“You mustn’t tell, all the same,” Fleury-Moor insisted.
Rightfully, only half of the honor of that indivisible discovery belonged to each of us. One of us could not dispose of his part without the consent of the other. I therefore resigned myself—and that’s why so many days went by before the pteropithecanthrope made his entrance at the Museum. It owes that mercy to the invention of aeroplanes. On the day after the first decisive experiment, Fleury-Moor released me from my secrecy.24
“Now that these orthopedic machines exist, which are to wings what a crutch is to an amputated leg,” he said, “it seems to me that we may speak, since God is welcoming Adam back to paradise and Dedalus is climbing into the sky again.”
We have spoken. Who believes us? No one. Why?
Because, on the one hand, the skeleton in the Museum is a skeleton, like the one in Java, and nothing more. The pithecanthrope’s wings resembled those of a bat less than the membranes of a flying squirrel; they only possessed a muscular armature, which has disappeared.
On the other hand, we, the living, dare not recount the tribulation that testifies in favor of our thesis. Only posterity shall know about the mirage that assailed us in the fog of October 26 and gave us the unforgettable vision of the time when men could fly.
THE DOCTORED MAN
To Léon Michaud25
The body was found by gendarmes Mochon and Juliaz of the Belvoux brigade. They were returning from a patrol at daybreak and were riding along the departmental highway, coming from Salamont, when they noticed the ominous circumstance in the Thiots woods about six kilometers from Belvoux.
The dawn was grey. The rain, which had been falling for several days, had not ceased since the previous evening. A keen wind was stirring the water of the puddles and tormenting the illuminated foliage. Caught on a clump of thistles, a handkerchief was fluttering. The black and white form of a human body was extended by the roadside, visible at a distance, with other objects on the ground nearby.
The gendarmes, experienced in warfare and in their profession, knew at once that the man was dead. They got down some distance away and attached their horses to a telegraph pole. The two companions approached the cadaver, taking care to walk on the grass in order not to blur any tracks.
“Why, it’s Doctor Bare!” said Juliaz.
The other looked on in silence.
“That’s true—you’re new,” Juliaz went on. “Well, he’s a physician from Belvoux.”
They were confronted with the body of a man in the prime of life, a tall fellow of 30 or 35, lying on his back, facing the sky, with a bullet-hole in his forehead. He was bareheaded and had no overcoat, but he wore large sporting gloves. His clothing having been unbuttoned, the contents of his turned-out pockets—watch; wallet, cigarette-case, lighter, instrument-case, fountain-pen, etc.—lay scattered on the ground.
Mochon picked up a revolver lying near the corpse. It was fully-loaded, with a cartridge in the chamber, and the inside of the barrel was shiny. The weapon, therefore, had not been fired.
“A crime,” said Mochon. “But the motive wasn’t theft. That silver, these banknotes…”
“We can’t be sure. He must have had a notebook, a diary, this doctor, and there’s none to be seen. There might have been many things on him that we don’t know about…”
“What I meant,” Mochon explained, “is that if it was theft, it isn’t an ordinary theft. Did he have any enemies?”
“Not to my knowledge. He’s been demobilized since January and since then has been quietly practicing in and around Belvoux. He’s reputed to be a good doctor. I don’t know him in any other capacity, you understand. He’s been dead for several hours. What was he doing here last night?”
“Take note of his shoes,” said Mochon. “They’re almost free of mud.”
“And there’s no indication of a struggle. His clothes aren’t torn, not even scuffed…”
Juliaz examined the road. As sticky as they could have wished, it retained the night’s imprints with remarkable clarity. The doctor’ footprints were located. There were three of them, no more and no less; three footprints arranged at right angles across the road, which came from nowhere and stopped abruptly. Then there was the imprint of a heavy body, the impact of whose fall had impressed the image of a thick fur in the muddy ground; a few hairs remained, stuck to the mold.
