THE WALL THAT BLED
Elisabeth Dollon was busily engaged installing her belongings in
the new flat in the Rue de l’Evangile, into which she had moved the
previous evening. The girl possessed a modest stock of furniture of the
simplest possible sort, but on the upkeep of which she lavished the
most fastidious care. For her every piece of furniture, every article
in the rooms, was replete with fond associations. Since the sinister
events that had saddened her life, since the tragedies of which she had
been the heroine, here were the only things she loved, the only objects
that appealed at once to her memory and her affection. To-day she was
settling in, bent on arranging an interior that should be to her taste.
It was a Sunday. The weather promised to be magnificent, and though her
windows looked out on the not very attractive spectacle of the city
gasometers, they yet possessed the enormous advantage of facing no
buildings from which inquisitive or offensive neighbours could overlook
her. The day was bright and cheerful, the air pure and balmy, and from
time to time Elisabeth, choking with the dust raised by her domestic
operations, would go and lean out of the casement to breathe its
freshness. She was thoroughly enjoying her day of rest; all the week
she was engaged over the books of a big business house in the gloomy
district of Aubervilliers.
Her new home in the Rue de l’Evangile suited her well, not only because
the rooms were pleasant, but also from the fact of its nearness to
the scene of her labours. At the same time, she had heard within the
last few days of a chance of finding another post that would suit her
still better—a position as cashier in a large restaurant in the Bois de
Boulogne. The girl hoped with all her heart that this possibility might
become a reality.
But presently the girl’s thoughts turned to graver matters, and her
smooth brow was furrowed with lines of care and anxiety; her eyes,
usually so bright and clear, darkened in melancholy reverie. It was the
look, at once angry and regretful, that appeared on the girl’s face
every time she remembered Jérôme Fandor; whenever she thought of the
journalist, a sense of disquiet and perplexity filled her mind. Was she
still in love with him? could it be that she still felt a mysterious
passion for the man who was the author—at least so the unhappy girl
was convinced—of all her misfortunes, the source of the fatal events
that had cast a gloom over all her youth? Was it really possible that
so amiable a young man was the accomplice of Fantômas, if not Fantômas
himself? For long she had refused to believe it, but henceforth it
was impossible to doubt the fact; the latest developments, the events
that had just befallen, the violence offered her on the Boulevard de
Belleville, confirmed the suspicion beyond all question.
Dreading further persecutions by the monster that seemed relentlessly
bent on her undoing, Elisabeth Dollon had experienced a deep sense of
satisfaction after her change of abode, persuaded that an era of peace
and tranquility was now before her. Nevertheless, in excess of caution,
she had charged Mme. Doulenques, the concierge of the house in the
Rue des Couronnes, not to give her new address to anyone whatsoever.
Moreover, having been only eight and forty hours installed in her new
apartments, she was not expecting anyone to call.
It was therefore not without considerable perturbation that suddenly,
about two o’clock that afternoon, the girl heard a violent ring at the
bell. Who was it? Who could be coming to pay her a visit? However, she
was somewhat reassured on recognizing the concierge’s voice calling to
her through the door.
“Mam’zelle, I say, mam’zelle! are you asleep then, or are you gone
deaf? Here’s a good five minutes we’ve been tugging at your bell!”
On opening the door, Elisabeth Dollon found herself confronted not only
by the portress, but by a man as well, a man of forty or thereabouts,
with a pleasant, jovial-looking face. He was dressed in a long-skirted
white blouse, and carried under one arm a half-dozen rolls of paper,
while the other hand held a deep paste-pot with a big brush with a
wooden handle sticking up in it. The workman greeted the young girl
with an almost imperceptible nod of the head, as she unclosed the door.
“By’r leave, mam’zelle,” he said, “but I’m the painter and paper-hanger
and I’m come from the landlord to paper your place. Seemingly you want
it done?”
“Certainly I do,” the girl answered him, “there’s the whole of one room
wants fresh papering. But,” she added, “I’m not entitled, am I, to
choose the paper?”
The man smiled and nodded.
“Oh, yes, you are, mam’zelle; and, more by token, I’ve brought
patterns!”—adding, with a big laugh, “D’you suppose I’m going to paper
your walls straight away like that, in less time than it takes to say
‘knife’; you’ve got to choose, then we’ll try how the thing looks, and
then, when you’ve quite made up your mind, we’ll see about fixing up
the stuff.”
