Rouletabille and the Mystery of the Yellow Room

by Gaston Leroux

  “Perhaps,” replied Rouletabille, but I could see his mind was elsewhere.

  “What about us?” I exclaimed. “How do we know that we haven’t been drugged?”

  “Do you feel indisposed?” Rouletabille asked me coolly.

  “Not in the least.”

  “Do you feel sleepy?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Well, then, my friend, I suggest that you smoke this excellent cigar.”

  And he handed me a choice Havana, one which Monsieur Darzac had given him, while he lit his briar pipe—his perennial briar pipe.

  We remained in his room until about 10 p.m. without a word passing between us. Buried in an armchair Rouletabille sat and smoked steadily, his brow furrowed in thought and a far-away look in his eyes. On the stroke of 10, he took off his boots and signaled to me to do the same. As we stood in our socks, he said, in such a low tone that I guessed, rather than heard, the word:

  “Revolver.”

  I drew my gun from my jacket pocket.

  “Cock it!” he said.

  I did as he directed.

  Then moving towards the door of his room, he opened it with infinite precaution; it made no sound. We were in the corner corridor. Rouletabille made another sign to me. I understood that he wanted me to take up my post in the closet.

  As I was walking away, he caught up with me and silently hugged me. Then, with the same precaution, he went back to his room. Astonished by this gesture of affection, and somewhat worried because of it, I arrived at the right-wing gallery, turned right, crossed the landing, and reached the small closet without any difficulties.

  Before entering the closet, I examined the curtain cord of the window and found that I had only to release it from its fastening with my fingers for the curtain to drop due to its own weight and hide the square of light from Rouletabille—the signal agreed upon. A sound of footsteps made me stop in front of Arthur Rance’s door. He wasn’t yet in bed, then! How was it that, being in the Chateau, he hadn’t dined with Professor Stangerson and his daughter? At least, I hadn’t seen him at their table when we had looked in earlier and caught Mademoiselle Stangerson’s ominous gesture.

  I retired to the closet. I found myself perfectly situated. I could see along the whole length of the corridor. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could happen there without my seeing it. But what was going to happen tonight? Perhaps something very dangerous… Rouletabille’s hug came back to my mind. Friends don’t part from each other that way unless they’re on an important or dangerous mission. Was I then in danger?

  My hand closed on the butt of my revolver and I waited. I am no hero, but neither am I a coward.

  I waited for about an hour, and during all that time, I saw nothing unusual. The rain, which had begun to come down strongly around 9 p.m., had now stopped.

  My friend had told me that probably nothing would occur before midnight or 1 a.m. It was only 11:30 p.m., however, when I heard Arthur Rance’s door open. The slight creak of its hinges indicated that it was being opened very slowly and carefully. It remained open for a minute, which seemed a very long time. As it opened outwards into the corridor, I couldn’t see what was happening inside the room.

  At that moment, I noticed a strange mewling sound coming from outside. It was repeated three times. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have paid any more attention to it than I would to the noise of cats on the roof. But the third time, the mewling was so sharp and penetrating that I remembered what I had heard about the cry of the Holy Beast. As it had accompanied all the tragic events at Glandier before, I couldn’t repress a shudder.

  Then I saw a man appear outside of the door and close it after him. At first, I could not see who it was because his back was turned toward me and he was bending over a rather bulky package. After he had closed the door and picked up his package, he turned toward the closet, and then I saw who he was. It was the game keeper, the “Green Man.” He was wearing the same costume that he had worn when we had first met him at the Auberge du Donjon, and earlier that day when Rouletabille and I had seen him outside. There was no doubt about it. It was the gamekeeper. I saw him very distinctly. He seemed rather anxious. As the cry of the Holy Beast resounded for the fourth time, he put down his package and went to the corridor’s second window, counting from the closet. I dared not make any movement, fearing that I might betray my presence.

