“Mr. Rance!” he cried.
It was indeed Mr. Arthur William Rance who stood before us and calmly saluted us.
Chapter Twenty
Mademoiselle Stangerson’s Ominous Gesture
“Do you remember me, Monsieur?” asked Rouletabille.
“Perfectly!” replied Mr. Rance. “You’re the boy I met at the bar at the Elysée.” (Here, Rouletabille went red in the face at being called boy) “I came down to shake hands with you, because you’re a bright little fellow aren’t you?”
The American extended his hand and Rouletabille, now laughing in spite of himself, shook it and introduced Mr. Rance to me. He invited him to share our meal.
“No, thanks. I’ll be having lunch later with Professor Stangerson.”
Mr. Rance spoke perfect French, almost without an accent.
“I didn’t expect to have the pleasure of seeing you again, Monsieur,” said my friend. “I thought you were planning to return to America the day after the banquet at the Elysée.”
Rouletabille and I, outwardly indifferent, listened intently for the American’s answer.
The man’s purplish red face, his heavy eyelids, his nervous twitching, all spoke of his addiction to drink. How could such a sorry specimen of a man be intimate with Professor Stangerson?
I was to find out the answer a few days later from Frederic Larsan who, like ourselves, had been surprised and mystified by Rance’s appearance and reception at the Chateau, and had had the American investigated. It turned out that Mr. Rance had been an alcoholic only for the last 15 years, that is to say, since the Professor and his daughter had left Philadelphia. During the time the Stangersons had lived in Pennsylvania, they had become friends with Rance, who was one of America’s most distinguished phrenologists. Thanks to some bold, new experiments he had conducted, he had made enormous progress since the discoveries of Gall and Lavater.16 The friendliness with which he was received at Glandier was explained by the fact that he had once rendered Mademoiselle Stangerson a great service by stopping, at the peril of his own life, the runaway horses of her carriage. The immediate consequence of that act of bravery had been a close and friendly association with the Stangersons, but by no stretch of the imagination a love affair.
Larsan didn’t tell me from where he had gathered his information, but he seemed to be quite sure of his facts.
Had we known all this when Arthur Rance met us at the Auberge du Donjon, his presence at the Chateau might not have seemed so puzzling, but they wouldn’t have decreased our interest in the man himself. The American must have been at least 45 years old. He responded to Rouletabille’s question very naturally.
“I put off my return to America when I heard of the attack on Mademoiselle Stangerson. I wanted to be certain that she hadn’t been harmed, and I shan’t leave until she is perfectly recovered.”
Mr. Rance then took the lead in our conversation, simply ignoring some of Rouletabille’s questions. He gave us, without any prompting, his views on the matter of the tragedy, which, as far as I could tell, were not far from those held by Frederic Larsan. The American also thought that Robert Darzac had something to do with the attack on Mademoiselle Stangerson. He didn’t mention him by name, but there was no doubt about whom he meant. He told us that he was aware of Rouletabille’s efforts to untangle the Mystery of the Yellow Room. He explained that Professor Stangerson had also related to him what had taken place in the unfathomable corridor. Listening to Mr. Rance, it was clear that, to him, the answer to all these mysteries was one and the same: Robert Darzac. Several times, he remarked that Monsieur Darzac had been away from the chateau just when all those mysterious occurrences had taken place, and we understood all too well what he was implying. Finally, he thought that Monsieur Darzac had been very smart in allying himself with Rouletabille, who wouldn’t fail, sooner or later, to catch the perpetrator. He uttered that last sentence with undisguised irony. Then he rose, saluted us again, and left.
Rouletabille watched him through the window.
“A rather odd character, that man!” he said.
“Do you think he’ll spend the night at Glandier?” I asked.
To my amazement, the young reporter answered that it was a matter of entire indifference to him whether Mr. Rance did or not.
