Rouletabille and the Mystery of the Yellow Room

by Gaston Leroux

  “I jumped into a cab and rushed to Bureau 40, where I asked the clerk if he had a letter addressed to M.A.T.H.S.N. He replied that he had not. As I insisted, begged and entreated him, he wanted to know if I were playing a joke on him. He then told me that he had had a letter addressed to M.A.T.H.S.N, but three days prior, he had given it to a lady who had come for it. ‘Now you’re here today to claim this letter, and just the day before yesterday, another gentleman did the same with similar insistence! I’ve had enough of this,’ he said angrily. I tried to question him regarding the two individuals who had asked for the letter before me, but whether he wished to retreat behind professional secrecy—he may have thought that he had already said too much—or whether he was disgusted at the joke that had been played on him—he would not answer any of my questions.”

  Rouletabille paused. We all remained silent, each of us drawing their own conclusions from the strange story of the letter at the Poste Restante. It seemed that we now had a new thread which might help us unravel this amazing mystery.

  “Then it’s almost certain,” said Professor Stangerson, “that my daughter did lose her key, but that she didn’t tell me, probably to spare me any further anxiety, and that she begged whoever had found it to write to the poste restante. She evidently feared that, if she gave our address, I might have learned of her losing the key. It was quite logical, quite natural, for her to have done so—because I have been robbed once before.”

  “Where and when was that?” asked the Chief of the Sûreté.

  “Oh! Many years ago, in Philadelphia. Someone stole the blueprints of two of my inventions from my laboratory, which might have made the fortune of a nation. Not only did I never learn the identity of the thief, but I never heard that these inventions were ever exploited. But that’s probably because, in order to thwart the thief, I gave them away to the public, thereby making them financially worthless. From that moment, I have been very suspicious and careful to lock the doors when I’m working. The bars to these windows, the isolated location of this pavilion, this cabinet, which I had specially constructed, this special lock, this unique key, all are precautions taken against fears inspired by a sad experience.”

  “Very interesting!” remarked Monsieur Dax.

  Monsieur Rouletabille asked about Mademoiselle Stangerson’s black satin handbag. Neither the Professor nor Père Jacques had seen it for several days. A few hours later, we learned from Mademoiselle Stangerson herself that her handbag had either been stolen from her, or she had lost it. She further corroborated everything that her father had said. She had gone to the Poste Restante on October 23, where she had been given a letter which, she said, was nothing but a bad joke, and which she had immediately destroyed.

  To return to our reconstruction, or rather our “conversation,” I must add here that the Chief of the Sûreté, having inquired of Professor Stangerson under what conditions his daughter had gone to Paris on October 20—the day she had lost her handbag—we learned that Monsieur Darzac had accompanied her, and that he had not been seen again at the Chateau until the day after the attack on his fiancée. The fact that Monsieur Darzac was with Mademoiselle Stangerson at the Grands Magasins du Louvre when the handbag had disappeared didn’t go unnoticed and, it must be said, strongly attracted our interest.

  This “conversation” between Magistrates, victims, witnesses and journalists was coming to an end when a surprising new development occurred—the kind of theatrical incident that Monsieur de Marquet likes so much. The Brigadier came to announce that Inspector Frederic Larsan requested to be admitted—a request that was immediately granted.

  The detective came in, holding in his hand a pair of heavy, muddy boots, which he threw on the floor of the laboratory.

  “Here,” he said, “are the boots worn by the murderer. Do you recognize them, Père Jacques?”

  Père Jacques bent over the appalling footwear and, quite astonished, recognized a pair of old boots which he used to wear, some years ago, and which he claimed to have thrown into a corner of his attic. He was so taken aback by that discovery that he couldn’t hide his distress and had to blow his nose.

  Then, pointing to the handkerchief in the old man’s hand, Monsieur Larsan said:

  “That’s a handkerchief amazingly like the one found in the Yellow Room.”

  “I know,” said Père Jacques, trembling, “they’re almost the same.”