It was easy to conclude that Doctor Bare had been shot by a rifle after getting down from a vehicle, doubtless by an aggressor hidden in the woods, and that he had been dressed in a goatskin coat at the time; his murderer had dragged him aside to search and rob him at his ease.
Juliaz knew that the doctor possessed a small, rather speedy automobile, which he drive himself with considerable skill and which he used for his excursions into rural areas. The gendarme had often seen him pass by, at the wheel of his little sports car, sometimes executing rapid maneuvers in reverse or making skidding U-turns with bold skill.
The little car had left tracks on the road. Juliaz followed them, always staying off the roadway. The rear tire-marks covered the front ones. One of them was ribbed, the other studded. The car had gone past twice, in opposite directions, the studded tire first being on one side of the road, then the other. But in which direction had the car been going on each pass? This way, toward Belvoux, or that way, toward Salamont? How could its coming and going be determined? That being unrevealed by the tracks, one might assume that the Doctor had departed from Belvoux, but only further inquiries could confirm that.
Juliaz, who did not stay there long, informed himself of the above while he limited himself to inspecting the vicinity of the crime without any particular objective. On the road, about thirty meters from the cadaver in the direction of Salamont, he discovered evidence of a circular skid, facilitated by the slippery ground, which marked the terminal point of the nocturnal excursion. The two sets of tracks ended there, in a knot.
The doctor, therefore, had indeed been coming from Belvoux, and some mysterious cause had suddenly impelled him to retrace his steps by making an unceremonious U-turn in the dark. What, then, had his headlights lit up in front of him? What danger had suddenly emerged from the darkness?
The gendarme, going back toward Belvoux himself, inspected the tracks scrupulously—which, in reality, was an exceedingly difficult task. He observed lurches in one of them, which seemed to be evidence of high speed, then a skid-mark revealing a brutal application of the brake, and the stopping of the vehicle, indicated by a sort of heel-mark, which had hollowed out its ruts exactly opposite the three footprints, level with the cadaver—and he wondered what reason had obliged the automobilist to stop his car in mid-flight and leap out of it in order, it appeared, to run for the woods.
This initial research had taken time, though. The day had broadened. A peasant’s cart came in sight. On the gendarmes’ orders, it came to a halt in the middle of the road. It was necessary to take advantage of the terrain’s helpfulness and close the road to all vehicles until the ground had, so to speak, completed its testimony.
“You see that he’s definitely been robbed,” said Juliaz. “Someone has taken his fur coat, his headgear and his automobile.”
Indeed, the sports car had got under way again after the murder, heading toward Belvoux. Julian conscientiously took charge of that track while Mochon went back toward Salamont, on the chance that he might discover some clue to the mystery of why the victim of the ambush had turned round. They were perhaps five hundred meters apart when they hailed one another with expansive gestures. Mochon, being the younger, rejoined his comrade. The latter showed him new tracks, deep and widely-spaced, proving that a powerful automobile with a large wheelbase had swung across the road before it too had resumed the road to Belvoux.
“It’s possible,” said Juliaz, “that it was simply to turn round…”
“No, I don’t think so,” Mochon replied, “for I called you to observe exactly the same thing over there.”
“Yes?”
/> “And mine was a different car,” Mochon went on. “Your tires, here, show a kind of trellis pattern; mine, back there were differently made. Hold on! There they are—mine—also passing in front of us…”
“They’re certainly not the same,” Juliaz agreed. “Furthermore, mine don’t go any further; they stop here, where we are. If I’m not mistaken, then….”
“There were two large automobiles, then, which blocked the road, 500 meters apart.”
They looked at one another, satisfied by their success.
For some reason that they would surely discover later, Doctor Bare had been traveling through the pitch-black night on the road from Belvoux to Salamont. As he passed through the Thiots woods, the light of his headlamps had suddenly showed him the obstacle of a large automobile with all its lights out, set across the road in such a manner that he could only get past by swerving to the left or the right. That sight had certainly frightened him, and he must have suspected danger; the haste with which he had turned round was evidence of that.