I won’t bother recounting here how we spent the rest of the afternoon. All I need to say is that Rouletabille took me for a walk through the forest; there, we visited the grotto of Sainte Genevieve. During all that time, my friend talked of every subject except the one in which I was the most interested.
As evening arrived, I was surprised to find Rouletabille making none of the preparations I had expected him to make. I mentioned it to him when, at nightfall, we found ourselves back in his room. He replied that all his arrangements had already been made, and that this time, the perpetrator wouldn’t get away.
I expressed some doubts, reminding him of the man’s earlier disappearance in the corridor, and suggested that the same phenomenon might occur again. He replied that he hoped that it would, and desired nothing more. So I didn’t insist, knowing from experience how useless that would have been. Rouletabille told me that, with the caretakers’ help, the Chateau had been watched since dawn in such a way that no one could approach it without his knowing. No one could come from the outside, and he felt no concern about those who were already inside.
Rouletabille pulled out his pocket watch. It was 6:30 p.m. Rising, he gestured me to follow him outside. Without trying in the least to conceal our movements or the sound of our footsteps, he led me through the corridor. We reached the right-wing corridor, turned right and came to the landing, which we crossed. We then continued our way in the left-wing corridor, passing Professor Stangerson’s apartment.
At the far end of that corridor, before the tower, was the room occupied by Arthur Rance. We knew that because we had seen him at the window looking onto the courtyard earlier that morning. The door of that room opened at the very end of the corridor, exactly facing the east window at the far end of the right-wing corridor where Rouletabille had positioned Père Jacques during the night of the unfathomable corridor. When one left Mr. Rance’s bedroom, one had an uninterrupted view of the entire corridor from one end to the other of the Chateau, except of course for the corner corridor where Rouletabille’s room was.
“I’ll take care of the corner corridor,” said Rouletabille. “You, when I tell you, come and stand right there.”
And he showed me a small dark, triangular closet, built into a bend of the wall, to the left of the door to Mr. Rance’s room. From this recess, I could see all that occurred in the corridor just as well as if I had been standing in front of the American’s room, and I could watch his door, too. The door of that closet, which was to be my place of observation, was fitted with panels of clear glass. All the lamps in the corridor were lit, it was quite bright. In the closet, however, it was dark. It was a splendid place from which to observe while remaining unobserved.
I was to play the part of a spy or an ordinary policeman. It wasn’t something which I enjoyed, and I also thought that it might compromise the dignity of my profession. What would my colleagues from the Paris Bar say if they ever found out what I was doing? It never occurred to Rouletabille that I might refuse him my assistance, and indeed I did not. I wanted to oblige him because, first, I didn’t wish him to think me a coward, second because I could always say that I was searching for the truth as an amateur detective, and finally, because it was too late for me to back out. Why I had not experienced such scruples sooner, or at all, was because my curiosity had simply gotten the better of me. Lastly, I could also say that I was helping to save a woman’s life, and there can be no nobler purpose, even for a lawyer.
We walked back along the corridor. As we reached Mademoiselle Stangerson’s apartment, the sitting room door was pushed opened by the butler who had been serving dinner. The Professor had, for the last three days, dined there with his daughter. As the door remain
ed open, we distinctly saw Mademoiselle Stangerson, taking advantage of the butler’s absence, while her father was stooping to pick up something he had let fall, pour the contents of a phial into the Professor’s glass.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lying In Wait
That ominous gesture, which upset me greatly, didn’t seem to surprise Rouletabille. We went back to his room and, without even referring to what we had just seen, he gave me my final instructions for the night. First, we were to go to dinner; after dinner, I was to take my position in the corridor closet and wait there as long as it was necessary to see what might happen.
“If you see anything before I do,” he explained, “you must let me know. If our man enters the right-wing corridor by any other way than the corner corridor, you will see him before I do, because you have a view along the whole length of the corridor, while I can only see the corner corridor. To alert me, all you need to do is to untie the cord holding up the curtain of the window nearest to your closet. It will fall and, since the entire corridor is well lit, it will immediately create a square of shadow where before there had been a square of light. To do this, you only need to reach out of the closet with your hand. From the corner corridor, I can see all the windows of the left-wing gallery. When I see one go dark, I’ll know what it means.”
