by Paul Halter
‘Our favourite clairvoyant announced a ninth fire, which would occur despite the most stringent precautions. Picard took the news very badly. The next day, after stamping on his packet of cigars, he swore he wouldn’t smoke again until the whole business was finally wrapped up.
‘“Believe me, Martin,”’ he ranted, “if this sinister series isn’t stopped soon I’ll go mad. Up until now I’ve done everything to keep the investigation on the rails, hoping to bring it to a conclusion. I’ve scornfully rejected all offers of help, from amateurs as well as professionals, not to mention scientists, specialists in the paranormal and other experts. But now it’s got to end, Martin, do you hear me? It has to stop. And soon.”
‘“I agree. And, for what it’s worth, so does everyone in the region.”
‘“In fact, we’re this point because of you.’
‘“Excuse me?”
‘“Yes, because of you. If you’d done your job properly and watched the suspect instead of ogling his wife, you’d probably have worked out how he communicated with his accomplice.”
‘“So,” I replied in astonishment, “we’re back to that theory?”
‘“Yes, because there can’t be any other. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced. Don’t forget these mysterious fires coincide with his arrival.”
‘After a pause, I declared:
‘“In my opinion, the means of communication with the accomplice isn’t the main concern. What’s far more difficult to understand is how the pyromaniac sets the fires without being seen.”
‘Max Picard sniffed noisily:
‘“I admit I still don’t understand how. But it’s incidental. Once we finally lay hands on the culprit, he’ll end up explaining it.”
‘“And are you sure the culprit is Charles-Alexandre?”
‘“Why are you asking, Martin? Do you have any other suspects in mind?”
‘“If we’re going to speculate, then yes.”
‘“I’m listening”
‘“First of all, there’s the lovely Marina. A wife may have a thousand reasons for getting rid of her husband.”
‘Picard looked askance at me:
‘“If I understand what you’re suggesting, it’s that she manipulated her husband by some unspecified means, in order that he spout out his ‘visions,’ whereupon she carries them out somehow for the express purpose of him being accused instead of her?”
‘“Exactly. And she has a lover who goes along with it all in order to marry her, which will inevitably involve the elimination of the husband.”
‘Max Picard stroked his beard:
‘“Why not? I hadn’t looked at things from that angle. Do you have anyone in mind?”
‘I hesitated before replying:
‘“There’s this fellow Martinez... but, frankly, it could be anyone. She has so many fervent admirers in the region.”
‘My boss opened his mouth to speak, but froze suddenly. He stared at a point beyond the open window and at the same time I heard a footstep.
‘“Charles-Alexandre Villemore,” he muttered. “What new disaster has he come to announce?”
‘I had always been impressed by the personality of the clairvoyant. His steely-grey stare had a peculiar quality to it, being simultaneously sad and unfathomable. Was it this which had attracted Marina? The man had a certain presence about him and he spoke unhurriedly in a solemn voice, with perfect diction.
‘“A new fire!” exclaimed Picard, taking notes. “I don’t know whether you’re counting, Monsieur Villemore, but this will be the tenth.”
‘“I know.”
‘“That’s a lot. People are beginning to get fed up. They’d like to have peace and quiet again.”
‘“I understand. But what can I do? I merely transmit images which intrude into my thoughts. I know nothing of the ‘force’ which instills them, but we can only be thankful it happens. For, if not for this extraordinary gift, the incidents would have claimed numerous victims.”
‘“That’s certainly true. But tell me: did you already receive these images before setting foot on French soil?”
‘“Of course,” replied the clairvoyant calmly. “But I must admit they were nothing compared to these recent ones. They were fleeting visions which occurred only occasionally. My sixth sense was in an apprenticeship, so to speak. And I’ve never seen anything so clearly as I do now. As you can testify, alas!”
‘Picard winced.
‘“Let’s get back to your latest vision, Monsieur Villemore. And please be as specific as possible.”
