by Paul Halter
‘Looks as though you were right, Twist.’
‘No need to tell me what it is, I know already. Which means that most of the mystery is solved.’
‘I’m dying to hear it!’ exclaimed Legrand with a smile. ‘What is it that put you on the track?’
‘Errol Flynn. I was sure the poster missing from the wall in Marc’s room was for a film of his, undoubtedly the most popular one, which the boy could not possibly have forgotten. I asked Maria, who confirmed my suspicions: it was indeed The Adventures of Robin Hood. So the question was: why was it taken down? Why was it compromising? And who had done it? Marc himself? Even if he had knowingly killed his uncle, it was obvious he couldn’t have gone near him. The only one who had done so after Gaston’s death was Marc’s father René. In any case, the combinations were limited: only those aware of Janine’s nightmare could have been involved. The idea of a crime identical to the nightmare without one of them involved was out of the question. So it was either René, Janine, Marc, or the victim himself. But getting back to Robin Hood—.’
‘We’re almost there, Twist.’
‘It was an arrow, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, a broken arrow with suspicious traces on the tip…which look like blood.’
A few minutes later the two detectives were looking at the objects dredged up from the well. Amongst them, Dr. Twist noted a patched jacket which, he observed to the policeman, was probably what the scarecrow was wearing before the change of clothes. Once the commissionaire’s men had left, Legrand pointed to the arrow and asked:
‘So that’s what killed Gaston?’
‘Yes. Marc, who loved adventure films and tales of avenging heroes, shot the arrow from his bedroom window at two o’clock in the morning.’
‘He wanted to kill Gaston?’
‘Absolutely not. Being unable to sleep after hearing about his cousin’s terrifying nightmare, he stood by the window keeping an eye out for the evil scarecrow… and when he saw something moving in that general area, he assumed it was the hideous thing described by Janine. He fired an arrow and it hit the target. He probably went to sleep soon afterwards, believing he’d avenged his cousin.’
‘I understand now. The shape turned out to be the unfortunate Gaston. But what the devil was he doing out there at that time of night?’
‘He’d gone out to dress the scarecrow in his ex son-in-law’s clothes. It was his petty revenge, intended to ridicule him, albeit posthumously, and desecrate his memory. He couldn’t think of attacking Antoine any other way, since he was dead. His brother planned to burn the straw man. He would humiliate Antoine even more by reducing him to a scarecrow—just as his daughter had dreamt… That was when his nephew’s arrow struck him in the back. And that’s how his brother found him later that morning. I assume there was only one archer in the family, and that’s why René quickly understood what had happened. He was certain his son was responsible for the tragic accident. Whatever had happened had to be covered up immediately. He pulled out the arrow and grabbed the pitchfork, driving one of the tines into the exact same spot. Then he scattered some straw around, as a reminder of Janine’s nightmare. Next he had to get rid of the arrow in the most convenient place in the immediate surroundings, the well, where he also threw the patched jacket he’d found at the base of the scarecrow. Without knowing exactly what had happened, he sensed that its presence would arouse suspicion. After alerting Lambert, he realised that it would appear that only a ghost could have committed the murder, so he set about spreading that rumour, knowing it would confirm the beliefs of many of the local residents… After having a talk with his son, he judged it prudent to take down the Robin Hood poster. But that turned out to be an error….’
‘An even bigger error was to have you as an adversary,’ declared Legrand, wreathed in smiles.
‘What a sad business,’ sighed Dr. Twist. ‘In fact, it was just a tragic accident, nothing more. And so I wonder, in this case, if the truth really needs to triumph, come what may. What do you think?’
The commissaire sighed deeply before replying:
‘I feel the same way. I think I’m going to forget all about your dazzling deductions, my dear Twist. René Roussel is a decent fellow who’s been sufficiently punished over these last few years. He’s paid in advance, as it were, for his quite forgivable cover-up. So I think we’ll settle for “vengeance from beyond the grave.”’
‘You could look at it another way,’ observed Dr. Twist mischievously.
‘Ah! And what might that be?’
