able to determine that, each time, the vehicle had been parked in an avenue in Arceuil, in front of a number which, for understandable reasons, I shall not divulge.
December 28th found us there.
‘Did you know that this is where the Marquis de Sade lived in 1768 at the time of his first offence, against Rosa Kailair (or Keller), which resulted in him being sent to prison, first in the Château de Saumur, and then in the Château de Pierre Scize, in Lyon?’
‘Interesting,’ observed Richard, ‘but if we add sadism to colour-blindness, I don’t see how that helps much. Anyway, the best thing to do is to take a look. There’s no chance of catching our prey here. If we go as a delegation, that will have more effect.’
The building at number ... differed from its neighbours only by a large sign in faded gilt letters: “L’Aqueduc Boarding House—Moderate Rates—Modern Comfort.”
The woman who opened the door looked us all up and down rapidly, but her eyes kept coming back to Jannin, and ingrained habit enabled her to place him right away. He identified himself, leaving her even more concerned about our visit.
‘How can I help, Monsieur le Commissaire?’ she asked, in a voice with a slight, unidentifiable accent.
‘Who lived here in the second half of May?’
‘I’ll be happy to show you the visitor register, Monsieur le Commissaire. It’s all in order.’
‘That won’t be necessary. The man we’re looking for is in his thirties, and came here every day by car—a Citroën—and came in by the service entrance.’
‘Yes, I remember. The monsieur in question came to see me at the beginning of May.’
‘Did he give you his name and address?’
‘Yes, right away. His name was... wait a moment... I made a note in my diary. Here it is: Paul Bernard, 84, Ave. des Champs-Elysées. There you are. With an address like that, he obviously wasn’t broke. He told me he wanted to start a home for orphans, give them work, and give them the opportunity to—how did he put it?—improve themselves. Yes, I believe he was talking about boys from remand homes. He was a sort of human benefactor, and humble with it. He sat there, at the table, drinking wine with me.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘So, he brought in a contractor and got a quote to repaint all the rooms, which he accepted, and started the work. Towards the end of May, he came to see me again. He looked out of sorts. He accepted a small liqueur, but I could see things weren’t going well. He told me he’d lost a packet on the stock exchange and had money problems. To cut a long story short, he couldn’t go on. He offered to terminate the lease by paying me another six months and paying the contractor to finish, and I could have the building back. Of course, I could have forced him to serve out the full leas
e, but in the end I was benefitting. And he was so nice. So I accepted. And I never saw him after that.’
A tour of the premises yielded nothing.
The building itself was of a completely different class from those surrounding it. It had probably been, at the beginning of the eighteenth century, the “folly” of some financier not of the upper-crust, and of limited means, but desirous of imitating the very rich. The style was pure and, despite the ravages of time, and alterations made by generations for varying reasons, it had kept its charm.
The only certainty we had was that the work that had been done only affected paint and wallpaper. No demolition or masonry work had been carried out. The problem was to determine whether the restoration served as a pretext, and whether the building had been chosen by chance or, on the contrary, whether the mystery resided—or had resided—in the building itself.
As we found ourselves sheepishly outside again, Richard exclaimed:
‘There’s nothing more to do here. I can only see one solution: interview the contractor who carried out the painting. Maybe he can tell us something. But first, we have to find out his name.’
On that point, at least, luck favoured us. It turned out to be a local housepainter who lived in the area and, ten minutes later, we were in his office.
His name was Lévèque.
‘Monsieur Lévèque,’ said Bob, ‘last May you carried out repairs to the building known as L’Aqueduc Boarding House.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I remember. And the client paid the bill before the work was even finished, and without bothering about the quality of the finish.’
‘What we would like, monsieur, is for you to tell us about your strange client and the work you did for him.’
‘I can’t tell you much. I only saw the fellow three times: when he asked me for an estimate, when he signed it, and when he paid the bill.’
‘Can you describe him?’
The Thirteenth Bullet Page 9