“That’s impossible!” I cried. “What could be more mysterious than that?”
“Let’s first return to the case of Monsieur Darzac,” said Rouletabille, calmly. “As I’ve just told you, everything seems to be accusing him. The footprints left by the expensive boots found by Larsan appear to be really his. The tiremarks may have been left by his bicycle. The police checked it out. Monsieur Darzac usually left his bike at the Chateau; why did he, that day, take it to Paris? Was it because he wasn’t planning on returning? Was it because of his break-up? Did he believe that his relations with the Stangersons were over? Everyone involved claim that those relations were to continue as before, but Larsan believes they were over. From the day Monsieur Darzac accompanied Mademoiselle Stangerson to the Grands Magasins du Louvre until after the attack on his fiancée, he hadn’t been seen at Glandier. Remember that Mademoiselle Stangerson lost her handbag containing the key with the brass head while she was with him.
“From that moment until the evening at the Elysée, Monsieur Darzac and Mademoiselle Stangerson didn’t see each other—but they might have corresponded! Later that day, Mademoiselle Stangerson went to Bureau 40 to collect a letter from the Poste Restante. Larsan thinks that letter was written by Monsieur Darzac. Not knowing what happened in the gardens of Elysée, unlike me, Larsan believes that it was Monsieur Darzac who stole the handbag with the key, intending to blackmail Mademoiselle Stangerson into marrying him by getting possession of her father’s precious documents, which, of course, he would have returned after their marriage.
“All that would still make for a rather dubious, even absurd, theory—as Larsan himself was the first to admit to me—if it weren’t for another, even more serious set of circumstances. First—and this is something that even I haven’t yet been able to explain—it would appear that it was Monsieur Darzac himself who went to the Post Office the next day, October 24, to ask for the letter which Mademoiselle Stangerson had picked up the day before. The description of the man who asked for that letter matches that of Monsieur Darzac in every respect. When the Investigating Magistrate asked him about it, he vehemently denied having gone there. Now, even if one was prepared to believe that he wrote that letter—which I don’t—he knew that Mademoiselle Stangerson had picked it up, since he read it with her in the gardens of the Elysée. Therefore, it can’t have been Darzac who went to the Post Office on October 24 to pick up a letter which he knew was no longer there!
“To me, it seems clear that someone else, who impersonated Monsieur Darzac, stole Mademoiselle Stangerson’s handbag. In the letter, that person must have asked something of her, which she obviously refused to do. Our man must then have been surprised by his failure to get what he wanted, which is why he went to the Post Office to check whether his letter had been picked up or not by ‘M.A.T.H.S.N.,’ to whom it had been addressed. Finding from the clerk that it had indeed been picked up, our man then became angry. His letter had been delivered, and yet, what he had asked for hadn’t happened. What was he demanding? Nobody but Mademoiselle Stangerson knows...
“Then, the following day, we find out that Mademoiselle Stangerson has been attacked during the night. The next day, I discover that the Professor has, at the same time, been robbed by means of the key that was in his daughter’s handbag. So it would seem, logically, that the man who went to the Post Office to inquire about the letter must be our elusive perpetrator. Larsan followed the same logic, but assumes it points to Monsieur Darzac. You may be sure that the Investigating Magistrate, Larsan, and myself, have done our best to get a precise description of the man who came, on October 24, to ask for the letter addressed to ‘M.A.T.H.S.N.’ from the Post Office clerk, but we still don’t know where he came from, nor where he went. Beyond his description, which resembles that of Monsieur Darzac, we know nothing.
“I had an advertisement published in all the major newspapers promising a handsome reward to any cab driver who might have dropped our man at Bureau 40 at about 10 a.m. on October 24, and asked that replies be sent to ‘J. R.’ at L’Epoque, but no one has responded so far. Perhaps our man may have walked, but, as he was most likely in a hurry, he might have taken a cab... I purposefully didn’t give a description of our suspect in my ad so that any cabdriver that might have dropped anyone at that time and that location might come forward. But no one has. I keep asking myself, night and day, who is this man who so strangely resembles Monsieur Darzac, and who also bought the cane which is now in Frederic Larsan’s hands?
