Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “But in that case who fired the shots?”

  “I may perhaps tell you presently,” he returned after casting a glance out of the window. “Here comes my man.”

  I glued my face to the glass and noticed crossing the square and making for the hotel a man who at first sight seemed quite uninteresting. His appearance and clothes were those of a shopkeeper, or even a commercial traveller.

  I left Rouletabille greatly excited by what I had learned, a hundred suppositions, one as preposterous as the other revolving in my mind.

  Rouletabille did not remain with his visitor more than a couple of minutes. As soon as the man was gone, he came to me. His face was set, and there was a gleam in his eyes. When we were in his room he at once said:

  “It’s as I thought. I’ve just been inquiring about the revolver. That man is a gunsmith in the Rue de Paris. I didn’t want anyone to see me going into his shop, because there’s no need to let the police suspect that I am more inquisitive in this business than they are themselves....

  “On account of Prince Henry’s position the police have refused to take any further steps, and the result of their investigations has already been pigeon-holed. That is the one thing, of course, which protects the culprit. I therefore asked the gunsmith to call on me. I said to him: ‘When you sell a revolver, no matter what the make may be, have you any means of identifying it once it has left your hands?’— ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I myself stamp a thin cross on the butt near the trigger.’

  ‘That’s all I want to know,’ I told him. I offered to pay him something for his trouble in coming here, but he declined to accept anything, and he left me, not, however, before asking: ‘Aren’t you Monsieur Rouletabille, the friend of Monsieur Roland Boulenger?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. He stared at me for a moment and took his departure.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, you must know that yesterday I saw the revolver which was picked up by Michel, the plain clothes policeman. Detective-Inspector Tamar was good enough to show it to me; he and I are old pals. Well, I noticed the cross stamped on it. The revolver was bought at the shop in the Rue de Paris.”

  “By whom?”

  “By Roland Boulenger,” returned Rouletabille, filling his pipe.

  I was dumbfounded.

  “That takes your breath away,” he said, looking up impassively.

  “Well, of course. Do you think—”

  “I never think... I make inquiries... I look about. I verify the facts, and when I have nothing further to verify I draw my conclusions. That revolver was bought a week ago in the Rue de Paris by Roland Boulenger, who never went out without it.”

  “Who told you so.”

  “Boulenger himself.”

  “Who told you he bought it in the Rue de Paris?”

  “Boulenger himself again.... To be sure, whatever the inferences may be, I do not believe that the crime was premeditated, and the proof of that is that he made no secret of his purchase of this weapon, which he considered he might want in the circumstances brought about by his liaison with Theodora Luigi. He was warned every day that his life was threatened by the Prince.”

  “And he fired on his wife. It’s too awful.”

  “You go too fast.... In any case there are extenuating circumstances,” returned Rouletabille dispassionately.

  “Not at all. You horrify me.”

  “They had been ‘taking in’ opium for some two hours when Thérèse appeared on the scene. Did you not smell it when you came in? And yet the room had been ventilated. They must have been in a pretty state! Just think, it was their last meeting before they were to part.”

  I felt so indignant that I gripped Rouletabille by the wrists.

  “You call that ‘extenuating circumstances!’

  I assure you that were I the judge—”

  “We are not discussing that,” broke in Rouletabille in increasingly icy tones. “The thing is to set forth the facts. I don’t believe that Roland Boulenger if he fired, fired on his wife in cold blood, that’s all. You won’t have it that there are extenuating circumstances.

  I don’t mind one way or the other, but stop kneading my wrists.... Thérèse also might have been half-demented. No woman, you know, could force herself for days together to watch a house in which her husband was listening to Mademoiselle Théodora Luigi’s Oriental fairy tales without feeling a sudden and irresistible desire to drop in and hear the conversation!”

  He puffed at his pipe for a few moments, and went on:

  Through the charwoman, Thérèse had means of entering the house. Perhaps oulenger and Théodora heard the door open and perhaps they found themselves suddenly confronted by her. We must take it that the three of them were in no state to realize the effect either of their words or their deeds. Did Poland imagine in the hallucination produced by the opium that he himself or that Theodora was menaced? The latter seems the more natural explanation. The noise made by Thérèse at the door evidently caused him to step forward with his revolver, and there is no doubt, unfortunately, that he made use of it.

  “We may suppose that if he did not fire more than twice it was perhaps because Thérèse wrenched it away from him. When the policeman came up Roland had, perhaps, shut the door, but when he heard the man’s voice he certainly opened it again.”

  “There are a good many ‘perhaps’ for only one ‘certainly.’ After all, ‘perhaps’ Théodora Luigi fired the shots,” I objected, for the thought of Roland shooting his wife seemed to me monstrous.

  “I will tell you something else, Sainclair. I pretty well pumped Michel, the policeman, and turned him inside out; and I questioned others who were in the vicinity. Well, Thérèse did not shout ‘Murder! Roland! Murder!’ She shouted ‘Murderer! Roland! Murderer!’”

  “The villain.... And she forgave him! Oh, he might well grovel at her feet. Why, she is more than a saint.”

