Then the pneumatic message discovered at the poste restante window actually did concern this case-Wallas was convinced of it from the beginning. It is the summons sent to the murderer for the second crime-today’s-which (according to this hypothesis) should take place in this same city. The conclusions of the inspector whose report Wallas read in Laurent’s office could be correct about this: the existence of two accomplices in the murder of Daniel Dupont-the addressee (Andre WS) and the person designated by the letter G in the text of the letter. Tonight, the former would work alone. Lastly, Marchat was right to fear an attack long before the fatal hour-as confirmed by the words “all afternoon” also appearing in the pneumatic message.
There remains the post card mysteriously slipped under the concierge’s door at the police station. It is extremely doubtful that the conspirators would have decided to inform the police of the time and place of their crime. It is part of their program to indicate the authorship of their crimes and to give them all the publicity possible (the Executive Services and the Ministry of the Interior have already received certain messages from the leaders of the organization), but the post card would constitute evidence capable of wrecking their plans-unless they henceforth felt so powerful that they had nothing further to fear from anyone. One would almost be led to suspect the commissioner himself of duplicity-which, from another point of view, is difficult to imagine.
It would be more reasonable to admit what Laurent, for his part, appears to be quite certain of: a reminder coming from Marchat. The businessman, before leaving the city, would thus have made a final effort to convince the police to have the dead man’s residence watched.
The suspicious behavior of the little doctor, the businessman’s fears, various allusions contained in the pneumatic message…The deductions that can be made from such evidence furnish little opportunity for certainty. Wallas knows that. He realizes, in particular, the influence on him of the card left at the police station-though this card cannot logically constitute part of the structure. But after all, he has nothing better to do than show up at the rendezvous. Since at present there is no other lead, he will lose nothing in following this one. He has the key to the house in his pocket-the one to the little glass door-that Madame Smite gave him. Marchat has fled, leaving him a clear field: he himself will play the role of the businessman, to see if by some miracle someone will come to murder him. He congratulates himself on having brought his revolver along.
“It’s true, you never know,” Laurent has said ironically.
Wallas reaches the garden gate.
It is seven o’clock.
Everything around him is dark. The street is deserted. Wallas calmly opens the gate.
Once inside, he carefully pushes it shut, but not all the way, so as to leave some trace of his passage.
There is no use attracting the attention of anyone walking on the parkway at this hour by unnecessary noise. To avoid making the gravel crunch, Wallas walks on the lawn-easier than on the brick rim. He walks around the house on the right side. In the darkness, he can just make out the path, paler between the two flowerbeds and the neatly pruned top of the spindle trees.
A wooden shutter now protects the glass panes of the little door. The key turns easily in the lock. Wallas surprises himself in the attitudes of a burglar: instead of opening the door wide, he has slipped in through a discreet gap. He takes out the key and gently closes the door behind him.
The big house is silent.
To the right the kitchen, at the rear and to the left the dining room. Wallas knows the way; he would not need any light to guide him. He nevertheless turns on his pocket flashlight and moves forward, preceded by the thin pencil of light. The tiling of the vestibule is black and white, laid in a pattern of squares and lozenges. A strip of gray carpet with two garnet stripes at the edges covers the stairs.
In the luminous circle of the electric light appears a tiny dark painting that is obviously rather old. It is a nightmare scene. At the foot of a ruined tower, illuminated by a flash of sinister lightning, two men are lying. One is wearing royal clothes, his gold crown gleams in the grass beside him; the other is a simple peasant. The lightning has just dealt out the same death to both of them.
On the point of turning the doorknob, Wallas stops: if the murderer is actually lying in wait behind this door, it would be stupid for a special agent to fall into such a trap; since he has come to the rendezvous, he should play the game all the way to the end. He slips his hand into his pocket to take out his revolver, when he remembers the second one he has been carrying around since the morning-Daniel Dupont’s revolver, which is jammed and would be of no help to him if he had to protect his life. He must be careful not to make any mistake about which is which.
Actually, he runs no risk of doing so. Dupont’s revolver is in his left overcoat pocket: he had put it there first and then put it back in the same place when the revolver was returned from the laboratory. Since he has never handled both weapons at the same time, he cannot have confused them.
To be absolutely certain, he examines them on the spot by the light of his flashlight. He recognizes his own revolver indisputably. He even feels no apprehension about trying to fire the dead man’s gun-it is, indeed, that one that is jammed. He starts to put it back in his pocket, but then decides it is no use encumbering himself with this heavy object any longer. He therefore goes into the bedroom and puts it back in the night table drawer from which he had seen the old housekeeper take it this morning.
In the study, Wallas presses the button of the light switch on the door jamb. One bulb in the ceiling fixture goes on. Before leaving the house, the old housekeeper has closed all the shutters; consequently no one will see the light from outside.
His loaded revolver in his right hand, Wallas inspects the little room. No one is hiding in it, obviously. Everything is in order. Madame Smite must have straightened the piles of books which the inspector had indicated as having been disordered. The white sheet on which the professor had as yet written only four words has disappeared, filed away in a folder or in some drawer. The cube of vitrified stone, with its sharp edges and deadly corners, is lying harmlessly between the inkwell and the memo-pad. Only the chair is at a slight angle, pulled out from the desk, as if someone were about to sit down.
Wallas stands behind the back of the chair and looks toward the door; this is a good place to wait for the arrival of the hypothetical murderer. It would be even better to turn out the light; the special agent would then have time to see the enemy before being discovered.
From his observation post, Wallas carefully notes the location of the various pieces of furniture. He goes back to the door, presses the light button, and in the dark returns to the same place. He checks his position by resting his free hand on the back of the chair in front of him.
4
If the murderer’s trail has not been picked up, it is because Daniel Dupont has not been murdered; yet it is impossible to reconstruct his suicide in any coherent way…Laurent rubs his hands together faster… And what if Dupont weren’t dead?
The chief commissioner suddenly understands the oddities of this “wound,” the impossibility of letting the police see the “corpse,” Doctor Juard’s embarrassed looks. Dupont is not dead; it just took a little thought to realize that.
The motives of the entire story are not yet quite clear, but the point of departure is here: Daniel Dupont is not dead.
Laurent picks up his telephone and dials a number: 202-203.
“Hello, Cafe des Allies?”
“Yes,” a low, almost cavernous voice replies.
“I’d like to speak to Monsieur Wallas.”
“Monsieur Wallas isn’t here,” the voice answers, disgustedly.
“You don’t know where he is?”
“How should I know?” the voice says, “I’m not his nursemaid.”
“This is the police calling. You have a man staying there named Wallas, don’t you?”