‘“You ask me that every time,” observed the clairvoyant, with a glint of humour in his eye.
‘“Yes, but this time it’s special. We need to know precisely where and when.”
‘“I won’t be evasive,” replied Villemore solemnly, full of his own importance. “It will happen tomorrow night, around midnight in a furniture factory in Saint-Girons. The fire will occur on the second floor, in the old part of the premises.”
‘The next day, at around ten o’clock at night, we were all at our observation posts on the immense premises of Dupuis Enterprises. Since there was no other such establishment in the town, there could be no dispute about the location. But the furniture factory was vast and situated right in the centre of town. Business had prospered, explained M. Dupuis, and they had bought up all the adjacent old houses as they became available. It was a veritable labyrinth which extended through the adjacent properties like the tentacles of an octopus. The lofts had been converted and sheds hastily built in backyards—mostly half-timbered. It was frightening to think of the consequences of a fire in the tangle of corridors and old buildings. All the firemen in the area had been summoned and were waiting anxiously in the nearby streets.
‘It was pitch black and a gentle wind was blowing from the east. Through broken windows we could make out the tormented skyline of neighbouring rooftops. It had been a very hot day and we were suffocating in rooms with no air. Judged to be too run-down, they had been abandoned for more modern rooms on the ground floor. Based on the clairvoyant’s message, there seemed to be little doubt as to where the fire would start.
‘I was hidden behind an open door in the roof space, at the end of a gangway leading to an office where Max Picard was ensconced, hiding. like me, in the darkness. On the floor below was a lieutenant from the Sûreté, Pierre Lenoir, sent to help us—in other words, imposed by the authorities! Picard had been unable to refuse his aid.
‘He was a steely individual whose authority outranked that of Max, relegated to a subordinate role. His presence was immediately felt and I said to myself—as I’m sure Max did—that, with him in charge, the days of the pyromaniac were numbered. During the afternoon we’d had the opportunity to refine our strategy and discuss the whole business.
‘After he’d heard all the facts, Lenoir had declared, with a reassuring calm:
‘“I don’t think that lighting the fire would present much of an obstacle for the criminal. It wouldn’t take much : for example, a hot piece of coal fired from a catapult. It’s compact enough to travel a considerable distance and light enough not to make much noise on falling. After that, it wouldn’t take much sawdust and broken wood to start an inferno… And there would be practically no trace.”
‘“Oh, I never thought of that,” said Max Picard, with a studied nonchalance as he took another swig of beer, sweating like a pig.
‘“Well, you should have!” the lieutenant shot back tersely. “And there are other methods, such as a candle placed on a mound of sawdust inside a perforated cardboard box: closed, but with aeration holes. All surrounded by dry wood, making a simple delayed-action fuse determined by the length of the candle.”
‘“Ingenious !” I exclaimed. “As you said the other day, boss, there’s no limit to human ingenuity.”
‘Max Picard didn’t appreciate my irony. He shot me a furious look which would have stopped a charging buffalo in its tracks.
‘“You shoul
d have directed your investigation towards the identity and motive of the pyromaniac,” said Lenoir, vehemently reproaching my boss.
‘“That’s exactly what I did,” protested Picard, who was sweating more and more. “Ask Martin. We concentrated all our efforts on the principal suspect, Villemore, who had a solid alibi each time. And we also envisaged the possibility of an accomplice, without success.”
‘“Without success, indeed,” said Lenoir caustically, finishing his beer. “But things are about to change,” he added, getting to his feet. “Come, gentlemen, we have some serious work to do if we’re to catch our mysterious pyromaniac !”
‘Whilst the lieutenant was walking ahead of us, Picard, beside himself with anger, hissed ;
‘“Upon my word, I’m the one who’s going to collar the villain. It’s personal now. I say, Martin, have you got a cigarette ?”
