The Thirteenth Bullet

by Marcel Lanteaume

  Bob got up, slightly pale, but still composed:

  ‘Thank you, Paul,’ he said. ‘That’s the second time.’ Then, finishing his sentence, he continued: ‘... the autopsy report has been falsified.’

  The rest of his sentence was lost in the hubbub. Recovering from their stupefaction, those present stood up, shouted at each other, and asked questions. The usher opened the door just enough to put his head inside and looked alarmed. Behind him, the inquisitive faces of the journalists made a conglomeration worthy of a Dubout cartoon.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Bob, ‘the professor gave us a short demonstration. Not a very successful one, I have to say.’

  The usher, reassured, closed the door. The incident had given Bernès the time to recover. He addressed my friend.

  ‘Can you explain what this all means?’

  ‘Surely it’s very simple. What impeded us all was the psychological element. Nobody would dream of suspecting Professor Richard. Everything he said, given his high scientific standing and his universally recognised integrity, was above discussion. If I hadn’t had the deplorable propensity to mock those in high places and never take anyone at what the English call their “face value”, I wouldn’t have got any farther than the others. I admit, in fact, that his reputation did slow me down for quite a while and, even when logic and intuition led me irresistibly to the only possible solution, I hesitated and, after sober reflection, decided to keep quiet. I had no proof,and if I had said something, nobody would have believed me. I spent too long trying to understand. I hadn’t any proof, as I said, yet it would have been enough to have another doctor with Richard at the autopsy.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you did see him extract the bullet from the Russian’s chest.’

  ‘You said it: the chest—not the heart. It must have been very close, because I would have noticed if it had been too far apart. And, when I arrived at the operating theatre, Richard had already had at least half-an-hour to disguise the crime. What could be simpler?’

  ‘And the viscera? He took it upon himself to have them analysed.’

  ‘That was very well done. It nipped in the bud any hypotheses about poisoning. But wouldn’t a substitution of viscera have been easy? Those he sent for analysis wouldn’t have given a positive result. The professor has played an exceedingly dangerous game, counting uniquely on his personality to hide the truth. Once we stopped being influenced by him, and thought in terms of anonymous people, the solution became obvious. And we had the answer, not only to the question “How?”, but also to the question “Who?”. The crime could only have been committed in one way and by one person. That was the beauty, but also the danger. It was a marvellous bluff, and it almost succeeded. But I demanded to see, and I saw.’

  ‘But that only solves part of the problem. The professor cannot be the man in grey. He must have had an accomplice.’

  ‘That was another reason for my silence. If I had revealed what I was thinking, we would have lost all possibility to apprehend the murderer. So I preferred to keep quiet and watch Richard closely in the hope he would lead me to the bandit. But he’s too crafty for me. I learnt nothing, literally nothing.’

  ‘So why did you speak up today? You haven’t any more proof and if... if Richard had not lost his calm, you would not have been any further.’

  ‘Maybe so, but we’re at the end of the trail. Richard was in possession of much-sought-after knowledge, or was about to be. It was our last chance. So it was my turn to bluff, counting on his reaction, finding himself stopped so close to his goal. He’s impulsive and couldn’t know what I had up my sleeve. For me to finally decide to speak, I must have a weapon. At least, that’s what he thought, so he unmasked himself. And I won, without a single trump in my hand.’

  ‘How could a man of such worth, who has always been a great scientist and an honest man, become a super-criminal, or at least the mastermind behind him?’

  ‘Excuse me! We don’t know yet whether his is responsible for these crimes. We can also imagine that, knowing the culprit, and seeing him in danger from the revelations of Gregor, he intervened brutally to save him. Another hypothesis, equally plausible, is that, finding himself in the possession of a secret which could make him enormously rich and enormously powerful, his mind was overwhelmed and he became mad—at least with regard to the secret and how to use it.’

  ‘But who could his accomplice be?’

  ‘Of that, I have absolutely no idea. Look, Professor, you’ve lost. Why don’t you tell us who he is. That would be a nice gesture.’

