The disappearance and subsequent reappearance of Darzac proved that he had been kidnapped. But where had he been taken? It was fairly clear that Brignolles, who was working with Larsan, had not come all the way from Paris for nothing. Possibly his business was to watch over the prisoner. Following up this idea, Rouletabille questioned the keeper of the inn at the entrance to the tunnel, and found out that, the day before, the innkeeper’s curiosity was aroused by a man whose appearance, as he described it, fitted the description given by the gunsmith.
‘The traveller,’ said the innkeeper, ‘was very thirsty, and he behaved so oddly that he might have been taken for an escaped lunatic from the local madhouse.’
Rouletabille felt that the ‘scent was getting stronger’, and he asked, with assumed indifference: ‘Is there a lunatic asylum near here, then?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ the innkeeper replied, ‘there’s one on Mount Barbonnet.’
Then the full significance of the two syllables on the scrap of paper became apparent. Rouletabille was not long in coming to the conclusion that the real Darzac was locked up in the asylum on Mount Barbonnet. He hired a carriage and had himself driven to Sospel, which is at the foot of the mountain. He ran the risk of meeting Brignolles, to be sure, but fortunately he did not and so continued on his way to the asylum.
He had made up his mind to take any risk. There was a hope – a slender one, but still a hope – that he might find out what had become of Robert Darzac, for the fact that the sack had been found empty and that the track of the cartwheels led into Sospel where they petered out, meant that Larsan had not seen fit to get rid of Darzac by throwing him into the pit at Castillon and thus killing him, and had possibly found it in his interests to take him back alive to the asylum. Rouletabille came to the perfectly logical conclusion that Darzac alive could be much more useful to Larsan than Darzac dead. With such a hostage as this, once Mathilde discovered the imposture, Larsan could make any terms he pleased with the unhappy woman. If Darzac were dead, Mathilde would either kill Larsan with her own hands, or denounce him.
Rouletabille was correct in his surmise. He encountered Brignolles at the door of the asylum. He seized the wretch by the throat and threatened to shoot him. Brignolles was a coward. He implored Rouletabille to spare him and told him that Darzac was still alive! A few minutes later, Rouletabille was in possession of all the facts. The revolver with which Rouletabille threatened Brignolles was not enough, however, for the scoundrel not only loved life but everything that made life pleasant too, especially money. Rouletabille persuaded him that he would be ruined if he did not betray Larsan, but that if he helped the Darzacs to get through the affair without a scandal, he had a good deal to gain. They came to an understanding and entered the asylum together. Here they were received by the superintendent, who, when he found out how the land lay, was only too anxious to set his ‘patient’ at liberty.
As I have already explained, Robert Darzac was only slightly injured, though his wound might well have proved fatal. Wild with joy, Rouletabille carried him back to Menton. They got rid of Brignolles by sending him off to Paris to collect his money. On the way to Menton, Rouletabille learned that, a few days earlier, Darzac had happened to get hold of a local newspaper which announced that among recent arrivals at the Chateau d’Hercule, were M. and Madame Darzac, whose marriage had just been celebrated in Paris. This was enough to enlighten him as to the cause of all his troubles and he could easily guess who it was who had had the effrontery to take his place. This discovery inspired him with new energy. After stealing the superintendent’s overcoat and purse, containing about a hundred francs, he made his escape by climbing over a wall which, under any ordinary circumstances, would have seemed insurmountable. He went down to Menton and actually saw the other Darzac himself! He gave himself a few hours in which to look so much like the other Darzac that the other man might himself have been taken in by the resemblance. His plan was simple. It was to enter the castle as if he were quite at home there and to go to Mathilde’s room, where he would face the false Darzac in her presence. He questioned the people in the neighbourhood and found out where the new couple’s rooms were situated. The new couple!
