The Mystery of the Yellow Room
“You smile,” he said; “you are wrong! I swear I will outwit him—and in
a striking way! But I must make haste about it, for he has an enormous
start of me—given him by Monsieur Robert Darzac, who is this evening
going to increase it still more. Think of it!—every time the murderer
comes to the château, Monsieur Darzac, by a strange fatality, absents
himself and refuses to give any account of how he employs his time.”
“Every time the assassin comes to the château!” I cried. “Has he
returned then—?”
“Yes, during that famous night when the strange phenomenon occurred.”
I was now going to learn about the astonishing phenomenon to which
Rouletabille had made allusion half an hour earlier without giving me
any explanation of it. But I had learned never to press Rouletabille
in his narratives. He spoke when the fancy took him and when he judged
it to be right. He was less concerned about my curiosity than he was
for making a complete summing up for himself of any important matter in
which he was interested.
At last, in short rapid phrases, he acquainted me with things which
plunged me into a state bordering on complete bewilderment. Indeed, the
results of that still unknown science known as hypnotism, for example,
were not more inexplicable than the disappearance of the matter of the
murderer at the moment when four persons were within touch of him. I
speak of hypnotism as I would of electricity, for of the nature of both
we are ignorant and we know little of their laws. I cite these examples
because, at the time, the case appeared to me to be only explicable
by the inexplicable,—that is to say, by an event outside of known
natural laws. And yet, if I had had Rouletabille’s brain, I should,
like him, have had a presentiment of the natural explanation; for the
most curious thing about all the mysteries of the Glandier case was the
natural manner in which he explained them.
I have among the papers that were sent me by the young man, after
the affair was over, a note-book of his, in which a complete account
is given of the phenomenon of the disappearance of the “matter” of
the assassin, and the thoughts to which it gave rise in the mind
of my young friend. It is preferable, I think, to give the reader
this account, rather than continue to reproduce my conversation with
Rouletabille; for I should be afraid, in a history of this nature, to
add a word that was not in accordance with the strictest truth.
Chapter XV
The Trap
(Extract from the Note-Book of Joseph Rouletabille)
“Last night—the night between the 29th and 30th of October—” wrote
Joseph Rouletabille, “I woke up towards one o’clock in the morning.
Was it sleeplessness, or noise without?—The cry of the Bête du Bon
Dieu rang out with sinister loudness from the end of the park. I rose
and opened the window. Cold wind and rain; opaque darkness; silence.
I reclosed my window. Again the sound of the cat’s weird cry in the
distance. I partly dressed in haste. The weather was too bad for even
a cat to be turned out in it. What did it mean, then—that imitating
of the mewing of Mother Angenoux’ cat so near the château? I seized a
good-sized stick, the only weapon I had, and, without making any noise,
opened my door.
“The gallery into which I went was well lit by a lamp with a reflector.
I felt a keen current of air and, on turning, found the window open, at
the extreme end of the gallery, which I call the ‘off-turning’ gallery,
to distinguish it from the ‘right’ gallery, on to which the apartment
of Mademoiselle Stangerson opened. These two galleries cross each other
at right angles. Who had left that window open? Or, who had come to
open it? I went to the window and leaned out. Five feet below me there
was a sort of terrace over the semi-circular projection of a room on
the ground-floor. One could, if one wanted, jump from the window on to
the terrace, and allow oneself to drop from it into the court of the
château. Whoever had entered by this road had, evidently, not had a
key to the vestibule-door. But why should I be thinking of my previous
night’s attempt with the ladder?—Because of the open window—left open,
perhaps, by the negligence of a servant? I reclosed it, smiling at
the ease with which I built a drama on the mere suggestion of an open
window.
“Again the cry of the Bête du Bon Dieu!—and then silence. The rain
ceased to beat on the window. All in the château slept. I walked
with infinite precaution on the carpet of the gallery. On reaching
the corner of the ‘right’ gallery, I peered round it cautiously.
There was another lamp there with a reflector which quite lit up the
several objects in it,—three chairs and some pictures hanging on the
wall. What was I doing there? Perfect silence reigned throughout.
Everything was sunk in repose. What was the instinct that urged me
towards Mademoiselle Stangerson’s chamber? Why did a voice within me
cry: ‘Go on, to the chamber of Mademoiselle Stangerson!’ I cast my
eyes down upon the carpet on which I was treading and saw that my
steps were being directed towards Mademoiselle Stangerson’s chamber
by the marks of steps that had already been made there. Yes, on the
carpet were traces of footsteps stained with mud leading to the chamber
of Mademoiselle Stangerson. Horror! Horror!—I recognised in those
footprints the impression of the neat boots of the murderer! He had
come, then, from without in this wretched night. If you could descend
from the gallery by way of the window, by means of the terrace, then
you could get into the château by the same means.
“The murderer was still in the château, for here were marks as of
returning footsteps. He had entered by the open window at the extremity
of the ‘off-turning’ gallery; he had passed Frédéric Larsan’s door
and mine, had turned to the right, and had entered Mademoiselle
Stangerson’s room. I am before the door of her ante-room—it is open.