  ‘My dear Bob,’ replied the other in the same tone, ‘I would hate to deprive you of even a scintilla of your credit. I know too well the subtlety of your mind to doubt that you will arrive, all by yourself, at the definitive solution. Far be it from me to deprive you of that satisfaction.’

  ‘Jannin,’ asked M. Delharbe, ‘can you find Jacques Vital?’

  Jannin, who was no longer limping, was away for less than a minute.

  ‘Jacques left half-an-hour ago. He took his car.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s the man,’ exclaimed Bernès.

  Richard smiled dryly and said to Jannin:

  ‘I say, Monsieur le Commissaire, your sciatica seems to be cured.’

  ‘I never had sciatica,’ replied the other with a laugh. ‘It was a trick, so I could remain standing and watch you. Bob suggested it. That’s how I was able to intervene in time.’

  ‘There’s a point I need to verify,’ continued Bernès. ‘Whether the man in Egypt who has taken the measures prescribed in the manuscript is the bandit or an accomplice, even an unknowing one, he must be found. Obviously, Richard won’t have given the necessary instructions. But maybe there’s still time.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. I do things the right way. So, I’ve sent a telegramme to Cairo. But don’t worry, I’ve received all the elements of the calculation and you won’t find them. As for the man who provided them and who, I can assure you, knew nothing of their purpose, he’s dead.’

  Slowman’s one-word announcement cut through the stunned silence that followed the cynical declaration like the blade of a guillotine:

  ‘No!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked the Président.

  ‘Don’t you think that I, too, have a brain capable of functioning and drawing the same conclusions as Richard? Besides, he didn’t need to reason, he already knew. Needless to say, I didn’t discover the Franco-Egyptian painter, or his last communication with the nurse. Reasoning alone couldn’t get me to that point, but a whole series of deductions he didn’t make, I did, step by step. I got as far as the magazine L’Image. I also have the snapshots and a daltonian amongst my friends.I’ve known the text of Argier’s will for a week, since January 10th. I was able to lay a trap in Egypt which the man and his instruments walked into. Better still, it’s true that he wasn’t aware of anything. He is a promising young astronomer whose name doesn’t matter. I had him watched. The day before yesterday he sent a coded telegramme giving the principal details, and yesterday he sent a voluminous report. I wasn’t able to intercept the telegramme, addressed to Paul Bernard, poste restante. There, I failed. The man I had assigned to watch the post office, seeing nothing arrive, investigated. A phone message had asked that the telegramme be routed to another branch. As for the astronomer, I suspected that his life would be in danger and had him closely guarded. Yesterday morning, an enormous basket of fresh fruit was delivered. An examination proved they were all poisoned.’

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Richard, gnashing his teeth. ‘I regret not killing you just now.’

  ‘Bravo, Bob,’ said the Président. ‘Excellent work. We now have the secret, and you’ve prevented another crime.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ interjected Richard again, clearly seething. ‘There’s someone he’s not going to save.’

  ‘And who would that be?’

  ‘My niece, Maryse. Her suspicions were becoming dangerous. I set her a trap, at my residence. By now she�
�s dead, asphyxiated.’

  ‘Jannin. On your way. As quickly as possible. Maybe we can get there in time.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ sneered the professor. ‘It’s half-past one. Maryse has been there since half-past eleven. She’s been dead for at least half-an-hour.’

  Jannin had reached the door and was extending a hand trembling with emotion to turn the handle, when it opened... Maryse stood there, slightly pale, but forcing a smile. Jacques, behind her, was holding her up.

  They stood there without a word. Nobody else spoke. Richard grunted. He looked at them in dazed disbelief. Suddenly there was a burst of laughter, as clear as a bell. It was Bob, and his mirth seemed to chase away all the macabre phantoms in the room.

  ‘Well, professor,’ he exclaimed, ‘you don’t appear to be in form at the moment. As someone said, the people you killed seem to be in remarkably good health. Just now, it was the poor astronomer who was supposed to be a corpse in Cairo. Now, it’s your charming niece who has returned from the dead. My condolences, but it looks like the time to retire.’

