Rouletabille and the Mystery of the Yellow Room

by Gaston Leroux

  I now return to Professor Stangerson. When he bought Glandier, 15 years earlier, the Chateau had been empty for many years. Another nearby chateau, built in the 14th century by Jean de Belmont, was also abandoned, so that part of the country was mostly uninhabited. There were a few small farmhouses on the road leading to Corbeil and one inn, the Auberge du Donjon, which provided meals and lodgings to passing travelers. That was the full extent of civilization in this remote part of the countryside, which was, surprisingly, only a few leagues away from Paris.

  The deserted nature of the place had been the primary reason why it had attracted Professor Stangerson and his daughter. The Professor was already famous; he had recently returned from America, where his works had caused quite a stir. The book which he had published in Philadelphia on the “Dissociation of Matter Through Electricity” had generated much controiversy in the scientific community. Professor Stangerson was a Frenchman, but of American origin. Several lawsuits pertaining to a large inheritance he expected to receive had forced him to spend several years in the United States, continuing the research which he had begun in France. He had returned, at last in possession of his inheritance, having successfully won or settled all the lawsuits. This new fortune was a great comfort to him, even though he could have made millions by exploiting or licensing two or three of his chemical patents regarding new dyeing techniques. But the Professor found it morally repulsive to use his God-given gift of invention to enrich himself. He thought his genius didn’t belong to him, but to the entire human race, so he had become a philanthropist, allowing each of his discoveries to pass into the public domain.

  Professor Stangerson had not tried to hide his joy at having at last received that large inheritance, which would enable him to continue his research and devote his remaining years to his passion for pure science. But he was also happy for another reason. Mademoiselle Stangerson was, when her father returned from America and bought Glandier, 20 years old. She was extremely pretty, having inherited the Parisian charm of her mother, who had died giving birth to her, and the strength and splendor of the American blood peovided by her paternal grandfather, William Stangerson of Philadelphia. William Stangerson had been obliged to become a French citizen when he had married the French woman who was to become the mother of the illustrious Professor Stangerson. And thus the Professor had been born French.

  Twenty years of age, a charming blonde with blue eyes, a milk-white complexion, radiant and divinely healthy, Mathilde Stangerson was one of the most desirable eligible women in either the Old or New Worlds. It was her father’s duty, despite the inevitable pain that a separation from her would cause him, to think of her marriage, and the Professor was therefore happy that his inheritance would make an attractive dowry for his daughter. Nevertheless, they both chose to bury themselves at Glandier, just as their friends were expecting Mathilde to make her debut in society. Some of them expressed their surprise; when questioned, the Professor answered: “It is my daughter’s wish. I can refuse her nothing. She has chosen to live at Glandier.” As for Mathilde, she replied serenely: “Where could we work better than in this solitude?” For Mademoiselle Stangerson had already begun to assist her father in his research.

  Still, at the time, one could never have imagined that her passion for science would lead her to reject all the suitors who presented themselves for over 15 years. No matter how secluded their lives, both father and daughter did make the occasional appearance at various official functions and, at certain times during the year, at two or three friendly receptions, where the Professor’s fame and Mathilde’s beauty always created a sensation.

  The young girl’s manifest coldness had not, at first, discouraged potential suitors, but eventually, they stopped pursuing her. Only one man persisted, with an affectionate perseverance that earned him the nickname of the “eternal fiancé,” which he accepted with sad resignation—Monsieur Robert Darzac.

  Mademoiselle Stangerson was now no longer young, and it seemed that, having found no good reason to marry at 35, she would never find any. But such an argument did not discourage Robert Darzac. He continued to court Mathildre—if one could label as “courtship” the delicate and tender attentions he lavished on a 35-year-old woman who had firmly proclaimed her intention never to marry.

