The Mystery of the Yellow Room

by Gaston Leroux

murderer should be discovered, was he helping the reporter to find

  him? My young friend seemed to have received the same impression,

  for he said, bluntly:

  "Monsieur Darzac, don't you want me to find out who the murderer

  was?"

  "Oh!--I should like to kill him with my own hand!" cried

  Mademoiselle Stangerson's fiance, with a vehemence that amazed me.

  "I believe you," said Rouletabille gravely; "but you have not

  answered my question."

  We were passing by the thicket, of which the young reporter had

  spoken to us a minute before. I entered it and pointed out evident

  traces of a man who had been hidden there. Rouletabille, once more,

  was right.

  "Yes, yes!" he said. "We have to do with a thing of flesh and blood,

  who uses the same means that we do. It'll all come out on those

  lines."

  Having said this, he asked me for the paper pattern of the footprint

  which he had given me to take care of, and applied it to a very

  clear footmark behind the thicket. "Aha!" he said, rising.

  I thought he was now going to trace back the track of the murderer's

  footmarks to the vestibule window; but he led us instead, far to the

  left, saying that it was useless ferreting in the mud, and that he

  was sure, now, of the road taken by the murderer.

  "He went along the wall to the hedge and dry ditch, over which he

  jumped. See, just in front of the little path leading to the lake,

  that was his nearest way to get out."

  "How do you know he went to the lake?"--

  "Because Frederic Larsan has not quitted the borders of it since

  this morning. There must be some important marks there."

  A few minutes later we reached the lake.

  It was a little sheet of marshy water, surrounded by reeds, on which

  floated some dead water-lily leaves. The great Fred may have seen

  us approaching, but we probably interested him very little, for he

  took hardly any notice of us and continued to be stirring with his

  cane something which we could not see.

  "Look!" said Rouletabille, "here again are the footmarks of the

  escaping man; they skirt the lake here and finally disappear just

  before this path, which leads to the high road to Epinay. The man

  continued his flight to Paris."

  "What makes you think that?" I asked, "since these footmarks are

  not continued on the path?"

  "What makes me think that?--Why these footprints, which I expected

  to find!" he cried, pointing to the sharply outlined imprint of a

  neat boot. "See!"--and he called to Frederic Larsan.

  "Monsieur Fred, these neat footprints seem to have been made since

  the discovery of the crime."

  "Yes, young man, yes, they have been carefully made," replied Fred

  without raising his head. "You see, there are steps that come, and

  steps that go back."

  "And the man had a bicycle!" cried the reporter.

  Here, after looking at the marks of the bicycle, which followed,

  going and coming, the neat footprints, I thought I might intervene.

  "The bicycle explains the disappearance of the murderer's big

  foot-prints," I said. "The murderer, with his rough boots, mounted

  a bicycle. His accomplice, the wearer of the neat boots, had come

  to wait for him on the edge of the lake with the bicycle. It might

  be supposed that the murderer was working for the other."

  "No, no!" replied Rouletabille with a strange smile. "I have

  expected to find these footmarks from the very beginning. These

  are not the footmarks of the murderer!"

  "Then there were two?"

  "No--there was but one, and he had no accomplice."

  "Very good!--Very good!" cried Frederic Larsan.

  "Look!" continued the young reporter, showing us the ground where

  it had been disturbed by big and heavy heels; "the man seated

  himself there, and took off his hobnailed boots, which he had worn

  only for the purpose of misleading detection, and then no doubt,

  taking them away with him, he stood up in his own boots, and quietly

  and slowly regained the high road, holding his bicycle in his hand,

  for he could not venture to ride it on this rough path. That

  accounts for the lightness of the impression made by the wheels

  along it, in spite of the softness of the ground. If there had been

  a man on the bicycle, the wheels would have sunk deeply into the

  soil. No, no; there was but one man there, the murderer on foot."

