Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “It’s false!” cried the wretched woman in a last outburst of resistance.

  “You say ‘it’s false’ because you were wearing cotton gloves. But one of your gloves left an imprint on the glass. That gives you away more than an actual admission.”

  “Is Madame Boulenger the only person to wear cotton gloves?” interrupted the Presiding Judge.

  “No, but she often wears them, and she wore a pair on the day in question. It is easy to identify them, because the thumb of one of them contained some stitches which were reproduced on the glass. Besides, here is the glove. You made the mistake of losing it at Dr. Schall’s after you left my place.”

  Rouletabille drew the glove from a small parcel which he took from his waistcoat pocket.

  “This is the actual glove this time. It is not a fake like the letter of a few minutes ago.”

  The sound of hard breathing, a sort of intense, far-away moan, came from Madame Boulenger, and after that nothing. She drew herself up before the bar, her head higher than ever, as if she were about to leap over it.

  “Do you realize, Madame, that all this is too dreadful?” asked the Presiding Judge.

  “All this,” she made answer in a voice which we no longer recognized for it seemed already to pertain to another world. “All this is within the power of love.”

  She sank to the floor in a huddled heap. Thérèse Boulenger was dead. The same afternoon it was discovered that she had poisoned herself with prussic acid.

  Rouletabille was in no way moved by this death which startled the Court. While persons rushed towards her from every side and the Court was adjourned he turned to me with extraordinary self-possession and said:

  “The beauty of the thing is that the glove was a fake. I bought it this morning and put in the stitches myself. What is genuine is the imprint of the glove with its thumb stitches which appears on the glass. So I ran no risk in dishing up the proof which I required. This terrible woman cooked the evidence against Theodora Luigi. I fought her with her own weapons. Only my evidence was more fictitious than her own. That is why, perhaps, it succeeded so well!

  At this point I bring my story of what was known as The Crime of Rouletabille to a conclusion. There can be no question that the famous journalist established the material facts of the case, but was the truth in its moral aspects entirely elucidated?

  Who will ever penetrate the veil now that Ivana is no more! She was an honest woman and she died a good woman in the generally accepted sense of the word, and her great heart and beautiful soul were devoted alike to Rouletabille and the service of humanity.

  This is all that can be said.

  And the sphinx with its figure of a woman still stands at the portals of the grave.

  THE END

  The Sleuth Hound (1922)

  Translated by Hannaford Bennett, 1927

  Original French Title: ‘Rouletabille chez les Bohémiens’

  CONTENTS

  Part I

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER XXVII

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Part II

  CHAPTER XXIX

  CHAPTER XXX

  CHAPTER XXXI

  CHAPTER XXXII

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  CHAPTER XXXV

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  CHAPTER XL

  CHAPTER XLI

  CHAPTER XLII

  CHAPTER XLIII

  CHAPTER XLIV

  CHAPTER XLV

  CHAPTER XLVI

  CHAPTER XLVII

  CHAPTER XLVIII

  CHAPTER XLIX

  CHAPTER L

  CHAPTER LI

  CHAPTER LII

  CHAPTER LIII

  CHAPTER LIV

  CHAPTER LV

  CHAPTER LVI

  CHAPTER LVII

  CHAPTER LVIII

  CHAPTER LIX

  CHAPTER LX

  CHAPTER LXI

  Part I

  CHAPTER I

  IN WHICH “THE OCTOPUS” IS MENTIONED FOR THE FIRST TIME

  JEAN DE SANTIERNE darted up the staircase to Joseph Rouletabille’s flat at such a pace that despite his youth and devotion to every form of sport, he stopped a moment at the door out of breath.

  The famous journalist of the Epoque had lived during the last two years in this old house in the Faubourg Poissonière to which he had retired after the tragic death of his wife in circumstances which it is not necessary to recall here. Shunning the world’s vanities, associating but seldom with his few friends, in the front rank of whom de Santierne must be included, he had thus established closer relations with the great daily newspaper to which he seemed to consecrate his whole time in his effort to seek forgetfulness of the past.

  Jean rang the bell. Some time elapsed before the door was opened. At last a man servant appeared. He was a flat-faced man whom Rouletabille had brought back with him from the Balkans. Taciturn, with a perpetual look of gloom on his face he was a slave to orders.

  “Monsieur is not at home,” he declared.

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Olajai,” protested de Santierne in a tone of irritation. “I know that he’s here. Let me in.”

  “Monsieur is not at home to anyone,” retorted the man.

  But de Santierne had already thrust him aside and with a masterful air opened the door of Rouletabille’s study.

  He had no sooner entered it than he uttered a dull exclamation and stammered a confused apology. A woman was in the room which seemed to have been put to the sack. Books had been thrown to the floor in heaps; partially opened letters and papers lay strewn here and there; the drawers of the desk seemed to have been forced; and yet de Santierne was less surprised by this extraordinary disorder than by the sight in that room of the woman who seemed to be the cause of it and to rule over it.