  I shall never forget the look of pure hatred in Richard’s eyes. He hissed:

  ‘The only error I committed was not to eliminate you at the start. I thought I was stronger. I knew that the others didn’t count. But it amused me. That’s why I lost.’

  Romain Bernès shot a look of disgust at his old friend then, addressing the two young people, asked:

  ‘But... what happened? How is it that...?’

  It was first necessary to seat Maryse. Despite all her efforts to remain standing, it was obvious she was at the end of her tether. It was Jacques who explained:

  ‘About an hour ago, M. Slowman came to find me in the antechamber and said to me: “ Maryse is in grave danger. A trap has been set for her in her uncle’s house. Get there as quickly as possible, but don’t fall for it. In my opinion, the most dangerous place is the laboratory. Jannin and I can’t leave, but I’m sure I can count on you to do your best.”

  ‘I ran like a madman. In Rue Cassini everything was locked, but one of my keys fit the entrance door, and the lobby door didn’t offer much resistance. Maryse’s wet shoes had left traces pointing towards the laboratory. The door was locked and resisted all my efforts. Despite all the noise I was making, there was no response from Maryse. That worried me, and I decided on more drastic action. I knew there were several iron bars in the toolshed in the garden. I fetched one and, two minutes later, the door was open. I couldn’t see Maryse at first, but an acrid smell made me cough. I stepped back instinctively, but the thought of Maryse lying there, dying or even dead, spurred me on. I’d often read that, in such cases, it’s best to cover the mouth with a handkerchief, and that’s what I did. Maryse was there, on the floor behind the large table, unconscious. The rest... doesn’t matter.’

  He stopped to look at the young woman. She was asleep, with her head back. There was no doubt that it was a natural sleep. The pink had come back into her cheeks (as far as one could tell, under the make-up) and her breathing was gently normal. We smiled at each other as Jacques went over to Bob, took both of his hands, and squeezed them hard. The Président du Conseil coughed:

  ‘We find ourselves,’ he intoned, ‘still in the presence of problems: we don’t know who Richard’s accomplice is, nor where he is hiding. Also, I would like to know how M. Slowman knew that Maryse was in danger in the house in Rue Cassini.’

  ‘If you want to see the murderer... Here he is.’

  And, with a rapid gesture, Bob, approaching the professor, put both hands on his face. When he pulled them away, the spectacles fell off and I saw that my friend held something soft and grey that I could not properly make out. An exclamation escaped all our lips. The professor was no longer in front of us, but had been replaced by a clean-shaven man in his thirties, with close-cut hair and a U-shaped scar on the left side of his skull. I recognised him as the man who had fired on Duroyer, the man in grey.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Bob, ‘allow me to present Dr. André Richard.’

  ‘The rest,’ he continued, after we had recovered from the shock, ‘is easy to understand. André, already a victim of a terrible aeroplane accident which left him with that scar, and possibly affected his mental stability, was informed by Bernard Argier about the tremendous importance of the secret he had discovered. He decided to appropriate it and, with the Egyptian barely dead, embarked upon his campaign. He needed money and the freedom to manoeuvre. He obtained both by staging his own murder. Who was the poor unfortunate whose remains were recovered? I don’t know, but, homicidal mania not yet having gripped him, I would like to think it was a corpse awaiting autopsy in the hospital. At the same time, Richard walked off with his cash and procured the sinew of his war.

  ‘Only one man had any doubts: his father. Which explains the professor’s reluctance to be enlisted as the criminologist. And, very quickly, in pursuit of the man in grey, he was seized by a terrible suspicion. He had no proof but, with each new crime, his intuition—which, whist not equal to my own, was far from negligible—brought him closer to the horrible truth. The crime at Villemomble confirmed his suspicions, and when Gregor, whom he recognised as a former patient of his son—at one time resident doctor at the same hospital—was found, he knew that the secret would soon be known by others. At that point, he was seized by a sort of mental breakdown, and he killed the Russian.’