By means of one of those U-turns that were his specialty, he had been able to reverse his direction within a second and head for Belvoux at top speed, thinking that the large automobile would only be able to give chase after a pause, and counting on the speed of his sports car to maintain its distance. Scarcely had he launched himself forward, though, than he perceived another obstacle in front of him, in the form of a second automobile. He was trapped. A hostile ruse had triumphed. While one automobile waited at a predetermined spot, the other had followed him, silently and obscurely, and had been transformed into a barricade in its turn, at an agreed spot.
The doctor had seen that he was blocked in. His sports car could no longer be of any assistance to him. He had stopped as quickly as possible, and tried to hurl himself into the woods—a decision foreseen by his adversaries, since one of them, posted in a thicket, had shot him down before he had taken four steps.
This hypothesis fitted the facts and it was the only one that no evidence contradicted. Whether the assassins had lured the unfortunate into an ambush, or whether they had laid their trap on his usual route, the tragedy had eventually unfolded. The subsequent investigation would doubtless clarify the mystery, exposing the reasons for the murder and the motives for the theft, and they would find out why such a scheme had been deployed against a humble provincial doctor. That was no longer the gendarmes’ concern; they had done their duty.
Juliaz took notes for his written report. The remains of the unfortunate doctor were loaded on to the cart, requisitioned for that purpose, and the two horsemen, astride their mounts, escorted it as far as Belvoux. Let us note, however, that at the Trivieu crossroads, they discovered a divergence in the tracks of the three automobiles fleeing the crime-scene. One of the two large cars had headed for Trivieu, while the other, accompanied by the stolen sports car, had continued along the road to Belvoux. They followed the latter tracks as far as the town boundary, where the hard surface no longer permitted anything to be distinguished.
Doctor Bare lived in the High Street. It was 8 a.m. when Juliaz rang the bell, knowing that there would be no painful scenes to fear, the dead man having been a bachelor who lived alone with a single manservant. The latter came to open the door, looking pale and distressed. He had got up an hour before and had been roaming the house since then, having discovered his master’s absence and the fact that the safe, cupboards, filing-cabinets and desk had been rifled, and not knowing what to do.
The lieutenant of the gendarmerie interrogated him almost immediately. And this, more or less, is what he obtained: “The doctor was working in his study yesterday evening, as usual; I saw his light under the door when I went to bed. I wasn’t yet asleep, and Saint-Fortunat had just chimed 9 p.m., when I heard the telephone ring. A few minutes later, the doctor came upstairs and said to me through my bedroom door ‘Auguste! Are you asleep?’
“ ‘No, Doctor.’
“ ‘Someone’s just telephoned me from Salamont. The postmistress has had a stroke. They say she’s dying. I’m going over there. I don’t need you. I’ll be back before midnight.’ And he added: ‘It really must be the postmistress, for them to phone me at this hour.’ With that, he left. I saw the light of his headlamps in the courtyard—my window overlooks the yard—and I heard the car go out into the Rue de la Botasse, then the doctor closing the gate behind him…and that’s all that happened yesterday evening.
“During the night, the noise of the automobile returning woke me up. I went to the window to ask whether the doctor needed me. I saw him just as he got out. He had his back to me. He replied: ‘No—go to sleep,’ as he put out the headlamps. I was still half-asleep. He didn’t turn round. It wasn’t him, you say? What can I say in reply? I saw his goatskin coat and his fur helmet; the goatskin’s collar was turned up…I went back to bed. And that’s all that happened during the night.
“No, Monsieur, I didn’t hear anything else, nothing extraordinary. No breaking, no prizing—but the thief had taken the keys from the doctor’s pockets. All the cupboards and all the drawers were opened with keys. The strong-box too—but there, it was necessary to be truly clever, with respect to the combination…
“All the papers, Monsieur, yes, they took all the papers, but not a single item of jewelry, not a single clock, not even the silver cutlery. Nothing but papers! There was surely enough to fill two or here suitcases…
“In the safe? Yes, papers, neatly filed, in blue cardboard covers—I’ve seen them several times; the doctor had complete confidence in me…”
The interrogation had taken place in the doctor’s study, and the police officer contemplated the empty, wide-open cupboards, the goatskin coat and the fur helmet thrown on a chair. He raised his head.
