“That’s where the murderer came from to get into the pavilion.”
As there were other patches of trees of the same sort between the great oaks, I asked why the murderer had chosen that one, rather than any of the others. Rouletabille answered me by pointing to the path which ran quite close to the thicket2 to the door of the pavilion.
“That path is as you see, topped with gravel3,” he said; “the man must have passed along it going to the pavilion, since no traces of his steps have been found on the soft ground. The man didn’t have wings; he walked; but he walked on the gravel which left no impression of his tread. The gravel has, in fact, been trodden by many other feet, since the path is the most direct way between the pavilion and the chateau4. As to the thicket, made of the sort of shrubs5 that don’t flourish in the rough season—laurels and fuchsias—it offered the murderer a sufficient hiding-place until it was time for him to make his way to the pavilion. It was while hiding in that clump of trees that he saw Monsieur and Mademoiselle Stangerson, and then Daddy Jacques, leave the pavilion. Gravel has been spread nearly, very nearly, up to the windows of the pavilion. The footprints of a man, parallel with the wall—marks which we will examine presently, and which I have already seen—prove that he only needed to make one stride to find himself in front of the vestibule window, left open by Daddy Jacques. The man drew himself up by his hands and entered the vestibule.”
“After all it is very possible,” I said.
“After all what? After all what?” cried Rouletabille.
I begged of him not to be angry; but he was too much irritated to listen to me and declared, ironically, that he admired the prudent6 doubt with which certain people approached the most simple problems, risking nothing by saying “that is so, or ‘that is not so.” Their intelligence would have produced about the same result if nature had forgotten to furnish their brain-pan with a little grey matter. As I appeared vexed7, my young friend took me by the arm and admitted that he had not meant that for me; he thought more of me than that.
“If I did not reason as I do in regard to this gravel,” he went on, “I should have to assume a balloon!—My dear fellow, the science of the aerostation of dirigible balloons is not yet developed enough for me to consider it and suppose that a murderer would drop from the clouds! So don’t say a thing is possible, when it could not be otherwise. We know now how the man entered by the window, and we also know the moment at which he entered,—during the five o’clock walk of the professor and his daughter. The fact of the presence of the chambermaid—who had come to clean up The Yellow Room—in the laboratory, when Monsieur Stangerson and his daughter returned from their walk, at half-past one, permits us to affirm that at half-past one the murderer was not in the chamber8 under the bed, unless he was in collusion with the chambermaid. What do you say, Monsieur Darzac?”
Monsieur Darzac shook his head and said he was sure of the chambermaid’s fidelity9, and that she was a thoroughly10 honest and devoted11 servant.
“Besides,” he added, “at five o’clock Monsieur Stangerson went into the room to fetch his daughter’s hat.”
“There is that also,” said Rouletabille.
“That the man entered by the window at the time you say, I admit,” I said; “but why did he shut the window? It was an act which would necessarily draw the attention of those who had left it open.”
“It may be the window was not shut at once,” replied the young reporter. “But if he did shut the window, it was because of the bend in the gravel path, a dozen yards from the pavilion, and on account of the three oaks that are growing at that spot.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Monsieur Darzac, who had followed us and listened with almost breathless attention to all that Rouletabille had said.
“I’ll explain all to you later on, Monsieur, when I think the moment to be ripe for doing so; but I don’t think I have anything of more importance to say on this affair, if my hypothesis is justified12.”
“And what is your hypothesis?”
“You will never know if it does not turn out to be the truth. It is of much too grave a nature to speak of it, so long as it continues to be only a hypothesis.”
“Have you, at least, some idea as to who the murderer is?”
“No, monsieur, I don’t know who the murderer is; but don’t be afraid, Monsieur Robert Darzac—I shall know.”
I could not but observe that Monsieur Darzac was deeply moved; and I suspected that Rouletabille’s confident assertion was not pleasing to him. Why, I asked myself, if he was really afraid that the murderer should be discovered, was he helping13 the reporter to find him? My young friend seemed to have received the same impression, for he said, bluntly:
“Monsieur Darzac, don’t you want me to find out who the murderer was?”
“Oh!—I should like to kill him with my own hand!” cried Mademoiselle Stangerson’s fiance, with a vehemence14 that amazed me.
