by Paul Halter
‘But let’s start from the beginning: how would one spread weed-killer in an area so inaccessible? Answer: by throwing it as a compacted object like a ball.’
‘Throwing it over a high yew hedge?’ said René Baron. ‘That would seem to be rather difficult.’
‘True, but there was also the gap in the hedge the size of a small door which was, if I’ve understood correctly, astride the path leading to the gate.’
‘The gate which was locked and guarded.’
‘Certainly, but at night our trickster wouldn’t have been noticed, particularly if he’d taken advantage of the dogs’ barking; he might even have provoked them.’
‘In short,’ observed Felder, ‘someone could have thrown a block of dried powder twenty yards from behind the gate.’
‘It was feasible, given that the guards made their rounds around the wall, so our man had intervals of time in which to act.’
‘Right. But it’s the actual throwing that seems too risky. A block of dried powder could be blown off course by the slightest wind, not to mention the precision necessary in the first place. At one time or another, it would have landed in the wrong place. And how would the powder have been spread evenly across the grave?’
‘With the help of the rain.’
‘We have more than our share of it around here, agreed, but still it doesn’t rain every night. And someone would be bound to notice the next morning.’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Twist. ‘We have to find another method.’ His eye fell on the bowl of ice brought over by the innkeeper. ‘What if our man had thrown a large block of ice made with a heavy dose of weed-killer? It would have had time to melt during the night and spread evenly in a pool over the grave.’
‘There’s still the question of accuracy,’ observed Felder.
A mischievous look glinted behind the detective’s pince-nez.
‘But suppose the large block of ice was in the form of a ball like, say, an orange? It would be almost the same weight as a boule as you call it.’ He turned towards the photos behind the bar. ‘Any boule player worth his salt can deliver a series of strikes placed close together; I shouldn’t have to explain that to a professional like yourself, Monsieur Baron. The boule would go over the gate, roll along the path, and go through the gap in the hedge to reach the grave. With half a dozen throws of carefully prepared ice projectiles, there would be no trace left in the morning except some moisture which would be attributed to the early morning dew. No need to do it every night, just after each fresh load of earth.’
The smile seemed to be frozen on the face of the man from Marseilles. Pointing to the photograph over the bar, he asked:
‘Is that how you tumbled to it?’
‘Let’s say it helped.’
‘Then congratulations for the deduction, Monsieur,’ said René Baron, bowing slightly. ‘But you know, nobody in the village wanted a huge hotel blocking their view. And all I did was help destiny along a bit. Before Evans appeared, neither I nor anyone else had ever acted that way.’
‘I don’t pretend to have solved the whole mystery, gentlemen,’ said Twist solemnly.
‘So I think it’s just as well if we forget the whole thing,’ said Felder, draining his beer.
‘I agree,’ said the detective. ‘I know how to hold my tongue, particularly since I had to use a similar scheme myself once. That’s why it wasn’t too difficult to work out what happened here. There was a neighbour of mine who used to chase away the local cats with a pitchfork. I was angry and told him that if he didn’t cease his barbaric habits, lightning would strike his house and the lawn which he tendered so lovingly. He had brought in an especially rich, red-coloured soil from another county just for the lawn.’
Dr. Twist plunged his hand into the ice bucket and brought out several blocks.
‘So, Monsieur Baron, like you I put a strong dose of weed-killer in the ice-tray and when night came I sprinkled dozens of ice fragments on the torturer’s lawn. A few days later, it looked as if it had caught measles!’
