‘The bullet.’
‘The... Obviously, because without it, the Russian wouldn’t be dead.’
‘Irony and sarcasm have no place in my demonstration. They come, not from reason, but from sentiment, and so tilt the balance. Permit me to continue my naïve reasoning. Because, when all’s said and done, it’s my naïveté that’s my saving grace. If I were as... brilliant as you, I wouldn’t dwell on such trifles and... my reasoning would be cock-eyed. So, I ask: how did the bullet get in there?’
‘Good grief! That’s the whole question.’
‘So you say. But you never asked it. Forgive me for pressing the point. I take it as given that it couldn’t have entered the bunker whilst the door was being closed, nor whilst it was being opened. As for the period in between, it’s been demonstrated beyond doubt that the bullet could not have entered by any known means (and we know quite a few tricks).’
‘You’re repeating—.’
‘Excuse me! The situation is not the same. Let’s go back to our initial reasoning, replacing the murderer by the projectile: the bullet was in the bunker in the morning, it could not have entered during the night, therefore it was already inside before the door was closed. An unassailable syllogism.’
‘The murderer too.’
‘Excuse me! We don’t know yet that there was a murderer. Whereas we’ve seen the bullet. In the morning, at least. As for the evening, who’s to say that we didn’t overlook it. It’s not very big, a calibre 7mm. 65 cartridge. I know what you’re going to say: a bullet doesn’t jump into a man’s chest all by itself. It has to be projected with a minimum force, and there has to be a mechanism to project it. And this mechanism, which could not have left the bunker, wasn’t there in the morning. I repeat, I have no more information than you in this matter. So? So, the same logic applies: the bullet could not have penetrated Gregor’s chest, yet it was found there in the morning. So it was already there when we closed the bunker door on him.
‘Let’s go back to the Villemomble crime, at the moment that the murderer and his accomplice found themselves on the road. What’s going to happen? Is it conceivable that the man in grey would simply let the Russian return home peacefully? It’s not credible. A man who has massacred twelve people simply because fate might reveal his secret isn’t going let a casual, and now useless, accomplice live, particularly since he has little chance of passing unnoticed. So it’s reasonable to suppose that, once they reached a point far enough away from the crime, he would execute him in cold blood. Don’t forget, by the way, that that was the conclusion the professor and I arrived at straight away. So, following his usual practice, the man in grey kills him with a bullet to the heart. But, for once, he slips up. Did he misfire? Or did the abnormal constitution of the colossus cause him to make an error? In any case, the bullet, without touching the heart, lodged right next to it without damaging any of the essential organs.’
‘But...,’ began Bernès.
‘Of course, for now, these are all assumptions. Gregor falls down in a faint and the killer leaves, believing he’s got rid of him. Now I’m going to ask any of you who’ve seen the Russian. What impression did he leave on you? My friend Charles here summarised it in one word, one name: Rasputin. Physically, Gregor was of a similar type to the holy man. A veritable giant, but with a spiritual side. A primitive, with all the contradictions that word implies. Now, remember how difficult Rasputin was to kill. It’s the same for Gregor. Seriously wounded, he nevertheless gets up and finds the strength to keep walking. But he’s afraid. If the bandit knows he’s still alive, he’ll come back to kill him. So he only has one idea in his head: flee and hide. That explains his strange conduct during the next two days. He has to hide from everyone and find secluded spots to sleep. On the second day, sensing his clothes to be wet, and seeing them stained with blood, he replaces them with others which he steals. His wound hasn’t healed, but a clot has formed which stops the bleeding. Nobody suspects he is wounded. His state of shock, his pallor, his distraction, are all attributed his fright, his terror of the bandit. And, when he enters the bunker, it’s with a bullet in his chest that has not killed him and will not kill him.’
‘It’s pure fiction!’ exclaimed Bernès. ‘Richard here is a witness to the bullet—.’
‘Look here, Romain, don’t forget that the ways of Slowman are, like those of Providence, impenetrable. As he says, we don’t know where he’s going. Trust him.’
‘What happened during the night?’ continued my friend imperturbably. ‘We don’t know but, since we’re already at it, why not continue to imagine? It would be too absurd to think that, luckily for the bandit, fever occurred and complications set in, which resulted in death. Materially, it’s hardly possible. A man who had lasted two days would not succumb suddenly. So, did he have to be killed? And, if so, how? The problem remains the same. The means of death could not have got inside during the night. So therefore it must already be inside. And, proceeding by elimination, only poisoning meets the necessary and sufficient conditions.’
‘Poison. This is getting more and more absurd. The Russian didn’t eat or drink anything the whole day. Not even a glass of water.’
‘Excuse me,’ interjected Richard, ‘he absorbed a sedative which I prepared and gave to him myself.’
‘Oh, there’s no need to be so affirmative. There were a lot of people around Gregor and I couldn’t swear that one of them didn’t slip him
