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

“Yes, yes,—we know all about that,” said Monsieur de Marquet.

“The robber had another motive for returning to hide under the bed,” continued the astonishing boy-journalist. “You might think that he was trying to hide himself quickly on seeing, through the vestibule window, Monsieur and Mademoiselle Stangerson about to enter the pavilion. It would have been much easier for him to have climbed up to the attic and hidden there, waiting for an opportunity to get away, if his purpose had been only flight.—No! No!—he had to be in “The Yellow Room”.”

Here the Chief intervened.

“That’s not at all bad, young man. I compliment you. If we do not know yet how the murderer succeeded in getting away, we can at any rate see how he came in and committed the robbery. But what did he steal?”

“Something very valuable,” replied the young reporter.

At that moment we heard a cry from the laboratory. We rushed in and found Monsieur Stangerson, his eyes haggard, his limbs trembling, pointing to a sort of bookcase which he had opened, and which, we saw, was empty. At the same instant he sank into the large armchair that was placed before the desk and groaned, the tears rolling down his cheeks, “I have been robbed again! For God’s sake, do not say a word of this to my daughter. She would be more pained than I am.” He heaved a deep sigh and added, in a tone I shall never forget: “After all, what does it matter,—so long as she lives!”

“She will live!” said Monsieur Darzac, in a voice strangely touching.

“And we will find the stolen articles,” said Monsieur Dax. “But what was in the cabinet?”

“Twenty years of my life,” replied the illustrious professor sadly, “or rather of our lives—the lives of myself and my daughter! Yes, our most precious documents, the records of our secret experiments and our labours of twenty years were in that cabinet. It is an irreparable loss to us and, I venture to say, to science. All the processes by which I had been able to arrive at the precious proof of the destructibility of matter were there—all. The man who came wished to take all from me,—my daughter and my work—my heart and my soul.”

And the great scientist wept like a child.

We stood around him in silence, deeply affected by his great distress. Monsieur Darzac pressed closely to his side, and tried in vain to restrain his tears—a sight which, for the moment, almost made me like him, in spite of an instinctive repulsion which his strange demeanour and his inexplicable anxiety had inspired me.

Monsieur Rouletabille alone,—as if his precious time and mission on earth did not permit him to dwell in the contemplation on human suffering—had, very calmly, stepped up to the empty cabinet and, pointing at it, broke the almost solemn silence. He entered into explanations, for which there was no need, as to why he had been led to believe that a robbery had been committed, which included the simultaneous discovery he had made in the lavatory, and the empty precious cabinet in the laboratory. The first thing that had struck him, he said, was the unusual form of that piece of furniture. It was very strongly built of fire-proof iron, clearly showing that it was intended for the keeping of most valuable objects. Then he noticed that the key had been left in the lock. “One does not ordinarily have a safe and leave it open!” he had said to himself. This little key, with its brass head and complicated wards, had strongly attracted him,—its presence had suggested robbery.

Monsieur de Marquet appeared to be greatly perplexed, as if he did not know whether he ought to be glad of the new direction given to the inquiry by the young reporter, or sorry that it had not been done by himself. In our profession and for the general welfare, we have to put up with such mortifications and bury selfish feelings. That was why Monsieur de Marquet controlled himself and joined his compliments with those of Monsieur Dax. As for Monsieur Rouletabille, he simply shrugged his shoulders and said: “There’s nothing at all in that!” I should have liked to box his ears, especially when he added: “You will do well, Monsieur, to ask Monsieur Stangerson who usually kept that key?”

“My daughter,” replied Monsieur Stangerson, “she was never without it.

“Ah! then that changes the aspect of things which no longer corresponds with Monsieur Rouletabille’s ideas!” cried Monsieur de Marquet. “If that key never left Mademoiselle Stangerson, the murderer must have waited for her in her room for the purpose of stealing it; and the robbery could not have been committed until after the attack had been made on her. But after the attack four persons were in the laboratory! I can’t make it out!”

“The robbery,” said the reporter, “could only have been committed before the attack upon Mademoiselle Stangerson in her room. When the murderer entered the pavilion he already possessed the brass-headed key.”

“That is impossible,” said Monsieur Stangerson in a low voice.

“It is quite possible, Monsieur, as this proves.”

And the young rascal drew a copy of the “Epoque” from his pocket, dated the 21st of October (I recall the fact that the crime was committed on the night between the 24th and 25th), and showing us an advertisement, he read:

“‘Yesterday a black satin reticule was lost in the Grands Magasins de la Louvre. It contained, amongst other things, a small key with a brass head. A handsome reward will be given to the person who has found it. This person must write, poste restante, bureau 40, to this address: M. A. T. H. S. N.’ Do not these letters suggest Mademoiselle Stangerson?” continued the reporter. “The ‘key with a brass head’—is not this the key? I always read advertisements. In my business, as in yours, Monsieur, one should always read the personals.’ They are often the keys to intrigues, that are not always brass-headed, but which are none the less interesting. This advertisement interested me specially; the woman of the key surrounded it with a kind of mystery. Evidently she valued the key, since she promised a big reward for its restoration! And I thought on these six letters: M. A. T. H. S. N. The first four at once pointed to a Christian name; evidently I said Math is Mathilde. But I could make nothing of the two last letters. So I threw the journal aside and occupied myself with other matters. Four days later, when the evening paper appeared with enormous head-lines announcing the murder of Mademoiselle Stangerson, the letters in the advertisement mechanically recurred to me. I had forgotten the two last letters, S. N. When I saw them again I could not help exclaiming, ‘Stangerson!’ I jumped into a cab and rushed into the bureau No. 40, asking: ‘Have you a letter addressed to M. A. T. H. S. N.?’ The clerk replied that he had not. I insisted, begged and entreated him to search. He wanted to know if I were playing a joke on him, and then told me that he had had a letter with the initials M. A. T. H. S. N, but he had given it up three days ago, to a lady who came for it. ‘You come to-day to claim the letter, and the day before yesterday another gentleman claimed it! I’ve had enough of this,’ he concluded angrily. I tried to question him as to the two persons who had already claimed the letter; but whether he wished to entrench himself behind professional