“Who rented the villa?”
“Théodora.”
“Therefore he was turning her out of her own house?”
“Yes, certainly. She raised no objection, but simply said: ‘Perhaps you will allow me to send you a doctor.’ He answered that the policeman would see to that; and he allowed her to go without saying good-bye.”
“What does that matter to us?” interrupted Rouletabille.... “Now tell me how things stood when you came on the scene.”
“A great crowd had already assembled round the house. I had a feeling that my forebodings were not unfounded.”
“That’s not what I asked you. I know the state of mind you were in.... In short, when you arrived the whole thing was over?”
“Yes, the assault and the operation were both over,” returned Ivana in a hard voice. “That’s good.”
“Why ‘good’?”
“Because it is clear that you had nothing to do with the assault or the doctor’s treatment of her. At any rate, if the poor thing dies no one will be able to blame you.”
“But what do you mean?”
“Nothing, except that I am very glad you are not involved in this matter which is all of a muddle.”
“Muddle!” repeated Ivana. “There’s never been a clearer case.”
“Well, of course,” I said.
Rouletabille shrugged his shoulders.
“So when you arrived you saw Thérèse?”
“No, she had had her wounds dressed and was resting. The Professor had administered a hypodermic injection.”
“Then you saw Roland?”
“Of course... just as one sees a statue of despair or remorse. At first I could not get a word out of him; then gradually I learnt the facts. In the end he wept like a child. He said a great many beautiful things about Thérèse.”
“What about the police investigation?”
“Oh, the investigation.... Of course the house was full of inspectors and magistrates. They were all over the place, ransacking everything. They brought the news of Prince Henry’s suicide. ‘I am sorry, for I should have liked to shoot him with my own hand,’ said Roland.
“‘Let us try as far as possible to avoid a scandal,’ returned the Chief Commissary of Police. ‘All concerned have everything to gain by such a course.’
“Say what you like,” went on Ivana, “the whole business was so absolutely plain that a summary inquiry could not fail to reveal the truth. It was concluded more quickly than one might have expected, and it was as much as the Chief Commissary of Police did to ask Thérèse two or three questions, in her room. She had recovered the full possession of her faculties and stated how she found herself face to face with Prince Henry.
“‘He was out of his mind,’ she said, ‘and I’ve no feeling against him,’ after which the Commissary of Police had a long talk with Roland, and I’m pretty sure that they have come to an understanding to concoct some story, complete in every detail, and pretend that it was an accident. Three gentlemen of the police and the public prosecutor’s office are at this moment closeted in a room on the first floor and working to that end. It’s to be hoped that they’ll succeed even for the Boulengers’ sake...
“Most of all for the Boulengers’ sake,” insisted Rouletabille. “Can we now see Thérèse?”
Ivana left us for a few minutes, and then came back to take us to Madame Boulenger’s room.
I must confess that I had looked forward to that moment with the greatest impatience as well as with an intense anxiety. For the last half-hour, notwithstanding the interest with which I followed Ivana’s story, I was longing to find myself in the presence of the woman who had suffered such martyrdom and compared with whom, it seemed to me, the others, myself included, were of so little account. But Rouletabille was the same that day as ever — we had to wait until he had cleared up, in his own mind, a series of small and apparently insignificant details, before we could bring his attention back to the main points. How often in this way had he roused our impatience to which he paid no heed! And yet it was this method which enabled him to confront the chief personages in any particular case, armed with weapons which no one suspected him to possess, and to obtain over the deceit of some and the stupidity of others, his most startling triumphs.
I was, of course, aware of this. I knew that it was not mere empty curiosity which led him often to put questions that at first sight appeared idle ones. But in this business, which seemed as clear as daylight, I assumed that in pursuing his usual method he had become the slave of his own routine, and I confess that he sunk in my esteem; particularly as the questions which he pressed upon Ivana seemed to have as their starting point — though possibly without his suspecting it — a feeling of jealousy which I regarded as ill-timed.