  Arriving at the window, he stuck his face against the glass and peered out. He remained like that for half a minute. Outside, the night was bright, the Moon showing at intervals between clouds. The Green Man raised his arms twice, making signs which I didn’t understand. Then, leaving the window, he picked up his package again and moved along the corridor towards the landing.

  Rouletabille had instructed me to drop the curtain if I saw anything. Was this what Rouletabille had been expecting? It wasn’t my business to question. All I had to do was obey my instructions. I unfastened the cord. The curtain dropped. My heart was beating as if it would burst. Meanwhile, the gamekeeper had reached the landing, but, to my utter surprise—I had expected him to continue along the corridor—I saw him walks down the stairs toward the groundfloor vestibule.

  What was I to do? I looked stupidly at the heavy curtain which had shut the light from the window. The signal had been given, but I didn’t see Rouletabille appear at the corner corridor. Nobody happened. I was exceedingly perplexed. Half an hour passed, which seemed like an age. What was I to do now, even if I saw something? The signal, once given, couldn’t be given a second time. Also, to venture into the corridor now might upset Rouletabille’s plans. On the other hand, I had nothing to reproach myself for. If something had happened that my friend had not expected, he could only blame himself. Unable to be of any further assistance to Rouletabille by means of a signal, I decided to leave the closet after all, and, still in my socks, made my way to the corner corridor.

  There was no one there. I went to the door of Rouletabille’s room and listened. I could hear nothing. I knocked gently. There was no answer. I turned the handle and the door opened. I went in. I saw Rouletabille lying there, on the floor.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Unbelievable Body

  I immediately leaned over my friend’s body, fearing the worst. I was exhilarated to find out that he was only deeply asleep—the same unnatural sleep that had affected Frederic Larsan earlier. I thought that the young man had succumbed to the effects of the same narcotic that must have been mixed with our food. But how was it that I had not been overcome by sleep too? I reflected that the drug must have been put into either our wine or water, which explained why I had escaped its effects. I never drink when eating. Naturally inclined to being overweight, I am restricted to a dry diet.

  I shook Rouletabille, but didn’t succeed in waking him. I was certain that this was Mademoiselle Stangerson’s handiwork. She must have deemed it necessary to protect her secret from this very clever young man, who saw everything, who guessed everything, who was far more perceptive, and therefore dangerous, than her father. I remembered that the butler who had served us had recommended an excellent Chablis which, very likely, had come from the Professor’s table.

  A good 15 minutes went by. I resolved, under the pressure of circumstances, to resort to extreme measures. I threw a pitcher of cold water over Rouletabille’s face. He opened his eyes, but they were dull and lifeless. So I slapped him good a few times and propped him up. I felt him come awake in my arms and heard him murmur: “Again, but don’t make as much noise.” To continue slapping him in silence was impossible, so I pinched him hard and shook him until he was able to stand up. We were saved!

  “I’ve been drugged,” he said. “Ah! I passed an awful moment before giving up to sleep. But I feel better now. Don’t leave me.”

  He had no sooner uttered those words than we heard a dreadful scream that rang through the Chateau—a veritable death cry.

  “Curses!” roared Rouletabille. “We’re too late again!”

  He tried
to rush to the door, but was still too dazed and fell against the wall. However, I was already in the corridor, gun in hand, rushing like a madman towards Mademoiselle Stangerson’s rooms. As I reached at the intersection of the corner and right-wing corridors, I saw a figure leaving her apartment. In a few strides, the man reached the landing.

  I couldn’t control myself and fired. The gunshot made a deafening noise. Nevertheless, the man continued his flight down the stairs. I ran behind him, shouting:

  “Stop! Stop, or I’ll kill you!”

  As I rushed after him, I came face to face with Arthur Rance, coming from the left wing of the Chateau.

  “What’s going on?” he yelled.

  The American was armed too, as is their custom.