‘Eleven o’clock had just struck. The air was stifling under the tiles which had absorbed the heat the entire day. My nerves on edge from the anguish of the wait, I was sweating profusely and could only imagine Max Picard’s state in that office of his. Fear must also have been gnawing at him. We’d obviously mapped out a fast escape route in case of fire, but with all those wooden buildings around us, it would obviously be pretty much hit or miss.
‘As the minutes went by in deathly silence, the various discussions of the afternoon came back to me. I had noticed a strange tension, and something told me the dénouement of the extraordinary puzzle was imminent. Events were soon to prove me right, but I was a long way from guessing the identity of the criminal. Motionless, my hand on the grip of my revolver, all my senses at full alert, I peered into the darkness in search of the slightest untoward movement.
‘Everything happened very quickly. I heard a sudden noise of breaking glass and several muffled blows. Thanks to my acute hearing, sharpened by the long, silent wait, I was immediately able to locate the source of the disturbing noises: the office on the other side of the gangway, which Picard was using. Without the slightest hesitation I ran there.
‘I noticed the room was feebly lit and, as I burst in, I saw my boss with his revolver in one hand and his dark lantern in the other. The wavering light caught his haggard face. The window was wide open behind him, revealing the contours of the adjacent buildings. One pane was broken. On the floor lay a fallen shadow, motionless.
‘“It’s him,” muttered Picard, still trembling with emotion. “Him, Villemore the pyromaniac, caught in the act. I surprised him just after he broke the window. When he saw me he tried to strike me with that truncheon.” He indicated a white object on the ground with the tip of his revolver. “But I knocked him out with the butt of my revolver.”
‘Frozen in the doorway, I said nothing. Picard, leaning forward, exclaimed:
‘“Look, there’s something next to him... a small box! Martin, hold the lamp, please.”
‘I did as I was told, while he picked up a small cardboard box, pierced by several holes, containing a candle on a bed of wood shavings. It was exactly the “delayed-action fuse” described by the lieutenant.
‘“There’s our proof!” exclaimed Picard triumphantly. “It’s him, the pyromaniac! His presence here with this contraption proves it.”
‘I might possibly have believed dear old Max if I hadn’t picked up the white stick—the culprit’s truncheon, according to my boss. It was indeed a truncheon, but not the sort used by bandits. It was the most standard of issues, used habitually by the gendarmerie. A strong suspicion started to form in my mind but, whilst I was holding the object close to the lantern, Picard must have read my thoughts. I slowly raised my head: he was pointing his gun at me with an unrecognisable smile on his face.
‘“I see you’ve worked it out, Martin,” he sneered nervously. “I congratulate you, but it’s a shame nevertheless. For it’s the kind of secret that can’t be shared.”
‘“I understand, Max, but not the whole of it,” I said.
‘“It’s very simple, however. I was very impressed when, following Villemore’s first prediction, the Morel farm burnt down. I realised the potential that idiot had, who’d been right purely by accident. The next few times, it was I who started the fires which he continued to announce.” His sneering smile widened. “Think about it: who but I, responsible for the surveillance of the premises, was best placed to set fire to them? It’s diabolically logical, don’t you think?”
At that moment the victim on the floor emitted a groan. Then footsteps sounded on the stairs.
‘“Lenoir,” I murmured, immediately regretting my words.
‘As he continued to point his revolver resolutely at me, Picard mumbled:
‘“I’ll place the weapon in Villemore’s hand and say it was he who fired....”
‘I was faster. Picard should have known better: I was the best marksman in gendarmerie school. I drew my weapon at the same time as I leapt to my right, firing twice. I learnt afterwards that Picard had received two shots in the heart before he’d even had time to pull the trigger. He would have been well advised to have drunk less beer that afternoon.
‘Lenoir arrived almost immediately, just as Villemore started to revive, and I explained it all to him:
‘“Picard was our pyromaniac. Don’t be fooled. He knocked Villemore out with a truncheon hit to the neck, having obviously arranged to meet here under some pretext or other. Hearing you describe the delayed-action fuse this afternoon, he hastened to build one like it to make us believe that Villemore regularly used that method.”
