The Mystery of the Yellow Room by Gaston Leroux (books to get back into reading TXT) 📗

“I have been very ill, very nearly dying,” said the old woman. “If ever you should have any scraps for the Bete du Bon Dieu—?”

And she entered, followed by a cat, larger than any I had ever believed could exist. The beast looked at us and gave so hopeless a miau that I shuddered. I had never heard so lugubrious a cry.

As if drawn by the cat’s cry a man followed the old woman in. It was the Green Man. He saluted by raising his hand to his cap and seated himself at a table near to ours.

“A glass of cider, Daddy Mathieu,” he said.

As the Green Man entered, Daddy Mathieu had started violently; but visibly mastering himself he said:

“I’ve no more cider; I served the last bottles to these gentlemen.”

“Then give me a glass of white wine,” said the Green Man, without showing the least surprise.

“I’ve no more white wine—no more anything,” said Daddy Mathieu, surlily.

“How is Madame Mathieu?”

“Quite well, thank you.”

So the young Woman with the large, tender eyes, whom we had just seen, was the wife of this repugnant and brutal rustic, whose jealousy seemed to emphasise his physical ugliness.

Slamming the door behind him, the innkeeper left the room. Mother Angenoux was still standing, leaning on her stick, the cat at her feet.

“You’ve been ill, Mother Angenoux?—Is that why we have not seen you for the last week?” asked the Green Man.

“Yes, Monsieur keeper. I have been able to get up but three times, to go to pray to Sainte-Genevieve, our good patroness, and the rest of the time I have been lying on my bed. There was no one to care for me but the Bete du bon Dieu!”

“Did she not leave you?”

“Neither by day nor by night.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“As I am of Paradise.”

“Then how was it, Madame Angenoux, that all through the night of the murder nothing but the cry of the Bete du bon Dieu was heard?”

Mother Angenoux planted herself in front of the forest-keeper and struck the floor with her stick.

“I don’t know anything about it,” she said. “But shall I tell you something? There are no two cats in the world that cry like that. Well, on the night of the murder I also heard the cry of the Bete du bon Dieu outside; and yet she was on my knees, and did not mew once, I swear. I crossed myself when I heard that, as if I had heard the devil.”

I looked at the keeper when he put the last question, and I am much mistaken if I did not detect an evil smile on his lips. At that moment, the noise of loud quarrelling reached us. We even thought we heard a dull sound of blows, as if some one was being beaten. The Green Man quickly rose and hurried to the door by the side of the fireplace; but it was opened by the landlord who appeared, and said to the keeper:

“Don’t alarm yourself, Monsieur—it is my wife; she has the toothache.” And he laughed. “Here, Mother Angenoux, here are some scraps for your cat.”

He held out a packet to the old woman, who took it eagerly and went out by the door, closely followed by her cat.

“Then you won’t serve me?” asked the Green Man.

Daddy Mathieu’s face was placid and no longer retained its expression of hatred.

“I’ve nothing for you—nothing for you. Take yourself off.”

The Green Man quietly refilled his pipe, lit it, bowed to us, and went out. No sooner was he over the threshold than Daddy Mathieu slammed the door after him and, turning towards us, with eyes bloodshot, and frothing at the mouth, he hissed to us, shaking his clenched fist at the door he had just shut on the man he evidently hated:

“I don’t know who you are who tell me ‘We shall have to eat red meat—now’; but if it will interest you to know it—that man is the murderer!”

With which words Daddy Mathieu immediately left us. Rouletabille returned towards the fireplace and said:

“Now we’ll grill our steak. How do you like the cider?—It’s a little tart, but I like it.”

We saw no more of Daddy Mathieu that day, and absolute silence reigned in the inn when we left it, after placing five francs on the table in payment for our feast.

Rouletabille at once set off on a three mile walk round Professor Stangerson’s estate. He halted for some ten minutes at the corner of a narrow road black with soot, near to some charcoal-burners’ huts in the forest of Sainte-Genevieve, which touches on the road from Epinay to Corbeil, to tell me that the murderer had certainly passed that way, before entering the grounds and concealing himself in the little clump of trees.

“You don’t think, then, that the keeper knows anything of it?” I asked.

“We shall see that, later,” he replied. “For the present I’m not interested in what the landlord said about the man. The landlord hates him. I didn’t take you to breakfast at the Donjon Inn for the sake of the Green Man.”

Then Rouletabille, with great precaution glided, followed by me, towards the little building which, standing near the park gate, served for the home of the concierges, who had been arrested that morning. With the skill of an acrobat, he got into the lodge by an upper window which had been left open, and returned ten minutes later. He said only, “Ah!”—a word which, in his mouth, signified many things.

We were about to take the road leading to the chateau, when a considerable stir at the park gate attracted our attention. A carriage had arrived and some people had come from the chateau to meet it. Rouletabille pointed out to me a gentleman who descended from it.

“That’s the Chief of the Surete” he said. “Now we shall see what Frederic Larsan has up his sleeve, and whether he is so much cleverer than anybody else.”

The carriage of the Chief of the Surete was followed by three other vehicles containing reporters, who were also desirous of entering the park. But two gendarmes stationed at the gate had evidently received orders to refuse admission to anybody. The Chief of the Surete calmed their impatience by undertaking to furnish to the press, that evening, all the information he could give that would not interfere with the judicial inquiry.