“I believe you,” said Rouletabille gravely; “but you have not answered my question.”
We were passing by the thicket, of which the young reporter had spoken to us a minute before. I entered it and pointed16 out evident traces of a man who had been hidden there. Rouletabille, once more, was right.
“Yes, yes!” he said. “We have to do with a thing of flesh and blood, who uses the same means that we do. It’ll all come out on those lines.”
Having said this, he asked me for the paper pattern of the footprint which he had given me to take care of, and applied17 it to a very clear footmark behind the thicket. “Aha!” he said, rising.
I thought he was now going to trace back the track of the murderer’s footmarks to the vestibule window; but he led us instead, far to the left, saying that it was useless ferreting in the mud, and that he was sure, now, of the road taken by the murderer.
“He went along the wall to the hedge and dry ditch, over which he jumped. See, just in front of the little path leading to the lake, that was his nearest way to get out.”
“How do you know he went to the lake?”—
“Because Frederic Larsan has not quitted the borders of it since this morning. There must be some important marks there.”
A few minutes later we reached the lake.
It was a little sheet of marshy18 water, surrounded by reeds, on which floated some dead water-lily leaves. The great Fred may have seen us approaching, but we probably interested him very little, for he took hardly any notice of us and continued to be stirring with his cane19 something which we could not see.
“Look!” said Rouletabille, “here again are the footmarks of the escaping man; they skirt the lake here and finally disappear just before this path, which leads to the high road to Epinay. The man continued his flight to Paris.”
“What makes you think that?” I asked, “since these footmarks are not continued on the path?”
“What makes me think that?—Why these footprints, which I expected to find!” he cried, pointing to the sharply outlined imprint20 of a neat boot. “See!”—and he called to Frederic Larsan.
“Monsieur Fred, these neat footprints seem to have been made since the discovery of the crime.”
“Yes, young man, yes, they have been carefully made,” replied Fred without raising his head. “You see, there are steps that come, and steps that go back.”
“And the man had a bicycle!” cried the reporter.
Here, after looking at the marks of the bicycle, which followed, going and coming, the neat footprints, I thought I might intervene.
“The bicycle explains the disappearance21 of the murderer’s big foot-prints,” I said. “The murderer, with his rough boots, mounted a bicycle. His accomplice22, the wearer of the neat boots, had come to wait for him on the edge of the lake with the bicycle. It might be supposed that the murderer was working for the other.”
“No, no!” replied Rouletabille with a strange smile. “I have expected to find these footmarks from the very beginning. These are not the footmarks of the murderer!”
“Then there were two?”
“No—there was but one, and he had no accomplice.”
“Very good!—Very good!” cried Frederic Larsan.
“Look!” continued the young reporter, showing us the ground where it had been disturbed by big and heavy heels; “the man seated himself there, and took off his hobnailed boots, which he had worn only for the purpose of misleading detection, and then no doubt, taking them away with him, he stood up in his own boots, and quietly and slowly regained23 the high road, holding his bicycle in his hand, for he could not venture to ride it on this rough path. That accounts for the lightness of the impression made by the wheels along it, in spite of the softness of the ground. If there had been a man on the bicycle, the wheels would have sunk deeply into the soil. No, no; there was but one man there, the murderer on foot.”
“Bravo!—bravo!” cried Fred again, and coming suddenly towards us and, planting himself in front of Monsieur Robert Darzac, he said to him:
“If we had a bicycle here, we might demonstrate the correctness of the young man’s reasoning, Monsieur Robert Darzac. Do you know whether there is one at the chateau?”
“No!” replied Monsieur Darzac. “There is not. I took mine, four days ago, to Paris, the last time I came to the chateau before the crime.”
“That’s a pity!” replied Fred, very coldly. Then, turning to Rouletabille, he said: “If we go on at this rate, we’ll both come to the same conclusion. Have you any idea, as to how the murderer got away from The Yellow Room?”
“Yes,” said my young friend; “I have an idea.”
“So have I,” said Fred, “and it must be the same as yours. There are no two ways of reasoning in this affair. I am waiting for the arrival of my chief before offering any explanation to the examining magistrate24.”
“Ah! Is the Chief of the Surete coming?”