THE YELLOW BOOK
After Daniel Raskin, a corpulent antiquarian with an aquiline profile, turned off the ceiling light, the room seemed to be in a half-light. For a few seconds it seemed as dark inside as it was outside. In that cold late-afternoon in the winter of 1938, Malenmort, a small village on the outskirts of Verdun, was shivering under a thick blanket of snow. Thick clouds had hastened nightfall. As if by magic, the flickering light from the chandelier seemed to grow stronger as the small group became accustomed to the half-light. The wavering yellow light of the candles was reflected in the golden frames and ornaments which decorated the antique dealer’s plush, comfortable drawing room. It conferred a slight copper tinge on the solemn faces of the five occupants, absorbed in contemplation of the small round table in front of them, their fingers spread out and touching like a lace frieze. It was not a novel experience for any of them: they met once or twice a month to invoke the spirits of the dear departed—of which a not inconsiderable number, it must be said, lived in this part of France drenched in blood from the butchery of the Great War some twenty years earlier. One of their habitual companions, Marc Santerre, was one of those who had survived, although not without permanent souvenirs. But Marc was not with them that evening, having called earlier to excuse himself. There is an old French saying that those who are absent are always in the wrong, which was soon to be borne out....
During such séances, spirits usually made their presence known through jolts to the table of varying intensity, depending on their mood. Occasionally they responded with loud knocks when the message was more urgent, as seemed to be the case that afternoon. In response to a question by Raskin’s daughter Michèle—a pretty brunette with a slender figure and a porcelain complexion—there was a single loud knock, signifying that contact had been established (one knock meant affirmative and two knocks meant negative.) Two knocks sounded in response to the next few questions, until Michèle asked whether anything important had happened.
‘Concerning anyone here?’ she asked, her hazelnut eyes wide open... (Two knocks.)
‘One of our friends?’... (One knock.)
‘Captain Santerre?’... (One knock.)
A deathly silence came over the little group. Furtive looks were exchanged and the sense of unease grew as Michèle continued to ask questions. After a series of suggestions had been rejected, the table responded loudly in when she raised the possibility of a violent death....
‘Murder?’ ... (One knock).
‘When, this afternoon?’ ... (Two knocks)
‘Now?’ ... (One knock)
‘That’s absurd,’ grumbled Dr. Théodore Blanchard, a dry little man whose wrinkles betrayed his seventy-odd years.
He did nevertheless, like the others, shoot a look at the clock, which was showing five minutes to six. Raskin raised his hand for calm and asked his daughter to continue. The “spirits” continued to insist there had been a crime, but refused to reveal the name of the murderer, other than it was someone seated at the table! That seemed so ridiculous that, after an initial shock, the group started to relax.
‘It’s idiotic!’ announced Jérôme Santerre, the captain’s nephew, a young man with blond hair and dreamy eyes. ‘Nobody can be over there and here at the same time.’ Yet, despite his confident assertion, there was a glimmer of doubt in his eyes.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Mlle. Agathe Millet rather primly. She was an elegant woman in her forties, a schoolteacher in Malenmort.
‘Quite absurd,’ repeated Dr. Blanchard. ‘Who could hold it against Santerre for thinking about....’
He didn’t finish his sentence. He had started, like some of the others, to recall certain details of captain Santerre’s life, which caused him to pause for thought. Michèle continued to pose questions to the table, but no further answers were forthcoming until she asked about the weapon. After a number of indecipherable shakes, she opted for the alphabetic method, which consisted of citing
all the letters in turn until a knock was heard, then repeating the process for the next letter. Eventually she managed to elicit a strange name: “Rapa-Yog,” after which all spiritual activities ceased.
‘That rings a bell,’ said the schoolteacher thoughtfully. ‘Hasn’t it got something to do with an ancient Polynesian civilisation?’
‘I remember hearing that somewhere,’ agreed Dr. Blanchard. ‘But who was it that told me?’
Michèle turned to look her father, who nodded his head.
‘That must have been me,’ he replied. “I have a piece in my collection—.’
‘The dagger!’ exclaimed Michèle. ‘The sacrificial obsidian knife in the glass-fronted bookcase.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll go and look.’
The antiquarian shrugged his shoulders.
‘Why not? It doesn’t cost anything to check. It’s true that it would make a great murder weapon. But I clearly recollect it was in its place this afternoon.’
When Michèle returned less than a minute later, her deathly pallor anticipated her words.
‘It’s not there....’
‘Are you sure, darling?’ said Jérôme anxiously, quickly getting to his feet.