However, we entered the room in which Roland kept watch over the woman whom he had treated so badly and who had risked her life for him. It was a sight which I shall never forget. The poor woman lay on a sheet which had been thrown over a sofa, and was wrapped to the neck in a white dressing-gown, and, truth to tell, she looked whiter than the dressing-gown. Roland was on his knees before her and made no attempt to conceal his emotion. Thérèse turned upon us her wonderfully expressive eyes in which seemed to dwell the light of a divine hope. Though she was forbidden to speak she whispered: “Why is he crying? This is the happiest day of my life.” We could not restrain our tears, and on a sign from Roland we left the room.
Two hours later when we were at the Hôtel Tortoni, where we had taken rooms, Detective-Inspector Tamar, whom we had met on our arrival at St. Adresse, came to fetch Rouletabille on behalf of the Chief Commissary of Police.
This is what happened at the Police Office:
The local journalists were already assembled and Rouletabille noticed among them young Ramel of Dramatica. The Commissary of Police at once made a speech which might be reproduced in these words:
“Gentlemen. Two deplorable events have happened to-day and given rise to the most fantastic rumours. I may tell you first that Prince Henry of Albania in a fit of delirium threw himself over the cliff at St. Adresse, and next that an accident occurred about the same time and near the same place, which has greatly distressed an honourable family — I mean the family of the celebrated Professor Boulenger. At the request of one of their friends in Paris, who purposed to spend the month of September at one of our seaside resorts, Professor and Madame Boulenger were looking over some houses which were to be let. This friend was Madame de Lens. You will observe that I give you the name of the lady in question. As ill-luck would have it, in one of these houses, the Villa Fleurie, Madame Boulenger picked up a revolver which had been left behind and lay upon a table. She wished to see for herself how it worked, and also whether it were loaded. As too often happens when firearms are in the hands of persons who are unaccustomed to their use, the revolver went off and Madame Boulenger was wounded. Fortunately, though it was serious, her wound—”
“Her wounds,” interjected young Kamel in a hostile tone.
“Yes, her wounds,” admitted the Commissary. “For, as a matter of fact, frightened out of her wits by her carelessness, Madame Boulenger in a nervous impulse inadvertently and mechanically pressed the trigger for the second time. However, the main thing is that Madame Boulenger’s wounds will not end fatally. Her husband himself answers for her prompt recovery. Even this evening her condition was satisfactory; so much so, indeed, that she was able to give us full particulars of the accident.
“I have invited you here, gentlemen, as representatives of the press, because I know that I can rely on you to publish the truth of facts which have been distorted by malicious insinuations and ludicrous tittle-tattle. By a curious coincidence these two events occurred on the same day, but that was purely accidental, and it is your duty to say so. You owe it to Madame Boulenger to tell the truth, and she asks you, through me as her mouthpiece, to do so; and you owe the truth also to the Albanian Royal Family, whose relations with France, bear in mind, ge
ntlemen, are of the most friendly character.”
Some amount of muttering greeted the Commissary’s statement, which was so little in accord with the obvious facts, but Rouletabille in his turn addressed the gathering.
“The statement which Monsieur le Commissaire has just made is correct in every particular. I am in a position to vouch for its truth better than anyone, for I heard it from Madame Boulenger herself this afternoon, and, moreover, I will show you the account which I have written and am about to telephone to my paper.”
Having said this much he read out his article, which entirely corroborated the story told by the Commissary of Police.
“This is a put-up job!” exclaimed Ramel.
“I shall be much obliged to you, Monsieur,” protested the Commissary, turning to Rouletabille, “if you will inform your colleagues that I do not know you, that we have never met before to-day, and that no previous communication of any sort has passed between you and me or any member of my staff.”
“I give my word of honour that that is so,” returned Rouletabille.
The journalists left the Police Office.
“You take us for a set of mugs,” jeered Ramel, and he showed Rouletabille an article which he was about to telegraph to Dramatica.
