The Mystery of the Yellow Room
“Hush! Frédéric Larsan is at work! Don’t let us disturb him!”
Rouletabille had a great admiration for the celebrated detective. I
had never before seen him, but I knew him well by reputation. At that
time, before Rouletabille had given proof of his unique talent, Larsan
was reputed as the most skilful unraveller of the most mysterious and
complicated crimes. His reputation was world-wide, and the police of
London, and even of America, often called him in to their aid when
their own national inspectors and detectives found themselves at the
end of their wits and resources.
No one was astonished, then, that the head of the Sûreté had, at the
outset of the mystery of “The Yellow Room,” telegraphed his precious
subordinate to London, where he had been sent on a big case of stolen
securities, to return with all haste. Frédéric who, at the Sûreté, was
called the “great Frédéric,” had made all speed, doubtless knowing by
experience that, if he was interrupted in what he was doing, it was
because his services were urgently needed in another direction; so, as
Rouletabille said, he was that morning already “at work.” We soon found
out in what it consisted.
What he was continually looking at in the palm of his right hand was
nothing but his watch, the minute hand of which he appeared to be
noting intently. Then he turned back still running, stopping only when
he reached the park gate, where he again consulted his watch and then
put it away in his pocket, shrugging his shoulders with a gesture of
discouragement. He pushed open the park gate, reclosed and locked it,
raised his head and, through the bars, perceived us. Rouletabille
rushed after him, and I followed. Frédéric Larsan waited for us.
“Monsieur Fred,” said Rouletabille, raising his hat and showing the
profound respect, based on admiration, which the young reporter felt
for the celebrated detective, “can you tell me whether Monsieur Robert
Darzac is at the château at this moment? Here is one of his friends, of
the Paris Bar, who desires to speak with him.”
“I really don’t know, Monsieur Rouletabille,” replied Fred, shaking
hands with my friend, whom he had several times met in the course of
his difficult investigations. “I have not seen him.”
“The concierges will be able to inform us no doubt?” said Rouletabille,
pointing to the lodge the door and windows of which were close shut.
“The concierges will not be able to give you any information, Monsieur
Rouletabille.”
“Why not?”
“Because they were arrested half an hour ago.”
“Arrested!” cried Rouletabille; “then they are the murderers!”
Frédéric Larsan shrugged his shoulders.
“When you can’t arrest the real murderer,” he said with an air of
supreme irony, “you can always indulge in the luxury of discovering
accomplices.”
“Did you have them arrested, Monsieur Fred?”
“Not I!—I haven’t had them arrested. In the first place, I am pretty
sure that they have not had anything to do with the affair, and then
because—”
“Because of what?” asked Rouletabille eagerly.
“Because of nothing,” said Larsan, shaking his head.
“Because there were no accomplices!” said Rouletabille.
“Aha!—you have an idea, then, about this matter?” said Larsan, looking
at Rouletabille intently, “yet you have seen nothing, young man,—you
have not yet gained admission here!”
“I shall get admission.”
“I doubt it. The orders are strict.”
“I shall gain admission, if you let me see Monsieur Robert Darzac. Do
that for me. You know we are old friends. I beg of you, Monsieur Fred.
Do you remember the article I wrote about you on the gold bar case?”
The face of Rouletabille at the moment was really funny to look at.
It showed such an irresistible desire to cross the threshold beyond
which some prodigious mystery had occurred; it appealed with so much
eloquence, not only of the mouth and eyes, but with all its features,
that I could not refrain from bursting into laughter. Frédéric Larsan,
no more than myself, could retain his gravity. Meanwhile, standing on
the other side of the gate, he calmly put the key in his pocket. I
closely scrutinised him.
He might be about fifty years of age. He had a fine head, his hair
turning grey; a colourless complexion, and a firm profile. His forehead
was prominent, his chin and cheeks clean shaven. His upper lip, without
moustache, was finely chiselled. His eyes were rather small and round,
with a look in them that was at once searching and disquieting. He was
of middle height and well built, with a general bearing elegant and
gentlemanly. There was nothing about him of the vulgar policeman. In
his way, he was an artist, and one felt that he had a high opinion of
himself. The sceptical tone of his conversation was that of a man who
had been taught by experience. His strange profession had brought him
into contact with so many crimes and villainies that it would have been
remarkable if his nature had not been a little hardened.
Larsan turned his head at the sound of a vehicle which had come from
the château and reached the gate behind him. We recognised the cab
which had conveyed the examining magistrate and his Registrar from the
station at Epinay.
“Ah!” said Frédéric Larsan, “if you want to speak with Monsieur Robert
Darzac, he is here.”
The cab was already at the park gate and Robert Darzac was begging
Frédéric Larsan to open it for him, explaining that he was pressed
for time to catch the next train leaving Epinay for Paris. Then he
recognised me. While Larsan was unlocking the gate, Monsieur Darzac
inquired what had brought me to the Glandier at such a tragic moment. I
noticed that he was frightfully pale, and that his face was lined as if
from the effects of some terrible suffering.
“Is Mademoiselle getting better?” I immediately asked.
“Yes,” he said. “She will be saved perhaps. She _must_ be saved!”
He did not add “or it will be my death”; but I felt that the phrase
trembled on his pale lips.
