by Paul Halter
‘And no fingerprints on the weapon, I presume?’
‘No. At least nothing significant. There were a few blurred prints on the blade—including those of Santerre and other people, but none on the handle. Obviously the killer was wearing gloves. Now do you see the problem? Captain Santerre was murdered in a house with all the windows and the door bolted from the inside, in the middle of a vast expanse of virgin snow. Human involvement seems impossible, but the facts are such. The nature of the wounds rules out suicide for whatever bizarre reason. And even the murder weapon poses an insoluble problem. How could it have got there? At one point I thought the murderer had used a different weapon, with the help of an accomplice, and then surreptitiously replaced it with the obsidian dagger at the moment the witnesses arrived. But that’s ruled out by their testimony and the fact that a fragment of the obsidian blade was found in the dead man’s spine. And, finally, there’s the famous séance with the round table. You British are more disposed to believe in the spirit world than we French, but in this case I refuse to believe in any message from beyond. Obviously the murderer was one of the little group around the table—or his accomplice was. The precise details about the victim and the murder weapon, communicated by the “spirits,” clearly indicate a murderous stratagem.’
‘We’re in agreement on that point,’ replied Dr. Twist, with a mischievous glint in his eye as if he were relishing the complexity of the problem. ‘It’s true that we’re fond of ghosts on our little island but, speaking personally, I’ve never encountered one as Machiavellian as some of the criminals I’ve come up against. And, as a purely practical matter, it’s impossible for any of the attendees of the séance to have taken advantage of the darkness to commit the murder and return to his place without being noticed.’
‘Absolutely. All the witnesses agree on that point: nobody was out of sight during the séance under any pretext whatsoever.’
‘What surprises me,’ observed Dr. Twist pensively, ‘is that you haven’t thought of the only possible solution to the puzzle.’
‘But of course,’ smiled the . ‘Naturally, you’re referring to a lightning strike by the first person to enter the premises?’
‘And who, I imagine, also inherits the victim’s fortune?’
‘You’re right, Jérôme Santerre is indeed the sole heir to the victim’s estate, modest though it may be. It consists of the little rustic chalet and some stocks and shares of about the same value. Of course we considered that!
‘According to that theory, Jérôme purloins the dagger and makes a few judicious knocks on the table to announce the murder. In the guise of the nervous nephew he rushes out to check on his uncle, but in reality he murders him and returns to announce in a trembling voice that his uncle didn’t respond to his calls. Under normal circumstances that would be the only possible solution. Unfortunately, there are two problems with that theory. First, we made an excruciatingly thorough examination of the footprints in the snow around the chalet and they are perfectly consistent with the testimonies of all the witnesses, including Jérôme. He started out rapidly, walked around the chalet once and came back to the front door before returning to the séance. There are no suspicious scuffle marks under the windows indicating any kind of acrobatic manoeuvre. The shutters and the broken door were examined under a magnifying glass and no suspicious scratches were found. The door, secured from the inside by a large bolt, was indeed firmly shut, according to the several witnesses who tried it. In addition to all that, there’s the question of timing. Jérôme was only away for about ten minutes, which corresponds to his story of a simple round trip. And the prints prove he didn’t run. How could he have had the time to engage in a ferocious fight with his uncle, never mind the fact that there were no bruises on his own body? And what kind of absurd plan would it be to announce a murder where he would be the prime suspect?’
Examining the policeman’s sketches again, Dr. Twist replied:
‘I should have known that you’d examined that angle carefully. Your sketches show a very thorough attention to detail. But tell me, does that object have something to do with your investigation?’
‘Yes, it’s one of the books found at the foot of the bookcase.’
‘Why this particular one?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied the , shrugging his shoulders. ‘As I told you, I react instinctively in certain cases. It seemed to be representative of the struggle which had taken place, and its colour attracted my attention.’
‘Yellow, I assume?’
The policeman frowned.
‘Now how the devil did you know that? It’s a pencil sketch in black and white.’
‘The title of the book, which you’ve carefully reproduced, is The King in Yellow.’
‘Is that important?’
‘Your question proves that you’ve never heard of the book, which is understandable, as it’s much less known in France than across the Atlantic. What’s curious is the name of the author. It’s not very clear on your drawing, but clear enough to see that it’s not that of the real author, Robert Chambers. And that’s very important.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t follow,’ muttered the policeman, frowning.
‘Is the book still in your possession?’
‘Er... no. It’s incredible that you should ask me that, because it’s the only thing that’s disappeared... One of my men, like you, was intrigued by the work and asked if he could borrow it.’
‘And...?’
‘He never returned to work... He threw himself in the river. We found his corpse a few kilometres downstream, caught in the branches of a tree. But let me stop you right there: it wasn’t murder. The poor fellow was very depressed. He’d lost his wife the previous month in a train crash. There’s no doubt it was suicide.’