  “She is an angel,” said Rouletabille. “For my part I needn’t tell you that as soon as Thérèse is well again I intend to take Ivana away, and it will be a case of ‘Let’s be off to Syria.

  A week later Thérèse was convalescent.

  We said good-bye to her, but Rouletabille, at her request, agreed to allow Ivana to remain behind for a few days longer. Before we repaired to Paris he and I made a trip to Deauville to collect some of our things at The Thatches. We were unaware that Roland was at that moment in the house. Suddenly we heard the sound of his voice. He seemed to be having an argument with Bernard, his valet.

  “What does it matter, Bernard, if the revolver is lost,” he said. “It can’t be helped. I shall only have to buy another.... And don’t worry me any more about it.”

  I glanced at Rouletabille, and my lips murmured: “Murder!”

  “You are still going too fast,” he returned in a whisper. “The thing isn’t over yet.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  SLAUGHTER

  THE TRAGEDY AT St. Adresse, as is well known, was but the prelude to the terrible slaughter at Passy; but in this case also let us proceed in due order.

  I was in Paris for some time without seeing Rouletabille. One day I encountered him in the entrance hall of the Law Courts. I was hurriedly passing through in entirely exceptional circumstances, for it is not the custom to allow oneself to be seen at the Courts during the long vacation. He was coming from the Legal Press Bureau, and we stopped when we found ourselves face to face. We were almost alone in the immense building, and our voices reverberated in a manner which doubtless made it difficult for him to say what he wanted to say. He led me to an adjoining corridor.

  “Have you heard anything of Boulenger?” he asked.

  I told him that I had received an answer from Roland to one of my letters and thus learnt, to my great delight, that Madame Boulenger was quite well again.

  “To whom did you write?”

  “To Madame Boulenger. I must confess that since you enlightened me about the affair at St. Adresse I have felt the greatest reluctance to hold
any communication with the Professor.”

  “And he replied to you? Have you kept the letter?”

  “It’s quite likely, but I’m not absolutely certain. My clerks are on their holidays and my papers are in some disorder.”

  “Let’s go to your place.”

  “Are you keen on seeing the letter?”

  “Mainly the envelope if you have it still.”

  “Oh, now you’re probably asking too much.” Twenty minutes later we were in my chambers, and I found the letter in its envelope.

  As soon as he saw the envelope Rouletabille changed colour. Nevertheless, he did not even touch it. I was a few steps away from him and I offered it to him. He stared at it for two or three moments and then said in a changed voice:

  “That’s all right. You can burn it.”

  He sat down and wiped his forehead like a man who had received a severe shock, one of those shocks which almost turn the brain.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, my affection and solicitude for him fully roused.

  “You shall know what’s happened, my dear Sainclair.”

  But he was afraid lest he should give way, and he strove to tell me the story in the clear and somewhat “bald” tones and the air of indifference which he usually assumed in explaining the details of a criminal case which was a mystery to every one. But it is one thing to apply the surgeon’s knife to the bodies of others and quite another to plunge it into your own flesh. And his hand, as it were, was shaking.

  “Ivana returned to Paris a week ago,” he began.

  “Not before!” I cried in astonishment.

  “No. At Thérèse’s urgent entreaties — for she alone writes to me — I agreed that Ivana should prolong her visit, and besides I couldn’t raise any objection. At last she came back. She seemed extremely glad to see me. For some days we celebrated her arrival. We behaved like children. We went out and saw the sights. We nearly went to the Zoo....

  “Ivana told me that the Boulengers were now leading a model life, and Roland had set to work again as if nothing had happened. ‘But something did happen, my dear Ivana,’ I answered, ‘and, therefore, I ask you, even if you have to make a sacrifice, to give up any further collaboration with Roland Boulenger. You have a perfect excuse. You are leaving for Asia Minor with me in a few weeks. If necessary, I will hasten our departure; and you can say that your preparations for the journey do not leave your mind sufficiently free to enable you to be of any assistance to him in his researches, which in any case you will have to relinquish.’

  “‘That will be quite easy,’ she said. ‘There’s no need to worry him just yet. I will explain to him by word of mouth on his return, and in this way you will be quite satisfied.’

  “I confess, Sainclair, that I did not expect this complaisance, and I kissed her delightedly—”

  “One moment,” I interrupted, “did you tell Ivana of the conclusions which you drew from the business at St. Adresse?”

  “No,” returned Rouletabille. “No one, not even you, up to now is aware of the conclusions which I drew from the business at St. Adresse, Only one person is entitled to tell the truth in that matter and she would rather die than make it public. I have kept silent for Thérèse’s sake, and upon my word I am not sorry for it to-day.”

  “And why, may I ask?”

  “Because of what occurred yesterday. When I went into the post office in the Rue d’Amerstam yesterday to register a letter, I believed that I was the happiest of men. I was waiting my turn at the counter when, glancing involuntarily in front of me, I noticed a few steps away, before another wicket — the poste restante wicket — Ivana! — I was so utterly taken aback by seeing her there that I did not even unconsciously make any movement towards her. I gazed at her dumbfounded. Three persons stood between us. She had only to turn her head to see me, but she was too engrossed to do so. I watched her lean forward and speak under her breath to the clerk.... The man handed her a letter, which she snatched as though she were a thief and slipped away....

