THE SHADOW OF DEATH
Que l'oumbro, e toujour l'oumbro, es pire que la mort![14]
Mistal (_Mireille Chant xii._)
'Fleet footed is the approach of woe
But with a lingering step and slow
Its form departs.'--Longfellow, _Coplas de Manrique_.
Dr. Roux was a man who had risen to his present position by strict
attention to his profession. He was an able man, and thoroughly versed
in all the mysteries of his art. His reports to the Juge d'Instruction
were always models of accuracy and precision, and were accepted without
question by the Parquet. But now he confessed he was in a dilemma.
"Here is a nice state of things," he soliloquised, "I come to Dr.
Villebois' house for the purpose of making a post-mortem examination,
and after getting everything ready to begin, two doctors whom I have
never seen before persuade me to abandon my task. Now if I say he is
dead I shall be blamed for not performing the autopsy; but if, on the
other hand, I state that he is not dead, they will naturally ask me
what proofs I have, and I must confess I have none. I had better talk
it over with Paul Romaine. I fancy he will be at leisure during the
afternoon."
"Well, it is too late now, he will have gone home."
The next day at four o'clock Roux knocked at the door of the Government
laboratory.
At the moment of Roux's arrival, Paul was busily engaged in tidying up
the laboratory previous to his going home.
"Well, what brings you here?" called out Paul as his visitor was
ushered in. "I haven't seen you since we were students together at
the Salpetrière under old Charcot. It is the unexpected that always
happens."
"That is quite comprehensible," replied Roux, "the expected only
comprises one event, whereas the unexpected may be any one of a million
things. Hence the chances of the unexpected are a million to one
compared with the expected."
"That is a queer kind of logic," replied Paul, laughing, "I wonder in
what school of philosophy you were taught."
"The philosophy of the unknown--it is the best of all philosophies
because no one can dispute it. But to be serious, my dear colleague, I
want your advice as I am rather in a difficulty. Yesterday I received
an order to conduct a post-mortem examination on the body of Professor
Delapine who happened to have been the guest of Dr. Villebois in Passy."
"Whom did you say?" asked Paul becoming interested.
"Professor Delapine."
"What! Professor Delapine of the Sorbonne. I had no idea that he was
dead. What did he die of?"
"I don't know that he is dead. That is just my difficulty."
"Do you mean to tell me that you were ordered by the Parquet to make a
post-mortem examination, and you don't know whether he is dead or not?
My dear fellow, if I did not know you for a serious man I would think
that you were joking."
"I don't wonder at what you say, but pray listen to me patiently for
a moment. It seems that the professor is a medium or spiritualist, or
whatever you choose to call it, and the day before yesterday he was
lying down in a sleep or trance in a sort of flimsy cabinet, when a cry
of fire was raised, and the audience rushed out of the room upstairs to
see where the fire had started. While they were gone a medical man--Dr.
Riche, I think the name was--remembering that the professor was in
a deep sleep or trance, ran down to look after him with a view of
transferring him to a place of safety. As he was in the act of opening
the door of the room where the professor was lying, it was shut with a
bang by someone inside who immediately locked the door, and evidently
got away, for when the door was forced, the intruder was nowhere to be
seen. But the remarkable thing about it was that a medical hypodermic
syringe was found lying on the floor half full of liquid, and on
examining Delapine's body a puncture was discovered in his arm which
was evidently made by the needle of the syringe. It appears that the
head of the police was sent for, and he found Delapine lying on the
couch apparently dead. Yesterday afternoon I arrived at the house in
answer to a summons, and was about to conduct the autopsy--in fact I
had the scalpel in my hand--when this Doctor Riche rushed into the
room in a tremendous state of excitement, and tore the knife out of
my hand so violently that it cut my fingers. 'Stop, in Heaven's name,
stop,' he cried, 'do you want to commit murder?' I naturally became
very indignant, and requested him to leave me to my work. Villebois
backed up Dr. Riche, and suggested our talking things over in the
smoking-room."
"That reminds me," said Paul, "won't you take something? I have some
first-rate Beaune locked up in the cupboard which I only bring out to
my special friends."
"Well, thanks, I don't mind. But let me offer you one of my
cigarettes," said Roux. "Mine are a very special brand which I get from
Prazmouski in Moscow. They send me about twelve boxes every month, and
they are so delicious I always run short before the month is out."
"For my part," said Paul, "I am so accustomed to smoking Caporals that
I have lost the taste for any other brand. Still, if I may--thanks.