All that Darzac had suffered up to the present was as nothing compared to the agony which that thought caused him. There would be no end to that pain until he found himself once more face to face with the Lady in Black while Rouletabille was expounding his theory. Then he understood! She would never have called to him so joyfully, she would never have sprung forward to welcome him as she did if, for a single instant, either in spirit or in fact, she had been the wife of another! They had been separated, but they were not lost to each other!
Before putting his plan into action he bought a revolver at Menton, got rid of the overcoat, which might have betrayed him should the asylum authorities try to find him, invested in a suit of clothes which in colour and cut, closely resembled those he had seen the false Darzac wearing, and waited until five o’clock. He had hidden behind the Villa Lucie, at the upper end of the Boulevard Garavan, and, taking up his post on a little mound of earth, was able to watch everything that went on inside the castle. At five o’clock, he set out, fairly certain that he would not encounter the other Darzac, whom he knew to be then in the Round Tower, and hopeful of being able to make his way into the Square Tower unobserved. When Darzac met Rouletabille and myself in the courtyard, he was tempted to let us know who he really was, but he managed to retain his self-control, since his one desire was to be recognised by the Lady in Black. That hope gave him courage, it was the only thing that made life worth fighting for.
And when, an hour later, Larsan was sitting at the table in his room, writing, and Darzac had him entirely at his mercy, he was not even prompted by a spirit of revenge to kill the man. So wholly was his heart filled with love for Mathilde that there was no room for hatred towards Larsan.
The rest of the story we know. What I did not know, however, was how Darzac had been able to get back into the castle a second time and hide in the cupboard again. I learned that the very night on which Rouletabille brought Darzac from the asylum to Menton, he discovered through Old Bob’s disappearance that the well did, in fact, communicate with the sea, and used that route to get Darzac back into the castle.
It was too late to do anything that night, but he determined to have it out with Larsan on the morrow. All that was needed was to hide the real Darzac for one day in the castle. With the assistance of Bernier, a secluded corner was found for him in the New Castle.
When Rouletabille arrived at this point of his story I could not help interrupting him with an exclamation which amused him hugely.
‘So that’s how I happened to find Australia! It was the real Darzac! And to think how puzzled I was. Because it wasn’t just Australia. There was the beard, too, which did not come off! Oh, now I understand everything!’
‘You have been rather slow about it,’ remarked Rouletabille calmly. ‘You were considerably in the way that night, my dear fellow. When you came into the courtyard, M. Darzac had just climbed up the well with me. There was only just time for me to put the cover on again and for Darzac to take refuge in the New Castle. However, when you had gone to bed after pulling his beard, Darzac came to find me, and we were both a good deal bothered. If you happened to mention the matter to the other Darzac next day, under the natural delusion that you were speaking to the same man, we were lost. Darzac urged me to tell you everything, but I would not listen to him. I was afraid that if you knew the truth, you would be unable to control your features and would thus give us away. You’re an impulsive chap, Sainclair, and, without meaning to do so, you might have greatly hampered us. Besides, the other Darzac was no fool. I decided to take the risk and not say anything to you. I was ostensibly to return to the castle next morning, and some way had to be found to prevent your meeting the other Darzac in the meantime. That’s why I sent you off on that early-morning shellfishing expedition!’
‘I see !’
‘I dare say you will – eventually – Sainclair. I hope you bear me no grudge for that little outing, since it gave you an opportunity to spend a pleasant time in the society of the charming Mrs Rance.’
‘Now that you mention Mrs Rance, why did you take such malicious pleasure in goading me into a ridiculous rage?’ I asked.
‘Because I wanted an excuse to look angry myself and to prevent you from speaking to me or to M. Darzac. As I keep on telling you, after what happened the night before, I did not want you to talk to Darzac. Why can’t you understand?’
‘I do.’
‘I congratulate you.’
‘There is one thing, however, which is not yet clear to me, and that is Bernier’s death. What killed him?’
‘The walking stick,’ answered Rouletabille, ‘that infernal walking stick.’
‘I thought it was the oldest chisel in the world.’
‘Both. The walking stick and the chisel. But the walking stick was the real cause of the death. The chisel was merely the weapon that inflicted the wound.’