  A few weeks before the mysterious events of the Yellow Room, the news—which no one believed at first, so incredible did it seem—suddenly spread around Paris that Mademoiselle Stangerson had at last consented to reward Monsieur Darzac’s undying attention and marry him! It took Darzac’s refusal to deny this matrimonial rumour to give it the weight of truth. Then, Professor Stangerson himself, as he was leaving the Academie des Sciences, announced that the marriage of his daughter and Monsieur Robert Darzac would be celebrated in the privacy of the Chateau du Glandier, as soon as he and his daughter had put the finishing touches to their report summing up their work on the “Dissociation of Matter,” i.e.: the reverse transformation of matter back into aether. The newlyweds would live at the Chateau, and Darzac was expected to assist his father-in-law in the work to which both father and daughter had dedicated their lives.

  The scientific world barely had time to digest the news when it then learned of the attempted murder of Mademoiselle Stangerson, under the mysterrious conditions which I have recounted, and which our visit to the Chateau was meant to elucidate.

  I have not hesitated to provide my readers here with all the necessary background information, which I had learned from my business relations with Robert Darzac. As we are preparing to enter the Yellow Room itself, I can therefore say with confidence that you now know as much as I did then.

  Chapter Five

  In Which Rouletabille Says a Few Words

  To Robert Darzac To Some Considerable Effect

  For several minutes, Rouletabille and I had been walking alongside the outside wall of Professor Stangerson’s vast estate. We were approaching the main gate when our attention was drawn to a man, half-bent over, who seemed so completely absorbed in what he was doing that he hadn’t seen us coming. He was stooping so low that he almost touched the ground. Suddenly, he drew himself up and examined the wall closely; after that, he looked into the palm of one of his hands, and walked away quickly. Finally, he set off running, and again looked into the palm of his hand. Rouletabille had brought me to a standstill with a gesture.

  “Hush! That’s Inspector Frederic Larsan at work! Let’s not disturb him!”

  My friend felt great admiration for the famous Sûreté detective. I had never met Larsan before, but I knew his reputation very well.

  He had solved the theft of the gold bullion from the Hôtel de la Monnaie, when everyone else had given up. His arrest of the safecrackers of the Crédit Universel robbery had made his name a household word. At the time, Rouletabille hadn’t yet displayed his unique crime-solving talents, and Larsan was widely known as one of the most skilled of detectives, capable of elucidating even the most mysterious and complex enigmas. His reputation had crossed national borders, and the police forces of London, Berlin, and even America, often called for his assistance when their own detectives found themselves at their wits’ end.

  No one was particularly surprised, therefore, when the head of the Sûreté, at the onset of the Mystery of the Yellow Room, had cabled his most famous subordinate in London, where he was working on a case of stolen bonds, and instructed him to return at once. Larsan who, at the Sûreté, had been nicknamed “Frederic the Great,” had obeyed at once, knowing from experience that if his superiors were asking him to drop what he was doing, it was because his services were urgently needed on another, even more important affair. That is why Rouletabille and I found him already at work that morning. We soon found out exactly what he was doing.

  The reason that he had been looking regularly at the palm of his hand was that it contained his watch, and he had been timing his movements with great precision. We saw him turn around, and run all the way to the entrance of the park. There, he
consulted his watch again, then put it back in his pocket and shrugged in disappointment. After that, he pushed open the iron gate, closed it behind him and locked it. It was only then that, through the bars, he noticed us. Rouletabille rushed towards him, and I followed. Larsan had decided to wait for us.

  “Monsieur Larsan,” said Rouletabille, tipping his hat and showing the great detective the deep respect and admiration he genuinely felt for him, “could you tell me whether Monsieur Darzac is at the Chateau right now? I’m with one of his friends, Maître Sainclair of the Paris Bar, who desires to speak to him urgently.”

  “I really don’t know, Monsieur Rouletabille,” replied Larsan, shaking hands through the bars with my friend, whom he had met several times before during other investigations. “I haven’t seen him yet.”

  “The caretakers will be able to tell us, no doubt,” said Rouletabille, pointing to the lodge, which was the home of Monsieur and Madame Bernier. Its door and windows appeared to be shut.