  “Lastly,” continued Monsieur Larsan, “the old Basque béret also found in the Yellow Room might, at one time, have been Père Jacques’… Don’t be alarmed,” he said at once to the old man who was almost fainting. “In my opinion, gentlemen,” he continued, “all this proves that the murderer wished to disguise his real identity, and did so rather clumsily—or so it seems, because we’re certain that the perpetrator isn’t Père Jacques, who never left Professor Stangerson’s side. But think about what might have happened if Professor Stangerson hadn’t carried on working that night and had returned to the Chateau after saying good night to his daughter. If she had been murdered when there was no one else in the pavilion, except for Père Jacques sleeping in his attic. Then no one would have doubted for an instant that he was the murderer! He owes his safety only to the fact that the attack on Mademoiselle Stangerson occurred too soon. The perpetrator must have thought, from the silence in the laboratory, that it was empty, and that the moment for action had come. The man who was able to enter this pavilion so mysteriously and leave so many clues accusing Père Jacques, must be—without a doubt—familiar with this house. When did he enter the pavilion exactly? In the afternoon or in the evening? I can’t say. But someone so familiar with the habits and the routine of the people living and working in this pavilion could choose his own time to go into the Yellow Room.”

  “But he couldn’t have gone into it when there were people in the laboratory,” said Monsieur de Marquet.

  “How do we know that?” replied Monsieur Larsan. “There was the dinner being served in the laboratory, the coming and going of the servants. There was a chemical experiment being carried on between 10 and 11 p.m., which kept Professor Stangerson, his daughter and Père Jacques busy near the furnace in a corner of the fireplace. Who can say that the perpetrator—an intimate!—a friend!—didn’t take advantage of that moment to slip into the Yellow Room, after having taken off his boots in the lavatory?”

  “That’s very improbable,” said Professor Stangerson.

  “Perhaps, but it isn’t impossible either. I assert nothing yet. As to the escape from the pavilion, that’s another thing. How could the perpetrator have left? Why, the most natural way in the world.”

  Here, Monsieur Larsan paused for a moment, that seemed to us to last a very long time. You can easily imagine how eager we were to hear the rest of what he had to say.

  “I haven’t been inside the Yellow Room,” the detective continued, “but I take it for granted that you’ve satisfied yourselves that the only way out is through the door. So it’s through the door, then, that the perpetrator left. Since it’s impossible for him to have done otherwise, then that must be the truth. He committed the crime, then left through the door. But when? The answer is: when it was the easiest for him to do so, when it is the easiest to explain, so completely explainable in fact, that there can’t be any other explanation. Let us go over the various events which immediately followed the attack on Mademoiselle Stangerson. Event No. 1 was when Professor Stangerson and Père Jacques stood in front of the door to the Yellow Room, in the laboratory, ready to bar the way of the perpetrator if he came out. Event No. 2 was when Père Jacques left to check the window of the Yellow Room outside and Professor Stangerson found himself alone in front of the door. Event No. 3 was when the Professor was joined by Monsieur Bernier, the caretaker. Event No. 4 was when Père Jacques returned with Madame Bernier and five people now stood in front of the door. Event No. 5 was when the door was forced open and the Yellow Room entered. The moment when the escape took place is obviously when there were the l
east number of people in front of the door. That’s Event No. 2 when there was only one person standing alone—Professor Stangerson. Unless, of course, we assume the complicity of Père Jacques—which I don’t, because he wouldn’t have gone out of the pavilion to check the window of the Yellow Room if he had seen the door open. Therefore, the door was opened when Professor Stangerson was alone and that’s how our man escaped.

  “Here, we must further assume that the Professor had some powerful reason for not stopping the perpetrator, or at least reporting him to the police later. Instead, he allowed him to leave through the vestibule window and even closed it after him! Once that was done, as Père Jacques was about to return, everything had to look exactly the same. So, Mademoiselle Stangerson, though horribly wounded, still had enough strength, no doubt following her father’s orders, to refasten the door of the Yellow Room from the inside, with both the bolt and the lock, before sinking down to the floor.