Yes, these certainly smell delicious," he added as he tapped the end of
one on the table.
The two men sat quietly musing in their armchairs as they drank their
wine and puffed away in silence.
Paul inhaled his smoke, ejecting it in two white whirls through his
nostrils as he reflected on what his friend had been telling him.
"I wonder," he said, as a sudden thought occurred to him, "what made
the two doctors stop you in such a hurry? Did they think he was not
dead?"
"That is the extraordinary part of the tale. Riche happened to open
a drawer at the request of one of the young ladies in the house, and
found an envelope sealed up and addressed by Delapine to her. On
opening it he found a curious message to the effect that if he were
found dead, his body was not to be buried or opened by anyone as he was
suspicious of foul play, and it was quite possible that he might not be
really dead."
"When did he find this envelope?"
"While I was getting my instruments ready for examination."
Paul blew a cloud of smoke out of his nose and whistled. "'Pon my soul,
this is a most mysterious affair. I have known many mysterious things
in my life, but I have never come across anything so strange as this.
And of course you felt it your duty to suspend operations?"
"Naturally I decided to await events."
"But tell me, doctor, what proofs have they that he is not dead?"
"Well, there have been no signs of post-mortem rigidity. If there had
been any we must have noticed it, as one or the other of us has been at
his side the whole time."
"How long has he been in that state?"
"Over forty-eight hours, and what is equally curious the body shows no
signs of discoloration."
"Not even in the dependent parts?"
"Nowhere; not a sign. We have turned him over several times and his
skin is quite white and clean."
Paul began to hum a tune. "Well, that is certainly most extraordinary.
If he had been really dead both these signs must have appeared before
now."
"That is true enough, but I confess I am rather in a difficulty what to
do. The Parquet expects a detailed report of my medical investigation
which must be handed in at once, as the law of France demands the
burial of the deceased within three days."
"Certainement," said Paul. "But I should like to advise you that you
and Monsieur le Commissaire Biron should deliver a verbal report ad
interim to the Parquet in which you two describe the extraordinary
state of affairs, and ask the Parquet the permission for Delapine's
body to remain in its present position until his demise is ascertained
without a shadow of doubt. Dr. Villebois, as owner of the house in
which the strange occurrence happened, is bound to report it to the
authorities on his behalf. If he will make an application to the
Parquet in the same sense as I wish you and Monsieur Biron to do I am
sure he will be allowed to keep Delapine's body in the house until all
is settled."
"Vous avez raison," answered Roux, "I shall go and see Monsieur Biron
to-morrow. There is something strange in Delapine's appearance which
makes me believe that he is still alive, although there is absolutely
no pulse, no heart sounds, and his temperature is very little, if any,
above that of the room. In fact there are no signs of life whatever."
Roux looked anxiously at his friend Paul who had been listening
intently to every word he said.
A sudden thought struck Paul. "Tell me," he said, "what was the fluid
which the fellow injected into the professor's arm?"
"That I cannot tell you. I know it was a slightly yellowish-looking
liquid, very brilliant, and possessing a pale bluish opalescense like
quinine. Dr. Riche showed me what had been left in the syringe which he
had poured into a small phial."
Paul played with his fingers nervously and poured out another glass of
wine.
"Excuse me a moment," he said, "while I go into my laboratory."
"Mayn't I come with you?" asked Roux.
"Certainly, certainly, my dear colleague, by all means."
The two entered the laboratory, and Paul took up a well-worn handbook
on Medical Jurisprudence, and with feverish haste turned up one
reference after another.
"No," he said to himself, "there is nothing here which can afford
a clue. I know of no poison which can produce the symptoms of
death-trance. Stay, wait a minute," and he tapped his forehead. "Yes,
how stupid of me," he said aloud, and crossing over to the side of
the room he fetched a short ladder and ran rapidly up the steps. "Mon
Dieu!" he cried, as he took down the bottle which had been sent him
from Japan. "Look here, Roux, do you see this little bottle?"
"Yes, what of it?"
"Observe it is half empty, and I swear the other day it was quite full.
Who could have taken it? I am always so particular to keep the room
locked. Good God," he suddenly exclaimed, "can it be possible?"
"What is the matter?" asked Roux, as his companion suddenly stopped and
put his hand to his head. "Are you ill?"
Taking the bottle in his hands he descended the ladder all of a
tremble. In his excitement he lost his balance, and fell to the ground
with the steps on top of him. The bottle flew out of his hand and was
smashed to atoms.
