The Mystery of the Yellow Room
“Exactly. When we last left the Glandier I knew there were two halves
to the murderer and the name of only one of them. I went to America for
the name of the other half.”
I was too puzzled to answer. Just then we entered the witnesses’
room, and Rouletabille was immediately surrounded. He showed himself
very friendly to all except Arthur Rance to whom he exhibited a
marked coldness of manner. Frédéric Larsan came in also. Rouletabille
went up and shook him heartily by the hand. His manner toward the
detective showed that he had got the better of the policeman. Larsan
smiled and asked him what he had been doing in America. Rouletabille
began by telling him some anecdotes of his voyage. They then turned
aside together apparently with the object of speaking confidentially.
I, therefore, discreetly left them and, being curious to hear the
evidence, returned to my seat in the court-room where the public
plainly showed its lack of interest in what was going on in their
impatience for Rouletabille’s return at the appointed time.
* * * * *
On the stroke of half-past six Joseph Rouletabille was again brought
in. It is impossible for me to picture the tense excitement which
appeared on every face, as he made his way to the bar. Darzac rose to
his feet, frightfully pale.
The President, addressing Rouletabille, said gravely:—
“I will not ask you to take the oath, because you have not been
regularly summoned; but I trust there is no need to urge upon you the
gravity of the statement you are about to make.”
Rouletabille looked the President quite calmly and steadily in the
face, and replied:
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“At your last appearance here,” said the President, “we had arrived at
the point where you were to tell us how the murderer escaped, and also
his name. Now, Monsieur Rouletabille, we await your explanation.”
“Very well, Monsieur,” began my friend amidst a profound silence.
“I had explained how it was impossible for the murderer to get away
without being seen. And yet he was there with us in the court.”
“And you did not see him? At least that is what the prosecution
declares.”
“No! we all of us saw him, Monsieur le Président!” cried Rouletabille.
“Then why was he not arrested?”
“Because no one, besides myself, knew that he was the murderer. It
would have spoiled my plans to have had him arrested, and I had then no
proof other than my own reasoning. I was convinced we had the murderer
before us and that we were actually looking at him. I have now brought
what I consider the indisputable proof.”
“Speak out, Monsieur! Tell us the murderer’s name.”
“You will find it on the list of names present in the court on the
night of the tragedy,” replied Rouletabille.
The people present in the court-room began showing impatience. Some of
them even called for the name, and were silenced by the usher.
“The list includes Daddy Jacques, Bernier the concierge, and Mr. Arthur
Rance,” said the President. “Do you accuse any of these?”
“No, Monsieur!”
“Then I do not understand what you are driving at. There was no other
person at the end of the court.”
“Yes, Monsieur, there was, not at the end, but above the court, who was
leaning out of the window.”
“Do you mean Frédéric Larsan!” exclaimed the President.
“Yes! Frédéric Larsan!” replied Rouletabille in a ringing tone.
“Frédéric Larsan is the murderer!”
* * * * *
The court-room became immediately filled with loud and indignant
protests. So astonished was he that the President did not attempt to
quiet it. The quick silence which followed was broken by the distinctly
whispered words from the lips of Robert Darzac:
“It’s impossible! He’s mad!”
“You dare to accuse Frédéric Larsan, Monsieur?” asked the President.
“If you are not mad, what are your proofs?”
“Proofs, Monsieur?—Do you want proofs? Well, here is one,” cried
Rouletabille shrilly. “Let Frédéric Larsan be called!”
“Usher, call Frédéric Larsan.”
The usher hurried to the side door, opened it, and disappeared. The
door remained open, while all eyes turned expectantly towards it. The
clerk re-appeared and, stepping forward, said:
“Monsieur President, Frédéric Larsan is not here. He left at about four
o’clock and has not been seen since.”
“That is my proof!” cried Rouletabille, triumphantly.
“Explain yourself?” demanded the President.
“My proof is Larsan’s flight,” said the young reporter. “He will not
come back. You will see no more of Frédéric Larsan.”
“Unless you are playing with the court, Monsieur, why did you not
accuse him when he was present? He would then have answered you.”
“He could give no other answer than the one he has now given by his
flight.”
“We cannot believe that Larsan has fled. There was no reason for his
doing so. Did he know you’d make this charge?”
“He _did_. I told him I would.”
“Do you mean to say that knowing Larsan was the murderer you gave him
the opportunity to escape?”
“Yes, Monsieur President, I did,” replied Rouletabille, proudly. “I am
not a policeman, I am a journalist; and my business is not to arrest
people. My business is in the service of truth, and is not that of an
executioner. If you are just, Monsieur, you will see that I am right.
You can now understand why I refrained until this hour to divulge the
name. I gave Larsan time to catch the 4-17 train for Paris, where
he would know where to hide himself, and leave no traces. You will
not find Frédéric Larsan,” declared Rouletabille, fixing his eyes
on Monsieur Robert Darzac. “He is too cunning. He is a man who has
_always_ escaped you and whom you have long searched for in vain. If he
did not succeed in outwitting me, he can yet easily outwit any police.