‘That the renowned marksman, whose devotion to justice was legendary, shot an arrow of light from archer’s paradise to help us pierce the mystery.’
THE FIRES OF HELL
The Hades Club was not, as the name might imply, a sanctuary for Satanists; on the contrary, it housed scourges of evil, Londoners versed in mysteries and sophisticated puzzles, such as the celebrated criminologist and private detective Dr. Alan Twist, a tall septuagenarian who was by now practically part of the furniture. Unhurried, he lit his pipe in a quiet corner of the large room. His thin features were briefly illuminated in a golden glow as he struck a match and brought it to his face. Sensing someone looking insistently at him, he turned to consider his neighbour, a man in his fifties with an upright bearing, salt-and-pepper hair and a superb set of moustaches rather like his own ten or more years ago.
‘Please excuse the intrusion, my dear sir,’ said the other, with an apologetic smile. ‘It was the flare of the match which drew my attention... rather like a child looking at a Christmas window display.’
‘I’m flattered by the comparison,’ replied the detective with good humour, ‘but I fear that the display has lost much of its glamour with the passing of time.’
‘I hope I haven’t offended you.’
‘Not a bit. Man is fascinated by everything that shines, and his fascination with fire is as old as...’ He paused to look up at the bust of Hades on the mantelpiece above the hearth. ‘... Prometheus.’
‘You’re telling me!’ sighed his neighbour.
‘You’re from the continent somewhere, I think. Let me guess: France, perhaps?’
‘Indeed, nothing escapes you.’
‘Your accent is barely discernible, but I know that country very well.’
‘Very few people have noticed, in fact. Allow me to introduce myself: Martin, Colonel Martin.’
‘The most common name in France,’ observed Twist with a slight smile.
‘You’re very well informed, Dr. Twist. ‘Yes, I know who you are. People have told me about your amazing powers of deduction. I’ve had to change my name, but no matter. That’s not directly relevant to the mystery I’d like to tell you about, if you’re interested... An astonishing mystery, worthy of your talents.’
‘You flatter me and intrigue me into the bargain. There’s no better antidote to the grey despondency of this town at the moment. I presume it’s something to do with fire: pyromania, perhaps?’
Colonel Martin nodded his confirmation. Then, having taken a cigarette out of his packet, he struck a match. The yellow flame illuminated his deeply-furrowed features and the distant gaze in his eyes.
‘Yes, inexplicable fires which broke out as if by magic. It’s a story which dates back to the nineteen-twenties. As for the location and the identities of the protagonists, I’ve felt obliged to change them, out of discretion.
‘It happened before I joined the army, as I was fairly young at the time and had joined the gendarmes as an auxiliary corporal. I’d been posted to a small town near the Spanish border, in the department of Ariège, where almost nothing ever happened and the disappearance of a dog was considered a major event.
‘Then one day a young couple moved into an auberge they’d just purchased overlooking a lake in Saint-Lizier, a nearby hamlet. They were originally from Switzerland but had spent several years in America. She, Marina Villemore, was extremely pretty, with large, dark eyes and always ready with a laugh whenever there was a man around. It wa
s thanks to her, undoubtedly, that business at the auberge started to boom. He, Charles-Alexandre Villemore, on the other hand, was a very strange bird. Tall and thin, with unkempt hair and a permanently miserable expression on his face, he seemed wholly unsuited to his charming and exuberant wife. Love is a funny thing.
‘He was far from being an insignificant fellow, however. He possessed one strange gift, capable of bringing great joy to all the police organisations in the world. Charles-Alexandre Villemore was a clairvoyant and wasn’t shy about communicating his “visions” to the authorities whenever they concerned criminal activities. At first, no one believed him. We only had the couple’s word that it was true and we believed, at Saint Lizier, that they’d made it up in order to give the otherwise self-effacing Charles-Alexandre an air of importance.
‘One day, however, he came into the station to warn us that, in the near future, there would be a series of fires with quite severe consequences. He was, however, unable to tell us more for the time being. After he’d left, my boss, Max Picard, a strapping red-bearded fellow, couldn’t stop howling with laughter. The man had seemed as ridiculous as the message he’d brought.
