The whole of one side of the laboratory was taken up with a large
chimney, crucibles, ovens, and such implements as are needed for
chemical experiments; tables, loaded with phials, papers, reports,
an electrical machine,--an apparatus, as Monsieur Darzac informed
me, employed by Professor Stangerson to demonstrate the Dissociation
of Matter under the action of solar light--and other scientific
implements.
Along the walls were cabinets, plain or glass-fronted, through which
were visible microscopes, special photographic apparatus, and a large
quantity of crystals.
Rouletabille, who was ferreting in the chimney, put his fingers into
one of the crucibles. Suddenly he drew himself up, and held up a
piece of half-consumed paper in his hand. He stepped up to where
we were talking by one of the windows.
"Keep that for us, Monsieur Darzac," he said.
I bent over the piece of scorched paper which Monsieur Darzac took
from the hand of Rouletabille, and read distinctly the only words
that remained legible:
"Presbytery--lost nothing--charm, nor the gar--its brightness."
Twice since the morning these same meaningless words had struck
me, and, for the second time, I saw that they produced on the
Sorbonne professor the same paralysing effect. Monsieur Darzac's
first anxiety showed itself when he turned his eyes in the direction
of Daddy Jacques. But, occupied as he was at another window, he
had seen nothing. Then tremblingly opening his pocket-book he put
the piece of paper into it, sighing: "My God!"
During this time, Rouletabille had mounted into the opening of the
fire-grate--that is to say, he had got upon the bricks of a furnace
--and was attentively examining the chimney, which grew narrower
towards the top, the outlet from it being closed with sheets of
iron, fastened into the brickwork, through which passed three small
chimneys.
"Impossible to get out that way," he said, jumping back into the
laboratory. "Besides, even if he had tried to do it, he would have
brought all that ironwork down to the ground. No, no; it is not
on that side we have to search."
Rouletabille next examined the furniture and opened the doors of the
cabinet. Then he came to the windows, through which he declared no
one could possibly have passed. At the second window he found Daddy
Jacques in contemplation.
"Well, Daddy Jacques," he said, "what are you looking at?"
"That policeman who is always going round and round the lake.
Another of those fellows who think they can see better than anybody
else!"
"You don't know Frederic Larsan, Daddy Jacques, or you wouldn't
speak of him in that way," said Rouletabille in a melancholy tone.
"If there is anyone who will find the murderer, it will be he."
And Rouletabille heaved a deep sigh.
"Before they find him, they will have to learn how they lost him,"
said Daddy Jacques, stolidly.
At length we reached the door of The Yellow Room itself.
"There is the door behind which some terrible scene took place,"
said Rouletabille, with a solemnity which, under any other
circumstances, would have been comical.
CHAPTER VII
In Which Rouletabille Sets Out on an Expedition Under the Bed
Rouletabille having pushed open the door of The Yellow Room paused
on the threshold saying, with an emotion which I only later
understood, "Ah, the perfume of the lady in black!"
The chamber was dark. Daddy Jacques was about to open the blinds
when Rouletabille stopped him.
"Did not the tragedy take place in complete darkness?" he asked.
"No, young man, I don't think so. Mademoiselle always had a
nightlight on her table, and I lit it every evening before she went
to bed. I was a sort of chambermaid, you must understand, when the
evening came. The real chambermaid did not come here much before
the morning. Mademoiselle worked late--far into the night."
"Where did the table with the night-light stand,--far from the
bed?"
"Some way from the bed."
"Can you light the burner now?"
"The lamp is broken and the oil that was in it was spilled when the
table was upset. All the rest of the things in the room remain just
as they were. I have only to open the blinds for you to see."
"Wait."
the two windows and the door of the vestibule.
When we were in complete darkness, he lit a wax vesta, and asked
Daddy Jacques to move to the middle of the chamber with it to the
place where the night-light was burning that night.
Daddy Jacques who was in his stockings--he usually left his sabots
in the vestibule--entered The Yellow Room with his bit of a vesta.
We vaguely distinguished objects overthrown on the floor, a bed in
one corner, and, in front of us, to the left, the gleam of a
looking-glass hanging on the wall, near to the bed.
"That will do!--you may now open the blinds," said Rouletabille.
"Don't come any further," Daddy Jacques begged, "you may make marks
with your boots, and nothing must be deranged; it's an idea of the
magistrate's--though he has nothing more to do here."
And he pushed open the shutter. The pale daylight entered from
without, throwing a sinister light on the saffron-coloured walls.
The floor--for though the laboratory and the vestibule were tiled,
The Yellow Room had a flooring of wood--was covered with a single
yellow mat which was large enough to cover nearly the whole room,
under the bed and under the dressing-table--the only piece of
furniture that remained upright. The centre round table, the
night-table and two chairs had been overturned. These did not
prevent a large stain of blood being visible on the mat, made, as
Daddy Jacques informed us, by the blood which had flowed from the
wound on Mademoiselle Stangerson's forehead. Besides these stains,
drops of blood had fallen in all directions, in line with the visible
traces of the footsteps--large and black--of the murderer.