Raskin himself left the room, returning almost at once, looking very pale and with an expression of denial on his face.
‘Let’s not panic. I’m willing to admit that someone here could have surreptitiously taken the dagger, but I don’t see how, being here, they could have... No, it’s absurd.’
‘Absurd or not, we have to go and check!’ exclaimed Jérôme.
It was obvious that the idea of leaving the cosy warmth of the drawing room was not very appealing, particularly since there might be a gruesome discovery awaiting in the biting cold.
‘Right. Let’s go,’ said Michèle, standing up in turn.
‘Wait a moment, my sweet,’ interjected her father, placing a restraining hand on her arm. ‘One person’s enough. I don’t believe for a moment that anything’s happened, but it’s true: we have to make sure... Go ahead, Jérôme—and come back soon to reassure us.’
Captain Santerre lived in a small, isolated house, less than five minutes’ walk from the antique dealer’s residence. Jérôme was back ten minutes later, out of breath and with a wild look in his eyes.
‘There was no answer. All the lights are out and the door and the shutters are bolted. Something’s happened to him!’
A quarter of an hour later, all the little group were standing in front of the entrance to Captain Santerre’s rustic residence, their heavy breathing creating clouds of vapour in the frigid air. The distant line of fir trees to the north added a menacing note to the desolate scene, swept by a stinging wind which moaned like a faraway wild beast. The light of the dying day illuminated the immaculate whiteness of the snow before it disappeared over the horizon.
After having looked carefully around, Dr. Blanchard announced:
‘There are no traces in the snow other than those left by Jérôme. Consequently, nobody could have approached the house... But because we’re here, and in order to avoid the scorn and derision of the village by calling the police, I propose that we hammer very loudly on the door to try and wake the captain up. We all know how partial he was to liquid refreshment.’
For the next few minutes, the surroundings resonated with loud shouts and furious blows, all to no avail. Turning to the young man, Dr. Blanchard sighed:
‘It’s your decision, Jérôme. It’ll cost a few francs of repair if we force an entry, but at least we’ll be reassured. Personally, I’m willing to bet we’ll find him lying blind drunk on the sofa.’
‘I don’t believe so,’ replied Agathe Millet tersely. ‘Marc... Marc had his weaknesses, it’s true, but I’ve never seen him like that.’
‘Very well. We’ve the choice of the shutters or the door, whichever seems more practical. You’re the strongest one here, Jérôme, and also the one your uncle is most likely to forgive.’
The young man stepped back and launched a violent charge at the door, followed by two others before there was an encouraging sound of splintering wood. Two violent kicks were necessary before the solid oak door finally ceded. Even before switching on the light, the visitors could see a few objects strewn on the floor. Once the scene was bathed in light, Captain Santerre could indeed be seen stretched out on the sofa, but in a state far worse than drunkenness: he was drenched in blood and the glassy stare in his eyes left no doubt that he had given up the ghost. His face was swollen with bruises and there was a deep wound in his stomach caused by a weapon having a large blade. Near the fireplace the visitors found an impressive obsidian dagger, drenched to the hilt in blood, which Michèle and her father identified immediately....
In Verdun, in the office of Commissaire Antoine Boulanger, Dr Twist listened attentively. When the other had finished, he observed:
‘This affair is surprising, to say the least... just like my presence here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, because each time I decide to do some travelling in France—which happens quite often—I find myself mixed up in some murky business, just like this.’
‘It’s the penalty of fame, old man! As soon as I heard you were in the region, I thought it would be criminal—so to speak—not to take advantage of your brilliant insight. I hope you’ll forgive my presumptuous call for help, but this business is totally beyond comprehension.’
While Dr. Twist was nodding his head in agreement, the commissaire observed the eminent British detective with amusement. He reminded the policeman of a modern Don Quixote: not only was he tall and thin, but he had the dreamy look in his eye of an idealist perpetually seeking justice.