“Finally, the most incriminating fact is this: Monsieur Darzac was scheduled to deliver a lecture at the Sorbonne at the very same time that his lookalike presented himself at the Post Office, but did not do so. Instead, he was replaced by one of his colleagues. When I asked him where he was at that time, he said that he had gone for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne. What do you think of a Professor who, instead of giving a lecture, goes for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne?
“You should also know that, if Monsieur Darzac confesses to having gone for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne on the morning of October 24, he is unable, or unwilling, to tell us where he was or what he was doing on that very same night, when Mademoiselle Stangerson was being attacked! When Larsan asked him for that information, he quietly replied that it was none of the police’s business how he spent his time in Paris. Upon which Larsan swore aloud that he would find out, without anyone else’s help.
“All of this seems to fit nicely with Larsan’s theory. If Monsieur Darzac is indeed the perpetrator from the Yellow Room, that would explain why Professor Stangerson allowed him to escape: to avoid a scandal. I myself believe that theory to be false, and I think that Larsan is mistaken, something that wouldn’t normally displease me, but in this case, an innocent man’s life is at stake… But is Larsan truly mistaken? That is the question…”
“Perhaps he’s right,” I said, interrupting Rouletabille. “Are you sure that Monsieur Darzac is really innocent? It seems to me that these are extraordinary coincidences…”
“Coincidences,” replied my friend, “are truth’s worst enemies.”
“What does the Investigating Magistrate think of all this?”
“Monsieur de Marquet hesitates to charge Monsieur Darzac in the absence of incontrovertible evidence. Not only would public opinion be against him, to say nothing of the Sorbonne, but Professor Stangerson and his daughter still adore Monsieur Darzac. As little as Mademoiselle Stangerson remembers about her attack, it would be hard to get the jury to believe that she wouldn’t have recognized Monsieur Darzac if he’d been the perpetrator. Yes, the Yellow Room was dimly lit, but there was a night light, however small.
“Here, my friend, was how things stood when, three days, or rather three nights ago, the strange and extraordinary incident which I mentioned earlier occurred…”
Chapter Fourteen
“Tonight, I’m Expecting the Perpetrator!”
“I must take you to the scene of the incident,” said Rouletabille, “so that you can understand what happened, or rather so I can convince you of why it’s impossible to understand.
“I now believe that I have found what everyone else has been looking for, that is, how the perpetrator was able to escape from the Yellow Room, without any accomplices, and without Mademoiselle Stangerson having had anything to do with it. But as long as I’m not certain of the identity of the perpetrator, I can’t divulge my theory, except to say that I believe it to be true and, in any event, quite natural and simple.
“As for what happened here at the Chateau three nights ago, I must confess that, for an entire day, I thought that it defied belief. Even now, the theory that I’ve come up with to explain it seems so outlandish that I sometimes wonder if I wasn’t better off in the dark...”
The young reporter invited me to go out and walk around the Chateau with him. The only sound was that of the dead leavescrunching under our feet. The silence was so overpowering that one might well have believed that Glandier had been abandoned. The old s
tones, the stagnant water of the moat surrounding the tower, the bleak grounds strewn with the remains of a long-gone summer, the dark, skeleton-like silhouettes of the trees, everything contributed to give that desolate place, filled with its strange mysteries, a funereal look. As we walked around the tower, we met the ‘Green Man,’ Professor Stangerson’s gamekeeper, who didn’t greet us, but walked by as if we weren’t there. He was looking the same as when we had met him at the Auberge du Donjon. He still carried his rifle over his shoulder, his pipe was in his mouth, and his eye-glasses on his nose.
“There goes a strange man,” said Rouletabille, in a low voice.
“Have you spoken to him?” I asked.