‘He laughed even louder when the innkeeper paid us another visit the following week, to inform us that it was the Morels’ farm which would burn the day after next, at nightfall. He’d “seen” the facts and, according to him, the fire was inevitable. Personally, I would have thought it more prudent to warn the Morels, who owned a farm on the other side of the lake, but Picard formally forbade me. “It would be as if we were adding credence to this charlatan’s tall tales.” He added, solemnly: “The credibility of agents of the Republic must not be put at risk.”
‘Two days later, at ten o’clock at night, a roaring inferno broke out at the Morels’ farm. Everything went up in smoke and they were lucky to save their cows, trapped in a stable surrounded by flames. Max Picard, on hearing the news the following day, was no longer laughing. Nor did he laugh when, a week later, Charles-Alexandre turned up at the station again to tell us he’d “seen” the Lefebvres’ sawmill, situated on the other side of a hill ten kilometres from the lake, go up in flames. According to him, the fire would take place the following afternoon. This time my boss decided to take charge himself.
‘That very afternoon we went to the mill in order to warn the Lefebvres of the danger. We checked the various warehouses and woodpiles, trying to imagine how and where the eventual fire might start. Max Picard judged it prudent to ask for reinforcements, in order to improve the surveillance.
‘The next day, at around noon, there were half-a-dozen gendarmes spread out over the premises. Two hours later, the woodpile located inside the main hangar suddenly caught fire without anyone able to explain how. The hangar itself was in flames in the blink of an eye and set fire to all the surrounding warehouses whilst we watched the disaster helplessly, unable to do anything. My boss was beside himself with rage.
‘How had the fire started? All by itself, according to all the witnesses. It seemed almost impossible that a malicious hand could have escaped our surveillance. We had cordoned the place off and nobody except an acrobatic pyromaniac, apparently, could have done it. But that didn’t explain Charles-Alexandre’s premonition.
‘The clairvoyant had another one a few days later. But this time he contented himself with writing a letter. We barely had time to set our trap, for the fire was predicted for the same evening at another farm in the area. Unfortunately, our vehicle lost a wheel on the way and we only reached the premises late in the day. We could only stand and watch, because the fire “started itself” a mere quarter of an hour after our arrival. Happily there were no victims. But, once again, it was determined that it was absolutely impossible for anyone to have got into the hay barn where the fire started. It appeared for all the world like spontaneous combustion.
‘The next day at the station, Max Picard took stock. Slumped in his seat, his feet were on the desk as if he were playing at being sheriff. Max—his real name was Maxime, but he preferred to be called Max—loved the stories of the Wild West and had always dreamt of going to the United States one day. But he was almost fifty and his illusions had faded with the passage of time. Behind him on the wall were two large illustrations of the Rockies and the Statue of Liberty. The Villemores had had the chance to go there, and I believe he bore a grudge against the clairvoyant because of that. “There are only two possible solutions to the problem, Martin,” he declared, after lighting a cigar and blowing a smoke ring into the air above him. “Either we’re dealing with a genuine clairvoyant, in which case there’s not much we can do other than thank him for his warnings, which have allowed us to limit the damage and save people’s lives. Or else Villemore is an impostor with a specific objective, such as achieving sufficient notoriety that people will come to him for consultations. In the second case—which is the one I favour, by the way—he must have an accomplice, because he has a cast iron alibi for the last fire, having spent the afternoon and evening serving behind the bar. At no time could he have slipped out to get to the scene of the fire. Several witnesses are prepared to swear as much.”
‘“So he’s working with an accomplice?”
‘“No doubt about it. I’ve tried pushing him around to get him to talk, but he’s tougher than he looks.”
‘“So what exactly does this accomplice do? On almost every occasion, it’s been shown that no human intervention was possible.”
‘“‘Almost’ being the operative word. There must be some kind of trick, as surely as two and two make four. Personally, I don’t believe in ghosts or paranormal happenings. I never have, and I’m not going to start today. When you’ve lived as long as I have, Martin, you’ll know that there’s no limit to human ingenuity, especially in the cause of evil! One of these days, you’ll remember what I said.”
