‘I had reached an impasse. The words “Sade” and “Dalton” were easily interpreted, but what about “Curie”? I couldn’t help thinking of the strange sickness that had taken Argier’s life. The secret, then, concerned radium, or something like it.
‘I needed to change direction again. The question I asked myself (because in a criminal investigation, just as in scientific research, one only makes progress by asking oneself questions) was the following: why did the bandit, knowing since the end of May the secret of the frescos, find it necessary, in November, to eliminate those who knew only a part of what he knew? Why? And why so late?
‘Why? Let’s take stock of the situation. The bandit had done everything to divide the secret so no one but he could make use of it. Benefitting from the fact that the text was spread out over the walls of twelve rooms, he had arranged for the contents of each room to be “translated” by a different individual, making sure they came from places as far apart as possible. If he had been planning to kill them all along, why bother with all that complication? There would only be one single daltonian needed for the entire message, who could be executed afterwards. So, back in May, there shouldn’t have been a plan to kill anyone else. There was no risk and no need for a lot of blood to be spilt.
‘Six months later, in November, he changed his mind. Now, we’re dealing with a man who doesn’t do anything lightly, so it must be that a new danger had appeared. From whence did it come? From the twelve daltonians? Surely not. If they posed no problem in May, they would be even less likely to do so in November, when their memories would have faded.
‘That forced me to think of a double of the frescos. Was it possible that Argier had painted another series in another building? Hardly likely. I could only see one solution: photography.’
Another pause. But this time, very skilful. He had to allow us time to digest the importance of his discovery.
‘Yes. Photography. Suppose someone took colour snapshots of the frescos. If they fell into the hands of one of the twelve daltonians, he couldn’t fail to recognise them. On the other hand, a normal person would see nothing. And an uninformed daltonian? We have to suppose that the writing is big enough to be easily readable. Which explains the need for such a great length of painting—I calculated it was one hundred and sixty-seven metres long. But you can’t do that all in one photo.It’s obvious that reduced to a single snapshot, no matter how big, nothing would be distinguishable to the naked eye. But, with a significant enlargement, everything would appear. Nobody would think to do it unless they knew ahead of time what they would find.
‘But how could such snapshots be equally accessible to people so different and in such relatively remote places? It had to be that the copies were published—or were about to be. Where? Book? Magazine? Magazine, almost certainly, and one in particular: L’Image.
‘I learnt that a series of forty-eight pictures were, in fact, due to be inserted in the Noël issue, accompanied by an article about the pure painting. An accident to the unique machine which prints such works of art prevented publication of the aforementioned article. Attempts were made to replace it. The issue, let me remind you, normally appears at the beginning of December. This year, it came out on the twelfth. Up to the last minute, there were hopes that the machine could be fixed. I also knew something else: at the end of October, there was an attempt at burglary. Nothing was stolen. The snapshots were in a safe. They were obviously the reason for the break-in which, unfortunately, failed. I say unfortunately, because if it had succeeded, there would be thirteen bodies less.
‘I want to make two points: the article in question, if it mentioned the name of the painter, didn’t talk about the building; since the papers were reclassified, nobody thinks about them. Furthermore, the author, whom you all know, has been in the Far East for the last two months. Which explains why the meagre and tardy revelations appearing in the press didn’t ring a bell with anyone. You’ll understand in a minute why I stress that point.
‘My research took several days. Unfortunately, the fellow responsible for the snapshots was away on a trip, and I didn’t get hold of the forty-eight images until yesterday morning. I have to say they are perfect. I was able to get hold of one of my friends, in whom I have the utmost confidence, and who also happens to be daltonian. He and I spent the whole day yesterday deciphering the document. It was not easy, but at midnight, I finally had the complete result. Here it is!’
And, showman that he was, the professor brought a roll of paper out of his jacket pocket and started to unwind it. At that moment, excusing himself for a short absence, Bob stood up and left the room. During the minute the absence lasted, M. Delharbe asked a question:
‘You say that your son only communicated Bernard Argier’s dying message to one of his best friends. Who was it?’
‘I prefer not to say,’ replied the professor with a smile. ‘You can draw your own conclusions, which I know will be false.’
There was a short silence, during which Bob tip-toed back into the room. So as not to go around the table, he sat on Jannin’s empty chair, just opposite me. Richard had unrolled his paper. He put on his spectacles and