I glanced at Rouletabille and wondered if his marvellous mind was not, after all, failing.
‘Among the few other things which you never understood, Sainclair,’ he continued, ‘was the reason why, on the day after the truth had dawned upon me, I dropped Arthur Rance’s cane in front of M. and Madame Darzac. It was because I hoped Darzac would pick it up. Do you remember Larsan’s walking stick at Glandier and the way he carried it? He had a very idiosyncratic way of carrying it. Well, I wanted to see if Darzac held the stick in the same way. I was quite certain of my facts, but all the same I wanted to see Darzac make one of Larsan’s gestures. I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, and even the next day, after I had actually found the real Darzac in the lunatic asylum, I wanted to see the false Darzac behave like Larsan, to see him brandish his cane like the villain he was, just to have him forget his disguise for an instant and straighten up to his full height, unbend his purposely stooped shoulders! “Knock on the Mortola coat-of-arms over the arch, my dear M. Darzac, knock with all your might.” He did, and he revealed himself to me, and to another, who died because he saw it. It was Bernier, poor fellow, who was so startled that he stumbled and fell on the chisel. He had picked it up, presumably after it had fallen from Old Bob’s pocket, and was on his way with it to the study in the Round Tower. He died because he saw Larsan flourish a walking stick. Every battle has its innocent victims, Sainclair.’
After a pause, I told him how annoyed I was with him for not having had more faith in me and for having misled me, as he did everybody else, into thinking he believed in Old Bob’s guilt.
He smiled.
‘What did I care about him! I was sure that he, at any rate, wasn’t in the sack. Nevertheless, the night before he was found, as soon as I had settled Darzac in the New Castle and left through the well, I swam ashore with my clothes in a bundle on my head, for I had tied up the boat I had got from Paolo, a friend of Tullio’s, at the entrance to the well passage, for purposes of my own, on the following day. As I clambered out on to the beach, I met Paolo, who was surprised to see me bathing at that strange hour, and invited me to go fishing for octopus with him. This gave me an opportunity to remain in sight of the castle all night and keep watch, so I accepted. Then it was that I learned that the boat I had left behind me belonged to Tullio. He had unexpectedly come into a fortune and had announced that he was going back to his own country. He said he had sold some rare shells to Old Bob for a good price, and, as a matter of fact, he had been with the old gentleman every day. Paolo knew that Tullio meant to stop at San Remo before he went on to Venice.
I surmised that Old Bob had used Tullio’s boat for his nocturnal expedition, and that Tullio could probably tell us what had become of the old fellow. So I got Tullio’s address from Paolo, and sent it in an anonymous letter to Rance. I was right. Old Bob had paid Tullio handsomely to take him to the cave and then go away. It was out of pity for the old man that I notified Rance, for I was afraid some accident might have befallen him. All I wanted was for the old fellow not to turn up before I got through with Larsan, since it was very important that the false Darzac should think that I was persuaded that Old Bob was Larsan. I wasn’t overglad when I heard that the old gentleman had been found, but the wound in his chest was of some use to me, as it enabled me to keep up my game a little longer, on account of the similar wound inflicted on the man in the sack.’
‘Why didn’t you bring matters to a head at once?’
‘Can’t you see that it was impossible for me to dispose of Larsan’s body in the daytime? I needed the whole day to prepare for getting rid of him by night. What a day it was! And then Bernier’s death. The police didn’t simplify matters. I had to wait till they were out of the way. The first shot you heard while we were in the Square Tower was to notify me that the last gendarme had left the Albo Inn at Point Garibaldi, and the second shot told me that the customs officers were at supper in their shed, and that the sea was free.’
‘Tell me, Rouletabille,’ I asked, looking at him squarely in the eyes, ‘when you left Tullio’s boat at the end of the well passage for purposes of your own the next day, did you know what would be taken out to sea in that boat?’
Rouletabille bowed his head.