‘Well, that’s even stranger than if it was murder!’ declared Twist gravely. ‘But, let me warn you, my expertise is strictly confined to criminology, not in otherworldly phenomena. By the way, have you noticed the similarity between your two sketches of the book and the murder weapon? No? Look at the symbol on the hilt of the dagger and the one just below the title of the book... Your drawings aren’t very precise, but don’t you see a resemblance? Like the head of a grotesque sea monster?’
Commissaire Boulanger appeared quite embarrassed as he carefully compared the two sketches.
‘Well, well,’ he muttered eventually, ‘I must confess I never noticed that. As I told you, sketching is just a way of helping me concentrate, and I do it automatically, without thinking.’
‘That’s all to your credit. It makes you the perfect impartial witness. One last observation concerning the state of the book in your drawing. It seems quite new, yet it’s in a pitiful state. All the corners are bent over and there’s a deep crease in the cover, even though it’s quite thick.’
‘I can assure you that’s exactly the condition it was in. What relevance is it to our investigation?’
Dr. Twist nodded thoughtfully in silence. Then he announced firmly:
‘I’d like to come back to that later. Meanwhile, I’d like you to tell me something about the human aspect of our problem, namely the personalities of our suspects and their connection to the victim.’
‘Quite. I was about to do so. I’ll start with the victim himself. Captain Marc Santerre fought in the Great War and was given a medical discharge after Verdun, where he was severely wounded by shellfire. The doctors managed to save his leg, but he was left with a pronounced limp. He also suffered a nervous disorder which resulted in long convalescence and an invalid’s pension. When he returned here four years ago in 1934, he seemed to have fully recovered except for the limp. He renovated a forestry cabin which had been bequeathed to him by his father and settled there. No one had a bad word to say about him, although he was rather taciturn. The community arranged a part-time job for him at the local library, next door to the college where Mlle. Agathe Millet worked. They became firm friends, and there was even talk of marriage. But,
for the last few months, no one has seen them together. Santerre became withdrawn, and even abandoned his part-time position. The after-effects of the war seem to have resurfaced. He felt himself to be persecuted and saw enemies everywhere: in the government, and particularly in bankers, whom he believed to have been at the origin of all wars and to be reptiles in human disguise. In other words, he started to go off his rocker; not mad exactly—for he continued to remain friends with Dr. Blanchard and Daniel Raskin—but with increasingly frequent outbursts, particularly when he hit the bottle. That said, nobody has ever seen him blind drunk.’
‘He saw enemies everywhere,’ mused Dr. Twist.
‘Enemies which only he could see.’
‘So you say, yet he ended up being savagely murdered.’
‘Were you thinking of a flying reptile, perhaps?’ asked the sarcastically.
‘As a matter of fact, that’s precisely the image which had crossed my mind.’
‘That would certainly explain the lack of footprints in the snow, but I don’t somehow think that my superiors would accept that solution.’
‘Neither would the British police, I assure you. Which is why I’ve always been careful to propose rational explanations whenever they call me in.’
‘Well, that’s a relief!... Let me go on... Daniel Raskin, the antique dealer, getting on in years and as wrinkled as—dammit, Twist, after what you said, I can’t help thinking of a sly, calculating reptile! An astute businessman, in any case, with a successful gallery in Paris as well as his shop here in town. He got on well with Santerre, whom he saw regularly. There’s no hint of any friction between them; on the contrary, they shared a passion for ancient civilisation, Santerre being something of an expert on Pre-Columbian art. According to Raskin, his friend seemed slightly on edge when he called in the early afternoon of the fatal day, but no more than usual, and he didn’t attach any importance to it at the time. Raskin went out shortly thereafter to get the provisions for the evening’s séance and was back home by three o’clock.’
‘Did you question him about the obsidian dagger?’
‘Naturally. Although he couldn’t admit it openly, he seemed more distressed by the damage to his precious dagger than the loss of his friend. He claimed it had lost a great deal of its value. According to him, it was a sacrificial dagger from a little-known Pacific tribe, capable of summoning the wrath of the heavens and all kinds of evil. I had it assessed independently and it does seem to have been extremely valuable.
‘Now on to the next “sly reptile,” Dr. Théodore Blanchard... Approaching sixty and, despite an excellent professional reputation, a rather cold individual.’
‘Like a snake!’
‘As you wish. Nevertheless, he’s spent a great deal of his life treating others and has a peerless reputation as a physician. Santerre was one of his most frequent patients, and they seem to have got on well enough. They used to meet every Sunday to bet on the horses, the one hoping to expand his practice and the other to afford a house worthy of the name. On the fatal day, Blanchard had been very busy with patients right up to the time of the séance. I find it quite surprising that a man of science can take up spiritualism.’
‘Why not? The creator of Sherlock Holmes, who was also a physician, was passionate about occultism. But, come to think of it, this wasn’t the group’s first experience with the round table. Had the spirits contacted them previously? And, if so, how? By knocking on the table?’