  “The caretakers won’t be able to give you any useful information, Monsieur Rouletabille.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they were arrested half an hour ago.”

  “Arrested!” cried Rouletabille. “Are they guilty then?”

  Larsan shrugged.

  “When the police can’t arrest a murderer,” he said wryly, “they can always arrest potential accomplices.”

  “Did you order their arrest, Monsieur Larsan?”

  “I? Certainly not! First, because I’m almost certain that they have nothing to do with this case, and also because—”

  “Because what?” asked Rouletabille eagerly.

  “Because nothing,” said Larsan, shaking his head.

  “Because there are no accomplices!” said Rouletabille.

  Larsan stopped in his tracks and looked at my friend closely.

  “Ah-ha! I see that you’ve already got a theory about this case, young man,” said the detective “Even though you haven’t seen anything or been anywhere. In fact, you haven’t even received the permission to set foot inside the Chateau!”

  “Oh, I will.”

  “I doubt it. The orders are strict.”

  “I’ll gain admission if you let me see Monsieur Darzac. Will you do that for me, please? We’re old friends, you and I, Monsieur Larsan. Do you remember the flattering article I wrote about you during the bullion affair? Please?”

  At that moment, Rouletabille’s face looked quite funny, so eager he was to enter this place where such a great mystery was waiting for him. He was begging for that simple favor so earnestly, with his eyes, his mouth, his entire body, that I couldn’t help laughing. Larsan, too, was unable to remain serious. His face broke into a friendly smile.

  As he stood on the other side of the gate, I took the time to study him more closely.

  He was probably about 50; he was a rather handsome man, with greying hair, a dull complexion, and a strong profile. He had a prominent forehead, and was clean shaven. His mouth was finely chiselled. His eyes were small and round, and looked at you in a manner that was both piercing and unsettling. He was of average height, well proportioned, elegant and, overall, rather likable. He looked nothing like an ordinary policeman. In his own fashion, he was an artist, and one could tell that he was aware of that fact, and had a high opinion of himself. His voice betrayed a certain weariness and cyniscism, however, but why not? His profession had brought him into contact with so many awful crimes and villains that it would have been a miracle if his soul hadn’t been hardened, as Rouletabille would have put it.

  Larsan turned his head at the sound of a vehicle which was coming from the Chateau. We recognized the cab which had picked up the Investigating Magistrate and his clerk at the railway station at Epinay.

  “Ah!” said Larsan, “if you want to speak with Monsieur Darzac, here he comes.”

  The cab was already at the gate. Darzac asked Larsan to open it, explaining that he was pressed for time to catch the next train for Paris. Then, he recognized me. While Larsan was unlocking the gate, Darzac asked what had brought me to Glandier at such a tragic time. I noticed that he was frightfully pale, and that his face was showing the effects of some dreadful suffering.

  “Is Mademoiselle Stangerson getting better?” I asked at once.

  “Yes,” he replied. “She might be saved. She must be!”

  He did not add “or it will be my death” but I heard the implied words on his pale lips.

  Rouletabille intervened:

  “I see that you’re in a hurry, Monsieur Darzac, but I must speak with you. I have something of the greatest importance to tell you.”

  Larsan broke in

  “May I leave you now?” he asked Darzac. “Do you have a key, or would you like me to give you mine?”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” said Darzac. “I have my own key and I will relock the gate.”

  Larsan then waved good-bye and rushed off in the direction of the Chateau, the imposing shape of which could be seen only a few hundred yards away.

  Robert Darzac was now frowning, beginning to show some impatience. I introduced Rouletabille as a good friend of mine, but, as soon as he learned that my young friend was a journalist, he looked at me disapprovingly, and excused himself at once, restating that he had to be in Epinay in 20 minutes in order to catch his train. As he was about to whip up his horse, Rouletabille seized the bridle and, to my utter astonishment, stopped the carriage with a firm hand. Then, he uttered a sentence which was utterly meaningless to me:

  “The presbytery has lost none of its charm, nor the garden its glow.”

