The Secret of the Night by Gaston Leroux (ebook reader for surface pro txt) 📗

“Renew the attempt of the bouquet!” she murmured in a stifled voice. “But there is not a flower in the general’s chamber.”

“Be calm, madame. Understand me and answer me: You heard the tick-tack from the bouquet while you were in your own chamber?”

“Yes, with the doors open, naturally.”

“You told me the persons who came to say good-night to the general. At that time there was no noise of tick-tack?”

“No, no.”

“Do you think that if there had been any tick-tack then you would have heard it, with all those persons talking in the room?”

“I hear everything. I hear everything.”

“Did you go downstairs at the same time those people did?”

“No, no; I remained near the general for some time, until he was sound asleep.”

“And you heard nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“You closed the doors behind those persons?”

“Yes, the door to the great staircase. The door of the servants’ stairway was condemned a long time ago; it has been locked by me, I alone have the key and on the inside of the door opening into the general’s chamber there is also a bolt which is always shot. All the other doors of the chambers have been condemned by me. In order to enter any of the four rooms on this floor it is necessary now to pass by the door of my chamber, which gives on the main staircase.”

“Perfect. Then, no one has been able to enter the apartment. No one had been in the apartment for at least two hours excepting you and the general, when you heard the clockwork. From that the only conclusion is that only the general and you could have started it going.”

“What are you trying to say?” Matrena demanded, astounded.

“I wish to prove to you by this absurd conclusion, madame, that it is necessary never—never, you understand? Never—to reason solely upon even the most evident external evidence when those seemingly-conclusive appearances are in conflict with certain moral truths that also are clear as the light of day. The light of day for me, madame, is that the general does not desire to commit suicide and, above all, that he would not choose the strange method of suicide by clockwork. The light of day for me is that you adore your husband and that you are ready to sacrifice your life for his.”

“Now!” exclaimed Matrena, whose tears, always ready in emotional moments, flowed freely. “But, Holy Mary, why do you speak to me without looking at me? What is it? What is it?”

“Don’t turn! Don’t make a movement! You hear—not a move! And speak low, very low. And don’t cry, for the love of God!”

“But you say at once... the bouquet! Come to the general’s room!”

“Not a move. And continue listening to me without interrupting,” said he, still inclining his ear, and still without looking at her. “It is because these things were as the light of day to me that I say to myself, ‘It is impossible that it should be impossible for a third person not to have placed the bomb in the bouquet. Someone is able to enter the general’s chamber even when the general is watching and all the doors are locked.’”

“Oh, no. No one could possibly enter. I swear it to you.”

As she swore it a little too loudly, Rouletabille seized her arm so that she almost cried out, but she understood instantly that it was to keep her quiet.

“I tell you not to interrupt me, once for all.”

“But, then, tell me what you are looking at like that.”

“I am watching the corner where someone is going to enter the general’s chamber when everything is locked, madame. Do not move!”

Matrena, her teeth chattering, recalled that when she entered Rouletabille’s chamber she had found all the doors open that communicated with the chain of rooms: the young man’s chamber with hers, the dressing-room and the general’s chamber. She tried, under Rouletabille’s look, to keep calm, but in spite of all the reporter’s exhortations she could not hold her tongue.

“But which way? Where will they enter?”

“By the door.”

“Which door?”

“That of the chamber giving on the servants’ stair-way.”

“Why, how? The key! The bolt!”

“They have made a key.”

“But the bolt is drawn this side.”

“They will draw it back from the other side.”

“What! That is impossible.”

Rouletabille laid his two hands on Matrena’s strong shoulders and repeated, detaching each syllable, “They will draw it back from the other side.”

“It is impossible. I repeat it.”

“Madame, your Nihilists haven’t invented anything. It is a trick much in vogue with sneak thieves in hotels. All it needs is a little hole the size of a pin bored in the panel of the door above the bolt.”

“God!” quavered Matrena. “I don’t understand what you mean by your little hole. Explain to me, little domovoi.”

“Follow me carefully, then,” continued Rouletabille, his eyes all the time fixed elsewhere. “The person who wishes to enter sticks through the hole a brass wire that he has already given the necessary curve to and which is fitted on its end with a light point of steel curved inward. With such an instrument it is child’s play, if the hole has been made where it ought to be, to touch the bolt on the inside from the outside, pick the knob on it, withdraw it, and open the door if the bolt is like this one, a small door-bolt.”

“Oh, oh, oh,” moaned Matrena, who paled visibly. “And that hole?”

“It exists.”

“You have discovered it?”

“Yes, the first hour I was here.”

“Oh, domovoi! But how did you do that when you never entered the general’s chamber until to-night?”

“Doubtless, but I went up that servants’ staircase much earlier than that. And I will tell you why. When I was brought into the villa the first time, and you watched me, bidden behind the door, do you know what I was watching myself, while I appeared to be solely occupied digging out the caviare? The fresh print of boot-nails which left the carpet near the table, where someone had spilled beer (the beer was still running down the cloth). Someone had stepped in the beer. The boot-print was not clearly visible excepting there. But