“Is the car there?” he asked the lad.
“Yes, Monsieur, and nothing’s broken.”
“What do you think, Juliaz? The large auto waited for the thief, didn’t it? And now it’s far away! What a plot!” Then he seized the telephone that was set on the desk among magnifying-glasses, forceps and other medical equipment. “Hello!” he said “Hello!” While tapping the call-signaler, he murmured: “I want to clear up yesterday evening’s telephone call. Hello! Hello! No one’s answering. It’s no longer working. What’s the meaning of that? Juliaz, go to the Post Office. At the same time, send this telegram to the court in Bourg.”
Juliaz left at the double.
The receptionist referred him to the telephonist. She swore that number 18—that of Doctor Bare—had not emitted any call signal. As for the communication of 9 p.m. the previous evening, she thought that he was joking. Moreover, her supervisor confirmed that no one had telephoned Doctor Bare after the offices had been closed. No one ever telephoned after 7 p.m.
Juliaz recounted the drama. The functionary then placed a call to the receptionist at Salamont and offered the gendarme the second earpiece. The receptionist at Salamont was in perfect health, and could not explain what she called, in her ignorance, a “practical joke.”
“Even so, someone telephoned number 18 yesterday evening,” Juliaz insisted, to the supervisor. The brave man’s tone made his interlocutor go slightly pale.
The latter, seeing himself implicated in a criminal affair, imagined that his job was at stake. Self-justification became his only objective. “Come on,” he said, putting his hat on. “It can’t have happened like that.”
As soon as they arrived in the doctor’s study, where the formalities were taking their course, the telephonist, adopting the telephonic apparatus as his point of departure, set out to follow the conducting wire, just as Mochon and Juliaz had followed the tracks of the automobiles. That operation took them outside, behind the house and out of the courtyard.
The aerial wire went along the Rue de la Botasse, upon which only courtyards and gardens opened. A certain distance away, it had been cut level with an isolator. The long part was dangling in the gutter; that was what remained connected to the doctor’s apparatus. The
telephonist picked it up, examined the end closely, and smiled triumphantly. A few centimeters from the end, the copper wire, freshly exposed, bore a little round scratch.
“The point of a screw!” said the telephonist to those surrounding him. “The screw of a terminal! Look, Messieurs! This wire has been in contact with a portable apparatus. It’s from here that some unknown person sent the call to Doctor Bare. It’s from here that the false news departed. My service had nothing to do with it, Messieurs! Nothing at all!”
“That explains everything,” said Mochon.
“Everything as to how, but nothing as to why!” replied his lieutenant.
The full descent of the law took place that afternoon. The disorder of the dwelling had been carefully preserved from any modification. The doctor’s body, transported to the Hospice, was lying in a little room. A medical examiner accompanied the magistrates. He carried out an autopsy, which provided no instructive result. The bullet, fired at long range, had passed right through the skull and been lost. Permission for burial was granted immediately,
The prosecutor, meanwhile, had undertaken to examine the house, and searched in vain for the motive for the murder. All that could be deduced from the doctor’s death and the theft of his papers was that Bare had been in possession of an important secret, and that someone had wanted to prevent any possibility of his making use of it or divulging it. As for the nature of the secret, that was anyone’s guess.
There are dead men who talk; the writings that they leave behind them preserve their ideas and lend them a voice from beyond the grave. The prosecutor wanted the furniture searched to the last crack. The marble tops of sideboards were lifted, he undersides of drawers inspected by the light of electric lamps; they riffled through all the books in the bookcase; the clothes in the wardrobe were subjected to an implacable search. Nothing was found. Not a single stub of paper blacked with ink, not a word of any writing whatsoever. That investigation, as they now had proof, had been carried out by the murderers in advance of the magistrates.
The Doctored Man Page 11