  "Bravo!--bravo!" cried Fred again, and coming suddenly towards

  us and, planting himself in front of Monsieur Robert Darzac, he

  said to him:

  "If we had a bicycle here, we might demonstrate the correctness of

  the young man's reasoning, Monsieur Robert Darzac. Do you know

  whether there is one at the chateau?"

  "No!" replied Monsieur Darzac. "There is not. I took mine, four

  days ago, to Paris, the last time I came to the chateau before the

  crime."

  "That's a pity!" replied Fred, very coldly. Then, turning to

  Rouletabille, he said: "If we go on at this rate, we'll both come

  to the same conclusion. Have you any idea, as to how the murderer

  got away from The Yellow Room?"

  "Yes," said my young friend; "I have an idea."

  "So have I," said Fred, "and it must be the same as yours. There

  are no two ways of reasoning in this affair. I am waiting for the

  arrival of my chief before offering any explanation to the examining

  magistrate."

  "Ah! Is the Chief of the Surete coming?"

  "Yes, this afternoon. He is going to summon, before the magistrate,

  in the laboratory, all those who have played any part in this

  tragedy. It will be very interesting. It is a pity you won't be

  able to be present."

  "I shall be present," said Rouletabille confidently.

  "Really--you are an extraordinary fellow--for your age!" replied

  the detective in a tone not wholly free from irony. "You'd make a

  wonderful detective--if you had a little more method--if you

  didn't follow your instincts and that bump on your forehead. As I

  have already several times observed, Monsieur Rouletabille, you

  reason too much; you do not allow yourself to be guided by what you

  have seen. What do you say to the handkerchief full of blood, and

  the red mark of the hand on the wall? You have seen the stain on

  the wall, but I have only seen the handkerchief."

  "Bah!" cried Rouletabille, "the murderer was wounded in the hand

  by Mademoiselle Stangerson's revolver!"

  "Ah!--a simply instinctive observation! Take care!--You are

  becoming too strictly logical, Monsieur Rouletabille; logic will

  upset you if you use it indiscriminately. You are right, when you

  say that Mademoiselle Stangerson fired her revolver, but you are

  wrong when you say that she wounded the murderer in the hand."

  "I am sure of it," cried Rouletabille.

  Fred, imperturbable, interrupted him:

  "Defective observation--defective observation!--the examination

  of the handkerchief, the numberless little round scarlet stains, the

  impression of drops which I found in the tracks of the footprints,

  at th
e moment when they were made on the floor, prove to me that the

  murderer was not wounded at all. Monsieur Rouletabille, the murderer

  bled at the nose!"

  The great Fred spoke quite seriously. However, I could not refrain

  from uttering an exclamation.

  The reporter looked gravely at Fred, who looked gravely at him.

  And Fred immediately concluded:

  "The man allowed the blood to flow into his hand and handkerchief,

  and dried his hand on the wall. The fact is highly important," he

  added, "because there is no need of his being wounded in the hand

  for him to be the murderer."

  Rouletabille seemed to be thinking deeply. After a moment he

  said:

  "There is something--a something, Monsieur Frederic Larsan, much

  graver than the misuse of logic the disposition of mind in some

  detectives which makes them, in perfect good faith, twist logic to

  the necessities of their preconceived ideas. You, already, have

  your idea about the murderer, Monsieur Fred. Don't deny it; and

  your theory demands that the murderer should not have been wounded

  in the hand, otherwise it comes to nothing. And you have searched,

  and have found something else. It's dangerous, very dangerous,

  Monsieur Fred, to go from a preconceived idea to find the proofs to

  fit it. That method may lead you far astray Beware of judicial

  error, Monsieur Fred, it will trip you up!"

  And laughing a little, in a slightly bantering tone, his hands in

  his pockets, Rouletabille fixed his cunning eyes on the great Fred.

  Frederic Larsan silently contemplated the young reporter who

  pretended to be as wise as himself. Shrugging his shoulders, he

  bowed to us and moved quickly away, hitting the stones on his path

  with his stout cane.

  Rouletabille watched his retreat, and then turned toward us, his

  face joyous and triumphant.

