Obviously there was nothing new in it if it were a case of this sort, but personally I was convinced that it was not a case of this sort. I remembered that I was with Rouletabille some minutes before his arrest. True, he had indulged in language indicating that he had lost some of his illusions, but I remembered his calmness in his despair, and I could still hear him saying:
“I have too often foreseen what was about to happen to let myself give way to passion. And then to kill her would be to show that I still loved her, and she would be the victor. No, she shall live.... I shall express my disgust without seeming to be surprised, and go my way turning my back on her.”
I, who remembered these things, know that Rouletabille was innocent of shedding blood.
I shall be told, however, that he refrained from mentioning his visit to the villa at Passy where he had gone, from all accounts, to make certain of what was taking place; but I was entitled to believe that if he did not mention it to me it was solely for lack of time. Did not Mifroid, the Commissary of Police, arrive at the very moment when we were clasped in a brotherly embrace after Rouletabille had made his first cruel confidences to me? Other revelations were certainly about to follow. Why should he keep back anything from me? Moreover, I know him well enough to feel that if he had perpetrated the deed he would have been the first to proclaim the fact. Now, he denied it.
Soon after the sensational arrest of Rouletabille I drove to Madame Boulenger’s house.
It will be recalled that I was with her in Rouletabille’s flat at half-past five. That was an important detail, because in spite of what was alleged by the deputy public prosecutor, who maintained that the murders were done at five minutes to five precisely, it was soon proved that they were committed at half-past five. It will likewise be recalled that when I left Rouletabille’s flat I drove Madame Boulenger to Dr. Schall’s place....
I did not find Madame Boulenger at home.
I thought that she might still be with Dr. Schall. Events had moved so quickly that she was bound to be ignorant of them.
I will not enter into particulars of the terrible time which she and I passed through. When she at last realized the truth she collapsed, and remained hovering between life and death for three days.... Dr. Schall did not leave her bedside, and he succeeded in saving her. Nevertheless, she reproached him for it. But from the moment that she recovered consciousness she was determined to live to avenge him. She too, was convinced of Rouletabille’s innocence. And I was conscious of the direction in which her thoughts were tending. They were tending in the direction which had already been taken by mine.
Her eagerness to unravel the truth was such that she regained strength with marvellous rapidity. It must be said, however, that her recovery and restoration to health were quite fictitious, for she was living on her nerves, and was driven from her bed by a fixed idea which I shared and to which it is now time that a name should be given. Our thoughts turned to — Théodora Luigi.
CHAPTER X
FURTHER DETAILS AND FURTHER DOUBTS
IT WILL BE recollected that on the Saturday preceding the murders at Passy — which took place on the Tuesday — I happened to be at the Opéra Comique, and that seated in a box opposite mine was Théodora Luigi, who had already appointed a successor to Prince Henry of Albania, and was making a show of flirtation with the well-known Greek, Monsieur Parapapoulos.
On inquiry I learnt that the celebrated courtesan had left France with her new master on the very day of the crime by the one o’clock Orient express. I obtained this information from friends in the Detective Service, and it reduced me to helplessness. I went to the eastern station in Paris, where the fact was corroborated.
My state of mind may be pictured. It was pitiable. Any attempt to solve the mystery only brought me up against Rouletabille and the deputy public prosecutor’s words, which rang wildly in my ears like a peal of bells:
“You left this house at five o’clock, and these murders were committed at precisely five minutes to five.”
I say again that at that time nothing had happened to correct this mistake which tended so terribly to incriminate Rouletabille, and as I pondered over various theories my mind was racked with agonies of doubt.
The time was established by the authorities after an examination of Roland Boulenger’s watch, which was struck by a bullet and had stopped at five minutes to five. Moreover, Rouletabille was seen leaving the house by a door which opened on to some waste ground in La Roche Lane. He was recognized by a policeman — every policeman knew Rouletabille — who was chatting with a newsman. The policeman and newsman were both struck by his pallor and distraught manner as he passed quite close without noticing them. He was talking to himself.
The murders were discovered through the instrumentality of a carpenter’s son, who was playing a game of marbles all by himself near the wall behind the house in a by-street which bore no name. He heard revolver shots and shouts coming from a room on the first floor, the windows of which were closed and shuttered, and he at once ran home. His father did not come in until more than an hour later, and listened without paying much heed to the boy’s story. Nevertheless, when a policeman went past his workshop, the carpenter told the boy to repeat the story to the representative of law and order.
As it happened, this policeman was the man who had seen Rouletabille leave the house. He straightway went to the spot indicated by the boy and seemed to hear moans. It was apparently Ivana in her death agony. A few minutes later he made his way into the house with the local Commissary of Police. The sequel is known.
The boy’s statements as to time were very confused. It was impossible to establish within half an hour or so when he heard the revolver shots. Boulenger’s watch had stopped at five minutes to five, and in the general view, for the time being, this fact was consistent with Rouletabille leaving the house at five o’clock.
And, truth to tell, I could understand the magistrate’s point of view. As for myself, since I was unable to turn my suspicions in the direction of Théodora Luigi. I longed to meet Rouletabille again.