The concierge, seeing her presence was no longer required and the
introductions being duly made, took her departure, with a word of
excuse.
“I’ll leave you now,” the good woman said, “and get back to my lodge;
the fact is, I’ve got ‘company’ this afternoon.”
Elisabeth Dollon led the way into her flat and took the paper-hanger
straight to the room that was to be decorated. It was the furthest from
the entrance-door, the one in which M. Moche, the landlord, had had the
partition re-established that had been removed by the previous tenant
to make the two sets into one. The workman displayed no great anxiety
to set to work, and began to ferret about everywhere and examine the
young woman’s furniture in a rather inquisitorial fashion.
“A sweet, pretty place, this of yours!” he observed, “quite a little
nest for turtle-doves!”
Elisabeth Dollon forced a smile: “Oh!” she protested, “you are
mistaken, sir; love is not a happiness I can ever hope for.”
The workman looked at her with a flattering smile. “It won’t be your
fault, then,” he declared; “a pretty girl like you can’t fail ...”
But Elisabeth Dollon was not in a mood to listen to the silly speeches
the forward fellow might choose to make her. Not wishing, however, to
seem too prim and prudish, she adroitly turned the conversation:
“How comes it,” she asked, “you’re working on a Sunday?”
“Lord! mam’zelle,” replied the workman, “because I go on the spree
Mondays; but that’s neither here nor there, we’ve gassed enough, eh?
and it’s high time to get to work.”
The man laid the rolls of paper he had brought with him on the floor,
and opened them out one by one, asking the young lady to make her
choice. “D’you prefer the sky-blue ’uns, or the pink, or the light
green; there’s some of all sorts—gay and bright and fresh—like your
colour, mam’zelle!”
But “mam’zelle” took no notice of the compliment, and fixed her choice
on a light blue paper; then, as the paper-hanger seemed more inclined
to gossip than do his work, she announced:
“I’m going into the next room to put various things in order; you’ll
call me if you want me presently.”
Then something occurred to her of a sudden. “Sir,” she asked the man,
“I have a large picture there, too heavy for me to manage; if it’s not
troubling you, will you be so kind as to fix it up on the wall?”—to
which the workman agreed readily enough: “With all the pleasure in
life,” he assured her, “you know all I ask is to make myself agreeable.”
Elisabeth thanked him drily, almost regretting she had ever asked the
favour. The man’s advances rather frightened her; without quite knowing
why, the young girl felt suspicious and began to wish the fellow gone
as soon as might be. Meantime the workman began to make hay in the
room where he was, a sure sign he was going to do something at last.
Mademoiselle Dollon withdrew into the adjoining room, shutting the door
of communication behind her.
But barely a moment or two had passed since the girl had left the
workman to his own devices when she heard a heavy crash followed by a
terrific oath from the man’s lips! She dashed to the door and was on
the point of re-entering the room where the paper-hanger was at work,
when the latter sprang forward and prevented her.
“What now, sir!” she cried, “open the door, I say!”
But from the other side the workman still barred her entrance: “Don’t
come in, mademoiselle, don’t come in!”
“But, after all, what’s happening?” she demanded.
“Nothing to do with you, don’t come in!”
“But I insist; the thing’s ridiculous, I’m in my own house, let me in!”
Then she heard the strange occupant of the room whence the mysterious
noise had come turn the key in the lock, making any further attempt to
force an entrance impossible. Elisabeth was more and more terrified.
“Sir,” she ordered, “I must, I _will_ have this door opened, I wish to
know what is the matter, what that noise was.”
But the more excited grew the poor girl, the calmer became the
workman’s voice. He announced composedly: “I will not open the door, I
told you so before, do what you will!”
In vain the frightened girl shook the locked door, it would not yield;
clearly, a mere waste of strength! What _could_ be happening within?
what was the secret, the tragedy perhaps, this man of mystery was
resolved at all hazards to conceal?
Driven beyond all patience, Elisabeth Dollon hurried on to the landing
outside and leaning over the balustrade of the stairs, at the top of
her voice, that rose shrill in panic and fear, called for: “Help! help!
help!!”
Neighbours came running up, surprised and alarmed, and presently, the
girl’s frantic cries still continuing, the concierge, attracted by the
uproar, appeared on the scene.