  "I shall beat him!" he cried. "I shall beat the great Fred, clever

  as he is; I shall beat them all!"

  And he danced a double shuffle. Suddenly he stopped. My eyes

  followed his gaze; they were fixed on Monsieur Robert Darzac, who

  was looking anxiously at the impression left by his feet side by

  side with the elegant footmarks. There was not a particle of

  difference between them!

  We thought he was about to faint. His eyes, bulging with terror,

  avoided us, while his right hand, with a spasmodic movement,

  twitched at the beard that covered his honest, gentle, and now

  despairing face. At length regaining his self-possession, he bowed

  to us, and remarking, in a changed voice, that he was obliged to

  return to the chateau, left us.

  "The deuce!" exclaimed Rouletabille.

  He, also, appeared to be deeply concerned. From his pocket-book he

  took a piece of white paper as I had seen him do before, and with

  his scissors, cut out the shape of the neat bootmarks that were on

  the ground. Then he fitted the new paper pattern with the one he

  had previously made--the two were exactly alike. Rising,

  Rouletabille exclaimed again: "The deuce!" Presently he added:

  "Yet I believe Monsieur Robert Darzac to be an honest man." He

  then led me on the road to the Donjon Inn, which we could see on

  the highway, by the side of a small clump of trees.

  CHAPTER X

  "We Shall Have to Eat Red Meat--Now"

  The Donjon Inn was of no imposing appearance; but I like these

  buildings with their rafters blackened with age and the smoke of

  their hearths--these inns of the coaching-days, crumbling erections

  that will soon exist in the memory only. They belong to the bygone

  days, they are linked with history. They make us think of the Road,

  of those days when highwaymen rode.

  I saw at once that the Donjon Inn was at least two centuries old

  --perhaps older. Under its sign-board, over the threshold, a man

  with a crabbed-looking face was standing, seemingly plunged in

  unpleasant thought, if the wrinkles on his forehead and the knitting

  of his brows were any indication.

  When we were close to him, he deigned to see us and asked us, in a

  tone anything but engaging, whether we wanted anything. He was, no

  doubt, the not very amiable landlord of this charming dwelling-place.

  As we expressed a hope that he would be good enough to furnish us

  with a breakfast, he assured us that he had no provisions, regarding

  us, as he said this, with a look that was unmistakably suspicious.

  "You may take us in," Rouletabille said to him, "we are not

  policemen."

  "I'm not afraid of the police--I'm not afraid of anyone!" replied

  the man.

  I had made my friend understand by a sign that we should do better

  not to insist; but, being determined to enter the inn, he slipped

  by the man on the doorstep and was in the common room.

  "Come on," he said, "it is very comfortable here."

  A good fire was blazing in the chimney, and we held our hands to

  the warmth it sent out; it was a morning in which the approach of

  winter was unmistakable. The room was a tolerably large one,

  furnished with two heavy tables, some stools, a counter decorated

  with rows of bottles of syrup and alcohol. Three windows looked

  out on to the road. A coloured advertisement lauded the many

  merits of a new vermouth. On the mantelpiece was arrayed the

  innkeeper's collection of figured earthenware pots and stone jugs.

  "That's a fine fire for roasting a chicken," said Rouletabille.

  "We have no chicken--not even a wretched rabbit," said the

  landlord.

  "I know," said my friend slowly; "I know--We shall have to eat red

  meat--now."

  I confess I did not in the least understand what Rouletabille meant

  by what he had said; but the landlord, as soon as he heard the words,

  uttered an oath, which he at once stifled, and placed himself at our

  orders as obediently as Monsieur Robert Darzac had done, when he

  heard Rouletabille's prophetic sentence--"The presbytery has lost

  nothing of its charm, nor the garden its brightness." Certainly my

  friend knew how to make people understand him by the use of wholly

  incomprehensible phrases. I observed as much to him, but he merely

  smiled. I should have proposed that he give me some explanation;

  but he put a finger to his lips, which evidently signified that he

  had not only determined not to speak, but also enjoined silence on

  my part.