  She was not beautiful, but, as the saying goes, she was worse than beautiful. Still young, in the thirties, an uncommon face was crowned by a fringe which was cut straight across the forehead, covering it to the eyes which she blinked in the manner of short-sighted persons and which held a disquieting light that stole with a seeming indifference over people and things. She was clad in a light grey tailor-made costume of perfect simplicity but faultless style.

  What was she doing when de Santierne entered the room so abruptly? It would have been difficult for him to say, but there could be no doubt that his coming disturbed her.

  She cast a hostile glance on him and at once turned away, slipping behind the desk, and disappearing through a door which connected Rouletabille’s bedroom with his study. Quickly though she had fled, de Santierne had none the less recognized a form whose appearance in that room rooted him to the spot.

  “The Octopus!” he murmured with a catch in his breath. “The Octopus here! Ah, that explains many things.”

  When he had recovered his composure he went into the entrance hall and called Olajai.

  “How is it that the study is in this state? Is your master moving house?”

  “He will be back soon,” replied the man and left him without another word.

  Almost immediately afterwards, Rouletabille came to him in the study. He held out a somewhat feverish hand; made certain of the fastenings
of the door, and asked him in the friendliest way what had brought him there. Such an effort of composure was merely on the surface. De Santierne was not the man to be deceived.

  “First let’s talk about yourself,” he said. “What’s happened here? You must forgive me for forcing my way in.”

  “My dear Jean, I’m going to tell you something that I determined to keep from everyone, and I ask you, for the present, to regard it as a dead secret. To be frank, what has happened is that Rouletabille’s flat has been broken into.”

  “Broken into!”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you know by whom and why.”

  “I have no idea and I can’t make it out.”

  “Rouletabille, when I came in just now,” went on Jean in a low voice, “I found a woman here and my presence seemed to embarrass her.”

  “Forget that you saw that woman,” returned Rouletabille in decisive tones. “You’ve got to. No one must have seen that woman in my flat.”

  “For my part, I am particularly sorry to have seen her here,” returned Jean, sinking his voice.

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “On your account... Madame de Meyrens here! Do you know what that woman used to be known as?”

  “Yes,” returned Rouletabille with a smile that Jean did not like. “She has told me the story of her misfortunes.”

  “You mean the misfortunes of others! We called her ‘The Octopus.’ I hope that I am sufficiently your friend to say: Rouletabille, be on your guard. Where ever that woman has shown her face disaster has followed. She has invariably left ruin and despair in her train.... At Vienna and Petrograd where she had access to the best society, for she had official support, she was said to be in government pay. She disappeared after the war. Some people even suggested that she was shot with her back to the wall in Schlusselberg.... And I came across her here, in your flat, as though she were at home, and a close friend of yours! Look here, Rouletabille, I know that during the last few months you have had a love affair, but I was far from suspecting that it was with her.... And yet now that you have told me of this burglary, nothing surprises me.”

  “Has she ever done you personally any harm?”

  “No, because when I was an attaché at the embassy the ambassador said to me: ‘Look out for yourself! For that matter, her behaviour always caused me uneasiness. I had no liking for her free and easy manners, her look which was far too clever at the moment when she was attracting you by the most ingenuous familiarity. Take no risks, I say, and don’t tell me that she is useful to you because of her knowledge of the world and every sphere of society. It’s she who will get the better of you. At all events I hope that you are not in love with her. Tell me that you are not in love with her.”

  “I?” returned Rouletabille. “Don’t worry. I loathe her.”

  “And she?”

  “She loathes me.”

  “Has it come to that?”

  “Yes, but let’s change the subject. Tell me what brought you here.”

  “Tell me first how you were burgled.”

  “I’m ashamed to tell you, but here goes!... You are aware that I am in the habit of working late at the office. I scarcely ever get back here until two o’clock in the morning. Last night by chance I went to bed at ten o’clock. I felt tired, worn out, I can’t say why. I have even wondered since if anyone gave me a sleeping draught without my noticing it.”

  “Where and with whom did you dine?”

  “Calm yourself. Not with her, but here.”

  “Can you depend on your servant?”

  “As a matter of principle I never depend on anybody, but from the logical point of view I had to reject the idea of a drug. Even presuming that my man was in league with my burglars, it was to their interest to see me go out as soon as possible and not to keep me in my own place even asleep. No: they were as greatly surprised to see me Here as I was to see them.... Well, I went to bed. It might have been half-past twelve or one o’clock when I awoke. A strange noise, a continuous grating like that of a file on a lock, roused me from my torpor and suddenly I heard a creaking and after that nothing.