But he refused to see anyone for the moment, even his counsel. He was left to himself after he had been “confronted with his victims,” and the doctors proceeded with their post-mortem examination. Nothing was gleaned from the examination except corroborative evidence, more or less unnecessary, that the two victims could not have committed suicide.
It was known, moreover, that no weapon of any sort had been discovered in the house or grounds. Finally a summary investigation had shown that the murders were committed by a third party.
Such being the facts of the case, we could not for a moment put forward the theory which was expressed in one newspaper, the Epoque, that Roland Boulenger and Ivana had killed each other.
I repeat, therefore, that greatly perturbed by the mystery which surrounded me, I was anxious to see Rouletabille again.
CHAPTER XI
THE VILLA AT PASSY
I LEARNT THROUGH Monsieur Hébert, the examining magistrate, and certain indiscreet remarks made by prison officials, that Rouletabille was in a state of utter prostration. He did not eat or speak, but remained lying motionless on his bed. The world in general entreated him to confess his guilt, assuring him that he was bound to be acquitted. He refused even to make any answer.
I received but one brief letter from him in which he wrote:
“Look after her grave. Let there be two places, one for her and one for me.”
And now I was longing to meet him again during the second visit that he was called upon to make to the scene of the murders. I had a message, and repaired to the place with the magistrate. Rouletabille had not yet arrived.
I had a short conversation with the examining magistrate, and of course told him everything that could be of service to my friend and client; in particular I dwelt on his bearing in my presence only a few minutes after the deed was committed when, from all appearance, he knew nothing about it. But Monsieur Hébert seemed to ha
ve made up his mind.
He answered all that I could say to him by shrugging his shoulders with a gesture of annoyance and stroking his iron-grey side whiskers which he wore in the old-fashioned manner:
An immense crowd was assembled round the house as far as the lane, in spite of the efforts of the policemen on duty to keep it back. Newspaper men as usual were greatly to the fore; but not one of them had been admitted to the villa.
At the time when the murders were discovered I was too much occupied by the pressure of events to concern myself with the surroundings. I had eyes only for Rouletabille and the two bodies lying on the floor. We may now take a look round.
The house, which was hidden at the far end of Passy, was very attractive. Roland had taken it some time before as a place in which to find distraction from the immense labours in which he was engaged elsewhere. These facts came to light in the course of the inquest. But it was an absolute certainty that he had assured Ivana, as he had previously assured Theodora Luigi, that he had taken over and fitted and furnished this little corner of the world for her alone; for the love affair of the moment was as usual the only thing that counted with him.
The villa was undoubtedly what would have been called in times past a “pleasure retreat.” It dated from the eighteenth century, and was suggestive of the Jesuit style, wherein columns and reversed consoles mingled their absurd dignity with the antiquated appearance of the whole conglomeration. In short, though the house was in execrable taste, it was beautified by the greyness of time. I imagine that it must have been an atrocity when it was first built. Hidden in its nest of greenery, the old place was a pleasant discovery for the lovers.... But the wainscotting inside, which was in excellent state of preservation and renovated with some art, was a thing calling for admiration.
The rooms on the ground floor being damp were kept permanently closed. The first and only storey was reached by a marble staircase, whose wrought iron balustrade was a wonderful piece of work. The first floor, as a whole, had a touch of licentiousness about it. The decorations on the pier glasses pictured shepherds and shepherdesses giving chase with a hardihood which was scarcely disguised. The diningroom contained some Beauvais tapestry hangings, while a rustic scene after F. Boucher occupied an entire panel. Louis Quinze suites and easy-chairs were upholstered in Gobelins, illustrating La Fontaine’s fairy tales after Oudry. This room gave access to the bedroom, two windows of which looked out on to the garden and two on to the by-street and, as I have already said, were closed and shuttered. A huge divan which was used as a bed, a costly Persian carpet, and standing upright at the back of the divan, bed furnishings in white satin ornamented with cherry-coloured embroidery produced a singular impression.
Adjoining the bedroom was a combined dressing and bathroom. A door led from this room to a servants’ staircase which ran down to the garden and the basement which contained the kitchen. The latter was not often used. The crockery and glass were neatly put away in cupboards which were impregnated with dust.
I mentioned before the remains of a light lunch which lay on a table in the dining-room. I might have called it a complete lunch, for it had scarcely been touched. It consisted of various cakes and a bottle of sherry which Roland Boulenger had doubtless brought down with him.
The front garden was of some size. It was greatly neglected, and the trees wore the shrunken appearance of old age. I have already mentioned that the back of the house was built against a by-street. The front garden overlooked La Roche Lane, and here was situated the entrance consisting of a large gate bound with iron shutters which was never opened, and beside it a small worm-eaten oak door pierced by a wicket.
A hairdresser’s shop occupied the corner of La Roche Lane and the Avenue Rameau. The shop was never overcrowded, and the proprietor could not fail to notice the persons who went in and out of the little oak door. The shop bore a signboard on which was painted between two shaving dishes: “Marius Poupardin, Hairdresser.”