  “We don’t know who committed the crime. We don’t know of what villain Professor and Mademoiselle Stangerson are the victims, but there’s no doubt that they both know! It must be a dreadful secret, since the father didn’t hesitate to leave his daughter to die behind a door which she had shut upon herself, dreadful enough for him to have allowed the man who had just attacked her to escape. But there is no other way in the world to explain how the perpetrator was able to leave the Yellow Room!”

  The silence which followed this dramatic and enlightening explanation was terrible. All of us felt sorry for the illustrious Professor, who had been backed into a corner by the merciless logic of Monsieur Larsan, forced either to confess the truth of his martyrdom, or to keep silent, and thus make an even more dreadful admission.

  We saw the Professor stand up. Like the very incarnation of despair, he raised his hand with a gesture so solemn that we bowed our heads as if we were at a religious service. He then uttered these words in a voice so forceful that it seemed to exhaust him:

  “I swear upon the head of my suffering child that I never, not for an instant, left the door of the Yellow Room unattended after hearing her cries for help; that that door was not opened while I was alone in the laboratory; and that, finally, when we entered the Yellow Room, my three servants and I, the perpetrator was no longer there! I also swear that I do not know his identity!”

  Need I say that, despite the solemnity of Professor Stangerson’s words, we didn’t believe his denial. Monsieur Larsan had shown us the truth and we weren’t so easily ready to give it up.

  Monsieur de Marquet then announced that our “conversation”—the reconstruction—was over. As we were about to leave, Joseph Rouletabille approached Professor Stangerson, took him by the hand with the greatest respect, and I heard him say:

  “I believe you, Professor.”

  Here ends the excerpt which I selected from the memoirs of Monsieur Maleine, court recorder at the Tribunal of Corbeil. I don’t need to tell the reader that all that went on in the laboratory was immediately and faithfully reported to me by Rouletabille himself.

  Chapter Twelve

  Frederic Larsan’s Cane

  I was planning to leave Glandier at 6 p.m., taking with me an article that had been hastily written by Rouletabille in the little sitting room, which Monsieur Darzac had placed at our disposal. The reporter was to sleep at the Chateau, taking advantage of the inexplicable hospitality offered him by Monsieur Darzac, upon whom Professor Stangerson relied, in that tragic time, to take care of all his domestic affairs. Nevertheless, my friend insisted on accompanying me to the station at Epinay. As we crossed the grounds, he said to me:

  “Larsan is really very clever and deserves his reputation. Do you know how he found Père Jacques’ boots? Near the spot where we noticed the traces of the expensive pair of boots that replaced the cheap ones, he found the impression of a squarish hole that had been freshly made into the damp soil, where a stone had obviously been removed. Larsan searched for that stone and, not finding it, theorized that it had been used by the perpetrator to sink the boots into the pond and get rid of them that way. His theory was excellent, as the success of his search proves. That fact escaped me, but in my defense, I must say that my mind was already occupied in another direction, that of the great many false clues left by the perpetrator to incriminate Père Jacques. Earlier, I’d noticed that the size of the sooty footprints in the Yellow Room matched the old man’s boots, a fact which I kept to myself, but was further proof, in my eyes, that the perpetrator sought to direct our suspicions onto the old servant. That’s what enabled me, if you remember, to describe the béret and the handkerchief found in the Yellow Room, by assuming that they must have been just like the ones I’d seen Père Jacques use. Up to that point, Larsan and I are in agreement, but no further. It’s going to create a terrible conflict, because he’s making an honest mistake and I’m going to have to fight him all the way, with nothing to support my side!”

  I was surprised by the somber tone in which my young friend delivered these last words.

  He repeated:

  “Yes, it’s going to create a terrible conflict! But is it really fighting with nothing, when one already has a plan…”

  At that moment, we were walking alongside the back of the Chateau. Night had fallen. A window on the first floor was partially open and a feeble light came from it, as well as a noise, which drew our attention. We approached until we reached a side door located just beneath that window. Rouletabille, in a low tone, told me that this was the window of Mademoiselle Stangerson’s bedroom. The sounds which had attracted our attention suddenly stopped, then started again. They were stifled sobs. We could only catch three words, which reached us distinctly:

  “My poor Robert!”