  The words had no sooner left his lips than I saw Darzac tremble. Pale as he had been, he became even paler. His eyes stared at Rouletabille in terror. He was clearly in a state of dreadful distress.

  “Come in! Come in!” he stammered.

  Then, suddenly, with barely contained fury, he insisted:

  “Follow me, Monsieur.”

  He turned the cab around and, without bothering to relock the gate, proceeded at a slow pace towards the Chateau. Rouletabille was still holding the horse’s bridle. I tried saying a few words to Darzac, but he didn’t respond. I looked at Rouletabille, looking for an explanation, but his gaze was elsewhere.

  Chapter Six

  At the End of the Oak Grove

  We finally arrived at the Chateau. The old tower was connected to a wing that had been entirely rebuilt under Louis XIV by a new section done in a modern, Viollet-le-Duc style. That was where that the main entrance was located. I had never before seen anything so unusual or so ugly as that bizarre mix of clashing architectural styles. It was as grotesque as it was fascinating.

  As we approached, we saw four gendarmes pacing in front of a small door leading into the tower. We later found out that its ground floor, which had once been a prison and was now a tool shed, had reverted to its original use. The caretakers, Monsieur and Madame Bernier, had been confined inside.

  Darzac took us into the modern part of the Chateau through the main entrance, a large double-door with an overhanging glass awning. Rouletabille, who had left the horse and cab in the care of a servant, never took his eyes off the Sorbonne Professor. I followed his gaze and saw that it was fixated on Darzac’s gloved hands. When we reached a small sitting room fitted with old furniture, Mademoiselle Stangerson’s fiancé turned to Rouletabille and asked sharply:

  “Speak! What do you want?”

  My young friend answered in an equally sharp tone:

  “To shake your hand.”

  Darzac shrank back.

  “What do you mean?”

  Obviously, he understood, as I did, that Rouletabille suspected him of being the author of the abominable attempt on Mademoiselle Stangerson’s life. The impression of the blood-stained hand on the walls of the Yellow Room was in everyone’s mind. I looked at Darzac, a man who was normally so proud and so decent, and who now looked so strangely troubled. He held out his right hand and, referring to me, said:


  “Since you’re a friend of Monsieur Sainclair’s, who rendered me an invaluable service in a just cause in the past, Monsieur, I cannot possibly refuse to shake your hand…”

  However, Rouletabille didn’t take Darzac’s extended hand. Lying with the utmost audacity, he replied:

  “Monsieur Darzac, I’ve spent some time in Russia, where I’ve gotten into the habit of never shaking a gloved hand.”

  I thought that the Sorbonne Professor was going to respond with an angry outburst, but, on the contrary, he made a strong effort to keep his calm, took off his gloves, and showed us his bare hands. They were unmarked and unscarred.

  “Are you happy now?” said Darzac.

  “Unfortunately, no,” replied Rouletabille. “My dear Sainclair,” he said, turning toward me, “I must ask you to leave us alone for a few minutes.”

  I saluted both men and retired. I was amazed by what I had just seen and heard. I couldn’t understand why Darzac hadn’t already kicked out my impertinent, insulting, and stupid friend. I was angry at Rouletabille for his suspicions, which had led to this shameful scene with the gloves.

  I walked back and forth in front of the Chateau for 20 minutes, trying to connect the various events of the day, but in vain. What was in Rouletabille’s mind? Did he really think that Darzac had attacked Mathilde Stangerson? How could he believe that this man, who was supposed to marry her in only a few days, had walked into the Yellow Room and tried to murder his own fiancée? Besides, I still had no idea as to how the perpetrator had been able to leave the Yellow Room. As long as that mystery, which seemed so baffling to me, remained unexplained, I thought it was our duty to not point the figer of suspicion lightly at anyone. And what about that seemingly senseless phrase—“The presbytery has lost none of its charm, nor the garden its glow”—which still echoed in my ears? What did it mean? I was eager to rejoin Rouletabille and ask him.