  Meantime the man had pushed open a little side door and called to

  somebody to bring him half a dozen eggs and a piece of beefsteak.

  The commission was quickly executed by a strongly-built young woman

  with beautiful blonde hair and large, handsome eyes, who regarded

  us with curiosity.

  The innkeeper said to her roughly:

  "Get out!--and if the Green Man comes, don't let me see him."

  She disappeared. Rouletabille took the eggs, which had been brought

  to him in a bowl, and the meat which was on a dish, placed all

  carefully beside him in the chimney, unhooked a frying-pan and a

  gridiron, and began to beat up our omelette before proceeding to

 
grill our beefsteak. He then ordered two bottles of cider, and

  seemed to take as little notice of our host as our host did of him.

  The landlord let us do our own cooking and set our table near one

  of the windows.

  Suddenly I heard him mutter:

  "Ah!--there he is."

  His face had changed, expressing fierce hatred. He went and glued

  himself to one of the windows, watching the road. There was no need

  for me to draw Rouletabille's attention; he had already left our

  omelette and had joined the landlord at the window. I went with him.

  A man dressed entirely in green velvet, his head covered with a

  huntsman's cap of the same colour, was advancing leisurely, lighting

  a pipe as he walked. He carried a fowling-piece slung at his back.

  His movements displayed an almost aristocratic ease. He wore

  eye-glasses and appeared to be about five and forty years of age.

  His hair as well as his moustache were salt grey. He was remarkably

  handsome. As he passed near the inn, he hesitated, as if asking

  himself whether or no he should enter it; gave a glance towards us,

  took a few whiffs at his pipe, and then resumed his walk at the same

  nonchalant pace.

  Rouletabille and I looked at our host. His flashing eyes, his

  clenched hands, his trembling lips, told us of the tumultuous

  feelings by which he was being agitated.

  "He has done well not to come in here to-day!" he hissed.

  "Who is that man?" asked Rouletabille, returning to his omelette.

  "The Green Man," growled the innkeeper. "Don't you know him? Then

  all the better for you. He is not an acquaintance to make.--Well,

  he is Monsieur Stangerson's forest-keeper."

  "You don't appear to like him very much?" asked the reporter,

  pouring his omelette into the frying-pan.

  "Nobody likes him, monsieur. He's an upstart who must once have

  had a fortune of his own; and he forgives nobody because, in order

  to live, he has been compelled to become a servant. A keeper is as

  much a servant as any other, isn't he? Upon my word, one would say

  that he is the master of the Glandier, and that all the land and

  woods belong to him. He'll not let a poor creature eat a morsel of

  bread on the grass his grass!"

  "Does he often come here?"

  "Too often. But I've made him understand that his face doesn't

  please me, and, for a month past, he hasn't been here. The Donjon

  Inn has never existed for him!--he hasn't had time!--been too

  much engaged in paying court to the landlady of the Three Lilies

  at Saint-Michel. A bad fellow!--There isn't an honest man who can

  bear him. Why, the concierges of the chateau would turn their eyes

  away from a picture of him!"

  "The concierges of the chateau are honest people, then?"

  "Yes, they are, as true as my name's Mathieu, monsieur. I believe

  them to be honest."

  "Yet they've been arrested?"

  "What does that prove?--But I don't want to mix myself up in

  other people's affairs."

  "And what do you think of the murder?"

  "Of the murder of poor Mademoiselle Stangerson?--A good girl much

  loved everywhere in the country. That's what I think of it--and

  many things besides; but that's nobody's business."

  "Not even mine?" insisted Rouletabille.

  The innkeeper looked at him sideways and said gruffly:

  "Not even yours."

  The omelette ready, we sat down at table and were silently eating,

  when the door was pushed open and an old woman, dressed in rags,

  leaning on a stick, her head doddering, her white hair hanging

  loosely over her wrinkled forehead, appeared on the threshold.

  "Ah!--there you are, Mother Angenoux!--It's long since we saw

  you last," said our host.