"Oh dear, oh dear," he cried, "all the liquid has escaped. What shall I
do?" and he wrung his hands in despair.
"What on earth is the matter?" said Roux, running up to the assistance
of his friend. "Are you hurt?"
"No, no," said Paul testily, "don't mind me--it's the bottle," he
cried. "It is a priceless treasure. It contained a poison from Japan,
and some of the contents have been stolen."
"Well, surely that is not of much consequence," said Roux.
"Not of much consequence, you idiot? Don't you see that this contained
the liquid which the fellow injected into Delapine's arm? I understand
it all now," said Paul.
"Tell me quickly, have you found out who could have stolen the liquid?
What was the rascal like, do you know his name?" asked Roux. "I am
sorry I forgot to ask Dr. Riche about him."
"Still, if he knows he will tell us," answered Paul, anxious to conceal
his thoughts, but with such a look of hesitancy and in such a strange
voice that Roux felt certain that Paul knew a great deal more than he
cared to admit.
"I believe you know who did it, but don't want to tell me. Confess now,
Paul."
Paul's mind became a whirl of conflicting emotions. If he told Roux,
the latter would have to put it in his report and communicate with the
Parquet. And then there would be the greatest trouble. He stammered and
hesitated while his face turned perfectly scarlet.
"Come now, out with it," said Roux impatiently.
"I cannot, I cannot," replied Paul, "please do not press me, but Dr.
Villebois will tell you better than I can."
"Is Villebois on the telephone?"
"Yes, of course."
Roux ran over to the telephone and called up 26-230.
"Hullo, is that you, Dr. Villebois?"
"Yes, who are you?"
"Dr. Roux is speaking. I want to know if you have any clue as to the
man who injected the fluid into Professor Delapine's arm?"
"No," came the reply, "we have no actual proof as to who did it, but we
believe that the would-be assassin was the same individual who set fire
to Riche's room."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because by setting fire to Riche's room it would draw the people in
the house upstairs, so that the fellow could not be interrupted in his
ghastly work."
"I think that is quite a reasonable explanation, but what a pity the
scoundrel escaped," said Roux.
"Never mind, we shall find him yet," replied Villebois.
"May we come and see you at once?" asked Roux. "It is most important."
"Certainly, I will wait in for you; au revoir," and the telephone
ceased.
Roux at once informed Paul what Dr. Villebois had told him.
"My God, what a scoundrel," said Paul. "But the motive--the motive?"
"I am quite in the dark as to his motive, anyhow there can be no doubt
as to the course we have to pursue," said Roux. "Let us go together
to Villebois's house, and we will examine the professor and draw up a
report together."
"I have changed my mind, Dr. Roux, I shall tell you everything when we
see Villebois. This last piece of villainy has decided me. The criminal
must be brought to justice. But what a misfortune that I have lost all
that precious fluid."
"Well, never mind, old chap, Dr. Riche has quite enough left for us to
test."
"Do you really mean it? Thank God for that. Let us go at once, there
is no time to lose ... as the proverb has it 'Il faut battre le fer
quand il est chaud.'"[15]
A few minutes later the two doctors might have been seen walking
rapidly in the direction of Villebois's house.
Half an hour later Roux and Paul were ushered into the library, where
Villebois and Riche were awaiting their arrival.
Villebois looked at least ten years older than he did a week ago. He
was no longer the faultlessly attired active physician of yore, his
dress was untidy and his face bore traces of sleepless nights and
constant mental strain.
"Ah, mon cher docteur," said Roux, "I am sorry to see you looking so
depressed."
"Thank you, I confess I don't feel myself at all. I am so worried over
this affair. The more I think of it, the more terrible it becomes,
until it swells up into a Frankenstein. To have a fire in one's
house is bad enough, but to have a murdered friend lying in one's
drawing-room day after day is too awful to contemplate. The cook spends
all her time gossiping with the butcher and the baker, and every person
who comes to the back door. I found the butler lying dead drunk in the
pantry for the first time since he has been in my service. Céleste and
Renée are worn out with watching the professor, and now I am worried
to death with official visits from the Maire and the police. My house
is watched by detectives, and all the neighbours hang about outside
the garden peering in at the windows, and pointing at me with their
fingers, and whispering to each other. I shall go mad if this affair
goes on much longer. We must find some way out of it."
"That's the very reason we have come, mon ami," said Roux; "but first
let me ask you what the Commissaire de Police has done?"