“Yes, but I couldn’t get anything out of him. His only answers were grunts and shrugs. He sleeps on the first floor of the tower, in a big room that once served as a prayer room. He lives there like a hermit, never goes out without his gun, and is only pleasant with girls. He uses the excuse of chasing after poachers to come and go at all times of the night, but I suspect him of having several affairs. Mademoiselle Stangerson’s chambermaid, Sylvie, is one of his mistresses. Right now he seems to be pursuing the wife of Père Mathieu, the innkeeper of the Auberge du Donjon, but Mathieu watches over his wife like a hawk, and I think it’s his inability to seduce her that’s making our ‘Green Man’ even surlier than usual. Otherwise, he’s a handsome man who takes good care of himself. All the women in the region are infatuated with him.”
After going around the tower, which was located at the end of the Chateau’s left wing, we found ourselves at the back of the property. Rouletabille pointed to a window, which he identified as belonging to Mademoiselle Stangerson’s apartment.
“If you’d been standing here two nights ago at 1 a.m.,” he said, “you would have seen your humble servant climbing a ladder and about to enter the Chateau by that very window.”
As I expressed some surprise at these nocturnal acrobatics, Rouletabille asked me to carefully memorize the outside lay-out of the grounds. We then went back into the building.
“I must now take you to the first floor of the right wing, where I’m staying,” said my friend.
To enable the reader to better understand what happened next, and the strange and extraordinary incident which I mentioned earlier, the details of which I’m about to relate, I’m including here a plan drawn by Rouletabille himself the day after that incident:
Chateau Glandier – 1st Floor – Right Wing
1. Place assigned by Rouletabille to Larsan.
2. Place assigned by Rouletabille to Père Jacques.
3. Place assigned by Rouletabille to Professor Stangerson.
4. Window used by Rouletabille to enter.
5. Window found opened by Rouletabille when he came out of his room. (He closed it. All the other doors and windows remained shut.)
6. Roof terrace over a ground floor oval room.
Rouletabille motioned me to follow him up a magnificent flight of stairs which ended on the first floor landing. From there, one could turn right or left to go into the Chateau’s wings, which were connected through a grand hallway or corridor. This corridor, high and wide, extended along the whole length of the building and was lit from the front of the Chateau, facing the north. The rooms, the windows of which looked to the south, opened out on the corridor. Professor Stangerson lived in the Chateau’s left wing, while his daughter had her apartment in the right wing.
We turned right at the top of the stairs. A narrow carpet, laid on the polished oak floor of the corridor, shone like a mirror and muffled our footsteps. Rouletabille asked me, in a low voice, to walk carefully as we passed the door of Mademoiselle Stangerson’s apartment. He told me that it consisted of her bedroom, an anteroom, a small bathroom, a boudoir, and a sitting room. Naturally, one could go from one room to the other without having to go out into the corridor. The sitting room and the anteroom were the only rooms with doors opening onto the corridor.
The corridor continued straight to the western end of the building, where it was lit by a high window (No. 2 on the plan). At about two-thirds of its length, it branched out at a right angle into another, smaller corridor which followed the course of the right wing.
The better to follow this narrative, I will call the corridor leading from the landing at the top of the stairs to the eastern window, the “left-wing corridor;” the corridor leading from the landing at the top of the stairs to the western window, the “right-wing corridor;” and the smaller corridor branching out from the right-wing corridor at a right angle, the “corner corridor.” It was at the meeting point of the right-wing corridor and the corner corridor that Rouletabille’s room was located, next to Frederic Larsan’s, the doors of each opening onto the corner corridor. As I have stated, the doors of Mademoiselle Stangerson’s apartment opened into the right-wing corridor.
Rouletabille opened the door of his room and, after we went in, carefully drew the bolt. I didn’t have time to look around when he uttered a cry of surprise and pointed to a pair of eye-glasses on a table.
“What are these doing here?” he asked.
I was, of course, entirely unable to answer him.
“Unless…” he said, “Unless this is what I’ve been looking for…”
He seized them eagerly, his fingers caressing the lenses.