Rouletabille intervened:—
“You are in a hurry, Monsieur; but I must speak with you. I have
something of the greatest importance to tell you.”
Frédéric Larsan interrupted:—
“May I leave you?” he asked of Robert Darzac. “Have you a key, or do
you wish me to give you this one.”
“Thank you. I have a key and will lock the gate.”
Larsan hurried off in the direction of the château, the imposing pile
of which could be perceived a few hundred yards away.
Robert Darzac, with knit brow, was beginning to show impatience. I
presented Rouletabille as a good friend of mine, but, as soon as he
learnt that the young man was a journalist, he looked at me very
reproachfully, excused himself, under the necessity of having to
reach Epinay in twenty minutes, bowed, and whipped up his horse. But
Rouletabille had seized the bridle and, to my utter astonishment,
stopped the carriage with a vigorous hand. Then he gave utterance to a
sentence which was utterly meaningless to me.
“The presbytery has lost nothing of its charm, nor the garden its
brightness.”
The words had hardly left the lips of Rouletabille than I saw Robert
Darzac quail. Pale as he was, he became paler. His eyes were fixed on
the young man in terror, and he immediately descended from the vehicle
in an inexpressible state of agitation.
“Come!—come in!” he stammered.
Then, suddenly, and with a sort of fury, he repeated:—
“Let us go, monsieur.”
He turned up by the road he had come from the château, Rouletabille
still retaining his hold on the horse’s bridle. I addressed a few
words to Monsieur Darzac, but he made no answer. My looks questioned
Rouletabille, but his gaze was elsewhere.
Chapter VI
In the Heart of the Oak Grove
We reached the château, and, as we approached it, saw four gendarmes
pacing in front of a little door in the ground floor of the donjon. We
soon learned that in this ground floor, which had formerly served as a
prison, Monsieur and Madame Bernier, the concierges, were confined.
Monsieur Robert Darzac led us into the modern part of the château by
a large door, protected by a projecting awning—a “marquise” as it is
called. Rouletabille who had resigned the horse and the cab to the care
of a servant, never took his eyes off Monsieur Darzac. I followed his
look and perceived that it was directed solely towards the gloved hands
of the Sorbonne professor. When we were in a tiny sitting-room fitted
with old furniture, Monsieur Darzac turned to Rouletabille and said
sharply:—
“What do you want?”
The reporter answered in an equally sharp tone:—
“To shake you by the hand.”
Darzac shrank back.
“What does that mean?”
Evidently he understood, what I also understood, that my friend
suspected him of the abominable attempt on the life of Mademoiselle
Stangerson. The impression of the blood-stained hand on the walls of
“The Yellow Room” was in his mind. I looked at the man closely. His
haughty face with its expression ordinarily so straightforward was
at this moment strangely troubled. He held out his right hand and,
referring to me, said:—
“As you are a friend of Monsieur Sainclair who has rendered me
invaluable services in a just cause, monsieur, I see no reason for
refusing you my hand—”
Rouletabille did not take the extended hand. Lying with the utmost
audacity, he said:—
“Monsieur, I have lived several years in Russia, where I have acquired
the habit of never taking any but an ungloved hand.”
I thought that the Sorbonne professor would express his anger openly,
but, on the contrary, by a visibly violent effort, he calmed himself,
took off his gloves, and showed his hands; they were unmarked by any
cicatrice.
“Are you satisfied?”
“No!” replied Rouletabille. “My dear friend,” he said, turning to me,
“I am obliged to ask you to leave us alone for a moment.”
I bowed and retired, stupefied by what I had seen and heard. I could
not understand why Monsieur Robert Darzac had not already shown the
door to my impertinent, insulting, and stupid friend. I was angry
myself with Rouletabille at that moment, for his suspicions, which had
led to this scene of the gloves.
For some twenty minutes I walked about in front of the château, trying
vainly to link together the different events of the day. What was in
Rouletabille’s mind? Was it possible that he thought Monsieur Robert
Darzac to be the murderer? How could it be thought that this man, who
was to have married Mademoiselle Stangerson in the course of a few
days, had introduced himself into “The Yellow Room” to assassinate his
fiancée? I could find no explanation as to how the murderer had been
able to leave “The Yellow Room”; and so long as that mystery, which
appeared to me so inexplicable, remained unexplained, I thought it was
the duty of all of us to refrain from suspecting anybody. But, then,
that seemingly senseless phrase—“The presbytery has lost nothing of its
charm, nor the garden its brightness”—still rung in my ears. What did
it mean? I was eager to rejoin Rouletabille and question him.
At that moment the young man came out of the château in the company
of Monsieur Robert Darzac, and, extraordinary to relate, I saw, at a
glance, that they were the best of friends.
“We are going to ‘The Yellow Room.’ Come with us,” Rouletabille said
to me. “You know, my dear boy, I am going to keep you with me all day.
We’ll breakfast together somewhere about here—”
“You’ll breakfast with me, here, gentlemen—”
“No, thanks,” replied the young man. “We shall breakfast at the Donjon
Inn.”
“You’ll fare very badly there; you’ll not find anything—”
“Do you think so? Well, I hope to find something there,” replied
Rouletabille. “After breakfast, we’ll set to work again. I’ll write my
article and if you’ll be so good as to take it to the office for me—”