“And then?”
“Then you will see me coming around the corner.”
“What am I to do then?”
“You will immediately come towards me, behind the perpetrator. I shall soon be upon him, and at last, I shall see if his face fits inside my circle.”
“That circle which you’ve drawn with your right end of logic?” I said smiling.
“Why do you smile? It’s not funny. Enjoy yourself while you can, because I swear to you, you won’t feel like it later.”
“What if our man escapes again?”
“So much the better!” said Rouletabille, coolly. “I don’t want to capture him. After all, he might still have time to rush down the stairs and leave via the groundfloor vestibule, since you’ll be coming from the far end of the left-wing corridor. Let him go, if it comes to that, but I want to see his face. That’s all I want. Then, I’ll know what to do afterwards so that, as far as Mademoiselle Stangerson is concerned, it will be as if he was dead, even though he might still be alive. Mademoiselle Stangerson and Monsieur Darzac might never forgive me if I took him alive, and I wish to retain their respect. They’re good people.
“If Mademoiselle Stangerson was prepared to pour a narcotic into the Professor’s glass, as we have just seen, so that he might not be awake to interrupt the conversation she is planning to have with her attacker, can you imagine how she would feel if I brought the man of the Yellow Room, bound and gagged, to her father? We were lucky, in fact, that the perpetrator managed to escape mysteriously during the night of the unfathomable corridor. I realized that when I saw Mademoiselle Stangerson’s great relief when she found out that the perpetrator had managed to flee. I understand now that, to save that unhappy woman, I mustn’t capture this man, but silence him—forever. But to kill a human being! To commit a murder! It’s no small thing. Unless, of course, the man himself gives me a reason to do so... Besides, her concerns are not really my business… Still, to render him forever silent without Mademoiselle Stangerson’s trust and confidence, means that I have to guess everything, without the first bit of knowledge. Fortunately, my friend, I have guessed, or rather, I have reasoned it all out. All that I now ask of the man who is coming here tonight is to show me his face, so that I may see if it fits…”
“Into your circle of logic?”
“Exactly! And his face won’t surprise me!”
“But I thought you’d already seen his face during the night when you ran into Mademoiselle Stangerson’s bedroom?”
“Only partially. The candle was on the floor. And with that beard…”
“Will he wear his beard this evening?”
“I think I can say for certain that he will. But the corridor is well lit and, now, I know... Or at least, my brain knows… And my eyes will see…”
“If we’re here only to see him and let him escape, why are we armed?”
“Because, my dear Sainclair, if the man of the Yellow Room and the unfathomable corridor knows that I know his secret, he is capable of anything! We might have to defend ourselves.”
“And you’re sure that he will come tonight?”
“As sure as that you’re standing there! This morning, at 10:30 a.m., Mademoiselle Stangerson, in the cleverest way possible, got rid of her two nurses. She gave them a leave of absence for 24 hours, under some plausible pretext, and while they’re gone for the night, she said she didn’t want anyone but her father to stay with her. The Professor gladly agreed, and made arrangements to sleep in the boudoir. Darzac’s coincidental departure, and what he told me, as well as the extraordinary precautions taken by Mademoiselle Stangerson to be alone and undisturbed tonight, leaves no room for doubt. She has prepared the way for the man whom Darzac dreads to come.”
“That’s awful!”
“Yes it is!”
“And what we saw her do was done to send her father to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“So there are only the two of us for tonight’s work?”
“Four; the Berniers will be watching as well. I don’t think they’ll see anything beforehand, but their testimony might be useful afterward, if there is a murder!”
“Then you think there might be a murder?”
“If our man wishes it, yes.”