‘After that broad outline,’ continued the commissaire, ‘I’d like to cover some of the more mundane police details, so as to start from a basis of solid facts. First, the time of the crime, as established by the medical examiner and by Dr. Blanchard, who arrived with his friends at about half past six or slightly later. Blanchard affirms that when he arrived, Santerre had been dead for about half an hour. According to him, the most likely time of death was....’
‘Let me guess: five minutes to six?’
‘Exactly! But one can well imagine he was influenced by what happened at the séance. The medical examiner’s estimate is more qualified. He places the time of the crime within a half-hour window, but he also thinks it was most probably five minutes to six.
‘The last snowfall actually occurred on the day before the tragedy. Which means that the captain’s house was surrounded, to a distance of one hundred metres, by a thick blanket of snow, undisturbed except for the footprints of the witnesses.
‘Santerre was last seen alive the day before when he bought a packet of tobacco from a local newsagent. The last person to have heard his voice was Raskin, in the early afternoon of the day of his death, when he phoned to cancel. He was feeling too tired to participate in the séance. That was confirmed by the switchboard operator who noted the time of the call as twenty-three minutes to three. She also states that he neither placed nor received any other calls after that time. Note that, at that time, the dagger was still in its place in the glass-fronted bookcase in Raskin’s library. He swears to it. At around five o’clock his friends start to arrive, in the following order: Mlle. Agathe Millet, Dr. Blanchard, and lastly Jérôme Santerre. The séance with the round table starts shortly after half past five. Note that any of them could have taken the dagger during that time; it would only have taken a minute. At five to six, the “spirit” announces the murder of Captain Santerre. Just after that, the disappearance of the dagger is discovered. Jérôme, concerned for his uncle, goes out to check on him, arriving at ten minutes past six. Doors and shutters are closed and nobody answers. At half past six, he goes back with all his friends; they break down the door and make the grisly discovery... the body and the weapon at the same time. The circumstances cause them to believe, with trepidation but not without reason, that the murderer could still be
on the premises. They search methodically, but in vain. Then, noting that the victim’s phone line is not working, they decide to return to Raskin’s house to call the police. Only Dr. Blanchard and Mlle. Millet remain behind.
‘I myself arrived on the scene an hour later. I found a crime scene which was almost intact because Dr. Blanchard had taken great care to ensure that as little as possible had been disturbed.’
The commissaire paused to open a file and remove a few pages which he placed in front of Dr. Twist.
‘These are sketches... It’s a habit of mine which drives some of my colleagues mad. I always make sketches in the course of my investigations—sketches of anything I consider to be important. It’s as much a way of forcing me to concentrate as anything else. And it’s actually turned out to be useful on a couple of occasions... These are sketches of the site, the crime scene, the weapon and various objects.’
‘Remarkable,’ said Twist with obvious interest. ‘You’re very handy with a pencil!’
‘Let’s just say I have a keen sense of observation,’ smiled the commissaire. ‘Here you can see the layout of the premises. The only entrance is a door on the east side of the building, which is a sort of rustic chalet. It opens onto a very large room, with the fireplace where the dagger was found straight opposite. Immediately to the left there’s a flight of stairs leading to the floor above, which contains a bedroom and a storage room. Immediately to the right of the front door there’s a room with a bookcase which had been knocked over, spilling books and trinkets all over the floor. Next to it was a small table with a telephone, which had likewise been knocked over. That must have been where Santerre fought his assailant. There were quite a few bloodstains on the floor and on the spilled objects—and elsewhere in the chalet, it must be said. It appears to have been quite a struggle, because the captain had been badly beaten. There were bruises on his arms and legs, on his back and even on his head. The medical examiner counted at least fifteen, of various shapes and sizes, caused by a blunt instrument which was definitely not the obsidian dagger. That had been reserved for the fatal blow, which had pierced his abdomen. And what a blow! There was a piece missing from the tip of the dagger, which was later found embedded in the victim’s spinal column. The bloodstains on the floor seem to indicate that Santerre managed to drag himself as far as the sofa and the murderer threw the dagger across the room to the fireplace.’