Everything led to the presumption that these drops of blood had
fallen from the wound of the man who had, for a moment, placed his
red hand on the wall. There were other traces of the same hand on
the wall, but much less distinct.
"See!--see this blood on the wall!" I could not help exclaiming.
"The man who pressed his hand so heavily upon it in the darkness
must certainly have thought that he was pushing at a door! That's
why he pressed on it so hard, leaving on the yellow paper the
terrible evidence. I don't think there are many hands in the world
of that sort. It is big and strong and the fingers are nearly all
one as long as the other! The thumb is wanting and we have only
the mark of the palm; but if we follow the trace of the hand," I
continued, "we see that, after leaving its imprint on the wall, the
touch sought the door, found it, and then felt for the lock--"
"No doubt," interrupted Rouletabille, c
huckling,--"only there is
no blood, either on the lock or on the bolt!"
"What does that prove?" I rejoined with a good sense of which I was
proud; "he might have opened the lock with his left hand, which
would have been quite natural, his right hand being wounded."
"He didn't open it at all!" Daddy Jacques again exclaimed. "We are
not fools; and there were four of us when we burst open the door!"
"What a queer hand!--Look what a queer hand it is!" I said.
"It is a very natural hand," said Rouletabille, "of which the shape
has been deformed by its having slipped on the wall. The man dried
his hand on the wall. He must be a man about five feet eight in
height."
"How do you come at that?"
"By the height of the marks on the wall."
My friend next occupied himself with the mark of the bullet in the
wall. It was a round hole.
"This ball was fired straight, not from above, and consequently, not
from below."
Rouletabille went back to the door and carefully examined the lock
and the bolt, satisfying himself that the door had certainly been
burst open from the outside, and, further, that the key had been
found in the lock on the inside of the chamber. He finally
satisfied himself that with the key in the lock, the door could not
possibly be opened from without with another key. Having made sure
of all these details, he let fall these words: "That's better!"
--Then sitting down on the ground, he hastily took off his boots
and, in his socks, went into the room.
The first thing he did was to examine minutely the overturned
furniture. We watched him in silence.
"Young fellow, you are giving yourself a great deal of trouble,"
said Daddy Jacques ironically.
Rouletabille raised his head and said:
"You have spoken the simple truth, Daddy Jacques; your mistress did
not have her hair in bands that evening. I was a donkey to have
believed she did."
Then, with the suppleness of a serpent, he slipped under the bed.
Presently we heard him ask:
"At what time, Monsieur Jacques, did Monsieur and Mademoiselle
Stangerson arrive at the laboratory?"
"At six o'clock."
The voice of Rouletabille continued:
"Yes,--he's been under here,--that's certain; in fact, there was
no where else where he could have hidden himself. Here, too, are
the marks of his hobnails. When you entered--all four of you--did
you look under the bed?"
"At once,--we drew it right out of its place--"
"And between the mattresses?"
"There was only one on the bed, and on that Mademoiselle was placed;
and Monsieur Stangerson and the concierge immediately carried it
into the laboratory. Under the mattress there was nothing but the
metal netting, which could not conceal anything or anybody.
Remember, monsieur, that there were four of us and we couldn't fail
to see everything--the chamber is so small and scantily furnished,
and all was locked behind in the pavilion."
I ventured on a hypothesis:
"Perhaps he got away with the mattress--in the mattress!--Anything
is possible, in the face of such a mystery! In their distress of
mind Monsieur Stangerson and the concierge may not have noticed they
were bearing a double weight; especially if the concierge were an
accomplice! I throw out this hypothesis for what it is worth, but
it explains many things,--and particularly the fact that neither
the laboratory nor the vestibule bear any traces of the footmarks
found in the room. If, in carrying Mademoiselle on the mattress
from the laboratory of the chateau, they rested for a moment, there
might have been an opportunity for the man in it to escape.
"And then?" asked Rouletabille, deliberately laughing under the bed.
I felt rather vexed and replied:
"I don't know,--but anything appears possible"--
"The examining magistrate had the same idea, monsieur," said Daddy
Jacques, "and he carefully examined the mattress. He was obliged
to laugh at the idea, monsieur, as your friend is doing now,--for
whoever heard of a mattress having a double bottom?"
I was myself obliged to laugh, on seeing that what I had said was
absurd; but in an affair like this one hardly knows where an
absurdity begins or ends.
My friend alone seemed able to talk intelligently. He called out
from under the bed.
"The mat here has been moved out of place,--who did it?"
"We did, monsieur," explained Daddy Jacques. "When we could not
find the assassin, we asked ourselves whether there was not some
hole in the floor--"
"There is not," replied Rouletabille. "Is there a cellar?"
"No, there's no cellar. But that has not stopped our searching, and
has not prevented the examining magistrate and his Registrar from
studying the floor plank by plank, as if there had been a cellar
under it."