Next morning, on the arrival of the newspaper train from Paris, we hastened to obtain Dramatica, but Ramel’s article was not in it. Only a local rag and an anarchist paper in Paris contained an account of what we all knew about the “accident” at the Villa Fleurie and the part which Prince Henry played in it before he committed suicide. During the day the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department himself arrived in the town.
“Clearly they’ve made a Government affair of it,” said Rouletabille. “It’s just as well.”
“Yes, it means that the scandal will be hushed up more effectually,” I agreed.
“And no one will ever know the truth,” he added.
“Oh, no one,” I said, with a smile, “except everybody!”
He made no reply, but I could see that he wore the peculiar look which was his in those great days when he was investigating a mystery, and when he alone, leaning on the right end of his judgment, saw things as they were.
CHAPTER VII
ROULETABILLE BECOMES HIMSELF AGAIN
THE FOLLOWING MORNING we had the satisfaction of learning from Boulenger that his wife was out of danger, and that her temperature, which had risen during the evening and rendered her delirious in the night, was now almost entirely normal. It might be possible, he thought, to remove Thérèse on the morrow to a small house on the coast at Ingouville, which he had taken for the purpose.
Here, far from the sights which at Deauville and elsewhere might recall her recent sufferings and every stage of her martyrdom, her health would soon be restored. We saw her once more in the tragic setting of the Villa Fleurie, in the drawing-room in which I could not set foot without conjuring up the vision of Roland and Théodora Luigi’s mad love. But Thérèse opened her eyes only to behold her husband on his knees before her, and her look sufficiently indicated that the sight compensated her for all her past woes.
We were shown into the room by Ivana, and acting upon her injunctions we did not make a sound. I doubt if Boulenger, whose back was turned to us, observed, at first, our presence. He was on his knees as on the morning before. I should mention that the sofa on which Thérèse lay was very low, and Roland could not, doubtless, find a better way of looking after her than in this kneeling posture which he continued, moreover, of set purpose.
He never wearied of asking Thérèse’s forgiveness. With closed eyes she whispered, “Don’t! Don’t!” He swore on his life never again to see Théodora Luigi.
“Say no more about that,” she murmured. “Only tell me that you still love me a little.”
“I do love you, dearest,” he said, and covered her hands with kisses.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, turning her head to us, “I am so pleased to see you all here. Did you hear what he said? He still loves me. He still loves me a little. I told you that he had never ceased to love me. Lord, how happy I am.”
I left the room greatly affected. Roland seemed perfectly sincere in his expression of remorse, and indeed he was sincere.... Ivana came to us afterwards for a moment filled with hope.
“They are beginning a new life,” she said. “A thunderbolt was needed to bring Roland back to a normal state of mind. Henceforward he will be another man, devoted to his work and his wife. You will see! He is one of those men who never do things by halves.”
As we were leaving the Villa Fleurie a rather handsome woman with a tired look on her face, who appeared to have been travelling all night, was alighting from a closed touring car. Roland came out to receive her, but she spoke to him only to ask after Thérèse, and to press him to take her to see her immediately. We learnt from Ivana that the traveller was Madame de Lens, to whom Thérèse had written stating that she was expecting the worst to happen. After seeing Thérèse, Madame de Lens took her departure for Paris almost immediately.
When we reached Havre again it was nearly eight o’clock in the morning. Rouletabille left me early, and I lunched alone. I made use of my solitude to attend to my correspondence, which occupied me until five o’clock in the afternoon. I then went out intending to take a turn on the pier. But I noticed that the wind, which had freshened since the morning, was beginning to blow up for a storm. I put on my raincoat, and made my way to the end of the promenade, which was ever and anon washed by the surf. But from my boyhood’s days, which were spent by the sea, I have always had a liking for those forced miniature baths, and I enjoy nothing so much as being buffeted by salt water when, of course, there is no danger, and I am standing on the right side of a solid parapet....