  Rouletabille leaned on my shoulder and whispered in my ear:

  “If we could only know what’s being said in that room, our investigation would soon be over.”

  He looked around; the darkness of the evening enveloped us. We couldn’t see much beyond the narrow lawn bordered by trees which ran behind the Chateau. Meanwhile, the sobs had stopped again.

  “If we can’t hear, at least we might try to see,” said Rouletabille.

  Instructing me to me to muffle the sound of my steps, he dragged me across the lawn to a tall beech tree, the white trunk of which was visible in the darkness. This tree grew exactly in front of the window that interested us, and its lower branches were level with the first floor of the Chateau. From there, one would be able to spy on what was happening in Mademoiselle Stangerson’s bedroom. Obviously, that was Rouletabille’s idea, because, enjoining me to remain silent, he clasped the trunk with his two strong arms and started climbing. I soon lost sight of him in the foliage, and then, there was a long silence.

  In front of me, the open window remained lit. I saw no shadows move across it. All was silence. I waited. Suddenly, I heard the following words come from directly above me:

  “After you!”

  “No, please, after you!”

  Two people above my head were talking, exchanging courtesies. I was amazed to see two men slide down the slippery trunk of the tree and quietly set foot on the ground. Rouletabille had climbed up the tree alone; he had returned in the company of another man.

  “Good evening, Monsieur Sainclair!”

  It was Frederic Larsan. The detective had already been watching in the tree when my young friend had climbed it. Neither man commented upon my surprise. I was told that they had witnessed a tender and sorrowful scene between Mademoiselle Stangerson, lying in her bed, and Monsieur Darzac, on his knees by her side. But I surmised that each man was drawing a different, if cautious, conclusion from what they had just seen. It was clear that the scene had strongly impressed Rouletabille in favor of Monsieur Darzac, while, to Larsan, it showed nothing but the consummate hypocrisy and fine acting talents of Mademoiselle Stangerson’s fiancé.

  As we reached the gate, Larsan stopped us.

  “My cane!” he cried.

  “You forgo
t your cane?” inquired Rouletabille.

  “Yes,” replied the detective. “I left it near the tree.”

  He left us, saying he would soon catch up with us.

  “Have you noticed Monsieur Larsan’s cane?” asked the young reporter, as soon as we were alone. “It’s quite new. I’ve never seen him use it before. He seems very attached to it; it never leaves his side. One would think he was afraid it might fall into the wrong hands. Before today, I never saw Larsan with a cane. Where did he find it? It isn’t normal that a man who never used a cane before should, the day after the crime, never take a step without one. When we arrived at the Chateau, as soon as he saw us, he put his watch back in his pocket and picked up his cane. Perhaps I was wrong not to attach some importance to that gesture...”

  We were now out of the estate. Rouletabille was silent. His thoughts were certainly still occupied with Larsan’s cane. I had proof of that when, as we neared Epinay, he said:

  “Larsan arrived at Glandier before me. He began his investigation before me. He had time to find out things which I don’t know. Where did he find that cane?” Then he added: “It’s likely that his suspicions—more than mere suspicions, his deductions—have led him to Robert Darzac, and they must be based on something tangible, which nevertheless remains intangible to me. Has this cane anything to do with it? Where the Devil could he have found it?”

  As I had to wait 20 minutes for the train to Paris, we went into a café. Almost immediately, the door opened and Larsan made his appearance, brandishing his famous cane.

  “I found it!” he said laughing.

  The three of us sat at a table. Rouletabille never took his eyes off Larsan’s cane. He was so absorbed that he didn’t notice a sign that the detective made to a railway employee, a young man with a small, blond, ill-kept beard. Upon seeing that gesture, the man rose, paid for his drink, bowed, and went out. I wouldn’t have attached any importance to this event, if later it hadn’t resurfaced when the man with the beard reappeared during one of the most tragic moments of this case. I then learned that that young man was one of Larsan’s agents who the detective had been assigned the job of watching the comings and goings of the travelers at Epinay station. Decidedly, Larsan left no stone unturned.