  “It seemed to me that some article of furniture had been forced with a jemmy. That was, perhaps, merely a delusion and the sound was naturally caused by the cracking of the wainscoting. I sat up in bed feeling rather limp. You know that I am not lacking in courage. Well, at night time I have often been as nervous as a child at the mysterious sounds which things make in the dark.

  “Perturbed, the perspiration breaking out on my temples, I thrust my hand into the drawer of my bedside table. My revolver was not there. I remembered leaving it in a pigeon-hole in my desk. The noises, as it happened, came from my study. They were being renewed; the grating sound began again; it grew more distinct and in the face of this unmistakable sound, I at once completely recovered my self-possession.

  “I slipped out of bed and cautiously opened the door of my room. A gleam of light flickered at the foot of the door leading to the entrance hall. I called to mind a knotted club which lay in the umbrella stand. I armed myself with it and put my ear to the study door.

  “I heard the whisper of voices in a language which I did not understand. My man sleeps on the floor above. I was alone against a gang who would not hesitate to lay violent hands on me. I determined to leave the flat if there was still time and warn the concierge; but at that moment the study door was opened, there were some exclamations of surprise quickly stifled and three men flew at my throat.

  “In no time, I was knocked down, gagged, carried into my bedroom, bound firmly with my bedclothes and rendered helpless. The men had, of course, switched off the light, but I had the consciousness that they were still moving round me. What was the nature of their job? Suddenly the front door bell rang and they made themselves scarce like a flight of villainous night birds.

  “Heavy blows with the fist were being rained on the door and I heard the stentorian voice of my friend La Candeur shouting:

  “‘It’s me! Open the door, Rouletabille. You’re wanted at the office. We’ve tried to ring you up. Why have you left the receiver off? The editor is furious.’”

  “I for my part was fruitlessly straining every nerve to get free and to make myself heard. La Candeur went downstairs again cursing. On consideration, I was by no means sorry that he failed to see me in that plight. I, Rouletabille, to allow myself to be caught like that! I was ashamed, and annoyed. That was the feeling which was then uppermost in my mind.... My man released me this morning. I threatened him with gaol if he ever breathed a word about it, and as far as you are concerned I feel certain that I can rely on you not to give me away.”

  “But after all, what does such an attempt mean?” asked Jean de Santierne, who forgot his own anxieties as he listened to Rouletabille’s extraordinary experience.

  “Ah, that’s just it,” returned Rouletabille, making a sweeping gesture towards the study in disorder. “I have tried to find out. Those fellows obviously came here to steal certain papers, but what papers? I’ve been making an inventory, and can’t find that a single one is missing. It struck me for a moment that there was some connection between last night’s incident and my articles a couple of days ago on the trading scandals in Bengal, but the papers have not been tampered with.... It’s a mystery!”

  “Still, you must have some idea. Weren’t you able to catch a glimpse of those fellows?”

  “Yes, for a second, but you can bet they didn’t take long to switch off the light.”

  “What did they look like, your thieves?”

  “Like thieves. Far too much like thieves. Their faces were hideous, too hideous. Their clothes were too dirty; their caps too awful.”

  “How did they get away?”

  “Over the balcony. The flat at this side is empty. They forced their way in by the back staircase. Here they sawed through a Shutter and broke a pane of glass — it was quite easy!”

  “Haven’t you informed the police?”

 
“No.”

  “But, Rouletabille, don’t you suspect anybody?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whom?”

  “The police. It is possible that they were hunting for something that they will never find here. I shall soon know what to think about it.”

  Jean took time to reflect, his face overcast.

  Rouletabille, I say again: Be on your guard against the Octopus.”

  Didn’t you mention that she was connected with the police?’ asked the journalist chaffingly.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Well, I shall get to know from her whether the police did the deed,” he returned, lighting his pipe.

  Jean stood up.

  “Look here, I can see that there’s nothing more to be said to you.... Good-bye.” And he added somewhat craftily, “I won’t worry you any more.”

  Rouletabille did not at once answer but picked up his hat and stick.

  “I’ll come with you for I see that you shrink from speaking of Odette under the roof which shelters Madame de Meyrens,” he said.

  “How do you know that I wanted to talk to you about Odette?”

  Rouletabille shrugged his shoulders and drew him to the staircase.

  “You’ve had news from Camargue... bad news. Hubert de Lauriac never leaves Odette. He is becoming more persistent, almost threatening.”, “How did you get to know all this? Who told you?” asked Jean, taken aback.

  “You! The whole thing is written there,” And Rouletabille tapped him on the forehead.

  “What is your opinion of de Lauriac?”

  “I think he is capable of anything, but I confess that it is not he who worries me as far as you are concerned. Have you spoken to Callista?”

  “No, I came to ask you to speak to her.”

  “I like that,” exclaimed Rouletabille, who seemed to conceal under a bantering mood the annoyance which de Santierne’s request caused him. “I like that. I was nearly strangled last night, and to-night I am to have my eyes torn out!”