“These are farsighted spectacles!” he said. Then looking at me with a frightful expression, he added: “Hmmm!”
He kept maniacally repeating “Hmmm!” again and again and I wondered briefly if he’d gone mad.
Finally, he put his hand on my shoulder, giggled inanely, and said:
“These spectacles will drive me mad! You see, Sainclair, logically speaking, what I’m thinking is possible, of course, but humanly speaking, it isn’t… Unless… Unless…”
Suddenly, there were two light knocks on the door. Rouletabille opened it and a woman entered. I recognized Madame Bernier, the caretaker’s wife, whom I had met when she was taken to the pavilion for the reconstruction. I was surprised to discover that she wasn’t under lock and key anymore.
“In the groove of the parquet,” she said to Rouletabille in a low voice.
“Thank you,” replied the reporter.
The woman left. After carefully relocking the door behind her, Rouletabille turned to me and, looking deranged again, began muttering some incomprehensible sentences:
“But if that thing is logically possible, then why shouldn’t it be humanly possible as well? But if it is humanly possible, then it’d mean… No, that would be too dreadful to contemplate...”
I interrupted his crazy soliloquy:
“I see that the caretakers have been released,” I said.
“Yes,” replied the reporter. “I had them freed. I need people I can trust. That woman is thoroughly devoted to me, and her husband would do anything I’d ask of him. And since the farsighted spectacles, I’ve got to be surrounded by people ready to lay down their lives for me.”
“Uh-ho!” I said. “You’re not joking! And when should we be ready for that sacrifice?”
“Tonight, my friend! I’m expecting the perpetrator tonight!”
“Really? You’re expecting the perpetrator tonight? Truly? The man who attacked Mademoiselle Stangerson… Here? Tonight? …But then, this means you know who he is!”
“Well, I might know who he is… But I would be crazy if I were to say categorically that I do know him. The logical theory I have of the murderer’s identity is so frightful, so monstrous, that I hope that I might still be wrong! Oh! I hope so with all my heart!”
“But if five minutes ago you weren’t sure the identity of the perpetrator, how can you be sure that he’s coming here tonight?”
“Because he must!”
Rouletabille slowly filled his pipe and lit it. That meant an interesting story. Suddenly, we heard someone walking in the corner corridor, past our door. Rouletabille listened. The sound of the footsteps died away in the distance.
“I
s Frederic Larsan in his room?” I asked, pointing to the wall.
“No,” my friend replied. “He went to Paris this morning, still after Darzac, who’s also left for the capital. This case is going to end very badly. I expect that Monsieur Darzac will be arrested within the week. The worst thing, as I said, is that everything seems to be accusing him: circumstances, things, people... Not an hour passes without some new evidence surfacing against him. The Investigating Magistrate is overwhelmed—and blinded—by it. Which is quite understandable, under the circumstances.”
“Frederic Larsan, however, isn’t a novice,” I said.
“I thought so,” said Rouletabille, with a slightly contemptuous smile. “I thought he was a lot smarter… Of course, he isn’t just any policeman… He’s a capable one. Indeed, I felt a great admiration for him, before I got to know his methods. They’re deplorable. He owes his reputation solely to his perseverance, but he lacks intelligence… The logic behind his ideas is very poor.”
I looked closely at Rouletabille and couldn’t help smiling at this boy of a mere 18 chastising a man in his 50ies who had proved himself one of Europe’s finest detectives as if he were a schoolboy.
“You’re smiling?” he said? “You’re wrong! I swear I’ll outwit Larsan, unquestioningly… But I must hurry, because he’s got an enormous headstart on me, given to him by Monsieur Darzac, who is, this very evening, going to increase it still further. Think of it! Every time the perpetrator comes to the Chateau, Monsieur Darzac, by some strange twist of fate, absents himself and refuses later to give any account of his time.”
“Every time the perpetrator comes to the Chateau?” I said. “You mean, he has returned?”
“Yes, during that famous night when that strange and extraordinary incident occurred.”
Rouletabille and the Mystery of the Yellow Room Page 13