Jannin, with the help of several inspectors, pursued his investigation methodically, under the watchful eye of the judicial contingent. He examined everything, down to the smallest trinket. Starting from the cellar, he eventually reached the attic, after which he made his report to the professor and the magistrate.
‘It’s utterly inexplicable. I’m beginning to believe that the murderer cannot only render himself invisible, but he can pass through walls. There are only three doors in the building that communicate with the outside: the ground floor door and two others in the basement, the service entrance and the garage. The first two were locked with a key and had brand new bolts. The garage entrance had double doors, barred from the inside. From the dust on the bar, it obviously hadn’t been touched for six months or more. One can safely say that no one came in or left by any of the three doors.’
‘Fine,’ said the professor. ‘What about the windows?’
‘In the basement, they are very narrow and have bars embedded in the concrete. Even a baby couldn’t get through. On the ground floor, there are six windows. They were all shut, as were the steel shutters protecting them. To open them would require a metal saw. On the upper floor, six windows as well. Five of the six were also protected by steel shutters. The sixth... we’ll get back to that.’
‘And the roof?’
‘There’s only one chimney, for the central heating. The pipe leading to the boiler is also well sealed. There’s no skylight. The space under the roof gets its light from four glass tiles. They are intact, and the trapdoor to the attic has not been touched in years.’
‘So let’s talk about the twelfth window.’
‘There’s a glimmer of hope there. It’s a sash window, with no shutter.’
‘Well, there we are, then.’
‘No. First of all, it closes via an automatic system which can’t be reached from the outside. As soon as the frame comes down, the window is shut. Furthermore, as you know, windows of this type use a counterweight, and the one here is particularly heavy. Not only that, but the cable broke six months ago. Since the death of Mme. Chauvin, who used the room as her boudoir, nobody has seen fit to repair it, so the window hasn’t been opened since then.’
‘What does the window open onto?’
‘A flat stone slab about two metres square, with no balustrade. So nobody went out there. And no one could get up there, because it’s four metres above ground. There’s no sign of anyone having tried to climb up. Apart from a strip of cement fifty centimetres wide, the house is surrounded by large flower-boxes, empty now, but with wet earth inside. Anyone using a ladder would inevitably leave marks. Even supposing they didn’t, the window was shut yesterday (the housemaid who cleaned the boudoir confirms it), there’s no man alive with the strength to raise the frame, particularly from the outside, where there’s nothing to hold.’
‘So, what are your conclusions?’
‘The murderer may have found a way to get in, but if he did, he couldn’t have got out. When we arrived, I immediately took every precaution, and I can assure you that there was nobody there and no one could have got out of the house after we arrived. I’m equally sure that nobody was hidden anywhere. The problem remains unsolved, and I give up.’
Richard stood up and started to pace up and down. Eventually he stopped in front of a table and, punctuating each word with his fist, he declared:
‘I want, do you hear, I want to discover the truth. As long as I don’t know who the man in grey is, I shall not sleep. Between him and me, it’s a duel to the death... the death.’
Then, in a calmer voice, he asked that the housekeeper be brought in.
Unfortunately, she didn’t know very much. She had been fifteen years in Chauvin’s service, but since the death of the salesman’s wife, she had moved to small lodgings and only came in the afternoons. Despite the size of the villa, the work was not very onerous (think about it, a single man who is never there). She returned each evening at seven o’clock to prepare a light meal for him, by which time he had usually returned.
The previous evening, he had returned earlier than usual, in the car of a friend he had run into. He had asked her to come in that morning at eleven o’clock and, under the pretext of having mislaid his keys, asked her to leave hers. Needless to say, Chauvin’s set had been found in the house, and his request had merely been a precaution, and a futile one, as it turned out.
He had seemed preoccupied and had busied himself checking that all the shutters were closed. And, as she left, he had accompanied her to the gate to shut it behind her. He had then hastily gone inside, and she had heard him lock the door of the villa.
According to her, there had been no bolts on the doors the previous evening but, since Chauvin had carried a package with him when he returned, it was probable that he had installed them himself.
‘Well, uncle. It seems you’ve been keeping some secrets. I had to drop in by chance to find out there’s an eleventh body.’
Standing at the door of the office, her cheeks pink from the cold, Maryse wagged an admonishing finger. Richard offered a pale smile. Behind her he could see the shiny long hair of Hyacinthe and the tall figure of “little” Saint-Bois.
‘I say,’ interjected Jannin, ‘have you journalists eaten?’
‘Of course. It’s three o’clock.’
‘We haven’t. Would you be dears and get us some sandwiches? When you return, we can fill you in
