‘This hasn’t left my pillow all night,’ he announces.
We don’t doubt it and watch him, with some amusement, insert the key in the lock, and turn it, all whilst hiding the mechanism itself from our eyes. Everything is recorded by the cameras.
Then the officer steps aside and it’s Jannin’s turn to advance. He needs to rouse Gregor, in order for the latter to draw back the interior bolts. With his left fist, the superintendent bangs vigorously on the metal,which reverberates dully. Inside the bunker, the blows must resonate with such an intensity that Sleeping Beauty herself would be awakened, even without Prince Charming.
There is a short wait, with all ears open. Nothing happens. Jannin tries the door, which is clearly locked from the inside. He strikes the door again, waits, and gives it a veritable pummelling. The same negative result.
Some of the watchers are becoming nervous. Jannin asks:
‘Tell me, professor, after the potion you gave him, should he still be sleeping?’
‘Certainly not. It was basically a bromide with a dash of veronal. Its effect wore off seven or eight hours ago. In any case, a deafening racket like that would definitely have awakened him. Try again, would you?’
Jannin starts again. After a moment, he drops down flat on his stomach and shouts through one of the small grilled openings: ‘Gregor! Gregor, open the door.’ Then he listens through the same opening.
When he gets up, there’s an anxious look on his face. What’s happening behind that door? There’s only one way to open it: use a blowtorch to cut through the doorframe at the spots where the bolts are located. The commandant hesitates, talks about waiting to obtain his general’s position, but the professor, citing the authorisation of the Président du Conseil, makes the decision and the commandant, happy to be relieved of the responsibility, accepts.
‘Just a moment,’ says Jannin, having exchanged glances with Bob, ‘at the point we’re at now, would a delay of half-an-hour affect anything?’
‘I doubt it. I fear the worst.’
‘So do I. If you agree, I’ll call one of the specialist workers from the fort here, and also the security service. That way we can control everything.’
‘An excellent idea,’ agreed the professor.
‘And you, messieurs,’ continued the superintendent, addressing the cameramen, ‘can you quickly get hold of a spotlight? That way, we can illuminate the inside of the bunker, once we’ve opened the door. You can then film everything.’
At half-past-ten, everything was ready. Jannin, who had taken charge of operations, had made everyone back away to twenty metres from the bunker. The security service had then examined the door and the immediate area around it, tested for fingerprints, and taken photographs.
The specialist worker arrived next with his blowtorch. He started to cut. Sparks flew whilst the metal became blindingly white and melted. All the time, the cameras were turning. The spotlight was trained on the door, but not yet turned on.
At last, with one final explosion, the blowtorch went out. The specialist took off his goggles, wiped his brow and said. ‘Finished.’
Jannin made him step back. The electric generator rumbled and the spotlight came on. The security service photographers knelt down on the front row, whilst the non-officials jostled for the best view.
It was a solemn moment. The superintendent, alone in the semicircle, stepped to the door and, as quickly as its weight would allow, pulled it towards him as he stepped back. By so doing, he avoided blocking the view. The door swung completelyopen, revealing the entire bunker brilliantly illuminated.
And we saw....
I have seen too many photographs since then not to be sure of what my eyes saw. But had it not been for the confirmation by incorruptible witnesses, impervious to deception, I would still hesitate to believe my own testimony.
As I have said, the bunker was like a very short corridor, absolutely rectilinear. There were no recesses, no spurs of masonry that could obstruct the view. The brilliant light prevented any shadow. Everything was visible in a single glance. The bed, the only article of furniture in the room, had been pushed against the rear wall.
And, in the space in front of the bed, lay Gregor Kalouguine, face down with his arms extended in a cross. I noticed that his span exceeded the width of the room, so that his hands were folded up against the walls. The head was towards us, his long hair masking it entirely. He was just wearing a shirt and trousers.
THERE WAS NOTHING ELSE IN THE BUNKER.
After the initial shock passed, there was an attempted rush forward, which Jannin prevented.
Whilst the cameramen continued to film, the security service employees carefully went about their work. Avoiding touching the body itself, they left no corner of the room unexamined. At the end, as they made their report, their expressions confirmed that their search had turned up nothing .
The professor and the examining magistrate, accompanied by Bob and Jannin, approached the body of the Russian. Richard knelt down and examined it in silence. Bob, on the opposite side, had taken hold of one arm.
‘From what I’ve learnt from your lessons, Professeur, it would seem that this man has been dead for ten to twelve hours.’
‘Approximately, yes. To be safe, let’s say between eight and fourteen hours ago.’
‘It’s now midday,’ said M. Delharbe, ‘so he died between eight o’clock and four in the morning.’
‘Those are the outer limits. Let’s say between midnight and two o’clock.’
‘In other words,’ observed Jannin, ‘at least four-and-a-half hours after the door was closed, and seven hours before it was re-opened.’
‘What was the cause of death?’
‘I don’t know yet. There are no marks on the back, and the skull is intact. We can turn him over.’
It was very hard