I push it, without making the least noise. Under the door of the
room itself I see a streak of light. I listen—no sound—not even of
breathing! Ah!—if I only knew what was passing in the silence that is
behind that door! I find the door locked and the key turned on the
inner side. And the murderer is there, perhaps. He _must_ be there!
Will he escape this time?—All depends on me!—I must be calm, and above
all, I must make no false steps. I must see into that room. I can enter
it by Mademoiselle Stangerson’s drawing-room; but, to do that I should
have to cross her boudoir; and while I am there, the murderer may
escape by the gallery door—the door in front of which I am now standing.
“I am sure that no other crime is being committed, on this night; for
there is complete silence in the boudoir, where two nurses are taking
care of Mademoiselle Stangerson until she is restored to health.
“As I am almost sure that the murderer is there, why do I not at once
give the alarm? The murderer may, perhaps, escape; but, perhaps, I may
be able to save Mademoiselle Stangerson’s life. Suppose the murderer on
this occasion is not here to murder? The door has been opened to allow
him to enter; by whom?—And it has been refastened—by whom?—Mademoiselle
Stangerson shuts herself up in her apartment with her nurses every
night. Who turned the key of that chamber to allow the murderer to
enter?—The nurses,—two faithful domestics? The old chambermaid,
Sylvia? It is very improbable. Besides, they slept in the boudoir, and
Mademoiselle Stangerson, very nervous and careful, Monsieur Robert
Darzac told me, sees to her own safety since she has been well enough
to move about in her room, which I have not yet seen her leave. This
nervousness and sudden care on her part, which had struck Monsieur
Darzac, had given me, also, food for thought. At the time of the
crime in The Yellow Room, there can be no doubt that she expected the
murderer. Was he expected _this_ night?—Was it she herself who had
opened her door to him? Had she some reason for doing so? was she
_obliged_ to do it?—Was it a meeting for purposes of crime?—Certainly
it was not a lover’s meeting, for I believe Mademoiselle Stangerson
adores Monsieur Darzac.
“All these reflections ran through my brain like a flash of lightning.
What would I not give to _know_!
“It is possible that there was some reason for the awful silence. My
intervention might do more harm than good. How could I tell? How could
I know I might not any moment cause another crime? If I could only see
and know, without breaking that silence!
“I left the ante-room and descended the central stairs to the vestibule
and, as silently as possible, made my way to the little room on the
ground-floor where Daddy Jacques had been sleeping since the attack
made at the pavilion.
“I found him dressed, his eyes wide open, almost haggard. He did not
seem surprised to see me. He told me that he had got up because he
had heard the cry of the Bête du bon Dieu, and because he had heard
footsteps in the park, close to his window, out of which he had looked
and, just then, had seen a black shadow pass by. I asked him whether
he had a firearm of any kind. No, he no longer kept one, since the
examining magistrate had taken his revolver from him. We went out
together, by a little back door, into the park, and stole along the
château to the point which is just below Mademoiselle Stangerson’s
window.
“I placed Daddy Jacques against the wall, ordering him not to stir
from the spot, while I, taking advantage of a moment when the moon was
hidden by a cloud, moved to the front of the window, out of the patch
of light which came from it,—for the window was half-open! If I could
only know what was passing in that silent chamber! I returned to Daddy
Jacques and whispered the word ‘ladder’ in his ear. At first I had
thought of the tree which, a week ago, served me for an observatory;
but I immediately saw that, from the way the window was half-opened,
I should not be able to see from that point of view anything that was
passing in the room; and I wanted, not only to see, but to hear, and—to
act.
“Greatly agitated, almost trembling, Daddy Jacques disappeared for a
moment and returned without the ladder, but making signs to me with his
arms, as signals to me to come quickly to him. When I got near him he
gasped: ‘Come!’
“He led me round the château, past the donjon. Arrived there, he said:
“‘I went to the donjon in search of my ladder, and in the lower part of
the donjon which serves me and the gardener for a lumber room, I found
the door open and the ladder gone. On coming out, that’s what I caught
sight of by the light of the moon.’
“And he pointed to the further end of the château, where a ladder
stood resting against the stone brackets supporting the terrace, under
the window which I had found open. The projection of the terrace had
prevented my seeing it. Thanks to that ladder, it was quite easy to get
into the ‘off-turning’ gallery of the first floor, and I had no doubt
of it having been the road taken by the unknown.
“We ran to the ladder, but at the moment of reaching it, Daddy Jacques
drew my attention to the half-open door of the little semi-circular
room, situated under the terrace, at the extremity of the right wing of
the château, having the terrace for its roof. Daddy Jacques pushed the
door open a little further and looked in.
“‘He’s not there!’ he whispered.
“‘Who is not there?’
“‘The forest-keeper.’
“With his lips once more to my ear, he added:
“‘Do you know that he has slept in the upper room of the donjon ever
since it was restored?’ And with the same gesture he pointed to the
half-open door, the ladder, the terrace, and the windows in the
‘off-turning’ gallery which, a little while before, I had re-closed.
“What were my thoughts then? I had no time to think. I _felt_ more than