Colonel Martin stopped suddenly and sighed:
‘Damn! I let myself get carried away by my story. I wanted to ask you what you thought before divulging the identity of the miscreant!’
‘Oh, I’d already worked it out,’ replied Twist, looking amused.
‘Really?’
‘All I needed to do was apply an axiom of a celebrated master: “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” In this case, only you and Picard were in a position to create those miracles. And, since I assumed you wouldn’t be telling a tale which implicated yourself, there was only Picard left.’
‘And what would his motive have been?’ asked the colonel with a defiant air.
‘I think we’re dealing with a classic case of blackmail, like the Mafia “protecting” small businesses, with the implicit threat of wrecking them.’
‘You’re on the right track, but could you be more specific as to Picard’s motives?’
‘Perhaps his American dream? You mentioned that he was dying to visit the Wild West. He realised he was getting old, and unless a large sum of money fell into his lap, he would never get to follow the trails of the New World like a cowboy.’
‘You’ve hit the nail on the head,’ said the colonel in admiration.
‘The arrival of Villemore gave him the opportunity he was waiting for. He set about using the strange powers of the clairvoyant and sowing panic amongst the businesses in the region. He was thus able to engage in subtle blackmail, through anonymous letters, of those enterprises menaced by the clairvoyant’s dire predictions. Either they forked over a considerable sum of money, or the fruit of their labours would go up in smoke. You noted the strange bitterness of the two owners who escaped the flames, which was most revealing. Their businesses were saved, but they’d had to pay the villain.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed the colonel. ‘And when Villemore’s predictions were too vague, Picard helped him to have “visions” about companies he’d targeted for his ignoble blackmail. Frankly, I would never have thought that fat pig capable of such a cunning plan—and so beautifully simple: all he had to do was light a match when our backs were turned! And, once he sensed there was no more low-hanging fruit, he decided to close the investigation by handing Villemore, bound hand and foot, to justice. Even alive, he would never have been able to prove his innocence because no one would have believed him.’
‘And Picard only had to
find a sufficiently convincing pretext to lure Villemore into the trap.’
‘I don’t know what it was, but it can’t have been difficult because Villemore is quite naïve. Maybe he persuaded him that his presence was needed in order to solve the mystery.’
After a brief silence, Dr. Twist declared:
‘Be that as it may, Villemore himself remains a mystery. By the way, did he have anymore “visions” after that?’
‘I don’t know. He certainly never announced any more of that sort after he learnt the truth. Afterwards, we never saw any more of the salesman Martinez... and I left the gendarmes to join the army.’
‘I imagine the beautiful Marina might have had something to do with your decision,’ said Twist mischievously.
‘Perhaps,’ admitted the colonel, with a frog in his throat.
‘She never left her husband. She even regarded him with a renewed fervour, as if Villemore, in one last prediction of fire, had rekindled her love for him....’
THE WOLF OF FENRIR
In that cold evening in the winter of 1912, London was shivering under a heavy snowfall. Installed by the fire in the company of my friend Owen Burns, I was enjoying the cosy comfort of his flat in St. James’s Square while rereading my notes on his most celebrated cases. While his attention was concentrated on the elegant alabaster statuettes which graced the mantelpiece, I asked:
‘Do you know what strikes one the most about your cases, old friend?’
A mischievous gleam appeared in his half-closed eyes:
‘As seen through the prism of your subjective and restrictive reports, they tend to make me out to be a mere thinking machine, nourished on mathematical inferences, and as cold and icy as this weather. Which is a bit rich, you have to agree, for an art critic of my stature.’
‘Really, Owen, you’re not doing me justice. I’ve never minimised your artistic sensitivity. Quite the opposite, in fact. But that’s beside the point. What I’ve always stressed is that you are well and truly the specialist of the “impossible.” Every case seems incredible, and each seems more baffling than the one before.’