The garden possessed another outlet which was almost entirely hidden from view by a luxuriant overgrowth of ivy and creepers. It was from this door that Rouletabille was seen to emerge. The door led outwards to some waste land which was used for household refuse and was a regular rubbish heap, while inside was a narrow moss-grown brick path running through the tall grass of a fruit garden, which had returned to a state of nature, and terminating at the house in a low door leading to the kitchen stairs.
I think I have given a topographical description which will be useful to the reader, if not to fathom the mystery which remained obscure, at least to give him some idea of the place in which the fatal deed was done.
A great commotion outside the house proclaimed Rouletabille’s arrival. He was driven up in a taxi accompanied by two detective inspectors. Shouts of “Bravo, Rouletabille!” could be heard on every hand from the mob which thronged outside the villa. It was a deplorable exhibition.
The little door opened and he appeared.
Lord, how pale he was! He seemed but the ghost of his former self. Nevertheless, his eyes gleamed with a light which revealed the inner fire that was consuming him, and it affrighted those who were staring at him. I noticed that many persons turned away from his burning look which was more than they could bear. His eyes at that moment seemed to say: “What business is it of yours to interfere in what happened between that man, my wife and myself? Why all this machinery of the law? I’ve been familiar with it for years. It does not frighten me.”
CHAPTER XII
ROULETABILLE’S STRANGE CONDUCT
ROULETABILLE, INDEED, GAVE no further heed to the persons round him, but his eyes, still gleaming with the fire which was devouring him, roamed searchingly in all directions. He caught sight of me. I was about to dart towards him when he gave me one of those glances which I knew so well, and which held me motionless. Monsieur Hébert, the examining magistrate, requested us to mount to the first floor at once.
We did not stop in the dining-room, and it was in the bedroom which still bore traces of the tragedy that the examination was resumed. The two dead bodies were no longer there, but they had left behind marks of blood on the carpet and the imprint of a blood-stained hand still clung to the sixteenth century white satin bed hanging. These were marks doubtless made by Ivana’s hand.
When Rouletabille found himself once more in this terrible room in which Ivana had kissed him with her last breath he was seized with an attack of weakness. He almost fell into my arms.
“Why don’t you confess!” exclaimed the examining magistrate.
Rouletabille turned to him haggard-eyed, whereupon Monsieur Hébert, considering the moment opportune, brought forward, in his quietest manner, every possible argument which might induce the accused to change his mind and to confess what the world in general, except myself, regarded as the truth — meaning, thereby, his guilt for the murders — murders committed by the outraged husband in traditional circumstances under the influence of passion, for which the jury of the Seine Assize Court had invariably shown great indulgence. He almost went so far as to promise him an acquittal. At any rate he made it perfectly clear that in his mind and conscience as a good judge, a good citizen, and a good husband entitled to rely on his wife’s fidelity, he was ready to exonerate Rouletabille.
Monsieur Hébert, however, was by no means a bad sort of man, and, as the saying goes, he wouldn’t have hurt a fly though he had sent a goodly number of murderers to the guillotine. He regarded it as quite natural that a deceived husband should take the law into his own hands like a savage. It is marvellous how in certain respects we still resemble the cave man!
The persons present will not soon forget the manner in which Rouletabille received these curious advances.
To begin with he made a statement which filled us all with silent amazement, and I must admit that I myself felt somewhat embarrassed notwithstanding that I was prepared for his outburst by certain sentences which I heard him utter when we tore him away, not without difficulty, from I
vana’s mortal remains.
“Monsieur, you speak of a deceived husband,” he rapped out in a hostile voice, which trembled with rage which he vainly strove to control. “The first thing that I want you to hear from me is the assurance of my absolute belief in my wife’s honour. I must tell you that after the death of her who was the most precious being to me in the world, it makes very little difference to me what you may think of the part which I played in the matter; so little in fact that if I comply with your request to answer your questions it is less on my own account than out of regard for her memory which is dear to me. Mark me, Monsieur Hébert, Ivana Vilitchkof, who did me the honour to become Madame Rouletabille, was always the most faithful and honourable of women. She never failed in her duty.”
Monsieur Hebert gave an expressive shrug of his shoulders at this aggressive and unforeseen “statement.”
And indeed the persons present could scarcely have refrained from smiling had not the life of a man hung suspended over those two dead bodies.
“Monsieur,” Monsieur Hébert made answer in a tone of philosophy which was not devoid of a certain sense of pity. “Nothing would please me better than to believe you, but my opinion is of much less value than yours, and you must allow me to say that you were not always so absolutely certain of Madame Rouletabille’s good faith. And, upon my word, you are not to be blamed, for you will agree with me that circumstances and appearances were greatly against her. This meeting in this little house in which Professor «Roland Boulenger was wont to come for distraction from his labours, this interrupted meal, this bedroom in which we found the dead bodies of Boulenger and your wife — all these things were calculated to disturb the mind of the least suspicious husband and even to unloose — we have the proof of it alas! — his just wrath.”
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 93