“Why haven’t you brought in Père Jacques? Have you made no use of him today?”
“No,” replied Rouletabille sharply.
I kept silent for awhile, then, anxious to know his thoughts, I asked him point blank:
“Why not tell Arthur Rance? He could be of great assistance…”
“I see!” said Rouletabille crossly. “You want to let everybody into Mademoiselle Stangerson’s secrets? Come, let’s go to dinner; it’s time. Tonight, we’ll dine in Frederic Larsan’s company, unless he’s tailing Monsieur Darzac again. He sticks to him like glue. But, anyhow, if he isn’t here now, I’m quite sure he’ll be here later! He’s the one I’m going to surprise tonight!”
At that moment, we heard a noise in the room next to us.
“Speak of the Devil,” said Rouletabille.
“I forgot to ask you,” I said. “I’m not to make any allusions to tonight’s business before Larsan, right?”
“Obviously! Tonight, we’ll be operating alone, on our own personal account.”
“So that all the glory will be ours?”
Rouletabille laughed, and concluded:
“Of course!”
We dined with Frederic Larsan in his room; he told us he had just come in and invited us to eat with him. We were in the best of spirits, which I attributed to the fact that both Rouletabille and Larsan felt that they each had solved the Mystery. Rouletabille told the detective that I had returned on a whim, and that he had asked me to stay and help him with a lengthy article which he had to write this very night for L’Epoque. I was supposed to return to Paris, he said, by the 11 p.m. train, taking the article back with me. It was meant to be a serialized overview of the various episodes of the mysteries of Glandier. Larsan smiled at that explanation like a man who wasn’t fooled, but was politely refraining from making the slightest remark on matters which didn’t concern him.
With infinite precautions, carefully choosing the words they used, even down their intonations, for several minutes, Larsan and Rouletabille discussed Mr. Rance’s presence at the Chateau and his past in America, which they would have liked to know better, at least insofar as his relations with the Stangersons were concerned. At one time, Larsan, who seemed to me to be somewhat unwell, said, with a noticeable effort:
“I think, Monsieur Rouletabille, that we don’t have much left to do at Glandier, and my guess is that neither of us will sleep here many more n
ights.”
“I think so, too, Monsieur Larsan,” said my friend.
“Then you think that the case is over?”
“Yes, I believe so. There’s nothing more to find out.”
“Have you found your perpetrator?” asked Larsan.
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“So have I,” said Rouletabille.
“Are they the same man?”
“I don’t think so, unless you’ve changed your mind,” said the young reporter. Then, he added, with emphasis: “Monsieur Darzac is an honest man!”
“Are you certain?” asked Larsan. “Well, I am sure of the contrary. So we’ll being doing battle, then?”
“Yes, and I will beat you, Monsieur Larsan.”
“Youth never doubts anything,” said Frederic the Great laughing. He held out his hand to me by way of conclusion.
Rouletabille’s answer came like an echo:
“Never doubt anything!”
Suddenly Larsan, who had risen to wish us goodnight, pressed both his hands to his chest and staggered. He was obliged to lean on Rouletabille for support and to save himself from falling.
“Oh! Oh!” he cried. “What’s the matter with me? Have I been drugged?”
He looked at us with dazed eyes. We questioned him in vain; he didn’t answer us. He had sunk into an armchair and we couldn’t get word out of him. We were extremely distressed, both on his account and on our own, for we had partaken of all the same dishes that he had eaten. His pain finally seemed to ebb, but his heavy head had fallen on his shoulder and his eyelids were tightly closed. Rouletabille bent over him, listening for the beatings of his heart.
My friend’s face, when he stood up, was as calm as it had been agitated only a moment ago.
“He’s asleep,” he said.
He took me back to his room, after closing Larsan’s door.
“Is it Mademoiselle Stangerson’s narcotic?” I asked. “Does she wish to put everybody to sleep, tonight?”
Rouletabille and the Mystery of the Yellow Room Page 18