“Whatever is the matter, my dear?” she demanded—and in broken accents
Mademoiselle Dollon told the good woman her story. The portress was
astounded at the workman’s extraordinary behaviour; she boldly advanced
in her turn, to beat with her heavy fist on the closely guarded door.
“Open,” she vociferated, “open the door! or there’ll be mischief doing.”
But the calm, slightly sarcastic voice of the individual who had locked
himself within, replied as before: “I will not open.”
Meantime an impromptu council of war was being held among the
neighbours gathered on the landing:
“Go for the police, that’s the only thing to be done; it’s a criminal
or a madman has locked himself up in there! We can’t have that poor
young girl left alone at his mercy.”
The concierge, firing her last round of ammunition, threatened the man:
“If you don’t open the door, they’ll go and fetch the police!”
And the mysterious intruder, in the calmest way, without so much as
raising his voice, replied:
“Yes, go and fetch the police!”
* * * * *
Some minutes passed, during which this last proposal was being put into
effect.
Presently the heavy footsteps of a sergeant of police and a constable
made themselves heard on the stairs, and the two representatives of law
and order effected a cautious entry into Mademoiselle Dollon’s rooms:
“It is the police,” they announced themselves; “will you open the door;
yes or no?”
They waited a few seconds, then the key turned in the lock and the door
opened softly a little way. The paper-hanger’s face appeared in the
aperture and the man, addressing the sergeant:
“I will trouble you to step inside, sir,” he said, “queer things are
happening here, your presence is required,” then added, pointing to
the constable: “the other gentleman as well, perhaps; but no, he might
prefer the duty of getting the ladies out of the way; it is no sight
for women.”
The calm, authoritative manner of the workman impressed the two
officers, and the sergeant mechanically ordered his subordinate:
“Make them move on, please!”
Then the sergeant followed the man into the empty room with its four
blank walls; the latter led the officer straight to the party-wall that
had lately been reconstructed by the landlord’s orders.
“What do you see there?” he demanded, pointing a finger at the white
surface. The sergeant looked long and curiously at the spot indicated.
“I see a stain,” he announced at last, “a brown, or is it a red stain.
What does that mean?... Are you poking fun at me? might you be wishing
to pull my leg, I wonder. Now, to start with, I call upon you to
explain yourself, why did you refuse to open that door to the young
lady when she asked you?”
The workman shrugged his shoulders: “That’s not the question in hand,”
he said quietly. “What do you think of that stain? I ought to tell you
it made its appearance immediately after I had made a hole by driving
in a nail.”
“I think nothing,” retorted the sergeant, “except that all this is
nonsensical and incomprehensible balderdash.... Yes, and that I am
going to take you to the station for having put the authorities to
unnecessary trouble!”
The workman went on smiling: “_Unnecessary!_” he remarked; “do you
think so?”
To disabuse the sergeant of such an idea, the other picked up a hammer
and started hammering the wall round the little brown patch; the
plaster broke away in little flakes that crumbled and fell in dust on
the floor, and presently, under the rain of blows, the wall itself
showed a crack. Suddenly a brick tumbled out, and the officer, who was
watching the operation with eyes of amazement, sprang back with a cry
of horror, while even the paper-hanger himself gave a little start of
surprise.
Behind the plaster, in the inside of the wall, which was of
considerable thickness, appeared an appalling sight! It was a human
head, wan and livid, a man’s head with features streaked and spotted by
the discolorations of death!
The sergeant gazed at the workman in indescribable agitation. “What is
it?” he asked, “what is it? I call upon you to tell me what it is?”
“It is a dead man, no doubt of that—a dead man they’ve walled up in
that wall, there can be no doubt of that either!”
“But in that case,” exclaimed the sergeant, “it must be a question of
crime, murder! It is a most grave and serious matter; the Commissary
must be advised!”
The mysterious workman bowed: “I am entirely of your opinion,” he said,
“the presence of the Commissary appears to me to be indispensable.”
The sergeant, quite beside himself, ran to the outer door, where his
subordinate was keeping good guard.
“Japuzot!” he ordered, “run quick to the station and bring the chief.
I have discovered a crime. I have just found it is a question of
murder!”
Meantime a confused clamour came from the crowd still thronging the
landing, at the top of the stairs. Elisabeth Dollon, who had remained
transfixed with terror in the outer room, was for coming to see what
was happening. Opportunely enough the sergeant stopped her.
