‘Here are the facts: on Monday at around four o’clock, there are three women waiting. A man comes in, described thus: in his early thirties and of slightly more than average height, clean-shaven, wearing a grey overcoat with a trilby of the same colour—which he did not remove, incidentally.’
‘Our man exactly.’
‘Yes, but since it was much brighter than in your street, there are more precise details. Unfortunately, they are also as mundane as possible. Our murderer is square-shouldered, of athletic build, with a face more round than oval, an ordinary nose, an average mouth, an unremarkable chin, and eyes of an indeterminate colour. Try and find our man with that. Millions answer to that description.’
‘And the murder itself?’
‘I’m getting there. So, the man enters. Mithon returns hastily from one of the shelves. He sees the stranger. Stranger to us, but not to him, because he exclaims: “You, for goodness sake!” A normal tone of voice with no sign of concern. Rather the opposite, more like surprise, vaguely tinged with the kind of pleasure felt by a man with a boring life faced with someone unexpected. The two men shake hands and the women leave, one by one. The last one to go sees Mithon raise the counter and approach his visitor.
‘Half-an-hour later, a man runs into the police station. Pale and stammering, he explains that he has found Mithon lying in his own blood in the middle of the room reserved for the public. Everyone moves fast and the Parquet is alerted; I happened to be in the neighbourhood, so I am assigned the case. Lucky me! Our observations are the same as yours. Adrien was killed by a bullet to the heart. Therewas no sign of astruggle. Apparently the two men were having a thoughtful discussion. Death was instantaneous. The body was not searched and nothing was disturbed on the shelves or in the drawers of the office. Nobody heard the shots. That’s not surprising. The room is separate from the rest of the building and preparations were being made for a reception that evening. Just like you, we find ourselves facing a brick wall. There is no plausible motive. As for Mithon’s life, a lot of people have known him a long time. He has no fortune, no history with women, no politics. As for the man in grey, pfft! He seems to have vanished after the crime. No clues in the victim’s office or elsewhere. Voila!’
All present remained silent for a moment, weighing the consequences of the similarities. The examining magistrate summarised the general feeling:
‘The similarity between the two crimes is incontestable. It’s inconceivable that it’s due to coincidence. In my opinion, that should help us. It means, effectively, that there is surely a unique reason for the two crimes. It’s up to us to discover where the lives of Eberhardt and Mithon intersect. That’s where we’ll find our killer. And the proof of that common origin is at hand.’
The two experts understood the allusion and set about conducting the necessary operations. Each took one of the projectiles and examined it with instruments as barbaric as their names. Then they exchanged the two bullets, not without result. Meanwhile the others watched in silence, as if expecting a miracle.
At the end the two consultants looked at each other. M. Remy, the expert from Nancy, voiced their conclusion in a quiet voice:
‘There’s no possible doubt. The two bullets were fired from the same pistol.’
II
RENNES – A STUPID GROUP
Friday, November 12
On Friday, November 12th , at eight o’clock in the morning, Jacques Vital, a reporter for Lutèce, a widely-read daily newspaper, had the disagreeable surprise of being awakened by telephone. His editor required his immediate presence.
The journalist was thirty-one years old. Of a very good family, athletic, with several records to his credit, he had become a journalist from choice.
He had returned that very night from an investigation into deep-sea fishing rackets. Needless to say, it had ended in Saint-Malo. His train had arrived in Montparnasse around midnight.
After assuring him that his report in the investigation was ready to be published, the editor told him to pack his bags again.
‘Where to, this time? Sterne has left for Nancy and Jurec is already in Dijon.’
‘Rennes. A third crime was discovered yesterday evening.’
‘A third....?’
‘You can see already that this is out of the ordinary.’
At a quarter-to-twelve, Vital found himself again on the same station platform he had stood on with such pleasure less than twelve hours earlier. His expression, already sullen, darkened even further when he noticed a group chatting in front of a first-class carriage. It consisted of his fellow correspondents, with whom he had followed numerous police cases.
Wearing a dark red fur trimmed coat and a felt bibi hat of the same colour, a young woman in her mid-twenties with laughing eyes was coming towards him. She shook the hands extended towards her at every possible opportunity.
Maryse Pascal had been associated with Panorama, an off-beat daily journal, neither opinion sheet nor newspaper,for three years.
She was a court reporter with a high reputation. Her instinct and her tenacity were legendary.
To her colleagues, she was a permanent joy to the eyes and the spirit. There was not one who was not more or less in love with her. For her part, she knew how to keep them on friendly terms. Cheerful and easy on the eye: slender, not very tall, but appearing to be, always dressed with an elegant simplicity, she had remarkable features—not beautiful, not even pretty, but better than that. Under dark brown, slightly frizzy, hair was a face with fine features and translucent skin beneath discreet make-up: a small, straight nose, a mouth slightly too wide with marvellous teeth and full, very red lips and, beneath that, a chin with adorable dimples. Astonishing deep blue, slightly myopic