  We arrived almost at the same time at the foot of the stairs. The window of the vestibule was open. We distinctly saw the shape of a man running away. Instinctively, we both fired in his direction. Our target was barely 40 feet ahead of us. He staggered and we thought he was about to fall. We jumped through the window, but when the man saw us, he found some new vigor and dashed away.

  I was in my socks, and the American was barefooted. As there was no hope of catching up with him, we fired our last cartridges. But he kept on running, going along the right side of the courtyard, towards the end of the right wing of the Chateau, which abutted on a ditch and a tall fence, and had no other practical outlet than the door of the small oval room occupied by the gamekeeper.

  The man, though he had obviously been wounded by our shots, was now 70 feet ahead of us. Suddenly, behind us, above our heads, a window in the first floor corridor opened and we heard Rouletabille’s voice crying out desperately:

  “Fire, Bernier! Fire!”

  At that moment, the night was lit by a flash of lightning. We saw Monsieur Bernier with his hunting rifle standing on the threshold of the tower.

  His aim was good. The shadowy figure fell. But as our man had reached the end of the right wing, he fell on the other side of the Chateau, behind its corner; that is to say, we saw him just as he was about to fall, but we didn’t see him actually touch the ground.

  Bernier, Rance and myself turned the corner 20 seconds later and we saw the shape of a man lying dead on the ground.

  Then, we heard Frederic Larsan, who must have been awakened from his lethargy by our cries and the gunshots. He had opened his window and was calling to us in the same fashion as Mr. Rance earlier:

  “What’s going on?” he yelled.

  The three of us were shrouded in darkness, bending over the dead body of the mysterious perpetrator

  Rouletabille, quite awake now, joined us at that moment. I cried out to him:

  “He’s dead!”

  “So much the better,” he said. “Take him into the vestibule of the Chateau.” Then, as if on second thought, he said: “No! Let’s put him in the gamekeeper’s room.”

  Rouletabille knocked at the door. Nobody answered. Somehow, this didn’t surprise me.

  “He is evidently not there, otherwise he would have come out,” said the reporter. “Let’s carry him into the vestibule then.”

  Since reaching the dead man, a thick cloud had covered the Moon and darkened the night, so that we were unable to make out his features despite our mutual eagerness to find out his identity.

  Père Jacques, who had now joined us, helped us to carry the body into the vestibule, where we laid it down on the lower step of the stairs. On the way, I felt my hands become wet from the warm blood that still seeped from the man’s wounds.

  Père Jacques ran to the kitchen and returned with a lantern. He held it close to the face of the dead man, and at last we saw the face of the gamekeeper, the man whom the landlord of the Auberge du Donjon had nicknamed the “Green Man.”

  An hour earlier, I had seen that same man come out of Arthur Rance’s room carrying a parcel. But I could only tell that to Rouletabille later, when we would be alone.

  I shouldn’t fail to report that both Rouletabille and Larsan were bitterly disappointed by the result of the night’s adventure. They could only look in consternation and stupefaction at the body of the Green Man. They touched the corpse, felt his uniform, searched his pockets, each muttering:

  “That’s impossible!”

  Rouletabille even added:

  “Well, knock me down with a feather!”

  Père Jacques showed a great deal of sorrow and, between inane lamentations, kept repeating that we were mistaken, that the gamekeeper couldn’t the man who had attacked Mademoiselle Stangerson. Finally, we were forced to tell him to be quiet. He couldn’t have shown greater grief if the body had been that of his son. I explained this overflowing of sentiment by the fact that he must have been afraid that we might think that he derived some joy from the gamekeeper’s death, because everyone knew he hated the man. I also noticed that, while all the rest of us were more or less undressed and barefooted, he was fully clothed.

  Rouletabille had not left the body. Kneeling on the flagstones, he was undressing the corpse by the light of Père Jacques’s lantern. He laid bare its chest, which was covered in blood.