This man who, four years ago, introduced himself to the Sûreté, and
became celebrated as Frédéric Larsan, is notorious under another name—a
name well known to crime. Frédéric Larsan, Monsieur President, is
Ballmeyer!”
“Ballmeyer!” cried the President.
“Ballmeyer!” exclaimed Robert Darzac, springing to his feet.
“Ballmeyer!—It was true, then!”
“Ah! Monsieur Darzac; you don’t think I am mad, now!” cried
Rouletabille.
Ballmeyer! Ballmeyer! No other word could be heard in the court-room.
The President adjourned the hearing.
* * * * *
Those of my readers who may not have heard of Ballmeyer will wonder at
the excitement the name caused. And yet the doings of this remarkable
criminal form the subject-matter of the most dramatic narratives of the
newspapers and criminal records of the past twenty years. It had been
reported that he was dead, and thus had eluded the police as he had
eluded them throughout the whole of his career.
Ballmeyer was the best specimen of the high-class “gentleman swindler.”
He was an adept at sleight of hand tricks, and no bolder or more
ruthless crook ever lived. He was received in the best society, and
was a member of some of the most exclusive clubs. On many of his
depredatory expeditions he had not hesitated to use the knife and the
mutton-bone. No difficulty stopped him and no “operation” was too
dangerous. He had been caught, but escaped on the very morning of
his trial, by throwing pepper into the eyes of the guards who were
conducting him to Court. It was known later that, in spite of the keen
hunt after him by the most expert of detectives, he had sat that same
evening at a first performance in the Théâtre Français, without the
slightest disguise.
He left France, later, to “work” America. The police there succeeded in
once capturing him, but the extraordinary man escaped the next day. It
would need a volume to recount the adventures of this master-criminal.
And yet this was the man Rouletabille had allowed to get away! Knowing
all about him and who he was, he afforded the criminal an opportunity
for another laugh at the society he had defied! I could not help
admiring the bold stroke of the young journalist, because I felt
certain his motive had been to protect both Mademoiselle Stangerson and
rid Darzac of an enemy at the same time.
The crowd had barely recovered from the effect of the astonishing
revelation when the hearing was resumed. The question in everybody’s
mind was: Admitting that Larsan was the murderer, how did he get out of
The Yellow Room?
Rouletabille was immediately called to the bar and his examination
continued.
“You have told us,” said the President, “that it was impossible to
escape from the end of the court. Since Larsan was leaning out of his
window, he had left the court. How did he do that?”
“He escaped by a most unusual way. He climbed the wall, sprang onto the
terrace, and, while we were engaged with the keeper’s body, reached the
gallery by the window. He then had little else to do than to open the
window, get in and call out to us, as if he had just come from his own
room. To a man of Ballmeyer’s strength all that was mere child’s play.
And here, Monsieur, is the proof of what I say.”
Rouletabille drew from his pocket a small packet, from which he
produced a strong iron peg.
“This, Monsieur,” he said, “is a spike which perfectly fits a hole
still to be seen in the cornice supporting the terrace. Larsan, who
thought and prepared for everything in case of any emergency, had
fixed this spike into the cornice. All he had to do to make his escape
good was to plant one foot on a stone which is placed at the corner of
the château, another on this support, one hand on the cornice of the
keeper’s door and the other on the terrace, and Larsan was clear of the
ground. The rest was easy. His acting after dinner as if he had been
drugged was make believe. He was not drugged; but he did drug me. Of
course he had to make it appear as if he also had been drugged so that
no suspicion should fall on him for my condition. Had I not been thus
overpowered, Larsan would never have entered Mademoiselle Stangerson’s
chamber that night, and the attack on her would not have taken place.”
A groan came from Darzac, who appeared to be unable to control his
suffering.
“You can understand,” added Rouletabille, “that Larsan would feel
himself hampered from the fact that my room was so close to his, and
from a suspicion that I would be on the watch that night. Naturally,
he could not for a moment believe that I suspected _him_! But I might
see him leaving his room when he was about to go to Mademoiselle
Stangerson. He waited till I was asleep, and my friend Sainclair was
busy trying to rouse me. Ten minutes after that Mademoiselle was
calling out, ‘Murder!’”
“How did you come to suspect Larsan?” asked the President.
“My pure reason pointed to him. That was why I watched him. But I did
not foresee the drugging. He is very cunning. Yes, my pure reason
pointed to him; but I required tangible proof so that my eyes could see
him as my pure reason saw him.”
“What do you mean by your pure reason?”
“That power of one’s mind which admits of no disturbing elements to
a conclusion. The day following the incident of ‘the inexplicable
gallery,’ I felt myself losing control of it. I had allowed myself to
be diverted by fallacious evidence; but I recovered and again took hold
of the right end. I satisfied myself that the murderer could not have
left the gallery, either naturally or supernaturally. I narrowed the
field of consideration to that small circle, so to speak. The murderer
could not be outside that circle. Now who were in it? There was, first,
the murderer. Then there were Daddy Jacques, Monsieur Stangerson,
Frédéric Larsan, and myself. Five persons in all, counting in the
murderer. And yet, in the gallery, there were but four. Now since it
had been demonstrated to me that the fifth could not have escaped,