“Stay where you are, mademoiselle,” he ordered, “it is not a sight for
a young lady; the concierge will bear you company.”
Then, as the gallant officer did not wish the place to be invaded by
the curious crowd, nor yet to lose sight of the dubious individual
within, he shut to the outer door of the flat. Leaving the people on
the landing to their divers conjectures, he returned to the gruesome
room, where the paper-hanger still remained. The latter was seated
quietly on the floor, for there were no chairs in the room, and had lit
a cigarette, and now, with the utmost composure, offered one to the
sergeant.
“There’s a bad smell,” he remarked, “it’s the corpse; will you smoke?”
The sergeant, dumbfounded by the man’s calmness in presence of such
tragic happenings, could not manage to light his cigarette; his lips
were as tremulous as his hands. At last, at the third or fourth
attempt, he succeeded; but he had not taken half a dozen puffs when his
sense of discipline made him suddenly toss his cigarette out of the
window. A peremptory ring had just sounded at the outer door, and the
sergeant at once inferred it was the “chief” demanding admittance.
He was right. The Commissary, a little, fat man, with an imposing
corporation, dashed forward out of breath, hustling everybody to right
and left, and hurried into the ill-omened room. His eyes fell first
on the grim head that looked out, an image of horror, from the wall
where it was imbedded. Then he turned to stare at the paper-hanger, who
without the smallest show of respect towards the magistrate, remained
sitting on the floor, still smoking with imperturbable aplomb.
The magistrate demanded: “What’s to do here? Who are you? who is the
man? how does he come there? what have you to say to it, yourself?”
“There!”
“What do you mean by ‘_there_’?”
“There,” the paper-hanger concluded his sentence: “there’s what you
want to know about, before your eyes.”
The Commissary was boiling with impatience.
“Why, of course I want to know. What’s been happening? How was this
extraordinary discovery made?”
The workman, getting to his feet at last: “I would point out to you,
Monsieur le Commissaire,” he protested, “that it is not my business,
but rather yours, to find out all this! None the less, I am very
willing to help you and give you my co-operation.”
Going up to the wall, the workman began, with little measured taps,
to break away the plaster round the dead man’s head. As he worked, he
explained:
“Driving a nail just now into the wall here, I saw drops of blood ooze
out—a wall that bleeds is not a common sight—and before pushing my
investigations further, I had the police sent for. Directly on your
sergeant’s arrival, I brought to light the unfortunate man’s head.
We have waited out of respect for your authority before carrying the
investigation further. But, now you are come, Monsieur le Commissaire,
I don’t think there’s anything need prevent our bringing to light the
rest of the poor fellow’s body.”
The magistrate gave a twist to his moustache and acquiesced. “Proceed
with your work,” he directed, and the workman took up his hammer again.
With a few rapid blows, he brought down the rest of the party-wall,
and the unhappy victim’s body was revealed in its entirety. It was a
gruesome spectacle! A human being had been walled up there. The body
had previously been coated with quicklime, and the extremities were
already burnt away. Still, the general aspect of the corpse was more or
less intact. At the nape of the neck the dead man had a huge bruise,
now quite black, and forming, at the top of the vertebræ, a great ball
full of extravasated blood.
The victim wore a uniform, easily recognized, the familiar long, blue
frock-coat with silver buttons of the collectors in the service of the
big credit houses. While the Commissary stood motionless, rooted to the
spot, the workman had gone closer, and had cast a rapid glance at the
inscription engraved on the buttons of the uniform. Next moment he
announced the result of his scrutiny:
“_Comptoir National!..._ there can be no doubt about it, Monsieur le
Commissaire; the man is the collector of the Comptoir National who was
murdered, hardly ten days ago, in the house in the Rue Saint-Fargeau!”
“But—but,” stammered the Commissary, “how does the body come to be
here?”
The paper-hanger urged suggestively:
“The house in the Rue Saint-Fargeau where the crime was committed and
the house in the Rue de l’Evangile where we discover the corpse, belong
to the same landlord, the business agent trading under the name of
M. Moche.”
The Commissary started violently: “M. Moche! I will have him
arrested ...”
“You would be making a mistake!” the paper-hanger interrupted the
magistrate.
“Why?”
“Because, if M. Moche was the murderer, he would never have been so
imprudent as to hide his victim’s body in a house belonging to himself.