The sight was impressive to a degree. Fishing boats were losing no time in putting back; small sailing vessels rounded the pier on the crest of a wave by a daring shift of the tiller. One of these boats, in particular, had been attracting my attention for some time.
She seemed to manoeuvre with difficulty. She must have lost her jib, for I could not see it, while the other vessels had lowered their sails except their jib. At last, after a great struggle, she rounded the esplanade, and I was no little surprised to recognize standing beside a couple of sailors forming the crew and wearing sou’westers, my friend Rouletabille in his morning clothes, consisting of white trousers and blue coat. He was in a nice state!
He recognized me and beckoned to me. I hastened to reach the quay as soon as he, but he had already landed when I came up. His clothes were in tatters and he was wet to the skin. He had lost his hat, of course, displaying a tousled head of hair, but underneath this mop I could see a new look on his face.
“Let’s get back to the hotel at once,” I said. “You were mad to go out in weather like this.”
“It was perfectly all right when I started this morning,” he returned.
We bundled into a taxi; and I acted as valet at the hotel. I was much afraid lest he should catch cold. Luckily we had sent for our luggage. When I had rubbed him down with a dry towel, and he had changed into other clothes I asked:
“Now, are you going to tell me why you went for a sail to-day?”
“Wait till I’ve finished my hot brandy, and even then I’m not sure if I can.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m expecting someone to call, and if he calls I shall he glad if you’ll leave us alone.”
“Do you want me to go now?” I asked in a tone of vexation, for I have always been of an absurdly sensitive nature.
“You will readily believe, my dear Sainclair, that I’m not expecting anyone here whom I propose to take into my confidence, but rather someone from whom I hope to get something. You are the only man in my confidence — no one else I assure you. And to begin with, since my man is late, I may tell you right away that it was not Prince Henry who shot Thérèse.”
“You don’t mean to say so!” I cried. “Are you ab
solutely certain?”
“If I hadn’t been absolutely certain I shouldn’t have said anything to you.”
“That’s true, and I beg your pardon.... I’m listening.... Did you learn that at sea?”
“Well, yes, and in the simplest manner. For that matter I merely went to obtain corroboration of an idea which was already in my mind. You remember that yesterday evening I rather puzzled you by the way in which I said: ‘And no one will ever know the truth.’ Do you know what was in my mind when I said that? I was thinking that the shots were fired at five-and-twenty minutes to twelve precisely and that it was high water yesterday at ten minutes to eleven.”
“I don’t see what the state of the tide—”
“Now follow my reasoning closely. The Prince’s body was picked up at the foot of the cliff at noon. If he were the guilty party he must have thrown himself over the cliff between five-and-twenty minutes to twelve when the shots were fired — let us say twenty minutes to twelve since it would take him five minutes to reach the edge of the cliff — and noon. Now it was impossible for the Prince to have thrown himself over the cliff between these times.”
“Why not?”
“Because the tide yesterday did not cover the spot where the Prince fell until it was high water, and it was high water nearly an hour before the assault was committed. When the Prince’s body was picked up, his clothes were sodden as if he had been in the water for some hours. You can see for yourself, therefore, that he was dead when the shots were fired at Thérèse.”
“That’s clear enough,” I exclaimed. “Why didn’t it occur to us?”
“It’s like the egg of Columbus. It had to be thought of,” returned Rouletabille, with a smile. “I am well acquainted with this part of the beach, and knowing that the sea covers it very rarely my attention was attracted by this detail yesterday. The time-table of the tides bore me out before I made any inquiry, but I didn’t want to say a word to you until I had visited the place. I wanted to be there before the tide came in and after it had turned. That is why I went for a sail this morning, and why you saw me return just now in such a sorry state, but entirely satisfied. Not only does the sea not reach the spot in question between the times which I’ve given you, but owing to the slope of the beach it is impossible for the smallest pool to remain when the tide goes out.”
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 90