“Yes, this afternoon. He is going to summon, before the magistrate, in the laboratory, all those who have played any part in this tragedy. It will be very interesting. It is a pity you won’t be able to be present.”
“I shall be present,” said Rouletabille confidently.
“Really—you are an extraordinary fellow—for your age!” replied the detective in a tone not wholly free from irony25. “You’d make a wonderful detective—if you had a little more method—if you didn’t follow your instincts and that bump on your forehead. As I have already several times observed, Monsieur Rouletabille, you reason too much; you do not allow yourself to be guided by what you have seen. What do you say to the handkerchief full of blood, and the red mark of the hand on the wall? You have seen the stain on the wall, but I have only seen the handkerchief.”
“Bah!” cried Rouletabille, “the murderer was wounded in the hand by Mademoiselle Stangerson’s revolver!”
“Ah!—a simply instinctive26 observation! Take care!—You are becoming too strictly27 logical, Monsieur Rouletabille; logic28 will upset you if you use it indiscriminately. You are right, when you say that Mademoiselle Stangerson fired her revolver, but you are wrong when you say that she wounded the murderer in the hand.”
“I am sure of it,” cried Rouletabille.
Fred, imperturbable29, interrupted him:
“Defective observation—defective observation!—the examination of the handkerchief, the numberless little round scarlet30 stains, the impression of drops which I found in the tracks of the footprints, at the moment when they were made on the floor, prove to me that the murderer was not wounded at all. Monsieur Rouletabille, the murderer bled at the nose!”
The great Fred spoke15 quite seriously. However, I could not refrain from uttering an exclamation31.
The reporter looked gravely at Fred, who looked gravely at him. And Fred immediately concluded:
“The man allowed the blood to flow into his hand and handkerchief, and dried his hand on the wall. The fact is highly important,” he added, “because there is no need of his being wounded in the hand for him to be the murderer.”
Rouletabille seemed to be thinking deeply. After a moment he said:
“There is something—a something, Monsieur Frederic Larsan, much graver than the misuse32 of logic the disposition33 of mind in some detectives which makes them, in perfect good faith, twist logic to the necessities of their preconceived ideas. You, already, have your idea about the murderer, Monsieur Fred. Don’t deny it; and your theory demands that the murderer should not have been wounded in the hand, otherwise it comes to nothing. And you have searched, and have found something else. It’s dangerous, very dangerous, Monsieur Fred, to go from a preconceived idea to find the proofs to fit it. That method may lead you far astray Beware of judicial34 error, Monsieur Fred, it will trip you up!”
And laughing a little, in a slightly bantering35 tone, his hands in his pockets, Rouletabille fixed36 his cunning eyes on the great Fred.
Frederic Larsan silently contemplated37 the young reporter who pretended to be as wise as himself. Shrugging his shoulders, he bowed to us and moved quickly away, hitting the stones on his path with his stout38 cane.
Rouletabille watched his retreat, and then turned toward us, his face joyous39 and triumphant40.
“I shall beat him!” he cried. “I shall beat the great Fred, clever as he is; I shall beat them all!”
And he danced a double shuffle41. Suddenly he stopped. My eyes followed his gaze; they were fixed on Monsieur Robert Darzac, who was looking anxiously at the impression left by his feet side by side with the elegant footmarks. There was not a particle of difference between them!
We thought he was about to faint. His eyes, bulging42 with terror, avoided us, while his right hand, with a spasmodic movement, twitched43 at the beard that covered his honest, gentle, and now despairing face. At length regaining44 his self-possession, he bowed to us, and remarking, in a changed voice, that he was obliged to return to the chateau, left us.
“The deuce!” exclaimed Rouletabille.
He, also, appeared to be deeply concerned. From his pocket-book he took a piece of white paper as I had seen him do before, and with his scissors, cut out the shape of the neat bootmarks that were on the ground. Then he fitted the new paper pattern with the one he had previously45 made—the two were exactly alike. Rising, Rouletabille exclaimed again: “The deuce!” Presently he added: “Yet I believe Monsieur Robert Darzac to be an honest man.” He then led me on the road to the Donjon Inn, which we could see on the highway, by the side of a small clump of trees.
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1
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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6
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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8
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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9
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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40
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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41
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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42
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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43
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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44
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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45
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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