‘Yes, but it’s difficult to say more than that. Nobody seems very clear on the matter. For Michèle and Jérôme it was a sort of distraction. Santerre, on the other hand, took it very seriously. Blanchard suspected the youngsters of occasionally staging messages from the beyond. Raskin himself didn’t take sides. In any case, up until now there had never been any warnings of catastrophe. Finally, as far as Blanchard is concerned, he had no apparent reason to shorten Santerre’s days. Now let’s talk about the “viper.”’
With a mocking smile, the continued:
‘You’re making me say things I don’t mean, Dr. Twist. The young and pretty Michèle doesn’t have anything in common with such a creature. I would add that she doesn’t resemble her father much and they have little in common, starting with their feelings for Jérôme. Michèle wants to marry him, but Raskin is not so keen. I suspect he’d prefer someone more prestigious for a son-in-law. But he’s clever enough to realise that outright opposition could provoke the opposite effect. Personally, I think Jérôme’s only faults are that of his age... idealistic, carefree, and infatuated by Michèle and by Art—he’s studying the history of the subject in Paris. At the risk of disappointing you, my dear Twist, I haven’t detected any sign of reptilian tendencies. He’s a pleasant young man and seems to have been genuinely attached to his uncle. Nevertheless, as I’ve pointed out before, he is the only one to benefit financially from his uncle’s death.’
‘Was he lodging with his uncle?’
‘No, he was spending a few days of vacation with a friend in town. They’d been out for a spin on the day of the crime and had only got back in the late afternoon. Jérôme had only had time for a quick change of clothes before attending the séance. As for Michèle, she hadn’t left the house the whole day. And from three o’clock until the discovery of the body, she’d been with her father the whole time.’
‘Was she also able to confirm the presence of the dagger in the bookcase that afternoon?’
‘More or less. She was less certain than her father, not having specifically paid attention, but she thinks she would have noticed its absence... On the other hand, she did make a bizarre comment to me about Santerre: she felt that he’d been looking at her strangely of late.’
‘Like a lecherous old lizard?’ asked Dr. Twist mischievously.
‘I’m not sure,’ replied the policeman, frowning. ‘She talked about a fixed stare, which was unlike him. She didn’t elaborate, except to say that Santerre had changed. Which Mlle. Millet confirmed. She should know, in view of their recent relationship, which Santerre had abruptly suspended under some vague pretext of needing to stand back and take stock to make sure he was the right man for her.’
‘Was there another woman in the picture?’
‘Not according to Mlle. Millet. She feels sure she would have noticed. Everyone knows everyone else in Malenmort. We made our own enquiries, and Santerre appears to have been a lone wolf.’
‘I imagine she must have been quite upset.’
‘I assume so, but she’s not one to wear her heart on her sleeve. According to her, Santerre had come under an evil influence, which she attributed to his reading material. He had been reading more than usual... Stories of the fantastic, of sinister conspiracies and political machinations.’
‘I thought as much,’ observed Dr. Twist.
‘What do you mean?’ asked the in astonishment.
‘I’ll come back to that later. But, right now, I’d like to ask you one final question. According to witnesses, Santerre’s telephone line was not functioning at the time his body was discovered. Has anyone found out why?’
‘No. And the following day it was functioning normally again. But that’s not unusual. In this kind of weather, there are often intermittent failures. Ah, I see where you’re coming from, my dear Twist. The murderer was a contortionist who was able to hoist himself up on the line and drag himself to the chalet and back, using just his arms without touching the snow.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘That’s a relief. Because even if such an exploit were possible, the line couldn’t have taken the strain. Well, I’ve told you all I know about this inexplicable crime: a man was murdered ten days ago, in a chalet locked from the inside and surrounded by virgin snow. On top of that, there was a séance which, at the moment of the crime, revealed all the details, including the fact that the murderer was one of those present! In my entire career, I’ve never come across such a brain-teaser.’
There was a silence, during which Boulanger could see
a smile gradually appear on the criminologist’s lips.
‘It’s true that you’ve told me all you know. As for the crime being inexplicable, that’s a thing of the past.’
For a few seconds there was a blank look on the policeman’s face.
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. Surely you’re not telling me you’ve solved it?’
‘Yes. At least from the criminal point of view, if not the spiritual. Everything is crystal clear, thanks to your extraordinary sense of observation. You’ve provided me with all the necessary details. And, to make it simple, what tripped up the monstrous murderer was this....’
And Dr. Twist brandished the commissaire’s sketch of the yellow book.
As the latter appeared lost for words, Twist continued:
‘This book, The King in Yellow, was written by Robert Chambers at the end of the last century. It’s a collection of short stories, several of which refer to a play of the same name which induces madness in those who read it. According to the book, those watching the fictional play are seized immediately by a homicidal madness, with the result that everyone is dead by the end of the second act. Chambers himself was careful not to provide the text of this mythical play. But other authors did try. Which is why, just now, I stressed the importance of the book bearing another name.’
