‘No, no, no. Don’t you understand, Romain, that this is beyond my powers? I’ve failed in a lot of investigations, but I’ve always consoled myself. The last one was close to my heart. Not so much from a desire for revenge, but simply a need to know. The mystery tortured me more than you can imagine. I didn’t understand... You can’t imagine the number of hypotheses which literally haunted me. Just the thought of tackling such a problem again makes my heart miss a beat. I can’t do it. You see me as a wizened monk, dried out and mummified. Alas! I wish it were true. You would shudder if you knew the tears I had shed, the number of sleepless nights, the nightmares. Even now I can only survive by avoiding to think, in the same way you avoid shaking your head when you have a migraine. And you want me to start again... it would be unending torture. And, besides, I no longer have any confidence in myself. Having failed so badly in a case in which I had such a vital interest proves how useless my so-called science is. No, it’s not possible.’
Bernès got up and, passing behind the professor’s armchair, placed a hand on his shoulder, agesture of deep affection. The emotion in his voice when he eventually spoke was, for once, not feigned:
‘I know all that, my old friend, and you know that André was very dear to me as well. The futile tragedy affected me greatly as well. Don’t you believe that I thought long and hard about all that before asking you to come? Don’t you think I know you well enough to be able to predict your justifiable reaction? I’m a bit ashamed, Fernand, because I’m about to use, in their true sense, words that I only too often... prostitute. But there are times when one has to strip away the superficial varnish and scepticism and get to the heart of the matter. There’s a single word which expresses my entire point of view: duty. It’s impossible for you not to see that we have to do everything possible to stop this criminal before he multiplies his victims. And also, permit me to say that it would be beneficial for you as well. You’re wallowing in your failure, the most painful of all. But did you never stop to ask yourself whether you failed precisely because you had such a personal interest? It was inevitable. You know that the most reputable of surgeons would never operate on someone dear to him, because his hand would shake. You yourself, if you were asked to treat a close relative, wouldn’t you recuse yourself? It was the same here. So, reject the idea of intellectual decline and, in a case where you can be objective, recover your strength and prove to yourself that you have nothing to be ashamed about.’
The silence was so long that Bernès, whose bouts of sincerity never lasted long, almost ruined everything by speaking too soon. But Richard finally decided:
‘You’re right. At heart, I’m nothing but an old egoist who retires into his shell for fear of suffering. You can count on me.’
‘Thank you! You will have full authority. My fate is tied to yours.’
There was a brief moment of stupid emotion.
The evening papers trumpeted the headline:
PROFESSOR RICHARD TAKES CHARGE
But, underneath, in letters no less large:
A FIFTH VICTIM IN ORLEANS
V
ORLEANS -- FIGARO
Thursday--Friday, November 18--19
Now, on that Thursday, November 18th, Louis Rédéran, professional name Aloys, was doing a client’s hair. It was late, almost eight o’clock, but he didn’t care. Gently leaning over her, threading a few locks of her hair through long fingers, he murmured a couple of remarks that made her smile. The sound of a gong announced that someone had entered the small waiting room. The hairdresser opened the door to welcome the presumed female visitor, and let out an expression of surprise.
The seated customer, her curiosity piqued, turned around. She saw a man, whom she described later as being in his thirties, clean-shaven, and wearing an overcoat which, in the dim light, appeared to be brown. The two men shook hands and the visitor spoke a few words in a low voice.
‘I say,’ said Rédéran, ‘I still need half-an-hour with madame. Would you care to wait for me in my studio?’
He showed the stranger the way and returned to finish his work.
The next morning, at around half-past-six, the charlady came to clean. At around half-past-eight, having finished and not having seen Aloys, who was an early riser, come down, she went up to the studio... and came running back down, pale and trembling.
It was not long before the sanctuary was invaded by the band we know only too well, in the company of Professor Richard. Only Jacques was missing.
You can guess the rest: Aloys killed by a bullet to the heart; the bullet was compared to the previous four; the investigation turned out to be just as useless as the others. Only one point worthy of note: the man in grey had changed his overcoat, but not his method.
As they returned to the station, the journalists were thoroughly disheartened. Their articles remained desperately devoid of facts. It was all very well, once upon a time, to replace facts by descriptions and digressions about the captivating figure of the aesthetic hairdresser, but the public was beginning to tire of the hors-d’oeuvres and wanted a more substantial main course.
As, talking loudly and gesticulating with open arms, the grouparrived at the station, who should be there but Jacques.
‘Let me explain right away,’ he said, feigning fear, ‘otherwise you’ll subject me to another
