The niece of Professor Richard, the noted biologist and criminologist, she had been too proud to take advantage of her uncle’s renown, and so went under a pseudonym.
Vital, standing slightly apart, was the last to shake her hand. He did it listlessly. Nonetheless, on seeing her, his somewhat round, clean-shaven face lit up. Theirs was an old friendship.
It wasn’t until after Chartres and the return from the dining car that the discussion amongst the group turned to the case. Each gave a point of view that wasn’t his own, for it was not agood idea to show one’s hand too soon in front of such attentive competition.
‘And what do you think, Vital?’ asked “little” Saint-Bois from l’Echo.
‘It’s still a bit too soon, but it’s been well established that there’s only one author of the three crimes, so I don’t think the solution will be too difficult. Faced with a single corpse, one hesitates amongst a number of trails, but here it would be odd if one discovered more than one common to all three cases. The range of hypotheses is likely to be very restricted.’
‘I can see you’re an optimist.’
‘For what that costs him,’ interrupted Maryse teasingly. ‘What’s he going to do? Write beautiful articles, describe the town, the site of the crime, and wrap it with atmosphere. Meanwhile, we others will use our eyes to look for missing clues, forego our lunch in order to tail a presumed accomplice who, at the end of the day, will turn out to be an abused creditor and get chilblains for being on the lookout, just like a common cat burglar.’
‘In other words, according to you, I’m the profiteer growing fat from the sweat of my fellow journalists.’
‘You’re a great journalist, one of that rare breed who does honour to our much-maligned profession.’
‘Such flattery! I’m suspicious.’
‘Except you’re not the kind who actually tracks down clues. You’re above all that. You wouldn’t stoop to examine crooked little schemes or petty trickery, and you would never dream of picking up a discarded cigarette stub....’
‘Thank you! I only smoke Lucky Strike.’
‘... in order to follow a trail.’
‘According to you, I would never discover something on my own.’
‘A clue? A trail? An interesting fact? No!’
‘That’s categoric and not very flattering. Are you sure?’
‘Sure enough to make you a bet.’
‘Done. What’s the stake?’
‘Very well! I bet that your contribution will be nothing. Nil, zero. If I win, you will give me your Montaigne, the 1595 edition, which I’ve coveted for such a long time.’
‘And if by some miracle, through a sudden, inexplicable, flash of lucidity....’
‘There’s not much fear of that. To the point that—and I’m going to push my generosity to absurd limits—if you discover the murderer, or at least if he’s arrested thanks to you, then—pay attention, class, you are all witnesses—I will agree to marry you.’
This unexpected conclusion was greeted with a deafening silence. Those present, with Jacques the foremost, displayed such stunned expressions that Maryse was forced to break into laughter to hide her embarrassment. Vital recovered very quickly and, with a mocking smile, retorted:
‘What conceit! After all, you don’t know whether I consider that as a blessing or a punishment.’
‘It’s up to you to act accordingly. But I’m not worried. The chances of you marrying me are about the same as my becoming the queen of the Eskimos. It’s best not to talk about it.’
‘You’re already regretting what you said. But I’m holding you to it. It’s a deal, Maryse. But beware. I’ve decided to do everything to win. And not just to avoid losing my precious Montaigne, but to win, to win “you”. Whatever that brings is a different story. Ah! I can’t bend down to pick up a cigarette stub, I’m above such trivialities! We’ll see about that. I’m capable of crawling, sliding down drainpipes, climbing up lightning conductors, jumping from a plane onto a train and vice versa. Just like a detective in an American film.’
Everyone burst out laughing, but the interested parties gazed at each other with some affection.
The next day Lutèce published a brilliant article under the byline of Jacques Vital. Only the facts interest us:
“Fifty years ago, in Rue de Dinan, was born the man least suitable to be a victim of a mysterious crime. For several generations, the Le Bigots have been carpenters from father to son. Arsène’s only eccentricities were to remain a bachelor and, outside his work, to indulge in wood sculpture. He took care of his own housework and cooking.
“Yesterday afternoon, Thursday, November 11, at around two clock, Arsène Le Bigot, having taken his coffee with a dash of Calvados because it was a public holiday, and chatted with a few regulars and the landlord, returns home. He walks with his usual small steps and rolling gait in the drizzle, which has fallen relentlessly since the day before. He reaches his street and then his house. There is a stranger waiting on the doorstep. You’ve guessed it. It’s the mysterious killer. The next-door neighbour, Mme. Le Brezec, who takes pride in wearing the traditional Breton coif, and who had given the man directions, gives us the simultaneously precise and vague description that you know. Having seen him waiting, and having invited him to take shelter at her home, which he refuses, she goes inside and watches the encounter from her window. The two men shake hands and go into Le Bigot’s house. Five minutes later, the stranger leaves. It’s not until nearly seven o’clock that the murder is discovered. A boy seeking an order, having knocked in vain, lifts the latch. The door opens