Besides, there are other people to suspect ...”
“Why? Who?”
“Gad, sir!” declared the workman, “perhaps the individual from whom the
bank messenger took up his last payment—one Paulet by name. Perhaps,
again, the working mason who built that wall?”
“Who was the man?” questioned the Commissary.
“It is not for me to tell you, but for you to find him!”
The Commissary stood puzzling his brains, while the workman went on:
“Then, again, there’s an individual open to suspicion on several
counts, the man M. Moche lodged for forty-eight hours in his garret
in the Rue Saint-Fargeau, who seized the opportunity to kill two
police-officers who were coming to arrest him!”
“You accuse the journalist, Jérôme Fandor, of the bank employé’s
murder?”
The workman shrugged his shoulders: “I accuse nobody,” he protested,
“I form hypotheses, and that’s all; I ... my part, in fact, is not to
bring accusations, but simply ...”
The Commissary, exasperated by these repeated suppressions, this
reticence on the part of his interlocutor, suddenly came up to the
workman and clapping both hands on his shoulder:
“This is all mighty mysterious,” he complained, “now, for a start, you
are going to tell me what you are doing here?”
“You can see for yourself I am a painter and paper-hanger, I came to
put up papers.”
“Put up papers! on a Sunday?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire.”
“On a Sunday!—that won’t wash! And besides, you strike me as a mighty
hard-headed chap. This crime is out of all ordinary—you show no
surprise. This discovery is appalling—you never turn a hair! My lad,
you make out too well ...”
“Must a man be an imbecile because he’s a working man?”
The Commissaire checked himself, vexed at his own want of tact: “I
don’t mean to say that, but still I find you a puzzle. You make your
appearance here a short hour ago, you knock in a nail, the wall bleeds,
you knock away the plaster covering the masonry and the corpse comes to
light! You wait for the police to come to explain the crime. What have
you to say for yourself?”
“Nothing!” the workman shook his head.
The Commissary was getting more and more annoyed: “I really do not
know,” he blustered, “what stops me from arresting you.”
At this, the workman, suddenly assuming a sly look, looked his
companion up and down:
“What stops you from arresting me? why, nothing! But what will stop
your doing it, I’m going to tell you ...”
“Tell me then!”
“This ...” and the mysterious workman with a quick movement, stripped
off his blouse, and, beneath his working garment, he appeared elegantly
attired in a dark blue suit; he wore a silk neckerchief of a quiet,
gentlemanly cut and colour, a collar of immaculate whiteness. Removing
his cap, which till then had been pulled well down over his ears,
he displayed a broad, intellectual forehead; his hair was of a light
blonde, sprinkled with silvery threads at the temples.
Without giving a thought to the intense surprise he had created, the
_soi-disant_ workman looked the Commissary hard in the eyes, as he
declared gravely:
“I am Tom Bob, American detective; a week ago I arrived in Paris,
having crossed the Atlantic with the express purpose of tracking down
Fantômas and effecting his arrest!”—adding courteously: “Monsieur le
Commissaire, I am grateful to circumstances that have afforded me the
pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
So saying, the detective—for it was no other—made slowly for the door
and was about to leave the room, when the Commissary called him back:
“Sir, what is this you tell me? You are Tom Bob?”
“Do you require proofs of the fact, sir?”
The magistrate begged pardon: “No, no, certainly not! I have no doubt
whatever of your identity; indeed I have seen portraits of you, I
recognise you perfectly well. But I wanted to ask you one thing—you
think this is a crime of Fantômas?”
Tom Bob threw out his arms in a wide gesture: “With Fantômas, can one
ever tell? but to be quite frank with you, I do _not_ think so; and
you may rest assured I have my reasons for holding that opinion ...
Monsieur le Commissaire, your servant!”
“Monsieur Bob!”
“Well, sir? you have something else to say to me?”
The Commissary, growing more and more embarrassed, stammered out:
“Yes ... no ... in fact ... at any rate ... You are going off like
that? and leaving me alone?... But the corpse?... and suppose I wanted
you?”
The American drew a card from his pocket-book and offered it to the
Commissary:
“I have told you my name; it is Tom Bob; I am staying at the Hôtel
Terminus; if ever French justice has need of me, it will always find me
at its disposition.”
The Commissary had not recovered from his general state of bewilderment
when Tom Bob disappeared.