‘“What do you plan to do in the meantime?”
‘Picard leant forward with his elbows on the desk and looked me in the eye:
‘“That’s where you come in, Martin. You’re going to be staying in Saint-Lizier for a while, paying particular attention to the auberge. Be there every minute of the day. Pretend to be drunk, do whatever you need to do, but don’t let that pseudo-fakir out of your sight. Try to find out how he warns his accomplice, for there’s no doubt in my mind that he has one. And he gives him his instructions after he’s told us about his latest “vision.” Villemore’s our pyromaniac!”
‘Using a few tricks to change my appearance, I hung around the hamlet for about a week, posing as a casual worker looking for a job, but more inclined to drink than get his hands dirty. I learnt quite a few things, and not just about our suspect. Charles-Alexandre ran the bar, in his taciturn fashion, in the late afternoon and evening. Otherwise he never left his residence. As I’d suspected, it was Marina who drove the business. She was always on the move, always smiling, and with a good word for everyone. Several of the customers flirted with her, discreetly when her husband was present, and more directly when he wasn’t there. Marina had no equal at turning them away tactfully. There was one suitor, however, who was more successful than the rest: a sales representative of about the same age and not bad-looking at all.
‘One evening I spied them together sitting by the lake. They didn’t notice me because I was behind a fishing barge. I wouldn’t have tried to eavesdrop if I hadn’t been on duty. The man, a certain Martinez, was certainly a smooth talker. He recounted his life, his ambitions, his regrets—including, needless to say, that of not finding the companion of his dreams. How he would love to take the place of Charles-AlexandreVillemore! How he dreamt of going through life with such a ravishing creature as Marina by his side, someone so capable and intelligent, who deserved better than to be stuck with you-know-who....
‘Eventually, out of discretion, I quietly withdrew. Although I didn’t follow the conversation to the end, I got the distinct impression that Marina was not insensitive to what Martinez was saying. I saw them from time to time o
ver the next few days and, from the glances they exchanged, I was pretty sure there was something between them. Charles-Alexandre, on the other hand, seemed oblivious. Even so, I detected flashes of jealousy in his usually lifeless eyes when the lascivious looks of certain customers languished for too long on the delicious curves of his fellow innkeeper. And that’s about all I learnt during my stay in Saint-Lizier.
‘In the meantime, and just before I returned to make my report to my boss, he’d received another message from Charles-Alexandre Villemore. I confirmed that he had no accomplices, nor any particular friend. As to discreet messages exchanged at the bar, I’d paid particular attention to that and seen nothing. Two days later the fourth fire occurred, in circumstances just as baffling as in the previous incidents. The conflagrations started as if by magic, despite more and more rigorous surveillance.
‘And the inexhaustible Charles-Alexandre kept turning up to announce more visions. Each visit was greeted with dread. Max Picard became more and more down-hearted and began to believe, like most in the region, in the miraculous nature of the phenomena and the astonishing powers of the clairvoyant. His predictions seemed like fate, a fate inescapable until better days returned. The phenomenon of the “burning bushes,” to quote one local journalist, became widely known in the region.
‘Nevertheless, on two occasions the “miracle” didn’t happen. And in these two cases, the sixth and eighth in the series, there were reactions which surprised me. Charles-Alexandre had “seen” another sawmill in the area burning but, at the appointed time, nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. Not a single puff of smoke. Garcia, the owner, who had been highly agitated before H-hour, curiously manifested no relief once the danger had passed. On the contrary, he appeared vaguely upset, as if he were secretly bitter about something. I noticed a similar attitude from one Cartier, a businessman specialising in the construction of chalets, near Montgaillard. No doubt both individuals had been a bundle of nerves after a prolonged and anxious wait. Nevertheless, their reactions surprised me a great deal. I told Picard as much, but he paid very little attention. The absence of new “burning bushes” was, to him, a victory—and who could blame him?
