The reconstruction of the crime was easy. A motorist whose vehicle had apparently broken down must have flagged Mellot. The chubby fellow, always ready to help, must have stopped. Getting out of his vehicle, he approached the other to lend a hand. Hardly had he reached the verge than the stranger killed him with a shot to the heart. As usual, no trace of a struggle. They searched the body, but no money had been taken.
Forty-three years old, bachelor, fun-loving, tireless worker, demanding boss, Mellot handled his business affairs well. Eager for profits, he complained constantly that he didn’t make enough. He had no close relatives and, as often happens, the value of his estate was he himself.
The identification of the projectile later confirmed what everybody immediately knew: we were indeed in the presence of the twelfth victim of the man in grey.
‘Either I’m mad,’ exclaimed Vital suddenly in a hoarse voice, ‘or that’s Maryse’s car.’
A sleek grey cabriolet with red trimmings came towards them with the full speed of its three horsepower. It screeched to a halt in front and the young woman poked her pretty pink face through the driver’s window.
‘Uncle!’ she cried in a rush. ‘I’ve found the Russian, the giant, the accomplice!’
‘Alive?’
‘Alive. But he doesn’t want to talk.’
We milled around the car. We had to have the details. She didn’t need to be asked.
‘Here you are: on Friday, when M. Slowman, (a little nod with a smile) showed us the murderer’s trick, I felt horribly vexed. For those infantile journalists (grimaces at l’Herisse and Saint-Bois) not to have understood is quite normal. And for even a superintendent of police (a wink at Jannin) to have missed it is also perfectly normal. But it stung me, Maryse the unique (said with a deliciously comic emphasis), to have flunked it like the worst of dunces. That really ticked me off. And when I couldn’t sleep that night from turning the problem over in my little brain, I decided I had to redeem m yself. For my revenge to be complete, it had to be me, and only me, who put the hand on the Russian giant.’
She had been so voluble that she needed to regain her breath. We were all too wrapped up in her account for anyone to interrupt. She continued:
‘There was only one hope, that the Russian had not been killed and had returned to his domicile under his own steam. That had to be what happened. So, since yesterday morning, I’ve been on his trail. Two modes of transport could be eliminated. At the time of the crime, the trains and trams weren’t running. My man could only have slept in town or left on foot or by bicycle, at a pinch. I did the rounds of the hotels. Nothing. I decided to check out the route he might have taken. I was on about my hundredth interview when my heart nearly stopped: a good lady I questioned affirmed having seen a man of such a size on Friday morning at around nine o’clock. He was headed towards Rosny. She had only seen him from afar, but his height had impressed her. At last I had a trail. I followed it as far as Neuilly-Plaisance.
‘A postman had seen him from close up. He described him: very tall (that I knew), very wide (as we assumed), wearing (amongst other things ) a beige raincoat, and bareheaded. What had most struck the postman was his pale, haggard face and dishevelled hair. He looked like a man at the end of his tether. The man, obviously avoiding main roads, had taken a minor one going through some woods to connect with Route Nationale No. 3. I took it as fast as I could, but when I arrived at the Nationale, I drew a blank. Nobody had seen my prey. I questioned as many as I could. Nothing.
‘I retraced my footsteps through the woods, hoping to find a clue. Off to the side, in a field, was a simple toolshed. I noticed that the door had been forced: someone had slept there. In a corner was an empty litre bottle and acrust of bread. I was perplexed by the Russian’s behaviour. Was he a vagrant, met by chance and co-opted for the occasion? In any case, yesterday, I was stuck. I sleep on it. At the crack of dawn I’m up, questioning passers-by again. At the Noisy-le-Sec railway station, they’ve seen the giant at eight o’clock, on a path leading to the fort of Noisy, which I also take. At the top it looks like a slum. There are a lot of cabins, but most are abandoned in the winter. I ask at all the occupied ones. One good woman tells me she gave him some bread and butter, another gave him a shirt from her husband, also a big man. And a frightened urchin points a finger at the shack which he had seen “the ogre” enter less than an hour before.’
She paused dramatically and I realised I had been holding my breath. I wasn’t the only one.
‘I approach cautiously. Through a crack, I can see a man of his description lying on the ground, asleep. There’s no possibility I can overcome him on my own. Whatshould I do? Going all the way back down to contact the police would be risky. He might escape whilst I’m away. I have an idea (at least the third one in twenty-four hours). The fort is less than two hundred metres away. I run there and, at the postern door, I collide with the commandant. I hug him... well, almost. “Commandant, here’s my press