  Then, snatching the lantern from Père Jacques’ hands, he brought it closer and discovered a gaping wound. Rising suddenly, he exclaimed in a voice filled with savage irony:

  “The man you believe to have been shot was in fact killed by the stab of a knife through his heart!”

  I thought Rouletabille had gone mad, but, bending over the body, I discovered that the young reporter was right.

  There was not a sign of a bullet anywhere. The wound, evidently, had been made by a sharp blade, and had pierced the heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Double Trail

  I had barely recovered from the surprise caused by this new, astounding discovery, when Rouletabille touched me on the shoulder.

  “Come with me!” he said.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “To my room.”

  “What are we going to do there?”

  “Think.”

  I confess that I was in no condition for doing much thinking. I could hardly imagine how, on this tragic night, in the midst of events the horror of which was only equaled by their unbelievability, with the gamekeeper’s body still lying at his feet and Mademoiselle Stangerson perhaps on the brink of death, Rouletabille could bring himself to sit down calmly and think. And yet, that is just what he did, with the cold-bloodedness of the greatest generals during a battle. Closing the door of his room, he motioned me to a chair and, seating himself before me, took out his pipe. I looked at him sitting there, in silence, thinking; then I fell asleep.

  When I awoke, it was daylight. It was 8 a.m. by my watch. Rouletabille was no longer in the room. His chair, in front of me, was empty. I rose to stretch my arms and legs when the door opened and my friend walked in. Judging by his face, I saw at once that he must have been busy.

  “How is Mademoiselle Stangerson?” I asked.

  “Her condition, though serious, isn’t life-threatening.”

  “When did you go out?”

  “Towards dawn.”

  “You’ve been working?”

  “Very hard!”

  “Have you found out anything?”

  “Two sets of footprints—an interesting discovery that might have bothered me…”

  “But it doesn’t bother you anymore?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Do they explain anything?”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “With respect to the gamekeeper’s unbelievable body?”

  “Yes. That body is entirely believable now. This morning, walking around the Chateau, I found two distinct sets of footprints, made simultaneously last night. I’m saying ‘simultaneously’ because it can’t have been otherwise. If the second set of prints had come after the first, following the same path, it would have flattened them out, yet that wasn’t the case. They were made by two persons walking side by side. One set of prints was almost par
allel to the other. That double trail separated from all the other footprints in the center of the courtyard, then moved in the direction of the oak grove.

  “I was leaving the courtyard, following those footprints, when Larsan joined me. He was at once interested by my discovery, because that double trail was clearly worth further investigation. These were the same kind of footprints we’d seen in the Yellow Room—one from cheap boots and the other from the expensive ones, except that, before, the expensive bootprints had taken over from the cheap ones at the pond, leading both Larsan and I to conclude that they belonged to the same person who had just switched footwear. Here, on the contrary, the two sets of prints were side by side. Such a discovery could only upset all my previous theories. Larsan was as confused as I was. So we bent over and examined these footprints more closely, like a hunting dog searching for a scent.

  “I took the paper cut-outs I made of the previous footprints out of my notebook. The first cut-out was that of the cheap boots, which Larsan identified later as an old pair owned by Père Jacques. It matched perfectly the first set of new footprints left by those cheap boots. The second cut-out, which was that of the expensive boots, also matched the second set of prints, but with one small difference: the point of the boot seemed slightly larger. So we couldn’t conclude with absolute certainty that the expensive prints had been made by the same man—but we couldn’t rule it out either. Our suspect might simply have switched boots.

  “Still following the double trail, Larsan and I came out of the oak grove and reached the pond again. This time, the trail didn’t stop there, but carried on to the path leading to the main road going to Epinay. There, we lost the trail because of the tarred surface of the road, so we came back to the Chateau in silence.

  “We parted company in the courtyard. But as our thoughts were running along the same lines, we met again in Père Jacques’ room. We found the old servant still in bed. His clothes, hanging on a chair, were soaking wet and his boots—which looked remarkably like the cheap boots whose prints we’d just been studying—were muddy.