The reporter then reappeared. His eyes were sparkling and his
nostrils quivered. He remained on his hands and knees. He could
not be better likened than to an admirable sporting dog on the
scent of some unusual game. And, indeed, he was scenting the steps
of a man,--the man whom he has sworn to report to his master, the
manager of the "Epoque." It must not be forgotten that Rouletabille
was first and last a journalist.
Thus, on his hands and knees, he made his way to the four corners
of the room, so to speak, sniffing and going round everything
--everything that we could see, which was not much, and everything
that we could not see, which must have been infinite.
The toilette table was a simple table standing on four legs; there
was nothing about it by which it could possibly be changed into a
temporary hiding-place. There was not a closet or cupboard.
Mademoiselle Stangerson kept her wardrobe at the chateau.
Rouletabille literally passed his nose and hands along the walls,
constructed of solid brickwork. When he had finished with the
walls, and passed his agile fingers over every portion of the
yellow paper covering them, he reached to the ceiling, which he was
able to touch by mounting on a chair placed on the toilette table,
and by moving this ingeniously constructed stage from place to place
he examined every foot of it. When he had finished his scrutiny of
the ceiling, where he carefully examined the hole made by the second
bullet, he approached the window, and, once more, examined the iron
bars and blinds, all of which were solid and intact. At last, he
gave a grunt of satisfaction and declared "Now I am at ease!"
"Well,--do you believe that the poor dear young lady was shut up
when she was being murdered--when she cried out for help?" wailed
Daddy Jacques.
"Yes," said the young reporter, drying his forehead, "The Yellow
Room was as tightly shut as an iron safe."
"That," I said, "is why this mystery is the most surprising I know.
Edgar Allan Poe, in 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue,' invented
nothing like it. The place of t
hat crime was sufficiently closed
to prevent the escape of a man; but there was that window through
which the monkey, the perpetrator of the murder, could slip away!
But here, there can be no question of an opening of any sort. The
door was fastened, and through the window blinds, secure as they
were, not even a fly could enter or get out."
"True, true," assented Rouletabille as he kept on drying his
forehead, which seemed to be perspiring less from his recent bodily
exertion than from his mental agitation. "Indeed, it's a great, a
beautiful, and a very curious mystery."
"The Bete du bon Dieu," muttered Daddy Jacques, "the Bete du bon
Dieu herself, if she had committed the crime, could not have escaped.
Listen! Do you hear it? Hush!"
Daddy Jacques made us a sign to keep quiet and, stretching his arm
towards the wall nearest the forest, listened to something which we
could not hear.
"It's answering," he said at length. "I must kill it. It is too
wicked, but it's the Bete du bon Dieu, and, every night, it goes to
pray on the tomb of Sainte-Genevieve and nobody dares to touch her,
for fear that Mother Angenoux should cast an evil spell on them."
"How big is the Bete du bon Dieu?"
"Nearly as big as a small retriever,--a monster, I tell you. Ah!
--I have asked myself more than once whether it was not her that
took our poor Mademoiselle by the throat with her claws. But the
Bete du bon Dieu does not wear hobnailed boots, nor fire revolvers,
nor has she a hand like that!" exclaimed Daddy Jacques, again
pointing out to us the red mark on the wall. "Besides, we should
have seen her as well as we would have seen a man--"
"Evidently," I said. "Before we had seen this Yellow Room, I had
also asked myself whether the cat of Mother Angenoux--"
"You also!" cried Rouletabille.
"Didn't you?" I asked.
"Not for a moment. After reading the article in the 'Matin,' I knew
that a cat had nothing to do with the matter. But I swear now that
a frightful tragedy has been enacted here. You say nothing about
the Basque cap, or the handkerchief, found here, Daddy Jacques?"
"Of course, the magistrate has taken them," the old man answered,
hesitatingly.
"I haven't seen either the handkerchief or the cap, yet I can tell
you how they are made," the reporter said to him gravely.
"Oh, you are very clever," said Daddy Jacques, coughing and
embarrassed.
"The handkerchief is a large one, blue with red stripes and the cap
is an old Basque cap, like the one you are wearing now."
"You are a wizard!" said Daddy Jacques, trying to laugh and not
quite succeeding. "How do you know that the handkerchief is blue
with red stripes?"
"Because, if it had not been blue with red stripes, it would not
have been found at all."
Without giving any further attention to Daddy Jacques, my friend
took a piece of paper from his pocket, and taking out a pair of
scissors, bent over the footprints. Placing the paper over one
of them he began to cut. In a short time he had made a perfect
pattern which he handed to me, begging me not to lose it.
He then returned to the window and, pointing to the figure of
Frederic Larsan, who had not quitted the side of the lake, asked
Daddy Jacques whether the detective had, like himself, been working
in The Yellow Room?
"No," replied Robert Darzac, who, since Rouletabille had handed
him the piece of scorched paper, had not uttered a word, "He pretends
that he does not need to examine The Yellow Room. He says that the
murderer made his escape from it in quite a natural way, and that
he will, this evening, explain how he did it."