‘No,’ he said, much disturbed, ‘no, you must not think that, Sainclair. I didn’t suppose it would have to carry a corpse. After all, he was my father. I merely thought it would take an extra patient to the asylum. You see, old man, I had only condemned him to prison for life. But he chose to kill himself. It was God’s will.’
We said no more that night.
When we got to Laroche, I tried to make him eat some breakfast, but he refused. Instead, he bought all the newspapers he could find, and was soon immersed in the day’s news. The papers were full of stories about a great conspiracy that had been uncovered in Russia. The facts reported were so extraordinary as to seem incredible.
I opened L’Epoque, and in huge letters across the top of the front page, read the following:
JOSEPH ROULETABILLE LEAVES FOR RUSSIA
THE TSAR HIMSELF ASKS FOR HIM TO COME
I passed the paper to Rouletabille who shrugged and said:
‘They don’t even take the trouble to consult me! What does my editor suppose I can do there! I don’t care a jot for the Tsar and his revolutionaries. Let him attend to his own business, it’s none of mine. Russia, indeed! I’m going to ask for a holiday, you can depend on that: I need one. What do you say, Sainclair? We’ll go somewhere together and rest.’
‘No, thanks,’ I exclaimed hastily. ‘I’ve had about all the resting with you I want. I’m anxious to get back to work.’
‘All right. I wouldn’t want to force you.’
As we drew near Paris, he cheered up somewhat and emptied out his pockets. He was considerably surprised to find in one of them a red envelope which he could not account for.
‘Oh, no!’ he exclaimed, and tore it open.
He burst out laughing, and sounded so like his old jolly self that I immediately wanted to know the cause of his hilarity.
‘I shall go, old man,’ he cried. ‘I shall go! By heaven, if that’s the case, I shall go! I’m leaving at once! I’ll take the train tonight!’
‘Where for?’
‘St Petersburg.’ And he handed me the letter. It said:
‘We know your paper intends sending you to Russia to find out what is going on at Tsarkoieselo. We feel bound to warn you that you will never reach St Petersburg alive!
Signed:
The Central Revolutionary Committee.’
I watched Rouletabille. He grew more delighted by the minute.
‘Prince Galitch was at the station,’ I remarked casually. He understood my meaning and shrugged again.
‘My dear old man,’ he exclaimed, ‘there’s going to be some fun!’
That was all I could get out of him. That night, when I said goodbye to him at the rai
lway station, and again implored him not to go, he only laughed, and kept repeating:
‘What fun! Oh, what fun!’
That was his farewell.
Next day, I returned to my work at the law courts. The first two people I met were Maître Henri-Robert and Maître André Hesse.
‘Well,’ they said, ‘have you had a pleasant holiday?’
‘Oh, extremely!’ I replied.
Afterword
Although it may be read as a separate novel, Le Parfum de la dame en noir (1909; tr. The Perfume of the Lady in Black, 1909) is actually a sequel to Le Mystère de la chambre jaune (1908; tr. The Mystery of the Yellow Room, 1908). Between them, these two works went a good way to defining the aesthetics of what has sometimes been called the ‘Golden Age’ of the British and American detective story – a period roughly extending from the end of the First World War through to the beginning of the Second World War.
Both novels belong to a distinct sub-genre of the detective story known as the ‘locked-room mystery’ – that is to say stories of crimes, generally murder, perpetrated in apparently sealed rooms or under other impossible conditions. John Dickson Carr – himself a major writer of the Golden Age (and an author with a penchant for the macabre almost as developed as that of Gaston Leroux) – defined the nature of the problem in his first crime novel, It Walks by Night (1929):
The murderer was not hiding … There is no possibility of false walls, for you can stand in any door and test the entire partition of the next room. Tear open floor or ceiling, and you will find only floor or ceiling of the next room … In short, there are no secret entrances; the murderer was not hiding anywhere in the room; he did not go out by the window; he did not go out by the salon door … Yet a murderer had beheaded his victim there; we know in this case above all others that the dead man did not kill himself.1
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