"Nothing as far as I know. He has telephoned up three times to know
the reason why you have not sent in your report, and has placed two
detectives here to watch the grounds."
"Has he ordered any arrest to be made?"
"How could he, when we could not inform him who the culprit was? We
could not charge Pierre with the crime."
"Why not?" asked Roux.
"Why not? My dear doctor, seeing that both he and his father have been
guests at our house what could we do? We were unable to prove that
Pierre was concerned in it, and supposing he turned out to be innocent?
What would the Duvals think of us? The father would probably challenge
me to fight him, and in any case we should have made them our enemies
for life. Put yourself for a moment in Pierre's position. Suppose
someone accused you of first setting fire to his house when you were
his guest at the time, and then of poisoning a fellow guest who had
never done you any harm, by means of some fearful drug, and it turned
out afterwards that you were quite innocent, what would you think of
him? That is absolutely the case with Pierre."
"Not so fast, doctor," said Paul, "I can prove that he is the person
who did it. For God's sake do not pose as a miserable sentimentalist."
"What!" they all exclaimed with looks of horror on their faces, "do you
really mean that Pierre did the dastardly act?"
"Certainly. Do you remember, Dr. Roux, when you called on me this
afternoon and asked me to help you to draw up your report as you were
uncertain whether Delapine was dead or not?"
"I do, perfectly."
"Well, you recollect that I searched in my text-books to find some drug
which would cause a person to lapse into a state of apparent death
for a long period, and failing to discover it, I suddenly thought of
something, and climbed up a ladder and took a bottle from the top
shelf, and to my horror and amazement discovered it to be half empty?"
"I do, and what's more you seemed to have lost your senses for a
moment, you were so agitated," said Roux.
"Now, I suddenly remembered that two or three weeks ago, Pierre,
whom I have not seen for two or more years, unexpectedly called and
cross-questioned me as to the action of certain secret poisons which
science has been unable to detect, and I showed him a Japanese poison
which had recently arrived from Tokio. I took the bottle down and
showed it to him, and I then replaced it on the shelf. The liquid was
a thick, highly refractive dichromic liquid, which had a very unusual
appearance something like quinine only much more highly refractive,
besides being far heavier. When we left the room we waited in the
passage of the house for a cab, when suddenly Pierre asked for the
loan of the key of the room as he had forgotten his cigarette case.
Not suspecting anything, I gave it to him, and waited there until he
returned. To the best of my recollection, no one except my servant has
ever had access to the room since, and when I discovered the bottle
half empty to-day I knew it must have been Pierre who had opened it."
"Yes," said Riche, "and I remember at the séance last week I noticed
Pierre quietly slip out of the room and disappear. Well, less than half
an hour afterwards we all noticed the smoke of the fire."
"A strange coincidence that the two events should follow one another so
soon," said Villebois, who had been listening intently. "Not only that,
but your daughter called my attention to the fact that Pierre tampered
with Delapine's coffee when we had the race on the lawn, and I think we
all noticed how cleverly Delapine excused himself from drinking it, and
killed a plant with a few drops of the liquid. You see how all these
facts fit in together and render the evidence of his guilt convincing.
Lastly, here is the liquid which I emptied out of the syringe I found
on the floor of the séance-room after the person inside had escaped."
Paul took the bottle out of Riche's hand and examined it carefully.
"Yes," he replied, as he placed it on the table for the others to look
at. "That is the Japanese liquid which was stolen from my laboratory."
"Are you quite sure?" asked Roux.
"Certainly, I can swear to it as it has a peculiar appearance which no
other liquid possesses. Examine it for yourselves, gentlemen," and he
handed the bottle to the others to inspect. The four doctors looked at
one another for some time in silence. Villebois and Riche exchanged
glances of surprise and horror.
"Mais, messieurs, this is terrible. What are we to do?" said Villebois,
breaking the spell. Another silence followed, as if each one was afraid
to say what he thought. At length Roux got up and said,
"I must do my duty, my dear colleague, and place this evidence in my
report."
"For my part I should like to keep his name out of it," said Villebois.
"What! Would you screen an incarnate fiend from justice?" cried Paul
and Roux together. "No, my dear Villebois," added Roux, leaning forward
with both hands on the table, "there are crimes which we cannot allow
our feelings to hide. We may be able to forgive injuries done to
ourselves, but to protect a scoundrel who abuses your hospitality by
murdering your friend and guest in cold blood, exceeds all the bounds
of mercy."