  “I did not even follow her. I couldn’t have done it. My legs shook under me. The letter, the size of the envelope, the handwriting, the somewhat scrawling handwriting, which I could not mistake — I shall have these things before my eyes for ever so long. It came upon me as a flash of light, a revelation, a thunderbolt. And yet I wanted to be certain. I always want to be certain. And now that I’ve seen your envelope I no longer entertain any doubt. For that matter I never for a moment did entertain any doubt. I knew that the letter came from him.... Ivana is carrying on a clandestine correspondence with Roland Boulenger....”

  He stood up ready to go, and put out his hand.

  “Don’t do anything rash,” I said. “The only thing that you are certain about is this correspondence. Be as clear-headed in your own case as you are when you are dealing with other people’s. After the frank explanation which you had with Ivana, she may have wished to prepare the Professor for the decision which you both came to and tell him that he must not reckon on her, but that she is looking for some one to take her place — who knows? She is keeping it from you, which is quite wrong, but on the other hand she knows that you can’t bear to hear that man’s name.”

  “What you say is quite possible,” admitted Rouletabille, and he left me.

  As I stood there alone I could say but one thing: “Poor Rouletabille!” People had often said to me: “Poor Sainclair!” but I am not a man who thinks only of himself. I loved Rouletabille as if he were a much younger brother whom I had brought up, and my sorrow for him was very deep.

  I did not fail during the following days to telephone to him. I even asked him to fix a meeting. But I did not see him. Once I recognized Ivana’s voice at the telephone. She spoke to me in friendly accents, but what she said was of no consequence, and I imagined that nothing fresh had happened between them. Rouletabille had not mentioned the post office incident to her. That looked serious.

  A few days later I was told of the Boulengers’ return to Paris. I was on the point of calling on Thérèse when Rouletabille came to see me at my chambers. His demeanour seemed to me too calm, too restrained within an armour of affected indifference, too steel-proof against any outward manifestation of his innermost feelings. I at once realized that he was the bearer of ill news, but a man’s pride is such that even he from whom, in like case, I never kept back anything, tried to hide the secret of his woes.

  He was playing the strong man.... How absurd!... Is it possible for a man to be strong in such circumstances? Whether he be peer or peasant he suffers the same anguish of heart, is filled with the same feeling of revolt. And then he acts in accordance with his temperament; he fights or kills or commits suicide or with a trembling hand knocks at the door of justice, which will seek to effect a reconciliation. But in the beginning he reels under the blow like a child.

  Rouletabille sat down facing me, folded his arms over my desk — he did not fill his pipe — and began:

  “I never suspected that a woman could lie like Ivana.”

  I wanted to retort: “Well, what about my wife?” but I abstained from making any comparison which might cause him straightway to lose the splendid formal air with which he strove to throw me off the scent as to the secret agitation which shook him.

  “Since the Boulengers returned,” he went on, “she assured me that apart from the visit that we made together she had seen Boulenger once only in order to acquaint him of our impending departure, and the necessity of leaving him to carry on his researches without her. Now, old man, Ivana and Roland are meeting every day from three to five o’clock, while she is supposed to be at the Trousseau Hospital.... When she comes home she describes her work at the hospital, the persons whom she meets, and so forth. It passes my comprehension. And it’s a shameful thing to say, but no man would lie like that.”

  “That’s a question,” I said.

  “No, don’t libel us. In such a game no man could be the equal of a woman. We couldn’t do it. We haven’t the
effrontery. And then one must possess the fine contemptuous belief in the credulity, the stupidity, the blind folly of the other person. When they lie the other person is a man. When we lie the other person is a woman. Consequently we are beaten beforehand. We shouldn’t even make the attempt...

  “Where do they meet?” I inquired.

  “Since the incident of the letter I have followed Ivana and watched her movements. You can readily imagine that I did not apply to any private detective. If Rouletabille wants a thing done well he does it himself.... When she leaves the house she goes to the Trousseau Hospital, comes out almost at once and proceeds to Dr. Schall’s nursing home, which is quite near. Roland is already there when she reaches the place. She leaves him some two hours later, returns to the Trousseau Hospital, where she must give the necessary instructions in case I telephone to her, and then she comes home. She has a calm, frank look, and a smile on her lips. She looks well.”

  “Hasn’t she asked if you’ve heard anything of Boulenger?”

  “Not yet, but that will come...

  “In short, disregarding your objection she goes on working with him?”

  “Yes. Schall is a friend of Boulenger’s and lends them his office, where they scribble for a couple of hours.”.

  “I quite understand that Ivana’s deceit upsets you,” I said, “but bear in mind that their scientific work is the reason of these meetings.”

  “I should agree with you if it were a case of anyone but Roland, but I have no confidence in him. He started too well on a certain game not to want to continue it. On the other hand, granting the fact that Ivana was playing a farce, I confess that there is no reason why she should give up her part. Ought she not at all costs before her departure to complete the report on tuberculosis of which we have heard so much? You see,” he went on, “I am putting things in the most favourable light for myself. But as you said yourself, a farce like that has its disadvantages.”