  ‘And you worked all that out?’ asked the Président admiringly.

  ‘No. All I knew when I walked in here is that the professor had killed Gregor at Noisy-le-Sec. And, if he hadn’t talked so much, I would probably never have found out about the rest. But he loves to talk. And, this time, he has said too much. His insistence in bringing in the death of his son seemed suspicious to me. Not that he didn’t play the role perfectly. On the contrary. But he seemed to be wallowing in it, as if it were something very difficult to pull off, and he was happy to have succeeded. And I suddenly said to myself: what if this is him, the son? Superficially, it didn’t make any sense, it was based on nothing. But then I start to wallow in it myself. Immediately, a host of details came to mind. Many were in favour of the hypothesis, and none were against. I thought about Maryse’s phone call; I thought that, like us, she had seen the killer during the attempt against Duroyer. If she had recognised her cousin, her emotion became understandable. Her life was in danger. She asked me if her uncle was part of the conference. At first I had thought that, not wanting to tell me what she had discovered, she wished to talk to the professor. But now I realised that, on the contrary, she wanted to be sure that he would be kept away from Rue Cassini so that she could search the premises in peace. A terrible thought occurred to me: Doctor Richard was too crafty not to have foreseen such a danger and be ready for it. I was sure he would have set a trap. I couldn’t go, and neither could Jannin. We had a role to play here. Then I thought of Jacques. You know the rest.’

  ‘Since when, in your opinion, has André been playing the role of his father? Has he been fooling us all along?’

  ‘No. This is the first time. I don’t think I’m mistaken in saying that the real professor is dead or very ill. Someone had to take his place here, and his son, a remarkableactor, decided to take the risk. You need to send someone to Rue Cassini, Jannin. Make sure they look upstairs.’

  XIX

  JACQUES VITAL’S CONCLUSION

  Thursday, January 20

  As soon as it was possible, we hastened to the clinic where Professor Richard had been taken. He was in a coma and died at eight o’clock that night, without regaining consciousness. The autopsy was performed immediately. It showed that the death was completely natural: a stroke complicated by high levels of uremia. The medicine found next to his body was what an excellent doctor like André Richard would have prescribed, even though he would have had no doubt about the outcome.

  As for Bob, he was so depressed that, on the pretext of urgent business, he climbed into his car and left to pass two days in the province
s. He only returned on January 20th in the morning and we only saw him at lunch, half-an-hour later than the rendezvous he himself had fixed.

  The whole team that had followed us during our ordeal, longer and more challenging than the Tour de France, was there: “little” Saint-Bois, the flouncing Hyacinthe, Jannin, Delharbe and his beard, Vital, Maryse, Bob, and your humble servant. By common assent, the topic of interest was avoided during the meal. It was only after the coffee and liqueurs were served that we allowed ourselves to bask in the euphoriaand start the debate or, more accurately, Bob’s monologue.

  Before he began, he circulated a very stylish gold cigarette case which I had never seen before, saying:

  ‘I don’t know whether you like them. They’ve come directly from Cairo by diplomatic bag.’

  After the case had been returned to him, I noticed that only three cigarettes remained. Bob took one and put the case back in his pocket, then lit it with Jannin’s lighter and leant back:

  ‘Frankly, I haven’t distinguished myself throughout this whole business. In fact, I was beaten.’

  He dismissed our protests with a gesture.

  ‘But yes, I know what I’m talking about. It’s true that the murderer is finally behind bars, but I only found him by chance, like a mediocre billiards player scoring a point through an in-off. Have you considered that, if Richard had not decided to attend the conference, and had instead used his father’s illness—which we could easily verify—as a reason not to be there, he would have escaped indefinitely? It’s true I laid a trap following the return of the folder containing the astronomer’s report, but there was no guarantee that he would fall into it. He was so good that he would doubtless have found a way to play us again. The victory is not due to the effectiveness of my method, but the insufferable arrogance of the bandit. Those whom the gods seek to destroy....’