"Well," said Villebois with a sigh, "I withhold my objection provided
you will promise me the police will not be informed before twenty-four
hours have elapsed. It is now six p.m. Promise me, Dr. Roux, that your
report will not be handed in before the same time to-morrow."
"I suppose you wish to have time to warn Pierre?"
"Precisely," replied Villebois, "pray respect my feelings, gentlemen, I
do it more to spare my friends Payot and General Duval."
Roux shook his head and frowned. "I cannot permit my feelings to
interfere with my duty," he answered.
Paul nodded his head with approval.
"That is quite right," said Villebois, "but surely you will show me,
your confrère, some mercy as well. If Pierre has time to escape no one
will suffer, and we shall be effectually rid of him."
"Jamais de la vie," said Roux, his eyes flashing with indignation, and
banging his fist on the table with such force that the contents of the
inkpot were spilled. "I regret, my dear doctor," he added in a calmer
voice, "I cannot oblige you, for I am determined that this unmitigated
scoundrel shall be brought to justice, and I shall prepare my report
at once and hand it without delay to the Commissaire de Police."
"And I mean to back you up, Roux," said Paul. "I swear I will not rest
until this fiend is run to earth."
Paul shook hands with Villebois and Riche, and taking Roux by the arm,
the two left the house without another word.
"Riche," said Villebois the moment they were alone, "this is a terrible
business. I'm afraid it's all up with Pierre."
"Well, for my part, I hate the brute, and the sooner he gets his
deserts the better. I should be only too happy to act the part of
'Monsieur de Paris' myself, and would not shed a tear when I saw his
head fall into the basket."
Villebois heaved a sigh, and wiped his forehead with a silk
handkerchief. "Perhaps they are right after all," he said to himself,
"but then there is the old General to consider. It will kill him surely
enough if his son is arrested on a charge of deliberate murder."
"Riche," he called out as a sudden idea struck him, "my nerves are so
unstrung I feel I need a drop of cognac; will you share a liqueur with
me?" and without waiting for a reply he rang the bell. "François," he
said as the butler appeared, "bring a bottle of old liqueur brandy. No,
you don't know where that special brand is, I will go." So saying, he
followed François, closing the door behind him.
"François," he added in a hoarse whisper, "not a word, not a word of
what I do, do you hear me?"
The butler nodded and touched his forehead.
"Now go and fetch the brandy. Stop, wait a minute."
Villebois took an old 'petit bleu' from his pocket, gummed it down and
handed it to François.
"Hand me this when you bring the cognac, and tell me it has just
arrived."
François saluted and vanished, while Villebois returned to the library.
Presently François arrived with a tray of glasses and the liqueur, and
handed him the telegram.
"Why did you not bring me this before?" asked Villebois.
"It has only just arrived, sir," replied François, like a school-boy
repeating a lesson.
Villebois hastily opened it, and glancing at the contents put it into
his pocket.
"Excuse me, Riche," he said, swallowing a petit verre of the liqueur,
"but I have an important appointment to keep. Pray amuse yourself until
I return. You will find the last number of _La Vie Parisienne_ on my
table."
Villebois left the room and hurried to the telephone.
"Is Monsieur Pierre at home?"
"No, sir," came the reply, "he has gone to his club in the Avenue de
l'Opera. He left half an hour ago."
"H'm," said Villebois, "this is very awkward."
"Oh, by the way, Marcel," he added as that little gentleman appeared in
the passage, "just put on your hat and take a walk with me."
The two gentlemen hurried out of the house, and walked slowly arm in
arm up and down the garden.
"Marcel, I want to take you into my confidence. Will you do me a
special favour?" said Villebois, suddenly pausing in his walk and
facing his companion.
"Certainly," replied Marcel, who loved nothing better than an
adventure. "Command me and I will obey."
"Well then, I want you to go to the Circle des Italiens in the Avenue
de l'Opera and ask to see Pierre. Tell him everything is discovered,
and the game is up. He must leave Paris to-night, and disappear from
France as quickly as possible. It is absolutely necessary for him
to leave at once, as an order for his arrest may be issued at any
moment. If his father learns of it, it will certainly kill him, and the
disgrace and worry will probably finish me as well."
Villebois slowly walked back to his house, while Marcel ran out into
the street and hailing a cab drove off towards the city.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 14: For the shadow--yea verily the shadow (of death) is worse
than Death itself.]
[Footnote 15: One must strike the iron while it is hot.]